Beyond the door was a lavishly decorated room filled with thick rugs, wall hangings, soft chairs, and a couch overflowing with overstuffed cushions. A brazier warmed the dimly lit room and gave off the odor of incense. As Elmo took more careful stock of the place, he and Shanhaevel discovered delicacies, fine wines, and an assortment of fine serving pieces, including a set of silver goblets that were exquisitely wrought. In a cabinet along one wall was an alabaster box filled with rare and valuable unguents, as well as an assortment of loose gems and jewelry.
By far the most important discovery was a small writing desk that also served as a shrine. Shanhaevel blanched upon seeing it, shuddering.
“Boccob!” he muttered. “That’s a shrine to Lolth.”
“I know,” Elmo said. “We destroy that when we’re through in here.”
Shanhaevel spun to face the huge axeman. “How exactly do you know that? You are far more than a drunken farmer’s son. Admit it.”
Elmo didn’t look up from the sheaf of parchment he was beginning to go through. “Yes, far more, but it’s not a tale for right now. Later, I will explain to you. Look at this,” he said, changing the subject as he held up some of the papers. “Whatever we stumbled on to here today, it’s much bigger than just these troops.”
Shanhaevel stared at the big man for a moment longer, shaking his head in amazement, then turned his attention to what Elmo was trying to show him.
The papers held dues about Lareth’s recent activities in the area. The records and letters were written by someone named Hedrack, obviously Lareth’s superior, and they detailed plans for raiding caravan routes in the region. There was also mention of recruitment techniques, payment instructions for military troops, delivery schedules of various goods—armor, weapons, foodstuffs, and even slaves—and a long-term plan for the eventual destruction of Hommlet through the use of “elemental forces most powerful.” Unfortunately, locations were left vague, as though this Hedrack did not want anyone to trace them back to him. It was clear nonetheless that Lareth served a very secretive and powerful organization that was somewhere close by.
“The temple,” Shanhaevel surmised, sucking in his breath. “I’ll wager my right arm that’s where this Hedrack is.”
“I think you’re right,” Elmo replied, nodding, “and I bet that’s where Lareth went. Let’s tell the others.”
The companions deposited the bodies of the bandits in the swamp, wrapping the corpses in their bedrolls and weighing them down with rubble from the ruins so they would sink below the surface. Someone had wrapped Melias’ body in his cloak, as well, and he now lay stretched out near the entrance to the tunnel, waiting to be hauled out to the horses.
“Let’s go home,” Shirral said when they were done, suddenly looking sad again. “It’s getting late.”
Elmo nodded in agreement and stood. “I’ll get Melias.”
Carefully, the huge man hoisted the body of their leader up into his arms and headed out into the afternoon. Ahleage and Draga followed him, carrying a small chest with the valuables they had recovered from the place.
Shanhaevel was alone with Shirral. The elf looked over at the druid, who was biting her lip thoughtfully.
“Shirral,” Shanhaevel began, “what happened today… that wasn’t your fault. The lie Zert told us was right in front of us—in front of me—and we still fell for it—all of us. Stop blaming yourself.”
“At least you suspected. I was just a trusting fool. I talked him into going in there. I insisted on it, rode off with the man before Melias could argue with me. I was so damned sure I was right, and it cost Melias his life. I practically killed him myself.”
“No!” Shanhaevel shouted. He took the druid by the shoulders and made her look him squarely in the eye. “Shut up! You did no such thing.”
Shirral was crying now, big tears streaming down her face, but she said nothing, just bit her lip and looked away.
“We were doing what we thought was right,” the elf continued. “The people who know you, who care about you”—he emphasized these last words—“know better. So should you.”
Shirral looked at the wizard again, now, her blue eyes flashing as she deciphered the meaning of his words. “Care about me?”
Shanhaevel nodded, suddenly nervous. He covered it by saying, “Do you think Jaroo would blame you for what happened?” Would Lanithaine blame me?
She cocked her head to one side, as though realizing he was avoiding saying what he was really thinking. Yes, I care about you, the voice in his head said.
“I don’t know,” she said, and it was almost a whisper. “But he isn’t the one who just died because of my foolishness. You should stop thinking about me that way and go home.”
With that, she turned to leave. Shanhaevel let out the breath he had been holding.
“Wait!” he said, following her. They walked together out into the daylight. “Why? Are you saying there’s no reason for me to stay? None at all?”
Shirral looked at him again as they reached the road. “I’m saying that I won’t let there be one, not like this. Melias’ death hurts enough. I couldn’t bear watching someone I cared about die. I have my work with Jaroo. That’s all there can be for me. It’s safer that way.”
As she finished, the druid sped up, moving up the road and leaving Shanhaevel behind. The elf watched her walk away from him, feeling a dull pain in his chest, then slowly turned and followed her.
Back at the top of the rise, where the group had left their horses, Elmo was tying Melias’ body across the warrior’s saddle. Ahleage and Draga were securing the chest of goods to the packhorse, the spare that had been Lanithaine’s. Shirral was inspecting her mount, tightening a cinch here and there and shortening the stirrups more to her liking.
At that moment, the sound of a whinnying horse floated across the bog, and as one, the group turned, weapons drawn.
A powerfully built man approached along the path from Hommlet. He was wearing plate armor and sitting astride a horse so large and muscular that it was obvious it had been bred for war. The man had a shield slung over his back and a very fine looking sword belted to his hip. He looked road-weary and somewhat lost. He slowed the horse when he realized the group had spotted him. Slipping his riding gloves from his hands, he reached up and removed his open-faced helmet and scanned the group. He was clean-shaven and had short, curly black hair.
The stranger clicked his tongue, and his steed moved forward, right up to where Elmo stood, axe in hand.
“By Cuthbert, it’s true,” the stranger muttered, half to himself. His eyes were wide, and they flicked back forth among the companions, studying each in turn. “I will not doubt again, m’lord,” he added, still staring.
“Pardon?” Elmo said, staring back, a cautious, concerned look on his mien.
“Can we help you?” Shirral asked.
“I don’t know,” the man replied. “I hope so. I was sent to find you.”
“Find us?” Ahleage said, half smirking. “By whom?”
“By Saint Cuthbert, my god and guiding hand.”
“What?” Ahleage blurted, nearly choking. “Why would a god send you to find us?”
“I don’t know,” the stranger replied, smiling warmly. “I know it sounds bizarre, but he came to me in a dream, showed me your faces, and sent me here to find you.”
“Find us?” Elmo repeated, still holding his axe.
“Yes. I have seen each of you. A wizard with a silver mane, a rogue with a sharp tongue, a big man with an axe, a hairy fellow with a bow and a song in his heart, and a woman, a druid. He said I would need you, and you, me. There is work to be done, and I had to find you so that we can do it together.”