The Temple Page 28

  Reaching into Desmond’s pack now, Halas could not help but be reminded of that box. The snake bite had once been Halas’ most painful injury to date. He thought that once it hadn’t been entirely bad, but the pain inflated with memory. Now, with his leg, it seemed paltry. Halas decided there were more important things to dwell on. Still, he cursed Gale quietly, and Des, who loved telling the story as if he had actually been there, chuckled.

  Finally he found it. For a split second, Halas thought he’d grabbed a snake, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip. But it wasn’t a snake—it was a thin length of rope. He yanked it free of the pack and closed the flap. He tied the two ends into lassos and looped one end around his waist, the other around Desmond’s. He cinched the loops tight and gave a good tug. There were about six foot-lengths between them. Desmond gathered the loose coil in his arms, reducing that to just over one.

  They set off one miserable step at a time. With the passage so constricted and the complete absence of light, they only made a few foot-lengths each minute. Their legs cramped every so often, sending fiery bursts of agony through Halas. He ignored it, but eventually they had to stop. Halas discovered that he was thick with sweat. Desmond squatted down in front of him.

  “At least we can breathe,” he mused.

  That changed soon after. The air became muggy and hot, and they both had to take deep, labored breaths through their mouths. Nose breathing had become impossible. Sweat poured from their skin in gallons. Halas’ hands were slick against the rough surfaces. And worst of all, it was still dark. Desmond had stopped talking several hours before. Halas felt the rope tighten, and he stopped. “What is it?”

  “My legs are cramping. I need to stretch.”

  “All right.”

  So they walked. When they grew tired of walking, they rested. When they finished resting, they walked. It was a cycle that Halas feared would continue until their deaths. He tried to remember the opening that had brought them here. Perhaps they should have searched for that when they’d originally woken up, but they would never find their way back now. There had to be another entrance. There has been one, so there must be another, right? An entrance means an exit.

  His palms ached from the constant contact with the rough-hewn walls. He curled them into fists and kept moving. Unfortunately, it took only seconds for him to come down just a little too hard, tearing the skin from his knuckles. He hissed at the sting of it.

  “What’s the matter?” Desmond asked.

  “I think this cave is determined to take me apart piece by piece.”

  “Sorry. If it means anything to you, I nearly took my head off a while ago.”

  “Such great comfort.”

  Desmond grunted. Halas had to smile. For his own sake, he was glad Desmond had gone after him. But for Desmond’s…Halas couldn’t say.

  He woke to Desmond shaking him. “We should keep moving.”

  “Right.”

  He had no idea how long he had been asleep, or how long they’d been down here. Time becomes meaningless when one has no way of measuring it. He had no idea what Aeon and Elivain were doing. They had only been a few days from the Temple, according to Jaden’s maps. Had it been that long? Halas doubted it, but there was absolutely no way to be sure.

  His mind drifted back to something Elivain had said when Halas and Desmond wanted to expose Marrok for his crimes. He’d warned them not to start trouble when they couldn’t see it through. Halas had said Marrok should not be allowed to go free, and Elivain’s response was, “As you did with Torgeir?”

  At the time Halas had been chastened, but now he thought of Elivain as a hypocrite. It occurred to him that Elivain had started some sort of campaign against Torgeir the Mighty, but he’d abandoned it just as quick as can be when they left Fort Torrance. Halas wished he’d made mention of the fact. Now that he’d thought about it, the whole exchange bothered him.

  His hand slipped on the ceiling and he fell on his face. Desmond spilled after him, landing on top. “Get off!” Halas grunted. Desmond rolled to the side, stretching the rope, pulling it taut. It dug painfully into his stomach. He yanked Desmond closer.

  “Can we stand up?” he asked.

  “I dunno. I can’t reach the ceiling. Let’s try it.”

  Halas rolled on to his stomach, pushing off against the oiled stone. He got to his knees and then stood. Reaching up, he felt for the ceiling, but it was too high. He felt a rush of elation, and smiled. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Halas, you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Something was breathing.

  They had no choice but to keep moving. Desmond struck a match, taking a few careful steps forward, scanning the darkness. “This way,” he said. The breathing had disappeared, but if Halas concentrated hard enough, he could just barely make it out. Whatever the thing was, it was definitely following them.

  Halas had no intention of dying. Not here, not now. He had a life to get back to. Cailin. Forcing thoughts of the creature out of his mind, Halas touched the rope and followed the light until it dwindled into nothing. He felt along the wall. Suddenly, the texture beneath his hand changed. He jumped back, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. “What is it?” Desmond asked.

  “Wood! It’s wood.”

  They both explored with their palms until they were sure that Halas was correct; it was indeed wood. “It’s a door,” he muttered, finding the latch. It was hot to the touch. He pulled, and the door swung open, its hinges creaking. Halas spun around, putting a hand on his sword. He listened for whatever was out there. It had to have heard the creak.

  After a time, Desmond put a hand on his shoulder. “We should go through that door.”

  “Right, the door. Do you hear it?”

  “No, not anymore. I think it’s gone.”

  Halas wasn’t so sure, but there was nothing for it. He had to duck to get inside, and Desmond reached for another match. Halas shut the door behind them. It jammed, but he gave it a good shove.

  And then a voice cut through the darkness, a voice that did not belong to either of them.

  “Who’s there?”

  Halas felt Desmond’s hand close tightly around his forearm; he froze. The voice was rough and low, as if it had not been in use for a while.

  “Who’s there?” it asked again. “I know someone is there, I can see you both! Who are you? Answer me, before I take my hammer to your skulls.”

  “My…my name is Halas. This is my friend Desmond. Who are you?”

  “Gilshenn Sidoor, if you please. Tell me, how did you get past Deyrey Baaish?”

  “The what?” asked Desmond.

  “Deyrey Baaish—the king’s old pet. Tools of the gods, does that abomination still draw breath?”

  “What is it?”

  “Forgive me for my rudeness. When I said the king’s old pet, I meant to say: the old king’s pet. There’s not been a king down here for many years. There’s not been anything but me for many years. If She was right, anyhow.”

  “Who are you? What is this place?”

  “Orhill Caverns,” said Gilshenn. “Or the Mines of Orhill, according to you people, however you please. It all started with that damned captain. His people found the southern entrances. We were more and happy to trade with new folk, but they gave us more than we bargained for. They brought plague. Plague brought famine. I used to be a potter, but my shop went under. No one was buying anything. I could not feed myself, and I fell ill and dreamt of a beautiful woman. She told me to come down here—this is the prison, where Deyrey Baaish lives—and lock myself in this room with food and water and tools. I do not know who She was, but I did it. I did what She said. She told me I’d sleep for years, until the king was dead and buried. I was told to wait. For you, I now assume.

  “Tell me, how long has it been?”

  “I’ve not heard of this,” Halas said. “I apologize. What captain do you speak of?”

  “The man who brought you all ove
r here: Captain Aelworth!”

  Halas was stunned. “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not.”

  “Gilshenn…Captain Aelworth died over two thousand years ago.”

  For a while there was silence, and then they heard a heavy thump, followed by coarse growling. But it wasn’t growling. Gilshenn was sobbing. Halas wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he knew that to move even the slightest was a bad idea, with no hold on the walls.

  “Sorry,” Desmond offered weakly.

  “My people?” Gilshenn asked meekly. “Are they…I knew what She meant, I just…I just never, never thought that it was real.” His sobs were heavy. Halas’ legs were weak when they stopped. He’d have to sit soon.

  “Gilshenn?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Are you…well, could you lead us out of here?”

  “This is to do with that thrice-damned Temple, isn’t it?”

  “What do you know of the Temple?” Desmond asked.

  “Only what the woman told me. I can lead you out. I’ve followed Her orders thus far, it would be a shame if I decided to stop that now.” A pause, followed by a sniffle. “Indeed, it would. Right then, first we’ll need to kill that monster out there.”

  “How?”

  “How indeed.”

  “Do you have torches?” Halas said. “We cannot fight it if we cannot see. How can you see?”

  “We used to live both above ground and below it. I lived here, closer to the best dirt. When you’ve been down here for as long as I, you learn to adapt. So no, no torches. I possess my hammer and bow, plenty of food, water and alcohol, and clothes. I suppose I did not quite believe Her when She told me I would sleep most of the time.”

  “Can you see well enough to fight it?”

  “Aye, but I cannot do it myself.”

  Halas’ mind was rapidly formulating a plan. It was simple, but it would work. He told it to Desmond and Gilshenn. “Aye, that’ll do,” Gilshenn said. “Good on you.”

  They spent several hours cutting up Gilshenn’s clothes, ripping and tearing them into long strips. Gilshenn supervised, and when they were finished, he stole into the corridor, rolling a small keg out before him. He returned shortly after. “It’s set,” he said. “Let’s go wake the bastard up.”

  Gilshenn led them into the corridor by the hand. He stopped suddenly. “This is it,” he said. “Here he comes. May death not befoul us with His presence.”

  They waited then. Before long, Gilshenn began shouting. “I’m here! Come and get me, foul creature! Bring your ugly face to me! I’m here!”

  Footsteps like those of a giant. Halas drew his sword. He kissed the blade without realizing. Memories of the day he’d gotten it rushed back to him. There had been tears in Halbrick’s eyes. Halas had asked for a blade for Garek, but he’d never thought to go to Conroy. Fresh guilt came with that thought, and then doubled when he remembered he’d left his brother in Earlsfort. “Are you sure you laid it out correctly?” he asked.

  “Certain.”

  The footsteps were closer. “NOW!” yelled Gilshenn. A match sparked in Desmond’s hand, and he tossed it to the ground. Where it should have sizzled and died, it roared to life in the alcohol-drenched cloth. It shot down the path assigned, fire blazing up tall, crackling with warmth and light. Halas’ eyes watered. He yelped in alarm, but he could see.

  The Deyrey Baaish towered above them. It had thick muscles, limbs like tree trunks, and the head of a bull. Its horns were razor sharp. Halas was not afraid, and the realization brought a grim smile to his face. The beast was trapped in a prison of flame, roaring in pain and anguish. Tall and imposing though it was, Halas found he was not afraid. He could see the beast; he saw that it had a head, it had a heart. The beast was a living, breathing being. It could be killed.

  Halas hefted his sword.

  Gilshenn drew back his bow and shot it in the chest. It roared louder, plucking the shaft from its flesh as if it were no more than an insect bite. The Deyrey Baaish charged forward, and Gilshenn shot it again. This time it braved the fire, leaping through the barrier and at the three friends. Halas and Desmond were tossed aside like tissue paper, Desmond missing the fire by mere inches. The beast went straight for Gilshenn, who picked up a heavy hammer and brought it down on the creature’s knuckles. It screamed, picking him up and pinning him to the ceiling. Halas was afraid then, but he found it manageable.

  “Yeah, you’ve wanted this for two millennia! Come and get it!” Gilshenn snarled, biting and scratching. Despite his efforts, the Deyrey Baaish was going to squeeze the life out of him. Halas rose and sunk his sword into its thigh, driving it in halfway down the blade. The creature roared, dropping Gilshenn and swinging around, causing Halas to lose his grip. He took the brunt of the blow and careened into the wall.

  It turned to face Gilshenn once more. Gilshenn took up his hammer. Halas had only a moment to examine the man. He was short, very short, and wore a thick beard down nearly to his boots. It had been growing for centuries; Halas expected it to be even longer. The beast tore Silvia from its leg, snapping the blade in half and dropping it with a loud clatter. Desmond stood while Halas dove for his sword. The monster tried to stop him, but Desmond had circled around behind. He slashed downward and cut a deep wound in its shoulder. It whirled to face him, ducking its head low, trying to gore Des with its horns. That was a mistake, for Gilshenn moved in and cracked his hammer across its neck. With a terrible roar, the thing grabbed Gilshenn and squeezed. Gilshenn bit down hard on its finger. The Deyrey Baaish waved him at Halas. It stumbled away, toward Gilshenn’s cell. Its heavy head looked every which way with frantic fervor. The monster turned away from the fire and started down the hall, still holding Gilshenn.

  But Desmond was there, again drawing deep red lines into the creature’s back. The Deyrey Baaish screamed, turning to take on this new threat, but Halas stabbed it in the side. It dropped Gilshenn. Gilshenn grabbed his hammer, smashing it into the side of the creature’s kneecap. Halas heard a tremendous crunch, and the beast fell. It scrambled away on its hands and knees, unwittingly toward the fire. Gilshenn brought the hammer down once more, on to its toes.

  It toppled headfirst into the flame.

  The fires caused the beast to convulse and roll deeper into the prison within a prison. The Deyrey Baaish screamed, really screamed, wrapping itself in the shrouds and crawling down the tunnel. Halas was horrified but somehow enticed by the spectacle. All the while, Gilshenn Sidoor cursed and yelled insults, jeered and shot arrows down the corridor, until finally the flames were extinguished beneath the creature’s massive weight.

  The Deyrey Baaish was dead, and the tunnel was once again cast into darkness.

  Halas felt sick.

  “That is the end of that,” said Gilshenn after he was done whooping. “I think my old eyes are bleeding.”

  “It’s been quite a while since you’ve seen light like that, I reckon,” said Desmond. “Maybe they are.”

  “Laugh it up. You want out of here or not?”

  “Of course I do. I was merely being facetious.”

  “I’m afraid I do not know what that means.”

  “Sarcastic. I’m sure your eyes are fine.”

  “Oh. Well, shove off.”

  Gilshenn’s voice was distant for a moment, and they heard a sharp crack. It’s another one, Halas thought with dread. “What are you doing?” he asked aloud.

  “I want the horns. I will come back for the head later.”

  Another snap, and Gilshenn returned. “These things can skewer even the thickest of armor. Damned lucky they didn’t catch you. Come on then, let’s get out of this place.”

  Gilshenn led them through the tunnels, though doors and archways, across bridges and up long slopes with stairs carved into them. Once out of the prison, the tunnels once again became small and cramped. Halas and Des had to stoop, and occasionally they were forced to crawl. Halas found that, while crawling played havoc on his back, it was heaven
on his wounded leg. Every so often, one of them would step on something that crunched. Gilshenn made nothing of it, but Halas was sure they were walking on the bones of the dead. Their skeletons must have been remarkably preserved in the stiff air.

  As they went, Gilshenn served as a tour guide. Here was the refinery, here was the churchyard, here was the officer’s quarters, here the armory. Sometimes he couldn’t talk; when they tried to elicit a response, he’d sniffle or choke, and they left him alone. Halas wondered how such a broad city could be built inside such small conditions.

  Gradually the halls widened, and the air cooled. Halas stopped sweating when he felt something glide across his face. Desmond laughed—it was wind!

  Bits of light shone through cracks in the ceiling. They were close now. Gilshenn led them to a staircase and helped them up. Halas felt the chill rush of air before he saw it. They were in a cave. Brilliant sunlight shone from the mouth. He and Desmond raced for it, forgetting their aches and pains, laughing and dancing and cheering, leaving the bones of everyone Gilshenn Sidoor had ever known behind.

  Halas and Desmond collapsed into the snow. The beautiful, wonderful snow. Halas tackled Des and pushed his head under. It was as if they were children again.

  They were in a glade, surrounded by fir trees, their branches stark white with glittering crystals, the kind of look only taken after a fresh and copious snowfall followed by a deep freeze. Halas didn’t care that he wasn’t bundled, that his fingers and toes were already red, that his leg protested every movement, that his father’s sword was broken. He laughed and laughed, so happy to be out of those caves.

  “These trees were planted in my youth,” Gilshenn lamented. “I remember when they were small. I remember it took all of the king’s power to get them to keep.”