“Here!” the elf cried softly, pointing. “It’s right here. Push!”
As one, the companions found places and pushed. Slowly—far too slowly for Shanhaevel—a section of the wall pivoted inward.
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Govin was the first one through, gesturing for the others to follow him. When the last person was safely beyond the portal, Draga pushed it shut again.
When it finally closed with a slight click, the bowman sank down with a weary sigh. “That was close,” he said, looking at his companions. “Too close.”
Everyone nodded as Shanhaevel peered around. It was an odd-shaped room, all uneven angles and corners, and it had the appearance of not having been used since the temple fell ten years ago. The place had the look and feel of a chapel, and it even had an altar covered with a snowy white cloth that had been inscribed with red runes:
Venerate This Shrine of Good.
Then Haste Away, All Ye
Of True And Good Faith!
A statue of Pholtus, god of the blinding light, had been placed in a niche in the wall. A large silver staff topped by a large disk—known as the Staff of the Silvery Sun, the symbol of Pholtus—hung upon the western surface. Other wall hangings gave the room a peaceful feel that seemed out of place after the oppressive dread of the temple.
“How did you know?” Ahleage gasped, sinking down to the floor and stretching his legs out before him. Perspiration beaded on his forehead.
Govin shook his head. “I don’t know. I just felt it.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Saint Cuthbert, for your guiding hand.”
“It might be Pholtus you should be thanking,” Elmo replied dryly, pointing to the symbols.
Govin nodded. “The energies of many holy beings may lend a hand during times of true need. My thanks extend to all of them.”
“So,” Shirral said, slumping down in her own spot, “what now?”
“We wait, rest,” Elmo answered, finding a spot of his own and setting his lantern down before laying his axe gently on the floor. “Are we safe here?”
“Yes,” Govin replied. “That thing will not enter, I think. This place feels consecrated, and Lareth’s spirit may not pass into it.”
“That won’t stop something else,” Shanhaevel pointed out. “Something… alive.” He shuddered.
“That something has to find us, first,” Ahleage muttered, closing his eyes. “But damned if I know how to get back out again.”
The group fell silent, and eventually, everyone caught their breath. They broke out a meager meal to share, and when they were done, they settled in to wait.
Draga pulled out the small wooden instrument he had been working on. He played a few notes, but somehow, the tones sounded hollow and weak, and he put the thing away again, looking forlorn.
Shanhaevel, in an effort to pass the time, paced through the room, examining the various trappings of the chapel, wondering how anyone might have managed to transport all of this into the bowels of the temple without notice. As he was studying the silver symbol, he caught sight of a tiny ring of metal that had been partially hidden behind the intersection of the staff and disk. Reaching up, he took hold of the ring and tried to pull it free. As he drew the ring out from its hiding place, he discovered that it was connected to a length of steel thread that went back into the wall. Upon pulling on it, there was an audible click, and a section of the wall swung open next to the elf.
“What did you do?” Ahleage exclaimed, jumping to his feet, his sword in his hand. “Another one! You found another one!”
“Careful,” Govin said, rising to his feet as well. “I have a great sense of unease about whatever’s beyond there.”
Collecting themselves, the six friends moved cautiously toward the secret door and peered inside.
The six-sided chamber beyond was inky black, and it appeared to be empty except for a lone skeleton stretched out near the door. Shanhaevel shuddered. The place had an eerie feel to it, something he could not quite put his finger on. As the group moved farther into the chamber, the elf spotted a coffin resting against the far wall, its lid closed and buckled. The rest of the companions spotted this, too, and the whole group approached the sarcophagus cautiously. The lid had a silver cross inlaid into its surface, and there was a scroll case lying atop it.
“How strange,” Shirral breathed, reaching out to gently poke at the scroll case with her blade. “Why would there be a tomb here, hidden behind that chapel?”
“And who was the poor fellow by the door?” Ahleage asked.
“I don’t like this,” Govin said. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Should we open it?” Ahleage asked, flicking daggers in and out of his sleeves in nervousness.
“Yes.” Govin nodded. “I think we should. But let’s be prepared. Draga and Ahleage, be ready with your bows. Elmo, Shirral, and Shanhaevel, you open it on the count of three.”
Surrounding the sarcophagus, they took a collective deep breath, unfastened the locks, and prepared to remove the lid.
“On the count of three,” Govin whispered, “we flip it open. Ready?”
Everyone nodded and took hold of an edge. Shanhaevel half-expected something to rise out of the coffin and lunge at him. Tightening his grip, he waited for the knight’s countdown.
“One,” Govin said.
Shanhaevel took a deep breath.
“Two.”
“Three!”
The lid went tumbling to the side, and three companions scattered while the other three prepared to attack. Govin tensed, then paused and stared curiously down at the inside of the coffin.
Shanhaevel peered inside from several feet away, rising up on tiptoe to get a better look. It was a man—a very handsome man, in fact. Far from being dead, the fellow looked healthy and strong, if unconscious. He was clad in fine mail with a white surcoat, and it took the elf a moment to register the crest upon the breast. The arms of Furyondy and Veluna, as well as the Knights of the Hart were there.
Two royal houses and a knightly order, the wizard realized.
“My god!” Elmo said, stumbling to one knee and getting a closer look.
“What is it, Elmo?” Shanhaevel moved beside him. “Who is this?”
“I don’t believe it,” the big man said, reaching out to nudge the comatose form. “It’s him.”
“Him, who?” Ahleage demanded as he and the others crowded around.
Elmo took a deep breath before replying, “Prince Thrommel. It’s the missing prince!”
Shanhaevel fell back, stunned. Thrommel? In here? In the bowels of the temple? Boccob!
Govin shook his head in disbelief, and Draga grinned from ear to ear. Shirral checked the man, feeling to see if he was injured or ensorcelled in some way.
The prince stirred. His chest rose ever so slightly, then fell, and Shanhaevel thought he saw the eyelids flicker. For the first time, the elf noticed the finely tooled gold belt around the man’s waist and the gold medallion around his neck with the emblem of a crown and a crescent moon inscribed upon it.
The prince’s eyelids fluttered open, blinking in the light of the lanterns. He reached out, grasped the edges of his coffin, and tried to rise. Govin’s strong hand was there to aid him. The knight lifted the man into a sitting position, from where the prince blinked repeatedly and peered about, studying the faces of the six companions surrounding him.
“Where—? Where am I? Who are you?”
“My lord,” Govin began, “I am Sir Govin Dahna, servant of Cuthbert. These are my companions and friends. Are you injured in any way?”
The prince blinked several more times as he focused on the knight’s face. “I—I don’t think so,” he said, moving his arms and legs experimentally. “Who are you, again? And where in the hells am I?”