Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  The orog stabbed forward, running the sword through the soldier’s stomach until it protruded from the other side. The mage, confident in the abilities of his bodyguards to dispatch a single foe, wasn’t even looking in Graal’s direction. He gazed out over the battlefield, seeking the few remaining members of Azlar’s army that still fought desperately against a foe they could never withstand.

  With a casual calm, Graal slid his sword from the impaled soldier and let the body sag to the ground. The man, too stupid to even know he was dead, clutched at his stomach in a feeble attempt to staunch the blood and organs spilling out of the cavernous wound.

  Azlar turned at the sound of the man’s groan, suddenly realizing he was in danger. Graal could not afford the luxury of savoring his foe’s final agony—the medusa, at the mental command of Azlar, was already turning in their direction. Graal slashed the blade once, cleanly severing the upraised hand of the wizard.

  Azlar screamed in agony, but Graal barely noticed. He was too busy following the flight of the wizard’s hand. Carried by the momentum of Graal’s sweeping blow it sailed a dozen feet through the air and bounced once on the ground.

  Following the path of the limb brought the medusa into the farthest edge of Graal’s peripheral vision. The orog saw her collapse to the ground as the spell of the ring was shattered, leaving her mind momentarily as weak as that of a newborn, but she would not remain in such a state for more than a few brief seconds.

  Ignoring the weeping wizard, Graal lunged for the bloody hand, dropping his weapon in his haste. In his mind’s eye he could already see the medusa slowly rising to her feet, her mane of snakes thrashing madly in rage. Free of the enthralling enchantment of the ring, she would do anything in her power to keep another from using it to enslave her.

  The orog dropped to his knees, pulling at the ring with his massive, but surprisingly agile, paws. He clawed at the circle of gold, trying to wrench it free of the pale finger, but the gore-smeared hand was slick, Graal couldn’t get a firm enough grip on the ring to pull it over the knuckle of the severed hand.

  Behind him he heard the angry hissing of dozens of serpents, and menacingly soft footsteps approaching.

  “Dare you face me now?” the medusa shrieked, though whether at him or Azlar the orog couldn’t say. He kept his eyes firmly on the ground, kept his back to the creature. She was not far from him now. He could guard against gazing at her face, but not her hair of lethal vipers.

  Graal snapped the finger at the knuckle and a helmet of white bone popped up through the already graying skin. He twisted the mangled digit and tore half of it off, allowing him to slide the ring free.

  He thrust it on one of his own meaty fingers. The magic of the ring expanded the circle to slip over the gnarled joint of his knuckle, then contracted it to a snug, almost painful fit. Graal spun around, still on his knees. The medusa was virtually on top of him.

  He stared up in wonder at the face of the medusa, kneeling in seeming supplication and reverence at the power contained in her countenance. Only the magic of the ring kept his limbs from petrifying as he sat spellbound by the vision. For Graal, the porcelain skin and delicate female features of the monster held little appeal, yet like Azlar he too thought her truly beautiful as he gazed upon her face.

  For Graal, it was not the physical that captivated him, but the malevolent arrogance reflected in her gaze, the understanding of her own awesome, destructive capabilities shone in her eyes. There was something else as well. Despite the ring on Graal’s finger, the medusa’s eyes were clear and sharp—she was still of her own mind.

  “Do you fear me yet, ignorant beast?” she sneered at him. “Well you still should.” The serpents on her head lashed out.

  The orog threw himself onto his back, scuttling away like a crab across the gore stained earth. The medusa watched him with contempt, then began a slow, deliberate pursuit.

  “Though you are not made stone, do not think your fate will not be horrible,” she whispered, sauntering after the hastily retreating Graal, relishing his seeming helplessness. “I shall devour your flesh and strip your bones.”

  The orog had been bedazzled by the prospect of gazing upon the face of death itself—a most uncharacteristic mistake. He had been absorbed in the moment. But the moment was over now. Still on his back, Graal softly caressed the ring, his fingers gliding over the warm gold for but an instant.

  The medusa’s head jerked back and her eyes momentarily clouded over.

  “I am not the stupid animal you think,” Graal said to her, relishing the fear of dawning realization in her eyes. “My mind is strong enough for this.”

  He rubbed the ring again and focused his will. The creature threw her head back, the serpents of her hair went limp. Inside his mind, Graal heard the sound of her anguished psyche screaming. Her body was silent.

  “Return, my pet,” Graal said. “Return and destroy the cultists.”

  The serpents began to writhe in a sleepy rhythm, and the medusa returned to the battle. The orog cast a quick look around for Azlar, but the wizard was gone, vanished into the forest. He had taken his hand with him. No matter. His death would have been nothing more than an added bonus.

  With the package on their side now, ultimate victory came quickly for Graal’s troops. The orog’s skill at controlling the creature was not as honed as Azlar’s, however, so several of his own men were inadvertently struck down by the medusa’s curse. Graal shrugged indifferently at the casualties. If Xiliath felt compassionate, he might have them restored to their former, living state. If not, they would make fine additions to his master’s trophy room.

  Replace your hood, Graal silently ordered once the last cultist had been dispatched. Pull down your veil. Your work is done. For now.

  The medusa did as she was ordered. Graal pulled a curled horn from his belt, and blew a long, howling blast. It was a signal to his fleeing troops that the battle was theirs. The deserters would return in due time to join their comrades in the looting of the dead—though if they knew how Xiliath dealt with cowards they would not be so eager.

  As his followers trickled back, the orog surveyed the carnage of the clearing. Bodies littered the field, along with roughly two dozen statues. A few of these had been smashed into rubble by vengeful enemies or accidental blows during the battle, leaving no chance of restoring the unfortunate soul trapped within.

  The corpses could be stripped and left behind, but the statues and the rubble had to be collected and taken to Xiliath’s hideout. There could be no clues that might give the Elversult authorities any inkling of what had truly happened there.

  At a word from Graal, the carts the troops had dragged with them from Xiliath’s base in Elversult were wheeled out from the trees and into the clearing.

  “Search the woods for more statues,” Graal ordered. “And load these onto the carts. The pieces, too. Leave nothing behind.”

  Fascinated, Graal studied the face of each statue as it was piled onto one of the wagons. A small, almost child-sized figure was placed on board. “Hello, my pretty one,” Graal whispered to the statue.

  “Can you hear me, I wonder?” he asked, leaning in close to fully appreciate the stone-etched horror in the half-elf’s face. From the female’s pose it appeared as if she had stumbled, probably while running with her eyes closed. Instinctively, she had reacted to the fall by opening her eyes at the worst possible time. It was a miracle she hadn’t shattered from her inevitable fall to the ground after being petrified.

  “Where is your friend?” Graal muttered, hoping to find a one-armed statue among the collection. The search proved fruitless, and he frowned in disappointment. But when several of his men emerged from the forest carrying an unmistakably obese statue of Fhazail, all Graal could do was tilt back his head and howl with joyous laughter.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Still waiting fer yer friend?” the surly waitress at the Weeping Griffin asked Corin again, her voice so shrill it made his teeth grate. She had
been asking him every fifteen minutes or so, obviously anxious to have him either order or leave. But the look in Corin’s eyes must have been preventing her from telling him flatly to get out.

  Corin didn’t even bother replying anymore. His glare spoke volumes enough.

  “I don’t think she’s comin,’ ” the waitress said with a nasty laugh. “She musta stood ye up!”

  “She’ll be here,” Corin said softly, his voice filled with menace.

  The hunchbacked serving wench wisely beat a hasty, limping retreat. As she scurried off she shouted back over her shoulder, “Tell yer friend she can’t be breakin’ anymore o’ me glasses!”

  In vain, Corin searched the virtually empty interior of the seedy tavern for any sign of Lhasha, hoping she might have come in while he was distracted by the waitress. But she wasn’t there. Corin had been waiting a long time.

  He considered going back to search the woods around the clearing, but what if she showed up while he was out looking for her? He also considered going to see Fendel—maybe the gnome had some fantastic invention to help locate Lhasha. But again, Corin was afraid of Lhasha arriving while he was gone, then leaving to go search for him. Once such a vicious circle began, it might take days before they caught up with each other.

  Drumming the fingers of his only hand on the table, he tried to analyze the situation logically, to survey it as he would survey a battle. It was possible Lhasha had mistakenly gone somewhere else to meet up with him. Possible, but highly unlikely. He dismissed that option.

  It was also possible she was lost in the woods, confused by the darkness and the unfamiliar surroundings. Her elf eyes would let her see through the night, but Corin knew the range of her heat-sensitive vision was not very far—twenty yards at most. She wouldn’t walk into an open pit, but she still might not be able to figure out her exact location with such limited sight.

  If she was lost, it would be pointless for Corin to go looking for her. He’d have no idea where to even begin. Dawn was only a couple of hours away now. With the rising sun, Lhasha would find her way back to Elversult and the Weeping Griffin soon enough.

  Of course, there was one other possibility. One that Corin refused to even consider. Not yet, anyway. He’d give her a few more hours to find her way back with the rising sun before he’d give up on her.

  The door to the streets outside opened, a rare occurrence at the Weeping Griffin. Most of the regulars were already there. Corin looked quickly, hopefully, to the door, but instead of Lhasha’s petite form, three men bundled up in robes entered. Knowing patrons came to this tavern for privacy and a chance to be left alone with their problems, Corin didn’t pay any more attention to the group.

  He was staring intently at his stump, still debating what to do about Lhasha when one of the robed men sat down at his table. Corin glanced up sharply and realized the other two had crept up behind him. On either side he felt the tip of a dagger pressing against his ribs.

  “Don’t call out, speak only when necessary to answer my questions. Keep your voice low,” the seated man whispered, “and you just may get out of this conversation alive.”

  Corin’s eyes flitted over the few people scattered about the bar, looking for some help. The other patrons stared pointedly at their drinks. The waitress, obviously sensing trouble was brewing, had disappeared behind the bar. Unfortunately, Corin knew the last thing on her mind would be alerting the authorities. At the Weeping Griffin, everyone’s business was strictly their own.

  Giving a nod to show he understood the hooded man’s instructions, Corin turned his attention to his uninvited guest. Up close, Corin could see beneath the shadows of the man’s cowl. He recognized the young face and shaved head of the cult wizard, and a chill ran down his spine.

  “My name is Azlar,” the man said. “And I have a proposal for you, Corin One-Hand. One that you might be very interested in hearing.”

  Corin nodded again, and the knives against his sides eased up their pressure slightly.

  “Do you know who I work for?” the mage asked.

  “I’m not stupid,” was the warrior’s short reply.

  “No, of course not. Then you also know that we possess great power and influence. Not just in Elversult, but all across Faerûn. I am here to offer you a chance to join us.”

  “Why me?”

  “The Cult of the Dragon has many powerful allies, but we are always looking for more to aid in our cause,” Azlar explained. “You have proven your worth on the battlefield, and in dispatching my … guardian … in the warehouse.”

  Despite the blades pressed to his ribs, Corin was in no mood to be tactful.

  His instincts told him that the mage’s visit to the Weeping Griffin was a bad sign for Lhasha, and the thought of the half-elf suffering because of his own quest for revenge against Fhazail filled him with a reckless, frustrated rage.

  “I don’t see myself worshiping dead lizards,” he spat out. “Find some other convert to brainwash into your twisted faith.”

  Azlar reacted to the warrior’s vehemence with a rational calm. “Not all who serve us do so out of religious duty. There are … other considerations.”

  Corin snorted in contempt. “Money, power, slaves. Do you think I would sell my soul so cheap?”

  The mage lifted his arm and rested it on the table, then pulled his sleeve back. His hand was pale and discolored, one finger had been horribly mutilated. A jagged scar encircled his wrist.

  “Torture?” the warrior sneered. “I will not be broken so easily.”

  “Not torture,” the wizard replied, “but healing. Earlier this evening, my hand, the one you see before you, was severed by the foul orog’s dark blade. As yours was, long ago.”

  Corin looked again, more closely this time. “You’re lying,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off the spell-caster’s hand. “Even the priests of Lathander couldn’t heal me.”

  “The Cult of the Dragon has magic more powerful and ancient than the Dawnbringer’s pathetic little houses of worship. Join us and such a miracle could be yours. You know I speak the truth.”

  Corin did know it. More than his instincts, more than just wanting to believe. He knew it was true. In Azlar’s scars he could see the pain, suffering, and loss of his own severed limb. Both men had been marked by Graal’s sword, they shared a kinship, but Azlar’s hand had been restored.

  “See,” Azlar said as the fingers flexed and curled. “It works as well as ever. We could do the same for you, Corin One-Hand. Though in your case a magically created limb would have to be a suitable replacement, since the original is long since lost.”

  Unaware he was even doing it, Corin began to rub his stump.

  “Of course the procedure is immensely painful. Pure agony in your case, I suspect. But I’m sure you would agree that fleeting pain is a trifling price to pay.”

  Fendel had offered him a prosthetic arm, a hand made of metal. Largely on that promise, Corin had formed his initial partnership with Lhasha. Now Azlar was offering a limb of real, living flesh.

  “How …” was all he could say, cautiously reaching out with trembling fingers toward the mage’s restored hand. The gray palm was cold to Corin’s touch.

  “In our studies, we have learned much about necromancy and the restoration of animation to bodies and flesh—human as well as dragon.”

  Azlar’s words, meant to reassure and tempt the warrior, had the completely opposite effect. Corin recoiled in revulsion from the undead flesh, shivering at the unnatural feel of it beneath his caress.

  “Keep your zombie hand, wizard. I would rather stay crippled than become such a thing.” In the back of his mind Corin half expected to feel the cold steel slide between his ribs as punishment for his insult.

  Instead, Azlar quickly withdrew his hand, hiding it from view beneath the long, draping sleeve of his robe.

  “Do not dismiss my offer yet,” the wizard cautioned, showing no sign that he was angered by Corin’s reaction. “There is more on th
e table.”

  The warrior said nothing. He had no desire to play Azlar’s game anymore.

  Sensing his potential recruit’s reluctance, Azlar continued the conversation without waiting for the one-armed man’s reply.

  “There is an old saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We share a common hatred, Corin of the White Shields. We have both been betrayed by the steward Fhazail.”

  The name caused Corin to stiffen momentarily, but otherwise he made no response.

  The cult mage misjudged the warrior’s reaction. “You are surprised I know of your history, perhaps? Rest assured, Corin, I know much about you. My divinations are powerful. Join with us, and I can lead you to Fhazail. I can lead you to your vengeance.”

  “My vengeance is over. Fhazail is nothing but a statue. I saw him myself. He is trapped for eternity in a stone prison.”

  “He was turned to stone,” Azlar admitted. “I orchestrated it myself. But you are foolish if you believe such a condition is not reversible. Before I could deal more permanently with the traitor I was forced to flee the battle. I suspect Fhazail has been taken from the field by his allies. They might restore him to his previous abundantly fleshy state.

  “Fhazail has a knack for surviving such potentially lethal situations. Surely, Corin One-Hand, you can not sit idly by if there is even a chance Fhazail will emerge from his latest scheme of betrayal unscathed. You must seek justice for what he did to you and your fellow soldiers.”

  For two years Corin had nursed his vengeance, even at his life’s lowest ebb it was always there, a flickering ember in the depths of his soul. He fueled it with alcohol and bitter vows cursing the injustice of the world, and when Lhasha brought the steward back into Corin’s life the ember ignited an all consuming inferno in his mind.

  Corin had nearly thrown everything away in his quest for revenge. His rebuilt career and reputation, his partnership with Lhasha, even his own life—all of it sacrificed for one last shot at Fhazail!