Free The Temple of Yellow Skulls by Don Bassingthwaite Page A

taught you that, at least.”
    “He was an indifferent student,” Splendid chimed in. Albanon scowled at her, then looked back to Kri. The old man had a point. Fallcrest wasn’t that big, and if Shara was going to be too stubborn to come back to the tower, they’d have to go to her. And there weren’t that many places she was likely to stay the night.
    “I have an idea,” he said.

    On the north side of the Blue Moon Alehouse, the Moonwash Stream ran in a gurgling flow as it rushed to join with the Nentir River. A handful of other buildings lay downstream of the Blue Moon, and at the last and largest of these, a narrow race diverted water from the Moonwash to drive a groaning wheel. The slow and steady sound of a massive forge hammer falling in time to the wheel’s rotation, accompanied by the rhythmic counterpoint of smaller hammers, rolled over Albanon as he, Kri, and Splendid approached. A young dwarf emerging from the smithy paused as he saw them. Albanon met his eyes and they shared a short glance before the dwarf nodded once and disappeared inside. The eladrin let out a little sigh. “Yes, she’s here.”
    “Good,” said Kri. “Well deduced.”
    The words of praise—small though they might be—brought an unexpected burst of pride in Albanon. Shara had made a few friends in Fallcrest during her time in the town. She might have gone to almost any of them for a place to spend the night, but there was only one he could remember being in the Blue Moon the evening before: Teldorthan Ironhews, Fallcrest’s master weaponsmith.
    The rhythm of hammers skipped a beat. Albanon listened carefully and thought he could make out the sound of arguingvoices, one dwarf and male, the other human, female, and none too happy. The feeling of pride withered inside him. A moment later, Shara stepped outside. She wore a heavy leather apron and held a hammer with a white-knuckle grip that suggested the barely restrained urge to use it on Albanon. He swallowed. “Well?” muttered Kri. “Go! Meet her halfway.”
    Teldorthan appeared in the door behind Shara, bright eyes watching. If Shara did use the hammer on him, Albanon thought, at least there would be someone to pull her off his broken body. Swallowing again, he crossed the yard. “Shara,” he said by way of greeting.
    “Albanon.” Her answer was frosty. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
    “I came—” he began, but the words came out weak. Hesitant. Albanon closed his mouth around them. This is your fault, he reminded himself. Face up to it!
    He straightened his back and held his head high. “I came to apologize for what I said last night. You have more experience in judging people than I do. And if I said something that insulted the memory of your father, I’m sorry.”
    Shara snorted. “So you brought an audience with you. Good choice.” She jerked her head toward Kri. “Who is this?”
    Albanon winced and looked back to Kri. The old cleric just shook his head and kept his lips pressed tight together; one hand rested lightly on Splendid’s muzzle to keep her from interrupting. Albanon swung back to Shara. “His name is Kri,” he said. “He’s an old friend of Moorin’s and he’s come looking for our help.”
    Shara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re apologizing because you want something from me, is that it?”
    “No!” said Albanon, then winced again. “I mean, yes, we need you, but I wanted to apologize anyway. I was stupid. I should have listened to you instead of just whining because I was disappointed. I’m sorry.”
    “And about telling me not to come back to the tower?”
    Albanon put a hand over his heart. “Absolutely.”
    “Humph.”
Shara looked him up and down, then gave her hammer a twirl. “You’re lucky Teldorthan gave me a place to sleep last night and hot iron to beat my frustrations out on this morning.” She pointed the hammer at him. “You’re going to listen to me, right?”
    “Right.” Relief spread through