The papers held clues about Lareth’s recent activities in the area. The records and letters were written by someone named Hedrack, obviously Lareth’s superior, and they detailed plans for raiding caravan routes in the region. There was also mention of recruitment techniques, payment instructions for military troops, delivery schedules of various goods—armor, weapons, foodstuffs, and even slaves—and a long-term plan for the eventual destruction of Hommlet through the use of “elemental forces most powerful.” Unfortunately, locations were left vague, as though this Hedrack did not want anyone to trace them back to him. It was clear nonetheless that Lareth served a very secretive and powerful organization that was somewhere close by.
“The temple,” Shanhaevel surmised, sucking in his breath. “I’ll wager my right arm that’s where this Hedrack is.”
“I think you’re right,” Elmo replied, nodding, “and I bet that’s where Lareth went. Let’s tell the others.”
The companions deposited the bodies of the bandits in the swamp, wrapping the corpses in their bedrolls and weighing them down with rubble from the ruins so they would sink below the surface. Someone had wrapped Melias’s body in his cloak, as well, and he now lay stretched out near the entrance to the tunnel, waiting to be hauled out to the horses.
“Let’s go home,” Shirral said when they were done, suddenly looking sad again. “It’s getting late.”
Elmo nodded in agreement and stood. “I’ll get Melias.”
Carefully, the huge man hoisted the body of their leader up into his arms and headed out into the afternoon. Ahleage and Draga followed him, carrying a small chest with the valuables they had recovered from the place.
Shanhaevel was alone with Shirral. The elf looked over at the druid, who was biting her lip thoughtfully.
“Shirral,” Shanhaevel began, “what happened today … that wasn’t your fault. The lie Zert told us was right in front of us—in front of me—and we still fell for it—all of us. Stop blaming yourself.”
“At least you suspected. I was just a trusting fool. I talked him into going in there. I insisted on it, rode off with the man before Melias could argue with me. I was so damned sure I was right, and it cost Melias his life. I practically killed him myself.”
“No!” Shanhaevel shouted. He took the druid by the shoulders and made her look him squarely in the eye. “Shut up! You did no such thing.”
Shirral was crying now, big tears streaming down her face, but she said nothing, just bit her lip and looked away.
“We were doing what we thought was right,” the elf continued. “The people who know you, who care about you” —he emphasized these last words—“know better. So should you.”
Shirral looked at the wizard again, now, her blue eyes flashing as she deciphered the meaning of his words. “Care about me?”
Shanhaevel nodded, suddenly nervous. He covered it by saying, “Do you think Jaroo would blame you for what happened?” Would Lenithaine blame me?
She cocked her head to one side, as though realizing he was avoiding saying what he was really thinking. Yes, I care about you, the voice in his head said.
“I don’t know,” she said, and it was almost a whisper. “But he isn’t the one who just died because of my foolishness. You should stop thinking about me that way and go home.”
With that, she turned to leave. Shanhaevel let out the breath he had been holding.
“Wait!” he said, following her. They walked together out into the daylight. “Why? Are you saying there’s no reason for me to stay? None at all?”
Shirral looked at him again as they reached the road. “I’m saying that I won’t let there be one, not like this. Melias’s death hurts enough. I couldn’t bear watching someone I cared about die. I have my work with Jaroo. That’s all there can be for me. It’s safer that way.”
As she finished, the druid sped up, moving up the road and leaving Shanhaevel behind. The elf watched her walk away from him, feeling a dull pain in his chest, then slowly turned and followed her.
Back at the top of the rise, where the group had left their horses, Elmo was tying Melias’s body across the warrior’s saddle. Ahleage and Draga were securing the chest of goods to the packhorse, the spare that had been Lanithaine’s. Shirral was inspecting her mount, tightening a cinch here and there and shortening the stirrups more to her liking.
At that moment, the sound of a whinnying horse floated across the bog, and as one, the group turned, weapons drawn.
A powerfully built man approached along the path from Hommlet. He was wearing plate armor and sitting astride a horse so large and muscular that it was obvious it had been bred for war. The man had a shield slung over his back and a very fine looking sword belted to his hip. He looked road-weary and somewhat lost. He slowed the horse when he realized the group had spotted him. Slipping his riding gloves from his hands, he reached up and removed his open-faced helmet and scanned the group. He was clean-shaven and had short, curly black hair.
The stranger clicked his tongue, and his steed moved forward, right up to where Elmo stood, axe in hand.
“By Cuthbert, it’s true,” the stranger muttered, half to himself. His eyes were wide, and they flicked back forth among the companions, studying each in turn. “I will not doubt again, m’lord,” he added, still staring.
“Pardon?” Elmo said, staring back, a cautious, concerned look on his mien.
“Can we help you?” Shirral asked.
“I don’t know,” the man replied. “I hope so. I was sent to find you.”
“Find us?” Ahleage said, half smirking. “By whom?”
“By Saint Cuthbert, my god and guiding hand.”
“What?” Ahleage blurted, nearly choking. “Why would a god send you to find us?”
“I don’t know,” the stranger replied, smiling warmly. “I know it sounds bizarre, but he came to me in a dream, showed me your faces, and sent me here to find you.”
“Find us?” Elmo repeated, still holding his axe.
“Yes. I have seen each of you. A wizard with a silver mane, a rogue with a sharp tongue, a big man with an axe, a hairy fellow with a bow and a song in his heart, and a woman, a druid. He said I would need you, and you, me.
There is work to be done, and I had to find you so that we can do it together.”
“That sounds really noble,” Ahleage said, looking at the rest of his companions out of the corner of his eye, “but as you can see, our work came to an abrupt end”—Ahleage nodded at Melias’s body—“and we’re going in different directions. Did your god tell you that?”
The man frowned. “Saint Cuthbert made it plain that there would be difficulties along this path, but I know his will is for me to bring us all together, so I hope you will reconsider. You must reconsider.”
Shanhaevel glanced at the others in turn, and when he caught Ahleage’s eye, the young man brought his hand to one side of his face to hide it from the stranger, then made a crazed look back at the elf. Shanhaevel had to keep from cracking a grin, but then he shrugged. Maybe this gets me more time with Shirral, he thought.
“You seem sincere,” the druid said, “but we have no idea if you’re telling the truth or not. Regardless, we don’t even know your name.”
The man started then shook his head in embarrassment. “By Cuthbert, I’m sorry! I am Sir Govin Dahna, knight of Saint Cuthbert. You can call me Govin. If there is a man of the church back in that town, I will go before him and allow him to conduct his test of truth on me to prove to you I am what and who I say I am.”
“All right, then, Govin,” Shanhaevel said, pointing from person to person. “That’s Elmo, over there’s Draga, there’s Shirral, that’s Ahleage, and I’m Shanhaevel—not Shadowspawn,” the elf said, throwing a look toward Ahleage. “The unlucky soul on the back of the horse was Melias.”
“Yes, that is one of your names, Shanhaevel. You go by another, however. Faldurios su wel elmirel dwa sulis min anweilios su Shantirel Galaerivel, magiost.”
Shanhaevel’s eyes widened as he stared at the man before him. Govin had used the elf’s own tongue—Some who know you well name you Shantirel Galaerivel, mage.
Shirral was staring open-mouthed at first the knight, then at Shanhaevel.
“Kilieria su delmeir, Kahvlirae,” Shanhaevel finally replied, bowing slightly. You speak the truth, noble knight. “Your dreams seem to tell you much about us.”
Ahleage shook his head, exasperated. “What in the nine hells did he just say to you?”
“He told me some things that only the people of the Welkwood should know, and he named me as a wizard.”
Despite the discomfiture of this man knowing so much about him, Shanhaevel was beginning to warm to the knight. It was strange. He somehow felt … right—yes that was it, right—with Govin here. That’s as odd a thing as you have ever thought, Shantirel Galaerivel.
Sir Govin bowed his head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to put you on guard. I only wish to prove that I am legitimate. This is a lot to accept, I realize. Perhaps I should withdraw and let you discuss things for a bit in private.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Elmo said. He had that look on his face that had convinced Shanhaevel there was more to him than his story told. “You must be tired after riding here all the way from …”
“From Dyvers. I rode here from Dyvers.”
“Yes, a long journey, indeed. Our unfortunate companion, here, Melias, needs a proper burial. We were hoping to get him back to Hommlet, but the day grows late. We should make camp and discuss this further. You are welcome to join us.”
“I accept your invitation,” the knight said with a small, appreciative bow.
It was nightfall by the time the group set up camp. They pitched their meager shelters and built a small fire in a secluded spot a fair distance away from the moathouse, on some high ground that was dryer than the surrounding marsh.
Everyone had gathered around the fire, and was consuming a fine stew of rabbit meat. Shanhaevel had just finished telling Sir Govin the tale of their exploration of the moathouse and of Melias’s death. By mutual agreement with Elmo during a private conversation earlier, he left out many of the significant details of Lareth and the things they had found in his chambers. There was an expectant silence now, as everyone watched the knight while he ate, waiting for him to respond in some manner to the story.
Govin was wolfing down spoonfuls of stew, seemingly unconcerned that everyone was studying him. Finally, he sopped the last drops of broth up with bread and set the bowl aside. He leaned back against a tree and steepled his fingers.
Shanhaevel stole a glance in Shirral’s direction. She had said little to him since their conversation before. Now, she had her head bowed slightly and was absently biting her lower lip, staring at nothing.
“I see now why I was sent here,” Govin began. “Your task is not yet completed, yet your perseverance has faded away.” He leaned forward again, warming to his speech. “This Melias—may his spirit rest—was the guiding hand. He brought you together, and he had the drive to see this through. Now that he is gone I have been sent, not by a mere lord, by no king or viscount, but by a power far stronger and more enduring.”
Ahleage coughed at this point, and when Shanhaevel looked over, he could see derision written on the man’s face.
“Perhaps,” Ahleage said, “but I don’t follow your god, so what’s he want with me? I don’t know that strange dreams really provide a good enough reason for me—probably not for my friend Draga here, either.”
Draga merely shrugged and went back to whittling on a piece of branch.
“Of course not,” Govin replied. “Not everyone hears or recognizes the call of Cuthbert. You need your own reasons for choosing your way. I can’t give you what you want out of this, but I believe it will come to you, nonetheless. Success lies down this path, should we choose to follow it.”
“Sir Govin,” Shanhaevel said, folding his fingers together and leaning forward, “if everything you say is true, it would seem that something fairly profound will come of it. Why do you think Cuthbert wants you to lead us?”
It was a leading question, Shanhaevel knew, but he wanted to see just how much the knight might know about what was going on.
“I did not come here to lead you. That is not my place. You are already companions, having learned to rely on one another before my arrival. It is plain to me that I can only ask to join you, not presume to lead you.
“To answer your question, though, I cannot say in certain terms what will come of this, but I believe I have part of the answer. It is a poem, something else that came to me in a dream, though I do not know what it means, yet. Here it is.”
The Two united, in the past,
A Place to build, and spells to cast.
Their power grew and took the land,
And people round, as they had planned.
A key without a lock they made
Of gold and gems and overlaid
With spells, a tool for men to wield
To force the powers of Good to yield.
But armies came, their weapons bared,
While evil was yet unprepared.
The Hart was followed by the Crowns
And Moon, and people of the towns.
The Two were split; one got away
But She, when came the judgment day,
Did break the key and sent the rocks
To boxes four, with magic locks.
In doing so, she fell behind
As he escaped. She was confined
Among her own; her very lair
Became her prison and despair.
The Place was ruined, torn apart
And left with chains around the heart
Of evil power—but the key
Was never found in the debris.
He knows not where she dwells today.
She set the minions’ path, the way
To lift her Temple high again
With tools of flesh, with mortal men.
Many now have gone to die
In water, flame, in earth, or sky.
They did not bear the key of old
That must be found—the orb of gold.
Beware my friend, for you shall fall
Unless you have the wherewithal
To find and search the boxes four
And then escape for evermore.
But with the key, you might succeed
In throwing down Her power and greed.
Destroy the key when you are done
And then rejoice, the battle won.
When the knight had finished, Shanhaevel was certain his face was pale. He looked from companion to companion, realizing they all looked shaken.
“Melias begged us to find the key before he died,” the elf said quietly. “None of us knew what he meant.”
“So what?” Ahleage argued. “He could have been talking about anything—and that poem could mean anything! There’s nothing to prove that they are the same.”
Shanhaevel nodded, and then he remembered something. “Well, there might be one way to find out,” he said, rising to his feet.
He moved over to the pile of gear, going through it until he found Melias’s pack. Returning to his seat, he opened the pack and looked for the scroll case.
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Shirral asked doubtfully. “He was an agent of the king. You might be breaking some law or other.”
Shanhaevel looked at her then shrugged.
“It may be that those are his orders from the viscount or the king,” Elmo said, motioning for Shanhaevel to open the scroll case, “and if there’s something useful in there, we must find it. I think, under the circumstances, any transgression would be overlooked.”
Shanhaevel eyed Elmo for a moment, wondering just how the big man might have come to that conclusion, then shrugged and twisted the seal from the scroll case. The roll of parchment inside was crinkled and weathered. Everyone gathered around as he stared at the
words written on the scroll in a careful, neat hand. They were, word for word, the poem the knight had just quoted.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt, now,” Shanhaevel said in a breathless whisper.
Ahleage’s eyes were wide as he shook his head, agreeing with the elf’s assessment.
“But what does it mean?” Shirral asked Govin.
The knight shrugged. “I don’t know, but I am willing to accept Cuthbert’s wisdom in bringing us together. I have faith that whatever it is we are to accomplish, it will be revealed to us when the time is right.”
Shirral continued to chew her lip while Elmo frowned.
“I think the time is right,” the huge man said. “It’s time for a few explanations.” Elmo rose from the ground where he had been seated as he spoke to the group. “You see, I am not merely an ale-swilling simpleton, although I have done little to maintain that guise in recent hours, so I suppose most of you already realized that. It is an image I have cultivated for many a year, now, and it has been very useful for throwing off suspicion.”
Shanhaevel leaned forward, eager to hear what this huge man, whose mien was suddenly contemplative and intelligent, was going to say next.
“You see,” Elmo continued, looking at his hands, “I, too, work for the viscount.” There were a few gasps from the group. “I am a Knight of the Hart—a hunter, a tracker. It has been my responsibility to keep an eye on the activities around the area—the comings and goings of merchants, strangers, what have you. Few have passed through Hommlet without my knowing.”
Shanhaevel found himself shaking his head in amazement, and he saw that everyone else around the fire shared his sentiment.
“I knew there was something up!” the elf said, grinning wryly. “When Ormiel told me you were speaking to him, I was confused. Every once in a while, you said or did something that seemed so out of character for the—pardon the expression—simple bumpkin farmer you seemed to be.”
Elmo smiled and nodded. “Yes. You are extremely astute, ‘whelp born of the shadow wood,’ more so than most people I meet. There was a time or two that I slipped up, but most of the time, I was watching for your reaction. I wanted to know if I could trust you, each of you. I learned today that I can, and that’s going to be a very important part of our relationship if we’re going to see this through.”
The Temple of Elemental Evil Page 9