Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity

by Scott Rhine

  “What’s wrong with Hon Li? Is he wounded?” asked the leader, walking toward the bridge.

  “No, possessed. We need to bind him before he wakes up, which could be any moment now,” explained Tashi. The crowd stopped moving in unison.

  The slaver turned to his latecomers. “Did any of you men see evidence of this?”

  The nearest archer, a far-sighted lad with several hash marks on his belt, described the odd series of events leading up to the lieutenant’s subdual. Sulandhurka wasted a few moments cursing before he had orders flying in three directions at once. The bulk of the men were delegated to secure the mill for the night. “We’re not going anywhere till we straighten up this mess and divide the spoils. Who has the shackles? Roll Hon Li over and cinch him tight in the irons. Where is that chunk of wizard glass we asked for?”

  As soon as he bellowed for it, a clear, oblong mass lofted through the air out of the second-floor window. Several of the men tracked it with their eyes but had no time to form a warning. Just before it hit him in the back of the head, the slaver spun and caught the chunk full on his buckler. Amazingly, the lump of glass did not break. A second throwing dagger did, however, slip from its hiding place in the leader’s sleeve. “Damn,” he said with ragged breathing. The comedian above grinned and ducked back inside, for he had obeyed the order literally. There could be no direct retribution. Attempting to cover for the incident, the slaver added, “I had hoped that it was the hawk returning.”

  Tashi began polishing his sword as if in preparation for sheathing it, but his eyes never left the slaver’s hands. There might still be bloodshed if the hunters failed to honor the truce. “If you wedge a portion of that into your lieutenant’s mouth and tie a gag around it, the glass will hold the demon inside.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” asked Gallatin, the archer.

  “Because if we don’t bind him, it’ll come out and kill us all,” volunteered an ox of a man who was nervously attaching the metal shackles to his own lieutenant.

  “Then move faster,” Sulandhurka barked.

  “What are these marks?” asked the archer, who picked up the glass. Holding it up to the fading light, he could make out the fossilized footprint of a lizard.

  “That is how necromancers control the spirits. That imprint is the last mark the creature left in the Inner Sea before it died, its last link to this world. Break that link and the monster can never be summoned again,” the slaver explained, taking the chunk and placing it in a crack in the bridge’s stonework. The stones held the piece firmly while the strong man chopped repeatedly at the glass fossil with a smith’s hammer. Tashi deduced that this man must be the metalworker and repairman of the group. The powerful man was no doubt valuable enough to keep to the rear of the company during combat. Tashi made a note to stay close to the man, as he would have need of his skills in the not-too-distant future. When a piece of the magic glass the right size had been shaped and polished, they used it to complete the binding.

  The slaver said, “Our deal is done. You would be wise to leave now, by cover of night, just like you did the last time.”

  Tashi sheathed his sword at the promise of safe passage, ignoring the insults. “Last time there weren’t will-o-the-wisps and quicksand around. I think I’ll be staying here with you tonight if you don’t mind.”

  “He’s right,” said the smith. “I’ve heard the lights are the spirits of men who died in the swamps, eager for more souls to join them.” Turning him out would be worse than murder to this mercenary.

  “No, the lights were never human. They’re older,” said Tashi.

  Sulandhurka, disturbed by the information, covered his fear with irritation. “Why do you think we would tolerate a thief like you in our camp? The wizard is vanquished. All reason for our alliance is gone.”

  Tashi raised a single finger like his master always did during a lesson. “Ahh, not all reason. There is still one demon to defeat. Do you know how to evict it safely to save your friend?”

  Unwilling to admit ignorance or need, the slaver bluffed. “I’ve heard a few tales. The trick is to make the body so uncomfortable that the spirit wants to leave. We hold his face under the surface of the river and when the demon comes out, it washes out to sea.”

  “There are two obvious problems with that,” Tashi said. “First of all, the torture and drowning method would probably kill your lieutenant. It would certainly destroy any mind he has left in the process.” He watched as all the men soaked this statement in and realized the truth in it. “Second of all, if you killed him tonight, the demon could come back tomorrow if you don’t find the wizard or the piece of Emperor’s Glass responsible. I’m betting that none of the ones you’ve found so far had man-like markings on them. The thing has seen or smelled all of us. Demons are even more persistent than you are, and they don’t take humiliation like this lightly. If they ever summon it again, it won’t stop until every man in this camp has been hunted down and murdered in the most excruciating way possible.”

  Just in case the foul spirit hadn’t seen them all, the frightened soldiers blindfolded their lieutenant and tied the garlic close to his nose. The leader feigned calm, his voice dripping with doubt. “Am I supposed to believe that a skull-damaged man like you knows how to do a proper exorcism without harm?” The merchant blood in him hoped to get the solution for free.

  The sheriffthought of the Ceremony of Freeing. “Several ways. But I’ll only share them if we extend the truce, after I’ve warmed up and had a bite to eat over a fire.”

  The leader slumped in defeat. “Done. Let’s continue this inside. There are too many eyes and ears lurking in an open meadow like this. You two drag the bodies over so we can bury them beside the mill. We don’t want scavengers skulking around and we damn sure don’t want our own dead coming back to haunt us.” A strong motivator, the slaver was instantly obeyed, even for this grisly deed.

  Next, the leader handed Hon Li’s sword to the comedian as a reward for his role in slaying the wizard. Thus, the group still had four swordsmen. While the slaver was otherwise occupied, Tashi walked over to the dead wizard lying in the road and removed a signet ring from his hand. The pattern on the ring was of three infinity symbols intersecting at the center. The shape confirmed what he already suspected—the wizards occupied a former temple of the Traveler. He placed it in his pouch before the others could see the symbol.

  The mill made an ideal sentry post. Two men on the roof could cover the land for miles around. The off-duty men clustered around a flickering fire on the first floor. The lieutenant was trussed in the far corner, with a dedicated guard observing him at all times. The main room was huge, and the cobweb-clogged, upper corners remained shrouded in darkness. Though they had ample space for twice their numbers to bunk here, the group huddled elbow-to-elbow around the hearth. Eventually, under many suspicious stares, Tashi was passed a bowl of thick stew mixed with rice. After one bite, he coughed, and drank deeply from his water. Someone had attempted to cover the flavor of burnt meat and ash with the over-application of southern spices.

  “The dog murderer’s orders,” said the comedian, poking fun at Guildmaster Dhagmurna’s name. “We didn’t bring any cooks because we expected you to be dead by now.” Trains of support personnel and provision wagons would have made it impossible for the hunters to keep up.

  “Much more of this, and I will be,” Tashi wheezed, making a sour face.

  The comedian clapped him on the back. “I don’t care what everybody else says; I like you. You can call me Babu.” As Tashi picked at the meat again, unenthusiastically, the man asked, “You don’t like roast bat? I can’t say I blame you. We found them upstairs, and they scared some of the guys worse than the demons. I told the chef he should clean and gut them before he mixed them in, but he said they’re too small. He just singed the fur off and tossed them in whole. Do you know how much guano comes out of one of those flying rats in a day?”

  Tashi passed his bowl to the next m
an in line, and managed to scrape some of the unseasoned rice from the cook pot. Together with his standard ration of bread, it was enough to sustain him. When he had supped, Sulandhurka was waiting impatiently, with arms crossed. Wiping the last bit of dinner from his mouth, Tashi said, “The glass we want and the necromancer who commands it can be in only one place: the Temple of the Unseen.”

  There were several murmurs and one whimper. “The temple sits at the crossroads of the two kingdoms and the Inner Sea. The wizards will control the approach, but they are few and unversed in military matters. There are ten seasoned fighters among us, and we’ll have the element of surprise. This aqueduct behind us probably leads straight to their stronghold. In the morning, under cover of lowland fog, we creep up on their outpost, overwhelm their sentries, and charge their final e fion. Simple.”

  The slaver grunted at the optimistic synopsis. The plan had a hundred ways it could go wrong, all unpleasant. “Killing wizards is tricky business. What happens if they don’t roll over so easily?”

  Tashi said, “No spirit can enter the Temple of the Unseen. The mortar in its walls or some artifact holds them at bay. As I said, we’ll charge through their lines into the courtyard of Seeking Souls. Once inside its walls, we would be protected from all demons. Any wizard who entered would be without magic and completely at our mercy. From that fortress we could hold off an army.”

  “Still too risky,” the leader complained, shaking his head. “The innkeeper has been avenged. Why are you so eager for us to slay these necromancers?”

  Tashi considered for a moment before saying, “In my master’s teaching, they are heretics who occupy a holy place. They and their taint must be expunged.”

  The slaver nodded, thinking he understood the fullness of the zealot’s mission. “We know what you get. What’s to prevent me and my men from cutting our losses and leaving in the morning?”

  “Over the entrance to the temple’s courtyard is a miracle symbol,” Tashi whispered. Removing the signet ring from his pouch, he held the pattern up for all to see. “The symbol looks like this, and each loop is larger than a man’s head. It is made of pure, unadulterated sesterina.” The mercenaries salivated as one. “When struck, its ringing casts out all spirits able to hear the tone, for they cannot endure its blessed song. It can be used to free your friend, disarm the wizards, and make you rich all at the same time. If you aid me, I will allow you the miracle symbol as your trophy.”

  “Allow?” rumbled the slaver. “You couldn’t stop us.”

  Tashi clapped him on the back amiably. “Then we’re leaving for the temple early tomorrow. Be sure each man is armed with a decent shard. The archers could even make spirit-slaying arrows if they have the skill. Against my planning and your avarice, the necromancers stand no chance.” A cheer of hearty approval went up for the venture. In his private thoughts, each man had spent his share in twenty ways by the time sleep came. They dreamed of riches, forgetting their earlier fears and the savage power of the unseen.

  Chapter 5 – A Tinker’s

  Damn

  On the far side of the Inner Sea, Jotham the Tenor hummed merrily to himself as he traveled northward. He had left the borderland’s mountains behind for the rolling woodlands of Semenos. The Emperor’s Road meandered here and there to avoid the small, unstable cliffs that overlooked the sea.

  Although lead tenor in the boy’s choir had been his only official title in the clergy, he was the sole survivor of, and therefore de facto high priest of, his order. His name had also been intended as a temporary one, as it meant bereaved one or orphan.

  The joys of spring were still fresh to him; these rich greens and earthy fragrances had been scarce for the vast majority of his cloistered existence. His only complaint was that the sunlight was sometimes a little too bright for his sensitive eyes. Jotham walked the tree-lined trail at the gradual but uncompromising pace of his tune. Realizing he was being observed by someone crouched on one of many nearby rock formations, the tenor didn’t halt to stare or increase his speed. Ether display would have induced the robbers lurking behind those trees to attack. With the aid of his thick, mountain-ash walking stick and the practice sessions with his student, Jotham might have fended off two or three cut-throats without serious injury. But the wise man does not wake a sleeping bear.

  As the priest passed close by, the rabble of highway men sized him up. His clothes were homespun and patched in many places, giving no indication of wealth. His military-issue boots had seen many miles and raised the potential of battle training. Only a few miserable tubers stuck out of the tiny backpack; no fat messenger pouch or coin purse was visible. However, there were a few secret pockets in the garments that Jotham had sewn himself.

  At just over six feet, Jotham had inherited his pale skin and height from his mother, a minor, Imperial aristocrat of the seventh and lowest circle. His wide shoulders and big bones had come from his father, a Mandibosian farmer. Years of prison bread, window-box vegetables, and fasting had left no fat on his lanky frame whatsoever. When combined with his corona of hair, the mismatched eyes gave him the aspect of a madman. All in all, the head robber judged Jotham too high of a risk for too little gain. However, if they let this man pass, others might believe the road safe and fall into their trap.

  In spite of all of these reasons, hunger might have driven the more desperate thugs to attack if the oldest of them hadn’t seen the wooden symbol hanging around Jotham’s neck. The old man laid a hand across the nearest man’s chest to hold him back.

  “Not this one,” he said, pointing to the six-armed symbol. “When you see that around a man’s neck, leave him. I would rather eat rabbit and berries for the rest of my life than take one step closer to a man from that cursed place.” He turned his face away, as from some remembered trauma. The chief growled and his men withdrew back to their cave as Jotham passed from sight over the next ridge to the north.

  ****

  Once he had placed a safe distance and a hill between himself and the robbers, Jotham rested in the grass at the bottom of the next valley. Suddenly, an overloaded cart of scrap metal, pots, and pans was moving downhill toward him much faster than it should have been. Behind the clattering mass, barely in control, ran a merchant with sweat-stained clothes, slicked-back hair, tiny hands, and a bad complexion. The tradesman screamed in panic when he saw the tall priest spring up as if from the road itself. Tinker John stopped so abruptly that his cart up-ended with a cymbal’s crash. Not worrying about his own merchandise or the goods given to him for repair, the tinker grabbed a frying pan to defend himself. The pan was in need of patching and the handle would snap after the first solid blow.

  “I’ve no money,” said the tradesman shrilly.

  “I’m not asking for any,” said the priest in the high, pure tones of a child. Jotham righted the cart with casual ease and asked, “Where are you going in such a rush?”

  For a moment, the tinker was puzzled by the juxtaposition, the threatening body with the innocent voice. “Home is a few hollows over, and I can just make it there by dark if I hurry.” Keeping one eye on the large man, the tinker began shoveling his wares back into the pushcart.

  “Then by all means, let me help,” Jotham said, bending over. The front of the cart was decorated by a plethora of hex signs. Holy hexagrams were simple, six-sided, tin cutouts that had been painted by a king’s priest or magician with some symbol of power. Peasants bought them to hang on their barns. The priests of Semenos the Planter were concerned mainly with fertility, patriotism, and warding off fires. The tinker had every conceivable magical symbol hanging from his cart.

  After the second armload, he noticed a special, starburst emblem known as the flare anodyne. The six-armed badge of the sheriffs was called the flare militant. Each branch of the religion had its own subtle variation. This particular one was the sign for those who specialized in the healing arts. The priest lifted this holy symbol with great care, realizing the significance of this portent. Closing his mism
atched eyes, he absorbed what the item could tell him.

  At the Great Library, the half-breed’s odd talent had made him a historian of some repute. Jotham had written several books on famous battles of the Empire by walking over the sites and touching the flotsam and jetsam of world-shaping events that had washed up on the shores of the present day. The smooth quality of the metal and the freshness of the aura signature said this talisman had been manufactured recently, in the last forty-nine years. Even buried, cyclic surges in solar activity would have systematically eroded the mark of man from an item like the tides washed away sandcastles. The purity of the reading spoke of only one owner, a child born to the ways of the sacred. Jotham savored the echoes of potential and creativity still resonating in the symbol, simple joys that far surpassed the taste of greed and killing that tainted so much of what mankind left behind.

  “Here now, you can’t take that,” the tinker muttered, forgetting his fear and reaching for the piece. Jotham pulled his arm away, not so much to keep the symbol, but to avoid being touched. At the Great Library, Prefect Khalid had learned this idiosyncrasy and honored Jotham’s talent by providing an honor guard. These guards kept all others a full-body-length distant from the priest. Bablios was fertile and prosperous, but a very small kingdom, which made its rulers paranoid. The Prefect, who was also his Majesty’s master of spies, loved to collect secrets. But Jotham had crossed the border now, away from both the Prefect’s protection and control.

  “Do you know what this is?” asked the priest.

  “A magic charm, a guarantee of safe passage.”

  Jotham’s odd eyes bored directly into the tradesman’s. “Do you know the Answer?”