The Temple Page 13

  “I am afraid that I cannot tell you,” Tormod said. “Troublesome though that may be, it will have to remain a secret, even from friends. I do apologize.”

  “No worries,” said Garek. They finished their meal and moved what few possessions they had up into their new room. There were four beds in this one, with a larger table and another lantern. The beds, unlike those the crew slept on, still maintained some semblance of softness and comfort, not to mention cleanliness. Halas slept very well that night.

  The three friends spent a lot of time talking with Tormod. He was the Arms Master of the King, and had been for twenty-five years. Halas was amazed that the man was over fifty—he didn’t even look thirty. He had traveled all over Aelborough, and told them fascinating tales about ghosts and goblins and hoards and treasure. But Halas’ favorite was about the Shifters.

  “Some say that the Shifters are the sentinels of Equilibrium, but I believe them to be men, like you and I,” Tormod began. “But not. For the Shifters have the ability to shift their shape, to change into animals. No one knows how or why, or what dictates their changed form, but they know that there is a price. Each time the Shifters change, their human form warps, changes. They become uglier than anything else, even ogres and trolls. The longer they are in their animal form, the more hideous their human form will be.”

  “Then why do they change?” Desmond asked.

  “If they do not, they are limited to the life-spans of normal humans. But, should they change, they extend their life to far beyond that. Many Shifters have been known to live for centuries.

  “I once traveled with a group of Shifters, on the banks of the Inigo. They took the form of a pack of hyenas, wild dogs that used to live where the Burning Desert is now. No one has been to the Shifters’ true home, but some suspect that it is in the desert itself. In any case, I only needed to travel with them for a few days, but two days into our journey, they robbed and abandoned me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. They proved impossible to track.”

  Prince Aeon snorted. “I could do it.”

  “Possibly.” To Halas, he said, “Aeon here is a wonderful hunter.”

  Aside from the stories, Tormod was also improving their swordsman techniques. When he asked where they had learned what they knew already, Desmond responded, “You have your secrets, we have ours.” Tormod was a better fighter than Halbrick, not much, but a little, and none of the three friends even came close to his skill.

  “Do not be afraid to think during a fight. Not all victories come from physical prowess,” Tormod told them one afternoon as they worked. Garek and Prince Aeon watched from the rail. “It is important to keep your wits about you, and not act on instinct alone. You must be mindful of your surroundings. Say, for instance, there is an icicle, or a chandelier above your head. Try to knock it down on your enemies. If the floor beneath them is flimsy, break it. If someone attacked us here on this ship, I would throw them overboard.” He glanced almost imperceptibly at Garek, but Halas noticed. His stomach did a flip. “Using your surroundings can turn the tide of even the most difficult battles.

  “It is crucial that you know your opponent, even moreso than the area around you. Know his moves, his rhythm. A truly difficult foe can only be defeated if you know him as well as you know yourself. You must be able to anticipate his every move.’

  He and Halas sparred then, and Halas went nearly a full minute before being disarmed. He beamed. Tormod congratulated him with a warm pat on the back. “You did well, but know that there is no shame in flight. A very wise man once said, ‘We fight so that we may win, we flee so that we may live, and we live so that we may fight.’ Do not think it cowardice.”

  “Gallienne wrote those words, did he not?”

  “You know of him?”

  “I was taught several of his poems, though I could not recite any, I’m afraid. He was disgraced by King Robin IV, right, for chastising his decision on all of those beggars?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Tormod asked, sounding angry. Halas did not wish to give up Conroy’s name. He felt suddenly uneasy.

  “My mentor.”

  Tormod’s face softened. “I’m afraid you were misled, Halas. Gallienne was a plagiarist. He had been stealing his poetry from a regular performer in the riverside district. I am surprised your mentor did not know that.”

  Halas shrugged. “I suppose there are probably several accounts. You know how rumors get around.”

  “This is true.” He smiled, all hint of his previous anger gone. “In any case, that should be the end of today’s lessons. Come along, Ennym.”

  He led Aeon back to his cabin. Garek hopped off of the railing. Tormod’s smile had made Halas feel safe, somehow. It radiated warmth. In fact, Halas was suddenly sure that he had mistaken something far more innocuous for anger. Perhaps Tormod had been irritated by an insect, or a brief change of wind. No sense in dwelling on it. “What did you two talk about?” Halas asked.

  “Absolutely everything. The prince would not stop talking; I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I was being facetious. He’s not a friendly person.”

  Halas smiled. They walked past Martarey, staring off into the distance, smoking a cigarette. It seemed everyone onboard the ship smoked, even more than Halbrick. “Storm’s comin,” he said. “Good luck stayin safe in yer warm and dry cabin.”

  It was enough to wipe the smile from Halas’ face.

  Even in their cabin they were cold and wet. The rain fell in sheets, and immense winds buffeted the ship. Water flowed under the door, soaking everything it could reach. Halas’ feet were bare. The cool water on his toes felt amazing. Even still, he found himself pacing back and forth, nervous and anxious for the storm to pass. Des and Garek sat on their beds.

  “How do you think it’s going out there?” Garek asked.

  “We’re not sinking yet,” Halas said. “At least, I don’t think we are.”

  Garek nodded. “I spoke with Cloart this morning. He said that the boys will stand trial in a few days.”

  “Oh?”

  Before Garek could speak further, there came a cry of, “Man overboard!”

  Halas flung open the door and ran outside. Tormod was just ahead of him. The two ran to the railing, where more than a dozen sailors were gathered, including Captain Brennus. “Throw them a rope! Throw a damned rope!” he screamed. Garek and Des joined Halas, but they did not get closer to the railing. With sailors slipping and sliding all around them, it was amazing that Tormod managed to keep his feet. Halas himself was barely moving. Everyone seemed to approach the rail with some apprehension. Balance was precarious at best, and no one else wanted to go overboard.

  “Who fell? Who fell?” someone was screaming. “Boyd! Boyd went over!” another voice called. “I’m here!” shouted Boyd. “It was Steph that went in!” One of the sailors stumbled into Halas. Both went to their knees. The man was gone before Halas could see who it was.

  Tormod looked around before picking a heavy rope and tying it to the rail. He took several more and began looping them around his arms and legs. One went about his chest. He tied this one tight.

  “Hold on to these!” he shouted to the crew. Clutching the one at the rail, he disappeared into the water.

  “Tormod!” Prince Aeon cried, rushing forward. Already the rope Halas held was sliding toward the edge of the ship. He wrapped it around his hand, trying to hold on despite the burning pain it caused him. Looking around, he could see many of the others doing the same.

  Then Garek fell.

  Halas dropped his line and dove for his brother. Just as Garek went under the rail, Halas grabbed his wrist, digging in with his fingernails. His heart was racing. He felt strong hands on him, holding on to his back and arms, but he himself could not hold on much longer—the rain made things slick, and Garek was very, very heavy. Halas held him by the fingertips. Sacrificing his own hold on the rail, he took Ga
rek’s wrist with both hands and pulled, sliding forward until only half of him was on the ship.

  Garek’s feet kicked wildly beneath him, desperate for a place to stand. They scraped against the hull of the ship, but to no avail. Halas couldn’t pull him up. Tormod would have been able to, but Tormod was somewhere under the waves. Halas stared at the roiling waters and was enraptured.

  It all seemed so familiar. His mind was yanked back to the day he and Desmond had first entered Jim’s Forest, searching for Halbrick. The river there had tried to kill Halas, normally a silly assumption, but true all the same. He had tried to cross it, and it had swallowed him. These waters now, they wanted to do the same. Swirling black waves splashed against the ship’s hull, and every crash was accompanied by a cry of blood lust. The Inigo River sent tributaries all through the realm, and one of these went into the forest just outside Cordalis. The water wanted him.

  He tore his gaze away, looked behind him and called for help. Desmond lay on Halas’ back, his arms wrapped around his chest, a cable tied around his left arm. If Garek was going over, Halas was going over, and he suspected Desmond would go right after them. And they were slipping. The Inigo wanted him, and it was probably going to get him. After that, he did not know.

  “Desmond!” Halas screamed. “Let go of me! Garek! GRAB GAREK!”

  Desmond couldn’t hear. Halas adjusted his grip. Garek would not stop thrashing, making it nearly impossible for Halas to even retain his hold, much less lift his brother up. His arms had caught a fire that even the downpour could not extinguish. Much more of this and he felt they would pop right off like dead branches.

  Halas coughed, spewing water. He had to accept it. Garek was going to fall.

  He couldn’t allow that. Thinking those words—Garek is going to fall— caused him to do…something, granted him a strength he didn’t know he possessed. Halas gritted his teeth and pulled. Garek rose away from the water, toward the deck. He wasn’t going to die today, or ever. Not when Halas was around to stop it. Halas got to one knee, hauling his brother up over the side. Desmond grabbed Garek’s shoulders, and together, the two pulled him away from the rail and stumbled toward the cabin.

  The other sailors held their ropes tightly, but everything was a mess. None of the men could keep their feet. Only Captain Brennus seemed impervious to the harsh wind and slick rain. The brave captain stood at the edge, one foot perched up against the rail, holding a line as if he were reeling in a heavy fish; a statue against the tides. Other sailors looked on helplessly, unable to abandon their duties else the whole ship perish.

  “PULL HIM UP!” Captain Brennus cried, and began steadily marching backwards. Halas left Garek and Des to pick up the slack between Aeon and another sailor. Other men moved in, taking the ropes nearer to Tormod and the men who had gone into the water, everyone heaving as one. Eventually, a man appeared over the side, followed closely by a second, and then Tormod, carrying the third over his shoulders. The sailors dropped the cables, hurrying forward to carry the four away from the side.

  “Are you all right?” someone asked Tormod, the only conscious one of the four. He nodded, gasping for air. Everyone was soaked from head to toe, but Tormod seemed none the worse for wear. Halas repeated the question to his brother. Garek was on his back, eyes closed, but he murmured a very quiet yes.

  “Let’s get these men below,” said Captain Brennus. “You’ll be all right?” he asked Tormod.

  “I will.”

  The sailors carried the three unconscious men down below, and Tormod walked on his own back to his cabin, carrying Garek. Halas and Desmond hurried along behind. Tormod laid Garek on a bed, and then sat at the edge. Aeon wrapped his arms around his neck. “I was so worried you’d be hurt,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” Tormod said, “I’m all right.”

  “Your shoulder is dislocated,” Halas heard Tormod say. He opened his eyes. Garek and Prince Aeon sat on one bed, Tormod and Desmond on the other. Des was quite obviously in pain, lying on his back, breathing heavily. He had a large burn around his elbow. “This is going to hurt. Here, bite down for the pain.”

  Halas looked himself over. He was still very wet—they all were—though it had obviously been some time since he’d fallen asleep. His feet were torn in places, and he had a burn like Desmond’s on his hand. Garek was covered in bruises, as was Tormod, though Tormod did not seem to notice his. He took hold of Desmond’s arm. Halas looked at his friend—there was a length of rope in his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, startling Garek.

  “Halas!” his brother said, “are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He was on the floor, against the wall. He stood up, the pain in his feet flared, and he quickly sat down again. “Maybe not. What are you doing to Des?”

  “He’s dislocated his shoulder. I have to put it back in place.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “His arm is out of alignment. Garek, hold him down. Desmond, try not to move.” Desmond’s eyes were wide, and Garek tried to avoid his gaze when he pressed him to the bed. “I’m going to count to three,” he said. “One…two… three!” Tormod jerked Desmond’s arm forward. Halas heard a loud snap. Desmond screamed briefly, bucked in Garek’s grip, and passed out.

  “He’ll be fine,” Tormod said. “And he’ll have a new trick to show off. I think Desmond would like that. Let me get a look at you, Halas.” With Tormod and Garek’s help, Halas hobbled to the bed and put his feet up. Tormod knelt by them, looking closely. He went to his chest and withdrew a rag and some bandages, along with a vial of a thin, watery liquid. “Drink this,” he said, and began to dab the cloth at Halas’ feet. Halas popped the stopper off the vial and sniffed. It smelled awful. “Drink it. It’s medicine,” Tormod said again. Halas downed it in one go. It tasted funny; not at all like whiskey, as Garek thought it to be.

  “What’s it do?”

  “You’ll heal faster.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me see your arm.”

  Halas looked first, and he realized that there was a long cut there, bleeding into his tunic. He pulled the shirt off, and Tormod examined the wound. He whistled. “That’s a big splinter,” Garek whispered. Tormod reached into the cut, but Halas didn’t feel a thing. The pain was there, he realized, but it was distant—worlds away, in fact. Tormod’s hand came free, covered in blood and holding a splinter that was several inches long. Halas looked at the cut again. It spanned from his wrist to his elbow. He blinked, then echoed Tormod’s whistle, then laughed.

  “That is a really big splinter!” he said through laughter. Tormod cleaned and bandaged the wound. As he wrapped it, Halas pressed his head back against the wall, looking at Garek out of the top corners of his eyes. “Hello. Hell… llooo.” Blinking rapidly, he looked at Tormod. His vision was fading; the big man appeared blurry. “Wha’s so big about ’chou? Wanna make…want cold to…hungry…me yeah…oh…”

  When he opened his eyes, he was aware of the stinging in his arm and feet, though it still felt very far away. He was in his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Drool puddled at the corner of his mouth. “Tormod said it’s a normal reaction,” Desmond said. Halas looked up; his friend sat in a chair beside the bed. Halas saw two Desmonds for a moment before they came together. His head swam.

  “What happened at Garek?” he blurted.

  “He’s asleep,” Desmond said.

  “Good. Sleepy Garek.” He giggled, suddenly finding that thought enormously funny.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Dunno. Little…little hungry, I think. Yeah, hungry. There’s food?”

  “Tormod said he would bring some sandwiches in a bit. He was just in here.”

  “Oh. He’s real nice.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “I’m going to need a lot of water. Real thirsty. How’s your arm?”

  “Pain went away almost immediately.” Desmond raised the arm above his head and spun it in a little circle. “See
?”

  Halas tried to follow the motion, but found it made him sick. He clamped his eyes shut.

  Tormod shook him awake, and he looked around. Garek dozed in the bed next to him, Desmond across the aisle. “How are you?” Tormod asked. Halas felt like he’d been set on fire multiple times before being brutally stamped out. He groaned in response. “I brought food and water. Figured you could use some.”

  Halas sat up. His mind swam about in his skull, making his thoughts sluggish and painful. “Thank you,” he said. “How is Garek? Desmond?”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Halas reached over and devoured the two sandwiches, draining almost the entire pitcher of water. Tormod waited until he was finished before speaking.

  “I thought I would check your bandages. Your injuries should be mostly healed by now. What I gave you works wonders.”

  “What was it?”

  “Something very special,” Tormod mused. He unwrapped Halas’ arm and feet, looking them over. Apparently satisfied, he crumpled up the wrappings and tossed them into the bin. “You’ll have some scars and some pain, but aside from that, everything looks just fine.”

  “Thank you,” Halas said again, lying back on the bed. “Where is the prince?”

  “He is in our cabin, sleeping. It is almost morning; the storm passed a few hours ago.”

  “And the men? Those who went overboard?”

  “They are fine as well, and also resting. I have to say, you really gained some credit with Brennus; you and Desmond were the only two to seriously injure themselves trying to bring up his men. He is impressed. He came by once during the night, but you were both asleep.”

  “I suppose I should be happy, then.” He felt guilty; it had been Garek they had injured themselves for. He hadn’t the heart to say otherwise.

  Tormod smiled wistfully. It was like he knew. But he can’t know, it’s impossible. Wasn’t he in the river for everything? “I suppose so. Do you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you, I’ll be all right. I think I might like to walk around a bit.”