The Temple of Yellow Skulls Read online

  “And?” Raid asked, keeping his expression neutral. He could guess how Tragent’s thoughts were running. Uldane offered their little company stealth and a rogue’s light touch. His appearance presented an opportunity for Raid—and a threat to Tragent and Dohr.

  “And it doesn’t matter how good he is,” said the swordsman. “We don’t want to split our half of the treasure three ways instead of two.” At his side, Dohr grunted agreement.

  “I’d rather think of it,” Raid said bluntly, “as a better chance of having any treasure to split at all. What do you say to that?”

  Tragent’s face tightened briefly, then eased into a calculating expression as the benefit of having Uldane around sank in. It didn’t take long. He shared a glance with Dohr, then said, “We still want our five hundred gold each. We’re not sharing that.”

  “Fair enough.” Raid turned back to the halfling and raised his voice once more. “Uldane, what I said to you and your friends still holds. Tragent and Dohr here have pledged to join me. You already know more than you should. If you want to learn more …”

  Uldane set his mug down with a thump and a belch. “I’m in.”

  Even Raid blinked in surprise. “Do you want to hear the terms?”

  “Whatever they agreed to is good enough for me.” Uldane grinned. “I want to get out of Fallcrest for a few days.”

  “Then we leave tomorrow,” said Raid with a matching smile. He gestured for the others to lean close. They did. “What Uldane says is right. Rumors of the golden skulls, be they magical or not, have lured generations of treasure seekers to the ruins of the temple. Those that have returned have come back empty-handed. But we won’t.” He tapped the side of his head. “I know the secret to finding the skulls.”

  “Which you’re not going to tell us,” said Tragent. Raid nodded and the swordsman grunted. “Of course. Answer this, then: How did you come by this knowledge?”

  Raid brushed the gray hair at his temples. “Like Uldane, I’ve been around,” he said. “I’ve probably seen more of this world than all three of you put together.”

  “Tragent and I have seen a lot,” Dohr said. “Enough to know when someone is ducking a question.” Dark eyes fixed on Raid. “We may have pledged ourselves to you, Raid, but don’t try to play us. Where does this secret of yours come from—and more importantly, can we trust it?”

  A familiar tightness clenched Raid’s belly. He tried to push it back. “Can you trust it? I put myself at the same risk as you. Where does it come from—?” The tightness came again, turned into a choking knot rising up his throat.

  The memories came with it. Raid shifted his eyes, looking beyond Dohr. “Far away from the Nentir Vale,” he said, “there is a place where all kinds of evil things make their home. What ends in the Temple of Yellow Skulls began in a temple of another sort. Half a dozen of us went in—confident, strong, experienced. I was the only one to return.”

  The others went still as he continued. “We fought our way through the place, taking on trolls and giants and the spirits of elemental primordials. But something was stalking us, too, and it struck in the moments when we thought we were safe. One by one, my companions died until there were only two of us left: me and a holy warrior of Bahamut, Calamis. And eventually I realized that even though she appeared to be at my side, Calamis was gone, too. When she turned on me, I was ready for her.”

  “We fought”—Raid mimed the crash of his axes against a bright sword raised to fend them off—“and I bested her. Or rather, I bested the creature that had taken her form. A rakshasa had picked up our trail through the temple. It had been picking my companions off one at a time. Calamis was its final victim. Even wounded, it still thought it could taunt me. A rakshasa’s spirit can only be permanently destroyed by a blessed weapon driven into the heart. What it didn’t know was that Calamis knew how to defeat its kind. She’d blessed a dagger herself and given it me.”

  He drew a ragged breath. “I am not proud of what I did next. The rakshasa was in my power and I was angry. The creature tried to buy its freedom with ancient secrets. I had no interest in bargaining, but it pleaded and spilled its secrets anyway. It was a long time before my fury and grief were spent and I finally used Calamis’s dagger on her killer.”

  Raid looked back at the spellbound trio who sat listening to him. “I’m no paragon of virtue to let a treasure slip between my fingers,” he said. “The only paragons I’ve ever known died in that evil temple. But I’m no fool, either. I’ve spent years researching what the rakshasa told me. As far as I can tell, what it babbled to me was the truth. The skulls wait for the one strong enough and smart enough to claim them. I intend to be that one.” He smiled. “With your help.”

  Dohr and Tragent glanced at each other, then Tragent nodded. “That’s a fair answer. You’re risking yourself by going. We’ll stand by you.”

  It was the answer he’d expected. Raid turned to Uldane. “And you?”

  The halfling looked thoughtful as he sipped his ale. “If the rakshasa surprised you and took out your companions one at a time, how did your warrior friend know to give you a blessed dagger before she died?”

  Raid felt his pulse throb in the vein above his right eye. He kept his face and voice neutral, though. “We didn’t know it was a rakshasa stalking us, but we suspected. She made one for herself, too, but the creature took her before she could use it.

  “Pfft,” said Uldane. “That was careless of her.”

  He took another swallow of ale.

  Raid waited a moment longer before he asked tightly, “Does that answer your question?”

  “What? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking out loud.” Uldane looked up and smiled. “In fact, here’s to the venture.” He raised his mug. “Here’s to us and the Yellow—”

  Raid hissed like a cracking whip and Uldane caught himself. “Sorry. Just to us, then!”

  “Here, here!” said Dohr, rapping his mug against Uldane’s. Tragent raised his as well. Raid put a smile on his face and spread empty hands.

  “It looks like I’ll need another after all,” he said. He looked for the serving wench. “Ho!” he roared. “Another round here—and make it four mugs this time!”

  The moon had set by the time they left the Lucky Gnome, companions before they’d even started their adventure. Tragent and Dohr went staggering off for wherever they laid their heads. Raid turned in the direction of the inn where he’d taken a room, then paused.

  Uldane stood in the road outside the taphouse, looking uncertain. “The argument you had with your friends is causing you trouble?” Raid asked.

  “I didn’t say we had an argument,” said Uldane. “And I’m fine. I’m just deciding if I want to go home yet or not.”

  The halfling was wobbling slightly on his feet. Raid held back a smile. “Go home,” he said. “Or at least go somewhere to sleep. I want to be on the road by noon and I assume you’ll need some time to gather your gear.”

  “I travel light.” Uldane slapped the dagger sheath at his belt, did a double take at finding it empty, then made a show of producing the missing weapon apparently from one ear. He juggled it from hand to hand before bowing with a flourish. Raid clapped his hands slowly.

  “Go home,” he said again, and turned away.

  Uldane called after him. “I’m sorry you lost your companions.”

  Raid stiffened and stopped. Maybe Uldane took that as some sort of invitation because he added, “I know what that’s like. Three of my friends were killed by a dragon. Shara and I were the only survivors. Until it was dead, revenge was all she could think about.”

  “Thank you.” Raid forced his body to relax, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about it, though. It happened a long time ago.”

  “If you ever do—”

  “Good night, Uldane.” He started walking again, listening carefully in case Uldane decided to follow him after all. There was nothing, and when he looked back, he could see Uldane’s short figure we
aving away in the other direction. Raid turned and walked a little further, making his way with a confident, unwavering stride. He hadn’t consumed nearly as much ale as Dohr or Tragent or even Uldane. He smiled to himself. Maybe Borojon’s daughter had turned him down, but now he had a team that was better than her and her rusty sword. She could beg to join his party of adventurers and he would delight in saying “No.”

  No, Hakken!

  Memories of another woman’s pleading came to him. Raid shivered at their touch. He’d held them back while he’d told Uldane, Tragent, and Dohr the story they’d needed to hear. A story so carefully prepared he sometimes believed it himself.

  Raid’s axes swung together and shattered the sword raised to fend them off. Calamis flung up a metal-cased arm to ward off the spray of fragments. Raid swung again before she could recover. One axe creased the shining silvery metal of her breastplate. The other bit deep into her arm, driving scraps of leather and broken rings of mail deep into flesh before the edge scraped against bone. Calamis gasped and fell back, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “No, Hakken! Remember who you are! Remember who I am!”

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Morning 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.”