There was a glint of bluish silver in Elmo’s hand as he embraced Turuko, and the monk went suddenly still, his eyes glazed over in surprise. He looked into Elmo’s eyes, his own betraying the pain he felt. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound issued forth, and then he sagged. Elmo let him slide to the flagstones, the huge man’s dagger protruding from his chest.
Turning back to the one remaining foe, Shanhaevel saw that the magical darkness Lareth had used to escape had dissipated. Ahleage slumped against a wall, alive but holding his head, where a trickle of blood ran into his face. Of the dark priest himself, there was no sign. Shirral huddled over Melias. The warrior was sprawled on his back, his one good eye staring at the ceiling. He was still breathing shallowly.
Shanhaevel knelt beside Shirral and looked at Melias, trying not to let his horror show on his face. The druid had the soldier’s hand in her own, but she was only crying. The others knelt down beside Melias, speaking soothing words to the warrior, but it was obvious to all of them that he was nearly gone.
“That bastard Kobort and his two companions had better be very dead,” Ahleage said, struggling to his feet and joining the rest of them.
“They are,” Elmo said, cradling Melias’ head in his lap. “Lareth will join them soon, I promise you.”
“I can’t save him,” Shirral growled through clenched teeth. She hung her head and sobbed. “My healing isn’t strong enough.”
Melias tried to speak, but his words were little more than a gurgle. Shanhaevel and the others leaned in, listening closely.
“K-key,” Melias whispered, laboring to breathe. “Find… key. Pl-please.”
His head slumped back into Elmo’s lap, then, and his hand slipped from Shirral’s grasp. His eye still stared at the ceiling, but it was unseeing now. With a final wet sigh, his last breath left his body.
9
Ahleage, the muscles in his jaw clenched and flexing, rose to his feet and turned away from Melias’ body. He stomped to the other side of the room and paced. Draga stood off to the side, a respectful look on his face, but he said nothing. Elmo reached down and carefully pulled the warrior’s cloak over his face. Shirral cried quietly.
What the hells do we do, now? Shanhaevel wondered, feeling the all-too-familiar and fresh ache in his chest. It’s Lanithaine all over again. Only this time, everyone feels it. Is this all there is? Pain and death? If that’s all we have to look forward to on this expedition, then I should just go home. There’s no more reason to stay, anyway.
Except there was, the elf realized. There was Shirral. He sighed, unsure if he wanted to leave, and that surprised him more than anything. I didn’t think I would hear myself saying that, he reflected. But there it was. The thought of leaving Shirral made the pit of his stomach roil. Still, the thought of telling her how he felt made it roil even more.
Instead of trying, the wizard laid a soft hand on Shirral’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “You did what you could,” he said softly. “Without your other magic, your blade of flame, we would have all died at their hands.”
Shirral nodded but did not look up. “Jaroo has tried to get me to study more,” she said at last, “to work on tuning my energy so I can cast more powerful spells. I never wanted to take the time, though.” She sniffed and turned to look at Shanhaevel. “If I had, I would have had something to aid him.” Her eyes did not sparkle now. They were clouded and red-rimmed with sadness.
He could only nod and say, “I wanted something last night, too—on the road, when Lanithaine died… something, anything, to keep him alive. I didn’t have it. Sooner or later, we all discover that power isn’t enough. Lanithaine often told me that power is not what defines us. It’s what you do with what you have that makes you who you are. Right now, everyone else needs your skills. You still have the ability to help them. You need someone to tend to your wound.” He gestured to the druid’s blood-soaked shoulder.
Shirral looked at him for a moment, then nodded and replied, “I don’t ever want to feel this… inadequate again.” With that, she stood. Before she moved to aid the wounded, she looked back over her shoulder at him and said, “I led us here. I was the one who said we couldn’t let Zert die. Melias wanted to be cautious, and I wouldn’t let him. It’s my fault,”
Shanhaevel started to shake his head, to tell her that it was his fault, not hers, that if he had realized Zert’s lie in time they would never have been ambushed, but she had already turned away again, and the words died in his throat. Sighing, he stood up and looked around, seeing what he could do to help.
Ahleage and Draga went from body to body, making sure there were no survivors. Shanhaevel realized the three gnolls he had subjected to his magical sleep were gone. They must have awakened and slipped away during the fight. Or they could be hiding somewhere, waiting until our guard is down. He told this to the others, cautioning them all to be careful.
Shirral administered to Elmo’s injury, first. The huge man took a deep breath, then yanked the bolt free, grimacing from obvious pain. Muttering under her breath, Shirral laid her hands softly upon the puncture wound, and a soft glow emanated from the spot. A moment later, Elmo was up and testing his leg, walking back and forth with noticeably less of a limp. The huge man smiled at Shirral, but she was swooning, and he had to catch her.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Elmo said, lowering her to the floor as Shanhaevel rushed to her side, his heart pounding.
Not her, too! he thought in a panic as knelt down next to her.
“Shanhaevel, look in Melias’ pack,” Elmo ordered. “He had magical healing elixirs in there somewhere.”
Shanhaevel moved quickly to the dead soldier and removed the man’s backpack. Hurrying back to Shirral’s side, he rooted through the gear, pausing for only a moment to peer at a finely worked scroll case before shoving it aside and continuing to dig until he found a small stopped bottle. Holding it up, he asked Elmo, “This?” to which the huge axeman nodded.
“Shirral, you have to drink this,” Shanhaevel said, holding the bottle to the druid’s lips. It smelled of cinnamon and ash, he noted as he carefully poured it into her mouth. As she sipped it, a soft, blue glow rose from Shirral, concentrating on her wounded shoulder. A few moments later, she was sitting up.
“Don’t scare me like that,” Shanhaevel told her. She looked at him quizzically but assured the wizard she was all right.
When Ahleage and Draga confirmed that there were no enemies still alive, Elmo moved over to Turuko’s body and ripped the dagger from the monk’s chest.
“We should pitch these”—he gestured at the dead bandits—“into the marsh. Let the swamp eat them. And we must take Melias back to Hommlet. He deserves a hero’s funeral. But first, we have to find out what we can about this Lareth.”
“Fine with me,” Ahleage said. He dropped down beside one of the bandit’s corpses and began to search through the man’s clothing. “First things, first. They won’t be needing any of this stuff, anymore,” he said, pulling a small pouch of coins free, “and it’s small payment for what they cost us.”
“I’ll watch the entrance,” Draga said, moving down the passageway out, “to make sure no one else sneaks up on us.”
Shanhaevel stared at Elmo’s back, somehow not surprised by the big man’s sudden take-charge attitude. I knew there was more to him than he’s been letting on, the elf thought as he followed him into the priest’s lair.