Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [29]
"Then tell me," she demanded. "Explain it so I understand."
They locked defiant stares, then Corin dropped his eyes. His anger had given way to apathy. With a shrug of his shoulders he said, "Very well."
Corin collected his thoughts for a second then he spoke in a voice devoid of all emotion. "The battle that took my hand also claimed the life of many of my companions. Igland, the leader of our troop, was cut down in front of my very eyes. And the boy we were supposed to protect-a nobleman's heir-was seized by bandits and held for ransom.
"I lay in a bed for many tendays after the ambush, fighting for my life. My injury healed slowly, I became frail and weak. The blade that took my hand had poisoned me with foul magic. It was a month before I could even walk again. By that time the White Shields were no more. Leaderless, depleted in numbers and shamed by our failure to protect the boy, the surviving members of the White Shields had left the city, slinking away in disgrace one by one, but I chose to stay… Elversult is my home. I grew up here, my parents are buried here. How could I leave this place, despite all that had happened?"
Corin paused for a long moment, and when he resumed his voice was tight, his words tense with suppressed rage.
"At first I did not look for work, but spent my time praying to Lathander. They say he is the god of new beginnings and rebirth, and I prayed to him so that I could start my life over again.
"With each rising of the sun I made a pilgrimage to the Temple of the Dawnbringer, every day ascending the steep path that winds up the barren face of Temple Hill. I gave generously-virtually all I had-and prayed for many months to the Morninglord that I might be reborn and made whole again. But the clerics were powerless… their magic was no match for the foul necromancy of the dark blade that had marked me. The clerics did nothing for me, but they kept my coins."
Corin cast a hate filled glance out a nearby window, toward the bare hilltop that towered over all of Elversult. "Over the past year I found my money was better spent on bitter ale-at least it offered some temporary relief. But no matter how much I drank each night, the next morning I would awake again, stuck here in this city, beneath the shadow of that false Temple-a constant reminder of how the gods failed me, just as I failed to protect the nobleman's son. Perhaps that is justice."
"What happened to the boy?" Lhasha asked.
"He was returned, unharmed, after several months… though it might have been better for me if the bandits had just…"
Corin caught himself mid-sentence. "I bear no ill will to the boy," he said softly. "I am glad he is alive. I do not have to add the guilt of his blood to my burden."
He continued, his voice finally betraying his deep seated anger, rising into a shout. "But Fhazail-the pile of offal that was the boy's steward-I curse the bandits for not slitting his swollen neck!"
"Fhazail was ransomed with the young master, but he returned to Elversult with hate and revenge on his mind. He accused the White Shields of betraying the mission. Accused us of arranging the ambush. With the others gone, his finger pointed squarely at me, despite my injury. Of course he could not prove his lies, but the rumor spread… 'Corin Onehand cannot be trusted'!"
Corin pounded his stump into bis left hand in anger, and then smashed it against the table. Noticing the startled glances of the other tavern patrons, the warrior lowered bis voice before continuing.
"I trained myself to wield a sword again, but no mercenary company would hire me once Fhazail was done smearing my good name. Who will fight beside a man he does not trust? The Maces sent me away because of my wound… arrogant bastards wouldn't even give me a chance!
"I thought about ending my own life, but something stilled my hand as I held my rusty blade against my own throat. I heard the voice of Igland, my captain, calling to me from a great distance. As any good soldier, I heeded the call.
" 'Corin,'