The Temple of Yellow Skulls (9 page)

He held the axes low and high, poised for a killing strike. “I know who you are,” he snarled. “I know what you are. No one rejects me.”

“Hakken, you’re a fine companion, but I have made vows. I told you that.”

“Just like you told the others what I said. Did you enjoy hearing them laugh at me? It’s your fault they’re dead.”

“My fault?” Calamis’s fear-wide eyes turned hard and narrow. “You. You killed them.” She clenched her teeth. “It’s this place—this temple of evil. You have to fight it. Take my hand, Hakken. The grace of Bahamut will give you strength.”

The low axe skimmed out and sheared away half her hand. She screamed and snatched the maimed limb back. Raid dropped the axe. It rang on the stone floor. He raised the remaining axe
.

Fear flashed in Calamis’s eyes. Her face grew as pale as her armor and she shrank back further. Her screaming and pleading went on for a long time. How long Raid wasn’t certain because at some point it was no longer her voice he heard but something … else. Something that whispered through the paladin’s tortured screams
.

“You seek power, Raid. You seek respect.”

His breath felt hot as it flowed over his lips. “No one will reject me. I will not be denied.” He made Calamis shriek again
.

The whispering voice seemed pleased. “You are my true disciple. You will be my instrument. Through your actions, my temple will rise again. Swing, Raid. Finish her and see your destiny!”

Calamis’s eyes went wide again as he swung the axe one last time—and Raid saw another Eye swirling in their depths. And in her final scream, he heard the secrets that the Elemental Eye had to tell, secrets of ancient power locked away in golden skulls.…

Raid shuddered with pleasure at the memory of that first brush of the Elemental Eye’s majesty. There had been others since—many others as he’d unraveled the task that the Eye laid out before him—but none were ever so satisfying as that first
time. But he was so close now. The power of the golden skulls would restore the temple of the Elemental Eye.

And perhaps more. He was no fool. His quest for answers had uncovered more than the secret of the Temple of Yellow Skulls. He knew the Eye for what it was. He knew the voice that had spoken to him so many years ago. He knew to whom it belonged and he knew His many names. The Elder Elemental Eye. The One Who Waits. The Patient One. The Eater of Worlds. The Undoer. The Chained God.

Tharizdun.

When the Chained God was freed, no one would ever deny Raid again.

Raid was close now.
So close
. He looked up to the sky above Fallcrest, up where he knew the Eye watched over him, and smiled a hunter’s smile. Then he turned back to the Lucky Gnome. There was a serving wench who needed a talking to about the hazards of eavesdropping.

M
orning came. Shara didn’t.

Albanon waited in the sitting room, then, as the sun climbed higher on the stone doorstep of the Glowing Tower. Kri appeared from a bedroom, grumbled at him, helped himself to more of the stores in the tower’s kitchen, and retreated to the library. Splendid flitted between Albanon’s shoulder and the library, blithe as a sprite in the morning light.

“I don’t blame her for staying away,” the pseudodragon said. “You weren’t kind to her.”

“Yesterday you called her an enormous oaf with the grace and hygiene of a cow.”

“Have you been inside her room?”

Albanon flushed. “No.”

“Then take my word. I was entirely justified,” She rattled her wings. “You, on the other hand …”

“I’ll apologize when I see her,” he promised.

“Excellent.” Splendid leaped into the air, wings beating hard as she climbed. “I’m going to see Kri again.
I’ll come back if you need help with your apology.”

“No, I think I can manage it,” Albanon said quickly. Splendid gave a snort of disbelief, climbed a little higher, and disappeared through a window. Albanon sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.

Kri had kept him awake late into the night, making him tell the tale of the encounters with Nu Alin and Vestapalk over and over again. When the cleric had finally allowed him to stop, he’d stumbled to his bed and slipped deep into the trance that served eladrin in place of sleep. In his dreams, the dragon’s green scales melted into Nu Alin’s flowing crimson-streaked quicksilver while Kri’s voice echoed like a god’s, ranting and cursing Moorin’s lack of preparation. Albanon lifted his head from the wall and asked himself—again—why he was helping Kri. The old man was demanding, arrogant, infuriating … much like Moorin had been, he supposed. Only without his old master’s ultimate interest in the education of a worthy apprentice.

But Kri was a connection, however unlikely, to Moorin. The idea that both men belonged to, or had belonged to, an enigmatic order intrigued him. Why had Moorin never spoken of the Order of Vigilance, especially when, as Kri said, he should have been training Albanon in its ways? Had he not felt his apprentice was ready, or had he simply not gotten the chance to take that next step? Albanon wanted to believe it was the latter.

Helping Kri find the vial containing the Voidharrow was like carrying on Moorin’s legacy. Shara and Uldane had gained their revenge against Vestapalk with the dragon’s death, but all he’d managed to do was drive Nu Alin into hiding. Good for Tempest, whose body the creature had possessed, but what
would that have meant to Moorin? And to discover that the vial of the Voidharrow his master had been tasked with possessing had also been stolen under Moorin’s watch was intolerable. Albanon felt the pull of necessity. The need to do something ached in his heart.

Not to mention, whispered a little part of him, that this might be the way out of Fallcrest that you’ve been looking for.

He tried to stifle that inner voice. What he would do, he’d do because Moorin’s memory demanded it. “This is for you, master,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure people remember your name.”

“A noble sentiment,” said Kri from the doorway beside him, “if we’re successful.”

Albanon yelped and sprang up, bashing his shoulder into the door frame in the process. As he hopped in pain and rubbed at the bruise, Kri stepped outside. “Almost noon,” he said. “Where’s your friend, Shara?”

“Probably still asleep somewhere,” said Splendid.

The pseudodragon had draped herself across the cleric’s shoulders. A hint of jealousy stirred in Albanon. Since Moorin’s death, he’d been the one Splendid had attached herself to—and the one she heckled and belittled constantly. Why was he jealous? He stood straight and looked at Kri, not Splendid. “Shara will be here.”

“I’m sure she will—if I wait for one of you stubborn children to loosen your pride and be the first to give in. We don’t have time for that. Where do you think Shara is?”

Albanon stared at him. “She could be anywhere.”

“This is Fallcrest, not Nera. Use your head. Think. I’m sure Moorin taught you that, at least.”

“He was an indifferent student,” Splendid chimed in. Albanon scowled at her, then looked back to Kri. The old man had a point. Fallcrest wasn’t that big, and if Shara was going to be too stubborn to come back to the tower, they’d have to go to her. And there weren’t that many places she was likely to stay the night.

“I have an idea,” he said.

On the north side of the Blue Moon Alehouse, the Moonwash Stream ran in a gurgling flow as it rushed to join with the Nentir River. A handful of other buildings lay downstream of the Blue Moon, and at the last and largest of these, a narrow race diverted water from the Moonwash to drive a groaning wheel. The slow and steady sound of a massive forge hammer falling in time to the wheel’s rotation, accompanied by the rhythmic counterpoint of smaller hammers, rolled over Albanon as he, Kri, and Splendid approached. A young dwarf emerging from the smithy paused as he saw them. Albanon met his eyes and they shared a short glance before the dwarf nodded once and disappeared inside. The eladrin let out a little sigh. “Yes, she’s here.”

“Good,” said Kri. “Well deduced.”

The words of praise—small though they might be—brought an unexpected burst of pride in Albanon. Shara had made a few friends in Fallcrest during her time in the town. She might have gone to almost any of them for a place to spend the night, but there was only one he could remember being in the Blue Moon the evening before: Teldorthan Ironhews, Fallcrest’s master weaponsmith.

The rhythm of hammers skipped a beat. Albanon listened carefully and thought he could make out the sound of arguing
voices, one dwarf and male, the other human, female, and none too happy. The feeling of pride withered inside him. A moment later, Shara stepped outside. She wore a heavy leather apron and held a hammer with a white-knuckle grip that suggested the barely restrained urge to use it on Albanon. He swallowed. “Well?” muttered Kri. “Go! Meet her halfway.”

Teldorthan appeared in the door behind Shara, bright eyes watching. If Shara did use the hammer on him, Albanon thought, at least there would be someone to pull her off his broken body. Swallowing again, he crossed the yard. “Shara,” he said by way of greeting.

“Albanon.” Her answer was frosty. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“I came—” he began, but the words came out weak. Hesitant. Albanon closed his mouth around them. This is your fault, he reminded himself. Face up to it!

He straightened his back and held his head high. “I came to apologize for what I said last night. You have more experience in judging people than I do. And if I said something that insulted the memory of your father, I’m sorry.”

Shara snorted. “So you brought an audience with you. Good choice.” She jerked her head toward Kri. “Who is this?”

Albanon winced and looked back to Kri. The old cleric just shook his head and kept his lips pressed tight together; one hand rested lightly on Splendid’s muzzle to keep her from interrupting. Albanon swung back to Shara. “His name is Kri,” he said. “He’s an old friend of Moorin’s and he’s come looking for our help.”

Shara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re apologizing because you want something from me, is that it?”

“No!” said Albanon, then winced again. “I mean, yes, we need you, but I wanted to apologize anyway. I was stupid. I should have listened to you instead of just whining because I was disappointed. I’m sorry.”

“And about telling me not to come back to the tower?”

Albanon put a hand over his heart. “Absolutely.”

“Humph.”
Shara looked him up and down, then gave her hammer a twirl. “You’re lucky Teldorthan gave me a place to sleep last night and hot iron to beat my frustrations out on this morning.” She pointed the hammer at him. “You’re going to listen to me, right?”

“Right.” Relief spread through Albanon like the rising sun. He gave Shara a tentative smile and nearly staggered when she smiled back. “Come with us and I’ll tell you why Kri is here. There are some questions we think you might be able to answer.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me?” she asked.

“You,” said Kri. “But not here—no offense, master smith.”

Teldorthan waved the apology away. “None taken.” He looked to Shara. “You’re welcome back any time, lass. You work harder than my apprentices when you’re angry.”

Shara laughed and turned to pass the hammer back to him. “Payment for taking me in.” She twisted her head to look over her shoulder at Albanon as she undid the thongs of the leather apron. “I’m surprised Uldane didn’t come with you to watch the excitement.”

Albanon blinked. With Kri’s insistence on talking to Shara, he’d scarcely thought about the halfling. “I thought he’d be with you.”

“He left the Blue Moon before I did last night,” said Shara. “I assumed he’d gone back to the tower and you’d let him in.”
She shrugged and pulled off the apron. “I think our argument might have upset him. He might act carefree, but I know him. He doesn’t like to have friends fight. He’ll be around somewhere, I guess.”

“Ah, about that,” said Teldorthan, juggling Shara’s hammer while he reached into a pocket stitched onto his own apron. “One of the apprentices found this stuck in the door this morning. I didn’t want to give it to you until you’d calmed down.”