The Temple of Elemental Evil

8

The remains of the ruined moathouse sat to the left of the path, surrounded by a fetid bog and connected to the main road by a narrow causeway that was banked high to stay clear of the wetland around it. Most of the walls were still standing, although in places the stonework was a tumbled ruin, and the whole thing seemed ready to fall over into the bog at any moment. Timbers from what must have once been a second story jutted up in places, but they were blackened from fire. The entire structure was overgrown with vines and creepers, yellowish and sickly looking. The front gates were smashed and hanging askew, but a sad excuse for a drawbridge still spanned the gap between the pathway and the gate’s threshold.

Melias studied the moathouse, as if considering. The rest of the company waited in the eerie quiet of the morning, the silence broken only by the deep croaking of frogs and an occasional fetid breeze blowing up from the direction of the marsh. Finally, Melias nodded, half to himself, and motioned for everyone to continue. Slowly, the company made its way down to the ruined moathouse.

Ahleage, sitting astride his horse next to Shanhaevel, coughed and held his nose. “Gah!” He groaned. “It stinks!”

“Shanhaevel,” Melias called. “Would you please ask your hawk to reconnoiter the area? I want to know if there’s anyone—or anything—about before we go inside.”

Shanhaevel nodded. Ormiel, he projected, feeling for his familiar.

I am here.

Fly over the big broken man-nest. Are there any bad things? Any people?

From the trees off to the group’s left, the hawk took flight, its powerful wings pumping as it rose into the air. It soared past the company, only a few feet over their heads, and winged its way toward the moathouse. Shanhaevel watched as Ormiel circled the place a couple of times and landed on a high parapet of a mostly intact tower near the front entrance. From there, Ormiel scanned the area, jerking his head this way and that.

No bad things. No people.

Shanhaevel shook his head. “Ormiel says nothing is around.”

“Thank you.” Melias turned in his saddle to face the rest of the group. “All right, stay sharp, everyone. Let’s move.”

With that, the warrior turned and spurred his horse forward, heading toward the side path that led to the front gate of the moathouse.

As he turned to follow, Shanhaevel thought, Ormiel. Good job. Hunt now. Ormiel took off from his perch atop the tower, searching for food.

The group reached the embanked path crossing over the swampy ground, where a slight breeze rustled the cattails. A bird of a type Shanhaevel had never heard before called from the trees. Shanhaevel studied the ruins, looking for any telltale signs that they were being watched.

Melias dismounted, signaling the rest of the company to do the same. He stood for a few moments, staring at the building. Finally, he turned to the rest of the group and said, “We leave the horses here. I want Ahleage to take the lead. Check that drawbridge to make sure it’ll hold us before we cross.”

“Got it,” Ahleage said, already advancing along the causeway. The rest of the companions followed a few paces behind.

Before they made it even a third of the way across, something bounded out of the marshy ground to the group’s right. Shanhaevel spun in time to see a huge frog, fully six feet long, land near him. As several more of the giant creatures plopped into the company’s midst, the one nearest Shanhaevel snaked its long, sticky tongue out, latching onto his arm and pulling, and he was jerked off his feet toward the beast’s gaping mouth.

Shanhaevel thrashed wildly with his staff, trying to beat the huge frog senseless. With one arm wrapped up by the beast’s tongue, however, he found it impossible to wield the weapon effectively, and worse, he was still being pulled closer and closer to the frog’s hungry mouth. In desperation, Shanhaevel used the staff to brace himself, digging into the ground with it and trying to resist the tug of the frog’s tongue. It helped only a little.

“It’s got me!” Shanhaevel shouted, barely keeping his voice from cracking in terror. “Somebody get it off me!” He flailed about, looking around, but the rest of the company was hard at work battling more of the frogs, although few of the creatures seemed as large as the one that had attacked him.

One of the beasts had a hold of Draga’s leg and was pulling him slowly along the ground. Draga, sitting on his rear facing the frog, had his bow out and was firing arrows straight into the creature’s head. Three or four shafts already protruded from the thing, and it was jerking and spasming in pain. Melias and Shirral worked together to kill another one with their blades, while Elmo dealt with a third by splitting it almost in half with his axe. Two more hopped out of the marsh even as the huge man dealt the killing blow, and one quickly had a hold of Elmo’s leg with its tongue.

Shanhaevel longed to draw upon his magic, but he couldn’t concentrate to cast the spell correctly. The frog pulled again and dragged him closer to its mouth. One more good tug, and he would be lunch. Desperately, he spun his staff around and sat down, feet facing the frog. When the creature tugged him a third time, he lined the staff up and tossed it into the slavering maw, crosswise, like a horse’s bit. Then he quickly brought his feet up and braced them against either end of the staff, pushing with all his might against the frog itself.

The frog did not like this and began to thrash and shake its head. Shanhaevel found it tricky to keep himself balanced, but the brace held, although his arm felt as if it were being ripped from its socket, and his legs strained with effort. Quickly, before he lost strength, Shanhaevel reached inside his tunic with his free hand and pulled a long dagger from within. Laying the edge of the blade along the taut tongue of the frog, he sawed back and forth, slicing into the flesh.

Instantly, the frog loosened its grip on Shanhaevel’s arm and jerked its tongue away. The elf kicked backward as hard as he could and rolled away from the frog, coming to his knees at the far edge of the embanked path. The frog tossed its head and pitched the staff to one side. Dagger still in hand, Shanhaevel rose to his feet. The frog leaped, its mouth open wide, and Shanhaevel took a half-step back, stumbling as he stepped beyond the edge of the path and onto the steep slope beyond. Slipping to one knee, he brought the dagger up to defend himself, treacherously balanced on the side of the embankment. The frog landed right in front of him, its cold, round eyes staring at its potential meal.

Shanhaevel raised his dagger to plunge it between those eyes, and suddenly Ahleage was there, seemingly appearing out of thin air and bringing his sword down across the neck of the frog and severing its head. Shanhaevel flinched away from the shock of the sudden attack, and the frog’s head bounced and rolled past him down the hill into the murky marsh at the bottom. Shanhaevel sighed wearily and slumped down, breathing heavily.

Ahleage grinned at Shanhaevel as the sounds of battle died away around them. Laying his head back against the ground, the elf stared up at the cloud-flecked sky and caught his breath. His legs were shaking from the strain, and his shoulder was tender. He moved his arm in a swimming motion experimentally and was satisfied that it was not seriously injured.

Shortly, Melias announced that the group should move out, so they rolled the bodies of the frogs down the side of the path, letting the carcasses splash into the marshy water. When they were done, they prepared to enter the ruins once more.

Just as Ahleage started forward, there was a shout from farther down the abandoned road. Shanhaevel turned to look as everyone else unsheathed weapons a second time. It was one of the three men from last night, the one with the scar on the back of his hand, either Kobort or Zert; the elf wasn’t certain which. He was running toward the group, waving for their attention as he did so.

As the man caught up to them, Melias brandished his sword and warned, “That’s close enough.”

The man stopped in his tracks, chest heaving, eyeing the weapon somewhat fearfully.

“Please,” he panted. “Zert’s hurt. He’s… trapped, and I can’t… get him out. We need… your help.” The man pointed back the way he had come, breathing heavily.

Melias’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“We hiked out at… at first light this morning,” the man explained. “Turuko, Zert, and I. We were going to dig… for treasure, like we told you.”

“But you came from a different direction, just now,” Ahleage said, a pair of daggers in his hands. “The moathouse is over there.” He gestured with one of his weapons at the ruined structure.

Kobort nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “We went inside and found a way down into the cellars. There’s a second way out, back over there,” he pointed down the road, from where he had come. “One of the walls collapsed while we were exploring. It completely buried Turuko, and Zert’s leg is pinned. I can’t lift the stone by myself. Please, he’s bleeding pretty bad.”

Melias frowned, considering. “Have you noticed any signs that others have been here recently?”

Kobort looked surprised. “No one else is here. It looks like some bandits might have been camping in there.” He pointed again, this time at the visible ground level of the moathouse. “They must have cleared out, ’cause no one’s there now. Please, Zert’s dying!”

Shirral strode back to her horse, mounted, and started forward. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder, sounding exasperated. “We can’t just let him die.”

Melias grunted in exasperation, but he remounted and spurred his own horse to follow, and the rest of the group fell in with him.

Kobort ran along beside them, saying, “Thank you!” over and over again.

“Just show us,” Melias said.

Kobort nodded and pointed as they reached the bottom of the rise, pushing through some brush off the side of the road. Shanhaevel dismounted and tied the reins of his horse to the brush, then followed Melias and the others into the undergrowth.

Several paces off the trail, Kobort showed the group a partially concealed tunnel mouth, covered over with bushes. “In here,” he said and moved inside.

“Wait!” Melias said, grasping Kobort’s shoulder to stop him. “Unpack the gear,” the soldier said to everyone. “If it’s unstable in there, I want to be prepared.” Turning back to Kobort, Melias asked, “How far back is your friend?”

Kobort scrunched up his face, apparently trying to think. “Maybe a hundred paces,” he said at last, not sounding too sure.

“Didn’t you have a torch or something?” Melias asked. “How did you find your way out?”

“Oh, I left the torch with Zert, so he wouldn’t get scared,” Kobort replied. “I could see the light here at the end of the tunnel, so I just felt along the wall with my hand and walked out.”

Melias nodded, his lips pursed in a frown. “All right, let’s get some lanterns lit and see what’s what.”

When the group was ready, Kobort led them inside the tunnel. It was long and straight, descending slightly as it ran. Kobort went first, followed by Melias. Ahleage and Draga followed the soldier, and Shanhaevel walked along beside Shirral. Elmo brought up the rear.

As the companions proceeded into the blackness of the passage, Shanhaevel frowned, thinking, Something isn’t right. What is it?

After perhaps a hundred paces or so, just as Kobort had said, the group reached a point where the tunnel leveled out and ended. There were two doors, one directly ahead, and another to their right. The one to the right was standing open, and a second passage led off from it.

“He’s in there,” Kobort said, his voice echoing oddly in the passage. By the light of the group’s lanterns, Shanhaevel could see that the man was pointing through the open door to the right. “Zert! I found help! We’re coming for ya! Just hang on!”

In response to Kobort’s calls, there was a weak groan from down the second passage.

“Shh!” Melias admonished. “Your shouting could bring down more of the place. Whispers only, from now on.”

Kobort nodded solemnly.

“All right,” Melias said, “Ahleage, lead the way. Check the entire place for weak spots, and go slowly!”

“Hey, you don’t have to remind me,” the man replied, starting forward cautiously.

Shanhaevel had to resist the urge to reach out and grab Ahleage. Damn it, he chided himself, what has you so spooked? He still couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong.

With Ahleage in the lead, the group worked its way down the passage, which ran for about twenty yards before turning a corner. Beyond the turn, there was the faint glow of torchlight.

Shanhaevel tried to convince himself that his doubts were foolish, but the nagging feeling would not go away.

Ahleage reached the turn and went around the corner, everyone else close behind him. When Shanhaevel reached the bend, he looked around in surprise. At the turn, the passage opened into a room—a room filled with a large, crude wooden table surrounded by similarly constructed chairs. Crates and barrels of goods were stacked along the walls—foodstuffs, weapons, armor, and blankets—enough to supply a small army. A door was set into the wall to one side, but there was no collapse anywhere, and no one about. A lone torch crackled in a sconce on one wall.

“Zert’s in there,” Kobort whispered, pointing to a far corner, where Shanhaevel could now see a second room off the first.

Just then, it dawned on Shanhaevel: The frogs! Kobort had never mentioned his party being attacked by the frogs.

He was about to call to Melias when about half a dozen dirty, armed men rose up from hiding places on the far side of the table. A couple of them leveled crossbows at the group. At that same moment, another cluster, including a handful of gnolls, stepped out from the second room, brandishing swords. Each of the companions froze, although Draga immediately took aim with his bow at the chest of the closest man to him.

“Mother of Ralishaz,” Ahleage snarled. “You bastards!”

Shanhaevel turned to where the man was glaring. Turuko and Zert were among the group of men on the far side of the table.

Only a heartbeat or two later, a third contingent of men appeared, coming up behind the companions from the corridor Kobort had led them through to get here.

They were surrounded.

Fool! Shanhaevel admonished himself. It was right in front of me. Why didn’t I see it sooner?

“He lied,” Shanhaevel said. “They never fought the frogs.”

“What?” Melias snapped, his hands clenched in white-knuckled fists. “What are you talking about?”

“He said they went in through the front, but the frogs didn’t get them. I should have realized it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“Help, please help,” Turuko said mockingly, an unfriendly smile on his face. “I’ve been buried alive, and Zert’s leg is broken.” He laughed, then said, “Lay your weapons on the ground and kick them away. Now!”

Melias growled in fury, but several crossbows were aimed in his direction, and he stayed his hand. Slowly, he pulled his sword free and set it on the floor. Following the soldier’s lead, Draga relaxed his bow and tossed it away. The rest of the companions followed suit, and soon, all their weapons lay out of reach. Melias glared at Kobort, who had joined his companions.

Turning to the door, the crimson-robed Turuko called out, “Master Lareth, we have them.”

A moment later, the door along the side of the room swung open wide. Framed in the doorway was a large man, dressed in shining plate mail with the flaming eye emblazoned on the chest plate. His face was hidden by a helm, but the malevolence that radiated from him nearly made Shanhaevel choke. In one hand, the man wielded a mace, and in the other, he held a staff. He stepped into the room and crossed to Melias. The soldier involuntarily flinched from the palpable evil emanating from the helmed figure, though he refused to back down.

“I am Lareth, priest and master of this place,” the man said, looking from person to person before him, “and you are nothing before the might of the Elemental Temple. You will now die at my pleasure.”

Then, in a single, graceful motion, the man struck, first hitting Melias squarely in the chest with one end of the staff, then swinging at Ahleage with the other. Ahleage leaped back out of range of the attack, but the blow against Melias sent a shower of sparks cascading over the warrior, who cried out for an instant in pain. That cry was short lived, though, for Lareth finished his attack by swinging the mace up directly in Melias’ face. The warrior crumpled limply to the ground, his face a pulpy mess of blood, tissue, and shattered bone.

Shanhaevel found himself rooted to the spot, horrified by what he was witnessing but unable to move. The filthy, clinging feel of evil that emanated from this heinous man threatened to choke him. No one else seemed able to react, either.

Chaos engulfed the room as Lareth’s troops surged forward, ready to cut down the disarmed prisoners where they stood. The remaining companions crouched defensively, pressed together, back to back. Ahleage had daggers in his hands. Shanhaevel flinched as several crossbows went off, but none of the missiles struck him—although one bolt whizzed by so closely that he felt the wind from its fletching as it passed his nose. He tried as best as he could to ignore the confusion welling up around him and concentrate instead on casting magic. In the back of his mind, he prayed it would be enough.

Shanhaevel spread his fingers wide and pointed them at Lareth, uttering a single magical phrase. The elven wizard engulfed the malevolent priest in great gouts of flame, spraying him with charring heat. Beyond him, the other ambushers flinched away from the scorching flames. Shanhaevel hoped that Lareth would be consumed or wounded enough so that he would back away from the fight. When the spell faded, the smell of smoke hung thick in the dim light of the room. Both companions and ambushers paused, staring in Lareth’s direction.

The evil priest appeared untouched by the fire.

“Boccob!” Shanhaevel breathed in dismay.

Lareth laughed. His voice boomed in the place, echoing in the chamber, and the vileness of his evil washed over the companions like a foul vapor, turning Shanhaevel’s stomach.

“Kill them!” he said and stepped forward to engage the elf.

Draga darted between Shanhaevel and Lareth. The bowman let out a ferocious roar and lunged forward, bull-rushing the priest, grabbing him by the collar, and flinging him backward against the wall. Lareth grunted from the force of the blow, but he quickly shoved back, easily pushing Draga away from him.

Rolling to his side and away from that fight, Shanhaevel came up next to Shirral, who cried out in a language the elf had never heard before. She was instantly wielding a blade of fire in her hand, a glowing scimitar of flame.

Magic, Shanhaevel thought admiringly. Magnificent!

The druid and the wizard faced an advancing cadre of gnolls who were grinning and barking as they closed the distance. Every one of them held a large axe, and a few even had a shield. Shanhaevel began to cast again, hoping Shirral could keep the nasty humanoids at bay long enough for him to summon the magic. With the utterance of another simple enchantment, he gestured at the wall of menacing gnolls, and three of them slumped to the ground in a deep sleep, leaving the fourth still up, now dropping into a defensive crouch and eyeing the flaming blade in the druid’s hand.

Get him, Shirral, the elf silently urged the druid, then turned to see how the others were faring. He nearly had his head taken off by Kobort, who had come up behind him, sword held high. Shanhaevel dived away, scrambling to stay clear of the furious Kobort, who had swung at the elf full force and was just now regaining his balance.

The man glared at Shanhaevel, nostrils flaring. “You’re dead, tree-boy!” he growled, advancing again and swinging his blade back to strike.

Shanhaevel shoved one of the chairs toward Kobort and jumped away, desperately hoping the move would catch the thug off guard and buy him a second or two for a spell. He shouted a word of enchantment, aiming a finger at Kobort as the man kicked the chair away and came at the elf again. A bright flash of light, followed almost instantly by a second, darted forth from the tip of the elf’s finger and streaked across the distance, slamming into the thug’s chest.

Kobort gasped and fell back, dropping his sword and clutching his chest, which was smoking slightly. He stumbled and tripped over a crate, pitching down behind it.

Shanhaevel spied Elmo’s axe lying on the floor and seized it. The heavy weapon felt awkward in his hands. He had often chopped wood for himself and Lanithaine, but this was a far different weapon—a much shorter haft and a wicked double head easily as large as his chest—and it was abominably heavy to the elf.

Steeling his courage, Shanhaevel closed the distance between himself and Kobort, the weapon in hand. The man was trying to rise to his knees. Shanhaevel lifted the axe as high as he could then brought the huge blade down hard on the back of the man’s head. There was a sickening crunch and a spray of blood, and Kobort collapsed to the floor. He did not rise again. Shanhaevel gave a shuddering sigh and surveyed the rest of the battle.

Elmo was about to be cornered by Zert and another bandit, each of them holding him at bay with spears. The huge axeman had a crossbow bolt protruding from his thigh, and he staggered as he backed away, dodging the spear thrusts. Cursing, Shanhaevel ran forward, shouting. The two men turned to see what the ruckus was, and when they saw the elf running at them, axe in hand, they turned to receive his charge.

Perfect, Shanhaevel thought. He stopped dead in his tracks, dropped to one knee, and sent the axe sliding across the floor between the two bandits toward Elmo. In a single smooth motion, Elmo scooped the weapon up, even as Zert and his companion watched the axe slide by them. By the time they realized their opponent was now armed, it was too late.

Elmo slammed one blade of the axe into the chest of the bandit in a swift swing, knocking him off his feet and back two full paces, then turned to face Zert, who retreated a step, horrified. Before the thug could flee, Elmo caught him squarely in the hip. Zert screamed as he fell, and Elmo wasted no time closing in to finish him off. Shanhaevel stepped away from that fight and took stock of the rest of the company.

Amazingly, most of the ambush force was down. Shirral—her shoulder soaked in blood—Ahleage, and Draga were fighting with Lareth now. Without hesitating, Shanhaevel cast again, summoning two more of the magical missiles he had used against Kobort. Unerringly, the glowing green streaks of light shot across the room and hit Lareth squarely in the chest. The priest grunted and stumbled back a step, and Draga took advantage of the magical distraction to cut the man hard across the shoulder.

Lareth growled in pain and fury and knocked Draga away with his staff. Shirral darted forward, swinging her blade of flame at the priest’s head. Lareth ignored the blow as it connected and rammed his staff into the druid’s midsection. Shirral collapsed with a groan, but before Lareth could step forward to finish her, Ahleage was behind him, ramming his dagger into the small of the man’s back.

Howling in agony, Lareth spun away, swinging his mace to fend off further blows. Ahleage had to roll away from the attack to avoid getting his skull bashed in.

Breathing heavily and with blood flowing from several wounds, Lareth backed away from Draga and surveyed his failed ambush.

“Finish them!” the priest growled, then gestured, and was engulfed in a cloud of palpable darkness.

“Bastard!” Ahleage shouted as he leaped into the magical blackness.

Shanhaevel hesitated, knowing it would be dangerous to join Ahleage in a blind fight. He’d likely plant a dagger in my ribs, thinking I was Lareth, the wizard thought, and he turned back to survey the room once more.

The only foe still standing was Turuko, who was now facing Elmo. The huge man was charging the Bakluni, bloody axe held high. Elmo brought his weapon down, but Turuko was faster. As Elmo swung, the Bakluni leaped into the air, topknot streaming out behind him as he dodged the swipe of the blade and kicked out with his foot, catching Elmo in the shoulder. The kick was hard enough to send the huge man sprawling to the floor.

Shanhaevel sucked air in through his teeth, amazed and dismayed, for he realized that Turuko must be a member of the Scarlet Brotherhood, a fabled order of fighting monks.

Here? the elf wondered even as he and his companions fanned out, ready to do battle. The Scarlet Brotherhood in league with the temple? Their battle prowess was legendary. Turuko would be deadly, even without weapons. Dismissing the thought for now, the wizard waited for an opportunity to attack.

Draga closed with the monk first, his sword in his hand. Shanhaevel grimaced and relaxed his grip on his staff, moving in to aid Draga. Elmo stood again, growling in fury, and brought his axe up once more, advancing.

Turuko moved as a whirlwind, surrounded by the three of them, his hands and feet moving like snakes. Shanhaevel tried to follow the Bakluni’s movements, but Turuko was too fast.

The monk paused in his motions and smiled. “Yes, worthy adversaries, indeed. I had not expected—” he cut himself off, laughing in a placating manner. “But that is the first rule of combat, is it not? Never underestimate your adversary. Well, I shall not make that mistake again. Come, let’s finish this.”

He whirled around, leaping through martial forms, one after another—kicks and punches, graceful and lithe—demonstrating conservation of energy and motion. With each successive form, he landed facing a different opponent, ready to strike anyone and everyone who faced him.

Elmo was the first to lunge in, swinging his axe in a wide arc before him. Turuko dodged the attack and spun around, kicking Draga in his midsection before the bowman knew what had hit him. Draga grunted, stumbling back a step, but then he darted in again, jabbing his sword at Turuko while the monk was turned to face Shanhaevel. The monk dodged both attacks and sent a kick in Elmo’s direction that barely missed the huge man’s head. Elmo swung his axe again, but Shanhaevel saw that the big man was having a difficult time using the large weapon with his wounded leg and so many of his companions about.

“Bring your best!” crowed Turuko, smiling as he moved and dodged, gliding easily from opponent to opponent. “I welcome it.”

“If you surrender,” Elmo said, “I promise you will live.”

“Ha!” Turuko laughed, spinning to kick Draga’s sword from his hands and following through with a punch that caught the man on his jaw. It was a glancing blow, but Draga staggered back, breathing hard.

“If you attack, I promise you will die!” Turuko said as he dodged a swipe from Shanhaevel and a lunge from Elmo simultaneously.

There was a lull in the fight as the three men facing the monk stepped back, breathing hard.

Damn, thought Shanhaevel, wishing he had some appropriate magic left to aid in his attacks. Anything he tried to use now would endanger his companions, too. He adjusted his grip on his staff and found his center of balance again.

The three men circled Turuko, dosing in to take the fight to him once more. Draga struck first this time, jumping in and feinting, then darting back out. While Turuko was still in the midst of repelling that, Shanhaevel stepped forward and tried to sweep the monk’s legs, but he stepped back again before Turuko could land a retaliatory strike. They were working the monk more effectively now, feinting, jabbing, and making him spin and defend more strenuously than before.

After both Draga and Shanhaevel occupied Turuko together, Elmo came in high, his axe raised. Turuko sneered as he prepared to bend away from the attack, but at the last moment, Elmo released the axe, sending it spinning, and Turuko’s sneer turned to surprise as the weapon went rotating toward his head. The monk ducked it easily enough, but Elmo had gone into a roll at the monk’s feet and was now inside the Bakluni’s reach. Turuko spun back to face the huge man, preparing to strike with a kick, but Elmo was too fast—amazingly fast, Shanhaevel later remembered thinking. Elmo snapped up and at Turuko from a crouch.

There was a glint of bluish silver in Elmo’s hand as he embraced Turuko, and the monk went suddenly still, his eyes glazed over in surprise. He looked into Elmo’s eyes, his own betraying the pain he felt. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound issued forth, and then he sagged. Elmo let him slide to the flagstones, the huge man’s dagger protruding from his chest.

Turning back to the one remaining foe, Shanhaevel saw that the magical darkness Lareth had used to escape had dissipated. Ahleage slumped against a wall, alive but holding his head, where a trickle of blood ran into his face. Of the dark priest himself, there was no sign. Shirral huddled over Melias. The warrior was sprawled on his back, his one good eye staring at the ceiling. He was still breathing shallowly.

Shanhaevel knelt beside Shirral and looked at Melias, trying not to let his horror show on his face. The druid had the soldier’s hand in her own, but she was only crying. The others knelt down beside Melias, speaking soothing words to the warrior, but it was obvious to all of them that he was nearly gone.

“That bastard Kobort and his two companions had better be very dead,” Ahleage said, struggling to his feet and joining the rest of them.

“They are,” Elmo said, cradling Melias’ head in his lap. “Lareth will join them soon, I promise you.”

“I can’t save him,” Shirral growled through clenched teeth. She hung her head and sobbed. “My healing isn’t strong enough.”

Melias tried to speak, but his words were little more than a gurgle. Shanhaevel and the others leaned in, listening closely.

“K-key,” Melias whispered, laboring to breathe. “Find… key. Pl-please.”

His head slumped back into Elmo’s lap, then, and his hand slipped from Shirral’s grasp. His eye still stared at the ceiling, but it was unseeing now. With a final wet sigh, his last breath left his body.