Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  Had Azlar known about this entrance before, he would not have wasted his energies tunneling through the earth to reach this chamber. Curious, the mage approached the secret door. It was closed, but Azlar could see no handle or chain. Obviously it could only be opened from beneath. There was something else. A faint sound from under the earth, a dull roar coming from beneath the heavy door. The sound was getting closer. Azlar took several cautious steps back.

  The door flew open, nearly bursting from its hinges as the monster exploded up from the sub-tunnel below, erupting through the cavern floor to hover high above the soldiers still waging war on each other. Azlar fell to the ground, numb with terror at the apparition before him.

  For a second the intruder loomed above the battlefield in all its terrible glory, a creature of pure evil, a legendary denizen of the fabled Underdark, the sphere of many eyes, the great eye tyrant—a beholder.

  Its gigantic, spherical body pulsed with power and all-consuming rage, levitating high above the chamber floor. The numerous eyestalks atop its head flailed about, looking in a dozen directions at once. The great central eye darted from side to side, taking in the entire scene. Azlar realized the awful truth. Xiliath had come.

  Without a warning, without a word, Xiliath, unleashed his wrath on the battle. A magical fear descended on the combatants, creating terror among friend and foe alike. The steadfast discipline of the two armies, their unshakable morale, broke like a dam before the flood as a wave of panic washed over the assembled troops. Soldiers from both sides threw down their weapons and ran screaming from the cavern, completely oblivious to anything other than the unimaginable levitating horror that had emerged from beneath the cavern floor.

  As the men scattered like insects under an angry boot, the eyestalks atop Xiliath’s body unleashed their rays of destruction, choosing targets without any regard to allegiance or loyalty. Those struck by the rays rarely survived. Some collapsed into a comatose sleep, trampled under the feet of the fleeing mob. Others were hurled through the air by unseen forces and smashed against the cavern walls, their limbs twisted and shattered. A few were transformed to stone, adding to the medusa’s own collection of statues. Many died instantly, their hearts bursting inside their armored chests when touched by the deadly bolts. Most were simply obliterated, reduced to tiny piles of ash before they could even scream.

  Azlar cowered back into the shadows of the chamber walls, no longer able to hide behind his magical invisibility. Xiliath turned his attention to the medusa, who was too involved in her own rampage of destruction to have noticed Xiliath’s entrance.

  Xiliath focused a single eyestalk on the medusa’s form, and Azlar saw her body stiffen. She spun around, clutching at her serpentine locks with her hands, oblivious to the snakes’ agonized writhing as they snapped and bit at her hands. Protected by his own incantations, Azlar was able to stare directly into her tortured eyes. He recognized what he saw. A battle of wills was being waged inside the medusa’s skull. Xiliath was trying to dominate her mind with the power of his magical eye.

  “No!” she screamed, snapping her head back as if it had been struck. The glazed look receded from her eyes, leaving only a blazing anger. “Not again! I will not be your slave anymore!”

  “Xiliath!” she screamed, the identity of the fearsome monster as obvious to her as it had been to Azlar mere moments before. “You shall pay for my suffering!”

  The beholder’s unflinching central eye met the gaze of the snake-haired woman. Xiliath stared directly into those flashing eyes that meant a stony fate worse than death for most mortal creatures, and to Azlar’s amazement, nothing happened.

  A look of surprise and then understanding flickered across the medusa’s beautiful features. Her serpentine locks hissed in anger, but she refused to flee. She bent down and scooped up a long spear from where one of the panicked soldiers had dropped it on the floor. With surprising strength, she hurled the weapon across the cavern at the hovering sphere.

  The weapon bounced harmlessly off Xiliath’s leathery hide.

  From the cover of the shadows, Azlar watched as the beholder slowly advanced on the medusa. Again and again, she took up weapons from the floor and threw them at the monster, trying vainly to halt his methodical, relentless advance. Her desperate throws were hurried and wild, most far from their mark. Those that struck Xiliath’s hide bounced harmlessly away. A single shaft punctured the large central eye of the beast, sinking deep into the pale flesh of the orb. The beholder merely shook the weapon free and let it fall to the ground below, seemingly oblivious to the effects.

  Finally, the medusa’s courage broke. She turned to run, but a beam from one of the eyestalks atop Xiliath’s head struck her between the shoulder blades, slamming her to the floor. A second beam engulfed her, and the writhing snakes atop the medusa’s head began to smolder and burn, their agonized, hissing screams drowned out by the sizzle and pop of the snakes’ own boiling blood.

  Somehow, the medusa clambered to her feet, but Xiliath was right on top of her now. She dropped to her knees, the steaming blood of the snakes on her head dripping down to cover her face with dark, crimson streaks. Cowering before the beholder, the medusa clasped her hands together, begging for mercy. A single thin ray arced down from above, striking the medusa flush in the chest.

  Azlar was unable to pull himself away from the scene, captivated by the terrible power of the eye tyrant’s mere presence, fascinated by the vicious slaughter Xiliath had unleashed. The medusa’s shriek cut through the air, piercing Azlar’s eardrums. She dissolved in an explosion of light that seared Azlar’s eyes—though the wizard still refused to look away.

  Then the medusa was gone. Where she stood was only a smoking crater and a small pile of dust.

  The graphic reality of the medusa’s death snapped Azlar back to his senses. The wizard knew he had to escape the chamber. Xiliath would spare no one—even his own men would perish for having learned the secret of his true identity. Most of the panicked soldiers ran in confused circles around the room, their terror so great they were unable to even form cogent thoughts of escape. The beholder ignored these for the time being, Azlar noticed. The monster was focused on those still sane enough to try to flee the cavern.

  Several of the terror-stricken soldiers disappeared through the passage Azlar himself had torn into the treasure vault’s wall, seeking an escape through the ancient smugglers’ tunnels. The mage knew few, if any, would ever see the surface. Those who avoided the countless traps still active from the long-vanished underground criminal empire would become victims of the gruesome monsters that had taken over the tunnels when the smugglers had left.

  Xiliath turned to focus another barrage of death on the medusa, and Azlar allowed a tiny seed of hope to be cultivated in his mind. The door to the secret entrance Xiliath had used to enter the chamber was still open. The tunnel beneath, Azlar knew, would eventually lead him to the surface.

  The young mage emerged from his hiding place in the shadows and sprinted across the chamber toward the door. Just as he reached his escape route a beam from one of Xiliath’s eyestalks slammed the door to the sub-tunnel shut. The door locked with an audible click, trapping Azlar within the cavern.

  The wizard spun to face the creature now bearing down on him. Another beam from one of Xiliath’s small eyes struck Azlar, and the wizard felt his limbs grow heavy and ponderous. He tried to turn and run, but every movement was agonizingly slow and labored. His feet felt too heavy for his legs.

  He glanced back to see the beholder floating toward him, an evil chuckle rumbling out from the gaping row of teeth at the bottom of Xiliath’s spherical body. The beast did not move exceptionally fast, but Azlar knew his own magically hampered movements prevented any hope of escape through flight.

  In desperation, Azlar began to cast a spell to save himself, the incantation taking far longer than normal. The arcane words came in a sluggish drawl, the somatic gestures were performed in a deliberate, measured pantomime of true
spellcasting. Yet such was Azlar’s power that the spell still managed to function. A shield of flame encircled him. It was similar to the one Xiliath’s now-deceased mage had cast, though Azlar’s protective fire was red, not blue.

  From Xiliath’s central eye a cone of energy rippled the air, engulfing Azlar and instantly snuffing out his protective shell, leaving him completely defenseless.

  Azlar’s shrieks echoed throughout the cavern as Xiliath bit deep into his shoulder and tore away a chunk of flesh. The screams became muffled as the beholder’s maw descended to engulf the wizard’s head and torso. Xiliath’s jaws bit down, severing Azlar’s body in two just below his ribs, and the voice of the Dragon Cult’s rising star was stilled forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Fendel moved surprisingly fast for such a small, wrinkled gnome. Lhasha easily matched his pace, her lithe form bounding over the stones in soft, light steps, but Corin fell steadily behind. In part, he was burdened by the swords he carried in each hand. There was something else. He wasn’t used to fleeing a battle. It went against all his training, everything he had ever practiced, everything he stood for as a White Shield and a warrior. Part of him resisted his own efforts to escape.

  In the short time it took the group to cross the room and reach the arch of the cultists’ passage, the warrior was already several paces behind his companions. As Corin entered the magically formed tunnel, soldiers darted past him on either side. He slashed out with his weapons without even thinking, his instincts for killing taking over. He hewed one man down with a single, fatal blow to the back and crippled the other with a hack to the leg, hamstringing the man.

  It was only after his opponents fell to the floor that Corin realized they weren’t attacking him. They weren’t even armed. They had been fleeing the battle, running from whatever it was that had put Fendel to flight.

  He passed or was passed by many more fleeing cultists as he ran, and he even noticed a few soldiers he suspected were Xiliath’s own men running in terror from the unknown horror back in the treasure chamber. Corin no longer swung his swords at the defenseless men, though the pair of naked blades were still clenched in his grasp. The panic of the other soldiers had finally helped the White Shield realize that the time for killing was over. Escape and survival were his only goals now.

  Several hundred yards into the well-lit, perfectly symmetrical tunnel Azlar’s magic had formed, Fendel came to a stop, wheezing and bending over to brace his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch a second wind. Lhasha pulled up beside him, her own breath coming in quick, short gasps. A few seconds later, Corin stumbled to a stop just a few feet away, nearly collapsing from the strain of their extended sprint.

  Fendel motioned with his hand, urging the other two to clear a path from the center of the passage. Panting, the trio pressed themselves up against a wall, trying to stay out of the way of the small groups of terrified soldiers still streaming past every few seconds. The panicked cultists, intent only on escaping the terror of the main cavern, paid no heed to the three figures huddled off to the side of the passage.

  The gnome, despite his age, was the first to recover enough to speak. “We should be safe here. For a while.”

  From back down the passage the chilling screams of those trapped in the main cavern could still be heard.

  “What … the Abyss … happened?” Corin managed between gulps of air.

  “Beholder. Big one. Came up through the trapdoor in the floor and started killing everything in the room. Even turned the medusa into a pile of dust.”

  “Xiliath?” Corin asked.

  Fendel nodded. “That’d be my guess. Probably been hiding out in these tunnels for the last few years, working through front men to keep his existence a secret. We have to get out of here so we can warn the authorities. They won’t want him floating around loose under the streets.”

  “Wait a minute!” Lhasha protested, more than slightly annoyed. “How come you wanted to take care of the medusa yourself, but you’re willing to dump the beholder off on someone else? Don’t tell me you’ve got some kind of double standard working here.”

  “Don’t scold me like a child,” Fendel replied, without any real malice in his voice. “My actions made perfect sense, if you think about it. A medusa can hide in a crowd. With her hood up, she looks like any ordinary citizen. If I didn’t do something about her when I had the chance, the Maces would never have found her until after Yanseldara had been turned into a statue. By then it would have been too late.

  “But a beholder won’t be sneaking up on anyone. As soon as the city guard finds out what Xiliath really is, they’ll have patrols scouring the tunnels to hunt him down.”

  “Won’t the patrols just get slaughtered?” Lhasha countered, a hint of accusation in her words.

  “Not if they’re properly prepared,” Corin interjected, coming to Fendel’s defense. “Get a squadron of well-trained soldiers, arm them with crossbows and other ranged weapons, throw in a few battle mages to cast protective magics over them, and the patrol will be able to deal with just about anything. Even an eye tyrant.”

  Lhasha chewed thoughtfully on her lip for a few seconds. “I guess it makes sense,” she reluctantly admitted. Then, after a few seconds she added, “I’m sorry Fendel. I don’t know what came over me. I just … I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  The old gnome leaned over and gave her a long, reassuring hug. “Think nothing of it, Lhasha. Anyone who’s been through what you have is entitled to be a little out of sorts.”

  “Besides,” he added, giving her a grin and tweaking her small nose to try to cheer her up. “I’ll be the first to admit I was running scared. With my glasses to keep me from turning to stone, I knew I could face the medusa. But a beholder’s a little more than I can handle. When I saw that thing hovering over the battle, I just wanted to get out before one of those eyes turned in our direction.” He concluded with a laugh. “I just got you back, Lhasha. I wasn’t about to risk losing you again.”

  With a shake of her head and a warm smile Lhasha replied, “Oh, Fendel! Always looking out for your poor little girl.” She returned his hug with one of her own.

  Corin shifted uncomfortably at the sentimental display between Lhasha and her mentor. “We still need to get out of here,” he noted, trying to shift the conversation back to their immediate situation. “Hugs won’t get us back to the surface.”

  “Of course, of course,” the gnome said hastily, gently pushing Lhasha away. Lhasha gave Corin a sour glare, her eyes chastising him for the embarrassment he had caused the old gnome with his tactless comment. Corin ignored her angry stare.

  “Sooner or later,” Fendel said, moving on to the topic Corin had not-so-subtly suggested, “this passage has to link up with the original tunnel system. We won’t be able to get into the sub-tunnels from up here. I only knew about the one way in. All the other doors connecting to the network below are one way, just like the one back in Xiliath’s vault. You can come up from below, but not down from above. We’ll have to find our way to the surface through the smugglers’ main tunnels.”

  “You told me traveling those tunnels was suicide,” Corin reminded him.

  “Virtually suicide,” Fendel clarified. “But it’s not like we really have a choice, is it?”

  From his bag Fendel produced the staff he had used when he and Corin had come through the sub-tunnel. The end still glimmered with a magical glow.

  “Lhasha and I will check for traps—you guard our backs. Even if the cultists or Xiliath’s men don’t decide to try to chase us down, there might be other predators in these caverns tracking us.”

  They set off, and it didn’t take long until Fendel was proved right yet again. “Here,” Fendel said, “you can see where the wizard started blasting his own path through the earth.”

  They had come to a T intersection. Unlike the perfectly symmetrical passage they were currently in, both of the branches before them were irregular and uneven, the walls and floo
r roughly hewn from the surrounding rock.

  “So which way do you think the cultists came in from?” Lhasha asked, trying to peer down each direction for some clue.

  “I couldn’t even begin to guess,” Fendel admitted, “but it doesn’t really matter. Both ways will lead us back to the surface. Eventually.”

  “Left,” Corin said with sudden certainty.

  “How do you know?” Lhasha demanded.

  “Just a gut feeling.”

  With a shrug, Fendel said “Then left it is. Lhasha, stay close and take your time looking for those traps. We’ve had enough nasty surprises for one night.”

  Their progress was, if possible, even slower than the pace Fendel and Corin had set through the sub-tunnel. This time, however, Corin wasn’t bothered by their overly cautious advance. Lhasha was back with him, for one thing. And he now had some firsthand experience with the potential dangers awaiting the reckless traveler beneath Elversult’s streets.

  As if to reaffirm Corin’s newfound concern for safety, the sounds of far-distant screams could be heard periodically—cultists falling victim to the horrors of the smugglers’ labyrinth as they blundered through the tunnels, trying to find their way back to the surface.

  The trio encountered numerous side passages and branches on their slow journey. Fendel never hesitated in his choices, though to Corin there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his decisions. The one-armed warrior could only hope the gnome’s sense of direction wasn’t as disoriented as his own. Maybe Fendel was drawing on long-buried memories to lead them out. Or maybe he was just guessing.

  For his own part, Corin kept casting glances back over his shoulder. He could feel creatures watching them, malevolent eyes in the darkness. The faint whisper of scuttling feet just beyond the illuminated range of Fendel’s staff was so frequent Corin had ceased to even notice it.