Temple Hill (22 page)

“You fear me little man,” Graal snarled, “I can smell it.”

The fear made the man cautious, reluctant to attack. Graal had no such qualms. He struck with wild, untamed ferocity, overwhelming his tiny one-armed opponent.

Then the cripple’s bitch stabbed him in the back. He swatted her away, but the moment was lost. The White Shield seized the advantage and drove him back—a worthy opponent.

Worthy, but still inferior. Graal slowed the man’s assault. He used his massive bulk to take away his oppo-. nent’s momentum and regain the advantage, but not before the female was up again. Graal couldn’t advance, he couldn’t simply bury his enemy beneath a flurry of psychotic blows, lest he expose himself to another bite from the female’s blade.

The orog wasn’t used to being thwarted in battle. He kept the soldier at bay, but he needed to even the odds. Graal glanced over the White Shield’s shoulder, seeking followers of his own that he could afford to draw away from the battle.

What he saw shocked him.

His army was in ruins. A few of his best warriors held their ground, but the fodder had turned and fled, the dragon worshipers butchering them from behind like the miserable curs they were. Sheer numbers still favored his army, but their morale had broken, the tide of battle had turned.

It took only a moment for Graal to understand. He saw Azlar, the cult wizard, in the middle of the clearing surrounded by three of his guards. The wizard’s fist was thrust straight up into the air.

Then Graal saw the package. Or rather, the back of her. Azlar had unleashed the medusa on Graal’s troops, they scattered before her like dust. In her wake he saw only statues and corpses bloated by the poison of her venomous tresses.

Oblivious to the White Shield and the female, Graal cast his eyes to the earth and sprinted into the cover of the trees.

The forest was alive with the sounds of Xiliath’s escaping forces. They fled without thought or reason, heading in any direction that led away from the clearing. The sounds of the cult soldiers hunting them down could also be heard.

A goblin stumbled past the orog, completely unaware of the looming presence of his general. Graal silenced the goblin’s terror filled shrieks with a single swipe of his paw, clawing out its throat.

A second later a pursuing cult soldier appeared from among the trees. Graal brought his sword to bear on his opponent, chopping down on his shoulder. The blade sliced through armor, flesh, and bone, biting deep into the human’s torso. The cultist keeled over in a shower of spurting blood.

Graal was no blood-crazed fool, he was not above fleeing when a battle was lost. But even the prospect of facing the medusa was preferable to having to report his failure to Xiliath. “Do not come back without the package,” Xiliath had warned him. “The package, and the ring that controls it.” Graal had little doubt that the ring was on Azlar’s finger.

Moving with surprising stealth for a creature his size,

Graal worked his way along the edge of the clearing, staying just far enough in the trees to remain out of sight. He kept his eyes on the ground, and away from the battlefield. If he could make his way to the trees behind Azlar, in the direction opposite the fighting, he should be safe from the medusa’s gaze. The wizard would hesitate to turn the creature’s gaze back toward himself. The ring would protect Azlar, but Graal was counting on the mage wishing to preserve the two soldiers guarding him from the horrible fate of becoming a living statue.

Graal paused, and sneaked a quick peek out into the clearing. He had judged correctly, he was behind Azlar and his two bodyguards. The orog hesitated a second, aware of the consequences if he misjudged the wizard’s reluctance to turn the medusa in his own direction, but Graal was also aware of the consequences of failing Xiliath.

He burst from the trees with a roar, his blade already carving swaths through the air. The guards reacted quickly, stepping between Azlar and the charging enemy.

Two long strides brought Graal into range, his blade tore through the pitiful shield of the first guard, tore through his arm, tore halfway through his chest.

The second guard got in a hurried shot, but the blow was rushed and off balance. It deflected off the heavy black chain of Graal’s armor without even drawing blood. The orog wrenched his blade free from the first soldier, leaving a gaping, gruesome wound in the corpse. He caught the second blow from the remaining guard with his sword, shattering his opponent’s blade with a flash of dark magic.

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 Grog’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 Uttered 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-elFs 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.

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.