Temple Hill (4 page)

On his feet again, facing his opponents, Corin knew his chance had come and gone. The Mace Corin had dazed with the flat of his sword had risen to his feet. The young man with the broken nose was also up again, the front of his armor coated in blood. The two men now stood in formation with their captain and the fourth man who had survived Corin’s initial assault. Reckless fury and the element of surprise had been Corin’s only advantages, but his first mad rush had succeeded in incapacitating only one of his five opponents. Now with his sword out of reach on the ground Corin was weaponless, and confronting four armed and ready guards in battle formation.

The Maces advanced cautiously, spreading out into a wide semicircle. Corin could do little but wait for what he knew would be a coordinated attack he couldn’t possibly hope to ward off.

The young one, Gareth, screamed and dropped his weapon. Hopping on one leg, he clutched at his other foot, the hilt of a tiny poniard protruding from the tongue of his boot. Blood from the deep stab wound was already soaking through the leather.

Gareth’s unexpected scream attracted the attention of everyone; the Maces, the unruly spectators encircling the battle, even Corin. All eyes turning to the injured man noticed the small blonde figure scampering away on all fours, trying to disappear once again into the crowd after her successful sneak attack.

One of the Maces lunged after her, breaking formation. Corin threw himself at the captain, knocking her over. He didn’t even break stride, but continued his rampage straight into the crowd, his momentum knocking several of those in the front ranks from their feet.

The crowd surged around him, grasping and grabbing at his clothes, trying to apprehend him—or at least push

him back into the battle with the city guards. Others tackled the Maces who waded in after him, eager to strike an anonymous blow against Elversult’s official guard. Mob mentality gripped the spectators, many of them still remembering the good old days when street brawls were the norm. Corin couldn’t say how it started— an errant elbow, a careless boot tripping someone up— but a full-scale riot broke out within seconds.

Pandemonium swept the Fair. Those in the crowd trying to bring Corin down were attacked by others who wanted him to escape. The Maces disappeared under a wave of both foes and allies jumping into the fray, and Corin himself was buried beneath a press of bodies, indiscriminately punching and kicking at anything • within range.

Corin lashed out without rhyme or reason, trying to clear enough space to get to his feet. Above the shouts and cries of the mob, Corin heard the shrill sound of the Maces’ warning whistles. The three short blasts calling for help told Corin that reinforcements were only minutes away.

Fortunately, most of the crowd knew what the whistles meant as well. In accordance with Yanseldara’s orders, violence in the streets was dealt with swiftly and harshly. The soon to be arriving Maces were liable to try and restore order by arresting everyone who happened to be at the scene of the crime. Most of Elversult’s population, despite the increase in “legitimate” commerce, still had a few reasons to try to avoid being picked up in a general sweep by the authorities.

The chaos and confusion of several hundred people simultaneously trying to vacate the Fair worked to Corin’s advantage. No longer the center of attention, he was able to get back to his feet. He stayed low … working his way with purpose and determination through the

panicked masses toward one of the many side streets leading out of Elversult’s open air market.

While crouching down, Corin spotted the blonde woman who had started the whole mess. She was also in a crouch, frantically signaling to him through the maze of running legs and falling bodies. Once she realized she had his attention she pointed down a narrow side lane. Corin couldn’t hear her above the shouts and screams of the mob, or the shrieking whistles of the converging Mace patrols as they signaled to each other, but he could read her lips.

This way. The alley is clear.”

Staying low to avoid attracting the attention of the Maces, Corin pushed his way through the panicked crowd. The effects of his afternoon drinking binge still lingered in his system and several times he was knocked from his unsteady feet, but each time he would kick and claw his way from beneath the boots of the rabble. With a final lunge he burst from the crowd into the nearly deserted alley where the blonde girl was waiting for him.

In reality, the alley was nothing more than a narrow corridor between a pair of three story buildings. It was filled with refuse and waste, and when the stench hit Corin’s nostrils it was all he could do to keep from expelling the contents of his stomach onto his boots.

The lane was half hidden in shadows, but as Corin’s eyes adjusted he could see that the far end was sealed off with a twenty foot stone wall.

“It’s a dead end!” he exclaimed accusingly. “We have to find another way out.”

His guide shook her head emphatically.

“There is no other way out. By now the Maces will have set up road blocks and checkpoints along all the streets leading out of the Fair. And it won’t be long until

they organize themselves and start a systematic search for us through the crowd.”

Corin snorted in disgust, almost retching as the foul air assailed his senses yet again.

“So we’re just supposed to hide in here? Bury ourselves in the garbage and hope they eventually give up looking for us?”

The woman smiled, then began digging through the garbage along one of the walls. Corin shook his head in disbelief. She might have saved him from being beaten into submission, but cowering in a rotting back street wasn’t his idea of an escape.

“Got it!” the woman exclaimed triumphantly, emerging from her digging with a tangled bundle of rope and wooden slats. Corin noticed two metal grappling hooks on the end.

“Help me untangle this ladder,” she ordered.

Corin did his best, but between the alcohol and his amputation he proved to be more hindrance than help. Despite his ineffective efforts, the woman managed to unravel the ladder after only a few seconds. She dragged it over to the wall at the far end of the alley and—with a casual grace that spoke of years of practice—tossed the grappling hooks over the top of the wall. She pulled twice on the ladder to insure the anchors would hold, then began to climb.

Corin hesitated before following. He wasn’t fond of heights at the best of times, and he definitely didn’t relish the idea of being on top of the high wall while intoxicated.

Halfway up already, the woman glanced back down over her shoulder, obviously sensing his reluctance. “Once we’re at the top, well just drop the ladder down the other side. It’s our only way out.” She paused for a second, her eyes shifting to focus on Corin’s amputated stump. “I mean … it’s a way out if you can manage the climb.”

Corin glared up at her and grabbed one of the rungs with his left hand. “You just lead the way. I’ll keep up.”

ŚSilt took less than a minute until Lhasha and her new companion were safely on the other side of the wall, standing in an alley very similar to the one they had just escaped from. Lhasha was impressed with how easily the one-handed man managed to climb up and down the ladder. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised—not after seeing how he’d overpowered the Maces.

Beyond the wall the sounds of a full blown riot breaking out in the Fair could be heard. By the time the Maces restored order, Lhasha planned to be far, far away. She gave the ladder a firm snap, sending a rippling wave along its length. The grappling hooks on top came loose and fell at her feet with a loud clank.

“Thanks for rescuing me back there,” she said as she rolled up the ladder. “They would have dragged me off to the Jailgates if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he replied gruffly. “I don’t like the Maces.”

Quite the understatement, Lhasha thought. “Whatever the reason, I appreciate it.”

The man initially made no response. After several seconds of awkward silence he conceded in a grudging tone.

“I guess I should thank you for getting me out of that mob before the Maces found me. How did you know the ladder would be there, half-elf?”

Lhasha was momentarily taken aback. Few people noticed her mixed heritage. True, she was small and slight, but her features strongly favored her human father. People usually noticed her outlandish clothing, not the subtle characteristics—like the faint violet hue in

her eyes, or the slight point of her ears—that betrayed her mixed heritage.

“My name is Lhasha, not Half-elf, and I put the ladder there long time ago. I used to work the Fair, in my younger days. I always wanted to have an emergency way out, in case something like this happened.”

“You are a pickpocket!” he exclaimed, his good hand dropping to his belt to check on his purse. In a cold voice he added, “So you were trying to rob me.”

Lhasha’s back was to the wall they had just climbed. The man was between her and the alley’s narrow exit to the main street. She noticed his sword was missing—he must have lost it in the fight. He was at least twice her size, and from his expressionless tone she had .no idea what he was thinking. She chose her words very carefully.

“Actually, I wasn’t trying to pick your pocket. I was trying to give your money back. It fell from your belt.”

He grunted in reply, obviously not buying her story.

She decided to come clean. “All right, I admit I did steal your purse. But when I saw you only had one hand, I tried to give it back.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he spat at her. “You should have kept it—I’m not a beggar.”

“Could have fooled me,” Lhasha shot back. “Not even enough coppers to buy a decent meal!” Instantly, she regretted her words.

Rage twisted the man’s features into a grimace of primal fury, and he raised his good hand in a clenched fist above his head. But as quickly as the rage came, it vanished, replaced on his countenance by defeat and resignation. His hand dropped back to his side, his shoulders slumped.

“So this is what I’ve become, Corin the Pitiful.” he muttered.

He turned from her and began to shuffle away down the alley. Lhasha caught up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. She knew what it was like to be beaten down by life. She knew the value of a compassionate hand to help you up.

“Corin… wait. I have a friend, a priest. Maybe he can help you.”

Corin turned back and smiled at her, but it was a bitter, hopeless smile. “No priest can help me. I spent everything I owned on clerics of the Morninglord, and all I have to show for it is an empty purse—as you know all too well.”

“Fve seen you with a sword,” Lhasha said, trying to encourage him. “You don’t have to live a life of poverty. You’re good. Good enough to still be working as a mercenary. “

Corin gave a caustic laugh. “You think I don’t know that? But would you hire me with this?” He raised his stump for effect. “I’m not a stray dog, half-elf. You don’t need to look after me.”

Despite his rebuke, Lhasha still wanted to help him— she owed him for saving her from the Maces. But sometimes a compassionate helping hand was less effective than a swift boot in the breeches. When she spoke again her words were angry.

“Life gave you a tough … deal.” She almost said “hand.” “Now you’re using that as an excuse to give up. You don’t want my pity because you’re too busy pitying yourself!”

Corin snorted in disgust. “You have all the answers, don’t you? But it’s not that simple. My life is … complicated.”

Lhasha refused to be cowed. “Complicated? Really? Then explain it to me!”

“If you want a tale, go find a bard,” he snarled, and turned his back on her again.

Lhasha could no longer hear the sounds of the unruly crowd coming from behind the alley wall.

“The Maces have things under control,” she called out as he walked away, “soon they will be looking for us. I know somewhere we can go and be safe.”

The man hesitated, then turned to face her.

“I’m not a charity case.”

“Just paying you back for saving me in the Fair,” she assured him. “Come with me,” Lhasha urged, still convinced Fendel could do something about Corin’s arm. “The fight with the Maces was as much my fault as yours. The least I can do is get you safely away from here.”

“And where shall we go, half… Lhasha?”

“The friend I mentioned earlier. Fendel. He will help us.”

“The cleric?”

“A cleric,” Lhasha admitted, “but one unlike any you’ve ever met.”

The alley Corin and Lhasha used to make their escape was on the north side of the Fair. Corin didn’t know where Lhasha planned to take him, but if her friend was a priest there was a good chance he’d be found at Temple Hill … on the south side of the Fair.

Lhasha led the way, winding through little-used streets and shadowy back lanes. The description the Maces would provide to their patrols might be sketchy, but Corin knew as a pair they were hard to miss. The half-elf would draw enough attention on her own—an attractive young blonde with long hair and fair skin was sure to draw the eye of every man they passed, and her garish clothing only made her stand out from the crowd even more. As for his own description, Corin knew there weren’t too many one-armed men wandering around the city streets.

Corin’s suspicions about their destination were eventually confirmed. Lhasha’s course took them around Elversult’s huge open-air market, to the shops and buildings built beneath, in the shadow of Temple Hill. Corin remained silent as bitter memories welled up in his mind, bubbling to the surface at the sight of the all too familiar

surroundings. Through the tightly packed buildings on the narrow streets in the center of town, he caught glimpses of the foot trail snaking its way up to the top of the barren tor. Looking up, he could make out the silhouette of Lathander’s Church in the late afternoon sun.

How many times had he made the trek up that bill, humbling himself before the priests of Lathander? Corin tried to ignore the foul taste welling up from his stomach, tried to block out the dark memories. But the fight in the Fair had sobered him up. The effects of his morning drinking binge were fading. As the veil of alcohol faded, he saw the past was still there waiting for him— just as it always was.