The Eye of the Chained God

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cariss had sustained the worst injuries of any of them-deep gouges where the peryton’s talons had gripped her-but once other Tigerclaw warriors had caught her drifting body and brought her back to the clearing, even she wasn’t willing to wait longer than it took to have her wounds cleaned and bandaged. “Albanon saved me,” she said. “Do I honor his actions by hesitating when he is in danger?” She even took charge of the wizard’s staff from Uldane.

In less time than it had taken to battle the perytons, they set out across the valley for the scorch-marked cliffs. The Tigerclaws led the way, bounding through the forest with the grace and speed of animals. Shara, almost as at home in the wilds as the barbarians, and Uldane, very nearly as fast, followed close behind. Quarhaun, Tempest, and Belen came after, moving as quickly as they could.

Roghar brought up the rear, the shield and heavy armor that had saved his life on many occasions encumbering him as he ran. In a short dash, he might have kept up with one of the others. Sprinting in armor was part of his training routine, but one only intended to get him quickly around a battlefield. Over longer distance, he would only exhaust himself.

When Tempest and Belen slowed to keep pace with him, he just waved for them to keep going. “I’ll get there,” he shouted. “The trail’s impossible to miss.”

“You shouldn’t be walking alone,” Tempest called back.

“We just killed the largest predators in the valley. What’s going to bother me?” He banged a gauntleted fist against his breastplate for emphasis.

Tempest and Belen exchanged a glance, then the tiefling shrugged and they carried on. Just ahead, Quarhaun paused to give Roghar a long, thoughtful look. Roghar curled his lips and glared back until the drow had gone on with the two women.

He dropped to his knees in a soft clashing of metal. Alone! Truly alone for the first time in two days. Letting the shield slide from his arm, he pulled off his right gauntlet-and almost sobbed.

The abrasion inflicted by Vestagix’s tail had grown into an oozing wound. His scales were shriveling and falling out, leaving the raw flesh beneath exposed. The veins almost seemed to be rising to the surface. Red and pulsing, they snaked out from the wound to push aside healthy scales. Roghar could feel the infection, too. From the tips of his fingers almost to his elbow, his arm burned with a slow, aching heat.

And was it is his imagination or had his left arm started to burn as well? He didn’t dare take his other gauntlet off to look.

Roghar clamped his hand around his arm just below the wound and squeezed as if he could cut off the flow of tainted blood. “Holy Bahamut, Righteous Dragon,” he prayed just as he had morning and night since Winterhaven, “I beg you to heal this wound!”

The sluggish stirring of divine energy was the same. It answered his call, a new warmth caressing his skin, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t the same as it had once been. When he opened his eyes, the oozing wound had dried and scabbed a little, but it was still there. His arm still burned.

Bleakness settled over him like a heavy cloak. He’d tried to hold it back for several days, but what difference had it made? The Abyssal Plague had him in its grip. Prayer would not drive it away, only hold it back. And it was only getting worse. The night before, stumbling and exhausted in the forest, he’d briefly felt… something… inside him, like a nightmare intruding on his waking mind.

How long would it be before he lost himself entirely and became one of Vestapalk’s demons?

No, Roghar told himself, he wouldn’t let that happen. He picked up his shield and bent his head before the holy symbol on its surface. “If you can’t heal this plague, Bahamut, then give me the strength to fight it. Let me be myself until Vestapalk is dead, then I will surrender to my fate.” He clenched his burning, infected fist. “I swear it.”

He didn’t wait for his god’s response-it would hurt too much if there wasn’t one. Pulling his gauntlet on again, he rose, picked up his shield, and followed the trampled path of the others through the forest.

By the time he’d caught up to them, they’d reached the foot of the towering cliff. From so close an angle, the ledges where the perytons had nested were nearly impossible to make out. The black scorching from the brilliant burst of light stood out, though. Roghar joined Turbull, Belen, and Tempest as they stood staring up at it. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Looking for the best route of ascent,” said Belen. “Uldane thinks there should be a way up that he can climb. Quarhaun says it’s insanity but he’s looking, too. The drow has almost as much feel for stone as a dwarf.”

“Coming from the Underdark, he would.” The words came out gruffer than he’d intended-as so many of his words seemed to lately. It earned him a sharp glance from Tempest. He turned away rather than meet her gaze.

The trees grew thinner close to the base of the cliff, but the underbrush became heavier. Hardy vines clung a short way up the stone face itself. Here and there, they’d been torn back to expose the rock beneath. Where the vines had protected it, the surface was pocked by potential handholds. Farther up, however, it was weathered almost smooth. Uldane would need to find a more sheltered spot or a vein of some hard stone that might have resisted the weather.

If there was still any need to make the climb. The dragonborn cupped his hands around his muzzle and bellowed “ Albanon! ”

The echoes that rolled back at him were the only response. “We’ve tried that,” Turbull growled. “No answer. Not even a pebble dropped over the edge as a sign.”

“So we could be trying to rescue a corpse?”

Another glance from Tempest. This time it irritated Roghar more than it shamed him. He glared back at his old friend. “It’s a possibility.”

“He could be lying wounded. He might not be able to answer. We’re going after him.”

Roghar wanted to apologize, to tell her that he’d never meant to question whether they’d go after Albanon. Something dark and angry rose inside him, though. Who was Tempest to question him? He tried to fight the feeling down, but it still came out as a derisive snort. Tempest’s eyebrows drew together beneath her horns and she frowned.

Anything else she might have said was interrupted, however, by a shout from along the cliff face. There was a snarl to it, but also an uneasy whine, like a frightened animal-it must have been one of the Tigerclaws.

Long experience adventuring together took over. Roghar and Tempest exchanged a knowing glance and followed the sound. The paladin led with his shield up and a hand on his sword, while the warlock followed a couple of paces behind, her rod at the ready. But they weren’t the only ones to investigate. Belen fell in beside Roghar while Turbull raced ahead. Other Tigerclaws seemed to melt out of the forest and rush past them. Uldane caught up to them. “What was that?”

Roghar shook his head and shoved the halfling back with Tempest. Ahead, the Tigerclaws, together with Shara and Quarhaun, were gathered around something on the cliff face. The shifters were growling and unsettled, for the most part keeping their distance. Shara saw Roghar and the others and waved them forward. Roghar pushed through-and growled as well.

There, vines grew higher than normal on the cliff, but some had been pulled down. What lay beneath was not rough rock, however. The stone surface had been worked smooth and flat-and carved with a jagged spiral.

“The sign of the Elder Eye,” said Cariss. She made a gesture Roghar guessed was meant to ward off evil. “In Winterbole Forest, a few monstrous creatures with an affinity to ice and cold make offerings to it.”

“Packs of Riven, too,” Hurn bared his teeth and spat. “Filthy, feral traitors to the tribe.”

Roghar saw Belen flinch at the mention of the Riven-Hurn’s anger had struck too close to her secret. He tried to change the subject. “It’s the symbol of Tharizdun,” he said. “The Chained God tries to lure worshipers in the guise of the Elder Elemental Eye.”

“And not all exiles from the tribe turn to the Elder Eye, Hurn,” said Turbull. “They turn their backs on the Spirit of Hota, but they don’t become beasts.” His face tightened as he studied the jagged spiral, though. “Elder Eye or Chained God, I don’t like the sign’s presence in this valley. What is it doing here? Who carved it?”

Quarhaun stepped closer to the rock face and his pale eyes narrowed. “The symbol isn’t the only thing here.” He drew his sword, stretched up and placed its tip in the center of the spiral, then pulled the sword carefully down the stone.

Dirt and fine debris peeled away after it, revealing a dark, straight line in the rock. “It’s a seam,” he said. “This looks like the work of dwarves.” He grabbed a handful of vines and pulled them away to expose more of the smooth surface. Shara went to help him. Then Tempest. And Uldane. And Turbull, and Belen, and others. In a short time, all of the vines along that stretch of the cliff face were down.

A pair of arched doors, as tall and wide as fortress gates, stood revealed. No handles or hinges were visible and there was no decoration except Tharizdun’s jagged spiral. More of the Tigerclaws made Hurn’s warding gesture.

“Do you think this is where Albanon’s urge was leading us?” asked Tempest.

“I’m sure of it.” Quarhaun ran his hands over the smooth stone, pushed against the doors without result, then stepped back and looked at the rest of them. “I’ve never known anyone who makes one door into a place that doesn’t make a second one.” He nodded to the cliff overhead.

“You’re going in?” asked Hurn.

“ We’re going in,” said Turbull grimly. “Albanon aided us. We aid Albanon. And if we intend to settle in this valley, we need to know all of its dangers.”

A murmur ran through the Tigerclaws at that. Turbull turned and silenced them with a snarl.

“I think a better question might be how do we get in?” Uldane said. “There’s no lock on the doors. I can’t open them.”

Roghar studied the doors and his lips twitched into a smile. For the first time since Winterhaven, he felt like he had a purpose again.

“I can,” he said.

It took longer to find, fell, and strip the necessary trees than it took for Roghar to rig them together with rope into a sturdy frame and suspended battering ram in front of the great stone doors. Personal combat wasn’t the only form of battle that Bahamut’s paladins were trained for. Roghar had never needed to conduct siege warfare, but he thanked the Platinum Dragon he’d found siege engines interesting enough that they stuck in his memory. The work almost made him forget the burning infection in his hands and arms.

Turbull looked at the rough timbers with some doubt. “I’ve heard of such things,” he said. “I’d thought that armies could just take a tree trunk and run it against fortress gates.”

“We would have had to clear a lot of underbrush to make enough room for a charge at the doors,” said Roghar. “This is easier.” He took hold of the hanging ram and used his entire body weight to drag it back, then took a deep breath and drove it forward. The ram’s head slammed into the stone doors with a resounding boom.

“Teams of ten,” he called out. “Five to a side. We work in shifts. This will likely take some time.”

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” asked Belen. She pointed up, not to the ledges, but to the sky. The sun had sunk well into the west, casting most of the valley into shadow and painting the steep slopes of its far side with gold.

“We have enough people who can see in the dark,” Roghar told her. She shook her head.

“That’s not what I’m worried about. If this is some lost shrine or forgotten temple of Tharizdun, I’d rather face it during the day.”

Roghar glanced around, then dropped his voice. “Tharizdun wanted us to follow Albanon here, didn’t he? What do you think we will have to face?” When she didn’t respond, he turned back to the ram, where the first team of ten-Shara and Quarhaun among them-had taken their places. “Ready!” he called. “Pull and… swing!”

The ram slammed against the doors a second time. “Pull,” called Roghar again, “and… swing!”

They quickly fell into a rhythm, the boom of the ram echoing across the valley on a regular basis. The siege engine creaked and groaned but hung together. There was no immediate change to the face of the doors, but that didn’t surprise or deter Roghar. The stone looked tough and if the doors were dwarf-made as Quarhaun suspected, they would likely be thick as well. At least there was no one trying to stop them from breaking in.

Fine cracks spread out from where the ram struck. Chips of stone started to flake away. He changed the teams swinging the ram, but didn’t leave his own post at the back end of it. Quarhaun, sweat glistening on his black skin, came to stand beside him. “What if it’s sealed on the other side?” he asked quietly. “A wall or something.”

“Who would do something like that?” Roghar grunted between heaves. “It’s mad.”

“The symbol of Tharizdun is on the door.”

“If there’s a wall, we break through it, too. Pull and…”

“Roghar!” shouted Uldane.

The dragonborn froze at the urgency in Uldane’s call, but the ram was already in motion. It dragged him off his feet and nearly knocked him down on the rebound. Two or three shifters on either side also tumbled. Those still upright had the sense to drag the ram to a stop. Roghar rolled upright and glared at Uldane, but the halfling was scanning the sky. So were Belen and half a dozen of the resting Tigerclaws. “What?” he said, his anger fading fast, “What is it?”

“Something just flew over. Up high.”

Roghar looked up. A scattering of clouds had rolled in, breaking up the blue vault and scattering the red-gold light of the setting sun. “Another peryton?”

Uldane shook his head. “Bigger. A lot bigger.” He traced a line against the sky, heading west beyond the towering cliff. “It went that way.”

“I saw a long neck and a long tail,” said one of the Tigerclaw warriors.

Quarhaun cursed. “Dragon?”

Roghar didn’t hesitate. He went straight for his sword and shield. Hurn looked at him doubtfully. “Maybe it didn’t see us.”

“It couldn’t have missed hearing us.”

“Then maybe it doesn’t care.”

“I’m not taking that chance. Everyone under the trees. We’ll wait to see if-”

Across the valley, something flickered in the light that fell against the far hills. A shadow, made indistinct by distance-but at that angle, whatever was casting the shadow would have to be low, not high where everyone was watching.

“Scatter!” Roghar commanded. “It’s coming back!”

A few of the Tigerclaws reacted faster than the rest of them and sprinted for cover. They weren’t fast enough. Before they reached the trees, the dragon burst over the top of the cliff and swooped down on them.

Roghar caught a brief flash of green and red, then he threw himself flat on the ground and pulled his shield up over his head. The shouts of the Tigerclaws were drowned out by a rush of wind as the beast skimmed close overhead. One of the shouts rose into a sharp scream, then ended abruptly. Wings thundered on the air. Roghar let his shield fall and rose onto his knees.

The dragon was climbing again. Two of the Tigerclaws who had been running for the trees were bloody corpses, still tumbling across the ground from the force of the lethal attack. Turbull and Shara were both yelling, telling everyone to scatter so there would be no groups to present easy targets for the dragon’s breath. Roghar watched the dragon as it rose into the fading sunlight, then rolled in the air and came back for another pass.

Like Vestagix in Winterhaven, the creature was thin to the point of emaciation, its green scales tinted with crystalline red. More crystals sprouted in spikes from its joints and along its spine and tail. Where Vestagix had taken the size and stance of a dragonborn, however, the monster in the air was similar in size and shape to a true dragon-or at least to a true dragon with two necks sprouting from its shoulders and two long, narrow heads above.

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.