The Temple of Elemental Evil

2

Unmoving, Shanhaevel crouched beside his master’s body, his mind refusing to believe what was before him. It could not be. They were supposed to spend many more years together. This was not how it was supposed to end. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision of the face of his dead teacher, but he could not tear his eyes away.

“No,” he insisted, and shook Lanithaine once, gently. He is just unconscious, the elf told himself. I can revive him. Not dead. Not dead!

“Noooo!” He screamed into the forest, loud and long, feeling his throat grow hoarse and not caring. He screamed it again and grabbed at the hated arrow, yanking it free from Lanithaine’s body.

With his fist clenched around the missile, Shanhaevel lunged back and away from Lanithaine, unwilling to look upon his teacher’s face any longer. His rage burned inside him now, white-hot anger that made him clench his teeth and ball his free hand into a fist. The elf whirled around, wanting, hoping to spot a gnoll on the road, one that might have escaped the death of Lanithaine’s bolt of lightning.

There were none. If any had survived, they had vanished. Desperate, Shanhaevel peered around, listening. His breath heaved in his chest, and hot tears ran down his face, mixing with the mud caked there. He could feel his fists shaking from his rage. In fury, he gripped the arrow even more tightly, then flung it away and sank down in the road, his mind numb.

Bad things dead, Ormiel said, the thought vaguely coupled with a slight yearning for a mouse to snack upon. Why still shout for the hunt?

Shanhaevel raised his head and looked around. His vision was fine now, but the world seemed dull, muted.

Lanithaine is dead, he told the hawk.

Ormiel didn’t answer, but Shanhaevel sensed the sorrow the bird felt, and the hawk cried out, a forlorn screech from the branches overhead that echoed into the night.

Damn, the elf thought, feeling the rage inside him reduced to a dull smoldering. Damn it all to the hells. He tried to wrap his mind around the meaning behind the words. Lanithaine is dead. The elf felt his throat tightening once more and refused to let it overwhelm him. Instead, he stood, peering around and focusing his mind on what to do next, shutting out, for the moment, his grief. He spotted one of the gnolls Lanithaine had slain.

Moving closer, he crouched down for a look, gathering in as many details as he could from the blackened, charred body. It was armed and armored—fairly well, too. Shanhaevel did not recognize the symbol emblazoned on the beast’s black tunic. The cloth was burned, but the symbol seemed to be a flaming eye of orange. He made a mental note of it, wondering what tribes he might not be familiar with roamed this part of the Gnarley.

Gnolls this far west, Shanhaevel thought. Lanithaine said we weren’t more than another hour, even on foot, from Hommlet, and there are easily half a dozen other communities scattered around, at least according to his map. Plus, we—I—I’m into the hills now, and the gnomes hold solid sway here. Why would gnolls risk ranging this far out of the deep forest? Maybe this Burne in Hommlet will know.

Do I go on, though? Why? What am I going to do there, just walk up and ask for this Burne? Excuse me, Mr. Burne, but Lanithaine is dead, so I’m here instead. They’ll think I’m crazy. He shook his head in dismissal. I’m not going to Hommlet.

Yes, you are, Shanhaevel told himself. Lanithaine wanted it. He wanted you to go in his stead. The one thing Lanithaine would have hated the most about dying was leaving an obligation unpaid.

For a moment, the elf was angry again—angry with the wizard Burne, who had needed Lanithaine for whatever reason, angry with Lanithaine for coming to aid Burne and for dying, but mostly angry with himself for letting his emotions get so twisted around everything. The anger gave way to fresh sorrow, because he knew the reason plainly enough: It was Lanithaine’s honor that was at stake, even in death, and Shanhaevel had cared too much for the man in life to taint that.

So be it, the elf told himself. I’ll go for you, Lanithaine.

Shanhaevel stood a little way from the road, over the shallow grave he had dug for his teacher, studying the pile of rocks that covered the body and marked the site. To leave Lanithaine in this spot, here in the middle of nowhere, had at first seemed wrong, but Shanhaevel then remembered that, most of all, Lanithaine had loved the forest. After that realization, it had seemed like the only thing to do. The elf hung his head for a moment, closed his eyes, and recalled the happy times he had spent with this man, who had taught him of both magic and friendship.

Good-bye, Lanithaine. Rest. I will serve your cause. Only then will I go home. Not before.

Shanhaevel turned and strode away from the grave, pausing at the edge of the trees to listen and peer about one final time, wanting to remember this spot, this moment. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast, and moisture still dripped steadily from the boughs overhead Nodding in poignant satisfaction, the elf drew the hood of the heavy cloak over his head and moved out onto the road.

A few hundred paces up the path Shanhaevel found the horses, standing quietly. Now, with his walking staff once again tied across the saddle, Shanhaevel freed the reins, stepped into the stirrup, and swung up onto his mount. Despite the clouds, Luna, the largest moon had risen. She was nearly full and gave the overcast sky a faint glow, providing enough light for him to ride.

From the highest branches of a nearby tree, the hawk dropped like a rock, then flattened its dive and went gliding silently by. In the open area of the road, it climbed, banked, and turned, returning to circle the elf once before swooping in and coming to rest on his shoulder.

Shanhaevel stroked the creatures neck as the hawk bobbed its head in quick, jerky motions, eyeing him as if he were a morsel of fleeing food. Shanhaevel reached inside another of his many pockets and drew out a strip of dried meat, holding it up. The hawk eyed it for a mere second before darting its head forward to snag the snack. With his avian companion perched upon one shoulder, Shanhaevel began his journey, traveling for the first time without his teacher, his friend.

Riding along the center hump of the road to avoid the bountiful puddles that clustered in the wagon ruts, Shanhaevel took an easy pace, not wanting to be flung into the mud again should his mount stumble.

As he rode, Shanhaevel considered just how he should introduce himself to the people he met, especially this Burne fellow. You don’t want them to dismiss you as a green apprentice, he told himself. You should be cautious. You’re not at home anymore. Don’t trust anyone too quickly or easily. You need something that sounds impressive—subtle but impressive.

Shanhaevel considered his own full name, Shantirel Galanhaevel, which meant “child born of the shadow wood” in his native Elvish. Well, “whelp” is more accurate than “child”, he reminded himself, but I’m certainly never telling anyone that. I can twist it around a little, make it sound more mysterious and powerful.

“I am the spawn of shadows, born of night’s sweet fold,” he said softly, testing the words. “I am Shanhaevel.”

He liked what he heard. It fit his black mood.