The Temple of Elemental Evil

9

Ahleage, the muscles in his jaw clenched and flexing, rose to his feet and turned away from Melias’ body. He stomped to the other side of the room and paced. Draga stood off to the side, a respectful look on his face, but he said nothing. Elmo reached down and carefully pulled the warrior’s cloak over his face. Shirral cried quietly.

What the hells do we do, now? Shanhaevel wondered, feeling the all-too-familiar and fresh ache in his chest. It’s Lanithaine all over again. Only this time, everyone feels it. Is this all there is? Pain and death? If that’s all we have to look forward to on this expedition, then I should just go home. There’s no more reason to stay, anyway.

Except there was, the elf realized. There was Shirral. He sighed, unsure if he wanted to leave, and that surprised him more than anything. I didn’t think I would hear myself saying that, he reflected. But there it was. The thought of leaving Shirral made the pit of his stomach roil. Still, the thought of telling her how he felt made it roil even more.

Instead of trying, the wizard laid a soft hand on Shirral’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “You did what you could,” he said softly. “Without your other magic, your blade of flame, we would have all died at their hands.”

Shirral nodded but did not look up. “Jaroo has tried to get me to study more,” she said at last, “to work on tuning my energy so I can cast more powerful spells. I never wanted to take the time, though.” She sniffed and turned to look at Shanhaevel. “If I had, I would have had something to aid him.” Her eyes did not sparkle now. They were clouded and red-rimmed with sadness.

He could only nod and say, “I wanted something last night, too—on the road, when Lanithaine died… something, anything, to keep him alive. I didn’t have it. Sooner or later, we all discover that power isn’t enough. Lanithaine often told me that power is not what defines us. It’s what you do with what you have that makes you who you are. Right now, everyone else needs your skills. You still have the ability to help them. You need someone to tend to your wound.” He gestured to the druid’s blood-soaked shoulder.

Shirral looked at him for a moment, then nodded and replied, “I don’t ever want to feel this… inadequate again.” With that, she stood. Before she moved to aid the wounded, she looked back over her shoulder at him and said, “I led us here. I was the one who said we couldn’t let Zert die. Melias wanted to be cautious, and I wouldn’t let him. It’s my fault,”

Shanhaevel started to shake his head, to tell her that it was his fault, not hers, that if he had realized Zert’s lie in time they would never have been ambushed, but she had already turned away again, and the words died in his throat. Sighing, he stood up and looked around, seeing what he could do to help.

Ahleage and Draga went from body to body, making sure there were no survivors. Shanhaevel realized the three gnolls he had subjected to his magical sleep were gone. They must have awakened and slipped away during the fight. Or they could be hiding somewhere, waiting until our guard is down. He told this to the others, cautioning them all to be careful.

Shirral administered to Elmo’s injury, first. The huge man took a deep breath, then yanked the bolt free, grimacing from obvious pain. Muttering under her breath, Shirral laid her hands softly upon the puncture wound, and a soft glow emanated from the spot. A moment later, Elmo was up and testing his leg, walking back and forth with noticeably less of a limp. The huge man smiled at Shirral, but she was swooning, and he had to catch her.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Elmo said, lowering her to the floor as Shanhaevel rushed to her side, his heart pounding.

Not her, too! he thought in a panic as knelt down next to her.

“Shanhaevel, look in Melias’ pack,” Elmo ordered. “He had magical healing elixirs in there somewhere.”

Shanhaevel moved quickly to the dead soldier and removed the man’s backpack. Hurrying back to Shirral’s side, he rooted through the gear, pausing for only a moment to peer at a finely worked scroll case before shoving it aside and continuing to dig until he found a small stopped bottle. Holding it up, he asked Elmo, “This?” to which the huge axeman nodded.

“Shirral, you have to drink this,” Shanhaevel said, holding the bottle to the druid’s lips. It smelled of cinnamon and ash, he noted as he carefully poured it into her mouth. As she sipped it, a soft, blue glow rose from Shirral, concentrating on her wounded shoulder. A few moments later, she was sitting up.

“Don’t scare me like that,” Shanhaevel told her. She looked at him quizzically but assured the wizard she was all right.

When Ahleage and Draga confirmed that there were no enemies still alive, Elmo moved over to Turuko’s body and ripped the dagger from the monk’s chest.

“We should pitch these”—he gestured at the dead bandits—“into the marsh. Let the swamp eat them. And we must take Melias back to Hommlet. He deserves a hero’s funeral. But first, we have to find out what we can about this Lareth.”

“Fine with me,” Ahleage said. He dropped down beside one of the bandit’s corpses and began to search through the man’s clothing. “First things, first. They won’t be needing any of this stuff, anymore,” he said, pulling a small pouch of coins free, “and it’s small payment for what they cost us.”

“I’ll watch the entrance,” Draga said, moving down the passageway out, “to make sure no one else sneaks up on us.”

Shanhaevel stared at Elmo’s back, somehow not surprised by the big man’s sudden take-charge attitude. I knew there was more to him than he’s been letting on, the elf thought as he followed him into the priest’s lair.

Beyond the door was a lavishly decorated room filled with thick rugs, wall hangings, soft chairs, and a couch overflowing with overstuffed cushions. A brazier warmed the dimly lit room and gave off the odor of incense. As Elmo took more careful stock of the place, he and Shanhaevel discovered delicacies, fine wines, and an assortment of fine serving pieces, including a set of silver goblets that were exquisitely wrought. In a cabinet along one wall was an alabaster box filled with rare and valuable unguents, as well as an assortment of loose gems and jewelry.

By far the most important discovery was a small writing desk that also served as a shrine. Shanhaevel blanched upon seeing it, shuddering.

“Boccob!” he muttered. “That’s a shrine to Lolth.”

“I know,” Elmo said. “We destroy that when we’re through in here.”

Shanhaevel spun to face the huge axeman. “How exactly do you know that? You are far more than a drunken farmer’s son. Admit it.”

Elmo didn’t look up from the sheaf of parchment he was beginning to go through. “Yes, far more, but it’s not a tale for right now. Later, I will explain to you. Look at this,” he said, changing the subject as he held up some of the papers. “Whatever we stumbled on to here today, it’s much bigger than just these troops.”

Shanhaevel stared at the big man for a moment longer, shaking his head in amazement, then turned his attention to what Elmo was trying to show him.

The papers held dues about Lareth’s recent activities in the area. The records and letters were written by someone named Hedrack, obviously Lareth’s superior, and they detailed plans for raiding caravan routes in the region. There was also mention of recruitment techniques, payment instructions for military troops, delivery schedules of various goods—armor, weapons, foodstuffs, and even slaves—and a long-term plan for the eventual destruction of Hommlet through the use of “elemental forces most powerful.” Unfortunately, locations were left vague, as though this Hedrack did not want anyone to trace them back to him. It was clear nonetheless that Lareth served a very secretive and powerful organization that was somewhere close by.

“The temple,” Shanhaevel surmised, sucking in his breath. “I’ll wager my right arm that’s where this Hedrack is.”

“I think you’re right,” Elmo replied, nodding, “and I bet that’s where Lareth went. Let’s tell the others.”

The companions deposited the bodies of the bandits in the swamp, wrapping the corpses in their bedrolls and weighing them down with rubble from the ruins so they would sink below the surface. Someone had wrapped Melias’ body in his cloak, as well, and he now lay stretched out near the entrance to the tunnel, waiting to be hauled out to the horses.

“Let’s go home,” Shirral said when they were done, suddenly looking sad again. “It’s getting late.”

Elmo nodded in agreement and stood. “I’ll get Melias.”

Carefully, the huge man hoisted the body of their leader up into his arms and headed out into the afternoon. Ahleage and Draga followed him, carrying a small chest with the valuables they had recovered from the place.

Shanhaevel was alone with Shirral. The elf looked over at the druid, who was biting her lip thoughtfully.

“Shirral,” Shanhaevel began, “what happened today… that wasn’t your fault. The lie Zert told us was right in front of us—in front of me—and we still fell for it—all of us. Stop blaming yourself.”

“At least you suspected. I was just a trusting fool. I talked him into going in there. I insisted on it, rode off with the man before Melias could argue with me. I was so damned sure I was right, and it cost Melias his life. I practically killed him myself.”

“No!” Shanhaevel shouted. He took the druid by the shoulders and made her look him squarely in the eye. “Shut up! You did no such thing.”

Shirral was crying now, big tears streaming down her face, but she said nothing, just bit her lip and looked away.

“We were doing what we thought was right,” the elf continued. “The people who know you, who care about you”—he emphasized these last words—“know better. So should you.”

Shirral looked at the wizard again, now, her blue eyes flashing as she deciphered the meaning of his words. “Care about me?”

Shanhaevel nodded, suddenly nervous. He covered it by saying, “Do you think Jaroo would blame you for what happened?” Would Lanithaine blame me?

She cocked her head to one side, as though realizing he was avoiding saying what he was really thinking. Yes, I care about you, the voice in his head said.

“I don’t know,” she said, and it was almost a whisper. “But he isn’t the one who just died because of my foolishness. You should stop thinking about me that way and go home.”

With that, she turned to leave. Shanhaevel let out the breath he had been holding.

“Wait!” he said, following her. They walked together out into the daylight. “Why? Are you saying there’s no reason for me to stay? None at all?”

Shirral looked at him again as they reached the road. “I’m saying that I won’t let there be one, not like this. Melias’ death hurts enough. I couldn’t bear watching someone I cared about die. I have my work with Jaroo. That’s all there can be for me. It’s safer that way.”

As she finished, the druid sped up, moving up the road and leaving Shanhaevel behind. The elf watched her walk away from him, feeling a dull pain in his chest, then slowly turned and followed her.

Back at the top of the rise, where the group had left their horses, Elmo was tying Melias’ body across the warrior’s saddle. Ahleage and Draga were securing the chest of goods to the packhorse, the spare that had been Lanithaine’s. Shirral was inspecting her mount, tightening a cinch here and there and shortening the stirrups more to her liking.

At that moment, the sound of a whinnying horse floated across the bog, and as one, the group turned, weapons drawn.

A powerfully built man approached along the path from Hommlet. He was wearing plate armor and sitting astride a horse so large and muscular that it was obvious it had been bred for war. The man had a shield slung over his back and a very fine looking sword belted to his hip. He looked road-weary and somewhat lost. He slowed the horse when he realized the group had spotted him. Slipping his riding gloves from his hands, he reached up and removed his open-faced helmet and scanned the group. He was clean-shaven and had short, curly black hair.

The stranger clicked his tongue, and his steed moved forward, right up to where Elmo stood, axe in hand.

“By Cuthbert, it’s true,” the stranger muttered, half to himself. His eyes were wide, and they flicked back forth among the companions, studying each in turn. “I will not doubt again, m’lord,” he added, still staring.

“Pardon?” Elmo said, staring back, a cautious, concerned look on his mien.

“Can we help you?” Shirral asked.

“I don’t know,” the man replied. “I hope so. I was sent to find you.”

“Find us?” Ahleage said, half smirking. “By whom?”

“By Saint Cuthbert, my god and guiding hand.”

“What?” Ahleage blurted, nearly choking. “Why would a god send you to find us?”

“I don’t know,” the stranger replied, smiling warmly. “I know it sounds bizarre, but he came to me in a dream, showed me your faces, and sent me here to find you.”

“Find us?” Elmo repeated, still holding his axe.

“Yes. I have seen each of you. A wizard with a silver mane, a rogue with a sharp tongue, a big man with an axe, a hairy fellow with a bow and a song in his heart, and a woman, a druid. He said I would need you, and you, me. There is work to be done, and I had to find you so that we can do it together.”

“That sounds really noble,” Ahleage said, looking at the rest of his companions out of the corner of his eye, “but as you can see, our work came to an abrupt end”—Ahleage nodded at Melias’ body—“and we’re going in different directions. Did your god tell you that?”

The man frowned. “Saint Cuthbert made it plain that there would be difficulties along this path, but I know his will is for me to bring us all together, so I hope you will reconsider. You must reconsider.”

Shanhaevel glanced at the others in turn, and when he caught Ahleage’s eye, the young man brought his hand to one side of his face to hide it from the stranger, then made a crazed look back at the elf. Shanhaevel had to keep from cracking a grin, but then he shrugged. Maybe this gets me more time with Shirral, he thought.

“You seem sincere,” the druid said, “but we have no idea if you’re telling the truth or not. Regardless, we don’t even know your name.”

The man started then shook his head in embarrassment. “By Cuthbert, I’m sorry! I am Sir Govin Dahna, knight of Saint Cuthbert. You can call me Govin. If there is a man of the church back in that town, I will go before him and allow him to conduct his test of truth on me to prove to you I am what and who I say I am.”

“All right, then, Govin,” Shanhaevel said, pointing from person to person. “That’s Elmo, over there’s Draga, there’s Shirral, that’s Ahleage, and I’m Shanhaevel—not Shadowspawn,” the elf said, throwing a look toward Ahleage. “The unlucky soul on the back of the horse was Melias.”

“Yes, that is one of your names, Shanhaevel. You go by another, however. Faldurios su wel elmirel dwa sulis min anweilios su Shantirel Galaerivel, magiost.”

Shanhaevel’s eyes widened as he stared at the man before him. Govin had used the elf’s own tongue—Some who know you well name you Shantirel Galaerivel, mage.

Shirral was staring open-mouthed at first the knight, then at Shanhaevel.

“Kilieria su delmeir, Kahvlirae,” Shanhaevel finally replied, bowing slightly. You speak the truth, noble knight. “Your dreams seem to tell you much about us.”

Ahleage shook his head, exasperated. “What in the nine hells did he just say to you?”

“He told me some things that only the people of the Welkwood should know, and he named me as a wizard.”

Despite the discomfiture of this man knowing so much about him, Shanhaevel was beginning to warm to the knight. It was strange. He somehow felt… right—yes that was it, right—with Govin here. That’s as odd a thing as you have ever thought, Shantirel Galaerivel.

Sir Govin bowed his head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to put you on guard. I only wish to prove that I am legitimate. This is a lot to accept, I realize. Perhaps I should withdraw and let you discuss things for a bit in private.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Elmo said. He had that look on his face that had convinced Shanhaevel there was more to him than his story told. “You must be tired after riding here all the way from…”

“From Dyvers. I rode here from Dyvers.”

“Yes, a long journey, indeed. Our unfortunate companion, here, Melias, needs a proper burial. We were hoping to get him back to Hommlet, but the day grows late. We should make camp and discuss this further. You are welcome to join us.”

“I accept your invitation,” the knight said with a small, appreciative bow.