Chapter 52
52—The Pasoun in Miniature—the Left Hand of the Goddess.
Dark stains cover the walls of the place and obscure the carvings and relief sculpture, coagulated blood filling the cracks and crevices. The bodies of Lolth’s priesthood lie where they fell here, blood-trails giving mute testimony to whatever feeble attempts to flee were made by the lost.
The stench of carnage is almost overpowering, and as the party picks their way through the bodies, it becomes more and more apparent that nothing of value could be within such a vile place. Most of the bodies have been looted, their jewelry and finery in many instances cut from living bodies with a maximum of cruel butchery.
The group is rapidly reaching the conclusion that there is nothing of value in this place, when a frail and shrill keening is heard. At first, it is a helpless sound, and the party’s protective instincts are irrationally triggered, but after a moment, the noise rises in both volume and violence as the wispy, semi-present form of a drow woman rises from the carnage at the back of the room. Tears of deepest black streak her anguished face and she opens her arms to the group, screaming the whole while.
Kyreel levels her hands and invokes Palatin Eremath, bringing the light of the Goddess to the dead elf, and destroying her form. Thelbar slowly rises from where he had crouched, his hands over his ears, but Taran does not stir. His corpse lies lifeless among the bodies of Lolth’s priesthood, frightened literally to death by the banshee’s wail.
Taran’s corpse is interred without any ceremony within the portable hole, and after another quick sweep of the White Death’s stronghold to ensure that there are no survivors, Thelbar teleports himself and Kyreel back to the crypts of Dodrian.
The next morning, Kyreel lays Taran’s body out on the stone slab serving as a coffin for the mausoleum’s occupant, and invokes the blessing of Palatin Eremath to restore Taran to life. When the ritual is complete, Taran sits up with a groan, and looks about him.
“What in all nine hells happened to me? I feel like a dragon swallowed me and passed me through.”
“You were slain by the wail of a banshee,” Kyreel says. “But I have invoked the Left Hand of the Goddess. You are reborn.”
“And I have a birthday gift for you, Taran,” Thelbar says with a warm smile, handing Taran a silver circlet. “I took this from the head of Solom Ned’razak. It will increase your mental prowess, unless I am mistaken, and I am rarely mistaken. Grow used to it, for I will expect you to wear it at all times.”
Taran takes the circlet and puts it on his head, then smiles to himself. “Wow. This is . . . extraordinary,” he says in a soft voice. “Everything seems so . . . clear to me.”
“And we have another gift,” Kyreel says. “Wear this cloak. It will enhance your sprit, and lend authority to your words.”
“It will also strengthen your connection with the dragon-soul you share your body with, I suspect,” Thelbar says. “Galathonriel will be well pleased.”
The party hikes back to Mistledale, a newly intelligent and more charismatic Taran scouting the way and chuckling to himself. “Wait’ll Juron and Glim get a load of me,” he says to himself. “All this and brains, too.”
-----
But Taran’s mirth and warm feelings are short-lived. When the group approaches their home, they are stunned by an unexpected sight—their home is reduced to rubble, destroyed so thoroughly as to more closely resemble a quarry or landslide than a stone structure. Also completely demolished is the construction for Thelbar’s wizard’s school and the new temple to Palatin Eremath. No stone stands upon a stone, and the entire area gives off a powerful and disquieting presence.
“I’m . . . not going to kill anyone, Thel,” Taran says.
“Goddess be praised,” Kyreel gasps. “This ground is hallowed.”
“But not to Ishlok,” Thelbar says. “What happened here.”
“I’m not going to kill anyone,” Taran assures the group again. “I’m just not going to kill anyone.”
The party searches through the rubble for a several minutes, but nothing is salvageable. Regrouping, they walk into the center of town. As they pass, the locals look away, as if embarrassed or ashamed. The group spies a number of tents set up in a clearing at the edge of town, and recognize the followers of Palatin Eremath moving among the temporary structures.
Within the tent-town, the party is surrounded by the faithful, and after weathering a confusing barrage of questions, are approached by the high priest. He takes them into his private tent, and tells the party what has transpired in their absence.
“Two days ago,” the priest says with a grim tone, “Three riders approached Mistledale, and demanded to speak with you. When I told them that you were away, they leveled accusations that you three are in the service of Lolth, and that you consort with demons. They said that you even have fiends in your service. I gave this the lie, of course,” he says almost apologetically. “But they would not listen. They claimed that their gods confirmed their accusations, and that our faith was an affront to all the good men of Faerun.”
“Their gods?” Taran asks. “They served more than one?”
“Oh yes,” the priest continues, “there were three of them—Elgin Trezler, he called himself ‘the Voice of the Dawn’, a high priest to Lathander, an elven wizard and prophet representing Corellon Larethian—he gave his name as Enae Enhallo. Last was the knight Jumdash Dir. Perhaps you have heard of him? He is the abbot of the Abbey of Swords in Battledale, and is said to be very well-known in the Dalelands as the greatest paladin amongst the order of Tempus.
These three ordered us out of the temple, and we had no choice but to obey them. They rained spells on your home and our place of worship, and made the very earth shake. Jumdash Dir invoked his god, and our homes were destroyed.”
“Were any of our people hurt?” Taran asks, in a soft and distracted voice.
“No, my lord,” the priest says. “We were given time to evacuate, but were not allowed to rescue the Temple’s regalia. Our ritual objects were destroyed.”
“The statue?” Kyreel asks, referring to the artifact of Palatin Eremath.
“It was unharmed,” the priest says. “Alone amongst our possessions, the statue was not molested. Although I suspect it was not for lack of trying.”
“And then?” Thelbar asks.
“Then they instructed us that we had a fortnight to leave the Dalelands, else we would be considered a hostile faith.”
Taran cracks his neck and whispers, “Hostile? Oh, they have no idea.”
Thelbar regards the priest. “And what of Mistledale? What of the people here?”
“They were instructed to lend you no further aid, lest they, too, be marked as blasphemers. Jhanira, the priestess of Chauntea, communed with her goddess, and reported that their accusations were true.”
“Oh, great. This is just what I need right now,” Taran mutters.
The priest makes a ritual bow, and says “Instruct me, lords. I am greatly confused. Is it true what they said about you?”
“These are confused times, my friend,” Kyreel says. “Know this; what we do, we do for our goddess and her alone, and if such is unpalatable to the other faiths of this land, then so much the worse for them. Ishlok be with us, her name is above all names. We will set this to right, be assured.”
“Hell yes, we will,” Taran mutters under his breath. “With blood, and fire and pain.” To his companions, he says, “Look, I’ll deal with the High Councilor and see what I can’t do to get this stupid town ready for the drow, once we’re gone. You two look into what options we have for our people here, then we’ll regroup and prioritize our ‘to do’ list.”
“Well thought out, brother,” Thelbar says, smiling. “For the time being, we must take pains to insure the safety of the faith. Be not rash.”
“Oh, I won’t be,” Taran says, tapping his new circlet with one finger. “I’ve got a plan.”
Taran marches to the High Councilor’s residence, glaring at the townsfolk along the way, and demands an entrance. High Councilor Haresk Malorn receives him in his parlor.
“Lord Protector! We had nothing to do with this tragedy, I assure you!”
“Aw, hell, Haresk. I know you didn’t, and I’m not angry with you,” Taran says. “Tell me what happened.”
“The three holy men came, and said horrible things about you. The priest of Lathander left word that he wishes to speak with you.”
“Yeah I bet he does, but never mind what he wants.”
“They told me that you were a great danger to us, and that you’d bring destruction upon us. They said you served Lolth, and consorted with fiends. Taran, you should know that Jhanira has communed the truth in their words. This is a terrible thing.”
“Well, Haresk, see it’s . . . well, okay. It’s true what they said, but it’s not true at the same time, if that makes sense to you.”
“It does not, I’m afraid,” The High Councilor says.
“Okay, it’s like this,” Taran begins pacing the room, his feet subconsciously following the seven-stepping fighting pattern made famous by the former Royal Blademaster of Nyrond (may his body someday be found). “There are good guys, and then there are bad guys, right? But there are also good bad guys and bad bad guys. Sometimes the good guys have to work with the good bad guys against the bad bad guys, who are the worst.”
Taran stares at the High Councilor for a moment, and after a satisfied grunt, he continues. “Right now, there is a group of drow massing an army beneath our feet, and they intend to sack the Dalelands. They’re the bad bad guys.”
“Oh, dear.”
“But we’re on it, so don’t worry. Here’s the deal—the bad bad guys aren’t worshipping Lolth. They hate Lolth and Lolth hates them back. So for now, we’re on Lolth’s side, even though we’re really on our own side. See?”
“I suppose,” the High Councilor says doubtfully. “I’ve tried to convene a council of the Dales, but the other towns refuse to meet with us. And there’s more, Lord Protector. Yesterday, two men came to see me. They were harpers, and they said that we’re not to help you in any way if we know what’s good for us. They seemed very sincere.”
“Yeah I bet they did, but never mind them.” Taran thinks for a moment, rubbing his chin, then continues. “Okay, okay. I’ve got this figured out. We’re going to stop this drow army if we can, and here’s what you’re going to do.”
“I attend, Taran.”
“First, you need to set up plans for an evacuation. If these drow attack, you’d better hope that you’re ready to run like all the demons in the abyss are chasing you—because they will be.”
“I understand.”
“Now, you’re going to fire me as the Lord Protector. Then you’ll go tell those damn Harpers that you fired me. They’ll know whether you’re lying, because they are experts at it, so don’t. Tell them what I said about the drow, and tell them that if they don’t get off their candy elven asses and get you some help, you’re all going to die. They’ll believe your story because it’s true. Got it?”
“I suppose I do, but . . .”
“Now fire me.”
“Er,” The High Councilor sheepishly stammers. “You’re fired?”
“Fine! I hope the drow kill you all!” Taran says. “Make sure to tell them I said that, okay partner? Okay, I think we’re done here-- good job. See you at dinner.”
------
Taran leaves Haresk Malorn’s house, and walks to the temple of Chauntae. The temple maidens inform him that Jhanira is waiting for him at her scrying pool. Taran enters the open courtyard and sees the young priestess dressed in her ritual regalia, dangling her fingers into the basin of collected rainwater.
“Ah, our esteemed Lord Protector,” Jhanira says without looking up. “Have you come to complete your betrayal of those who trusted you?”
“Jhanira,” Taran says softly. “I understand that you’re upset right now . . .”
“No, I am not upset. I am confused and concerned, but I am far past being upset with you.”
Taran fidgets nervously, and looks around the room. There he finds no immediate danger, no insane and cackling wizard or rampaging dragon demanding his attention. He sighs, and turns back to the small woman with a fearful but determined grimace.
“I am many things today,” Jhanira says, “but upset is not one of them. Chauntea has given me many visions. They have not been as virulent as those received by many of the other faiths, but they hold the same misgivings.” Jhanira cups water in her hand, and regards it as it slips through her fingers. “That priest of Lathander – Trezler – he left word that he wishes to speak with you.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
After a long pause where she regards Taran for the first time since he entered, Jhanira continues. “I will be sad to see the temple go, and I will loose many friends as a result.”
Taran sits next to Jhanira on the lip of the pool. “Look, Jhanira. You know us—you’ve seen how we live and what we bring to a community. Can you truly believe that we are wicked, or serve the cause of evil? We are going, yes, but only because that is what the safety of Mistledale, and the safety of our people demands.”
“Where will you go?” Jhanira asks.
“I don’t know, that’s not my job,” Taran says. “But it doesn’t matter. There’s going to be fighting wherever we go-- there are no safe places for us now.” Taran stands up again, and begins to pace a circle around the pool. “The things they said about us might be true at the surface, but they don’t mean what those bastards say they mean.”
“They tell me that your goddess consorts with Lolth, and thus you are wicked. What else could that mean?”
“Well, hell, Jhanira, they’re sisters. Of course they talk with one another. Haven’t you ever known somebody to have a sibling that falls from the fold? Palatin Eremath doesn’t say to shun evil, she says to teach it the good. What authority would that command have if she didn’t do the same for her own kin?”
Taran stops pacing and stands in front of Jhanira. “We’re going to deal with this mess, but first we have a more immediate threat. The drow are massing an army that is poised to attack the Dalelands, and these self righteous dogma-slingers are busy making our lives miserable while we try to protect their faithful!” Taran looks at her. “I’m going back down there soon, and I might not survive.”
Jhanira regards Taran but says nothing.
Taran continues. “If I was confident that we could whip these drow, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I’m not. If we can’t stop them, the Dalelands are in big trouble, and the people of Mistledale are going to need you. You’ve got to help them figure out a contingency plan in case this place is overrun. If the people can’t retreat faster than that drow army can advance, you’re all going to die.”
