The Temple of Elemental Evil Page 3

  Shanhaevel stroked the creature’s neck as the hawk bobbed its head in quick, jerky motions, eyeing him as if he were a morsel of fleeing food. Shanhaevel reached inside another of his many pockets and drew out a strip of dried meat, holding it up. The hawk eyed it for a mere second before darting its head forward to snag the snack. With his avian companion perched upon one shoulder, Shanhaevel began his journey, traveling for the first time without his teacher, his friend.

  Riding along the center hump of the road to avoid the bountiful puddles that clustered in the wagon ruts, Shanhaevel took an easy pace, not wanting to be flung into the mud again should his mount stumble.

  As he rode, Shanhaevel considered just how he should introduce himself to the people he met, especially this Burne fellow. You don’t want them to dismiss you as a green apprentice, he told himself. You should be cautious. You’re not at home anymore. Don’t trust anyone too quickly or easily. You need something that sounds impressive—subtle but impressive.

  Shanhaevel considered his own full name, Shantirel Galanhaevel, which meant “child born of the shadow wood” in his native Elvish. Well, “whelp” is more accurate than “child,” he reminded himself, but I’m certainly never telling anyone that. I can twist it around a little, make it sound more mysterious and powerful.

  “I am the spawn of shadows, born of night’s sweet fold,” he said softly, testing the words. “I am Shanhaevel.”

  He liked what he heard. It fit his black mood.

  After nearly an hour of steady riding, Shanhaevel realized the terrain had changed subtly. The trees that had lined the road all day were still there, flanking it as thickly as before, though the underbrush beneath them was now absent, replaced by short grasses. More importantly was the rail fence that cordoned the trees off from the road. It was someone’s farm. As he swept his gaze farther ahead to spy the open pasture there, the elf caught the faint scent of woodsmoke with the barest hint of freshly baked bread. As if on cue, his stomach roiled. The body must eat, Shanhaevel thought, whether I’m interested or not. This must be Hommlet, and even if it isn’t, it’s as far as I’m going tonight. The road crested ahead of him to a low rise, and when he topped it, he spotted the thatched roof of a building peeping over the next ridge. To his left, beyond the split rails of the fence, was the unmistakable uniformity of an orchard, to his right was a sweeping pasture, and beyond it, in the distance, half-hidden by another line of trees, was a stone tower.

  Gesturing toward the orchard, Shanhaevel whispered in the hawk’s mind, Go. Rest. Feed. Come again with the sun.

  Yes. Food for me. Sleep.

  The hawk spread its wings wide, pushed free of Shanhaevel’s shoulder, and flew toward the orchard.

  Shanhaevel watched it go for a moment, then turned his attention back to the final step of his journey, eager to get out of the night to someplace warm. As he drew nearer the first building, a well-kept wood-and-plaster farmhouse with a sturdy barn beyond it, Shanhaevel saw lights in its windows and in several others beyond. A dog standing in the doorway of the barn loped halfway to the road, barking at his approach, and was soon joined by a second, both beasts warning the stranger away from their domain. When it became obvious to the pair that the traveler was passing on, they retreated back into the shelter of the barn.

  Ahead of him, at what looked to be a crossroads, Shanhaevel could see a larger structure, two stories tall, with light spilling warmly from many of its windows. The smoke from the vast building’s several chimneys carried the unmistakable smell of fresh bread, smoked fowl, and savory seasonings of many types. The elf’s stomach rumbled again as he rode forward through the open gate and into the yard. The glow of two lanterns flanking the door shone brightly upon a large wooden plank displayed prominently overhead. The image—a smiling maiden, showing much of her ample bosom and holding forth a frothy tankard—was painted with no small amount of skill upon the plank, which glistened wetly from the rain and glowed in the light of the twin lanterns.

  Shanhaevel untied his staff and tossed it down to the ground, then dismounted and began unbuckling the strap of both his and Lanithaine’s saddlebags. When he had freed them, he flung both over his shoulder. At that moment, a strapping lad of perhaps sixteen years came out of the nearby stable. He walked across the yard to see to the care of the mounts. Shanhaevel dug a silver coin from his pocket and pressed it into the boy’s hand. The young man smiled and took the reins.

  “Welcome to Hommlet,” the boy said as he turned to lead the horses to the barn, “and to the Inn of the Welcome Wench. Mistress Gundigoot will have a hot meal, a room, and a bath”—the lad eyed Shanhaevel’s filthy appearance before continuing—“waiting for you inside.”

  Grimacing, Shanhaevel nodded and stepped onto the porch and pulled the stout door open, letting both the dull buzz of conversation and the warm glow of lantern- and firelight spill upon him. After so long in the darkness, he had to squint a moment before stepping into the building. There was a pause in the chatter as he entered. Knowing that he was a sight, caked in mud as he was, Shanhaevel stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust and take in the place. Most of the patrons realized they were staring and resumed their conversations.

  Shanhaevel found himself standing in one corner of a large common room filled with rough-hewn tables and benches. Perhaps a dozen folk sat in various spots, some alone and others together, dining, playing dice, or talking. Several massive tree trunks, their bark dark with smoke and age, supported the ceiling and the second story above. A huge fireplace with a lively, crackling blaze nearly filled the opposite wall, and several patrons, mostly farmers it seemed, had gathered near it to smoke their pipes and laugh.

  Two young women, one with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair and the other a brunette with straight tresses that hung all the way to her waist, moved back and forth easily in the half-empty taproom, aprons and skirts swishing with the swaying of their hips. A slight smile curled up at one corner of the elf’s mouth as he watched them serve the patrons.

  A third woman, stouter and older than the other two, entered through a door behind the bar. She held aloft a tray in one hand filled with dishes, each containing a puffy pie with rich brown gravy dripping from the edges of the crust. In the other hand, the woman bore a large platter that held a hunk of white cheese and several loaves of rich brown bread.

  The smell of the hot food wafted over Shanhaevel like a lazy summer breeze, and despite his sorrow, he realized he was famished. He leaned his staff against the corner, set his saddlebags down, and unfastened his filthy cloak. He slipped the hood back, shaking his hair free. A full mane of silvery locks cascaded down his shoulders in thick waves. The tips of his angled, pointed ears protruded through the hair, matching the narrow, swept-back features of his face.

  The din of the common room grew quiet a second time, and Shanhaevel stopped in the middle of hanging the cloak on a peg near the door to peer over his shoulder, wondering what had silenced the room. Many of the patrons were looking at him, though most of them tried not to show it. Shanhaevel did a quick inspection of himself, wondering what else might be amiss besides the thick mud.

  The blonde serving wench, frozen in the act of retrieving an empty platter, stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open. When she realized that Shanhaevel was staring back at her, she gasped and lowered her gaze, turning away to retreat toward the bar. Unfortunately, in the process of escaping the elf’s attention, she bumped against one of the large tree-trunk pillars and lost her grip on the platter, which clattered to the floor. Everyone turned to look at the poor girl, and Shanhaevel was relieved to have the attention diverted elsewhere.

  At that moment, the older woman with the meat pies spied Shanhaevel still standing near the door, his cloak half-hung, and strode out from behind the bar toward the two serving girls, scolding them severely in low tones and motioning them back to the kitchens. Her cheeks glowing, the blonde hastily dropped to one knee to retrieve the dish and then scurried to the kitchen,
avoiding looking in Shanhaevel’s direction. Sighing, the matronly woman turned to the elf, a wide and sincere smile on her face.

  “Welcome, good traveler, to the Inn of the Welcome Wench. My apologies for Leah’s rudeness. She is a silly girl who should know better than to leave a customer standing in the doorway.”

  Shanhaevel waved the woman’s apology away as he watched both serving girls disappear into the kitchen. He finished hanging up his cloak and replied, “It’s all right, although I’ve never seen people so amazed by someone covered in mud before. I may be a bit filthy, but you’d think they were looking at a ghost.”

  The woman laughed. “No, not the mud, good sir.” She leaned in and spoke a bit lower, a more serious expression on her mien. “I suspect your, ah, heritage surprised Leah. We do not have many woodfolk visit us, even though we see many travelers pass through. I apologize. I will speak to her about such rudeness.”

  Shanhaevel blinked, puzzled, before he realized the woman was referring to his elven appearance rather than the fact that he hailed from the Welkwood. He shook his head. “Well, good mistress, there was no harm done that a seat by the fire and one of those savory-smelling meat pies won’t put right.” He kept the tone of his words warm. There was no sense taking his dark disposition out on her.

  The woman’s smile returned. “Of course, good traveler. But please, call me Glora. I’m Glora Gundigoot, and my husband Ostler and I run the Welcome Wench. Anything either of us can get for you, all you must do is ask. I suspect the first thing you’ll be wanting is a bath.” Shanhaevel grabbed his saddlebags as Glora turned to lead him deeper into the Welcome Wench.

  “Actually, Goodwife Gundigoot …” Shanhaevel said as they crossed the room.

  The woman threw a quick look over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for someone, a local. His name is Burne. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

  Glora’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise quickly. “Ah, you’re the one they’re waiting for. I didn’t realize— My apologies again. Master Burne and the others are waiting in the back room for you. It’s this way.”

  The woman gestured for Shanhaevel to the back corner of the room, toward a door. The elf followed her, wondering just how many assistant wizards this Burne was going to need. As he followed the goodwife to the door, he noticed a trio of men sitting at a nearby table, staring at him, scowls on their faces.

  The three were in the middle of a game, and their dress suggested travelers like him rather than local farmers. One, a hulking fellow with a scar across the back of one hand, openly wore a long dagger on his belt, while another, a wiry man whose golden-hued skin and blue-black hair marked him as Bakluni, was dressed all in crimson. He was almost completely bald except for a topknot and wore a slightly contemptuous smile on his face. As Shanhaevel and his escort passed their table, the third man, who was facing the door Glora was approaching, leaned out as though trying to gain a better view of what was beyond the portal.

  Have they just never been muddy, before? Shanhaevel wondered, certain he did not recognize them. Maybe they’ve never seen an elf before. Boccob, what backwater place am I visiting?

  When Glora reached the door, she knocked twice, pushed it open, and poked her head in. Beyond, Shanhaevel could see a good-sized room with a round table and several men sitting around it, thick pottery mugs in front of most of them and a sweating pitcher in the middle of the table. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted through the open door, and a thick haze hung near the ceiling. Glora said something in a low voice that Shanhaevel could not quite make out, then pushed the door open the rest of the way and motioned the elf inside.

  “You go right on in, and I’ll bring you some food.”

  Shanhaevel nodded his appreciation as he entered the room. It was cozy, with a fire built in a hearth on the opposite wall. A pair of decorative swords, crossed, hung over the mantle. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling to give the place plenty of light. Glora pulled the door shut as she hurried out. The elf stood near the door, facing the group of men. There were almost a dozen in all.

  Shanhaevel cleared his throat, unnerved by the strangers who sat silently staring at him, and introduced himself.

  “I am shadow—” he croaked in a gravelly voice, choking as he stumbled through his introduction. Oh, Boccob! I sound like a frog! He shook his head and tried again. “I am spawn—I mean, the shadow of spawns—”

  No, idiot! He silently cursed as the men looked at him, obviously confused.

  “You’re who? Did you say ‘Shadowspawn?’ ” one of them asked with a twinkle in his eye—a younger, clean-shaven fellow with a dimpled chin and a mop of unruly brown hair. “Shadowspawn,” the man, barely more than a boy, continued. “That’s got quite a ring to it. You must be a great hero.”

  The twinkle in the young man’s eye grew brighter as several others in the room chuckled along with him.

  “No,” Shanhaevel said, disgusted with having just made a fool of himself. “Just Shanhaevel. It means ‘shadow.’ ”

  The mud caking his clothing only added to the ridiculousness of the situation, he realized. You’ve only made yourself out to be a buffoon, he silently chided. No more fancy speeches. Just talk. The elf blinked, knowing his cheeks were glowing red with embarrassment.

  “I seek the wizard Burne, to serve in the stead of my late master, Lanithaine.”

  The elf stared at no one as he finished, not knowing which man was the wizard he sought and not certain he could hold anyone’s gaze, anyway, feeling as foolish as he did right now. The sudden thought that this Burne character would find him unsuitable and send him back home with the obligation unsettled made Shanhaevel squirm.

  One of them gasped at the elf’s words. He was tall, muscular, and clean-shaven, with closely cropped straight dark hair. Shanhaevel could see that the man was dressed for traveling, complete with a shirt of mail. A second man, an older fellow with a thick pile of curly hair and rather large ears who was smoking a long-stemmed pipe, rose from his chair. Shanhaevel met the man’s gaze despite his embarrassment, and saw with some surprise that he was rather short and paunchy, and his long robes seemed slightly too big for him.

  “Did I hear you correctly?” the man asked, his face ashen. “Lanithaine is dead?”

  Shanhaevel opened his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat was back, so he only nodded. It was the first time someone else was aware of his teacher’s death, and it freshened his pain.

  “Oh, by the gods,” the fellow replied, sitting heavily and gripping the armrests of his chair with trembling hands. “Our old friend,” he half-whispered, lost in some private grief amid the solemn group of men sitting around him in the silent room.

  “Yes. This is grave news, indeed,” the first man answered softly, staring at his hands.

  Blinking, the paunchy man with the pipe looked up at Shanhaevel once more. “How?”

  Shanhaevel swallowed hard, trying to gain command of his voice. “Slain earlier tonight. By gnolls.”

  The room erupted in chaotic chatter.

  “This is outrageous!”

  “Tonight, you say? This is not good.”

  “That’s the third sighting this week!”

  It all came at once, a whirlwind of conversation, everyone speaking and asking questions. Finally, the man who had first spoken to Shanhaevel banged his mug on the table.

  “Please, gentlemen! Enough!” When the room returned to order, the man sighed, his face grave. “Now, we all know that this does not bode well, and certainly, we will take steps to find out what is going on, but first things first, if you please.” The man turned back to Shanhaevel. “My friend, I am Lord Burne. Lanithaine was a friend and a good man. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

  Shanhaevel nodded his thanks, once again unwilling to trust his voice.

  “I know of you,” Burne continued. “Lanithaine mentioned you often. I was led to believe that you are capable. We need someone of your skill to ride with th
e company.”

  Shanhaevel swallowed in surprise. “The company? I don’t understand.”

  Burne pursed his lips and explained. “We’re forming a small expedition by order of his grace, the Viscount of Verbobonc. We need a wizard with some skill to be a part of it. Lanithaine did not mention this to you?”

  Shanhaevel cocked his head to one side, considering. An expedition? Now that was something he never would have considered.

  “No.” His heart felt as if someone were squeezing it, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and held the other man’s gaze. “I only know that the two of you served together in a war a decade ago. He said you were friends.”

  “Please, sit down,” the wizard said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs surrounding the table. Shanhaevel nodded gratefully and slid into the seat, dropping his suddenly heavy saddlebags to floor beside him. Burne turned to make introductions.

  “This,” Burne began, gesturing to the man immediately on his right, “is Melias, sent to us by his grace, the king of Furyondy. He also rode with your mentor, and he is to be in charge of the company.”

  The hilt of a sword protruded above the man’s shoulder. He nodded once at Shanhaevel and smiled. The expression held surprising warmth in it.

  Shanhaevel returned the nod respectfully, still trying to sort this out in his head.

  “I’ll let Melias introduce his own companions,” Burne said, indicating the two other fellows flanking Melias at the table, “for they arrived with him only today, and they are in his service, not mine.”

  Melias nodded again and pointed to the young man with the twinkle in his eye who had spoken earlier, teasing Shanhaevel about his botched introduction.

  “This is Ahleage, our, um, scout, and this is Draga, who is a fair shot with that bow.”