The Temple Page 23

  But Aeon’s quest was crucial. There was nothing of more importance, not even their own lives, Halas realized. He didn’t like that, but he knew it to be true. Torgeir would not give up his domain, and Halas couldn’t believe how incredibly naïve he had been to even think it. He felt silly.

  “I would like safe passage,” he whispered, “for my caravan and I.”

  Torgeir pondered for a moment and then said, “Very well, though I am afraid I must claim your treasure as my own. Policy, you see.”

  “There is no treasure,” said Halas.

  Torgeir frowned. His hand drifted down to his sword. He then realized that the blade was buried in the neck of a strange blue tiger, and instead deftly plucked the letter opener from Halas’ fingers. Halas made as if to take it back, but Torgeir grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the bank, placing the weapon against Halas’ cheekbone hard enough to draw blood. “You lied to me.”

  “Yes, I did. You were going to kill us.” His voice rose in pitch with each word until he was nearly squeaking.

  “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “And I’m not fond of being murdered, now that you mention it!”

  For a moment the two men stared at each other, and then Torgeir laughed. He stood, tossed aside the knife, and helped Halas to his feet. “Let us return to our people, Halas Who Is Not Entirely of the Truth. My men shall hinder your path no more.”

  Halas, thinking he’d probably never quite get his breath back, climbed on to Owain with a little trouble, for his leg still hurt. But soon both men were mounted, and they rode off, back toward the caravan and Torgeir’s bandits. It had begun to rain when they reached them, little drops here and there. A cold wind blew, and Halas wrapped himself in his cloak.

  “What happened?” asked the men.

  “Return to the wood, soldiers!” Torgeir cried. “We shall bother these fine gentlemen no longer.” He glanced at Dale, though Halas knew that the bandit lord was not really looking at the grizzled old warrior, but the twenty-year old farm boy. “Good day to you, sirs. Pleasure doing business!”

  Torgeir turned and rode off. His people followed a moment later. At once, the men of the caravan burst into cheers. The men ignored their dead comrades and clapped for their own survival. They were alive; someone had saved them, and that was all that mattered. Halas felt disgusted.

  Des and Aeon raced to his side, but Crowe arrived first. “What happened? What did you do?”

  “We were attacked,” Halas said. “I saved his life. We have safe passage to Fort Torrance.”

  “I wish you had not done that,” said Elivain. “Torgeir is most certainly a man this world would be better off without.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you save his life?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you all right? Are you injured?” Desmond and Aeon asked. Crowe brushed their questions aside.

  “What attacked you?” he asked.

  “Two tigers. They were…blue. I don’t know where they came from.”

  “Blue tigers?” said Elivain.

  “That’s…strange,” Aeon said.

  Elivain continued. “It sounds to me like you have help, my young friend. Outside help.”

  Halas did not like the sound of that, and he was beginning to dislike Elivain. Crowe nodded his appreciation. “You did a good job,” he said, and rode off.

  Des tried to give Halas a hug, but his horse refused to cooperate, and so he had to settle for a clap on the shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I think so. One of the beasts landed on my leg.”

  “Can you move it?” Aeon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  The horses were tethered. They stood at the far end of the field, under light guard, eating grass and drinking from the stream. Meanwhile, the others buried the bodies. Seven men had died in the initial attack, and another had succumbed to his wounds shortly after.

  Halas, being both injured and responsible for saving the caravan, was not required to participate in the dig. He sat on the grass, kneading his sore leg, and watched Desmond and Aeon, Des in particular. He seemed deeply saddened by the losses, though Halas felt strangely empty. These men had looked down upon Halas and his companions, much as the crew of The Wandering Blade had, and now, they shared their fate.

  Too many people had died. Halas, sickened with himself at the thought, realized that he was growing accustomed to it. He was on a very important journey, and men died during such things. In all the stories, men died by the score. Of the monks who had waged war on the Mad Lord Nenner in Springdell, three had survived the final battle. Aeon the Great’s party left a scant few. Death was a natural part of the journey, Halas thought. You only survived if you were truly dedicated to the idea of it. Death could come, but Halas wondered if maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t keep it away through willpower alone.

  Desmond, bless him, did not seem to share Halas’ feelings on the matter. Halas could see that his friend’s cheeks were wet with tears, and he was putting every ounce of effort he had into digging. The men were making a large grave for all eight of the fallen, and Desmond had disappeared from the waist down in one section of the hole.

  Halas realized he was crying. Elivain sat down next to him. Halas started; he’d not heard the man approach.

  “It is all right, I mean you no harm, and I bear you no ill will, for that matter. You did what any naïve child would have done.”

  “I am not…”

  Elivain silenced him with a waved hand. “Calm, I also mean no disrespect. You are naïve, Halas Duer of Cordalis. I expect you thought to ask the Oppressor to forsake his land, even.” He chuckled at the thought, but Halas did not think it particularly funny. A moment later, he realized what had happened.

  Elivain knew who he was!

  “How do you know me?” Halas asked. So far he’d done a fantastic job of keeping to his assumed name, and he knew he had to proceed carefully.

  “I know many things. I have wandered far during my years, and met many interesting characters. For instance, I once dealt with a gnome who seemed to think he was a goat. I also knew your father; I fought briefly with him once, long ago.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “I fight with you, Halas Duer. Remember this in the coming days.”

  Elivain slid to his feet and walked away, toward the trees. Halas looked after him, mystified. Not long after he left, Halas received his second visitor: an old man, one of the caravan drivers. Halas thought his name was Ragley, but he was unsure. Ragley laid a kind hand on Halas’ shoulder.

  “Service is starting,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  The men laid the bodies side-by-side. They then covered them up, and made a tall marker. Crowe, standing at the front of the assembly, drew his sword. “Draw yours as well, men, and salute these brave souls who have passed on, defending you and yours.”

  Halas took the hilt and pulled, but his sword did not come free. He realized with a start that he hadn’t cleaned it since The Wandering Blade. Suddenly very worried, he gave it a good yank. The sword came free. Halas inspected it. There was a thin red crust around the edges, but nothing more. No rust, no stains. He scratched off the crust and saluted the men.

  When the funeral was over he cleaned both sheath and sword in the stream, making sure to dry them well. Night had fallen, and though they had Torgeir’s promise, they kept a heavy guard. Still, the others were awake well into the night, clutching weapons.

  They set out early that morning, indeed before the sun had even risen, and went at a fast pace, racing across the fields and through the forests. Halas took no notice of anything that went on at this time, though he could see Aeon and Desmond speaking fervently whenever they were together. Claymont drove them on through the night, and they stopped for a brief rest after the sun rose before taking off again.

  It was a grueling pace, and they saw no sign of any bandits.
Elivain, despite his earlier words, did not seem pleased with Halas, and spoke not a word to him through the rest of the journey. Eleven days after Halas killed the tiger, the spires of Fort Torrance came into view. The men forgot their sorrows; they laughed and cheered; they were safe.

  But it was an altogether different feeling for the three friends. It dawned on Halas then that they were wanted fugitives, and here they were, riding straight into a military fortress.

  Aeon’s words reverberated in his mind: Trust in distance, my friend.

  Trust in distance.

  Sub Chapter Eight

  “A ship!” cried the lookout. “There’s a ship on the horizon!”

  Raazoi strode to the bow, staring off into the distance. She smiled. “It’s them.”

  “How do you know?” Nolan asked.

  “Trust me.”

  Raazoi was the new captain of the ship. She had a falcon sent to the others in their little fleet, ordering them to be ready for battle. “Today, you avenge your Admiral King,” she told those near her. They smiled and readied their weapons.

  The Wandering Blade came on strong. Raazoi ordered ballistae to be fired; she ordered the ship to be stopped. “But Prince Aeon is to be saved,” she said. “You may do with the others what you wish.”

  When the craft were within yards of each other, Raazoi disappeared into their cabin, leaving Nolan to command the battle. “Charge!” he yelled, and leapt across the small path between the ships. He was met by two sailors in bright silver uniforms. He cut them down.

  Laughing maniacally, he charged another group, slaughtering them as well, relishing the feeling of blood on his hands. His sword shone brightly in it. He took no wounds, and eventually, came face to face with a giant of a man.

  Tormod hefted his sword angrily. Nolan snarled. Everyone around them instinctively knew to avoid, to stay clear. This was between the two men, two men who hated each other with a passion and did not know entirely why.

  Nolan met Tormod head on, leaping into the air and slicing downward. Tormod, big though he was, was agile. He parried with total efficiency, driving Nolan off-balance as he landed. Nolan told himself that he would not underestimate this man again. He darted in, stabbing, probing the defenses. Tormod was tired and heavy. He was also wounded; there was a gash that ran down his left thigh.

  Nolan danced around the bigger man, just out of his reach, slapping his sides with his cutlass. It took only seconds.

  He kicked the big man’s wound.

  Tormod toppled.

  Nolan stabbed him in the back, pushing past the tip of the blade. He knelt down beside Tormod’s ear, and smiled.

  “I win,” he whispered.

  Tormod sagged.

  The battle was over. The bodies of the dead were mixed with those of the nearly-dead, crying out for help and gods and families. Nolan took pleasure in ending them. But there were prisoners. Raazoi walked delicately across the gangplank, smiling at Nolan as he stood, drenched in blood. He smiled back.

  Chapter Nine

  Escape From Fort Torrence

  Fort Torrance, though far out of Ager, was an Agerian Fortress ruled and controlled by King Melick. A general was in charge of the fort itself. His word was law. Five such castles existed in Aelborough, and Conroy had once told Halas the names of all the generals. He’d since forgotten them.

  Desmond rode beside him. “Aeon and I have been talking,” he whispered. “We’ve got to leave.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but how? There’s no cover for a mile; anyone on the wall will be able to see us.”

  “Aye, that’s what worries me. We’re going to have to wait until nightfall. Aeon says that we’ll ride out tonight as soon as we can.”

  “There may not be any shelter until we reach Bakunin.” He glanced at the mountains, looming ominously above them. Snow capped the peaks and had begun to stretch downward. Traversing those mountains was going to be very unpleasant. “It’s going to be a very cold walk. We’ll need food, and furs.”

  Desmond’s face was resolute. “We’ll steal some. Are you all right with that?”

  “I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Halas offered a smile. Desmond was doing his best.

  They rode to the gate. Claymont showed his papers to the guard, and they were allowed in. The horses were stabled and the men led inside. They were sat at a long table. Claymont and Crowe followed two guards deeper into the castle. A captain addressed the rest of the men. “You must be hungry, and weary,” he said. “Please, allow us to aid you. Do any of you require medical attention? No? Excellent. Food shall be brought to you soon.”

  It was cold. Halas and Des sat together while they waited, and after a minute Halas spoke. “Do you ever think about the forest?”

  “All the time. I wonder what Halbrick was doing in there.”

  “I hope he’s all right,” Halas lamented.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. He strikes me as the type that can take care of himself, you know? And the way he handles that sword, he’s a right genius, I reckon. You should not worry about him.”

  There was a rich feast of hot soup, stiff meats and juicy fruits and vegetables. There was bread enough to fill everyone’s stomachs, with actual butter to go with it. Halas tore into the food with a fevered intensity. Some of it was less than grand, however. Halfway through the meal, Walter bit into a potato, and immediately began coughing and hacking. Halas saw the potato—it was black and green: rotted. He grimaced. “Can you believe this shit?” Walter asked. “First tater I get in months, and it’s got the rot.”

  “It’s perfect for you,” said Porter, several seats over. Walter laughed and threw it at him.

  Throughout the feast, when he was sure no one was watching, Des would slip a fistful of crabapples or berries, a carrot, or a slice of wrapped ham into the pack at his feet. Aeon leaned over to Halas. “Did Desmond tell you the plan?”

  “Yes. Let’s hope we are quartered together.”

  They were given the option of their rooms, and the three friends chose one with four soft beds lining the walls. The guard who took them was an older man, who glanced at Aeon several times as they walked with the look of someone who has seen what he believes to be an old friend. Aeon shied away, uncomfortable with the man’s gaze.

  They knew it was too much to ask for a fourth man not to join their room, and Halas hoped dearly it would be Walter. Walter would understand their leaving, but it was not to be. Not two minutes after entering the chamber, Elivain sauntered inside, laying his kit down beside the fourth bed. He nodded curtly to Halas before going immediately to sleep. Halas sat on the edge of his own bed. He wondered how he was going to prevent himself from falling asleep on the thing; it was like a cloud.

  It was his leg that kept him up. Once the excitement had died down, Halas noticed the dull throb. As he lay in the soft, oh so soft bed, the pain gradually worsened. Twice Halas had to look at it, expecting to see a deep gash, but saw only purple bruises up and down his thigh.

  Late in the night, Elivain’s snores told Halas that the man was asleep. He sat up, dressed, and slung his pack, creeping across the room to Aeon’s bed. The prince was already awake, so Halas went to Desmond. Desmond was sound asleep. He rolled over and hiccupped. “Des!” Halas hissed. “Des, wake up. Des. Des!”

  “Not now…” muttered Desmond.

  Halas shook him roughly. He bolted upright with a shout.

  Halas cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry,” Desmond said, “dreaming.”

  “Get a move on then, we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Right.”

  Des got up, but nearly cried out as someone grabbed his arm. It was Elivain in the next bed over. Aeon took hold of the man’s wrist, spun it around, and flipped him over the side of the bed. Elivain rolled to his knees, pushing the prince away. Halas, the pain in his leg momentarily forgotten, grabbed Aeon by the arm and moved for the door, but Elivain skipped over the bed and barr
ed the way.

  “Not so fast! Where are you three off to in the dead of night?”

  “Just leave us alone,” said Aeon. “You won’t understand.”

  “I think you’ll find that there is not a lot that can surprise me, Prince Aeon.”

  If Halas could see in the dark, he would have seen that Aeon’s face went stark white. Elivain knew who they were, but was he friend, or foe? He said that he was not an enemy, but how am I to be sure? “How…how do you know who I am?” Aeon asked.

  “I am older than I look, and well-traveled. I remember when you were born; I was in Cordalis at the time. Now, tell me, where is it you are off to?”

  The three friends looked between each other. “Tell me,” he continued, “or I will alert the guards, and you two will be off to the jail. What’ll it be?”

  Aeon took a wary step back. Halas put a hand on his shoulder. They had to tell Elivain. There was nothing else for it. And besides, he claims to have fought with my father. That means he can be trusted, to a certain extent. “We make for Aeon’s Temple,” said Aeon. “My namesake.”

  The room seemed to grow even darker. “Then the old words are true,” Elivain said. “There is one who is half-Ifrinn, and he seeks to free his people.”

  “She, actually,” said Desmond. “The half-Ifrinn is a woman. A witch.”

  “This seems a worthy cause,” said Elivain. “I would like to assist you.”

  “No,” said Aeon.

  “No?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Halas was reminded of Conroy denying them weapons. It seemed so long ago, in another life. If only Conroy could see him now. Since leaving Cordalis, Halas had done things he never would have dreamed himself capable of.

  “It is out of the question. We do not know you. How can we trust you?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to. As I said—I’ll call the guards. Besides that, I’ve been to Bakunin. I know the way through the Frigid Peaks. Can any of you say the same? How do you expect to navigate such a place without a guide?”