Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  Kayla, Captain of Elversult’s thirty-first watch unit, turned her attention in the direction the young man pointed. An attractive young blonde lady—barely old enough to be called a woman, Kayla thought—in finely tailored, brightly colored clothes was following very closely in the path of a drunk lurching down the street. She was hunched forward, hands reaching out toward the drunk as he shoved his way through the throng. Every few seconds the woman would lunge forward, several times appearing to slip her hand beneath the drunk’s belt, or trying to, at least. Occasionally the girl would pause, pick something up from the ground, then resume her strange behavior. The man was completely oblivious to the bizarre charade.

  “I think she’s trying to pick his pocket,” Kayla said at last, still not quite convinced. “But she must be the worst pickpocket the Dragon Coast has ever seen.”

  “Should we bring her in?” Gareth asked, already drawing the weapon for which the city soldiers were named.

  Kayla held up a hand to stay the anxious rookie. “I don’t think we’ll need that to bring in one girl.” Noticing the sword strapped to the drunken man’s belt she added, “But be ready just in case.”

  On a single order from Kayla the five member unit began to move in on the unsuspecting woman, still hunched forward and completely absorbed in her work. The crowd, recognizing the uniforms of the city constables, parted before the Maces. In less than a minute they had fallen into step behind their quarry, close enough to hear the young lady exclaim, “At last!” in an exasperated voice as she abruptly stopped, stood up straight, and cracked her back.

  Kayla clamped a firm hand down upon the woman’s shoulder, and the girl let out a shriek.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Corin staggered through the crowd, tuning out all the sounds of the Fair—snippets of conversations, the haggling of the customers, the merchants barking out their inventories, even the angry shouts of those foolish enough to get in his way. Protected by a fog of alcohol and apathy he managed to ignore it all. Yet when he heard a woman’s scream right behind him his ingrained White Shield training to guard and protect took over.

  Reacting to the sound, he spun on his heel and dropped into a fighting crouch, his left hand falling to the hilt of his blade. He may have been too drunk to walk a straight line, but a dozen years of drills and exercises still allowed his muscles to react to combat situations with military precision.

  The scene behind him was not what he expected. A blonde girl was being accosted by a group of thugs. No, Corin realized, it wasn’t a girl. Despite the waifish features and slight build, the blonde was definitely a woman—though her age was difficult to determine. She looked to be twenty, at most, but Corin thought he could detect a faint trace of elf heritage in her sharp features. If she had elf blood in her veins she might very well be over fifty, despite her appearance.

  A much larger brunette woman in full scale armor had grabbed the small blonde by the shoulder. A few feet away four men stood ready, weapons drawn. Maces. The bitterness and anger perpetually simmering just beneath Corin’s surface boiled over at the sight of the Elversult city guards.

  “Release the girl, or I swear by Helm’s Hands I’ll crack your skull.”

  The armored woman’s jaw dropped open, her expression one of horrified surprise. Behind her the other Maces recoiled at his words, as if the venom in Corin’s voice had stung their cheeks.

  Corin took an unsteady step forward, and half drew his sword. “I said … let … her … go.”

  The brunette woman flinched beneath his hate-filled gazed, but held her ground. “We just saved you from becoming the victim of a crime,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child too young to understand the situation. “The least you could do is thank us.”

  Corin had no intention of thanking anyone, least of all a patronizing member of the Elversult city guard. “Crime?” he asked the woman sarcastically. “I don’t see any crime here.”

  One of the guards in the background, a young man, stepped up to stand beside his female partner. He pointed the butt of his mace at the blonde. “This woman just picked your pocket.”

  The blonde girl began to protest her innocence, but Corin ignored her, just as he had earlier ignored the sounds of the Fair. Keeping his eyes focused on the soldiers in front of him, Corin slid the stump of his right arm beneath his belt, working it through the loop of the drawstrings on his money purse. He held the leather pouch up as proof that the guard was lying. It dangled from his amputated limb.

  “There’s nothing so cowardly as making false accusations.”

  There was no reply. The Maces just stared at Corin’s severed arm. Corin endured their gawking for a few seconds, then sheathed his sword and grabbed his purse with his left hand, stuffing it back under his belt.

  “What else could I expect from the Maces, but incompetence?”

  The young man tried to step forward and say something, rising to the bait, but the brunette woman—obviously the captain of the patrol—held out an arm to block his path.

  “Let it go, Gareth,” she said to him over her shoulder, cutting off his words. “We’re here to keep the peace, not pick fights.”

  The young man refused to be cowed. “We keep these streets safe!” he shouted from his spot behind his captain, jabbing his finger in Corin’s direction. “We deserve your respect!”

  Corin spit on the ground. He could have been a Mace, had even applied to the city guard after the White Shields disbanded, but they had refused him because of the injury to his arm, hadn’t even given him a chance.

  “You think you’re something special, just because you wear a uniform?” he shot back at the young man. “Even with one hand, I’m more soldier than you’ll ever be.”

  From the corner of his eyes Corin noticed the blonde edging toward the crowd of curious onlookers that now gathered around the confrontation. The patrol captain noticed as well. She snapped out her hand, grabbing a fistful of the smaller woman’s silk blouse to prevent her escape. “The only place you’re going is the Jailgates, my pretty pickpocket.”

  Gareth, no longer held back by his captain, took a long stride that brought his face just inches away from Corin’s own unshaven mug. He grimaced at the reek of alcohol and unwashed sweat cloaking the one-armed man, but didn’t recoil.

  “We’ve brought order and discipline to this city! Without us there’d be anarchy!”

  He had more to say, but Corin ignored the tirade as he sized up his chances in a fight. One-on-one he was a match for any city constable, even with nearly a dozen ales in his gullet. But faced with overwhelming odds he wouldn’t be able to let the rhythm of the battle develop, he wouldn’t get a chance to pick up the subtle patterns of his opponents’ thrusts and parries and exploit them. Outnumbered five to one Corin’s only hope was blind rage and desperate fury, a clumsy, ineffective way to fight. Eventually they’d overpower him and haul him off to the Jailgates. The smart thing to do was walk away.

  The young Mace, Gareth, was still shouting into Corin’s face. “We protect those who can’t protect themselves—like drunks and cripples!”

  Corin’s head-butt dropped Gareth to the street, smashing the young man’s nose in an eruption of blood. Gasps of horror came from the crowd surrounding them, mingled with a few cheers. Caught off guard by Corin’s violent outburst, the remaining members of the patrol hesitated a split second before reacting. Corin didn’t.

  He dropped another of the city guards with a kick to the knee, and by the time the pop of the dislocated joint reached his ears Corin had already drawn his sword and brought the flat of his blade down across the helm of the third man, stunning him. Corin, despite the dual fogs of alcohol and rage, still had enough self-control to keep from using his sword’s lethal edge on an Elversult guard officer.

  The fourth Mace had the sense to jump out of the reach of Corin’s initial mad rush. He swung his weapon in a low arc, looking to sweep Corin’s legs out from under him.

  Corin parried the blow and retrea
ted—right into range of the female captain’s attack. Her weapon missed his temple by inches, but came crashing down across his right shoulder.

  Corin’s arm went numb and his knees buckled under the force of the blow, but he managed to keep his feet. He threw his elbow back and was rewarded with a painful grunt from the patrol captain as he caught her in the chest. The man still standing in front of him swung his mace in a downward arc, but Corin spun away to the side.

  The crowd had formed a wide circle around the melee—safely out of range of the violence, but close enough to watch and egg the participants on. Violence in Elversult’s street was officially discouraged since Yanseldara came to power, but a good street brawl could still get the general population fired up with bloodlust.

  As Corin spun away from yet another of his opponent’s attacks, he caught a glimpse of the blonde disappearing into the circle of enthusiastic spectators.

  One of the Maces on the ground—the one with the dislocated knee—grabbed Corin by the ankle. Corin stomped down quickly with his free leg, leaving the pattern of his boot on the man’s forehead as he kicked his opponent into unconsciousness.

  While Corin was distracted by the man at his feet, the captain and the other Mace still standing tackled him, dragging the enraged warrior down to the ground, but they couldn’t pin him. Punching, kicking, and twisting wildly he managed to work himself free and scramble away from his would-be captors—though he lost his sword in the struggle.

  On his feet again, facing his opponents, Corin knew his chance had come and gone. The Mace Corin had dazed with the flat of his sword had risen to his feet. The young man with the broken nose was also up again, the front of his armor coated in blood. The two men now stood in formation with their captain and the fourth man who had survived Corin’s initial assault. Reckless fury and the element of surprise had been Corin’s only advantages, but his first mad rush had succeeded in incapacitating only one of his five opponents. Now with his sword out of reach on the ground Corin was weaponless, and confronting four armed and ready guards in battle formation.

  The Maces advanced cautiously, spreading out into a wide semicircle. Corin could do little but wait for what he knew would be a coordinated attack he couldn’t possibly hope to ward off.

  The young one, Gareth, screamed and dropped his weapon. Hopping on one leg, he clutched at his other foot, the hilt of a tiny poniard protruding from the tongue of his boot. Blood from the deep stab wound was already soaking through the leather.

  Gareth’s unexpected scream attracted the attention of everyone; the Maces, the unruly spectators encircling the battle, even Corin. All eyes turning to the injured man noticed the small blonde figure scampering away on all fours, trying to disappear once again into the crowd after her successful sneak attack.

  One of the Maces lunged after her, breaking formation. Corin threw himself at the captain, knocking her over. He didn’t even break stride, but continued his rampage straight into the crowd, his momentum knocking several of those in the front ranks from their feet.

  The crowd surged around him, grasping and grabbing at his clothes, trying to apprehend him—or at least push him back into the battle with the city guards. Others tackled the Maces who waded in after him, eager to strike an anonymous blow against Elversult’s official guard. Mob mentality gripped the spectators, many of them still remembering the good old days when street brawls were the norm. Corin couldn’t say how it started—an errant elbow, a careless boot tripping someone up—but a full-scale riot broke out within seconds.

  Pandemonium swept the Fair. Those in the crowd trying to bring Corin down were attacked by others who wanted him to escape. The Maces disappeared under a wave of both foes and allies jumping into the fray, and Corin himself was buried beneath a press of bodies, indiscriminately punching and kicking at anything within range.

  Corin lashed out without rhyme or reason, trying to clear enough space to get to his feet. Above the shouts and cries of the mob, Corin heard the shrill sound of the Maces’ warning whistles. The three short blasts calling for help told Corin that reinforcements were only minutes away.

  Fortunately, most of the crowd knew what the whistles meant as well. In accordance with Yanseldara’s orders, violence in the streets was dealt with swiftly and harshly. The soon to be arriving Maces were liable to try and restore order by arresting everyone who happened to be at the scene of the crime. Most of Elversult’s population, despite the increase in “legitimate” commerce, still had a few reasons to try to avoid being picked up in a general sweep by the authorities.

  The chaos and confusion of several hundred people simultaneously trying to vacate the Fair worked to Corin’s advantage. No longer the center of attention, he was able to get back to his feet. He stayed low … working his way with purpose and determination through the panicked masses toward one of the many side streets leading out of Elversult’s open air market.

  While crouching down, Corin spotted the blonde woman who had started the whole mess. She was also in a crouch, frantically signaling to him through the maze of running legs and falling bodies. Once she realized she had his attention she pointed down a narrow side lane. Corin couldn’t hear her above the shouts and screams of the mob, or the shrieking whistles of the converging Mace patrols as they signaled to each other, but he could read her lips.

  “This way. The alley is clear.”

  Staying low to avoid attracting the attention of the Maces, Corin pushed his way through the panicked crowd. The effects of his afternoon drinking binge still lingered in his system and several times he was knocked from his unsteady feet, but each time he would kick and claw his way from beneath the boots of the rabble. With a final lunge he burst from the crowd into the nearly deserted alley where the blonde girl was waiting for him.

  In reality, the alley was nothing more than a narrow corridor between a pair of three story buildings. It was filled with refuse and waste, and when the stench hit Corin’s nostrils it was all he could do to keep from expelling the contents of his stomach onto his boots.

  The lane was half hidden in shadows, but as Corin’s eyes adjusted he could see that the far end was sealed off with a twenty foot stone wall.

  “It’s a dead end!” he exclaimed accusingly. “We have to find another way out.”

  His guide shook her head emphatically.

  “There is no other way out. By now the Maces will have set up road blocks and checkpoints along all the streets leading out of the Fair. And it won’t be long until they organize themselves and start a systematic search for us through the crowd.”

  Corin snorted in disgust, almost retching as the foul air assailed his senses yet again.

  “So we’re just supposed to hide in here? Bury ourselves in the garbage and hope they eventually give up looking for us?”

  The woman smiled, then began digging through the garbage along one of the walls. Corin shook his head in disbelief. She might have saved him from being beaten into submission, but cowering in a rotting back street wasn’t his idea of an escape.

  “Got it!” the woman exclaimed triumphantly, emerging from her digging with a tangled bundle of rope and wooden slats. Corin noticed two metal grappling hooks on the end.

  “Help me untangle this ladder,” she ordered.

  Corin did his best, but between the alcohol and his amputation he proved to be more hindrance than help. Despite his ineffective efforts, the woman managed to unravel the ladder after only a few seconds. She dragged it over to the wall at the far end of the alley and—with a casual grace that spoke of years of practice—tossed the grappling hooks over the top of the wall. She pulled twice on the ladder to insure the anchors would hold, then began to climb.

  Corin hesitated before following. He wasn’t fond of heights at the best of times, and he definitely didn’t relish the idea of being on top of the high wall while intoxicated.

  Halfway up already, the woman glanced back down over her shoulder, obviously sensing his reluctance. “Once we’re
at the top, we’ll just drop the ladder down the other side. It’s our only way out.” She paused for a second, her eyes shifting to focus on Corin’s amputated stump. “I mean … it’s a way out if you can manage the climb.”

  Corin glared up at her and grabbed one of the rungs with his left hand. “You just lead the way. I’ll keep up.”

  It took less than a minute until Lhasha and her new companion were safely on the other side of the wall, standing in an alley very similar to the one they had just escaped from. Lhasha was impressed with how easily the one-handed man managed to climb up and down the ladder. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised—not after seeing how he’d overpowered the Maces.

  Beyond the wall the sounds of a full blown riot breaking out in the Fair could be heard. By the time the Maces restored order, Lhasha planned to be far, far away. She gave the ladder a firm snap, sending a rippling wave along its length. The grappling hooks on top came loose and fell at her feet with a loud clank.

  “Thanks for rescuing me back there,” she said as she rolled up the ladder. “They would have dragged me off to the Jailgates if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” he replied gruffly. “I don’t like the Maces.”

  Quite the understatement, Lhasha thought. “Whatever the reason, I appreciate it.”

  The man initially made no response. After several seconds of awkward silence he conceded in a grudging tone.

  “I guess I should thank you for getting me out of that mob before the Maces found me. How did you know the ladder would be there, half-elf?”

  Lhasha was momentarily taken aback. Few people noticed her mixed heritage. True, she was small and slight, but her features strongly favored her human father. People usually noticed her outlandish clothing, not the subtle characteristics—like the faint violet hue in her eyes, or the slight point of her ears—that betrayed her mixed heritage.