The Temple of Yellow Skulls

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “If you can’t run,” one of his old mentors had taught him, “play dead like your life depends on it. It probably will.”

  After an eternity, Raid moved. Uldane didn’t. There was rustling on the platform. His imagination filled in details of Raid retrieving a rope and preparing to climb down to check on him; of Raid searching Uldane’s own small pack, finding his hidden store of spare throwing knives, and deciding to put them to use; of the traitor deciding to leave the place tidy and dumping the corpses of his other victims down on top of Uldane.

  Instead he heard the click of flint and steel and, a moment later, caught the hot smell of smoke from oil-soaked cloth. Raid had lit a torch.

  He wanted a better look.

  Stay still. Play dead. Uldane waited, feeling the blood running from his head and his side. His shoulder burned in agony. Better in pain than in the grave.

  Up above, Raid just grunted as if hoisting a weight. His footsteps echoed in the chamber, heel-toe-heel-toe across the platform, toe-toe-toe up the stairs. Uldane lay still and listened as Raid made his way up to the doors and out of the chamber.

  The doors, he thought. Merciful gods, the doors! If they close behind Raid.…

  They didn’t. Raid’s footsteps slowly faded into the distance. There was no groan of ancient hinges, no hollow boom of stone on stone. The chamber was silent. Uldane let it stay that way until he’d counted to one hundred. Slowly. Three times.

  Raid was gone. He was alive—for now. He sat up.

  The pain reminded him of just how alive he was. Dark spots danced in front of the green witchlight and Uldane almost slipped back down again. He clenched his teeth together, forced himself to stay on his feet, and took stock of his injuries. Head: throbbing and bleeding like a widow’s sympathy from a gash across his scalp, but his skull felt whole. Side: bleeding as well from a jagged tear that was already clotting up and would probably leave an ugly scar. Leathers: ruined. Shoulder: He tried moving his arm and felt a new flare of agony, but there was no grinding of broken bones. Dislocated. Grimly, Uldane staggered down the last bit of the curved wall to the floor of the chamber, then over to one of the massive columns that supported the tangled stairs and walkways above. Fixing Raid’s loathsome, burned face in his mind, he let all of his rage bubble up to the surface.

  “Bastard!” he muttered. He trotted back and forth in front of the pillar, working himself up until he was shaking. “Goblin kisser. Traitor. Knuckle-dragging, wind-breaking, bottom-feeding—aahh!” Before he could lose his nerve, he slammed himself hard into the pillar, dislocated shoulder first.

  The joint snapped back into place with a soft pop and a burst of pain that sent a wave of darkness over Uldane’s eyes. When it cleared, he found himself on his backside with tears in his eyes.

  He let the tears flow. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” And this time he didn’t mean Raid. Why had he trusted the warrior? Why had he abandoned Shara and Albanon? Just to go off and have himself an adventure? Just to prove something? All he’d proved was that Shara was right.

  Stupid. Albanon and Shara were probably hanging around Fallcrest enjoying a beautiful quiet evening—or morning or whatever time of day or night it was.

  At least he still had a chance to get back to them. Uldane hiccupped once and wiped the tears from his face. No stairs came down to the floor of the chamber, but the pillar in front of him was rough enough to offer easy climbing to someone sufficiently agile. He turned to face it again and started climbing.

  With a weak shoulder, an injured side, and a good amount of his blood smeared on the chamber wall, it wasn’t as easy a climb as he expected, but soon enough he was level with one of the lowest platforms. He climbed a little higher, checked his distance and angle over his shoulder, then thrust himself away from the pillar. His tumbling was awkward, his landing painful, but when he climbed to his feet, there were stairs to carry him up to the central platform.

  The bag with the skulls was gone, of course. Raid had left everything else, though, including his own pack and even half his armor. Tragent and Dohr lay where they had fallen. Uldane touched each of them on the shoulder, offering a silent prayer and an apology that he had to leave them behind. As consolation, however, he also made them a promise.

  “Raid will answer for this,” he murmured. “I’ll see to it.”

  The bandages that Dohr had dug out for Tragent were useless, soaked in a pool of the half-orc’s blood. Uldane found others in Tragent’s discarded pack, though, along with a couple of intriguing potion vials. For a moment he considered sampling them—a healing potion was an appealing alternative to suffering through his wounds—but he fought the temptation and replaced them. There was every chance that they were something other than healing potions. Curiosity would do him no good now. He had to focus on getting out of the temple. No more stupid things. He stripped off his leathers, washed and bandaged his scalp and side as best he could, then struggled back into his gear. Even with the tear in it, the tight armor would help hold his side together until he could reach help.

  He hoped it would, anyway.

  Emptying his pack of all but the bare minimum, Uldane slid it across his shoulders and climbed the stairs to the great stone doors. They made no movement as he approached or as he passed through them, as if they somehow recognized that the treasure they’d protected for so long had departed with Raid. Or maybe the power that had opened and closed them had left along with the skulls—certainly the witchlight in the outer passage was fast fading into a dull glimmer. Uldane took out his moonlight stone and allowed its cool, dim glow to illuminate the darkness.

  At least none of his wounds hampered his pace badly. And at least he didn’t need to worry about getting lost. He had a keen memory for directions, maybe the one good side-effect of a compulsive need to explore. Uldane passed through the corridors of the Temple of Yellow Skulls like a ghost, fleeting and silent. He kept his fist tightly clenched around the glowing stone, allowing only a thin moonbeam out to guide his steps. Any more light might draw creatures like the gricks that lived in the darkness and would be more than willing to make a tasty snack out of a wounded halfling on his own.

  But beasts weren’t the only danger. Somewhere ahead of him was Raid. How far ahead Uldane couldn’t be certain, but he had a feeling that he might be gaining on the traitor. Raid had no reason to hasten through the temple, and if Uldane struggled with his wounds, Raid would be struggling with the bulk—if not the weight—of the bag containing the golden skulls. As he moved through the darkness, Uldane started to imagine what he might do if he caught up with the treacherous bastard. He was in no shape to stand up to Raid in a toe-to-toe fight. He’d come at Raid from the shadows. Without his armor, Raid’s back would be unprotected. A knife in the base of the spine was risky, but it would bring him down. Then another knife to his throat. Or better yet, some sound to make Raid turn around, then one knife thrown from the darkness into the hollow of his throat or the socket of his eye.…

  Uldane smelled blood before he saw it. He froze, choked off all light from his moonstone, and listened for a long moment. When he heard nothing, he allowed a little light to illuminate the passage ahead.

  Two bodies lay on the ground, slashed and dismembered. Uldane recognized Raid’s work—and his victims. Dark blood pooled around darker limbs and matted long white hair. Drow. Raid must have come across scouts sent out by the larger expedition they had seen earlier. Uldane wrinkled his nose and allowed himself a thin smile. Now the big man had reason to hurry out of the temple. The drow would miss their scouts eventually and come looking for them.

  Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that the dark elves wouldn’t be too fussy about who they caught afterward. Uldane picked up his pace as well, but not before pausing to touch the blood that spilled across the stone floor.

  It was still warm. He was catching up to Raid.

  That, even more than fear of the drow, gave new speed to his step.

  Uldane ascended th
rough the last levels of the temple quickly, climbing back into the chambers and passages that held the hint of fresh air from the surface. There was no further sign of the drow—maybe the bodies hadn’t been discovered yet, maybe he’d just outpaced pursuit—but he started to recognize traces of Raid’s passage. The scuff of a boot. An unexpected drop of sweat or blood. Uldane slowed down as much as he dared, moved as silently as he could. He needed to surprise Raid, not stumble over him. He stopped to listen frequently and finally caught the sound of quiet footsteps somewhere ahead.

  He also caught the moaning of wind as it blew through the ruins above ground. Uldane clenched his jaw and cursed silently. He’d been too slow. Raid had almost reached the exit. If he wanted to take the murderer from the shadows, he had to hurry. Uldane broke into a light-footed run, drawing a knife in preparation for the confrontation to come.

  One final turn in the corridor before the last flight of stairs up. Uldane put his back to the wall and poked his head around the corner.

  Just in time to see Raid and his sack of skulls disappearing up the stairs into daylight. Breath hissed between the halfling’s teeth. Disappointment made the pain in his side and throbbing in his head seem that much worse.

  There might still be time, he realized. The rubble-choked ruins of the Temple of Yellow Skulls were themselves something of a maze, and Raid would have to cross the remains of a wide, empty courtyard to reach their horses. If he could reach the taller sections of ruins around the courtyard, Uldane knew, he would have a clear cast to put some knives into Raid.

  He waited until the big man’s shadow had cleared the stairs, then went after him. Lightning-quick and shadow-silent, he darted up the stairs and ducked into the nearest, heaviest shadow. Daylight was blinding, but even against the glare Uldane could see Raid less than fifty paces ahead, making his way toward the courtyard. He smiled grimly to himself, turned, and ran in the direction he judged most likely to take him to the taller ruins in time to intercept Raid.

  Uldane stayed low, keeping behind broken walls and rubble that would have been waist high to a human but were perfect cover for a halfling. He resisted the urge to look up and check on Raid’s progress. The ground was rough; it took all of Uldane’s attention to keep from stumbling over an up-thrust stone. He was certain that he must have caught up to and maybe even overtaken Raid, though. The moan of the wind changed subtly on his right, becoming more hollow as it passed unimpeded across open space. He’d reached the courtyard.

  When crumbling stairs leading up to a small section of broken floor overlooking the courtyard appeared before him, he didn’t hesitate. The clinging remains of a wall gave him cover as he climbed. At the top of the stairs, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and check his knives. Hakken Raid was going to answer for what he’d done. Stilling himself, Uldane stepped into the open—and froze, his breath cut off as his throat and lungs constricted. A little part of him screamed that what he saw in the courtyard was impossible.

  For a moment, part of him refused to believe what he was seeing. Raid stood to one side of the courtyard, as frozen as Uldane himself, the sack still over his shoulder. In the middle of the courtyard, however, crouched a dragon. A strangely thin dragon, with mottled green and red hide wrapped tight around muscles and bones, strange discolored pustules pushing through the scales, yet still a dragon.

  But there was something more. Carved into the inside of the dragon’s left foreleg was a series of slashes. Uldane knew those slashes. They represented adventurers the dragon had killed—the beast had bragged about it. Two of those slashes were for Borojon and Jarren. Uldane’s gut shrank in on itself in fear and dismay.

  How could Vestapalk still be alive? And what was he doing here?

  Tiktag hated flying with Vestapalk. Once he had imagined it as a majestic and thrilling experience, but he’d come to discover that the reality was different. It was cold and windy. He was terrified that he’d slide off his master’s back. When they finally landed, the ground always seemed to shift under his feet, leaving him off-balance for the better part of a day.

  It was worse since they had left the chasm. Vestapalk’s flight had been labored and his landings both frequent and heavy. Tiktag kept his silence, but he knew that Vestapalk’s injuries—and his transformation—had drained his strength. When the dragon spiraled down to the wide courtyard amid crumbling ruins, Tiktag even wondered if weakness had affected his judgment. The kobold tumbled off his master’s back and, with his staff for support, wobbled around to face him. “Master, this is a bad place to rest. You’ll find no food here. We flew over a forest I recognize. If we go back, there will be deer—”

  The dragon’s head hung low, but he glared at Tiktag with burning ferocity. “Vestapalk is not interested in meat, wyrmpriest,” he said with his strange new double voice. “Vestapalk is not here to hunt. This is the place to which the Eye guides Vestapalk!”

  “Here?” Tiktag looked around them and his scaly skin crawled. Bulging columns held up empty arches that rose to a sharp point. What remained of the stone walls were carved with weather-worn depictions of violence presided over by creatures with the bodies of humans but the heads of great cats. “I think I know this place from stories told by hunters, master. It’s an ancient place of great danger. You would be better to rest and eat elsewhere, then return when you are strong.”

  “The place is here!” snapped Vestapalk. “The time is now. The One Who Gathers comes.”

  His red-rimmed eyes opened very wide suddenly and Tiktag had the feeling that he was seeing something other than the courtyard. “He comes!” Vestapalk said. “He comes now!”

  The dragon thrust himself upright—and swayed unsteadily as he did. Fear pierced Tiktag. “Master, you are weak.” Inspiration came to him. Before they had left the chasm, Vestapalk had turned his breath upon the kobolds of the tribe, sharing his blessing with them. The act had seemed to invigorate him, at least temporarily. Tiktag flung his arms wide. “Bless me, master! Let my strength be yours.”

  Vestapalk slammed a leg down in front of him, knocking him off his feet. “The Gatherer comes,” he snarled. “Step back and do not interfere!”

  Tiktag swallowed and scrambled away on all fours to take shelter against one of the taller sections of wall around the courtyard. Vestapalk, in the center of the courtyard, stared at a broken gap with shining eyes. Everything was still, the only sound the moan of the wind. Then there was movement in the broken gap as a human—a big, muscular male with shaggy hair, a savage burn across his face and chest, and a bulging leather sack slung over his shoulder—stepped through and stopped at the sight of Vestapalk. For a moment, the two just stared at each other.

  Then, to Tiktag’s amazement, a look of absolute fury settled over the human’s face. The arm holding the big bag slid from his shoulder, easing his burden to the ground, and he drew a pair of axes from his belt. He stepped forward, arms spread wide, lips pulled back. “Are you here for me, wyrm?” he roared defiantly. His eyes shone with the intensity of madness. “Do you want to take my destiny?”

  Tiktag thought that his heart might stop. Hatred to match the human’s fury filled him. If his master hadn’t commanded him not to interfere, the wyrmpriest would have blasted the human with his magic. How could this hairy beast dare to challenge Vestapalk?

  How could he challenge Vestapalk when Tiktag couldn’t?

  Somewhere deep in his guts, Tiktag’s hatred twisted. Could he ever have stood up to Vestapalk the way the human did? Could he have defied the dragon?

  Slowly, Vestapalk stood up on all four legs, limbs stretched and spine arched. His great wings unfurled, spreading nearly halfway across the courtyard. The bright sun caught the fine leathery membrane of them, turning them into glowing sheets laced with sparkling red veins. His tail hissed and cracked as it lashed the air. A terrible sound emerged from between Vestapalk’s teeth, less than a growl, more than a hiss, a sound like a fire forced to its hottest under a smith’s bellows. Tiktag served Vesta
palk, and the display made even his limbs tremble.

  “Gatherer,” Vestapalk thundered, his double voice rolling. “Vestapalk is your destiny!”

  He leaped. The human leaped, too, but Vestapalk’s broad wings beat down once, pushing him faster and higher. Talons spread wide, a forepaw slammed into the human’s chest and drove him backward so hard that Tiktag could have sworn he felt the ground shake. One axe went tumbling away. The other remained in the human’s grasp and he tried to swing it against Vestapalk. The dragon’s teeth nipped it from his hand and spit it out. Vestapalk stared down at the human.

  “Look upon Vestapalk, Gatherer,” he said. “Look and know your lord.”

  The human continued to struggle. He twisted his head and squeezed shut his eyes. Vestapalk bent his neck and thrust his muzzle into the human’s face. “Look at Vestapalk!”

  The human’s eyes snapped open, blazing defiance. Dismay filled Tiktag. Why didn’t Vestapalk finish the human? Tiktag had seen him kill for less. What was so special about this Gatherer? Back against the wall, the kobold pushed himself to his feet with his staff.

  A trickle of fine dust drifted down into his face.

  A new fear shook Tiktag. Had Vestapalk’s earth-shaking leap somehow weakened the ancient ruins? He took a step away from the wall, twisted to look up—then immediately ducked back. During the fight that had left Vestapalk almost dead, Tiktag had fought a battle of his own against a halfling, an ally to his master’s attackers, who had wounded him badly. The wyrmpriest had made a promise to himself that if he ever encountered that halfling again, he would make him pay for the indignity of those injuries.

  Like a gift from Fate, the accursed halfling now stood in a gap in the wall right above Tiktag.