Monte Cook - The Glass Prison

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The Glass Prison

Monte Cook

Forgotten Realms Single

Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: November, 10th, 2003

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of

the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the hobby, toy, and comic trade in the United States and Canada by regional distributors-Distributed

world-wide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc. and regional distributors.

FORGOTTEN REALMS and the TSR logo are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

Map by Sam Wood.

First Printing: April 1999

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-88136

ISBN: 0-7869-1343-6 21343XXX1501

Prologue

Run. The mournful baying of the demonic hounds rolled across the landscape from behind Vheod.

He couldn't be sure exactly how far behind him they were or when they might catch up to him. All he

could do was run. The thorns of the gnarled brier that covered the plain tore at his flesh as he ran, but he

did what he could to ignore the pain. The malevolent brier hungrily absorbed Vheod's blood, not allowing

a single drop to touch the ground. He didn't worry about the wounds. Vheod was grateful no trail of

blood would betray his passage. The thorns drank it all in.

Vheod Runechild's body ached from hours of desperate flight, much of which took him through the

Fields of Night Unseen, a meadow filled with vampiric thorns. His limbs grew more and more resistant to

each step. Cold sweat ran down his back and clung to his neck. Vheod longed to draw his sword and

hack his way through the brier, but he feared leaving an obvious path that his pursuers could trace.

Take the intelligent approach, he kept telling himself. Vheod knew the challenge was to not allow his

fear and exhaustion to overwhelm his thoughts. He had to keep a cool head and ignore the deadly forces

that marshaled against him. Startling images of the terrible, hungry mouths of the vorrs that chased him

came unbidden into his mind. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, forcing himself onward.

The Taint formed a new, beckoning shape on his arm. The crimson, tattoo-like mark flowed across

his flesh like a thing alive. Its changing shape resembled a hand slowly urging him forward. He ignored it.

The field of black thorns flowed over hill after hill. Nowhere offered Vheod relief from their constant

clawing at his legs as he ran, the vorrs close behind him. The sky above him bore a reddish-brown hue

that recalled either rust or dried blood. Not even the whisper of a breeze came to alleviate the dry,

parched heat. The thorns required blood, not water to live. The skies of the nether planes were selfish

with their gifts, and usually bestowed moisture only in the form of dangerous storms. Vheod, however,

would welcome a storm at this point-it might aid in his escape. Knowing that wishing for help from the

environment in this plane of darkness and evil would avail nothing, Vheod pushed himself to keep

running.

If I stop, he thought, Nethess's hunters will find me and will offer no mercy.

The rush of air as he fled pulled at his long, brick-red hair. It fluttered along with the tattered, violet

cloak that whipped behind him like an extra, frantically flailing limb. It caught on thorns and slowed him,

probably even left behind bits for his pursuers to find. Reaching behind him he gathered as much of it as

he could and wrapped its length around his arm so it would no longer tangle in the twisted, pointed brier.

He wished, too, that he could shed his black steel breastplate. Vheod would do anything for speed now.

For a time the only sounds Vheod could hear were his own labored breaths, the soft footfalls his

boots made on the ground, and the tearing of his flesh by the thorns. The vorrs howled again, their baying

louder than before. His fear granted speed to his feet, and he ran on faster and faster. He veered to the

left, then to the right.

The hounds bayed again, louder still, and from right behind him. Had they caught his scent? He could

hear the blood-lusting-no, soul-lusting-glee in their cries. He thought he counted three, if not four, of them

from their sounds. He had to think of a plan and quickly.

Let them come to you, he told himself. Fight on your terms, not theirs.

The terrain here rose and fell in rough, jagged little hills amid the thorns. It occurred to Vheod that

perhaps he could use that fact to his advantage. Again he veered to one direction, then another, but his

mind focused instead on a plan-and on picking his moment carefully.

Leaping into a narrow gully that probably once guided a small brook, Vheod drew his sword and

spun even as he struggled to keep his footing. The ravine was deeper than he realized. His foot slipped

under him, but somehow he managed to stay standing, though his body twisted around awkwardly. The

first hound leaped over the gully, thinking Vheod had done the same. As it flew over the gully, Vheod

sprang upward with his blade. It was barely within his reach, and the lunge sent Vheod tumbling

off-balance, yet he felt the tip of his sword strike something as he slipped. The yelp from the creature was

shrill, its gut torn open. The blow sent it spinning around in midair. The vorr landed to Vheod's side, not

to rise again.

The next vorr dived down into the ravine, the bristling, brownish-black hair on its back as rigid as

daggers. Vheod pulled himself to his feet and lashed at it with his sword, but the blade cut through only

empty air. Abyssal magic had granted these creatures incredible speed. The vorr lunged. Its bite almost

caught a bit of Vheod's leg in its jagged, frothing jaws. Vheod's second blow split the gaunt, ragged head

of the beast in two.

He turned. The glaring, hungry eyes of the third vorr focused on him and narrowed. Thin legs spread

wide, as it thrust its head at him. Savage jaws snapped at him again and again. Vheod pushed the hungry

beast back with desperate parries and thrusts.

As he fought to hold the beast back, his ears caught the sounds of a fourth hound on its way. Vheod

knew he was in trouble. He had to try something different-and quickly. He reached inward. There were

black portions of Vheod's soul that he only rarely allowed himself to see, but now he would try anything.

He didn't close his eyes but instead simply looked within rather than without. His body raging with heat

and sweat, at the center of the darkness within him he found his own cold, icy heart. It was an empty and

motionless place, but he found what he was looking for. In a few short instants, Vheod called on the

power innately entwined about the inhuman portion of his soul. Born half tanar'ri, magic flowed within his

veins as surely as blood. It came eagerly when he called to it-perhaps too eagerly.

A tingle of chill fingers ran across his skin as he filled himself with the unleashed power. It felt as

though the cold would eat away at his skin from the inside, and his muscles all tensed at once. Tapping

into that Abyssal energy, he forced the ground away from himself. He pushed down with all his inner

might. Beads of sweat ran down his temples and even into his eyes, but he kept them open. Even in the

short time it took to call on the power, he was terrified to take his eyes off the demonic hound.

As he concentrated, Vheod rose into the air, levitating out of the reach of the attacking vorr. As he

did, the last of the tracking hounds reached the top of the ravine right at his level. Watching its prey float

up into the air past it, the beast stood wide-eyed long enough for the swing of Vheod's blade to slash

across its face. A second blow brought the creature's life to an end. Vheod looked down at the vorr still

in the ravine as it snarled up at him. If the beast had been capable of speech, Vheod knew that snarl

would be a curse. Muscles aching, he realized he would have to end this battle soon. The long chase had

weakened him too much for a protracted fight.

The beast's hateful gaze unnerved him, and Vheod couldn't stay aloft forever. Rather than wait any

longer, he released his grip on the power that held him aloft and let himself drop. As he fell, he pointed his

sword down. Blade-first, he crashed into the horrid hound. Vheod's own grunt on impact was drowned

out by the vorr's shrill bellow.

As Vheod tried to untangle himself from the beast and get to his feet, his hair covered his face.

Seeing nothing, he heard only snarls and whines. By the time he stood, the snarling had stopped. Vheod

pushed his hair away from his eyes. His sword remained thrust into the vorr, pinning the now still creature

to the ground.

Vheod knew that more would come. He stood for a moment over the bodies of the creatures he'd

slain, hoping to catch his breath. Syrupy slime and blood covered his tattered clothes and armor. Panting

out tired breaths, his body's aches seemed to beg him to sit or lay-even amid the pricking thorns. He had

to push himself onward, however. He couldn't allow himself to think of anything but his goal. He had to

escape the Abyss.

Escape presented a great challenge, however, for entrances and exits, often called portals, were

hidden and usually guarded. Once the Abyss held something in its fetid grasp, it let go only reluctantly.

Vheod had always been within that grasp-he'd lived here his entire life. As horrible as this malevolent

plane was, he had little knowledge of anywhere else. A childhood in the deepest, foulest realms of the

Abyss had taught him little except how to survive. A half-breed human-tanar'ri could only live among the

fiends and horrors spawned in this darkest of otherworldly pits if he could protect himself. The fact that

he'd somehow survived against such horrors had to count for something-at least he hoped that to be true.

In the Abyss, his fiendish masters and peers had called him a cambion-a word that accentuated his

half-mortal existence and carried with it all the abuse, oppression, and injustice that had been heaped on

him.While the thorns hungrily absorbed the dead vorrs' spilled blood, Vheod pulled his sword free and

set it on the ground. He drew himself up straight and took a deep breath. Gesturing toward the trail he'd

left behind him as he ran through the brier, Vheod spoke sorcerous words long ago memorized from an

ancient book. He closed his eyes and held forth his battle-scarred hands. Magical power stretched from

his fingertips to the thorns trampled in the battle and in his flight. The crushed plants slowly stood upright

once again. The savage flora would consume the blood of his foes here, but the scene of battle would still

present obvious clues to anyone coming this way. Vheod hoped the spell would keep the thorns from

betraying his path from here.

Once he finished with the spell, Vheod picked up his sword and cleaned the blood from it with the

end of his cloak. He slowly slid it back into its sheath and slipped away from the scene of the battle with

careful, deliberate steps, once again plunging across the violent landscape.

Dark clouds began to obstruct the bloody sky. He wondered if they were actually the visible aspects

of spells cast by Nethess to find him. He could almost see the venom of her inhuman eyes glaring down at

him through the threatening black clouds. How long could he avoid her reach?

Vheod saw the Taint had moved to the back of his hand from where it had been on his forearm. The

indistinct, fluid shape of the mark contrasted with the sharpness of its color, as red and piercing as a

babau's eyes.

"What does that mean?" he whispered in frustration at the tattoo as he loped along as fast as his tired

legs could carry him. Vheod had never really known what the Taint was, but it had always seemed like

some sort of intelligence. It often guided him, though he was never sure to what, or if he interpreted it

correctly. All his life, Vheod could find no answers as to its meaning, least of all from the Taint itself.

This time, however, as if in answer to his rhetorical query, the reddish mark twisted and moved like

flowing water across his arm, lengthening into a narrow, pointed tower. Or is it an arrow? Vheod

thought, shaking his head in confusion.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" he whispered again, his gaze never leaving the mark on his

arm. Vheod glanced around, looking for more signs of pursuit. He knew he should be more quiet. He

thrust his arm in the direction the narrowest end of the

Taint indicated. When Vheod moved his arm, the pointed scar shifted as he did so that it always

oriented in the same direction.

"Yes, you are," Vheod said.

Unknown hours passed since he'd started running, and each time he considered slowing down

visions of more vorrs or even worse creatures pushed him onward. Finally, heavy limbs dragged Vheod

almost to a halt. No sign of pursuit revealed itself.

As the sky above him continued to darken, taking on the mottled brownish green of a festering sore,

a dark tower rose above the uneven horizon and the bloodthirsty brier. At first, all he could do was stare

at the distant structure, his mouth slightly open. With his goal finally in sight, he could ignore the fatigue in

his body, the sweat coating his flesh, and the stink of the dead vorrs that clung to him like a nagging

conscience.

The tower was surrounded by a gray stone wall. Iron supports spaced along the wall spread

eons-old rust across the stonework, and Vheod wondered where the moisture to form rust could have

come from in this parched wasteland.

Stopping in front of the closed gate, Vheod took a moment to examine the entire place. It was just as

he'd heard it described. The thorny plants didn't reach the wall, stopping a few feet away as though even

they were wary of the place.

Vheod closed his eyes and breathed a sigh. Opening them again, he knelt to examine his wounds.

The thorns had torn numerous and sometimes wide, gaping wounds in the flesh of his lower legs. He'd

assumed up until this moment that the pain he felt in his legs came only from his hours of running. Now he

realized that a good deal of the fiery torment came from the terrible wounds rent by the thorns. Using the

spikes on his breastplate, he tore his cloak into two pieces and wrapped the cloth around his bloody

shins and calves. When he finished he stood, stepping closer to the gate. His fist (banged against it with

what remained of his strength. The air had grown noticeably colder over the last hour, and the sky

continued to grow even darker. Soon it would be so dark that only true natives of the Abyss could see at

all-and Vheod knew there were things dwelling in the darkness of the fields behind him that could see

much farther in the dark than he could. Vheod pounded on the gate again, harder this time. No sound

came from beyond the wall. He pressed on the gate, and it opened with a groan of metal. The walled

courtyard around the tower's base lay barren of thorns or any other living thing. The tower itself

appeared to have no means of entry.

"Is there anyone here?" Vheod shouted.

Silence.

Vheod stepped through the gateway. A wooden sign with crude lettering hung from a hook on the

side of the tower just above eye-level. Written in the tongue of the Lower Planes, the words "Karreth

Edittorn" were scrawled across it, a name he knew meant "Destiny's Last Hope," in the language of the

tower's creators. Vheod had read of the tower once long ago in an otherwise forgotten book, but more

recently he'd paid a rutterkin most of his remaining gold and an enchanted cloak for the exact details of

the tower's location. He already missed the cloak, and when he looked down at himself he thought again

of the Taint. It seemed to have guided him here. Perhaps he'd not needed to pay the rutterkin at all.

As he looked again at the bailey formed by the wall, he noted with suspicion that no one had come

to greet him-or fend him off. None of the information he'd gathered said anything about Karreth Edittorn

being abandoned.

"Who are you?"

Vheod spun to see who had spoken, but the bailey was still empty. A rustling sound disturbed the air

above his head. There three winged creatures hovered like insects. Their flesh was weathered and black,

and their small white eyes glistened like pearls. Wings of stretched skin pulled taut over long, spindly

bones silently beat with enough power to allow them to float otherwise motionlessly above him.

"Who are you?" one asked again.

"Vheod," he answered, "from the city of Broken Reach."

"And why have you come here, cambion?"

Vheod knew these creatures were varrangoin, the masters of Karreth Edittorn. Sometimes burdened

with the misnomer of "Abyssal bats," varrangoin were neither stupid animals nor blind. Instead, these

fleshy-winged creatures were powerful and intelligent foes feared even by some of the tanar'ri. It was

their role as adversaries that Vheod planned to use to his advantage.

"I've come here to use the portal," he told them.

"And why is that, half-tanar'ri?" the batlike creature asked with a cruel sneer.

"I have angered the marilith Nethess and now seek to avoid her vengeance," he told the varrangoin.

Quickly he added, "So that I may do so again." It was a lie, but perhaps it might help him endear himself

to these creatures if they thought he was an enemy of their enemy.

The three of them stared down with hard, indecipherable eyes.

"Nethess serves hated Graz'zt," one of them-a different one-finally said. "We would like to see his

viper tree orchards uproot themselves to tear his palace down. We would like to see dread Graz'zt and

all his minions die slow and painful deaths."

"Then may I use the portal?" Vheod asked. His eyes widened as he stared at the batlike creature.

"We hate your kind, tanar'ri. Why should we help you?"

"Can't you see that if you do, I’ll live on to fight against those you hate?"

The varrangoin stared long in silence. Vheod hoped they would buy his bluff.

"Yes," one of them said finally, "we can see that if you live, other tanar'ri will be harmed. If you can

reach the portal, you may use it. It should function for you-if Nethess seeks your blood, it is truly your

Last Hope."

"Where does it lead? Will it take me somewhere safe?"

"Addle-cove! Don't you pay attention? It takes you where it wishes, not where you wish". The

creature glared at him then beat its monstrous wings with a powerful motion, swooping even higher,

followed immediately by the other two. "It takes you to your destiny".

As the varrangoin flew up they pointed to a shimmering hole suddenly forming near the top of the

tower that hadn't been there before. A small ledge jutted out underneath it. The window-like hole opened

into the side of the structure, as though it might look out from the tower's uppermost room. If that was the

portal, how did they expect him to reach it? Vheod circled the tower, but as he suspected, he found no

other new means of entry, nor anything resembling stairs or even a ladder. He looked up into the air

above the tower, but the dark sky held only ever darker clouds.

He was too spent to even think of calling on tanar'ri power again to lift him to the door. As hard as it

might be to assail the stone wall, it would be harder to reach into himself for that cold energy, yet Vheod

knew he needed to get to the door right away.

He was still being hunted. He had no time to wait. Though his tired, bloody legs screamed even as he

considered it, he reached toward the stone wall of the tower. The old and uneven masonry offered many

easy hand holds on which he pulled himself up. His feet rested on crumbling stones that threatened to give

way as his hands sought new holds even higher. Exhaustion and fear slowed his otherwise steady

progress up the side of the tower as tired muscles began to shake with uncertainty and his mind

wandered. Vheod imagined he could hear more vorrs or other of Nethess's servitors on their way,

catching him at this awkward and defenseless moment. He imagined horrible vulturelike fiends tearing at

him as he clung to the stones, ripping away his armor and finally his flesh. He saw huge, bloated demonic

toads making obscene leaps into the air to pull at his bloody ankles, skeletal babau, with their infernal

gazes, lashing at him with hooks, pulling him down, and all the fiends feasting on his flesh even while he

still lived.

Reaching the top after a grueling and fearful ascent, Vheod finally pulled himself up to the ledge. He

eased his tired body down, dangling his weary legs over the side, but with his body turned so he could

look up and into the large, round opening. It appeared to lead into the tower, though he actually saw only

darkness. Vheod knew the doorway itself mattered, not what he could see through it. It was magical, and

it provided a way to leave the Abyss.

The Taint throbbed on his neck. Ignoring it, Vheod reached up, his fingers finding the portal warm to

his touch. He sighed and looked into the darkness, wondering where it would lead.

He looked back over the thorn-filled Fields of Night Unseen and hoped it would be the last he ever

saw of the Abyss. Each layer held its own mystery and its own terrors. Mortal souls condemned for their

evil actions faced torments more terrible than even he could imagine. Eventually, these victims, twisted by

aeons of suffering, became tanar'ri themselves. Just such a fiend had fathered Vheod and bestowed on

him a wicked, corrupted portion of his essence.

The Abyss was pain, misery, and evil deeds. It spawned from dark, depraved thoughts of murder

and revenge, embodied the very essence of wanton destruction, the infliction of suffering, and the chaotic

tumult of annihilation. Its layers knew only adversity, calamity, and devastation. Where another world

might have rivers of cool water, the Abyss had only acids and poisons. Where another might be wrapped

in a cushion of fresh air, the Abyss was home to choking clouds and flesh-eating mists. Where other

worlds sported cities, the Abyss held fortresses filled with tortured souls and baleful fiends. It held no

safe places and no shelter from the ravages of devastation. The Abyss was all evil, yet it was all Vheod

had ever known.

He stood, steadying himself as he stood on the narrow ledge-the long drop to the ground behind him

and the unknown darkness before him. A cold, dry wind lifted his long hair and tossed it into his face.

Blood still ran from the wounds on his legs. Vheod smiled with bitter disdain.

"I can assume," he said aloud, "that wherever this takes me, it can't be any worse than this."

Vheod leaped through the portal, leaving the Abyss behind him.

Chapter One

"I wonder if the goddess is watching us, right at this moment," Melann said, looking around.

Whitlock's gaze followed hers, and he saw the thick, dark trees surrounding the dusty path on which

he and his sister rode. Their horses' hoofbeats metered out the minutes and hours that comprised the

otherwise silent days of their travels. Light from the setting sun streaked through the branches around

them like streamers on a festival day, and the trees were alive with birds and small animals moving about

as late afternoon fell on the Dalelands. As he rode past, Whitlock saw the swirl of leaves overhead as a

cascade of water endlessly moving across a sea of green-or at least, what he imagined the sea might look

like, as he'd never actually seen the sea.

"Does Chauntea, the Great Mother, watch us every day of our journey or only at certain points?"

Melann continued. "Surely a goddess has better things to do in all the Dalelands-all the world-than to

continually watch one simple, minor follower like me. Yet how can a mortal begin to put limitations on a

goddess?"

Whitlock had heard this from his sister before. While her training taught her that Chauntea was

concerned with every aspect of her priests' lives, Melann seemed to find it difficult not to question her

own worth in her goddess's eyes. His sister's faith in the greatness and glory of Chauntea, mother of all

growing things and the people who tended them, never faltered. Her own importance and self-worth

were in question. She voiced these concerns often and aloud. Whitlock's only response was to simply

shrug.

"Praise Our Mother," Melann whispered out of habit.

At the sound of his sister's voice, Whitlock turned. A smile came unbidden to his mouth, but his

normal, stalwart countenance altered it into a grimace. He wished he could be more like her. The faith

that she held in her god, in the completion of their quest, and seemingly in him strengthened Whitlock,

even if he was unable to really express such things in words. He saw her as everything that was good in

the world, which needed protection by people like him. It was his duty, and he would not shirk it. Duty,

steadfastness, and obligation were his gods.

Whitlock wiped sweat from his brow, and readjusted himself in the saddle. He scanned around,

always looking for danger.

When they began the trip from Archendale three days earlier, Whitlock had convinced Melann to

don a leather jerkin for a modicum of protection. A brown traveling cloak covered most of the armor,

but not a wooden amulet bearing Chauntea's symbol-a flower surrounded by a sunburst-displayed

prominently at her chest. Melann's faith was her strength, and indeed it allowed her to perform great feats

when she called on the power of her patron. That faith, however, also led her to believe that Chauntea

would provide her with everything she needed. Whitlock knew that most of the time you had to take care

of yourself.

The sound of his glistening chain mail lightly jingling with each step of his mount constantly reminded

him of the dangers all around him and the need for protection. He noted each tree, each bend in the road,

with careful consideration. Their father had taught him that the spot that appeared safest was actually the

best spot for an ambush.

The people of the Dales," his father used to say, didn't survive so near dangers like the Zhentarim

and Myth Drannor by being trusting. We go through life with our eyes open."

Now, riding into these mysterious elven woods, his sister's safety was his responsibility. Their quest

weighed heavily on Whitlock's shoulders.

Melann's long dark hair, tied away from her face in a practical manner, pulled free of the bond a few

strands at a time with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. They both had been told that there was a

strong familial resemblance between the two of them, but of course Whitlock's hair was much shorter,

and for the last few years he'd worn a short-cropped beard. Whitlock had never let himself think much of

women and feminine beauty, but he imagined that other men might find his sister attractive. Usually

Melann's hands and clothes were covered in fresh dirt, as she spent most of her time helping fanners with

their crops or in her own garden. Perhaps if she didn't concern herself with things like that so much,

Whitlock thought, she would be married.

Now only the dust of the road covered Melann's hands and clothes. The journey they had been

forced into did not allow for the luxury of tending to plants, nor did it take them near too many tilled

fields. Only the dust of the road soiled either of them. The two rode in silence, as they had for much of

the journey.

Both held their mouths in tight expressions, and their eyes hung heavy and low. Still, Whitlock took

Melann's praise to her goddess as a sign of unswerving faith and optimism.

The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended.

Now, as darkness slowly overcame the light of day, Whitlock grew even more wary. The seriousness of

the mission that drove them on made him reluctant to speak, but his silence fostered the cloud of gloom

that hung over them as surely as the ancient curse they struggled against hung over their family.

The town of Essembra supposedly lay on this road, and he'd planned on their reaching it by nightfall.

"Did you hear that?" Melann asked softly.

"No," he replied. Her voice broke through Whitlock's silent reverie. He'd heard nothing. Still, caution

was always prudent.

"I thought I heard a voice," Melann said, her voice still low. "As though someone called out from far

away."

At that moment a deep, resonant voice came from among the trees. Both heard it this time. The man,

if it was a man, spoke from what seemed a good distance off to their left. The words were clear but

meaningless.

"I think that's Elvish," Melann stated, halting her horse and looking off in the direction from which the

voice had come. Whitlock pulled the reins on his own mount and looked back at her.

"Come along, Melann. We've got to get to town before nightfall."

"But-" she began. She was interrupted by another deep voice calling through the trees, this time from

the right side of the road. She could find no meaning in the words. Despite the distance from which they

seemed to come, the voices were more like whispers than shouts.

"Melann, come along. We have no business in this wood after dark."

"But what if he's in need? His voice seems so mournful-so sad."

Whitlock sighed heavily, even forcefully. "Melann, they call this the Vale of Lost Voices for a reason.

People say these woods are filled with ghosts-elven ghosts."

Instinctively, Melann spoke the Chauntean prayer of the dead, looking around the whole time. When

she finished the two pressed their heels into the sides of their mounts, urging them onward to the north as

the woods around them grew darker and darker with the fading sun.

Neither of them actually noticed just how much they sped their horses until they suddenly had to

bring them to a stop. A single figure stood in the road. He fearlessly held his ground even in the face of

the galloping horses. Neither his stance nor his expression changed as the two of them struggled to stop

their mounts. Once their horses were under control, Melann and Whitlock gazed at the man before them.

Most certainly elven, his lithe form betrayed a deep-seated power. Finely crafted armor seemed to

glide over his body and accentuate his features, each line in the armor playing off a similar line in his

angular face and body. A sword and bow remained at his back. His eyes were as black as the night that

was approaching far too quickly.

Whitlock reached for the hilt of his weapon, but the almost whispering voice of the elf stopped him

cold.

Neither sibling could understand his speech, but they watched closely as he raised a graceful,

muscular arm and pointed to the west, then again to the northwest. Whitlock followed the elf’s long,

pointing finger and looked off into the woods but saw nothing. When Whitlock looked back at the elven

warrior, he was gone.

"Did you see that?" Melann whispered as though she had no breath within her at all.

"No," Whitlock lied to her and himself, grabbing the bridle of her horse and spurring it and his own to

a gallop.

They hardly got more than a hundred yards down the road when a shadowy figured loomed ahead

of them. Again they pulled on the reins of their mounts, bringing them to a halt in front of an elven warrior.

"What in the name of ..." Whitlock didn't finish. Instead, wide-eyed, he stared at the figure.

It was the same warrior they had seen before.

"Wait," the figure whispered, this time in a strangely accented but understandable version of

Common. He held forth a stern hand.

"Melann, get back," Whitlock warned.

She didn't heed her brother. "Who are you?" she asked.

The elf did not respond.

"My name is Melann Brandish, and this is my brother, Whitlock," she answered, motioning to her

brother.

Whitlock looked at her incredulously. This was no time to hold a conversation, particularly with a

ghost!

The features of the elven warrior were more clearly defined now-though Whitlock couldn't reason

why. The elf carried a sword and a bow, but he kept the blade sheathed and the bow unstrung. His

armor was silver, unlike any Whitlock had ever seen. The apparition's eyes were black like bottomless

pits, drawing in light around him.

"Hear me," the warrior said. When he spoke, Whitlock heard voices like his coming from all around

them in the woods. "We have buried our dead in these woods for a time longer than you can understand.

Warriors fallen from centuries of conflict now lie here. We do not always rest quietly."

Melann shook her head slightly, her mouth agape. Whitlock reached for the reins of her mount, to

pull her back. Instead, much to his surprise, she bade her horse ahead a few steps.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly.

Whitlock was stunned by her courage, or carelessness,

"An evil known to us is once again stirring.''

Melann recoiled. "What evil? What do you mean?"

Whitlock reached down to where his shield hung on his saddlebag and slowly strapped it to his arm.

never taking his eyes off the elven spirit.

"I cannot speak of it."

The warrior shifted his stance. Whitlock wondered if the elf was preparing for something. Perhaps,

however, he was just particularly uncomfortable with what he was saying. It was difficult to tell.

"Does it have anything to do with us?" Melann asked the warrior.

"More than you know."

"Melann, we can't trust him," Whitlock whispered quickly. "We should go."

"There is arcane magic born of this wood," the warrior said to Whitlock. "The spirits of elves, ancient

when humans first came to the Dales, walk here still. Dragons, elven magic, monstrous creatures, restless

dead-the woods are mysterious and deadly."

Was that supposed to be a threat?

Melann ignored Whitlock, her eyes never leaving the stranger.

"We are on a quest," she told him. "Our family has an ancient curse on it, and we think we know

how to lift it."

"Melann!" Whitlock spat. Her naivete might spell disaster for them. She was too damned trusting.

The warrior looked at Melann, as if expecting more. The black pits of his eyes widened, but he said

nothing. The light breeze stilled, and the forest grew silent.

"The curse strikes down members of my family with no apparent pattern." Only now did Melann's

gaze leave the elf, for now it dropped to the ground, and she closed her eyes. "Our . . ." her voice

faltered, ". . . our mother and father lay dying in Archenbridge with a horrid disease. It's the only way we

can help them."

"What is the only way?" the warrior asked with an ancient, resonant voice.

"That's no business of yours," Whitlock said, reaching slowly for his sword hilt.

"A wizard," Melann explained, ""who's now long dead, cursed our family. We've learned that

perhaps if we can find his magical staff, we can rid ourselves of the curse."

The warrior paused for a moment, then pointed to the west and said, "Kirthol Erdel”

"What?" Whitlock asked, his hand grasping the hilt of his weapon tightly. His eyes narrowed, and he

leaned forward.

Melann answered, but she did not look back at her brother. "That's an ancient elven name for the

Thunder Peaks."

The horses shifted nervously, stamping on the ground. Melann and Whitlock pulled back on their

reins to keep control. The warrior didn't react.

"Signs and omens show nothing but dark portents for the days ahead," the elf said. "Disturbances in

the flow of magic have brought me back here to the corporeal world. Since my return, I have learned of

ill tidings from Kirthol Erdel speaking of large and frequent bands of creatures you call gnolls gathering

and attacking whatever they come on."

Melann seemed to drink all this information in, but Whitlock was disturbed. "Why are the gnolls

gathering?" he asked, reluctant as he was to converse with a ghost.

"I do not know," came the response, "but they seem to be directed by someone."

Again the warrior seemed to shift his position. Whitlock saw his hands twitch and readied himself,

but the elf didn't reach for his weapons, so Whitlock still didn't draw his own sword.

"Can't you tell us more than that?" Melann asked, her hands waving toward the warrior. "Does this

have anything to do with what we're trying to do?'"

The warrior pointed again, toward the east. "Chare'en."

Melann gasped. Whitlock looked at her, to see what she would say next. He hoped it would be

nothing-but a part of him was now intrigued at what this long-dead elf had to say.

When Melann said nothing, he whispered again, "We should go."

She paused and drew a breath, still not looking into her brother's disapproving eyes. He did nothing

to stop her, though.

"No, Whitlock," Melann said, "we won't learn anything if we don't tell anything." With a quickening

pace she continued. "Perhaps Chauntea brought us here-to you-for a reason. Perhaps not. In any case,

we do know of someone called Chare'en."

The warrior stared at her in silence. "Chare'en was the ancient sorcerer who put the curse on our

family."

Again, the warrior's hands seemed to twitch. "He died long ago and was buried in a crypt hidden by

an avalanche," Melann said, though it seemed as if she was talking to herself now. "At least, that’s what

some old family records show. The crypt holds something that can lift the curse. The curse ... drains their

strength until they haven't even the strength to ... their hearts just stop beating." A tear ran down Melann's

face, her lips quivered, but she continued. "We need to find this hidden crypt. We don't know how much

longer our parents have left.

"Or how much longer we have left," she added.

The warrior stood silently watching her.

"So, are you saying," Whitlock asked, "that this old sorcerer's crypt is in the Thunder Peaks?"

The elf did not reply.

Melann turned toward Whitlock, wiping away the tear. "I think that's what he's saying. I think

Chauntea sent him here to help guide us."

"Tilverton's at the northern edge of the Thunder Peaks," Whitlock told her. "We could make for

there from here by staying on the main roads Rauthauvyr's Road meets up with the Moonsea Ride north

of here, then heads west."

"That doesn't seem to be very direct," Melann replied. "I'd like to get there as quickly as we can."

"I'd rather stick to the main roads-particularly while we're here in these damned - "he looked at the

elven warrior-"I mean, in these woods."

Whitlock began formulating further plans but was away into the darkness that surrounded them. The

ground where he stood showed no sign of him ever being there at all.

"Vheod?" Whitlock repeated and furrowed his brow. He looked to his sister. "What does that

mean?"

Melann shook her head. "That doesn't sound like Elvish at all."

Chapter Two

The portal from the varrangoins' tower opened on this side in a space between the trunks of two oak

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TheGlassPrisonMonteCookForgottenRealmsSingleScanned,formattedandproofedbyDreamcityEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:November,10th,2003©1999TSR,Inc.AllRightsReserved.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.Thisbookisprotectedunderthecopyrightlawso...

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