The Temple of Elemental Evil

25

Shanhaevel and the rest of the Alliance crept through a wide corridor decorated with gruesome murals. The elf’s stomach roiled as he passed images of demons frolicking upon some great battlefield, dancing and playing among their vanquished foes—suffering humans, elves, gnomes, and dwarves. The defeated lay in agony, battered and broken. Claiming the bodies of the victims were horrid growths—great pools of vile substances, fungal sprouts of every conceivable shape and color, molds, and other things the wizard could not identify. Shanhaevel forced himself to stare at the floor, avoiding the hideous imagery.

The passage led gently downward, bisected occasionally by sets of broad stairs and smaller side passages. Falrinth had escaped, fleeing through several winding passages and stairwells, deeper into the temple. His wounds had left a discernable trail of blood, and the chase led the group to this vile passageway. Now Shanhaevel could see the faint glow of light where the hallway opened into a much larger space ahead.

Elmo, who was now in the lead with Govin, held up a hand, signaling the group to halt. Shanhaevel paused in midstride, listening intently. After a long, breathless moment, the word was passed back: A great chamber lies ahead. Be ready for an attack.

Sorting through the magic he had prepared, Shanhaevel selected a couple of useful spells and steeled himself for the coming conflict.

Quietly, Elmo started forward again, treading softly upon the great black flagstones of the corridor and into the vast chamber beyond. One by one, the rest of the Alliance followed him in, fanning out. The warriors took the lead. Shanhaevel and Shirral remained near the back, out of harm’s way but ready to cast spells when needed. The place was obviously a temple, and Shanhaevel scanned the great room, taking in the details and looking for hidden threats.

The vast chamber was a rough U shape, with the hallway through which the group had entered connecting to the bottom of the curve. Several smaller passages led off, four to a side, along the outer perimeter. A great altar atop a raised dais, with steps leading up to it, dominated the center of the chamber. A great red cloth, embroidered with the elemental symbol for fire, covered the altar. Behind the altar was a great purple curtain that writhed and undulated in some unfelt breeze. To either side of the altar and set back a little were two great statues, each twenty feet tall. To the left, the statue was of an old man, except that the head was that of a horned and grinning skull. The right-hand statue was the great bulbous fungal thing Shanhaevel had seen in his vision. He cringed, realizing that the two statues depicted Iuz and his demoness consort, Zuggtmoy.

Flanking the altar were a pair of golden columns that rose to the ceiling, well over fifty feet above the floor. The ceiling itself had been decorated to appear as a night sky full of bright, twinkling stars. All along the walls, near the ceiling, were a series of flying buttresses, atop which sat hideous gargoyles that leered down at everything below. The walls, as well as the floor, were of the deepest onyx, unblemished with any further decoration. Torches flickered along the walls at even intervals, casting weak light throughout.

At that moment, a lone figure, dressed in the blackest armor with the stylized symbol of Iuz painted in bright gold upon the breastplate, stepped into the room, passing through the shimmering curtain and walking past the altar. It was the same man Shanhaevel had seen through his spell, out in the snow, when the second door had been demolished.

Upon seeing the six intruders, the figure stopped, contemplating the group for a moment. Slowly, almost casually, the figure removed its helmet.

The man behind the helmet wore his hair short and his face was clean-shaven. He smirked slightly, though his fingers drummed frantically upon the helmet under his arm.

“Well, at last we come face to face,” the man said, his rich and deep voice echoing strangely in the large chamber and confirming that this was, indeed, Hedrack. “Falrinth told me you were on your way. You do prove yourselves time and again as more than a mere annoyance, don’t you? I, Hedrack, Mouth of Iuz, high priest of the Elemental Temple, salute you.” Hedrack bowed low, sweeping his arms out to either side.

Govin, who was standing the closest to the man, took a couple of steps forward and said, “I am Sir Govin Dahna, knight of Saint Cuthbert. I bring the light of truth and goodness into this unholy place. Surrender, Hedrack, and be spared my wrath.”

“Surrender?” The high priest laughed. “To you? I think not. You have done nothing, proven nothing! This is the Elemental Temple’s finest hour! The elements will feast upon your souls before this day is through, Sir Govin Dahna.” He laughed again, turned, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Govin growled and took two more steps forward, intent on pursuing the man, when chaos erupted.

From out of nowhere, a torrent of ice rained down upon the group. Thin, cutting shards sliced through the air, shredding clothing and skin alike. Govin dropped to one knee and held his shield over his head. Shanhaevel spun away from the center of the storm, shielding his face with his arm as the splinters of ice slammed against him. He could feel the stinging needles stabbing at him from everywhere, and the pain was fierce. Suddenly, he found himself free of the attack, and he spun around again, looking for evidence of where it had come from. He could spot nothing.

Frowning, the elf drew upon the energies he was so used to shaping and molding now, hoping they would reveal to him where magic was being used. As he opened himself to the magic and spoke the words of the spell, he was struck as something dark and swift shot past him, raking him with horribly sharp claws. He felt the talons drag across his back, trenching deep gouges in his flesh.

The wizard cried out and fell forward, losing control of the magic he had been gathering. He tumbled and rolled onto his back. He brought his arms up to ward off the next attack and saw something dart past, only inches away from his face. As the thing circled and turned to come at him again, he saw now that it was a gargoyle—a flying abomination, magically animated, from the buttresses overhead.

Scrambling to his knees, Shanhaevel waited for the next attack, and when the gargoyle soared close, he swung his staff up hard, catching the thing across the front of the wing. There was a sickening crack, and the gargoyle swerved away, flying haphazardly to the floor and landing hard. Shanhaevel saw other gargoyles swarming about, but he ignored them for the moment as he rose to his feet, trying to see what was happening to his companions.

Everyone was engaged in a fierce battle. A host of ogres and trolls had rushed in during the ice attack to swarm the companions. Shanhaevel turned to put his back against a wall, hoping to secure some bit of defense against the flying attacks of the gargoyles. Pressing himself firmly against the wall, he cast, praying to Boccob in the back of his mind to allow him time to make good use of the magic.

He prepared a bolt of lightning to catch several ogres that had formed up in a rank opposite Govin, Draga, and Shirral. As he completed the final words of the spell, he took aim with his line of sight, but a troll suddenly loomed over him, seemingly appearing from thin air. Both of its huge, clawed hands drew back, ready to strike. In his surprise, Shanhaevel yelped and fell back, unable to set the lightning where he had intended. Instead, the bolt struck from above. The troll raked out, snapping Shanhaevel across the head with one claw an instant before the lightning engulfed it. The creature shrieked as the electrical energy coursed through its flesh, killing it.

Shanhaevel was knocked sideways and tumbled to the floor, his vision blurred and hindered with streams of light. His ears rang from the thunder of the lightning, and his whole body felt numb. Even as he tried to rise, he was knocked sideways again as something plowed into him, scoring a direct hit on his ribs. With the air knocked from his lungs, Shanhaevel gasped and dropped to the floor once more, breathless and defenseless. As his vision was just beginning to clear, he saw yet another dark form hurtling toward him from overhead. He tried to roll away, but his muscles would not work.

At the moment it seemed that the flying gargoyle would plow directly into him, a blade slashed out—a blade of flame that ignited Shanhaevel’s vision all over again, arcing through the air and slicing the gargoyle cleanly in two. The two parts of the flying beast tumbled apart and bounced like stone as they hit the ground and bounded away into some dark recess of the chamber.

Shanhaevel blinked, trying to clear his vision. His head throbbed from the blow of the troll, and his breath was still shallow. He was pretty certain one of his ribs was cracked, and the wounds across his back were bleeding.

In front of him, Shirral stood her ground, brandishing her blade of flame at anything that moved close. As Shanhaevel rose painfully to his feet, he caught sight of a new streak of light out of the corner of his eye. From behind the terrible statue of Iuz, three glowing green missiles shot into view, blazing across the distance and heading straight toward Shirral. The druid saw the attacks coming, but she was not fast enough to avoid them. All three of the missiles slammed into her chest, knocking her backward and making her cry out in pain.

Growling in frustration and anger, Shanhaevel managed to get to his feet even as Shirral sank down to one knee. He moved beside her, even though he saw an ogre approaching them. Reaching down, the elf grabbed the druid’s shoulder and tried to help her stand. Shirral struggled to her feet, still wielding the blade of flame, and turned to face the ogre as it neared, a large axe in its hands.

Working quickly, Shanhaevel cast, muttering the words to a spell and aiming his own missiles at the beast rearing up before Shirral. Guided by his sight and mind, all three of the green missiles shot from his finger and hammered into the ogre’s arm and shoulder. Shirral darted in and cut low, raking her blade of flame across its knees and sending it staggering back, howling in pain. The druid pressed the attack, cutting again and again as the beast reeled from the onslaught and finally fell.

Shanhaevel turned to see who else needed his help and spotted Ahleage, surrounded by two ogres and a troll. Pursing his lips, the elf rushed between them and set off another spell, summoning magical black tentacles and positioning them behind the two ogres. Immediately, the tentacles sprang up and writhed outward, seeking anything to grab. They found the ogres’ legs. As the tentacles enveloped the beasts’ limbs, the ogres screamed and tried to beat them away, flailing at the magical constructs with their clubs. Ahleage darted away, free at last to engage the troll.

As Shanhaevel turned, looking where his help was needed next, he spied a movement at the huge purple curtain. Narrowing his eyes, Shanhaevel saw an arm holding a thin wand that was stained dark with age. The wand was aimed at where Elmo, Draga, and Govin were engaged in a running battle with several large foes. A thin white beam sprang forth from the wand, and Shanhaevel saw his three companions engulfed in another of the magical storms of ice.

Grimacing, Shanhaevel prepared a spell of his own, waiting and watching. When the arm appeared again, he let his spell fly. A tiny cinder shot forth from his fingertip and streaked across the room to the figure hiding behind the curtain. When the cinder reached its target, it detonated, blossoming into a mammoth ball of flame that expanded in a heartbeat and then vaporized almost as quickly.

Falrinth staggered out from behind the curtain and fell forward, his burned and smoking form tumbling against the base of the altar. Nodding in satisfaction, Shanhaevel started forward to determine the wizard’s condition, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw another movement. Ahleage darted forward, daggers in his hands.

“Ahleage, no!” Shanhaevel cried out, but the man was too fast and did not hesitate. Reaching the downed wizard, Ahleage raised his daggers high, but he never finished the killing blow. The curtain sprang to life, writhing violently and shooting forth several dark tendrils that struck his leg.

Ahleage cried out and stumbled away even as Shanhaevel came to him. The man fell to the floor, trembling. To Shanhaevel’s horror, Ahleage’s leg atrophied before the elf’s eyes, shrinking and darkening almost to nothing in a matter of seconds. Ahleage, almost delirious from the pain, rolled about, clutching his rotting limb futilely and screaming for someone, anyone, to help him, to make the pain go away.

Govin reached Ahleage and knelt down to tend to his tormented companion. The battle seemed to have come to a halt, and the rest of the companions gathered around their fallen friend.

Shanhaevel turned his attention back to Falrinth. The wizard was alive, but he was burned almost beyond recognition and did not seem long for this world. The elf grabbed Falrinth and dragged him away from the curtain, then knelt close to his face.

“My druid companion can heal you, but you must help me. Where are the gems?”

Falrinth stared unblinking at Shanhaevel’s face and said nothing.

Shanhaevel shook his head and tried again. “She can make the pain go away. The temple will fall, but you can serve goodness once again, as before, when you rode with Prince Thrommel. Redeem yourself. Find it in your heart to rise to goodness once more. Tell me where the gems are!”

Very faintly, almost imperceptibly, Falrinth nodded. “Hedrack,” he gasped. “Hedrack h-has them.”

Something—Shanhaevel could never explain it later—made the elf flinch back at that moment. Perhaps it was a reflection in Falrinth’s eyes, or maybe it was a rustle of cloth or the swish of a weapon through the air, but whatever it was, flinch Shanhaevel did, and it saved his life. The crushing blow of a mace that had been intended for his head instead fell upon Falrinth’s face, spattering Shanhaevel with blood. Stumbling away from the gruesome sight of the other wizard’s pulped face, the elf stared up to see Hedrack looming over him, bloody mace in hand.

“You won’t be able turn him back to goodness, now,” Hedrack said, his voice filled with malevolent glee. He took a step forward, raising his mace once more.

Elmo snarled, leaping between Shanhaevel and Hedrack, lunging into the air with his axe held high. Hedrack spun, sliding easily out of the way, and swung a fist around, pummeling Elmo in the ribs. At the same instant, Hedrack barked a single word—something Shanhaevel did not comprehend, a word of power. At the moment of contact, Elmo’s eyes went wide. He spasmed, gasped in midair, then his body went limp as he skidded across the floor. Hedrack grinned down at the axeman’s unmoving form, sniffed, and turned away again, casting another spell.

Before Shanhaevel could react, he lost track of Hedrack. His attention seemed to be forced elsewhere. One moment the high priest was standing there, and the next, Shanhaevel just didn’t care. He could still see the high priest’s movements, but it no longer mattered that Hedrack was walking across the room, retreating from him. Unable to shake off these disconcerting sensations, the wizard turned his attention back to Elmo.

Elmo lay perfectly still, his eyes staring at nothing. Shirral had already rushed to his side, rolling him over before Shanhaevel could even touch the man.

“Get up!” she pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes. “Elmo, get up!”

Elmo’s still form told Shanhaevel well enough that he was dead.

“Noooo!” the druid wailed, realizing the terrible truth, too. She buried her face in Elmo’s chest, huge sobs wracking her frame.

Shanhaevel reached out a hand to console her, but Shirral shoved him away, a crazed look in her eyes. “No!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. “Come back here, you bastard!” She took off like a shot, running after Hedrack.

“Shirral, wait!” Shanhaevel yelled, forcing down his own horror at Elmo’s death and scrambling to his feet to try to catch her, to slow her from her mad, headlong charge. She was too fast, though, and he could not catch her. “Come on!” he cried out to Govin and Draga, who were still kneeling over Ahleage, watching with stricken looks on their faces.

Shanhaevel didn’t wait to see if they would follow. He sprinted out of the temple after Shirral, praying he could catch up to the grief-stricken druid before she caught Hedrack.

The winding passages Shirral followed led to a series of well-appointed rooms—living quarters, from the looks of them. Shanhaevel saw Shirral dart ahead of him, around a corner and out of sight. Panic rising in his chest with every footstep, he ran after her, charging around the corner and almost into the flank of a huge creature—a two-headed monster that loomed over the fallen body of Shirral. The monster held a great axe in each of its hands.

Shirral moved, though she seemed woozy, languishing on a thick carpet with a gash across her forehead. The two-headed creature, an ettin, turned to Shanhaevel. Before the elf could react, though, a glowing hammer of dark blue light swooped in, hovering before him in midair. The wizard backed away from the levitating weapon, ready to dart out of the way should it attack, but the magical hammer was quick, and it caught him squarely on the chest. Coughing from the blow, Shanhaevel stumbled back and down, landing hard on his rump. His vision swam with spots, and he found it difficult to breathe. He tried to bring his staff up but discovered that he was sitting on it, and as he worked to get it free, the hammer hit him again, catching him in the temple. Everything faded to black.