Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity

by Scott Rhine

  “What was this cult called?” asked Pinetto.

  The smith sighed. “It was a corruption of the six-fold Way, calling themselves the Hand of Life. They persisted long after the Great Silence, and their wealth protected them from notice. This temple was built in the mountains at the juncture of all three northern kingdoms. They claimed it was a place of power, but I never bought into those theories about ley lines or special places. The laws of Nature and Magic should hold the same in any place you visit. What worries me is that the Sword of the Defender was the last artifact made by the Traveler himself. What the blazes did this cult want with it?”

  “And what did they offer an obscenely wealthy Imperial warlord to get it?” asked the astronomer, adding to the mystery and yawning at the same time.

  The sword-bearer began to pace. Sitting in an alcove with a narrow cot covered by a coarse, brown blanket, Pinetto’s eyelids began to droop.

  When his companion asked him the same question for the third time, the astronomer shook himself awake. “Sorry. Some of us didn’t get a nap today like you did. What did you say?”

  The smith came out of the adjoining room with a glow globe of his own. “I’m going to Darius. I need access to the stacks. I can’t rest until I get some more answers about this cult.”

  Not wanting to move from his warm spot, the astronomer complained, “What’s the rush? This thing has been stolen for more years than you’ve been alive.”

  “You’ve been a tremendous help already. Get some sleep while you can, friend.”

  Groggy, Pinetto walked him to the door. Standing in a borrowed tunic, the astronomer said, “Good luck in your search. I won’t bar the door so you can get in.” After the smith disappeared down the corridor, the astronomer happened to glance down at the threshold. He noticed a small, cloth-wrapped lump, tied shut with a bow made of red, silk cord such as one would find on expensive curtains or throw pillows. “Hello,” Pinetto said, picking up the parcel.

  A tiny note on the bundle read, “to the hero.”

  Pinetto looked in both directions down the hall and then untied the bow. A single, plump, powdered-sugar-dusted confection nestled inside. It smelled wonderful, and the filling was still warm. The astronomer licked his lips. “A warm tart is offered. It wouldn’t be polite to refuse.” He weighed the smith’s baseless fears about poison against his empty stomach. “A small taste wouldn’t harm me either way,” he reasoned. With the first bite, sweet, apple filling gushed into his mouth and he moaned with pleasure. His knees nearly gave out, it felt so good. His breath quickened, and his heart raced. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor licking every drop off his fingers, the offering devoured. His hand trembled from the rush of sugar to his system. Sated, he shut the door, turned out the light and climbed into bed, draping the soft cord from the parcel across his pillow in remembrance.

  He’d been dozing for a while when he heard the door open. There was no light, but he heard the brush of fabric nearby. “What took you so long?” he mumbled.

  “Someone’s eager to get started,” purred a female voice.

  Pinetto sat bolt upright as a warm body slid over the covers and sat atop him. For the span of two or three heartbeats, he considered keeping his mouth shut and enjoying the hidden benefits of the adventure business. But something in him couldn’t take advantage of the young woman, no matter how attractive he thought her. “Wait,” he squeaked, his body trying to squelch the refusal. “You have the wrong man.”

  Long hair cascaded across the arm he was holding up, and he caught his breath as she leaned forward into him and whispered, “You did like the dessert, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. It was fantastic, the best I’ve ever eaten. I wouldn’t mind having dessert like that for the rest of my life.”

  There was a hint of a blush in the woman’s reply. “It was my grandmother’s recipe. Thank you. Just to be clear, you do want me?” Her voice rumbled in his ear, and he felt sure there was a bare breast touching him.

  “Absolutely!” he said, and in an unstoppable flood, he blurted everything about the borrowed nightshirt, their research, and the fact that the smith was currently out. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t want you to get the wrong guy.”

  As her hand moved, s found the length of silk cord by the pillow. “You’re so sweet. I don’t meet many guys like you in my line of work. I think I’ve found exactly the right man.” Picking up the cord, she wrapped it around Pinetto’s wrists, and tied them above his head to a hook in the wall normally used for a lamp. He was too stunned by the full-body contact to stop her. Her hand stroked his lower stomach and he quivered. In a breathy voice, she said, “I’m glad your friend is gone. That means no one will hear us. We can be as loud as we want.”

  “You’re very strong for a pastry chef,” he commented, sweating as she gripped his legs together.

  As she began to loop a belt around his ankles, she confessed, “I’m not really a chef. Now I’m going to ask you some questions. I understand loyalty to your friend may make you try to hold back, but trust me. I know my job. By morning, you’ll tell me everything.”

  Chapter 41 – Glass Daggers

  Unable to sleep, the sword-bearer went to Darius with his need for continued research. Calling in a favor, Darius sent a runner to find a librarian by the name of Erns

  t who worked well into the night. The unusual nature of the request made the librarian curious enough to assist if they could meet him at his duty station. On the way, they had to use the smith’s coins to bribe a few guards for access to areas that were technically off-limits without a pass when the Library was closed. But within an hour, the well-compensated runner had left him at the entrance to the historical archives, safe in the librarian’s capable hands.

  A hunched, skinny, old man wore gray-flannel nightclothes as work garb. The night garment had a dozen, odd-sized pockets sewn onto it in five different fabric types. One pocket held a quill stub and tiny, leaky ink bottles. Several held random scraps of parchment with illegible scrawls. One had a loaf of bread sticking out. The final one held his needle and thread, which he put away to shake the smith’s comparatively huge hand. “Can’t sleep until you get an explanation, eh? I’m the same. I like your tool belt, too. Not as fine as a pocket, but useful.”

  “I need to know more about the Hand of Life,” the smith explained. Darius had assured him that, although quite idiosyncratic, this man was very senior in the hierarchy and a very capable researcher.

  “So your note said. Walk this way to the section of the stacks on religion sects.”

  Ernst escorted him through an archway and past ten rows of dense shelving units to an isolated corner. The smith couldn’t make heads or tails of the filing system. “Many of these documents are epigraphs or intelligence reports that you don’t have permission to read. But since you’ve piqued my curiosity, I’ll probe the indices for you.” After hours of searching, just when the smith was prepared to surrender for the night, they found something of substance.

  “Hmph,” exclaimed Ernst. “That’s why we couldn’t find anything in the other source materials. You gave me an incomplete name. They are called ‘the Left Hand of Life.’ They were marked as dangerous with three exclamation points—highly unusual.”

  The smith asked, “What made this cult different?”

  Holding the book closer to his nose, the librarian scanned several pages before he muttered, “They seemed to focus more on sundown ceremonies than dawn like most of the splinter groups. It had somethingto do with the Great Silence.” Several pages later, he put the report back into its numbered pigeonhole. “That’s all we’re getting from that source. But I think the yearly summaries may have something more interesting.”

  Wandering back into another section of cramped shelving units, Ernst took down a tome that was literally chained to the shelf. Barely able to move the book into usable position and standing on his toes to do so, the librarian read over a large amount of dense index
and high-level intelligence data before announcing, “Ah, that makes sense. They were initially a coalition of scholars and statesmen from all over the world who wanted to bring back the gods. Obviously, that didn’t work. Eventually, they claimed to be able to extend the lives of members. A lot of elderly patrons joined, but no one ever heard from them again. The claim was labeled a hoax, and the crowns of all three surrounding territories quarantined the area, isolating the cult because of certain unsavory practices.”

  “What practices?” asked the smith, after a long delay in the narrative.

  “The details are in another report. Hold onto this for me until I find the proper number,” Ernst requested, handing him the heavy tome and searching the shelves for the desired reference on the next section of shelves to the right.

  Bored and feeling useless, the smith leaned closer to inspect the quality of the chain binding the book. It was then that he noticed the half-open link near the base. Such shoddy workmanship bothered him more with every passing beat. The world was going up in flames, and he was worried about a single link. That link had no doubt lasted a score of years and would probably last a score more given how little the book was used. Try as he might to minimize it, though, the link stared at him like an open sore. Unable to restrain himself further, the smith removed the hammer and a small pair of tongs from his extensive belt pack. With great care, he lined up the offending link in the tongs and prepared to tap it into the proper shape. Casting about, he made sure that the librarian was still behind him and wouldn’t object. Just as the smith was about to strike the chain, however, the light coming from the globe in the main corridor was subtly diminished. It was not the presence of a person he felt, rather, the absence of normal air flow and ambient noise. His combat instincts bristled.

  A blade hissed. The smith ducked to his haunches. A dagger flew past his former location and struck the unsuspecting librarian squarely between the shoulder blades. The black-garbed assassin had leaned only one leg and one arm around the corner to accomplish this deed. Baran Togg reacted on reflex and obliterated the assailant’s knee with his hammer. The foreign assassin collapsed in agony, choking down his own screams to prevent the alarm from sounding.

  Initially, the smith thought himself the target of revenge from the foreign assassins. However, seeing the precise placement of the glass dagger, he determined that the senior librarian had been the intended victim. The smith now felt that he had missed an obvious opportunity to save the helpful man’s life by using the book as a shield or by shouting a warning. But all was still not lost. From its position, the dagger thrust may have missed both lungs. With the attentions of a skilled apothecary and plenty of prayer, Ernst might live through the night.

  Unfortunately, when he pulled out the offending, glass shard and cast it to the floor, less than half the poison remained in the container. Worse, more blood than he thought possible fountained up from the small wound. As he used his left hand to apply pressure on the area and sto the bleeding, the smith determined that the victim’s spine had been nicked. As crimson stains wicked their way up his sleeves, the smith heard the sounds of something dragging on the floor behind him.

  The black-hooded figure with a damaged leg began to draw a second weapon to eliminate the lone witness to his crime. Baran couldn’t draw his own sword to hold him at bay without breaking the seal that security had placed over the sheath. Enraged, the smith left the dying man and slammed his killer against the shelves. Employing the head of his hammer as a battering ram, he began to pummel the midsection of the assassin like a castle door. With satisfaction, he heard something snap in the other man’s chest. The assassin made a sick, wheezing-coughing sound. The man was beaten and would resist no more. Rage and reason warred in Baran as he debated whether the hooded man should be slain outright or saved for questioning by the priests of Bablios.

  Fate made his decision for him as a spear-wielding, hooded accomplice from the main hall charged the smith’s back. Baran quickly pivoted the stunned assassin in his arms to take the brunt of the assault. When the spear was firmly imbedded, the smith dropped the dead body, which carried the spear with it to the floor. Mouthing obscenities, the disarmed killer kicked the smith’s right elbow, forcing him to drop his hammer, and weakening the strength of his grip for several minutes. With a monumental effort, the smith managed to grab the fabric around the man’s throat with his left arm and pull him closer in a wrestling hold. However, the assassin struggled so much that his hood tore off. Exposed, the criminal fled. The smith tucked the cloth into his belt as evidence and gave chase.

  At first, the foreign assassin sprinted much faster, but years on the road gave the smith endurance that few could match. Gradually, the gap closed gradually. As he passed a giant gong at the end of the long hallway, the smith used the heavy hilt of his sword to ring the alarm. Soon, the sounds of booted feet answered from the main staircase, and the assassin was forced to backtrack. Short of breath, the assassin found himself almost face-to-face with the smith once again. Attempting to change directions a second time on the highly polished, wooden floors, the man’s luck ran out. The unmasked Glass Dagger slipped, and the smith tackled him in an instant.

  The sword-bearer felt quite proud as the soldiers mushroomed out of the stairwell and witnessed the capture. That is, he was quite smug until the ruffian shouted, “Help me; he’s trying to kill me, too. I saw it all.”

  In unison, both men said, “He killed the librarian. He’s one of the Glass Daggers. No, he is.”

  The guards, led by a level-headed noble, pried the two men apart and stood between them as they were questioned. He gave both sides a moment to calm down, and recover after the intense race. First, he addressed the disarmed spearman. “The man you accuse is a knight and a guest. What evidence do you present?”

  The true killer laughed. “Isn’t that obvious? First, he’s drenched in blood, while I’m not. Second, he has a weapon, while I don’t. Third, he has an empty place in his belt loop where he kept one of those famous glass daggers that you’ll find buried in the heart of that archivist back there. Fourth, I have a pass to this area, but he does not. Fifth, he’s a foreigner, while my family has been here for generations. And finally, he has an assassin’s mask hanging at his belt.”

  The smith was dumb-struck as all eyes turned to him. The sheer audacity of the maneuver combined with his mental exhauston made the situation difficult to grasp. The black, fabric hood was pulled from his belt and examined. Once the hood’s nature was confirmed, the thin, pale noble stroked his own chin. He looked to be of Imperial blood, but not the heroic stock of legends; rather, this officer seemed to be of the backwater, inbred, self-important type whose nose bled at the slightest provocation. The smith’s hopes that this man would see through the hoax evaporated when the noble said, “Only one piece of evidence can be contested. Hand over your Honor that I might examine the seal.”

  The bearer shook his head without hesitation. “Never. But I’ll hold it forth for all to see.” Several of the guards nudged at him with their weapons, but he refused to budge. Knights who surrendered didn’t stay knights long, and men who handed god-forged blades over to fools would most certainly regret it.

  The nobleman held up a hand to halt the eager guards. The Warden of the Lower Hall wore a large, oval, metal symbol of office around his neck on an incredibly thick chain and was eager to demonstrate his total control over the situation. “That would be sufficient.”

  As the noble squinted at the dented seal, the bearer began to defend himself in reasonable tones. “That’s not the only fact he got wrong. I can explain everything…”

  The important nobleman raised a hand to halt him. “We deal with one accusation at a time. I won’t have fancy-talking foreigners trying to confuse me about what I can see with my own eyes. Sergeant Orif, what does that look like to you?”

  “The seal may have been broken, sir. It looks like someone tried to put it back together in a hurry to fool us,” decided the serg
eant next to him.

  “How could I repair a seal when I was busy chasing this man?” demanded the smith.

  “Ha, the killer admits that he was stalking me,” exclaimed the real assassin with glee. “And what’s that green mess on top of his boot?”

  The sergeant bent down to rub the corrosive, green ooze in question between his fingers, when the smith warned, “Don’t touch that; it’s poison.”

  The entire gathering of guards murmured at this revelation. “Exhibit seven: only a killer would know that,” explained the assassin, grinning.

  Searching him for other incriminating evidence, the sergeant came up with the map of the northern kingdoms. Everyone looked surprised, but again, the true killer used this information to his advantage. “Exhibit eight: only a spy on a mission would conceal such a map.” All the soldiers were nodding in agreement.

  “Should we tie him up now, sir?” asked the sergeant.

  “Is it my turn to give evidence yet?” asked the smith.

  “Confess away,” said the nobleman.

  Counting off the charges on his fingers, the smith said, “The wound was in the spine, not the heart. I got this blood pulling the dagger out, not putting it in.”

  “I’m sure Head Archivist Ernst is comforted by that distinction,” sneered the noble.

  “I was trying to save the librarian. Next, the empty loop in my belt is from a hammer, not a dagger.”

  Thesergeant gestured to an empty sheath on the smith’s hip. “You’re missing a dagger from that spot.”

  “That’s different; I lent it to a friend days ago. What number were we on?” the smith asked.

  The noble already had a wax tablet out writing the charge and the witness’ name. “Citizen, are you willing to solemnly swear to all you have said and that you didn’t lay a hand on the victim in question?”