The Temple of Yellow Skulls (3 page)

All three groups had different quests. Albanon and Roghar pursued Nu Alin and Tempest, of course, while Uldane and Shara sought a green dragon, Vestapalk, who had slaughtered friends and family. Falon and Darrum, on the run from undead creatures intent on killing the cleric, were searching for a way to end the attacks. Erak was the lodestone that drew their quests together, showing them how their goals intersected. In the tunnels beneath Thunderspire Mountain, they’d freed Tempest and driven off Nu Alin. Beyond the mountain, among the Old Hills, they’d descended into a vast, ancient necropolis. There, with Erak’s help, Falon and Darrum had fought a powerful undead wizard, a lich by their description, which meant that his defeat was no mean feat. Albanon and the others, meanwhile, had tangled with Vestapalk, ultimately sending the dragon plummeting to his doom in a deep crevasse.

And Uldane had been exaggerating: Albanon hadn’t killed the dragon. Shara had been the one to deliver the death blow. He had just helped. It had been exhilarating, though,
an exhilaration that had lasted the entire journey back to Fallcrest—where he and Roghar were promptly thrown into the dungeons of the town’s keep for Moorin’s murder. They’d shivered in the dank darkness for nearly a week before their new friends had managed to persuade the Lord Warden of Fallcrest of the truth of the matter.

But the damage had been done. It was easier for the people of Fallcrest to cast suspicion on a disgraced apprentice and an unfamiliar dragonborn than it was to believe in a shapeless body-stealing blob of liquid crystal. Their whispers and glances had followed Albanon since the moment he was set free.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Albanon looked deep into his ale and sighed. Only a week after his release from the town dungeons, his companions had started drifting away.

Erak had never made it back from the necropolis beneath the Old Hills. The revenant had seemingly vanished and all of them assumed that the god he’d served had granted him a return to the peace of the grave. Falon and Darrum had been the next to leave, departing Fallcrest for the northern lake town of Nenlast, where Falon said he had to take care of “family business”—the young cleric, they’d all discovered, was actually the last heir to the fallen Empire of Nerath. He had declined offers of assistance, however, insisting that it really was just a family matter and promising to return when it was concluded.

Roghar and Tempest had left a few days later. Albanon could no more blame them than he could Falon and Darrum. At first, Tempest had seemed to recover fully after serving as unwilling host for more than a week to the foul Nu Alin. But then the nightmares had started, memories of the thing that had taken control of her body. Nu Alin’s alien thoughts haunted her. “It was a person once, I think,” the tiefling had said one night.
“It thought of itself as a man—or at least, male. But that must have been a long time ago. It was
old.”
She’d swallowed hard. “It is old. We didn’t kill it, did we? I feel like it’s coming for me. It’s going to come back and take me again. I’m sorry, I just can’t stay here. I need to put some distance between me and it before I can even think about finding peace.”

She’d cried, and Albanon couldn’t help but think that it was the first time he’d ever seen a devil-blooded tiefling do that. Roghar, her closest friend, had folded her in strong arms. The next morning, they’d boarded one of the riverboats and headed downstream for the distant city of Nera, ancient capital of the fallen empire of Nerath. Tempest had waved from the deck, already relieved at putting distance between her and whatever remained of Nu Alin.

And that had just left Albanon, Uldane, and Shara in Fallcrest.

But not for much longer, if they could help it. Albanon risked a glance up and was relieved to find that the patrons of the Blue Moon had finally turned away from him—for the moment, at least. He sat up straighter and brushed back his hair. Two weeks had passed since Tempest and Roghar’s departure. Shara and Uldane were growing restless. Used to life on the road as adventurers and swords for hire, they were starting to find Fallcrest claustrophobic.

And after another two weeks of glances and whispers, he had to admit that he was, too. Before Moorin’s death, he’d sometimes contemplated a life of adventure, but even now the battle with Vestapalk seemed almost like a dream. Something that had happened to someone else. It had taken those weeks for him to realize that it was time to look beyond Fallcrest. The town would still be his home. The tower that had belonged to Moorin—and now belonged to him, it seemed—could still
serve as a base. After what he had experienced, though, he was no longer, as the baker had said, normal folk.

All they needed was a focus, a destination, and that’s where Shara was right now: following up leads in an attempt to locate something suitable to their skills. The warrior-woman was hardly much older than Albanon himself, but she had a certainty and experience that he couldn’t have matched. She had assumed leadership of their group even before the others had left. When she returned, she’d have a quest in hand, and then … then they would make preparations to put Fallcrest behind them.

The idea raised Albanon’s spirits. Soon they’d be leaving the normal folk to their normal lives and heading out in search of adventure, the stuff of bards’ tales. A smile spread itself across his face. He drained his tankard of ale and slammed it down on the table with a decisive, triumphant thump.

“You! Eladrin!”

Albanon looked up and flinched. Kossley Varn stood over him, one meaty hand gripping the ivory-handled dagger, the other clamped firmly onto Uldane’s shoulder.

The alehouse went silent. Albanon started to stand, but Kossley shoved his coarse face into the eladrin’s, forcing him back down. “This halfling,” he growled, “says you wanted him to give me this dagger.” He slammed the blade into the tabletop just past Albanon’s shoulder. To Albanon’s relief, he left it there, quivering metal flashing in the lantern light. “Is that true?”

Thoughts of adventure, fame, and fortune vanished from Albanon’s mind. The hero who had faced down a dragon disappeared, leaving only Moorin’s apprentice to fumble for words. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say—”

Kossley thrust his face close again, close enough for Albanon to smell onions and ale on his breath. “And just how did you manage to come by my dagger?”

Albanon shot a glance at Uldane. The halfling was grinning, enjoying this little confrontation. Of course he would. He’d already done his best to weasel out of it. Albanon clenched his teeth and said through them, “You don’t have the whole story, Master Varn.”

“Don’t I?” the farmer said. He turned Uldane loose and leaned down with his hands on either side of Albanon. “Tell it to me then. What game are you playing? Were you hoping to get a reward out of me? Something for finding my ‘lost’ dagger?” The spells that he had worked for so long to master rose in Albanon’s mind. Spells to burn, to hurl arcane energy, to call down bone-chilling cold. Any one of them could have driven Kossley Varn back in a heartbeat and left him hurting as well. Moorin’s lessons had been about more than manipulating magic, though. They’d been about controlling it—and himself. Albanon sat back and drew a slow breath. Revealing Uldane’s theft of the dagger wouldn’t do them any good. He needed to talk his way out of this on his own.

“I had no intention of asking for a reward,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I simply recognized the dagger and knew that you’d want it back.”

“Oh, and how did you happen to recognize it? Been sizing me up as an easy mark, have you? I know your type, boy.”

Albanon sat forward again, anger rising again. “I recognized your dagger because you show it off every chance you get, you foul-tempered—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Kossley stood straight and turned to face … Shara.

For a moment, his mouth hung open. Albanon had seen that reaction before from men confronting Shara for the first time. With thick red hair, a pretty face, and a subtly muscled, curvaceous body that was emphasized rather than hidden by her light armor, she was a stunning sight. She wasn’t afraid to take advantage of her appearance, either. Hands on her hips, she held Kossley in a strong, proud gaze, challenging him to challenge her.

Unfortunately, Kossley Varn was ornery enough to try it. The slackness left his mouth. “Stay out of this,” he said. He turned back to Albanon.

Shara put a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back around to her. Kossley’s mouth fell open for a second time. Shara’s muscles might have been subtle but her strength was very real. So was her resolve, as hard and sharp as the greatsword strapped across her back.

“These are my friends,” she said. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Kossley opened and closed his mouth several times, and his eyes darted around the room as if sizing up his options for dealing with this redheaded force of nature. A number of the other patrons of the Blue Moon were starting to look away and, leaning over the bar, the alehouse’s owner was having urgent words with a dwarf Albanon knew to be a sergeant of the Fallcrest guards. Kossley licked his lips, and Albanon could guess at the thoughts running through his head. He might have been rich and powerful but at that moment, he was the one shouting accusations and threatening a peaceful—if recently imprisoned—man for the slightly dubious crime of trying to return a lost dagger.

Albanon held back a smile as Kossley Varn gathered himself up and shrugged off Shara’s hand. “There’s no trouble,” he said. “Just a misunderstanding.” The farmer reached past Albanon,
jerked his dagger out of the tabletop, and stomped back to his own table.

Sound returned to the crowd, though not quite in time to muffle the loud sigh of relief from the Blue Moon’s owner at a fight averted. Only Uldane seemed disappointed. “Nothing ever happens around here!” he said in complaint.

Shara’s hand caught him by the same shoulder Kossley had held and steered him to a chair. “Nothing that you don’t start,” she said. Uldane made a noise of protest, but Shara just glared at him. “I don’t want to hear it.” She turned her gaze to Albanon. “You kept your head. I’m glad I’ve got one person I can count on.”

“Thanks.” Albanon looked at the scar the dagger had left in the table and winced. “I think the sooner we’re out of Fallcrest for a while, the better. What did you find out?”

Shara sighed and took one of the other chairs. “We’re not leaving yet.”

“What?” Uldane yelped. He bumped his head against the tabletop. “No. No. No.”

Shara grabbed the back of his collar. “Calm down. It’s just temporary. Something’s going to turn up.”

Eventually, Albanon knew, something would turn up. It had to. Fallcrest stood at the center of the Nentir Vale, the largest town in the region. Under Shara’s brave expression, however, he could see the disappointment that haunted her face. She’d assumed leadership of their group, but she wasn’t filling the role. He’d learned enough of her background to discover that her father, killed by Vestapalk, had himself been an adventurer of some renown. He’d trained Shara. One of the others killed by Vestapalk had been a man named Jarren, a fighter of some skill. He’d also been Shara’s love.

She had a lot to live up to—in her own mind, at least.

“What did you find out?” Albanon asked. He knew a thing or two about trying to live up to expectations. The question would give Shara something to think about, a chance to remember what she had accomplished rather than what she hadn’t.

She shrugged and sat back. “Nothing new. Things are quiet just now,” she said. “There were bandit attacks not long ago east of Fallcrest, but they’ve gone to ground. There are goblins in the forest to the south, but they’re busy fighting the Woodsinger elves. The lizardfolk that hunt the Witchlight Fens are quiet. Even the kobolds in Kobold Hall over in the Cloak Wood are keeping their heads down.”

“Maybe they heard about what we did to Vestapalk,” said Uldane, looking up from his folded arms. “Maybe they’re afraid of us.”

“Wishful thinking,” Albanon pointed out.

“Killing a dragon has to count for something!”

“It does,” said a new voice.

They all looked up at the stranger who stood, a respectful sword’s length, back from the table. A big man, he stood at least as tall as Shara and maybe as tall as Roghar, with shoulders almost as wide as the dragonborn’s. His hair was dense and shaggy, touched with just a little gray at the temples. More gray like ashes stood out in the heavy stubble on his face. His eyes, sharp and focused, were gray as well, giving him the unnerving stare of the pale-eyed. Twin axes were slung over his hips, and although he wore no armor, he carried himself in a way that said he knew how to wear it. As he stepped closer to the table, Albanon caught the distinct odor of tar and muddy water that clung to him. The smells of a riverboat—one must have just arrived in town. The stranger
met his curious gaze and held it for a moment, but his eyes moved on to Shara.

“Among those with the strength to test themselves,” he said, voice growling low in his chest, “fighting and besting a dragon will always be worthy of respect.”

“We didn’t do it alone,” said Shara. “We had the help of friends.”

“So I’ve been led to understand. One of the water rats on my boat coming upriver considered himself a bard, but he seemed more of a gossip. I’m happy to see he wasn’t just making it all up.” He smiled, showing startlingly white teeth. “Assuming you are, in fact, Shara, daughter of the ranger Borojon.”

Shara’s expression flickered at her father’s name, but her eyes narrowed as well. “If I am,” she said, “then you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

The stranger pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “Raid,” he said. “Hakken Raid.”

His familiarity in joining them surprised Albanon for a moment, but there was something in Raid’s manner that soothed the irritation like salve on a burn. The broad smile, the piercing pale eyes, the confident voice—Hakken Raid, Albanon guessed, was a natural leader, born to take command. Not that Shara hadn’t been trying her best, but Raid was easy, almost casual about it.