The Temple Page 21

  “The owner’s name is Bernard Claymont, a nobleman out of Galveston,” Jaden said. “Thirteen wagons, twenty-eight guards. There’s a problem, though.”

  “What’s that?” Desmond said.

  “Claymont refuses to go through Nesvizh. He’s skirting the border.”

  Aeon went visibly pale. Jaden nodded solemnly. “What’s wrong?” Garek asked, feeling the worst of the chill that had set in despite the burning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Halas wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

  “Those lands belong to the Bandit Lord, Torgeir the Mighty: a self-proclaimed title, but not far from the truth. Torgeir controls that entire strip of country, all across the northern border of Nesvizh. He’s ruthless; not many that venture there ever come out, and none of ‘em leave with their riches. He’s an army of at least a thousand with him, and they hide in the most unlikely of places, waiting for weeks to ambush the next traveler, however wary or armed he may be.”

  “Then we cannot go with this Claymont man,” said Desmond matter-of-factly.

  “There’s the rub,” said Jaden. “You don’t have a choice. Not too many people come and go through Earlsfort; it’s out of the way. There’s not another caravan for—well, until next March.”

  It was November, a few days before December. Halas put his head in his hands.

  “How many guards have signed on so far?” Aeon asked.

  “Twenty-two. I paid Claymont enough to keep three positions open until you decide. It’s your decision, my lord, but I strongly advise against it. There’s no more dangerous a place than Torgeir’s land.”

  “There is no other way,” said Aeon. “I have to. Maybe Halas and…”

  “Oh don’t start that,” said Des before he could finish, surprising nearly everyone in the room. Evidently he had joined Halas among the few that didn’t seem to look upon Aeon as just a prince.

  “We could travel by ourselves then,” said Halas. “Cut through Nesvizh, and avoid Torgeir’s lands entirely.”

  “Traveling through Torgeir’s country will cut the journey nearly in half,” said Aeon. “And I would like to reach the Temple as soon as possible, for our foes are already en route. Tormod and I knew from the start that we would have to go through Torgeir’s country. He said that we would make a deal with him: as much of the king’s gold as he could load on to a caravan. My father agreed to such terms, but now that I face the road…”

  They all knew how Aeon felt, Halas perhaps more than the others. He put a reassuring hand on the prince’s shoulder.

  “We’ll stand by you,” he said. Desmond glanced at Garek. “For better or worse. If I can protect you, if I can protect that Temple, than I will. If there is anything I can do to accomplish this mission, Aeon, I will.”

  “And I,” said Desmond. Garek was silent. Jaden took the prince’s hand and squeezed.

  “This is good to know,” said Aeon. “Thank you. Thank you all.”

  Halas stared at Garek. His younger brother could not return the gaze.

  Jaden was saddling the horses. Halas, Desmond and the prince stood in Harves’ foyer. Halas looked up the staircase, clearly hoping Garek would show himself, to change his mind, say goodbye, or even watch. Everyone involved knew there was a strong chance they would not be coming back from this mission. Why would the youngest Duer not even wish to say goodbye?

  They made small talk for a time, but it soon became clear Garek was not going to join them. “I suppose we should go,” Aeon suggested. Halas looked at him, his eyes reddened and filled with pain, and it broke Desmond’s heart, but he said nothing.

  “Yes,” Halas finally whispered. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

  “I’ll catch up,” Desmond told him. He squeezed Halas’ shoulder, and jogged up the stairs, to Garek’s room. He found Garek leaning on the bureau, staring hard at his fist. “What is wrong with you?”

  Garek turned and stood, pulled from whatever daydream he was in. He placed something in an open drawer and shut the bureau. Once that was done, Garek raised his arms, shook his head, and shrugged. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

  “The hell he doesn’t,” Desmond said. “Go speak with your brother.” Then, quietly, “there may not be another chance.”

  “I…I know that, but I can’t. He doesn’t want to see me.” Garek embraced Desmond. Desmond had no choice but to return the gesture. Garek was his friend as well, after all, and had been longer than Halas had. Before this whole business with the forest and the Temple, Desmond had long suspected Halas did not like him.

  “Take care of him, will you?” Garek asked. “Make sure he’s safe?”

  “You know I will. Both of them. Goodbye, Garek.”

  “Des.”

  And Desmond left. He tarried by the horses for nearly half an hour, but Garek did not come down. Finally, Desmond gave up. There was no time left to wait. They left for the depot from which they would meet the caravan and depart.

  Following Harves, they trotted down the horse-lanes of Earlsfort to the depot. There they met Dale Crowe, who was Claymont’s bodyguard and representative. Aeon choked; he looked quite a bit like Tormod, with his towering stature and fierce but gentle gaze. Halas could hear murmurs about the three friends. “He’s so young!” and “Look at how small they are!” were most common.

  “Hello, Jaden,” a portly man said from behind Crowe. Halas assumed he was Claymont. He was correct.

  “Bernard!” Jaden said. He reached up and clasped the man’s hand. “It is good to see you again. How have you been?”

  “Tired. Yourself?”

  “Roughly the same. These are the men I spoke of.”

  “You spoke of them as if they were men,” Claymont said. Halas bit back a snappy retort.

  “We’ve seen battle, sir,” he said instead, struggling to keep calm. “We’ve fought together.”

  “What?” said one of the men nearby, “roughhousin with the other kiddies?” He laughed, proud of his own joke.

  Halas wanted to groan. He wanted to turn around and leave. Why were so many fixated on his age?

  “Listen to me,” Jaden said. “These here are good men, solid fighters. They’ve trained under some of the best swordsmen in Ager, under the Arms Master of the House of the King. And they’ve spilled blood together. So why don’t you treat them with a little respect?”

  Halas was glad for Jaden’s support, but all the same, he felt as if the words would have been better from his own mouth. They didn’t need Jaden to rescue them. After The Wandering Blade, he had a feeling that it would just make things worse. Perhaps Brennus had been right to leave the crew to their own devices after all.

  No more was said on the subject. Claymont told them to prepare their things. Halas wheeled his horse about to face Jaden. “Goodbye, Mister Harves,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “It was the least I can do. I wish your luck to shine brighter than the stars.”

  “Take care of him, will you?”

  “I will. Don’t you worry.”

  “Thank you.”

  An hour later thirteen wagons left Earlsfort, due west. Halas briefly thought about how they were traveling toward home, but dismissed the thought. It made him too sad. Why was he doing this? He and Garek should be going home, not separating, with Halas steadily riding off into the unknown to battle and death.

  The column put Earlsfort behind them after the first day, and picked up the pace when they passed the traffic around the city. Halas rode with his friends at the rear of the caravan. They were assigned to the wagon in what Crowe called ‘lag,’ what Halas assumed meant last.

  “Y’all boys don’t hail from Earlsfert, do ye?” said the driver. He had no teeth. That was the first thing Halas noticed.

  “No sir,” said Aeon. “We come from Galveston.”

  “Pretty place,” said the man. “Never been there. And yer names er?”

  They’d prepared identities for the trip. Halas had once again taken Conroy’s name. Desmond
was Art Mathis, and Aeon’s assumed name was Ennym Straub. They introduced themselves to the wagon driver, who said his name was Walter.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Halas said.

  “Yaswell. Was it true what you said afore, bout spillin blood?”

  Aeon’s visage darkened. Halas bit his lip. He didn’t want to glorify what he’d done, but he suspected that’s exactly what Walter intended to do. “Yes,” he answered. “We were in a battle. But it was only once, and it was a long time ago.”

  “Good ter know I got hardened steel at my side,” said Walter. “No matter the age. Glad ter have ye aboard.”

  Halas smiled. Maybe he’d underestimated this man.

  The caravan headed west for several hours before gradually leaning north. They kept course by the mountains, always keeping them firmly to the east. They passed through the foothills a time or two, but it was mostly easygoing, plodding across a low and level road for hours on end. Desmond tried teaching Walter to whistle.

  Things were far more lax than they had been on The Wandering Blade. Bernard Claymont and Dale Crowe were in charge, but direct orders came few and far between. In fact, things did not go too far beyond assigning a certain guard to a certain wagon. Guards were permitted to roam the column to a certain extent, and when they bedded down at night, little was said in the way of keeping watch. Halas found sleep difficult. He wondered if his letter had reached Cailin yet, but of course it had not. He wondered how she was. Did she miss him? If she did, was it nearly as much as he missed her? He worried that his letter would seem too strong. Cailin was surely going to think he’d lost his mind.

  Halas sighed.

  The next morning they passed through the first checkpoint. Halas sat atop Owain, the sun beating down on him, not moving, wishing he had a hat. Far ahead he could see the front of the column. The checkpoint consisted of a gate and several houses. Halas guessed that maybe ten people lived here, most likely on a rotation. He wondered if the soldiers’ families came with them.

  Claymont took his time in dealing with the checkpoint officials. There were documents to approve, money to pay, all in all lots of bureaucracy to move a few wagons past a wooden gate. “There’s more of us,” said Desmond. “Can’t we just charge them?”

  “Sure are enjoying all this shade,” Walter called out from within the wagon. Desmond gave Halas a dry look.

  “We’ll burn him out if it comes to it,” he said. Halas nodded.

  “I’ll get the matches,” said Aeon.

  They crossed through the second checkpoint four days later. The sun was low, making this one far more bearable. Walter decided to check his wagon’s cargo. Halas went around back with him. Aeon and Desmond stayed up front, staring at the checkpoint, willing the caravan to keep moving.

  “Hand here?” Walter asked. He’d braced himself under the back of the wagon. Halas hopped off Owain, moving next to Walter.

  “Here?” he asked, putting his hands on what he thought was a hatch. Walter nodded. Halas thought it would be more difficult to open, but he could have done it easily himself. Walter smiled, thanked him for the help, and climbed up.

  “What are we carrying?” Halas asked.

  “Horse feed,” Walter answered. “Good lot of it. Don’t remember zact numbers, so best if you don’t ask.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Walter appeared a moment later, dusting his hands off on his coverall. “When you carry feed, you gotter be careful bout mice. They just creep in and eat right through yer load! But everything looks to be in order. Thanks again.”

  “My pleasure.” Halas took his hand and helped him off the wagon. Walter went back up front. Halas mounted Owain. Another half hour of waiting and they were off again.

  They drove steadily onward for another three days. On the third night, Crowe gathered all the guards around a large fire. Halas crossed his arms against the chill. It had been a hard day’s ride; he wanted rest.

  “Tomorrow morning we are going to come to Torgeir’s land,” Crowe said. “It will be dangerous. We’re going to have some rules, starting with a strict watch of six men taking four hour shifts. Torgeir’s forces are cunning, but they are only men. Do not fool yourselves into thinking otherwise. They will try and trick you, but I trust the men I’ve hired are wiser than that.” He glanced in Halas’ direction at this, and Halas did his best to hold his temper. This is absurd. I almost hope we are attacked, so that I might show them my worth. He felt guilty almost immediately upon thinking it. He remembered what had happened to The Wandering Blade. Battle was an awful thing. It was one thing to hear it told in books and songs, but to experience it personally…well, that was another thing entirely. No one wrote of how even the bravest of men shit themselves when they died. No one would sing of Tormod writhing in blind agony as his body was twisted by some dark magic. There would be no books written of some stupid kitchen boy who wanted petty revenge.

  “Be wary, be cautious. We will get through this if we keep our wits about us. Now get some rest. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.”

  “Do you think we’ll be attacked?” Desmond asked when they’d returned to their wagon.

  “Not quite so soon,” Halas said. “If ever. I hope not.”

  Sleep came easily, surprisingly enough. And early the next morning, they came to the border.

  No one had ever marked it on a map. Torgeir the Bandit Lord had established his country only a year ago, and it was still unofficial. But everyone who knew anything knew that at this spot, fifty miles past the second checkpoint, was where his land began. There were signs scratched in the bark of trees. Most of them were marked ‘Get back!’ or ‘Continue at your own peril,’ but then there was a broad wooden gate. It had once been the third, and last, checkpoint, before Torgeir claimed it. Pieces of the gate had been crudely torn apart, and the huts were long since demolished. It was streaked with what Halas hoped was red paint. Tall cages hung from the turrets, filled with the corpses of birds and other animals. It was truly an abomination. On the side of the building was marked:

  You are entering the domain of Torgeir the Mighty, Bandit Lord. You are now subject to His Law. Abandon your wealth here and return to your home. You have been warned.

  At this both Claymont and Dale Crowe scoffed, but there were murmurs of dissent up and down the line. Halas and Des exchanged glances. They both were afraid, though neither would admit it. “Fear not the words of a coward and a brigand!” declared Dale Crowe. “We ride forth, to the sorrow of any who oppose us.”

  And so they did, and no one opposed them. After a day the men seemed to be less wary than they were before, though anyone of experience would have known that they were less safe as they went deeper in. Certainly Dale Crowe did. Halas felt just as uneasy as he had watching Queen Anaua’s ships gaining ground. Desmond tried to keep in high spirits, but Halas knew his friend was terrified. He was trying too hard to appear otherwise.

  Halas rode along, staring at the back of Walter’s wagon. The caravan moved steadily into the mountains. They followed a stream for several miles before coming upon a strange sight: a little village nestled in the trees. It was composed of squat, clay buildings, and from their vantage point on the cliffs they could see people walking every which way. Barnard Claymont and his bodyguard conferred for a bit before deciding that they would investigate with a small party. Halas was chosen along with three other men. The cliffs turned into a hard slope near their position, and getting the horses down was difficult, but they all managed. Afterwards they moved at a full gallop toward the village, where they were met by several men with bows and glaives and pitchforks, wearing leather jerkins.

  “We told you we’d pay!” cried one of the men.

  “Please spare us!”

  “We mean no harm!”

  Crowe seemed alarmed, but he ignored the begging. “What is this place?” he asked.

  At this the men stopped their blubbering and pleas. One cocked his head. “Do you not serve the bandit lord?”
>
  “No,” said Crowe. “We are a caravan from Earlsfort. We make for Fort Torrance. I say again: What is this place?”

  “This is Busby,” said another of the men. He had dark eyes and a gray cloak. Halas thought he looked peculiar, as if he were above the rest of the villagers somehow. He must have been in charge. “What madness possessed you to travel through the lawless lands?”

  “Time is short,” said Crowe, “and my employer thinks that he can thwart Torgeir’s will.”

  The men laughed. “You cannot thwart the Oppressor,” said a fat woman with several children held close. “He rules these lands with an iron fist. If we do not pay him tribute each month, a raiding party rides through and destroys one of our buildings.”

  “Then why do you stay?” asked Halas.

  “This is our home, and we refuse to be routed from it.”

  “I see,” said Crowe.

  “Trust me when I tell you this, traveler,” said the man in the gray cloak, “but you will not survive. None do, not anymore. Torgeir’s lust is no longer for gold but for blood. He has eyes and ears all through this country. I guarantee that he already knows you are here. He will find you soon, I think.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “It is too late to go back. You have no choice but to continue forward, and hope that your fighters are a match for his. My words bear ill omen, but I would lessen that, if I might. I would like to accompany you.”

  The villagers looked alarmed. “Why?”

  “If you do intend to strike a blow at the Oppressor, I would like to aid such a cause. I know these lands better than Torgeir’s best scouts; I can guide you.”

  “Very well,” said Crowe. “We will return in one hour with our wagons. Be prepared.”

  “Of course.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Elivain. My name is Elivain.”

  “Well Elivain, until we meet again.”

  “Indeed.”

  Claymont was not pleased with the idea of taking another man onboard, but Crowe assured him it would be well worth it to have a guide and extra warrior, and the nobleman eventually conceded. They met Elivain just outside Busby. He wore a light chain-mail shirt under his jerkin, a bow across his back, and a fine sword at his hip. He carried a bundle in his left hand. A spearhead protruded from the blankets. Halas saw that his boots and clothes looked worn, in odd contrast to his weapons. A small crowd of men and women were there to see him off. One woman wept. Her husband, a stout, tired-looking man, put his arm around her shoulders.