Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  He threw himself to the ground and scampered away on all fours from the soldiers who had been guarding him. A second later the air was split by the sizzle of electricity, and a lightning bolt shot in from either side, striking the guards, fusing their armor and frying the helpless men inside.

  Azlar began an incantation of his own, oblivious to the sound of sizzling skin inside melted metal and the smell of cooking flesh wafting up from the nearby corpses. A shimmering shield of magical power materialized around his form. His defenses in place, he turned his attention to his enemies.

  On the left was a white-haired mage clad in a deep blue cowl, to his right a middle-aged female wearing bright red robes. The male unleashed a shower of glowing orbs that rained down on Azlar, only to be absorbed harmlessly in the nimbus of energy surrounding the young spellcaster. From his right a column of fire erupted from the hands of the sorceress in red, but protected by his spell, Azlar felt only the faintest hint of heat as the inferno struck him.

  He began another spell while his enemies scrambled to raise their own defenses. The air around the female flickered and blurred, and suddenly there was not one but four red robed sorceresses opposing him, each one completely identical in appearance and actions.

  Azlar sneered in contempt. The red mage’s defense was a minor casting, a spell designed to confuse an opponent, to keep them guessing as to which figure was the mage, and which were merely harmless mirror images. The spell was barely worthy of Azlar’s powers, it would only buy the woman a few more seconds of life.

  Her partner was not so lucky. His hands and arms wove frantic patterns in the air, words of arcane power spilled from his mouth, but he was too slow. A blast from Azlar’s hand encased the rival mage in a tomb of ice, freezing his spell on cold, dead lips.

  Each of the sorceress’s reflections began going through the identical actions as she prepared another casting. The shimmering shield around Azlar flickered then winked out of existence, dispelled by his opponent. A bolt of flame appeared in Azlar’s fist. He hurled his spell at the four red robed women in front of him, choosing his target at random. The flaming arrow struck unerringly, completely engulfing the target in fire. It was the wrong target. The reflected image winked out of existence, but Azlar’s real enemy was unharmed.

  She returned his volley with an arrow of her own. It conjured into existence in mid-air and streaked toward Azlar. He casually stepped to the side. The missile struck the ground, splashing acid in a small circle around the impact point, scorching and searing the grass of the clearing with its corrosive juices.

  From Azlar’s fingertips a swarm of glowing projectiles arced toward another of the red robed figures. A simple spell, quick and deadly, but only if unleashed on an actual creature. Another reflection vanished under the attack, leaving only two—one of which was the real enemy.

  The sorceress hesitated. Azlar knew her arsenal of magic was nearly depleted, while he had many spells left. A thin green ray shot from his hand, and this time he found the right target. The woman tried to scream, but her cry was cut off as she disintegrated into a small pile of dust. Azlar turned his eyes to the clearing, determined to find Fhazail.

  He was oblivious to the tide of the battle. He scanned the edges of the fray, certain the steward would be lingering on the farthest reaches of the violence, and then he saw the man’s unmistakable round form, cowering on the edge of the trees. Azlar conjured an enormous spider’s web between the trees, ensnaring Fhazail in a mass of sticky, virtually unbreakable strands.

  With the traitor safely trapped by his spell, Azlar’s attention focused on the field of conflict. Dead goblins, orcs, and kobolds littered the earth, but there were still many, many more pressing forward. Azlar’s men were slowly being drowned beneath wave after wave of attackers.

  Azlar began a spell of mass destruction, one that would kill both friend and foe alike. A desperate move, but one that was necessary to protect the package from falling into enemy hands. He stopped abruptly and broke off in mid-casting, allowing the gathering magic to fizzle uselessly away. A cruel smile crossed his lips as inspiration struck.

  He cast another spell, one different than what he had originally planned. Azlar reached out with his mind and seized hold of Fhazail’s psyche, crushing the steward’s will with his own, using his magic to mentally dominate the still hopelessly ensnared man.

  “Fhazail,” the mage whispered. “Look over here, Fhazail. At the package. Look closely. Watch her, and don’t blink.”

  Compelled by Azlar’s sorcery, Fhazail’s head turned until he stared intently at the still cloaked woman.

  Azlar briefly touched the simple gold ring on his right hand. The package took a small step forward, responding to the magical enchantment of the ring. The wizard focused his mind, and the figure slowly reached up and removed her veiled hood.

  Corin saw the eyes of his enemy go wide as Graal reacted to something behind Corin. The warrior resisted the urge to turn and look, thinking it was some orog trick designed to distract him and leave him vulnerable. He tensed for the expected assault from his enemy, but instead of leaping to attack, Graal turned and fled into the trees. Corin didn’t even try to follow. The move was so unexpected, he could do nothing but stand there stunned in bewilderment.

  “What … what just happened?” Lhasha asked, as confused as Corin.

  Corin shook his head. “I have no idea.” He glanced into the trees where Fhazail had been hiding, and saw the steward had been imprisoned in some kind of cocoon. No, not a cocoon. A web. Corin moved slowly toward his enemy, sword drawn, eyes searching the forest for a new, unseen opponent.

  He wanted the satisfaction of killing Fhazail himself, he wasn’t going to leave him to be devoured by some giant spider. Corin wasn’t about to rush in and end up becoming a meal himself. His senses were finely attuned to his immediate surroundings, but he could still hear the sounds of battle from the far side of the clearing. From the curses of the orcs, the yelps of the goblins, and the whining barks of the kobolds Corin could tell that the cultists now had the upper hand.

  From the shadows that still partially concealed Fhazail, making him little more than an obese silhouette, there was nothing. At the very least he had expected Fhazail to say something, to react to his menacing approach with pleas for mercy or cries for aid. The steward said nothing. He didn’t even move.

  “Fhazail,” Corin called out. “I’m coming for you, Fhazail.” And still, he could elicit no reaction.

  He moved a step closer, and realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Squinting through the shadows Corin could just make out Fhazail’s face, his features frozen in a grotesque mask of horror. His coloration wasn’t right. He was ashen, had an unnatural pallor, and there was something else.

  From just over his shoulder he heard Lhasha warn, “They’re heading this way.”

  He pulled his attention from Fhazail and turned in the direction she pointed. The ambushers were being routed. Goblins and kobolds fled in panicked terror, the cultists in close pursuit. The human cultists hewed them down from behind, stabbing them in the back as they tried to run, pursuing their foes like dogs on the hunt. Some of the orcs and goblins still held their ground, but the tide of battle was surging toward them, sweeping across the clearing like a wave breaking over the sand.

  Behind the combatants Corin could just make out the figure of the young mage, but the barrage of magic one normally expected from a wizard in battle was absent. The young man merely stood in place, his fist raised high above his head.

  Stranger still, a woman in robes was walking the battlefield, systematically approaching the pockets of orcs and humans who still held their ground against the cult soldiers’ rapid advance. Wherever she walked, their ranks broke and men fled in terror—or stood completely stiff and motionless, as if paralyzed by fear.

  Her back was to Corin and Lhasha, but even through the night’s gloom Corin was sure she was the one he had seen with Fhazail and the young wizar
d when they emerged from the warehouse—the infamous “package.” Her hood was down now, her head uncovered. Through the darkness Corin could just make out her wild, unkempt tresses swaying in the wind. Only, there was no wind tonight, and her hair didn’t so much sway as … wriggle.

  “Gods save us,” Lhasha whispered as the woman began to turn in their direction.

  Protected by the power of his ring, Azlar alone could look upon what no creature, man or beast, should ever see—the face of the medusa. For a moment he was held prisoner by the vision. Though a monster, the medusa had the elegant features of a stunning noblewoman. Her skin was pale and flawless, her lips full and red. Her aristocratic beauty was marred only by the mass of writhing snakes atop her head and her empty, vacant eyes depicted a reflection of her magically enslaved mind.

  Azlar shook off the bedazzling effects of the charmed medusa’s unexpected appearance, and looked out across the battlefield. Already half a dozen enemies had been turned to stone—the inevitable consequence of gazing on the medusa’s features. A few cultist statues dotted the field as well, casualties caught unaware by their master’s sudden unleashing of his secret weapon.

  Raising the hand with the ring above his head to focus his powers, Azlar mentally commanded the medusa to march into the battle. He took care to focus his new toy’s deadly countenance on their attackers, trying to avoid excessive casualties among his own men. Enemies smart enough or lucky enough to shut their eyes as the medusa approached were spared the horror of being turned to stone, but with their self-imposed blindness they were quickly cut down by Azlar’s soldiers or slain by countless bites from the venomous serpents of the medusa’s hair.

  “Don’t look!” Lhasha screamed.

  Corin clenched his eyes tight. With his vision gone, the sound of the quickly approaching battle became very loud. In seconds, the fleeing horde would run right over them, and with their eyes shut they wouldn’t even be able to see it coming.

  “Corin!” Lhasha called out, trying to be heard above the cacophony of the panicked soldiers approaching. “Don’t open your eyes! One look at that thing’s face and you’ll turn to stone!”

  “Get to the woods!” Corin yelled to her, eyes still pressed firmly shut. “Get away as far and as fast as you can! Don’t look back!”

  “You too!” Lhasha hollered back. “Get out of here! I’ll meet you back at the Weeping Griffin.”

  Corin took a hesitant step over the uneven ground, trying to gauge his sense of direction without opening his eyes, and then a stampede of unseen assailants bowled him over. From the rank smell and high pitched yelping, Corin knew they were kobolds. They tumbled to the ground with him, but instead of hacking him to pieces, Corin heard them scramble to their feet and continue their mad rush to escape the battlefield.

  Corin lay still. The kobolds had just run him down, their pursuers couldn’t be far behind. The heavy clumping of the cultists’ mailed boots thundered around his head and prone body, but he didn’t try to roll out of the way, he didn’t even flinch. He gave no hint at all that he was still conscious or alive, nothing to attract the attention of a passing soldier.

  The heavy footsteps were past him. He could hear them, galloping off after the fleeing kobolds. The battle swept over him as he lay on the ground. He heard the clash of metal, the splinter of bone, the grunts of soldiers wielding their weapons, and the wails of the injured and dying. For a few brief seconds he was in the eye of the storm, and then the melee moved on as the cultists pressed their enemies ever farther back.

  Corin wondered about Lhasha, but he couldn’t risk attracting attention to himself by calling out. He didn’t dare open his eyes to search for her. All he could do was pray she would make it back to the Weeping Griffin. Keeping his eyes pressed tight, he began to crawl along the ground, heading in a direction he hoped led to the safety of the forest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Graal almost let the one-armed man have Fhazail. It would have been a quick end to the orog’s problems, and a perfect end to the evening. The cultists were hopelessly outnumbered, Graal’s troops would soon overwhelm them and take the package for their master. With the package all but delivered into Xiliath’s hands, the steward’s usefulness was over. The one-armed man could have him.

  Xiliath might not approve. The orog’s master was ruthless and cruel, but unlike Graal he was also careful, he planned ahead. The orog had no idea what strategies Xiliath might use to consolidate his power in Elversult’s underworld. His master might still have need of Fhazail. If he learned the orog had done nothing to help.…

  So Graal had intervened, stepping forth from the darkness to defend the despicable coward from the one-armed soldier’s sword. He saw a flicker of recognition in his enemies eyes, and Graal’s dark blade pulsed hungrily in his hands. It had tasted this man’s flesh before.

  His mind flashed back, through hundreds of men, women, and children he had slain and maimed over the years. Precious few of his opponents had survived long enough to leave an impression on the orog’s mind, but this one he knew. A White Shield.

  The memory of their storm-tossed battle on the Trader Road fuelled Graal’s bloodlust, and his semi-sentient blade throbbed with arcane power, responding with a bloodlust of its own. The White Shield trembled before the orog’s wrath.

  “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 opponent’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 failur
e 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.