The Eye of the Chained God Page 14

  “No,” said Roghar in a low rumble. “You didn’t. Thank Bahamut for that.”

  “I didn’t know you were there.” Although he should have guessed, Albanon realized. Ever since they had left Winterhaven, the paladin had been taking himself a short distance from the camp to pray at dawn and dusk. He’d been quieter and more withdrawn, too. Albanon couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Roghar sing the way he used to. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who carried emotional scars from the events in the village.

  He stretched out a hand—not the one he’d wiped his mouth with—and offered it to Roghar. “We’ll get through this together. We’ll stop Vestapalk.”

  The dragonborn hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his hand, still cased in a gauntlet, around Albanon’s. “How much farther?” he asked bluntly.

  Albanon glanced in the direction that his internal urge—growing steadily stronger the farther they traveled—was taking them. Away through the trees, the ground rose into the first steep slopes of the Cairngorm Peaks. They’d left the road behind and spent the previous day travelling through foothills. That day, and for as many succeeding days as it took to reach their mysterious destination, they would journey through the mountains. Unless they had good fortune, there was every chance they might find themselves forced leagues out of their way to get around some obstacle in the empty wilderness.

  That the wilderness was empty was, perhaps, a blessing. They hadn’t seen any sign of plague demons since leaving Winterhaven. Albanon wasn’t sure whether to be pleased at that, especially in a region that was so sparsely populated to begin with, or even more worried. All evidence to the contrary, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Vestapalk’s minions were out there somewhere. Waiting for them.

  “Not far,” he told Roghar. “I hope.”

  Roghar responded with a grunt. “Good,” he said—and he dropped Albanon’s hand, turning to stride back to the camp without another word or glance. Albanon blinked and stared after him.

  Later, with the sun almost at its noon height, the eladrin nudged his mount over beside Tempest’s as they rode around the grassy flank of a mountain. “Have I done something to offend Roghar?” he asked quietly.

  Tempest raised a narrow eyebrow. “Besides almost vomiting on him?”

  “Other than that.” Albanon looked at Roghar’s back—the paladin rode in advance of the rest of them. “He’s been curt with me the last couple of days and it’s only getting worse. You’ve known him the longest. What’s bothering him?”

  “I wish I knew,” she said, “but it isn’t just you. I’ve seen him surly, but never for this long.”

  “Do you think it’s because of what happened at Winterhaven?”

  “He’s seen worse—or at least as bad. The attack on Fallcrest. What we found in Nera before we came back to the Vale. When something bad happens, he seeks refuge in Bahamut for a while, then he comes back stronger than ever.” Tempest turned her head and studied Albanon for a long moment. “I think you’re doing better than him right now.”

  “If I’m doing better, then he’s in really bad shape.” Albanon attempted a smile but it withered on his lips. He sighed. “I never thought I’d actually miss Splendid this much.”

  “It surprises you, doesn’t it? I miss Immeral. Not much of a talker, but his wilderness skills would come in handy right now. I can’t help thinking we’d be moving a little faster if he was here.”

  Albanon shrugged. “We’ll get through. Uldane’s trying but I think he always depended on Shara.”

  “Possibly.” Tempest rode a little farther in silence before she said, “Am I the only one who was hoping we’d find signs of her and Quarhaun? Thair said they went north from Winterhaven, too.”

  “They could have gone anywhere. ‘North’ covers a big area and I doubt that Shara would have left anything behind to mark their passage. We could pass by one of their campsites and never see it.”

  “First Shara and Quarhaun leave us, then Splendid and Immeral.” Tempest gave a wry smile. “At this rate, there won’t be enough of us together to face Vestapalk.”

  The observation put a new twist into Albanon’s already knotted stomach, but the grim humor of it made his lips twitch. Before he could answer, however, there was a whinny and a scuffle of hooves from ahead as Roghar reined his horse in sharply. He turned the beast around and came back to them. “There’s smoke rising beyond the next ridge.”

  “Forest fire?” asked Albanon.

  “Not dense enough,” said Roghar. “It looks more like the smoke from a lot of individual fires.”

  They all exchanged glances. “A camp,” Belen said.

  Roghar nodded. “A big one. Albanon, which way do we go?”

  He raised his arm without hesitation and knew by Roghar’s sour curse that he was pointing right at the heart of the rising smoke. “Maybe the camp is our destination,” said Uldane brightly.

  Albanon barely had to think about it—the answer rose in his mind. “It isn’t,” he said. “We have farther to go.”

  “Dismount,” said Roghar. He swung down out of the saddle. “We’ll leave the horses and go up the ridge on foot. We may be able to go around it, but I want to have a look at what we’re dealing with.”

  Among the trees, Uldane took the lead, pointing the way for the others to follow so they made as little noise as possible. The climb wasn’t difficult but their caution made it slow. Albanon got a good look at the smoke Roghar had described before they began their ascent and well before they reached the top of the ridge, a shift in the wind brought the scent of the camp that lay beyond. Wood smoke, cooking food, leather—the smells of any normal established hunting camp. What reassured the wizard even more, however, was the sound of children’s laughter drifting on the breeze.

  He wasn’t the only one who drew hope from the laughter. Uldane looked pleased, while Tempest relaxed visibly. Belen, however, tensed, and Roghar’s face tightened. “What’s wrong?” Albanon asked him.

  “People fight to defend their children like nothing else,” he said. “Be careful.”

  They stayed low to the ground as they emerged from the trees and crept across the exposed top of the ridge. Flat on their bellies, they stared down at a camp that filled most of the hollow below. There were perhaps fifteen large tents of hides lashed over bent poles and enough people moving around—including children at play—that Albanon estimated the camp could easily have a population of one hundred and fifty inhabitants.

  Many of those in the camp were human, but not all. Some of the figures moving among the tents had an easy grace and a casual swiftness that reminded him of hunting cats. Indeed, when he looked more closely, he saw their features had a catlike cast with flat noses, large eyes, and sharp teeth. Shifters. And a camp of mixed humans and shifters meant …

  “Tigerclaw barbarians,” he murmured aloud. He turned his head to look at the others. “What are they doing this far away from the Winterbole Forest?”

  “Thair said Tigerclaws were scavenging around Winterhaven,” said Uldane. “Maybe these are the same ones.”

  “The question is,” Roghar said, “do we go into the camp and hope they’re feeling friendly or try to slip around them without being noticed?”

  Belen answered before any of the rest of them could. “We go into their camp,” she said decisively. “You never sneak around the Tigerclaws. It suggests that you have some reason for being stealthy. We want them to know we’re here.”

  Albanon felt Tempest, on the ground beside him and at the outside of their watching pack, stiffen. “Too late,” she rasped. Albanon twisted to look at her—and found a spear point gleaming just a handsbreadth from his nose.

  On the other end of the spear, a Tigerclaw shifter bared her teeth at him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Another barbarian had his spear pressed to the back of Tempest’s neck, keeping her facedown on the ground. Albanon’s back was to the others, but he could see the shadows of at least four more figures on t
he ground. The Tigerclaws had positioned themselves so that not even their shadows would give them away until they were ready. He swallowed.

  “We mean no—” he began, but the spear point twitched a little closer.

  “No speech, no spells,” growled the shifter warrior. “Hold your tongue in your mouth, eladrin, or I’ll cut it out and you can hold it in your hands.” Her amber eyes, pupils slit like a cat’s, flicked over the prisoners. “Why are you spying on the Thornpad clan?”

  Once again, Belen spoke up. “We travel with caution in unknown territory,” she said with more formality than Albanon had heard from her before. “We saw signs of the camp ahead and didn’t want to ride blind. We have no intention to spy or to interfere with your clan. If you let us cross your range, we’ll ride on without disturbing the Tigerclaws further.”

  A snarl rose from somewhere behind Albanon. “They would say that, Cariss. We heard them plotting to avoid us.”

  “We heard them discussing their situation, Hurn. It didn’t sound to me like they were going to hide from us.” The warrior’s gaze shifted again. “You, human woman. How do you know so much about dealing with Tigerclaws?”

  “I was part of the Fallcrest Guard,” said Belen. “On the rare occasions when representatives of Tigerclaw Chief Scargash visited Fallcrest, I was their escort.”

  “You kept watch on them to ensure they behaved in civilized lands,” said the hard voice of Hurn.

  “No,” Belen answered and although Albanon didn’t dare turn to look at her, he could hear strain in her voice. “I kept watch on the civilized people of Fallcrest to be sure they didn’t offend the Tigerclaws.”

  A couple of the unseen Tigerclaws chuckled at that. Cariss gave the ghost of a smile. The point of her spear retreated slightly, allowing Albanon to look around at last, and she gestured for the warrior keeping Tempest down to let her up. Albanon met Tempest’s gaze as she turned and recognized the considerable control it was taking to keep her temper in check. Cariss appeared to have dismissed both of them already. Her attention was on Belen, who seemed to have taken on the mantle of leader of their party. “Do any of you carry the taint of the Abyssal Plague?”

  Belen blinked. “No.”

  “How do we know that’s the truth?” demanded Hurn. He was a shifter like Cariss, but taller and wider with a nasty scar that twisted his mouth into a permanent scowl.

  Belen nodded to Roghar. “He’s a paladin of Bahamut. He’ll swear it.”

  All of the Tigerclaws looked to Roghar. The dragonborn lifted his head. “We have fought plague demons from Fallcrest to Winterhaven. We are enemies of the one that spreads the Abyssal Plague. In Bahamut’s name, we will destroy him.”

  Albanon winced at that grandiose declaration, but it seemed to satisfy Cariss. She looked back to Belen. “And why do you need to cross our territory to do it?”

  “We need … We’re going …” Belen looked at a loss for words. Albanon came to her rescue.

  “We’re looking for aid and think it lies not far beyond your camp,” he said, praying that Cariss wouldn’t ask for any further details.

  His prayers were not answered. “Where?” asked the shifter.

  Albanon tried to put on an air of confidence as he dredged his mind for a response. Something innocent. Something generic. A picturesque image popped into his imagination, vaguely familiar like a half-remembered drawing. “In a valley,” he said, “below a mountain’s stone face.” He pointed in the direction of his urge. “That way.”

  This time, Cariss was the one who blinked. The other Tigerclaws stirred and Albanon felt a sudden unease. Had he just described some site sacred to the barbarians? Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

  But then Cariss silenced the others with a swift gesture of her spear—and lifted the weapon away from him. Her catlike features broke into a smile. “Travelers, you are honest,” she said. “Come with us and meet Turbull, leader of the Thornpad clan. He will be interested to hear your story.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Albanon said hastily. “We can just be on our way. We don’t need to bother—”

  His words ended in a gasp of pain as Belen put her hand over his and squeezed hard. She returned Cariss’s smile. “We are pleased to accept the honor of your invitation.”

  Albanon’s hand was still throbbing as they descended into the Tigerclaw camp, leading their horses and escorted by the six warriors. Cariss and two others went ahead, while Hurn and the remaining two followed. Albanon was certain he could feel the scarred shifter’s glare on the back of his neck.

  “I think you might have broken something,” he muttered at Belen. “Was that necessary?”

  “Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously,” she muttered back. “What was that about a mountain valley?”

  “I needed to say something and it was the first thing that came into my head.”

  “Well, try not to say anything else. Just follow my lead.”

  “Did you really learn all this from escorting Tigerclaws?” asked Uldane. “We hardly ever saw them in Winterhaven—I never knew they went all the way to Fallcrest.”

  “For now, let’s say I did and not talk about it anymore.”

  Her tone cut off further questions. Tempest reached down and discretely put a hand over Uldane’s mouth before he could say anything else. He shook it off and scowled at the tiefling, but kept silent. Roghar barely even seemed to register the exchange. He just kept staring straight ahead.

  Albanon let his aching hand drop to his side and looked around as casually as he could manage. Most of the clan seemed to have come out to stare at the new arrivals. From what Albanon knew of Tigerclaw barbarians, they didn’t interact with outsiders often, at least not in their home territory in the Winterbole Forest. The more he looked around the camp, though, the more he began to suspect that the Thornpad clan hadn’t occupied this area among the Cairngorms for long. The bent wood frames of the hide tents were green enough that they still oozed sap. The lashing was hardly weathered at all. The ground between the tents didn’t have the hardpacked appearance of long wear.

  There was something in the faces of the barbarians as well. Warrior and crafter, women with babies on their hips, even now-silent children—all looked tired, afraid, suspicious, and more than a little haunted.

  Albanon had seen the same look on the faces of the refugees crowding Fallcrest.

  Some of the watching warriors came up to stride alongside their escort, exchanging quiet words with them. Hurn noticed and shouted them off. The warriors scowled and fell back with hard glances at Albanon and the others.

  Cariss led them to a tent that was smaller than others but covered entirely in dark hides. An older shifter, apparently alerted to their approach, waited outside for them. A heavy gold chain hung with talismans of bone, feather, and stone lay against his chest, and his thick gray hair was pulled back and bound by another gold ornament. His arms were bare and criss-crossed with the scars of battle. Two short-handled warpicks with polished steel heads and handles inlaid with ivory hung from his belt. Cariss left them to Hurn and the other barbarian warriors and went to speak with the older shifter in low tones. Albanon tried to catch what they said, but couldn’t hear anything. The watching Tigerclaws were pressing closer and murmuring to each other. Hurn glared around and drove them all back a few paces with a fierce snarl.

  The older shifter approached with Cariss half a pace behind him. “I am Turbull of the Thornpad clan of the Tigerclaw tribe,” he said without preamble. He gestured. “Cariss. Hurn.”

  “I am Belen of Fallcrest.” The warrior introduced each of them in turn and then added, “We didn’t know the Tigerclaw were here or we would have brought gifts. This is all I can offer.”

  Belen drew her sword with a swiftness that brought a cry of surprise from Uldane and set Roghar ducking behind his shield. Albanon instinctively put his back to Tempest’s, ready to defend against reprisal, but the Tigerclaws were staring more at them than they were at Belen. She shoo
k her head at them as she offered her sword to Turbull.

  He inspected it and chuckled. “You do know our ways,” he said. “A warrior’s offer of her weapon is always an honorable gift—and one that must always be returned because it belongs to her clan, not her.” Turbull handed the sword back to her. “A fine weapon. You said you escorted representatives of Chief Scargash in Fallcrest. Who?”

  Albanon bit his tongue. If Belen’s claim was the lie that it seemed, she was almost certainly going to be caught out now. Miraculously, though, she had an answer. “Asheye of the eastern forests, his son Vinya, and some of their warriors. It was some years ago.”

  And to Albanon’s surprise, Turbull nodded. “I have heard that Asheye had Scargash’s trust. He has been dead for three winters. Vinya leads their clan now.”

  “Seasons change,” Belen said. “Is a warrior named Dutt still serving Vinya?”

  Turbull shrugged with casual indifference. “I hear tales of certain warriors. Dutt is not among them, but maybe he has yet to make a name for himself.” And with that, to Albanon’s immense relief, the leader of the Thornpads appeared satisfied with Belen’s claim—or at least unwilling to admit he didn’t know much about a distant clan. “Come,” he said. “We will eat and you’ll tell me about your journey.”

  Albanon’s relief shriveled again. Belen caught his eye as they settled onto woven mats in front of Turbull’s hut and gave him a confident little nod. She still had things under control.

  Cariss and Hurn sat with them, along with two other warriors summoned by Turbull so that hosts and guests were in equal numbers and seated in an alternating pattern. Albanon found himself between Cariss and Turbull, with Tempest beyond Cariss and Belen beyond Turbull. Roghar sat beside Hurn and the two big men glared at each other. Albanon threw a warning glance at Uldane, willing him to actually behave for once, but it seemed as if the halfling was already intimidated. He sat quietly, looking around with darting glances.

  Food came swiftly—smoking pieces of meat fresh from the fire, bowls of a thick vegetable stew, and some sort of weak beer that smelled of berries. It was presented in belly-filling quantities but Albanon saw more than a few Tigerclaws eyeing it hungrily. He leaned behind Cariss to look questioningly at Belen.