Temple Hill (23 page)

It was also possible she was lost in the woods, confused by the darkness and the unfamihar surroundings. Her elf eyes would let her see through the night, but Corin knew the range of her heat-sensitive vision was not very far—twenty yards at most. She wouldn’t walk into an open pit, but she still might not be able to figure out her exact location with such limited sight.

If she was lost, it would be pointless for Corin to go looking for her. He’d have no idea where to even begin. Dawn was only a couple of hours away now. With the rising sun, Lhasha would find her way back to Elversult and the Weeping Griffin soon enough.

Of course, there was one other possibility. One that Corin refused to even consider. Not yet, anyway. He’d give her a few more hours to find her way back with the rising sun before he’d give up on her.

The door to the streets outside opened, a rare occurrence at the Weeping Griffin. Most of the regulars were already there. Corin looked quickly, hopefully, to the door, but instead of Lhasha’s petite form, three men bundled up in robes entered. Knowing patrons came to this tavern for privacy and a chance to be left alone with their problems, Corin didn’t pay any more attention to the group.

He was staring intently at his stump, still debating what to do about Lhasha when one of the robed men sat

down at his table. Corin glanced up sharply and realized the other two had crept up behind him. On either side he felt the tip of a dagger pressing against his ribs.

“Don’t call out, speak only when necessary to answer my questions. Keep your voice low,” the seated man whispered, “and you just may get out of this conversation alive.”

Corin’s eyes flitted over the few people scattered about the bar, looking for some help. The other patrons stared pointedly at their drinks. The waitress, obviously sensing trouble was brewing, had disappeared behind the bar. Unfortunately, Corin knew the last thing on her mind would be alerting the authorities. At the Weeping Griffin, everyone’s business was strictly their own.

Giving a nod to show he understood the hooded man’s instructions, Corin turned his attention to his uninvited guest. Up close, Corin could see beneath the shadows of the man’s cowl. He recognized the young face and shaved head of the cult wizard, and a chill ran down his spine.

“My name is Azlar,” the man said. “And I have a proposal for you, Corin One-Hand. One that you might be very interested in hearing.”

Corin nodded again, and the knives against his sides eased up their pressure slightly.

“Do you know who I work for?” the mage asked.

“I’m not stupid,” was the warrior’s short reply.

“No, of course not. Then you also know that we possess great power and influence. Not just in Elversult, but all across Faerun. I am here to offer you a chance to join us.”

“Why me?”

“The Cult of the Dragon has many powerful allies, but we are always looking for more to aid in our cause,” Azlar explained. “You have proven your worth on the battlefield, and in dispatching my … guardian … in the warehouse.”

Despite the blades pressed to his ribs, Corin was in no mood to be tactful.

His instincts told him that the mage’s visit to the Weeping Griffin was a bad sign for Lhasha, and the thought of the half-elf suffering because of his own quest for revenge against Fhazail filled him with a reckless, frustrated rage.

“I don’t see myself worshiping dead lizards,” he spat out. “Find some other convert to brainwash into your twisted faith.”

Azlar reacted to the warrior’s vehemence with a rational calm. “Not all who serve us do so out of religious duty. There are … other considerations.”

Corin snorted in contempt. “Money, power, slaves. Do you think I would sell my soul so cheap?”

The mage lifted his arm and rested it on the table, then pulled his sleeve back. His hand was pale and discolored, one finger had been horribly mutilated. A jagged scar encircled his wrist.

“Torture?” the warrior sneered. “I will not be broken so easily.”

“Not torture,” the wizard replied, “but healing. Earlier this evening, my hand, the one you see before you, was severed by the foul orog’s dark blade. As yours was, long ago.”

Corin looked again, more closely this time. “You’re lying,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off the spellcaster’s hand. “Even the priests of Lathander couldn’t heal me.”

“The Cult of the Dragon has magic more powerful and ancient than the Dawnbringer’s pathetic little houses of worship. Join us and such a miracle could be yours. You know I speak the truth.”

Corin did know it. More than his instincts, more than just wanting to believe. He knew it was true. In Azlar’s

scars he could see the pain, suffering, and loss of his own severed limb. Both men had been marked by Graal’s sword, they shared a kinship, but Azlar’s hand had been restored.

“See,” Azlar said as the fingers flexed and curled. “It works as well as ever. We could do the same for you, Corin One-Hand. Though in your case a magically created limb would have to be a suitable replacement, since the original is long since lost.”

Unaware he was even doing it, Corin began to rub his stump.

“Of course the procedure is immensely painful. Pure agony in your case, I suspect. But I’m sure you would agree that fleeting pain is a trifling price to pay.”

Fendel had offered him a prosthetic arm, a hand made of metal. Largely on that promise, Corin had formed his initial partnership with Lhasha. Now Azlar was offering a limb of real, living flesh.

“How …” was all he could say, cautiously reaching out with trembling fingers toward the mage’s restored hand. The gray palm was cold to Corin’s touch.

“In our studies, we have learned much about necromancy and the restoration of animation to bodies and flesh—human as well as dragon.”

Azlar’s words, meant to reassure and tempt the warrior, had the completely opposite effect. Corin recoiled in revulsion from the undead flesh, shivering at the unnatural feel of it beneath his caress.

“Keep your zombie hand, wizard. I would rather stay crippled than become such a thing.” In the back of his mind Corin half expected to feel the cold steel slide between his ribs as punishment for his insult.

Instead, Azlar quickly withdrew his hand, hiding it from view beneath the long, draping sleeve of his robe.

“Do not dismiss my offer yet,” the wizard cautioned,

showing no sign that he was angered by Corin’s reaction. There is more on the table.”

The warrior said nothing. He had no desire to play Azlar’s game anymore.

Sensing his potential recruit’s reluctance, Azlar continued the conversation without waiting for the one-armed man’s reply.

There is an old saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We share a common hatred, Corin of the White Shields. We have both been betrayed by the steward Fhazail.”

The name caused Corin to stiffen momentarily, but otherwise he made no response.

The cult mage misjudged the warrior’s reaction. “You are surprised I know of your history, perhaps? Rest assured, Corin, I know much about you. My divinations are powerful. Join with us, and I can lead you to Fhazail. I can lead you to your vengeance.”

“My vengeance is over. Fhazail is nothing but a statue. I saw him myself. He is trapped for eternity in a stone prison.”

“He was turned to stone,” Azlar admitted. “I orchestrated it myself. But you are foolish if you believe such a condition is not reversible. Before I could deal more permanently with the traitor I was forced to flee the battle. I suspect Fhazail has been taken from the field by his allies. They might restore him to his previous abundantly fleshy state.

“Fhazail has a knack for surviving such potentially lethal situations. Surely, Corin One-Hand, you can not sit idly by if there is even a chance Fhazail will emerge from his latest scheme of betrayal unscathed. You must seek justice for what he did to you and your fellow soldiers.”

For two years Corin had nursed his vengeance, even at his life’s lowest ebb it was always there, a flickering

ember in the depths of his soul. He fueled it with alcohol and bitter vows cursing the injustice of the world, and when Lhasha brought the steward back into Corin’s life the ember ignited an all consuming inferno in his mind.

Corin had nearly thrown everything away in his quest for revenge. His rebuilt career and reputation, his partnership with Lhasha, even his own life—all of it sacrificed for one last shot at Fhazail!

But in the hours waiting for Lhasha to return, that fire had been quenched. The hate had filled a void, feeding on itself in the vacuum that was Corin’s life. However, his life was no longer a vacuum. His actions had consequences that reached beyond his own existence. Only now could the warrior understand how much his misguided hunger for “justice” had truly cost him, and what it may have cost Lhasha.

“Fhazail is not my concern anymore,” Corin said in a somber voice. “Youll not lure me into your scaly fold so easily, dragon worshiper.”

The young wizard sat back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I have misjudged you. I see now that your concern is no longer for your own needs, but for the well being of another.”

The warrior kept silent.

“My knowledge of you extends beyond your history with Fhazail,” Azlar pressed. “I know of the thief, and of your … relationship.”

Corin ignored the insinuations of Azlar’s lascivious smile. “Quit playing games, mage. If you know something about Lhasha, then tell me.”

Azlar gave a sympathetic sigh, artificial and forced. “When our package was taken, there were several casualties of her power. Many of my own soldiers were victimized as you must have seen. I regret to tell you your friend shared their fate.”

“No!” Corin shouted, then quickly dropped his voice as he felt an increase in the pressure of the daggers against his ribs. “No. How would you know what happened to Lhasha?”

“Do not speak without thinking, fool! Did I not say my divinations were powerful? After the battle our attackers gathered up all the unfortunate victims of the package.”

“The medusa, you mean. Why not call it what it is?”

Corin never saw the blow, but he felt it. A fist buried itself into his kidney, doubling him over in his chair, his head banged against the table. “Speak the name of the package again,” Azlar whispered harshly, “and the next pain you feel will be from the daggers.”

The wizard didn’t wait for Corin to recover, but he kept on talking. “One of the statues was of a young lady. Your pretty thief, Corin One-Hand, but do not despair. There is still a chance she may yet be saved.”

Trying to shake off the effects of the savage, unexpected punch Corin couldn’t reply right away. If Azlar spoke the truth, the Dragon Cult might be his only chance to find and save Lhasha, but the cult wasn’t known for its generosity. Any hope they offered him would be tempered with serious consequences. Dealing with demons was never wise.

Still, he didn’t have many other options. “What…” he gasped, “what do I have to do?”

“Very good, Corin,” Azlar said. “I’m glad you are not so stubborn that you refuse to see reason. Many people are blind to their own best interests when they hear the words Cult of the Dragon. You will learn that we are not unreasonable. We merely want you to perform a simple task for us. And in the process, you may be able to save your little friend.”

“One job? And then we’re done?”

“One job, and you need never deal with the Dragon Cult again. A fair deal for you, I think. A bargain, even.”

Despite the assurances, Corin still had his suspicions, but he left them unspoken.

“The horde that attacked us are working for someone named Xiliath. This individual has been operating a small underground crime syndicate in Elversult for the past year. We know something of Xiliath’s operations, but we know very little about the leader himself. Xiliath always deals through middle men and underlings. Rest assured, if we knew his true identity, or where to find him, the cult would have disposed of this upstart long ago.

“However, we do know that Xiliath runs his minor empire from the safety of the smugglers’ caves carved out beneath the city streets. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of their existence?”

Corin nodded. Every citizen of Elversult knew something of the legendary smugglers’ tunnels, a vast network of passages and caverns carved out beneath the city long ago by those who wished to traffic goods away from prying eyes. According to legend, over the centuries the tunnels became so infested with traps, monsters, and other dangers that even the smugglers themselves were no longer able to safely operate from them. Well over a hundred years ago, the labyrinth had been abandoned by the very smugglers who had created it.

Despite the almost universal knowledge of their existence, the citizens of Elversult knew almost nothing of the tunnels beyond the bards’ tales and ancient myths. The exits to the main streets were well hidden, and the rumors of deadly traps and horrific monsters left behind when the smugglers deserted their underground bases were enough to dissuade most people from seeking them out. Those few adventurous souls who did set off in search of the legendary caverns beneath the city never returned.

“As you must know,” Azlar continued, “the maze of tunnels has never been fully explored, and sending our

men in to flush Xiliath out was never worth the risk or the bother. In the past, the Cult of the Dragon regarded Xiliath as nothing more than a minor annoyance; far less troublesome to our cause than the Purple Masks, or Yanseldara’s she-bitch Vaerana Hawklyn and her Harper allies.

“But with the theft of our package, Xiliath has become much more than just a minor nuisance. The time has come to destroy his operations, if not the man himself.”

“How does this concern me?”

“Through means that do not concern you I have obtained a map of the tunnels. Specifically the section that makes up Xiliath’s lair. We will use this map when we move on his underground stronghold. However, given Fhazail’s recent treachery, I am reluctant to risk my men until I know the map is genuine.”

From his robes Azlar produced a rolled scroll. “Here is a copy of our map. You will infiltrate Xiliath’s base and verify the map’s accuracy for me.”