Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  “My name is Lhasha, not Half-elf, and I put the ladder there long time ago. I used to work the Fair, in my younger days. I always wanted to have an emergency way out, in case something like this happened.”

  “You are a pickpocket!” he exclaimed, his good hand dropping to his belt to check on his purse. In a cold voice he added, “So you were trying to rob me.”

  Lhasha’s back was to the wall they had just climbed. The man was between her and the alley’s narrow exit to the main street. She noticed his sword was missing—he must have lost it in the fight. He was at least twice her size, and from his expressionless tone she had no idea what he was thinking. She chose her words very carefully.

  “Actually, I wasn’t trying to pick your pocket. I was trying to give your money back. It fell from your belt.”

  He grunted in reply, obviously not buying her story.

  She decided to come clean. “All right, I admit I did steal your purse. But when I saw you only had one hand, I tried to give it back.”

  “I don’t need your pity,” he spat at her. “You should have kept it—I’m not a beggar.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Lhasha shot back. “Not even enough coppers to buy a decent meal!” Instantly, she regretted her words.

  Rage twisted the man’s features into a grimace of primal fury, and he raised his good hand in a clenched fist above his head. But as quickly as the rage came, it vanished, replaced on his countenance by defeat and resignation. His hand dropped back to his side, his shoulders slumped.

  “So this is what I’ve become, Corin the Pitiful.” he muttered.

  He turned from her and began to shuffle away down the alley. Lhasha caught up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. She knew what it was like to be beaten down by life. She knew the value of a compassionate hand to help you up.

  “Corin … wait. I have a friend, a priest. Maybe he can help you.”

  Corin turned back and smiled at her, but it was a bitter, hopeless smile. “No priest can help me. I spent everything I owned on clerics of the Morninglord, and all I have to show for it is an empty purse—as you know all too well.”

  “I’ve seen you with a sword,” Lhasha said, trying to encourage him. “You don’t have to live a life of poverty. You’re good. Good enough to still be working as a mercenary.”

  Corin gave a caustic laugh. “You think I don’t know that? But would you hire me with this?” He raised his stump for effect. “I’m not a stray dog, half-elf. You don’t need to look after me.”

  Despite his rebuke, Lhasha still wanted to help him—she owed him for saving her from the Maces. But sometimes a compassionate helping hand was less effective than a swift boot in the breeches. When she spoke again her words were angry.

  “Life gave you a tough … deal.” She almost said “hand.” “Now you’re using that as an excuse to give up. You don’t want my pity because you’re too busy pitying yourself!”

  Corin snorted in disgust. “You have all the answers, don’t you? But it’s not that simple. My life is … complicated.”

  Lhasha refused to be cowed. “Complicated? Really? Then explain it to me!”

  “If you want a tale, go find a bard,” he snarled, and turned his back on her again.

  Lhasha could no longer hear the sounds of the unruly crowd coming from behind the alley wall.

  “The Maces have things under control,” she called out as he walked away, “soon they will be looking for us. I know somewhere we can go and be safe.”

  The man hesitated, then turned to face her.

  “I’m not a charity case.”

  “Just paying you back for saving me in the Fair,” she assured him. “Come with me,” Lhasha urged, still convinced Fendel could do something about Corin’s arm. “The fight with the Maces was as much my fault as yours. The least I can do is get you safely away from here.”

  “And where shall we go, half … Lhasha?”

  “The friend I mentioned earlier. Fendel. He will help us.”

  “The cleric?”

  “A cleric,” Lhasha admitted, “but one unlike any you’ve ever met.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The alley Corin and Lhasha used to make their escape was on the north side of the Fair. Corin didn’t know where Lhasha planned to take him, but if her friend was a priest there was a good chance he’d be found at Temple Hill … on the south side of the Fair.

  Lhasha led the way, winding through littleused streets and shadowy back lanes. The description the Maces would provide to their patrols might be sketchy, but Corin knew as a pair they were hard to miss. The half-elf would draw enough attention on her own—an attractive young blonde with long hair and fair skin was sure to draw the eye of every man they passed, and her garish clothing only made her stand out from the crowd even more. As for his own description, Corin knew there weren’t too many one-armed men wandering around the city streets.

  Corin’s suspicions about their destination were eventually confirmed. Lhasha’s course took them around Elversult’s huge open-air market, to the shops and buildings built beneath, in the shadow of Temple Hill. Corin remained silent as bitter memories welled up in his mind, bubbling to the surface at the sight of the all too familiar surroundings. Through the tightly packed buildings on the narrow streets in the center of town, he caught glimpses of the foot trail snaking its way up to the top of the barren tor. Looking up, he could make out the silhouette of Lathander’s Church in the late afternoon sun.

  How many times had he made the trek up that hill, humbling himself before the priests of Lathander? Corin tried to ignore the foul taste welling up from his stomach, tried to block out the dark memories. But the fight in the Fair had sobered him up. The effects of his morning drinking binge were fading. As the veil of alcohol faded, he saw the past was still there waiting for him—just as it always was.

  Without looking up again, Corin knew what he would see as Lhasha led them ever closer to the mount around which Elversult had been built. The gleaming spires and stained glass windows of the Dawnbringer’s temple would reflect and refract the light of the sun, a shining beacon of hope atop the hill for all to see. False hope, for those foolish enough to believe. Corin had been one of them, once.

  After the slaughter of his White Shield comrades, after the loss of his hand, Corin had turned to religion in search of help and healing. Out of the pantheon of churches within Elversult, Corin had chosen Lathander’s—the god of the Morning Sun, the god of the New Day, the god of New Beginnings.

  The priests had welcomed him into their temple—welcomed him and his gold. Corin had foolishly handed it over. Bit by bit, visit by visit, coin by coin. His entire life savings. Each time the priests would chant and pray, and spread perfumed incense on the air and speak about the glory of the Dawnbringer. Each time, they would end the day by telling Corin that Lathander had not seen fit to restore his hand at that time.

  Only now could Corin see what a fool he’d been. How gullible. At this time. An implied hope for the future—hope Corin had invariably seized upon. He accepted their failures to help him without question, convinced the next day’s pilgrimage up the winding, dusty path to the top of Temple Hill would end with him being made whole again. That hope was all he had—the hope that his hand could be restored. The priests of Lathander continually fed that hope with their false promises.

  After a year of almost daily treks up the hill, Corin’s money was all but spent. But the priests were not done stealing from him. If they had sent him on his way when the gold ran out, Corin might have been able to forgive them. He understood greed and theft—as a White Shield he had dealt with thieves every day.

  There was still more he could give, the priests had explained, something more valuable than all the gold he’d donated. Corin could give himself, in every fiber of his being, over to the Dawnbringer. He could prove his devotion through service, in a way mere donations never could. This, the priests had assured him, was the way to salvation, redemption, and healing. To open h
is soul by serving Lathander.

  Corin had served. Cleaning the church grounds, scrubbing the stones and statues of the temple’s interior. Washing the stained glass windows. Polishing the spires and steeples of the edifice proclaiming Lathander’s greatness. Toiling in the gardens within the walls. Preparing meals for the clerics, and cleaning up the dishes when they were done. Every menial, degrading task the servants of Lathander felt was beneath them, Corin did. He humbled himself in the eyes of the Dawnbringer, convinced such servitude would bring about a miracle.

  After three months of toil, Corin had approached Hathala Orndeir, the high priestess of Lathander. He went to her and begged her to help him, begged on his knees for her to implore her god to heal him.

  Her reply was simple. “Those who serve only for their own gain are not true in their faith,” she had said. “You are not yet ready to receive the miracle of Lathander’s touch.”

  He should have attacked her, should have launched himself and snapped her fragile neck with his bare hands for her hypocrisy—or been blasted into oblivion by the power of Lathander when Hathala called down the wrath of her god to protect her, but Corin’s spirit was no longer that of a White Shield, or even a warrior. He had given Lathander’s church everything—his money, his service, his pride, his honor. All that remained was a hollow shell, incapable of action, and they still would not help him.

  Corin left the church that night, quietly gathering his meager belongings. Hathala gave him a pittance of coins to take with him—wages for his months of service, she had explained. Corin was too bitter and broken to even refuse her charity.

  Now, a year later—nearly two years after the loss of his hand—Corin found himself once again in the shadow of Temple Hill and the reviled church built atop it.

  Corin spat on the ground to try and cleanse his mouth of the foul bile conjured up by the sight of the Tower of the Morn. Soon he could also discern the outline of the House of Coins … Waukeen’s Temple, and the only other building on Temple Hill.

  “Your friend, the cleric,” Corin asked, breaking the silence, “is he a servant of the Dawnbringer? I’ve had enough of Lathander’s kind.”

  Lhasha, her attention focused on watching the streets for possible pursuers, shook her head.

  “Is he one of Waukeen’s priests?” Corin asked. “A stubborn believer in a dead god?”

  “No,” Lhasha replied, “he worships Gond. He’s a priest in the House of Hands.”

  Corin laughed softly, and rubbed his stump. “The House of Hands,” he whispered to himself, “how fitting.”

  The church of Gond Wonderbringer wasn’t actually on Temple Hill, but stood just at its foot on the western face of the mount. Corin had passed it many times on his repeated journeys up the hill, but had rarely given it a second thought. Compared to Lathander, and even Waukeen before she was slain in the Time of Troubles, Gond was a minor power. The god of inventors, blacksmiths and carpenters … hardly the deity Corin would have chosen to heal his grievous injury.

  Lhasha never hesitated at the doors to Gond’s church, but boldly walked right through. Corin paused. He was sick of churches, sick of getting his hopes up only to have them shattered by priests powerless to help him. But the half-elf’s enthusiasm was a refreshing change from the despairing malaise that darkened his mind when he was by himself. He expected nothing, of course, but he had come this far … he might as well go all the way. At least I won’t have to climb that damnable hill again, Corin thought as he followed Lhasha into the House of Hands.

  A priest stepped forward to greet them, at least Corin assumed it was a priest. He wore a leather apron, and tools of every possible description hung from the belt around his waist. The only thing identifying him as a cleric was a picture of a cog wheel—Gond’s holy symbol—emblazoned on the front of his smock.

  “Lhasha, welcome as always,” the man said by way of greeting. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”

  “Hello, Dergin,” Lhasha replied with a smile. “This is Corin.” The priest nodded in acknowledgement, and Corin returned the gesture. “Is Fendel in?”

  “Of course,” Dergin said. “In his workshop, where else? Go on in.”

  To Corin he added, “Feel free to examine any of the many inventions you might come across in the church, it honors the Wonderbringer when we take an interest in his marvels.”

  “This way,” Lhasha said, “in the back.”

  Corin still wasn’t sure about Lhasha’s faith in her friend, but he had to admit Gond’s priests were unlike any he had met before. Even the church was something of an oddity. Instead of the sounds of chanting, bells, or gentle harps one might expect in a house of worship, the air was filled with the clang of hammer meeting anvil, the sawing of wood and the roaring of great fires that Corin assumed to be coming from furnaces in the back. The acrid smell of smoke and burning coal wafted through the halls, reminding Corin of the many smithies he had visited to have his weapons or armor repaired during his years as a White Shield.

  Scattered about every room they passed through was an amazing collection of machines, gadgets, and inventions. The church was more a museum of technological innovation than a place of worship. Many of the larger rooms Lhasha led him through contained catapults, battering rams, or other machines of war, each uniquely—and often strangely—modified from the standard design. Other rooms had farming equipment and tools, each scythe or hoe improved upon in some way. Even the halls were lined with smaller devices and contraptions. Corin couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of most of them.

  “It’s all a little … overwhelming, isn’t it?” Lhasha commented at one point. “Believe it or not, most of these things actually work.”

  They passed through the main building, and into the courtyard at the back. Half constructed frames of metal and wood littered the yard. The sounds of building—the pounding, sawing, grinding noises Corin could hear even in the main entrance of the temple—were much louder here, emanating from several large edifices haphazardly strewn about the grounds.

  “The communal workshops,” Lhasha explained, shouting to be heard above the din. “Ever since Fendel nearly blew up one of the kilns they’ve let him work in his own private building, out at the back. He hardly ever comes out. Built himself a little bedroom off the back, though half the time he falls asleep at his workbench.”

  Lhasha led the way to a small cottage nearly hidden behind the other buildings and knocked on the door.

  From within the workshop an anxious voice called out, “I’m busy!”

  “Fendel,” Lhasha shouted, “it’s me! Can I come in?”

  Several seconds later the door swung open to reveal a grubby gnome. Like the priest at the entrance, he wore a leather smock bearing Gond’s holy symbol. His clothes were stained with soot, and his face and balding crown were smudged with dark black stains Corin guessed to be grease. The tip of his rather large nose was similarly blackened, and the gray whiskers on his chin appeared singed. He smelled of forges and sawdust. Without a word, the gnome seized Lhasha’s wrist in one hand and Corin’s belt in the other, yanked them inside, and slammed the door behind them.

  It took several seconds for Corin’s eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and reveal the carnage within. A table lay overturned in each corner of the room, all of them missing legs; one was even chopped right in two. Strewn about the floor were several chairs; dozens of hammers; and countless nails, knives, rulers, levels, writing quills, inkpots, sketches, drawings, and blueprints that had presumably been on the now upended tables. Corin’s first thought was that a mage had conjured a minor demon and let it run rampage about the room. Then he noticed a strange looking contraption on wheels in the center of the workshop. It looked like a cylinder, six feet high, with dozens of farm implements—a scythe, a thresher, a hoe, a sickle—extending out from the center at various heights and angles.

  “Fendel,” Lhasha asked in amazement, “what happened?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Lhas
ha-love. Just testing out a new invention … an automatic farmer. No more toiling away in the fields, no more spending sun up to sun down during the harvest season hurrying to bring the crop in. My little device does it all for you—and at the speed of twenty ordinary workers!”

  Noticing their skeptical expressions Fendel added, “Of course, its not perfected yet. Still a few minor technical difficulties to work out. The thing tends to be a little … overzealous. Got away from me, you know.”

  As he spoke the gnome made a half-hearted attempt to gather up the papers scattered on the floor. He righted one of the tables, only to watch it immediately topple over again because of its two missing legs. With a sigh he righted a chair and set his hastily collected notes on the seat.

  Lhasha started to help the clean up process, but the gnome waved his hand dismissively.

  “Just leave it, Lhasha. Guests shouldn’t have to clean up my mess. I’ll get it later.”

  Lhasha shrugged, and let the few papers she had picked up slip from her hands and waft back down to the floor.

  “Don’t … ah … mention this little mishap, darling,” Fendel added. “I’ve had a bad stretch with my work lately, and I’m already under some harsh restrictions from Artificer Daragath. If he hears about this, he might forbid me from working without some kind of … supervision.”

  “Of course, Fendel. We won’t say a word. Isn’t that right, Corin?”

  Corin, who had stood in bemused silence since being ushered into the room, nodded in agreement.

  The gnome clapped his grimy hands once and exclaimed, “Forgive me, I’m being rude!” He extended his arm as he said, “Fendel Burrohill. Pleased to meet you … what was it? Corin?”

  Corin regarded the gnome’s gesture with a stony stare, and made no move to reciprocate. Fendel hesitated, then glanced down at Corin’s stump and quickly withdrew his own arm.

  “Oh,” the gnome said, “sorry.”

  Corin made no reply.

  Lhasha interrupted, breaking the awkward silence that hung in the air between the two men. “Fendel, can you help us? We’re in a bit of trouble with the Maces.”