The Temple of Yellow Skulls Read online

  “No, I suppose not, but I’ve always heard that after they were exiled to the Underdark from the Feywild—”

  Raid fixed him with a cold glare. Uldane blinked. “Oh, you mean they’re not supposed to be here in the Temple of Yellow Skulls.”

  He didn’t dignify that with a response.

  There had been no difficulty reaching the temple from Fallcrest. The King’s Road had taken them west from the town until Raid had found the landmarks he sought and led his companions off the road into the wilderness. Above ground, the Temple of Yellow Skulls didn’t look like much. Uncounted centuries had reduced it to overgrown rubble that moaned with the wind. Its true secrets lay beneath the surface, protected from the elements. The upper passages had become animal dens and the haunt of treasure seekers, but as they’d made their way deeper into the structure, wonders of the ancient architecture presented themselves. Wall carvings of uncanny beauty and dark subjects. Columns that bulged in flawless, if inhuman, proportions. Objects of subtle magic that were, like the statue, too large to have been carted off by previous visitors. Whenever Uldane scouted ahead, Raid was left with a nagging suspicion that he might not come back—not because he’d fallen victim to some hidden danger but simply because of his own boundless curiosity.

  This time the halfling’s scouting had paid off. In the years that had passed since he’d first received a vision of the Elemental Eye, the Chained God had come to Raid in waking dreams numerous times, granting him guidance and inspiration when he needed it most. Key to that guidance were visions of the subterranean passages of the Temple of Yellow Skulls. In his mind’s eye, Raid had passed through these halls a dozen times. He knew the way to the golden treasure. He knew the dangers. There should have been nothing unexpected standing in his way.

  The drow had not been a part of his dreams.

  And yet here they were. Anger at their presence, their interference with his plans, boiled up inside him. Raid held back his anger and let it tickle the edges of his mind while he studied the drow. There were about a dozen of them, some shifting rubble, a couple consulting scrolls, others standing watchfully with hands on their weapons. “It must be an exploration party,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There are no slave takers. When drow hunt slaves they come ready for it. And a border patrol wouldn’t be stopping to dig up a fallen wall.” He looked back to the drow. They were a mixed group, some looking wildly excited, some looking utterly bored. Some were heavily armed, others not. He spotted a female with a whip riding on her hip and the spiders that the drow considered holy decorating her armor. A priest of Lolth, he was certain. A least one of the male drow carried a greatsword of such eerily black metal and weird jagged design that it made his skin crawl with suspicion. Such blades were often favored by warlocks.

  “I’ll bet there are caves below these passages that lead all the way to the Underdark,” said Uldane. “Maybe the drow have heard about the golden skulls, too. Are we close to them?”

  Raid nodded to a narrow passage that lay just at the edge of the dim light shed by the statue. “We need to go that way.”

  Uldane winced and slid back down below the wall. He looked up at Raid. “I might be able to sneak through and you can be really quiet when you want to be, but I think the two of us would have a hard time getting across that hall. Tragent and Dohr definitely wouldn’t make it, and that’s a lot of drow for the four of us to fight.”

  The lust to make the attempt knotted inside Raid’s chest. His hand crept toward one of his axes. He forced it to remain still and dropped below the wall as well. It pained him to admit it, but the halfling was right. “Let’s get back to Tragent and Dohr. We’ll have to find another way.”

  They crept out of the gallery and into the dark passages beyond. Once there was no chance of being spotted from the hall, Uldane took out a stone that shone like moonlight and let its cool glow illuminate their way. The light of the torches that lit the chamber where they’d left Dohr and Tragent was a welcome brilliance.

  “Well?” asked Tragent.

  “Drow,” said Raid. “Too many. We’ll go around.”

  The swordsman’s face tightened. “You’re certain there’s a way?”

  “We’ll find one.”

  “You’re confident for someone who’s never been here before,” Dohr said. “You walk these passages like you know them.”

  “We’re not the first ones to come here, Dohr,” said Uldane blithely. “There must be maps and journals if you know where to look. In fact, I know an old man in Winterhaven who just lives to collect stories from adventurers—”

  “Uldane,” Raid said, cutting him off. Then he looked to Dohr and met the half-orc’s gaze directly. “You doubt me?”

  Tragent answered for his companion. “These drow are the first problem we’ve encountered. It’s been too easy.”

  Raid grunted. “Very few people would complain about that.” He took up one of the torches. “Don’t worry. It will get harder. Save your strength.” He chose one of the other passages leading from the chamber and gestured with the torch. “This way.”

  He didn’t miss the glance that passed between Tragent and Dohr, but the pair picked up their packs and followed. Uldane, of course, was already skulking ahead, ready to plunge into the unknown.

  Without the guidance that the Eye had sent, finding their way was slower and more difficult. Uldane had been right about one thing, though: There were maps and accounts of the Temple of Yellow Skulls, if you knew where to look. In a couple of cases, he’d even managed to track down and question the old adventurers who’d written them. The guidance of the Eye was strong, but not perfect. A good hunter had to know his territory.

  When they returned to the route revealed by the Eye, however, Raid felt it like a shiver along his spine. This was where he was meant to be. The way that all those other adventurers had sought but that had only been revealed to him was near.

  “Uldane, stay close,” he said.

  “Why?” The halfling was already hovering on the edge of the light cast by their torches. He looked back. “Do you think there are more drow?”

  “Forget the drow.” Raid’s mouth felt dry in anticipation. He checked his axes and made certain they were loose. Tragent, experienced and alert, picked up on the cue and readied his sword. Dohr grinned. His fist clenched and thin blue strands of lightning crawled around his fingers. Uldane’s eyebrows rose and he slipped back to join them.

  “Fighting?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Raid gave them all a warning glance. “Hold your most powerful attacks in reserve. No matter how bad things might seem shortly, they will get worse.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Tragent.

  Raid smiled at him. “You thought things were too easy before. Make up your mind what you want.”

  He moved on. The passage they followed was broad—a good eight paces across—with a high, vaulted ceiling supported by arches at regular intervals. The pillars of the arches had been elaborately carved with the figures of wailing, screaming demons. The walls were well-dressed stone, little touched by time. More passages, less elaborately decorated, split off here and there. Once this had been a grand hall within the temple.

  Dohr nodded down as they went. “A lot of people have walked here. The floor is worn smooth.”

  “Not just the floor,” said Uldane. “And I don’t think it’s people.” He paused beside a carved pillar and ran a hand over its lower part. Up to about a sword’s length above the floor, the stone was as worn and hollow as the blade of an old and oversharpened knife. The halfling looked to Raid, but Raid avoided his gaze and kept walking. The passage ended ahead in the dark opening of a descending staircase.

  The top of the stairs had also been worn hollow. A slow whispering and scraping sound, punctuated by soft clacks, drifted up from below. Raid shifted his torch to his off-hand, then stepped swiftly to the head of the stairs and raised the torch high.

 
; In the room below, thick, gray bodies like monstrous worms writhed and reared back in the sudden light. There were four of the big monsters—and at least a dozen smaller, immature ones, hidden back behind the others. Where their heads should have been, the creatures had four flat, fleshy tentacles surrounding a massive, snapping beak.

  “Gricks,” growled Dohr. “A nest of gricks.” He cursed. “If they wore down the stone in the hall, they must have been here for decades!”

  “Longer,” said Raid. He fought to keep his voice steady as excitement rose inside him. He shrugged out of his pack and let it slip to the floor, then slid out the large flask he’d arranged on top for easy access. His hands started to tremble, making the torchlight jump. His words sounded brittle in his own ears. “Don’t let them surround you.”

  Tragent looked at him. “We’re going down? Wouldn’t it be easier to let them come to us? We’re at the narrow point. Only one or two can come up the stairs at a time—”

  With a fierce screech, a grick twice as large as any of the others loomed out of the darkness below, throwing itself at the stairs. As if they had been waiting for its charge, the rest of the adult gricks attacked, some following the big one, the rest scattering to crawl straight up the walls.

  Tragent’s sword left its scabbard. “Or I could be wrong.”

  Raid’s mind felt like a hammer ready to pound through his skull. He focused on the mass of young gricks, took aim, and threw the flask. A heartbeat later, he hurled the torch, then without waiting pulled his axes from his belt and screamed a challenge to the creatures.

  The flask shattered on the ground, splashing oil across the young gricks an instant before the torch fell among them, igniting the fuel. Raid’s scream was accompanied by an explosion of greasy light and the squeals of the burning gricks. One or two of the charging adults paused, whipping around at the cries of their young. Raid didn’t hesitate. He leaped down the stairs, straight at the largest grick.

  It reared up to meet him, tentacles lashing out. Raid ducked two, but the third caught him and wrapped around his waist. Suckers on the underside locked onto him; horny claws on the tip groped and tore at the thick hide of his armor like primitive fingers. Raid thrust his arms up, keeping them clear as other tentacles found him and the grick dragged him in close to its snapping beak.

  Raid didn’t resist. With the thrill of the fight burning inside him, he pushed himself along with the pull and drove an axe into the grick’s flesh just above its upper beak.

  The thing’s hide was as tough and pliable as wet leather. Raid’s axe didn’t penetrate as deep as it might have, but he didn’t relent. He wrenched the weapon free, strained back as far as he could against the pulling tentacles, and struck in the same spot with the other axe, hacking at the broken hide as the brutal beak sought him. He was dimly aware of the others fighting—of flashing lightning and booming thunder as Dohr scattered gricks with his magic, of Tragent and Uldane battling one of the creatures that had tried to come behind him along the wall—but all of his being was consumed with beating blow after blow into the grick that held him. Two of the four tentacles released him to grab for his arms. He swatted them back. The beak was only a couple of hand spans away from his face, then less than that. Still, the grick fought just as hard as he did.

  Until finally—finally—the grick’s snapping faltered and it tried to pull away from him.

  Raid’s blood surged, his fury feeding on the thing’s weakness. Howling, he drew back an axe and struck with all of his strength.

  The steel edge broke through the tough hide. Half the blade’s width sank into the grick’s flesh. The tentacles holding Raid loosened. The monster swayed. Raid released his grip on one axe, wrapped both hands around the shaft of the second, and brought it down right beside the first. A spasm shook the grick, then tentacles and worm-body all went limp.

  Another grick waited right behind it. Previously blocked by the larger creature’s thrashing, the thing lunged across its fallen body. Raid snarled and grabbed the first tentacle that came near him. The grick screeched in surprise and twitched back. Before its other tentacles could come at him, Raid jerked one of his axes out of the corpse of the first grick and swung it.

  The grick fell back, its tentacle severed. Raid flung the writhing appendage away, snatched up his second axe, and went after it. The grick tried to retreat. Raid didn’t let it. Spinning around, he swept the creature’s remaining tentacles aside with one axe and swung at its beak with the other. The axe sheared through the horny beak, taking off half the bottom and almost all of the top. The grick squealed in agony, twisted around, and started squirming away. Raid leaped astride it, buried an axe in the thick hide behind its tentacles, and used the weapon to hold himself in place as he chopped from the side. The grick twisted under him, screeching and squealing. Its blood bathed Raid, made the handles of his axes slick, but he held on and kept chopping until the second grick was as dead as the first. He jumped away from it and turned, looking for his next target.

  The adult gricks were all dead: the two he’d killed with his axes, a third brought down by Tragent’s sword and Uldane’s daggers, the other two slain by Dohr’s spells. Only some of the young remained, twisting and rolling in agony as flames sizzled in their fatty flesh. Raid stalked down the stairs and put an end to their mewling.

  He could feel the gaze of the Eye settle upon him, filling him with confidence and certainty. He looked up from the last of the grick young and saw the Eye spinning above him, raw elements spiraling together into the primal void.

  The Chained God’s voice rolled like thunder only he could hear. “Your destiny is at hand. Claim the skulls. Let my temple rise again!” “I will,” Raid whispered. Voice and gaze withdrew, leaving his belly and knees trembling with pleasure. Raid swallowed, composed himself, then lowered his axes and turned to look up at the top of the stairs. Uldane, Tragent, and Dohr stared back down at him. Raid managed a narrow smile.

  “Are you waiting for more of them?” he asked. “Come down. And bring my pack.”

  As they descended the stairs and the light from their torches grew brighter, Raid turned, examining the room. It wasn’t particularly large, but the ceiling was high and the decorations had once been grand. The stairs dominated one wall, while massive statues that reached almost all the way to the shadowed ceiling stood out from the other three. Their features had been softened by the crawling of uncounted generations of gricks, but the feline heads and backward-facing palms of rakshasas were still distinguishable.

  Uldane carried his pack. He looked at Raid with a somber expression as he handed it to him. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. I think you scare me, Raid.”

  “I’ve scared many people, but I’m still alive.” Raid took a rag from his pack and wiped the grick blood from his face, armor, and axes.

  “What is this place?” asked Dohr. He stared up at the statues, then gestured with his torch at another curious feature of the room: Spaced between the statues were square gaps, a little more than a hand span across, in the stones of the wall. The gaps were arranged in pairs at shoulder height to a tall man—a little above the knees of the towering statues. “I’ve seen holes like that in other ruins. You run beams between them to support a floor, but that would be a low clearance underneath.”

  Uldane’s eyebrows rose. “Low for tallfolk, maybe,” he pointed out.

  “They’re not for beams,” Raid said. “Two of them are the keyholes. This room contains the door to the heart of the Temple of Yellow Skulls.”

  The halfling laughed. “Keyholes? Which ones are they? If the keys are that big, I could pick the locks with my fingers!”

  “You don’t need to. We already have the keys.”

  Uldane looked gratifyingly baffled, but Tragent saw the answer immediately. He held his hands up before a pair of the holes. “Our arms are the keys.” He narrowed his eyes. “A lock that everyone has keys for isn’t a very good lock.”

  Raid smiled. The visions sent b
y the Chained God had told him how to find this place, but they hadn’t given him all the answers. He’d had to uncover some dangers for himself. “Not everyone has the proper key. A previous visitor to the temple had an interesting story to tell me about how he lost both of his arms in this room.”

  He made a chopping motion just below his shoulder. The others shuddered.

  Their weakness brought a renewed excitement to Raid. He dug a carefully wrapped bundle out of his pack and went over to a particular pair of holes. “His party,” he said, “investigated these gaps thoroughly. All of them are deep enough to slip an arm into, with a slot inside that will allow you to bend your elbow if you hold your hand flat. Two of them, however, also contained studs to be pressed with the tips of your fingers and thumbs. Except that when he pressed them, blades came down. Snick.”

  He held out a hand to Tragent. “Give me your sword.” The other man winced and pulled back. Raid gave him a disapproving look. “I need to make certain that no young gricks crawled in to hide.”

  “Ah.” Tragent handed over the blade. Raid slipped it into first one hole, then the other. The only resistance the blade met was stone. He returned the sword and pulled off the gauntlet on his left hand. Before the others could say anything, he slid his arm into the hole.

  He had to reach all the way up to his armpit. The stone of the wall was cold against his cheek and rough beneath his probing fingers. He found the slot the old adventurer had described and carefully bent his elbow. Light as a caress, he ran his fingers across the curving wall of the slot. The studs were there, one for his index finger, one for his middle, and one, almost flush with the bottom of the slot, for his thumb. Unlike the stone, they were slightly warm to the touch, as if they had been fashioned out of bone or some other once living material. The old adventurer had remembered that sensation vividly—it had, after all, been the last thing he’d ever felt with his hands.