“Unless you can put out this fire, we have to get out of here!” Elmo moved beside him, helping the elf to his feet. “Everyone! Gather outside before they charge again!”
Shanhaevel scrambled through the hole that was once the front wall, keeping himself pressed well back from the flames, which were quickly growing to a roaring inferno.
Too fast, Shanhaevel considered in a daze as he watched the tongues of fire leap from spot to spot, licking the wood. It’s burning too fast. Elementals! he realized as he made it out into the snow of the yard. Creatures of flame were jumping round the ruin of the house, burning whatever they could. Dawn had broken, but the daylight was still weak and gray. Looking back, Shanhaevel watched as the rest of the companions fled the fiery farmhouse, which would be consumed in a matter of moments.
“Listen!” Elmo said, his voice loud in the early morning. The snow had stopped falling, at last, though now it was at mid-thigh on most of the group. In a softer voice, Elmo continued, “We make a stand here, right in the middle. Bow and sling fire first, and then we give them everything we’ve got left once they are in reach.”
“It’s no good,” Shirral panted. “All I have left are some healing spells and a couple of other things not useful in battle. Nothing I can do to them.”
“Then be ready with healing,” Elmo instructed. “Shanhaevel, whatever spells you still have, use them wisely.”
Everyone nodded and prepared for the final assault. Even though the snow had ceased falling, the smoke from the fire made the battleground just as hazy and difficult to see through as before. There was a guttural shout from in the distance, but it was not the order to attack. It was an angry sound, full of despair, hatred, and fury.
“Boccob! What was that?” Shanhaevel breathed, steeling himself for what was about to come, expecting some huge beast or thing summoned from the lower planes.
The first figure to appear through the thick, drifting smoke was not a terrible creature, however. It was a man upon a horse.
It was Lareth.
16
Shanhaevel stared at the priest. The once-handsome man was now horrible to look upon. His face bore scars inflicted by fire and sharp blades. Shanhaevel took an involuntary step back when he saw the feverish hatred in the man’s eyes. The other members of the Alliance saw it, too, for the elf heard several of his companions gasp, and no one made a move for several moments.
“Yes,” Lareth said, his once-honey voice now rough as gravel. Shanhaevel wondered what foul substances might have been poured down the man’s gullet to ruin the dulcet tones he remembered from before. “See what you have wrought upon me, what maiming you inflicted through your interference! Now you will suffer, as I suffered at your hands.”
Govin stepped forward, sword held high. “Nay, Lareth! These things you suffered were not our doing. You cannot blame us.”
“Wrong!” Lareth screamed, his eyes burning fiercely. “The pain! All the pain! And it was your faces I saw! Yours! You were there!”
“Think carefully.” Govin shook his head, apparently hoping he could still reason with the crazed cleric. “We did not defeat you, nor did we follow you from the moathouse. You fled, and someone else did these terrible things to you. We would not do those things. Only a cruel and hurtful master would visit such punishment, and a master like that does not deserve your loyalty. Cease this war, surrender to us, and we will help you. We will not mistreat you like the ones who scarred your face.”
Lareth seemed to listen to the knight for a moment, but when Govin reminded the priest of how his once-beautiful face was now ruined with scars, Lareth’s eyes blazed in crazed fury once more.
“Lies! I will not listen to them. You will die in the nodes of fire, water, earth, and air!”
Lareth’s horse reared on its hind legs, and the priest had to grab hold of the pommel of the saddle with both hands to keep from falling. Shanhaevel peered around, awaiting the inevitable approach of more of the enemy, but they never came. Aside from the roar of the flames and the stamping of the priest’s horse, it was strangely quiet.
A strong breeze wafted over the battleground, clearing the smoke and mist and giving the companions a better view of the carnage they had wrought. The land around the ruined farmhouse was literally piled with the bodies of the crazed priest’s army. The few left alive were fleeing into the woods. Only Lareth still stood fast, trying to regain control of his panicked and bucking mount. He was alone, facing all six of the companions.
The hatred still burned in the priest’s eyes, though it was now joined by something else, the elf saw. Lareth was afraid. He had witnessed six individuals defeat his army. Still, Lareth’s insane desire to destroy those whom he believed had maimed him drove him to hold his ground. His horse still seemed skittish, but Lareth maintained his position, glaring at the six of them.
“I will see you dead,” he spat, twirling his mace once. “I will destroy you and see your corpses delivered into the nodes!”
“Your lust for our blood will be your undoing, priest!” Govin roared, pointing an accusatory finger at Lareth. “We have defeated your army and bloodied your master. Do you think you, all by yourself, can hope to conquer us? We have the might of Saint Cuthbert to deliver victory into our hands! If you do not surrender, you will die!”
Snarling, Lareth stood in the stirrups and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Aid me, my mistress Lolth!”
Swinging his mace wildly over his head, Lareth spurred his horse forward. The six companions fanned out, weapons at the ready, as the crazed priest rushed them. Shanhaevel readied himself for the attack, but Lareth took his charge straight to Govin, who stood his ground, his body held low in a defensive crouch, sword ready to strike.
As Lareth reached the knight, Govin shifted to his right, darting directly in front of the charging horse. The mount whinnied and reared up, and Govin came in low, swinging his blade at Lareth. The knight caught the priest squarely in the chest with his blow, which shattered the man’s armor and threw a spray of blood into the air. The force of the blow sent Lareth flying backward into the snow. As the frightened mount skittered away, Govin closed on Lareth, who was struggling to rise to one knee, blood pulsing from his chest and staining the snow the color of wine.
“Aid me, my mistress Lolth!” Lareth repeated, his voice cracking with the strain of his mad bloodlust. He began muttering—casting a spell, Shanhaevel realized as he heard the sinister words. Lareth raised one hand at Govin even as his lifeblood spilled away into the frozen ground.
Before Lareth could complete his diabolical conjuring, though, Govin brought his sword back and swung it forward, grunting from the exertion. The blade cut cleanly, slicing through Lareth’s neck. The priest’s head tumbled away, as his body hovered, kneeling for a moment longer, and then finally toppled over into the crimson-tinged drifts of snow.
Hedrack paced in his chambers as he watched Falrinth, impatient for news. In the middle of the floor, the wizard knelt upon several thick cushions, his hands clasped before him. He seemed to be in a trance, his eyes unblinking, focused on nothing.
The high priest felt a sudden tingling, a magical connection that made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Lareth was dead, Hedrack knew, and he smiled, wondering if the spider bitch knew what he had done to her servant. But first, Hedrack needed to know the outcome of the battle above. With an anxious growl, he spun on his heel and faced the wizard.
“What do you see up there?” he asked Falrinth. “How does the battle fare? Do we have victory?”
The wizard jerked as though he’d been awakened from dozing. “No. They stand, and the army has broken and fled. Lareth is dead.”