The Temple of Elemental Evil

1

Ragged clouds hung low among the easternmost Kron Hills, drifting damply and obscuring the tree-lined ridges like the hoary, tattered wisps of Rao’s beard, as the though the god of peace were passing there. The drizzle-laden sky had deepened into the purple of dusk, and only a steely gray glow in the west still resisted the coming of night. Amid the rain-soaked oak and ipp trees lining the valley between those hills, two horses bearing riders plodded through the endless puddles of a deeply rutted road.

The rear rider, a stout staff of iron-shod wood tied across the saddle in front of him, shivered as rivulets of chill rain seeped through the heavy, oiled cloak he wore, trickling under the edge of his oversized hood and slithering maddeningly down his neck. For the hundredth time, he tugged the hood forward and hunched more tightly into himself, slumping further down into the saddle and trying to hide from the soft rain that had been pummeling him and his companion since midmorning. He sighed, saddle-weary after three days riding through the westernmost part of the Gnarley Forest, and clicked his tongue to his mount, signaling a sense of urgency that his posture belied. The horse snorted once and ignored the command for haste, its hoofs splashing incessantly through the shallow, muddy water.

“Lanithaine, please tell me were going to reach this village tonight,” the rider said to the figure ahead of him. “Tell me we’re almost to this Hommlet.” He shook the rain free of his hood once more.

“Yes, Shanhaevel,” the man in front of him said over his shoulder. “We should reach Hommlet in another hour, at most.” Then Lanithaine laughed. “You know, you’ve always told me elves have the patience to sit and watch a tree grow. You seem awfully eager to be where we’re going. Yesterday, you were complaining that we should never have left the Gnarley.”

“I just need a warm hearth and a dry bed,” Shanhaevel muttered. “Of course, I’d much prefer if it were my bed.”

Lanithaine laughed again, a rich, warm chuckle that glowed with genuine affection. “What? You don’t want to spend another night huddled on the cold ground in the rain?”

“Oh, Boccob!” Shanhaevel snorted. “Don’t be silly. Why be back home, warm and dry, when we can be out here, who knows where, traveling to a wide place in the road that isn’t even on most maps?” He sighed again, thinking of home.

“Hmm, a roof over our heads would do me good,” Lanithaine replied, his voice low and muffled now. “This weather seems to seep into my bones.”

Shanhaevel could hear the weariness in his teacher’s voice. “You still haven’t explained to me why we’re traveling to this place.”

Lanithaine sighed. “Some tales are best left untold, you know.”

Shanhaevel frowned, puzzled by his mentor’s words. “What tale? What are you talking about?”

Lanithaine sighed again. “Something I had fervently hoped I would never have to talk about again, not with anyone….” The older man paused for a moment, as if considering. “There is a wizard in Hommlet, an old friend of mine. Burne and I were very close, once. We survived a war together.”

“A war? What war?”

“You might remember it. It wasn’t so long ago, at least it would not seem so to you, I’d wager. A powerful temple—a walled fortress, really—bad risen. It was a dark and horrific place dedicated to worship of the elements—and to foul demons, too. I left you for a time and told you to watch over the village while I was gone.”

“I remember,” Shanhaevel replied. “I heard the stories that came back with the traders. The army of the temple was soundly defeated, if I recall, and the temple razed. It was only a decade ago. I never realized you were a part of it. You never spoke of it.”

“Yes. Well, it wasn’t something I liked to think about, much less talk to others about. Not even to you. I hope you never have to experience such a thing.

“But I digress,” the older man continued. “Burne and I rode together, serving the marshal of Furyondy himself, Prince Thrommel, who was in command of the army marching to oppose the temple. We were part of a special company, his personal retinue, in a manner of speaking. We had a special and very dangerous job. We were needed to counter the dark magic of the temple leaders and the fiends they served. As awful as it was, it was a glorious time, too.” Lanithaine seemed lost in his memories. His voice was far away, in a younger day. “All the members of that company grew close under the prince. War made us more than just comrades. We became friends. Some of those friends of mine died that day.” His voice grew dark and troubled. “But that’s neither here nor now.”

“But this is more than a social visit, isn’t it?” Shanhaevel said. “You have some other reason for going to see this Burne.”

“Yes. He needs my help with something we didn’t finish during that battle, and it’s time to finish it now. It’s Burne’s tale to tell, though. You’ll see in good time.”

“I hope his tale is worth sleeping on the wet ground,” Shanhaevel grumbled, dissatisfied with his mentor’s abrupt ending to the story.

“I’d rather be sleeping in my own bed tonight, too, but I made a promise, and I’m going to see the promise fulfilled.” The older man sounded weary.

The elf looked at Lanithaine’s back, hunched low in the saddle. The older man seemed even more stooped than he remembered. We should both be at home, Shanhaevel told himself, not out here in this mess. In his mind’s eye, Shanhaevel saw Lanithaine, walking through the forest village of home with a stoop and a slight limp, smiling to everyone he met along the way. When did you grow so old? Where did those years go?

It seemed like only a few seasons since Lanithaine had taken Shanhaevel in, had begun to teach the orphaned elf child his craft of magic. Shanhaevel felt as though he had barely scratched the surface of his studies, that it was only a few short months ago he had tried his first simple cantrips. Lanithaine had worn a much younger face then, and there had been no stooped shoulders, no limp.

Lanithaine had spent most of his life with his pupil. The older man had devoted himself to teaching, and the student had been there since nearly the beginning. Older man, Shanhaevel thought with wry amusement. He’s not really that much older—perhaps a decade or so. Not really old at all. And yet, Lanithaine was old. It made Shanhaevel sad to look at the man in front of him, hunched low on his horse as they rode through the rain and the last remnants of the day. He realized that their roles had reversed. Now he was taking care of the old man, looking out for Lanithaine just as Lanithaine had done for him years ago. We don’t have many of those too-short years left to spend together, the elf thought. He’ll be gone soon. I should make the most of the time we do still have left.

Shanhaevel forced his thoughts back to the present. He can’t ride in the dark, the elf told himself. We’ll have to stop soon, or I’ll have to lead him. He shook himself, sending a cascade of droplets spraying into the near-darkness. At that moment, a vague half-voice, little more than a thought, intruded into his mind, and he realized it had been there for several moments, nudging him, trying to get his attention.

Bad things.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead, near the trail, and Shanhaevel froze, pulling his mount to a stop.

“Lanithaine, hold on,” he called. As his teacher reined in, the elf listened, barely breathing.

Such a fool! Shanhaevel berated himself as he watched and waited. Letting your guard down to listen to nostalgic tales and to argue. Where? he thought, sending his silent question to the trees above, speaking to the mind that had spoken to him.

Hiding. In the trees.

The back of his neck prickled, but Shanhaevel heard nothing more, so he raised himself in his stirrups and shoved his hood back for a better look around. His eyes shimmered and glowed faintly, reflecting the faintest remnants of western light, revealing the unmistakable shape and lavender hue of his gray-elven heritage. Having stared so long at nothing more than the back of Lanithaine’s horse and the muddy road, those eyes now scanned the purple gloom without difficulty, spying shape where there should be darkness, grayish light where only deep shadow should hang.

“What is it?” Lanithaine asked as he guided his horse beside Shanhaevel’s.

“Ormiel spotted something ahead,” the elf replied, his voice low. “He said there were ‘bad things’. I don’t see anything, but I heard a twig pop.”

“You did? I haven’t heard a thing.”

“That’s because you’re as deaf as a newel post,” Shanhaevel whispered, still watching. He saw no menace, but he caught scent of something—something foul. His horse must have smelled it as well, for it whickered and tossed its head.

“Shh,” Shanhaevel whispered, running his hand along the horse’s mane to calm it. He was straining to see and hear but was still unable to detect anything. Long moments passed, but there was only the patter of rain as it pelted the broad leaves of the ipps towering around him.

After a moment, Shanhaevel mentally commanded, Show me. From overhead, there was the briefest rustle, and as the elf looked up, a red-tailed hawk, its wings spread wide, glided down, shooting past his shoulder and ahead, following the road. It pulled up near a large tree perhaps thirty paces further down, settling onto a large branch about fifteen feet above the ground. As its taloned feet grasped the rough bark of the tree limb, it screeched loudly.

Here, it whispered into Shanhaevel’s mind. Hiding.

The elf was just about to open his mouth and suggest that they turn their horses and head back the way they had come when he heard another fallen branch crack, and then there was the unmistakable sound of a bow being drawn tight. At the same time, something crashed out from the underbrush.

Fly! Shanhaevel cried as he heard the twang of an arrow, but the hawk was already in motion, lunging off the branch and diving low to gain speed rapidly, then gliding inches off the ground. It was past the two riders and up into the branches above in a heartbeat. The arrow lanced through the oak leaves where the hawk had been, slicing a few free of the branch and sending them floating wetly to the ground.

Shanhaevel caught a glimpse of several shapes swarming out from where they had been hiding behind the trunks of trees. The elf caught a glimpse of tall bodies with oddly shaped heads. A broad-bladed axe was in the hands of the nearest attacker, but Shanhaevel was already dismounting, tossing his staff down to the muddy road and cursing as he swung out of the saddle.

“Come on!” he growled at Lanithaine as he tugged the reins, swinging his horse around to use it as a shield between the two of them and the ambush. Lanithaine was leaning low in the saddle and trying to swing a frail leg back, but his horse was panicked, and with a frightened whinny it reared up on its hind legs and dumped its rider to the ground. Lanithaine toppled into the mud and rolled to one side.

“Run!” Shanhaevel shouted as he fought to maintain control of his own frightened mount, at the same time reaching to grab hold of the reins of Lanithaine’s horse.

The approaching figures, fully a half dozen of them, had fanned out along the road and were closing. At least two wielded bows and were taking aim. Shanhaevel felt an arrow whisk past his shoulder, and he detected a soft grunt of pain from Lanithaine.

Dread filled the elf. Let him be all right, he prayed. Abandoning his efforts to control the horses, Shanhaevel released them both, letting them charge away in terror. Lanithaine’s mount reared and lunged forward, colliding with one of the creatures, which shouted what sounded like a curse.

Gnolls! Shanhaevel recognized the creatures language. This close to the edge of the forest? This near civilization? He shook his head and dismissed the thought as he spun toward where Lanithaine had rolled, seeking to aid the injured man—and went sprawling into the mud. He had stepped squarely on his own staff, and it had rolled out from underneath him. He landed awkwardly on both hands and wrenched one shoulder, while the other arm slipped in the slick dampness of the road and shot out from beneath him. He went facedown into the mud.

Shanhaevel rolled, sputtering and trying to wipe the mud free from his eyes with the hem of his cloak. Move! he screamed silently. The gnolls had to be almost on him. He managed to clean his face enough to open his eyes, just in time to see one of the gnolls looming over him with a huge axe raised high overhead. Gasping in near-panic, Shanhaevel felt for his staff as he scrambled to avoid being split in two.

Above Shanhaevel, the gnoll leered and hefted the axe even higher. Boccob! the elf prayed again as he rolled to the side. Time seemed to come to a near standstill as he kicked himself away from impending slaughter. No matter how hard and fast he tried to churn his legs, the gnoll was never far away, striding inexorably closer to him. A second creature moved beside the first and peered down at Shanhaevel, watching the elf with an ominous grin on its doglike face. The elf’s cloak and clothes were now soaked in thick, wet mud and tangled about his legs and arms. He slipped again and flopped on his back, staring skyward as the gnoll hesitated, apparently savoring the moment.

The burst of light that shot across Shanhaevel’s field of vision at that moment wasn’t nearly as jarring as the concussive blast that accompanied it, leaving the elf flailing in the mud, blind and deaf, his whole body buzzing painfully. He panicked, although he knew what had happened, for he had seen Lanithaine’s magical bolts of lightning often enough. Blinded, Shanhaevel had no idea if the gnolls had been felled by the bolt or were still standing over him about to carve him into tiny, mud- and blood-covered bits.

In his frightened floundering, Shanhaevel’s hand smacked against something hard, and he instinctively closed his grip on it. It was his staff, he realized, and he pulled it to himself, gripping it for all he was worth and swinging it all about, hoping to discourage any potential attacks. He could still neither see nor hear, although both his vision and hearing seemed to be gradually returning.

After a moment or two, the elf realized that it was quiet. He could hear the slurping and sucking of the mud beneath his body as he twisted around. He stopped moving and listened. There were no sounds of battle, only the dripping from the surrounding trees and a faint rasping sound.

Shaking his head and wishing he could rub his eyes to try to restore his sight, Shanhaevel sat up and peered around as his vision returned.

“Lanithaine?” he called, worried that more gnolls might be nearby. There was no answer.

Shanhaevel scrambled to his feet, his eyesight mostly restored. Burned bodies lay everywhere. He moved among them, relieved to see that they were all gnolls. Then he spotted his teacher, slumped against the bole of a large oak, breathing in ragged, rapid gasps. Shanhaevel leaped across the distance between them and knelt down beside the old man.

Lanithaine’s breathing was shallow, and Shanhaevel could detect a faint gurgling with each breath. An arrow had caught him squarely in the back and was protruding from his ribs in front. Shanhaevel leaned down, close to his teacher’s face. He could see blood discoloring Lanithaine’s lips.

No! The elf screamed silently. Why now? I have no healing magic!

“Lanithaine, talk to me,” he said. Lanithaine opened his eyes and looked at Shanhaevel, although the elf knew that his own visage was nearly invisible to the man. Good, he thought. Don’t let him to see my fear.

“You must go to… to Hommlet,” Lanithaine rasped, his voice weak and moist. “Find… Burne. Tell him… what… h-happened.”

“No, you’re coming, too,” Shanhaevel insisted. “I’m taking you there just as soon as I can get you on one of the horses.”

Lanithaine reached up and took hold of Shanhaevel’s arm with his hand. The grip was weak, and his teacher’s fingers trembled. “No,” the older man said, his voice softer still. “Can’t breathe. Arrow… through… a l-l—”

Shanhaevel could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, because he knew what his teacher was saying, and he couldn’t bear to hear the rest. He started to drag a sleeve across his face to keep the tears away, but his arm, his face, everything was covered in mud, so he simply let them fall.

“Go,” Lanithaine said, the effort to speak clearly taxing him. He coughed, his body seizing up with spasms, and blood now stained his white beard. Shanhaevel could only hold the man, feeling Lanithaine’s fingers dig into his arm. When the coughing fit subsided, the older man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “You… can… do this. Burne… needs…you. Help… as… you wou—” The old man paused for breath. “…me.”

“Lanithaine, no! You are my teacher. I can’t—won’t—serve another!” Shanhaevel, too, struggled to breathe, feeling as though he were suffocating. He felt helpless, and his master’s words were ripping at his insides. The suggestion that the elf serve another was too much. It cut too deeply. The lump that formed in his throat nearly choked him.

“No… serve. Aid. For me. See… task…through.” Another coughing fit gripped Lanithaine, and this time, it would not release him. As his breath grew more and more shallow, the older man gasped, his head sagging back, until the last cough was little more than a pitiful wheeze, and he sighed, lying still.