The Eye of the Chained God (31 page)

It held the heads together in flight, but as it slowed and approached the ground, they separated. One looked ahead, guiding the flight. The other bent down. Red eyes scanned the chaos below. Roghar saw them fix on several Tigerclaws who, against all commands, were still running close together. The dragon’s chest expanded as it inhaled—

“Beware its breath!” Roghar shouted, coming to his feet. Turbull, Shara, even Quarhaun called variants of the same warning. It did no good.

Green vapor so dense it seemed like liquid blasted from the mouth of the second head. It boiled up into a thick cloud of green and washed over the fleeing Tigerclaws. Sounds of choking came from within the cloud, followed by the distinct thumps of bodies hitting the ground. The green vapor dissipated within moments, but it was already
over. The Tigerclaws were down, their faces contorted with the agony of their deaths. Even the plants around them had shriveled from the poison.

Wings that seemed almost too large for the dragon’s body spread wide—more than any other part of the monster’s body, they flashed with veins and fragments of the red crystal—and it wheeled to fly across the stone face. Crystalline talons clutched at the rocks. Some shattered with the force of its grip. Others held. The dragon ended up clinging heads down like some enormous insect to the cliff just above the great doors. Both heads surveyed those below, then curled back. “This one,” roared the head on the right, “is Vestausan!” The head on the left bellowed. “This one is Vestausir!”

The voices, though they came from larger throats, were the same as Vestagix’s. And, Roghar realized, the same as Vestapalk’s. His belly tightened with resolve and he remembered what Vestagix had claimed. He drew his sword.

“Let me guess,” he shouted back to the two-headed monster. “You are our doom.”

The dragon’s double gaze settled on him—and for a moment, Roghar felt as if the creature saw right into him. A shiver of kinship rolled through him. Pain encircled his wrist. The burning in his arms grew hotter and seemed to spread a little higher. One of the heads gave a rattling laugh that might as well have been words.
Not
your
doom, dragonborn
. Resolve turned to fear in Roghar’s guts.

It knew.

The double gaze left him, but he still felt frozen. The monster knew he was infected with the Abyssal Plague. It knew that there was no point in attacking because soon he would belong to Vestapalk, too. He watched numbly as its red eyes moved on—one pair to Hurn, the other to Belen.

“Come,” said Vestausan. “Draw closer.”

“See this one in his glory,” hissed Vestausir. “You cannot resist.”

Both Belen and Hurn blinked, their eyes opening wide as if in awe of the two-headed dragon. Like sleepwalkers, they moved toward the cliff face.

“No!” Shara leaped at Belen, trying to tackle her. Belen sidestepped, though, and kept walking. Shara twisted around and grabbed for her leg. “You won’t take them!”

There was a fierce, almost desperate protectiveness in her voice. Stories Shara had told of her first encounter with Vestapalk came back to Roghar—stories of how the dragon had systematically slaughtered her friends, her lover, and her father. Would Vestausan and Vestausir do the same? Would he let them? The fear that held Roghar frozen shattered. Resolve returned, along with rage. If he was doomed anyway, he could at least make his death count.

“Monster!” he called. “Demonspawn! You want someone to fight? Fight me!” He raised sword and shield. “The honor of Bahamut compels you!”

For the first time in days, the power of the Platinum Dragon came swiftly. The symbol on his shield flashed
with holy light. One head whipped back to him. The other wavered uncertainly as if the creature was more used to luring creatures into battle than being forced to it. Belen and Hurn stumbled and came back to their senses. The dragon roared in fury. “You dare!”

“More than dare,” Roghar said. “Come to me!”

The monster roared again and leaped from the cliff. It didn’t try to slow its descent, but just dropped straight down like a massive cat, landing on the battering ram and smashing the frame flat. Roghar felt the ground tremble with the dragon’s landing. In the brief moment it took for the thing to recover its balance, Roghar charged. “In Bahamut’s name, your end is here!”

Vestausir struck at him. Roghar threw himself aside—and looked up to discover Vestausan’s jaws waiting for him. He dropped back and teeth that flashed with red crystal clashed just above him. The jaws opened wide again. Roghar brought up his shield but before the dragon could snap at him a second time, a blast of smoky fire broke across its narrow snout.

“Roghar’s not the only one you have to worry about!” came Tempest’s voice. Another bolt of her fire sizzled just past the head, while a streak of Quarhaun’s crackling darkness came at it from the other side. Battle cries rose around him: Shara’s, Belen’s, Turbull’s.

The dragon backed away from him, its heads weaving at the new threats. Roghar scrambled back and rose to his feet. His friends and the Tigerclaws were closing on the monster from both sides. Vestausan and Vestausir
darted and ducked, hissing and threatening but never actually striking. So many targets seemed to confuse the creature. Some of the Tigerclaws paused to shake their weapons and taunt it.

“Don’t!” said Roghar. “Just attack. Don’t give it a chance to—”

The warning came too late. The heads struck fast, one to either side. Each rose with a screaming shifter between its jaws. Vestausir flung its prey away and grabbed for another. Vestausan simply crunched down so that blood and severed limbs spattered onto those below. “You would attack this one? Your doom will be slow!”

It lunged—or tried to. The enormous body heaved, then tumbled as its rear legs failed to keep up with its forelegs. Its wings flailed in an attempt to recover and the two heads wove back and forth in consternation.

The wreckage of the battering ram had tangled between the dragon’s hind legs when the thing crushed it, Roghar realized. Then he saw that it was no accident as Uldane, unnoticed in the chaos of battle, came darting out from under the thrashing bulk. The ropes had been skillfully looped around the dragon’s feet and legs like bootlaces tied together.

“All yours!” the halfling said, sprinting for someplace safe.

Roghar almost felt his old habit of singing in battle coming back to him. Almost. His wrist and his arm still burned. His blood throbbed in his head. He squeezed the hilt of his sword and the grip of his shield.
Watch
over me, Bahamut
, he prayed silently, then he shouted aloud, “Now! Attack now!”

He charged, bowling aside Tigerclaws as they fell back. Vestausir’s neck was close. Roghar whirled his sword over his head and chopped down.

The dragon shifted at the last moment. The blade sliced through scales and bit into flesh beneath but the wound was shallow. Vestausir bellowed and lurched sideways, knocking him back. Then the dragon reared up. The massive, flashing wings swept air down on him and the others like a storm gust. With the remains of the ram still dangling from its hind feet, the monster rose up beyond the reach of their weapons. Tempest and Quarhaun continued to blast it with smoky fire and crackling darkness, but they seemed to have no more effect than his own glancing blow.

“More!” Roghar ordered the warlocks. “Hit it with the strongest spells you know!”

The drow and the tiefling exchanged a glance across the battlefield. Each raised a hand into the air, Tempest gripping her rod, Quarhaun his black sword. The greasy fire that had burned around Tempest’s rod changed and became cold and white, like the light of the gods but far harsher. As Tempest chanted hard and chilling syllables, streaks of similar light started to spin around Vestausan and Vestausir. At the same time, the darkness surrounding Quarhaun’s sword seemed to squirm as if taking on a life of its own. The drow hissed and writhing shadows made darker by Tempest’s light gathered around the dragon.

The two heads roared. The vast wings beat hard as the monster struggled to climb higher, but the magic dragged at it, pulling it back down. Roghar found Shara beside him, her eyes flashing as she readied her greatsword. “Don’t waste time on a neck if you can’t reach it,” she said. “Go for the belly while it’s exposed!”

Roghar nodded. The web of magic seemed to tighten. He could feel the chill of Tempest’s spell, smell the deathly stink of Quarhaun’s. “No!” howled Vestausan. “You will not defeat this one!”

“You
cannot
defeat this one!” shrieked Vestausir—and it twisted toward Quarhaun just as Vestausan turned to Tempest. Twin jaws stretched wide. The creature’s broad chest expanded.

Shara called Quarhaun’s name, but she was too far away to be able to help. Roghar knew what was coming. So did Tempest—he could see it in her face. But he could also see that the tiefling knew she was in an impossible situation. If she abandoned her spell to try and save her life, the dragon would slip free. Tempest’s expression hardened even as the first green wisps drifted from Vestausan’s mouth. Her voice rose in pitch. The light of her spell grew even more intense.

Roghar whirled and drew back his arm. His sword wasn’t one of Uldane’s knives. It was never intended to be thrown—but then the dragon’s belly wasn’t that far above him and even a glancing blow might draw the monster’s deadly breath away from Tempest.

“
Bahamut!
” he shouted, and he hurled the blade.

“Listen!” said Kri sharply.

Albanon stopped, his voice catching in his throat. For a moment, it didn’t seem there was anything to hear, then he picked out the sounds that penetrated the double-layered stone of the great doors and the wall that sealed them. Roaring. Shouting. Nothing distinct, but enough that he could guess what was happening.

“They’re under attack,” he said—then his voice caught again at another bellow, loud even through the muffling rock and probably deafening outside. He stepped back and stared at the loosened stones of the wall. “Was that a dragon?”

“Vestapalk?” asked Kri.

There was something eager in the way he said the name. Albanon turned on him angrily. “I don’t know! Whatever it is, we have to get out there and help them. Do something!”

“The light of the gods can sear flesh and spirits, but it’s far less potent against rock,” said Kri. “I’ve seen you call forth a blast of force. That’s what we need.” The old priest raised the purple lantern high and considered the wall, then touched the stones. “Here,” he said. “It’s weakened from the other side. Strike it hard enough and you’ll bring down the wall and the door together.”

Albanon looked from Kri to the wall. The stones that had been put up to seal the door were loose enough that the spell he knew would probably bring them down, but
the door was another matter. “I don’t know if I can,” he said. “The spell isn’t powerful enough.”

“ ‘Isn’t powerful enough?’ ” asked Kri. He laughed, the sound mingling with another roar from the unseen monster outside. “That’s not a problem and you know it. You’re as powerful as you need to be, Albanon. You said you drove off a horde of plague demons with a lightning storm. I’ve watched you fill rooms with fire. You defeated me while I was filled with the power of a god!”

He’s right
, whispered the voice inside Albanon.
You know how
.

And he did. He barely had to think about it and he knew. It was simple really, easier than increasing the volume of flame or extending the power of lightning. The same amount of force in the original spell, focused into a smaller area, would have a greater impact. Feed more power into the spell, like opening the floodgates in a dam, and the force produced would increase yet again.

Albanon shook his head, trying to dislodge the knowledge that welled up in him. He held those gates closed for a reason. “No. That’s Tharizdun’s way.”

“The Chained God offers freedom from your limitations,” said Kri.

“The Chained God offers madness! I won’t do it!”

The priest shrugged. “Then listen to your friends die.”

Albanon froze, his heartbeat loud in his ears. There was another roar from outside, the loudest one yet. Kri touched the wall again in the same place, then moved away.

The power is yours
, said the voice in Albanon’s head.
Shape it. Give it purpose. It’s not madness without reason. It’s not madness without control
.

Albanon grasped that idea and held onto it. Tempest and the others didn’t need to die. He could help them. Tharizdun taunted him with power, but he could master it. He had to master it. “I’m in control,” he told himself. The spell rose in his mind. Power came with it, his to command. He focused on the spot Kri had indicated. “I’m in control.
I’m
in control.”

He knew it was a lie with the first words that rippled off his tongue.

T
he face of the mountain exploded like rotten wood under an axe.

It happened so fast that Tempest barely felt it at first. One moment she was struggling to crush the two-headed dragon with her spell before it could kill her with its poison breath. The next, she was on her back as fragments of stone rained down around her. Roghar’s sword was stuck point down, still vibrating, in the ground close to her. Tempest remembered seeing him hurl it at the dragon in a vain attempt to distract it. Apparently that had been as successful as her desperate spellcasting. Everything seemed strangely quiet—then noise came rushing back and most of it was an agonized double roar. Tempest sat up.