9: The Iron Temple

by Ginn Hale

  “I’m not sure what things you mean,” John replied. “The stories get a little outrageous sometimes. But I helped with the prison break at Yah’hali.”

  “May Parfir bless you a thousand times over,” Istanayye said.

  John felt a little embarrassed by Istanayye’s admiration. Hann’yu shook his head.

  “You can’t praise Jahn too much,” Hann’yu told Istanayye. “It makes him shy.”

  “How could Jath’ibaye be shy?” Istanayye looked curiously at John. John just shrugged. Then Du’rai opened the door and peeked out. Istanayye went to him and dried his hair with one of the towels, while the boy clutched another towel around his waist. Hann’yu dug into his pack, found a nightshirt, and tossed it to Du’rai. The boy pulled the nightshirt on and then squirmed out of his mother’s grasp.

  “Are we going to sleep on the bed?” Du’rai asked Hann’yu.

  “Of course you are,” John answered, before Hann’yu could refuse.

  “We can’t take your bed,” Hann’yu objected.

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep in it if your wife and son were on the floor,” John replied. “Let him have the bed.”

  Hann’yu considered it for a moment, then nodded.

  “Thank Jahn,” Hann’yu told Du’rai.

  “Thank you, Jahn.” Du’rai grinned and then rushed to the bed. He bounced on it a few times, then burrowed under the covers. Istanayye excused herself and went to bathe.

  “She’s missed baths since she had to move here,” Hann’yu said.

  “Did she follow you from Nurjima?” John asked.

  “Yes.” Hann’yu’s expression brightened as he described his love affair with Istanayye. She was the daughter of a famous scholar. Hann’yu had attended dozens of lectures and book readings just to gaze at Istanayye.

  “The first time she spoke to me, I was so delighted and nervous at once that I could hardly think. I mispronounced my own name.” Hann’yu shook his head. “Still, she must have seen something in me that she liked because two years later she married me.”

  “Weren’t you a priest then?” John kept his voice low. He wasn’t sure if Du’rai had fallen asleep.

  “Of course, but it was Nurjima and we were in love. All our friends knew. Her father was angry, but he didn’t want to cause a scandal so he kept quiet.” Hann’yu smiled at the memories of what must have been happy times.

  John noticed Du’rai gazing at his father’s back. John wondered if Du’rai already knew this story.

  “It was nearly three years before Ushman Serahn found out about my marriage. He kept women himself, but he treated them like whores. The fact that I had married Istanayye infuriated him. He wanted me publicly flogged to death, but my friends intervened. Finally, I was banished to Rathal’pesha.” Hann’yu sighed heavily. “He told Istanayye that she was a widow. He even sent her a veil. But Istanayye didn’t accept any of that. She knew I was alive, and as soon as she discovered where I had been sent, she started out after me. No one would have ever dreamed that Istanayye would follow me. She was two months pregnant with Du’rai, and still, she made the entire journey on her own.”

  “That had to be tough,” John said.

  “She’s the bravest person I know and she’s put up with more than any woman should have to,” Hann’yu said. “I should have left Rathal’pesha and the priesthood a long time ago. I should have taken Istanayye and Du’rai home.”

  “It’s hard to make a decision like that when you’re facing execution for it,” John said.

  “It wasn’t hard to make two months ago,” Hann’yu said. “I’d gladly die rather than be party to what they were doing.”

  John nodded. Just over Hann’yu’s shoulder he could see Du’rai fighting to keep his eyes open. Slowly his head sank deep into a pillow. John envied him.

  Istanayye poked her head out from behind the bathroom door. Hann’yu picked up his pack and brought her a nightshirt. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and washed up. Istanayye went to the bed and climbed in beside Du’rai.

  John got up and lowered the flames of the oil lamps. When he returned to his chair he put his feet up on the chair Hann’yu had left. Istanayye wished him a good night’s sleep and he wished her the same. He closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted. He hardly noticed when Hann’yu emerged from the bathroom and put out the lamps. A deep sleep enveloped him. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember it.

  When Saimura came to the door, it was still dark outside. John left the room key on Hann’yu’s pack and departed.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  “We’ve got trouble.” Saimura led John up Fountain Street. An unusual number of people seemed to be up already. In the distance, John thought he heard someone shouting. A group of six young men on bicycles sped past and then an alarm bell rang from the prison. Saimura broke into a run and John kept pace beside him.

  “Remind me to ask you about those people sleeping in your room later,” Saimura commented.

  “I’ll try to remember.” John leaped over a deep pothole in the road. “What’s happened?”

  “Apparently Kirh’yu didn’t feel Lafi’shir’s plan was good enough. He decided to take matters into his own hands.” Saimura skidded on a patch of ice, caught himself, and kept running. “He sent workmen to the prison gates to stop the rashan’im from taking the women. Most of Lon’ahma’s relatives are there as well.”

  “Her old great uncle?” John asked. He almost missed a step at the idea of the feeble old man standing against the rashan’im.

  “Oh yes. Grandfather, grandmothers, all of them.”

  “The rashan’im will slaughter them,” John said.

  “If the prison guards don’t do it first,” Saimura replied.

  They reached the walls of the city prison. Lamps hung from the walls, casting a greenish hue across the faces of dozens of men and women. A group of some forty people stood at the gates. Most of them were big men with ragged beards and weathered faces. Many wore patched clothes. From the way they swayed on their feet, John guessed that some of the men were drunk. At the front of the crowd stood two very well-dressed old men and seven old women. One of the women raised her voice, singing what sounded like a lullaby.

  Prison guards stood on the wall. On the ground twenty or so guards flanked the group gathered at the gate. John made particular note of the fact that the guards hadn’t surrounded the protesters. Instead they had left a path open for the protesters to withdraw down Fountain Street.

  “You are to leave at once!” one of the prison guards shouted. “If you do not leave, you will be arrested!”

  The rest of the old women began singing the lullaby. Their voices sounded frail and quavering and yet they carried through the predawn quiet.

  Across the street, onlookers were already gathering on the walkway. There were nearly as many onlookers as protesters and their numbers seemed to be growing. Some of them took up the lullaby. The sound of the song swelled over the street.

  John caught sight of Lafi’shir and Tai’yu among the onlookers. John and Saimura worked their way through the crowd to Lafi’shir. A moment later Fenn arrived, breathing hard.

  The rashan’im are on their way now, Fenn signed.

  “The next time I see Kirh’yu I’m going to put my fist down his throat,” Tai’yu muttered.

  Lafi’shir said nothing. He studied the long prison walls and the wide street.

  “How many rashan’im?” Lafi’shir asked.

  “Twenty are coming straight up Fountain Road; the rest are taking side streets. There’s no way to bottle them up. And there are more riders coming toward the west gates,” Fenn reported.

  “More?” Saimura asked.

  “One of the stablemen saw them riding toward the city from up in the hayloft,” Fenn said.

  “How many?” Lafi’shir asked.

  “Maybe a hundred. The stableman said they were riding hard too,” Fenn replied. He looked at the group of people in front of the prison gate. “What are we going
to do?”

  Tai’yu just shook his head, disgust plainly written on his face.

  Lafi’shir said nothing. He seemed to be counting the guards on the wall.

  Two young boys bumped into John’s back. He braced himself to keep from jostling forward into Saimura. Moving towards them through the crowd, John caught sight of Pirr’tu. His expression was grim as he approached.

  “People are flooding out onto the streets,” Pirr’tu murmured. “They all want to see what’s happening. Far too many to chance a firefight on the open road.”

  “Damn Kirh’yu,” Tai’yu hissed.

  Lafi’shir took a deep breath and stared at the prison gates. He shook his head and turned his attention to the alley a block away.

  Very distantly, beneath the shouts of the prison guards and the rising volume of the lullaby, John thought he heard a sound like pounding drums. It was the hammer of tahldi hooves against paving stones, John realized.

  “I’ve got nothing,” Lafi’shir said at last. “Jath’ibaye, Saimura, anything?”

  “No,” Saimura said, “but I think we’re going to have trouble getting out of here if this street gets any more crowded.”

  “Are we giving up altogether?” John asked.

  “I’m asking if you’ve got any other suggestions,” Lafi’shir said.

  John listened as the two boys behind him shouted the words to the lullaby, joining in with so many others in the crowd.

  “What if we crossed the street?” John asked.

  “To the prison gates?” Tai’yu asked.

  “There are a lot of people here. Maybe enough to outnumber the rashan’im,” John said.

  Lafi’shir shook his head.

  “I don’t doubt that these people have good intentions, but when the rashan’im ride down on them, they’ll panic.” Lafi’shir had to raise his voice to be heard over the singing.

  “They’ll run and end up trampling each other,” Pirr’tu said. “I’ve seen it happen.”

  John knew Lafi’shir and Pirr’tu were probably right. This was a sudden, disorganized protest. And the two of them had, no doubt, seen others like this one fail. But John also knew another history of protests. He knew that there were times when common people resisted brutality and cruelty with uncommon bravery. They could stand their ground.

  “I wouldn’t run.” John nearly had to shout now. “I could hold the front. The rashan’im wouldn’t get past me.”

  “You think you could hold them all off?” Pirr’tu demanded.

  John simply nodded.

  “The guards will take you from behind,” Pirr’tu said.

  “I don’t think they will,” John shouted. He gestured to where the prison guards stood beside the protesters. Despite their threats none of them had drawn a weapon or moved to arrest the protesters. “Look at them. They don’t want any part of this. I think they’ll leave the work to the rashan’im.”

  Lafi’shir glanced to the prison guards, but he didn’t seem convinced.

  Don’t discount them. Lafi’shir abandoned speech and simply signed. They may fight if they feel threatened.

  But they don’t want to. They know these protesters. They live side by side with many of them, John signed in quick response. Think. If this protest succeeds, then it could inspire others throughout the north. The Payshmura wouldn’t just be fighting the Fai’daum but the whole population of the north.

  Lafi’shir studied John for a moment. Then he looked past him into the growing crowd. John felt intensely aware of the growing thunder of tahldi hooves. At last Lafi’shir gave John a brief nod.

  All right, Lafi’shir signed. He looked to Saimura. Get us access to the roof of this building. Pirr’tu, Fenn, Tai’yu, fetch our rifles and get up onto that roof. When I signal, take out as many rashan’im and prison guards as you can to open an escape.

  John watched Lafi’shir’s hands sign with clenched intensity.

  What about you? Saimura asked Lafi’shir.

  I’m crossing with Jath’ibaye. The more the better, Lafi’shir signed. Let’s go.

  John made a path through the tight crowd of onlookers and Lafi’shir followed closely behind him. When John stepped out into the empty street, there was a brief quiet. Lafi’shir suddenly raised his deep voice, singing the melancholy words of the lullaby. The two of them strode across the street and stood beside Lon’ahma’s elderly relatives.

  Immediately, several young men came running to join them, followed by a cluster of women wearing red widows’ veils. The words of the lullaby rang out like a war song. Tears streamed down the face of the old woman next to John as she sang out, “Through storm and snow, never cry, my child. I’ll never let you go.”

  As more people joined them at the prison gates, John moved forward, keeping himself at the very front of the group. The prison guards fell back. Only those on the wall remained visible. John fixed his gaze on Fountain Street. Through the faint dawn light, he saw the solid black wall of the rashan’im riding towards them. They filled the street, riding seven tahldi abreast. John had no idea how many deep they were. It sounded like thousands, but John knew there had to be far fewer. Maybe a hundred. Small tremors shook the ground as the riders neared.

  A single commander rode at the front of the rashan’im. Light gleamed across the polished horns of his tahldi. The commander sneered at the sight of the crowd gathered at the prison gates. John returned the man’s glare. He wondered how quickly Pirr’tu, Fenn, and Tai’yu could get their rifles and return. Certainly it wouldn’t be in the next second.

  The rashan’im closed in. John’s stomach clenched. Despite the cold, sweat trickled down his ribs. He stepped out from the crowd, standing a pace ahead. John only knew the refrain of the lullaby, but he shouted the words as loudly as he could. The words boomed over the street and rose on a sudden, swirling wind.

  Now less than a block away, the rashan’im’s commander raised his hand in a signal. The main force of the rashan’im slowed and drew to a halt. The commander charged forward. John braced himself. He felt the strength of the stone beneath his feet and the power of the rising wind. John took another step into the street and faced the commander straight on.

  The crowds on both sides of the street had gone silent. The tahldi’s hooves struck the paving stones and rang out like gunshots. Snow and mud flew up from the tahldi’s path. The animal lowered its horns. At the same moment John caught the flash of a blade.

  John lunged forward, catching one of the tahldi’s horns in his hand. A sharp, deeply familiar pain speared through John as the commander’s blade split through his shoulder. John drove his fury against the tahldi’s charging mass. He forced the tahldi’s head down into the paving stones. The tahldi collapsed to its knees. Its horn shattered in John’s hand. The commander hurtled from his saddle and slammed into the filthy street.

  John leaped back as the tahldi staggered up to its feet. The tahldi limped to the commander’s prone body and stood between him and John. The commander pulled himself to his feet a moment later. Blood poured from his nose. Mud caked the entire front of his coat and pants. He glared at John, but there was fear in his expression as well.

  “You are not wanted here!” John shouted. “Go back to your barracks!”

  “Go back!” The shout came from behind John. He was almost positive it was Lafi’shir. Immediately, others took up the cry. Men and women on both sides of the street screamed the words again and again. John even thought he heard the chant coming from a few of the guards up on the wall.

  The commander heaved himself back up into his saddle. He moved stiffly, heavily favoring his left arm. He glared at the gathered crowds and yelled something. His words were drowned out by their furious chant. He raised his arm to signal the rest of his men.

  John looked back down Fountain Street at the dozens and dozens of riders. He couldn’t take them all on one by one. The wound in John’s shoulder ached. He rolled his shoulder, letting the pain intensify, drawing more strength to him. He’d rip the
road apart under the rashan’im, if he had to.

  The sound of hooves rose over even the chanting crowd, and yet the Bousim rashan’im still waited at attention. John realized that the sound came from the opposite direction. John spun and saw another wall of riders approaching from the west. They didn’t wear the dark green of the Bousim but instead were clothed in scarlet and black—the colors of the kahlirash’im.

  The commander leading them gestured and the riders steadily slowed their tahldi from a charge to a canter and then a trot. John watched as the kahlirash commander left his men half a block behind and rode ahead to the prison gates.

  A confused quiet settled over the crowd. John stepped back a little, unsure of how he would handle an attack from two directions. How much of the road could he destroy before he collapsed the ground beneath himself and those around him?

  As he rode closer, John realized he recognized the kahlirash’im’s commander. It was Wah’roa. Alidas’ friend.

  “Nivoun’in’Bousim, isn’t it?” Wah’roa greeted the Bousim commander with a wide smile. The sight of his sharply filed teeth startled John. He’d forgotten about those. The Prayerscar on Wah’roa’s brow shone blood red in the clear morning light.

  “And so many of the fine people of Gisa up and about at such an early hour.” Wah’roa surveyed the sea of people gathered on either side of the street. John thought Wah’roa’s gaze lingered briefly on him, but he couldn’t be certain.

  “These people are obstructing the Bousim rashan’im.” The Bousim commander’s voice was loud but quavered slightly. John knew the man was badly shaken. No doubt he was in some pain as well.

  “Oh, I know what these people are doing.” Wah’roa’s voice carried over the street with theatrical warmth. “And I know why you have been dispatched here. If I were you, Nivoun, I’d have the decency to withdraw my men.”

  The Bousim commander looked startled. He opened his mouth, but Wah’roa went on before he could speak.

  “You are well outnumbered here.” Wah’roa opened his arms, gesturing to the people gathered on the street. He stared the Bousim commander directly in the eyes. “And even if you were to overcome these good people, would you really want to be remembered as the Payshmura’s pimp? Withdraw your men, Nivoun. Don’t let the ushman’im of Rathal’pesha use you against the citizens of your own lands.”