“Don’t react,” he whispered. “Plague demons are watching us. We’re going to keep riding unless they attack. Carry on as if nothing is wrong. Roghar, if you understand, start singing.”
It was all Tempest could do not to look back herself. She kept her eyes on Albanon and the next three heartbeats seemed to stretch on forever.
Then Roghar’s voice rolled along the road. “Oh, there was a knight of fair Belarn and a mighty knight was he-”
“They’re warned,” said Albanon. He pulled a small bundle from his saddlebag and sat upright. “I think Immeral figured it out, too. He nodded at me.”
Tempest looked at Albanon appraisingly. “You didn’t hesitate to use your magic.”
The wizard blinked, then one side of his mouth crooked up in a smile. “It was only a cantrip, hardly a spell at all,” he said modestly, but she could tell he was pleased. He unwrapped the bundle to reveal some cheese. “Something to eat? We’re likely going to be riding for a while.” He broke off a chunk of cheese, but it slipped from fingers that betrayed his nervousness and tumbled to the ground. He cursed heavily, clenched his teeth for a moment, then tried again. “Why aren’t they attacking us?” he muttered.
This one sees them. Visions welled up of a party of travelers, a hundred images gathered from a hundred watching eyes. Eager hunger came with the visions, but it was a hunger suppressed at his command. Vestapalk held a tight grip on his gathered minions. He spun the images in his mind. A kind of triumph rose in him. He’d known his enemies couldn’t remain holed up in Fallcrest like rats in a wall.
He plucked their location from the bestial minds of the demons that watched them, not in words but in a sense of space and direction. He pictured it as if he were flying overhead. Here they are. He considered them for a moment, then swept across the Nentir Vale in his mind to hover over an insignificant village. This is where their road will lead them. Winterhaven. This one knows it.
Across the vast web that was the Voidharrow, another voice answered him. This one hears. Their road leads to death!
In the depths of the Plaguedeep, Vestapalk smiled. In the heart of the Cloak Wood, a hundred demons grinned and watched the travelers pass.
The remainder of their ride through the Cloak Wood became a seemingly unending march. When Roghar’s song finally ended, they rode in silence. The paladin didn’t start another. Even Uldane fell quiet.
Albanon thought about talking to Tempest, but attempting conversation felt forced and false. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. Even their earlier discussion, as uncomfortable as it had been for him, would have been preferable. The afternoon became a slow progression between trees that he dared not look toward, at a pace he dared not alter. Sweat gathered on his back and dripped down the curve of his spine.
One question kept returning: Why didn’t the plague demons attack? They had him and the others outnumbered. They had them surrounded. From the glimpses he caught out of the corner of his eye, the demons were moving with them. Several times, Albanon saw them shifting silently among the trees to take up new positions. He was certain there was one demon with a white scar across its misshapen face and a particular inability to hide itself as well as the others that he saw three or four times.
Why were they holding back? The demons were creatures of raw fury. Even when a greater demon commanded them, they didn’t show such discipline and silent patience. In fact, only once had he seen them so restrained-and that was at the Temple of Yellow Skulls when Vestapalk himself had been present. The tension in Albanon’s back crept up to his scalp. Vestapalk could project his awareness into any demon. He’d done it during the attack on Fallcrest to taunt them. He could be among the watching demons at that very moment. The dragon might be the reason they kept to the trees.
But why? Why?
He tried to force his mind to stillness. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves measured out the leagues, the slow passage of the sun as afternoon sank toward dusk. Clip-clip-clip-clip-clip. One, two, three-
Five. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three. Prime numbers, the keys to unlocking unlimited arcane power if only he could wrap his thoughts around numbers large enough. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one-
He jerked in his saddle. Around his neck, Splendid hissed in alarm and dug needle claws through his robes and into flesh. Albanon yelped at the pain, but it brought his wandering mind back into focus.
It also brought a sharp look from Tempest.
“I’m fine,” he lied in answer to her unvoiced concern. He cursed himself for letting his guard down. Had he really been so proud of himself for casting a simple cantrip? He tugged gently on his reins. “Slow down,” he said. “Let the others catch up to us. I’ve had enough of riding apart.”
“We’ll present a more compact target if we’re all riding together,” said Tempest.
“I don’t care.”
It took a few moments-long, excruciating moments-for first Roghar, Belen, and Uldane, then Immeral, to join them. Albanon could see the tension in all of them. “How much farther?” he asked Uldane. The halfling knew the road better than all of them.
“You see that bend ahead? The trees continue for about a bowshot on the other side, then the countryside is clear on either side of the road.”
“It’s not that far,” said Belen. The woman’s voice was hoarse. The tension and the lurking presence of the demons seemed to have worn on her more than the others. Her hand was locked around the hilt of her sword and her lips were white where they pressed together. “We could run it. If nothing else, the horses are rested.”
“No.” Immeral shook his head. “That bend is too perfect for an ambush. They could already be waiting for us-and the ones around us now would only have to close in to cut off our retreat.” He looked to Albanon. “Stay the course, my prince.”
Albanon found the others looking at him as well, even Roghar. He tightened his jaw for a moment as he considered their options, then nodded. Belen cursed under her breath, but made no move to ride any faster.
Knowing that the way out of the woods was close didn’t make the bend in the road approach any more quickly, however. Albanon felt as if he were conscious of every sound their group made and equally conscious of the deep silence that surrounded them. Birds should have been calling as the sun sank lower and the shadows stretched out across the road. But all was quiet. Even the horses seemed to realize something was amiss. They became harder to control, their hoofbeats irregular as they danced and shied. Their nervousness brought back Albanon’s. He fixed his eyes on the bend in the road. It came closer. Closer. Closer…
Then they were around it and the late afternoon sun painted the road. A bowshot away lay open countryside.
Albanon glanced at Immeral. The huntsman took his time studying the trees ahead so that they’d covered a third of the distance before he twitched his head in the slightest of nods. Albanon’s stomach rose into his throat. He glanced around at the others and drew a deep breath. “Hold tight, Splendid,” he murmured-then he kicked his heels into his horse’s side and shouted, “ Hyah! Hyah! ”
All six horses leaped forward in unison and their hooves became thunder on the road. The edge of the woods swept toward them. Albanon leaned low over his mount’s neck, urging the beast to greater speed. He imagined plague demons pouring out of the trees in their wake and didn’t dare turn his head to look.
They burst out of the woods and sped along the road like bolts flung from a crossbow. No one suggested slowing down. They must have run ten or twelve bowshots before Albanon glimpsed Tempest, riding at the head of their pack, rise slightly in her stirrups and glance back. Her eyes widened slightly, and Albanon risked looking back himself.
Nothing moved between them and the dark blotch of the Cloak Wood. The demons had not pursued them. He looked to Tempest again. The tiefling only shook her head and he knew she felt the same confusion he did.