by David Benem
“Well?” Lorra asked impatiently. “Why are you going there?”
Bale glared at the woman. “For someone who doesn’t care to hear my answers, you certainly ask me a lot of questions.”
Lorra took the cups and her pot to the stream and set about washing them. After doing so she splashed water on her face, removing some of the thick layer of dirt caked upon it. At least in the flickering firelight, she looked far more comely than she had earlier. Her features were hard but still womanly and, if Bale dared think it, attractive.
Bale stared at her for a long moment before heaving a sigh. “It’s a long story. Probably not something you want to hear.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“It’s about those Sentinels I mentioned earlier.”
“You said that stuff was a thousand years ago. You’re going to see a dead person? A tomb?”
Bale chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, I am going to something not unlike a tomb. The Old Faith was rejected as blasphemy after the Sentinels were banished, and symbols of them were forbidden by the High King. But as for the Sentinels themselves, they are immortal.”
Lorra looked at him quizzically, her brow curling above green eyes.
“That means they cannot die by mortal means.”
“I know what it means,” Lorra said sharply, splashing Bale with a handful of water. She then fixed him with a penetrating stare. “So the person you’re going to meet is a thousand years old?”
Bale looked skyward again and studied the stars. “That’s my hope. There was one among them named Lyan the Just. I don’t know what became of her after the Sentinels were banished, but it’s my hope she has not… faded away. It’s my hope she is still at Cirak. Still waiting.”
“And why is it you would want to meet this… person?”
Bale pulled his robes closer. “Perhaps she can help me save the world.”
At dawn they found themselves again on a path cut into the side of a mountain, this one narrower and more treacherous than the last. A thunderhead rolled atop the nearby sky and the wind whipped at them and howled in their ears. Bale was desperately afraid of tumbling off and crept slowly along with both hands pressed against the rock face.
He stumbled suddenly on a loose stone, tilting backward for an instant before frantically finding his footing and returning his hands to the mountain face. A tear fell from his eye before being blown from his face by the wind. Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant! He squeezed shut his eyes and continued shuffling along the path while the wind tugged at him. He thought for an instant of Keln, of the Scarlet Swordsman waiting for him in the afterlife, waiting for revenge with sword drawn and eyes ablaze. I am too weak an instrument!
“Damn you!” cursed Lorra from ahead of him. “We’re no more than a half-day’s walk from Cirak, but at your pace it will be another three!”
Bale sniffled and raised his chin, doing his best to present a brave face in spite of his shuttered, weeping eyes. “I am moving as quickly as my spirit will allow! I am no mountain goat such as you!”
He felt a sharp pull on his sleeve and pried open an eye. There was Lorra, framed against the leaden sky with her red and gray hair swirling madly and her green eyes staring fiercely, the sleeve of his robe bunched in her fist. Somehow she seemed every bit as womanly as she had the evening before, in spite of her pursed mouth, deep wrinkles, and altogether angry eyes.
“You will come, spooker,” she said. “You will follow me.”
Bale clutched futilely at the rock wall before surrendering to her grasp. With eyes squeezed shut he allowed himself to be towed along, keeping one trembling hand pressed against the rough rock. “How do I know you won’t just lead me over the edge?” he asked, his voice choked with tears.
“You don’t,” said Lorra, harshly. “I don’t mean to do that just now, but if you keep complaining like a sheep being sheared I just might.”
Bale bit his lip and followed blindly.
By late afternoon the wind had eased and the sky had calmed. The path remained quite precarious—a narrow passage with a five thousand foot drop on one side—and Bale continued to press one hand upon the rock face for fear of falling. His other hand was still tugged along in its sleeve by Lorra, who remained confident of her footing and impatient with Bale’s pace.
“Even with your slow shuffle we are finally getting close,” she grumbled, gesturing toward the path ahead. “Once more about the mountain and you’ll be there.” She turned her head to face him. “I deserve more than you promised to pay me, seeing as you’ve been so slow. I should have been home a day ago.”
Bale nodded. “Whatever coin it takes.” His eyes wandered to the edge of the path and over its edge. “I may need you to lead me back down.”
Lorra grunted again and tugged him along. “Just so long as we leave the place before dark.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be finished before nightfall. What if I asked you to wait for me?”
“Nighttime is bad in that place. We shouldn’t stay there so long.”
“I’ll pay you triple.”
Lorra looked at him grimly for a moment before speaking. “You’re lucky I’m so poor. Had half our goats not died of plague last summer perhaps I’d tell you to find your own damned way down.”
Bale nodded graciously. “I’ll tarry not one moment too long.”
After a time Bale found his steps with greater certainty, whether because of Lorra’s grip or the proximity of his destination he could not be sure. He even found the courage to wander closer to the path’s edge and peer off the mountain’s side.
Through drifts of mist he was able to spy the deep chasms, hidden vales and winding passes far, far below. In one valley there seemed to be the ruins of an old fortress. As Bale continued his inspection, though, he realized this was no vestige of an older time, but a fortress recently razed. Walls and battlements lay toppled, and scattered about it were hundreds of tiny dots glinting in the shafts of sunlight filtered through the clouds. He surmised these were the slaughtered soldiers of Rune, a mountain garrison demolished by the Arranese horde mere weeks ago.
His thoughts turned to the war raging a hundred leagues to the north. Since he’d left General Fane’s company he’d heard nothing of it save for the frantic descriptions from the soldier Stevran, just before Keln had murdered him. What Stevran had said was anything but promising, and Bale wondered if the Arranese had already burned Riverweave and marched to Ironmoor. He thought of the Abbey, of Gamghast and Borel in particular, and he was sad. Could it be I am safer here than I was in the Abbey? He slowed and stared again at the ruins of the fortress below.
“Come along,” Lorra said, yanking his sleeve with greater urgency. “There’s another storm on the horizon. At these heights we’ll need to find shelter before nightfall.”
“Yes,” Bale said absently, pulling his eyes from the battered remains of the fortress and staring ahead along the path. There was a line of black clouds ahead. “Another storm, you say?”
“There,” Lorra said, pointing. “Headed right for us.”
“Yes, indeed,” Bale said, becoming once again acutely aware of the precarious nature of his journey. “We should hurry.”
Cirak.
Bale beheld it as though seeing a dream take shape in reality. He walked with arms outstretched, eyes wide as he gazed upon the once-great city. It was indeed a relic of an older, more magnificent time, a city that even in its present state of decay could not conceal its former splendor.
Towers once a hundred feet tall lay broken across the mountaintop plateau, the ornate carvings of their turrets fractured and crumbling to dust. Massive structures sagged upon snapped and eroded pillars, like once-proud faces drooped by age and rotted teeth. The wide thoroughfares were awash with yellow dust and littered with smashed earthenware and dry, sun-bleached bones.
Bale had read of the place, of course. Every member of the Sanctum had. He’d even seen old maps showing its location, and had drea
med making a daring journey to the place to study the artifacts of history. He shook his head. Never would I have thought I’d find myself here for the reasons I am.
He scanned the landscape of ruins for the legendary Temple of Cirak and became suddenly fearful. He knew next to nothing of the Sentinel he hoped to meet, Lyan the Just. Chances were she had waited for Erlorn for a few days and then had given up hope. But what if she’s still here? The Sentinels were powerful beings, godlike, immortal. He knew Erlorn to be wise and patient, but his qualities were not necessarily shared by the other Sentinels. Each was an aspect of Illienne but not the whole, and thus did not possess the entirety of her goodness or godliness. Thaydorne the Strong, for instance, was thought of as domineering and lacking mercy, and Sienne the Quick was often described in the old accounts as untrustworthy and manipulating.
How will Lyan deal with a mere mortal, particularly one who comes on behalf of Rune? What if she has changed in these many centuries, grown embittered by nearly a millennium spent in exile?
He was startled by a hand upon his shoulder, but breathed easier when he saw it was Lorra’s. She gestured skyward and Bale looked up to see threatening clouds overhead.
“We need shelter,” Lorra said. “Soon. This looks to be a rough storm.”
“I agree,” Bale said, noticing a flash of lightning not too far away. He took another look about and caught sight of a dome flecked with gold, perhaps a thousand feet away. He hesitated. The Temple of Cirak? He searched for an alternative, but all the buildings within view had long ago surrendered to the elements, their roofs ripped with gaping holes or missing altogether.
“The gold building,” Lorra said, pointing toward the dome. “That’s the only place that doesn’t look ready to fall apart.”
Am I prepared for this? Bale trembled but yielded when Lorra tugged once again at his sleeve and moved ahead. A hot wind blew from behind him and rain began falling in large drops. It seems I have little choice.
They moved as quickly as care would allow amidst the wreckage of the ancient city. They scrambled around and over heaps of shattered stone, their boots snapping bones and shards of fired clay. They ran between the shadows of leaning façades that swayed and groaned as the wind gusted. About them the dust swirled in funnels, wandering about the abandoned thoroughfares like the shambling ghosts of the dead.
Thunder cracked. The skies blackened and the rain became a deluge. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark recesses of the nearby structures. Bale was certain he saw movement within—a pale shape darting back into the shadows. He quickened his pace, pulling even with the sure-footed Lorra.
Bale pulled Lorra close as they jogged, nodding toward the gaping entrance of the building that was now cloaked in darkness. There was no sign of the figure. “This city is abandoned, right?” Bale asked over the hiss of the rain. “You said it was deserted?”
Lorra swiped water from her face. “I said it was a place of death. There are no living things here.”
“There’s something in that structure there,” he said, pointing. “Something pale moving between the shadows. A stray animal, perhaps?”
Lorra paused and gave him a worried look. “Likely not. Even beasts know better than to wander here. Probably a hobbler.” She glanced back at the building and then upward at the darkening sky. “We should hurry.”
“A hobbler?”
“A hobbler. A gangleman. Someone who’s dead but wakes up again to do bad things. Eating babies and such. They come out in darkness and that’s why no one comes here. This place is full of them.”
Bale gasped and moved forward as rapidly as his creaky knees would carry him. He gathered Lorra possessed only limited education and was probably prone to rustic superstitions, but her description had an eerie ring to it. He’d read about such things in his explorations of the dusty depths of the Abbey’s library. The waking dead, or “garghuls” as they were called in the elder tongue, were thought of by most as mere legend. Older manuscripts, though, recited first-hand accounts of encounters with the garghuls during the War of Fates, claiming them to be vile creations of Yrghul. The notion of confronting a Sentinel suddenly seemed more inviting when compared to the alternative.
Lorra abruptly slowed, and as Bale gazed ahead he saw the road was obstructed by a fallen tower, too high to climb in a hurry. They turned down another ruined street. After a short time, though, they found it, too, was clogged by a great barricade of shattered masonry.
Lightning flashed and a thunderclap shook the earth. The rain intensified and the ground beneath them was becoming a thick, sloppy mud. Just then a pained moan sounded in the distance.
“We need to get to your temple!” Lorra demanded. “It’s not safe here!”
Bale looked frantically around him. There was nothing but stone. It seemed the way to the temple was blocked.
Another moan echoed amidst the ruins. This time it was answered by others.
“There!” Lorra said, grabbing Bale’s hand. “A passage through!”
Bale’s eyes follow Lorra’s and he saw it: a tight tunnel formed by two wrecked structures leaning against each other. At its far end was a faint light promising access to the other side.
“Go!” Lorra tugged Bale toward the passage. She pulled him across the street, boots squelching in the mud, and ducked into the low tunnel.
It was an uncomfortably cramped corridor, and Bale crouched to follow. It was dry, at least, but they were forced to walk stooped close to the ground, slowing their journey and making for more than a few painful scrapes upon the broken stones lining the passage.
Bale continued to hold Lorra’s hand, his head nearly touching her rear as they crept along. In spite of their peril he could not help but admire the woman’s firm physique. Her haunches swayed before him and he smiled. At that instant he thought of all the things he’d missed while holed up in the Abbey, and wondered whether he would have been better off with what most regarded as a “normal” life. A wife, perhaps children… Perhaps happiness…
Just then there was a pull against his leg. And another. Stiff fingers knotting into his robes and leggings.
Bale yelped, lurching forward and colliding headfirst into Lorra’s rump, sending them both to the ground.
“Fool!” Lorra cursed as she scurried to her feet. “You may be the—” She froze and sucked in a quick breath as she looked past Bale.
Horrified, Bale spun from his stomach to his back while kicking his legs. There, before him, was a pale-skinned creature, eyes bulging and dripping pus and yellow teeth snapping about a slithering, black tongue. The creature lunged toward Bale with hooked fingers, snatching greedily at him.
Bale pulled desperately away from the thing, swatting at its hands with his walking stick. His mud-covered feet slipped on the ground as he scrambled away but at last he was able to get to his feet. The garghul limped toward him, its sickly maw and bony hands snapping hungrily.
Bale’s mind wheeled, searching for the words. He knew them, of course, those ancient words of divine power, but his fear had rattled him. I am too weak for this task!
The garghul staggered forward, its tongue flailing madly about its wide mouth. Its protruding eyes swiveled wildly, looking at both Bale and Lorra from head to toe as though seeking the most succulent meat.
What are the words? Curse my cowardice!
Lorra shrieked and jumped in front on Bale, a rock brandished in her hand. She reared her arm back and struck, bashing the garghul squarely in the face with a sharp crack.
The garghul stumbled back several steps, clutching at its face. With a gurgle it dropped its hands, revealing half of its jawbone detached and dangling and oozing green pus. It pressed its hands to its face once again, convulsed, then ripped the dangling piece clean from its skull to leave in its place its whipping tongue and wheezing throat. It lunged forward once again, seizing Lorra by the shoulders with its pointed fingers.
At last Bale remembered. Illienne abralide y ganode allum! Illienne aw
aken and give me light! He whispered the words and leveled his gaze at the beast. “No!” he commanded, his voice booming in the narrow corridor. Bale’s hands erupted with a white flame, bathing the entire tunnel in blinding, brilliant light.
The garghul faltered back, howling and shrinking from the light.
“Be gone!” Bale said, courage filling him.
“Dead gods,” Lorra hissed beside him, “there are more of them!”
Bale looked beyond the squirming garghul and saw at least a dozen of its brethren cowering behind it. “Run,” he breathed.
“Run!” Lorra screamed, snatching him by the forearm and yanking him down the passage toward the temple.
Bale’s concentration faltered and the light failed. He tumbled forward as fast as he could in the tight corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of chomping maws and shuffling steps and awful moans behind him.
At last they spilled into the waning daylight, into the mud-soaked street. Bale jerked his head about, trying to locate the gold dome of the temple.
There it was. Only a few dozen yards down the wide road was a foreboding façade showing no withering from age, with a gleaming dome defying the stormy skies above. They charged toward it, Bale’s clumsy legs nearly knotting themselves as he ran. Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal servant!
The moans followed them. Bale chanced a backward glance and saw the garghuls leering from the darkness of the tunnel, seemingly uncertain of whether to venture into the fading light.
After a mad dash through the sucking mud they reached the temple’s stairs, ascended them two at a time, and finally reached the temple’s massive doors. The entrance consisted of two giant slabs of granite, each at least twelve feet tall. They were carved with hundreds of intricate symbols, and each slab had in its center a great ring of blackened metal.
Bale looked back again. The garghuls were emerging from the tunnel. “Pull!” he shouted, grabbing the black ring before him. Lorra’s hands joined his upon the ring. Bale tugged with all his might, his spine snapping and popping with the effort.
