Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  “Hold still. Stay quiet.”

  Lhasha. He froze at her words, and she removed her hand from his mouth, then rolled off his back and flattened herself on the ground beside him. She was so close he could smell the fragrant scent of the herbal mixture she used when rinsing her hair. Corin’s head swirled with questions, but he knew better than to speak and reveal their location. Instead, he gently nudged Lhasha with his shoulder and gave her a quizzical look when she turned to face him.

  With a nod of her head she pointed to the darkness ahead of them. The torches of the cult soldiers flickered and danced, constantly disappearing and reappearing as trees momentarily blocked Corin’s line of sight. As the dispelling illumination of the fire marched on, the night closed in behind the group.

  Just before it became impossible for Corin’s eyes to pierce the darkness he saw a movement. Several figures materialized from the shadows that camouflaged them and fell into step behind the oblivious cultists.

  The figures quickly vanished into the night with the receding torches, and complete darkness fell. Corin couldn’t see his hand in front of him. Lhasha waited another ten seconds to be sure they were out of earshot then whispered, “I saw them with my night vision. You would’ve marched right into them.”

  Corin wanted to thank Lhasha for saving his life, he wanted to ask her what she was doing there, he wanted to tell her to go back to the city, but all of these were minor concerns. She was there now, and Corin knew she’d be staying.

  “It’s an ambush,” he whispered instead. “They’re surrounding the cultists. There must be a clearing nearby.”

  “How do you know?” Lhasha asked.

  “That’s where they’ll hit. Attack from the cover of the trees while your enemy is out in the open. Come in from all sides and overwhelm them.”

  “Who are they?” Lhasha asked.

  Corin didn’t know, though he suspected they were working for Fhazail in one way or another. “It doesn’t matter. When they strike, I’ll have a chance to get at Fhazail.”

  “The fat one—that’s Fhazail, isn’t it? He was my contact back at Elversult, too.” Corin nodded and Lhasha continued. “But you obviously must have figured that out already, or you wouldn’t be here. Any chance I can talk you out of this?”

  The warrior shook his head.

  “Then at least let me help.”

  There was little chance he’d convince her to leave. In her own way, Lhasha was as stubborn as he was, and her elf vision would come in handy. “All right, but be careful.”

  “Always, Corin. What’s the plan?”

  “Lead me through the forest, watch for others hiding in the darkness. Get me close. When the ambush hits, it’ll be utter chaos. I’ll move in then and kill Fhazail. You stay out of sight in the trees.”

  “And after Fhazail, you’ll just slip away from the battle and join me, right? We’ll just leave the cult to its business and head back to Elversult, all right?”

  Corin hesitated, and Lhasha pressed her point. “With Fhazail dead, there’s no reason we can’t stick with our original plan. Reform our partnership. Get enough money to pay for your arm. We can make a fresh start in Cormyr.”

  A fresh start. The words had a nice ring to them. Corin sighed, but his face wore the hint of a smile. “Agreed.” The smile vanished, replaced by grim determination. “But not until Fhazail’s dead.”

  They rose from the forest floor, and Lhasha led the way through the trees. It didn’t take long until they had the cult troop in sight again. Just beyond them Corin could make out a large clearing. The army of cultists were already close enough to bathe it in light from their torches.

  Corin and Lhasha hung back, making sure they didn’t stumble into the ambush themselves, and they waited. They didn’t have to wait long.

  As soon as the last member of the cult war party set foot in the clearing, the air was filled with a volley of arrows. Most of them ricocheted harmlessly off the heavy armor of the cult guards, but a few went down with feathered shafts protruding from their torsos. The second wave of the ambush hit so fast the trapped soldiers barely had time to draw their weapons. The forest all around them erupted, and dozens of armed warriors burst from the trees, screaming their battle cries to the uncaring sky.

  Corin leaped up and sprinted toward the battle, anxious not to miss his chance to slay the traitorous steward. Despite stumbling over countless unseen roots and fallen branches, he kept on his feet, driven by the promise of too long delayed revenge. Lhasha, not expecting him to react so suddenly and recklessly, scurried along behind trying to keep up.

  Corin stopped when he reached the edge of the clearing to survey the field. He was impressed by what he saw. The cultists hadn’t panicked beneath the unexpected onslaught of arrows. Several of the guards were down, the feathered shafts jutting out from their chests or stomachs. Most had survived unscathed, their heavy armor deflecting the deadly missiles. They had withstood the initial charge, and what could have been a slaughter had become an honest battle.

  The cultists were still outnumbered by nearly four to one. They should have been quickly overrun, but somehow they were holding their own. It only took a second for Corin to understand why. Attacking the professional fighting unit of the cult soldiers was a rag-tag, mismatched crew of humans, dwarves, goblins, orcs, and kobolds.

  Humans and dwarves were fine to fight beside, in Corin’s opinion, the odd half-orc might even be tolerable but no warrior worth his salt wanted to have his army’s fate resting on the shoulders of goblins, orcs, and kobolds. Tactical warfare was beyond their ability to grasp. Once the blood flowed, their base instincts took over—blood-lust, cowardice, and greed. They charged without reason or purpose, they broke morale and fled at the worst possible times and they’d even turn their attention from the battle to loot the bodies of the dead, both foe and friend. When they fought, it wasn’t battle, but pure carnage. An organized, sustained effort could easily have routed the cult, but instead they had regrouped and were actually pressing their disorganized attackers back.

  At first Corin thought the young wizard might have been using his magic to keep the cultists in the battle, but when he picked the tall mage’s bald head out from the melee he realized the wizard had problems of his own. Two other mages, a bearded man in blue and a woman in red, were attacking him with spells from either side. Defending against the constant barrage kept the cult spellcaster from aiding his soldiers. Without the mage to help them, it was only a matter of time until the cultists would succumb to the vast numerical advantage of the attacking rabble.

  Through it all, the mysterious veiled woman stood still as stone, arms hanging limply by her side, seemingly oblivious to the events around her. She had not moved since the ambush struck.

  Corin’s mind processed all this information in mere seconds, storing it away for future use. Instant analysis of a battle was second nature to the warrior, it happened automatically, leaving his conscious mind free to scan the clearing for signs of Fhazail. Despite his bulk, the steward had an amazing ability to avoid being noticed, like a roach scuttling beneath the floorboards of a room when you went to crush it with your boot, but at last Corin found him, cowering well clear of the battle on the far edge of the clearing. The mob who had launched the surprise attack didn’t bother with him—proof enough for Corin that Fhazail had been aware of the ambush all along. The cultists, not yet aware of his treachery, still thought he was one of their own and left him alone as well. That suited Corin just fine. With nobody paying attention to Fhazail, nobody would be close enough to save him from his fate.

  The shortest route to the steward was directly across the clearing, right through the heart of the battle.

  “Stay here,” he said over his shoulder to Lhasha, who had just now managed to catch up with him again. Corin leaped into the fray.

  He made a mad rush perpendicular to the flow of battle, ignoring anyone who was not directly in his way. On either side would-be opponents swung at him, but wi
thout any armor to encumber his movement he was able to easily duck and dodge his way across the field of battle, avoiding the hurried swipes at his unprotected form.

  Most of the combatants were too busy with the enemy in front of them to bother chasing him down once he was beyond the range of their blades, but halfway across the clearing a dwarf decapitated his opponent with a vicious swipe of his battle-axe. The helmed head of the unfortunate cultist bounced twice and rolled just in front of Corin’s boot, nearly tripping him up and drawing the attention of the dwarf who had dealt the fatal blow. The stocky warrior turned to meet the charging Corin, hunkering down and bracing his feet wide in anticipation of the impact as he swung his axe in a wide arc parallel to the ground, looking to chop Corin in two at the belt.

  Without breaking stride Corin dropped into a forward roll beneath the axe’s path. The dwarf did a half turn to avoid getting bowled over by Corin’s tumbling form, but he couldn’t avoid the warrior’s blade. As Corin somersaulted past he thrust his sword up under the dwarf’s armpit, striking at the small space left vulnerable on even the best suits of armor. The blade easily bit through the inadequate mesh protecting the underside of the joint, running the enemy through. Corin’s momentum brought him to his feet and he continued his sprint, scooping up the sword of a dead cultist to replace the one he had left buried to the hilt in the still twitching dwarf.

  He was clear of the battle. Nothing stood between him and his prey. It was then that Fhazail saw him, bearing down with a clear path before him. Corin saw recognition in the steward’s eyes, recognition and terror. Fhazail turned and took a few quick steps toward the woods, then pulled up short. Instinctively, Corin did the same.

  It appeared as if an enormous living shadow had stepped forth from the forest, darkness incarnate. A creature clad all in black armor—from its heavy boots to its iron skullcap—grabbed Fhazail with one paw and yanked him into the cover of the forest behind it. The beast then raised its weapon to face Corin, the pulsating blade of the two-handed sword devouring all light that struck its blade. Graal.

  Faced with the creature that had taken his hand, Corin felt hatred—but not the all consuming abhorrence he felt for a cowardly traitor like Fhazail. Here was an enemy, to be sure, but one Corin could understand, one who lived by the blade. Graal had killed Igland and maimed Corin, but it was done during battle, without duplicity or pretense. Graal had only done what any warrior would have done in the same position. What Corin himself would have done. The sight of Graal filled Corin with a lust for vengeance at the memory of their last battle, but he also felt a twinge of grudging respect. There was something else. A feeling Corin was unfamiliar with. As Graal began to slowly approach, Corin felt his knees buckle slightly. His palm felt clammy, he was unsure of his grasp on his weapon. The tip of his sword wavered, mimicking the slight trembling of Corin’s own arm.

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

  It was true, there was no sense wasting words denying it. Corin was afraid, and he hesitated.

  Graal attacked with ruthless simplicity, his blade cleaving the air in an overhand chop. Corin made no attempt to block the sweeping blow, knowing it would only shatter his own weapon. Instead, he spun to the side. The great sword hewed the ground, leaving a deep gash in the earth. As his opponent’s weapon sliced through the air mere inches from his face, Corin felt the dark hunger of the evil blade pulling at his very soul.

  Before Corin could counter, Graal hacked at him again, forcing him to parry with his sword and deflect the attack to the side. The clash of swords rocked Corin back and sent numbing vibrations up his arm, nearly knocking his own sword from his hand.

  His opponent fought seemingly without strategy or technique, but against this monster all Corin’s warrior training, all his skill with a blade, were for naught. Graal struck with a relentless elemental fury, his strength and speed more than compensating for brutishly simple form. Corin was driven back in a stumbling retreat.

  Spinning, diving, and rolling, Corin was able to stay mere inches ahead of his opponent’s strikes. Corin was breathing heavily, he could feel himself wilting beneath the unremitting offensive. He was thankful again that he wore no armor. Encumbered by a metal suit, Corin would have been unable to evade the orog’s blows, and he had little doubt that his enemy’s dark blade would simply cleave through even the thickest plate. With each jump back, with every duck and dodge, Graal’s blows came a little closer, each swing made Corin’s retreat more desperate. He parried and blocked, deflecting the dark sword time and time again, yet every series of attacks brought the orog in tighter and closer, lessening Corin’s ability to use his agility and quickness. Corin was powerless to mount any resistance to halt Graal’s momentum, he was unable to keep the orog from pressing forward.

  The orog howled a scream of rage and pain as Lhasha struck from behind, digging her dagger between the links of the monster’s chain mail. Neither Corin nor the orog had noticed her stealthy approach.

  The wound was deep, but not lethal. Graal spun around and swatted the half-elf away with the back of a paw, sending her sprawling across the battlefield.

  Corin seized the opening and took the offensive. He lunged at his opponent’s legs to keep him from setting his feet. He thrust and stabbed at the monster’s torso, forcing it to lean back and keeping it off balance. Corin attacked with savage hacks and brutal slashes, chopping his blade down again and again, trying to deliver a blow solid enough to pierce the heavy, black chain mail protecting his opponent. Unused to being on the defensive, Graal gave ground, caught off guard by Corin’s aggression and the speed of the unarmored warrior’s pursuit.

  The orog caught Corin’s descending blade with his own and reversed the momentum, using his mass to throw the warrior back several feet and halt Corin’s advance. The two faced each other again. Corin’s fear was gone now, consumed by the exhilaration of physical combat. Graal pressed forward, but this time Corin was ready and he met the assault.

  Attack. Defend. Attack. Defend. The familiar rhythm of battle began to develop, but Corin could still sense he was overmatched. He needed to use his agility and his quickness to offset the orog’s size and strength, but he couldn’t keep the orog off him. Defend. Attack. Defend. Defend. Inch by inch Graal closed the distance between them, gaining ground faster than Corin could fall back, making it harder and harder for Corin to take the initiative. Soon he would be in full retreat again.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Lhasha rise to her feet. She wiped away the blood from her mouth and snatched her dagger up from where it had fallen on the ground. She circled around behind the orog, looking to stab him in the back again.

  Graal saw her, too, and quickly stepped back, trying to keep both Lhasha and Corin in front of him. Corin tried to rush the orog, but Graal met the charge and Corin had to break off his attack to protect his vulnerable, exposed flesh from the orog’s savage blade.

  Graal wasn’t given the chance to press the advantage. Lhasha was still circling, staying wide and trying to get behind Graal. The orog had to advance slowly, cautiously, always keeping her in his sights. Corin regained his footing, and Graal’s chance was gone.

  Corin had underestimated the half-elf. Lhasha hadn’t been able to stand against the charge of the naga in the warehouse, but even Corin had struggled with his tactics against the snake. But in a battle against an outnumbered soldier, one like Graal, she understood the key to victory. As long as she stayed wide and kept trying to circle behind their opponent, the orog was hamstrung. He couldn’t drive Corin back with mindless fury, unless he wanted to taste the bite of her blade in his back again, and if Graal turned his focus to Lhasha, Corin would jump at the opening.

  The three of them circled in an awkward dance of feints and aborted maneuvers, oblivious of the main battle that raged less than fifty feet away. Corin would press forward, but each time the orog had the strength to drive him back and blunt his attack. Graal would advance on Corin, but L
hasha would move in behind and the orog would have to retreat until he had both his opponents in his view once again.

  They were at a stand-off, and Fhazail was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Azlar understood the instant the first arrow whizzed by his ear. The young wizard was highly intelligent, and he knew the game of treachery all too well. His rapid advance through the Cult of the Dragon had been as much a product of his political acumen as his magical prowess. The mage cursed himself as he ducked behind the shields of the two guards who rushed over to protect him, angry that he hadn’t figured it out earlier.

  “We know there is a traitor among us,” Fhazail had whispered in his ear earlier that night at the warehouse. “It could be anyone. Undoubtedly there will be an ambush waiting for us soon after we leave the city.”

  “That is why we have the guards,” Azlar replied. “Only an insane fool would attack a squadron of Dragon elite escorting a mage with my power.”

  Fhazail merely nodded in the direction of the workers busily chopping the naga’s corpse into pieces small enough to stow inside barrels of flour. “Does that look like the work of someone sane?”

  “Very well,” Azlar conceded, “what do you suggest?”

  “Merely an alternate route, O wondrous wizard. If we take an unexpected path through the forest, our enemies will be caught unawares. We will miss their ambush completely.”

  “And you know of such a route?”

  “But of course, most magnificent mage” the fawning steward replied.

  Azlar had foolishly taken Fhazail’s path—right into a trap. The fat man would die for this.

  The barrage of arrows stopped, and with a yell a horde of goblins, orcs, and kobolds burst from the surrounding thicket. Azlar snapped his head from side to side, but amazingly Fhazail was nowhere to be found. The mage stood up to his full height, determined to blast Fhazail into tiny pieces for his treachery. Even as he ran through a mental list of the spells he could use to obliterate the corpulent infiltrator he heard a familiar incantation.