The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  A dark fantasy of trust, loyalty, sacrifice

  and courage in the face of adversity.

  Cameron Mitchell

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  books@publicationconsultants.com—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-211-1

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-227-2

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2011922883

  Copyright 2011 Cameron Mitchell

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical

  or electronic means including photocopying or

  recording, or by any information storage or

  retrieval system, in whole or in part in any

  form, and in any case not without the

  written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  For James, because I promised. I would still be a blithering idiot without your help.

  Acknowledgements

  Lots of people to thank, chief among them are Evan and Marthy. Evan, you took a chance on me when no others would, and words cannot express how much I appreciate that. Marthy was the best editor anyone could ask for. I also thank my friends. There are too many of you to list, but you all know who you are. Hopefully. You guys helped me out more than you know. Nancy definitely deserves a mention here, for her incredible help with my school. And thank you to the anonymous reader who left me an encouraging note with my very first rejection notice. That was the very first time I realized my writing was worth something.

  And last, but certainly not least, I thank my mom, Terri. Cheesy as it sounds, I would be absolutely nowhere without you, with the book or anything else. Thanks for having me.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One. Twenty

  Sub Chapter One. Nolan

  Chapter Two. A Light In The Darkness

  Sub Chapter Two

  Chapter Three. Greater Discipline

  Sub Chapter Three

  Chapter Four. Departure

  Sub Chapter Four

  Chapter Five. The Wandering Blade

  Sub Chapter Five

  Chapter Six. A New Arrangement

  Sub Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven. Jaden Harves

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight. Three Days Out Of Busby

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine. Escape From Fort Torrence

  Chapter Ten. A Very Cold Walk

  Chapter Eleven. Another Hasty Departure

  Chapter Twelve. Deyrey Baaish

  Chapter Thirteen. Daylight

  Chapter Fourteen. The Temple Of Immortals

  Chapter Fifteen. Four Went In, Three Came Out

  Chapter One

  Twenty

  Halas Duer rubbed his blistered hands together and stood, his back protesting loudly against ache. Halas had been working for the better part of nine hours, but despite the soreness he was in high spirits; his family’s potatoes were almost ready to be dug up. A warm wind blew in from the sea, stealing away the autumn chill that had recently settled over the city. The day was bright, the sky blue and inviting. All in all, it had been a good day. As Halas straightened, he felt a sudden sense of vertigo that banished the good and made him reel. The ground rushed up at him, and he fell to meet it.

  And very suddenly, before the young man and the ground could collide, Halas Duer was somewhere else. The where around him was a terrible blur, but he could see the who just fine: Cailin. Her beauty shone pure through the gloom. Halas reached out to touch her, trying to lead her to safety, but he was hit with another sickening wave of nausea, punishment if ever he’d known it. This girl was not Cailin, he realized. She was bad, and Halas was not to go near her. She looked similar to Cailin, but the eyes—they did not belong to her. They were piercing and yellow, dark and savage. She smiled at him, and all resemblance melted away. The smile sent shivers down his spine. It was an evil smile. He was on someone then, his hands were wet, he could smell the stink of his breath—and he was back in the potatoes, lying on his back in a cold sweat. His head drooped to the side, allowing him to notice that the grass had turned an alarming shade of brown. Winter, it seemed, was arriving in a hurry.

  He stood up and walked into his father’s cottage, shaking his head. Already the daydream was fading, though he still felt dizzy, as if he were a child again, twirling with his friends in the fields until they were ill. Halbrick was in the kitchen chopping onions. The smell brought a smile to Halas’ face. Onions were a favorite of his. “We have onions?”

  “Bought them this morning,” Halbrick said. “Your friend Desmond gave me quite a deal.”

  Halas didn’t bother to correct his father. Halas likened poor Desmond Mallon to a roach: try as you might to be rid of him, it never quite worked. It wasn’t as if he hated Des—just, when it came down to it, he much preferred the company of others.

  He instead looked out the window, seeing the Cordalis Gate in the distance. Cordalis was the capital city of Ager, and certainly the biggest and busiest north of the Inigo River. Dozens of people moved in and out all day long, be they farmers, merchants, or even travelers from distant lands come to see the legendary place, a city that had survived a dozen sieges and two thousand years, a city that was surrounded by its walls but never constricted. Garek was somewhere in there, Halas knew. His younger brother was supposedly looking for a buyer for this year’s harvest, but more likely than not he was drinking. Probably with Desmond.

  “Have you been to see Conroy this week?” Halbrick asked.

  “No Father, not yet.”

  “Halas, your studies are still just as important as they ever were. I don’t want you slacking off.”

  “I’m not slacking off. I’ll see him later today, after supper. I promise.”

  “Good,” his father said. “After tomorrow, it will be harder to tell you what to do.” He laughed. After a moment, Halas laughed with him.

  The sun was setting when Halas left the cottage. He’d forgotten about the daydream. It was dark when he reached the Gate, but he knew he had over three hours before lockup, another sad result of the oncoming winter. A caravan moved past, the lead driver looking surly at the fact that he was getting out so late in the season. For everyone, it seemed, this summer had seemed all too short. It felt like it had been mere days since the Duer family planted their crop, and already they were ready to find a distributor.

  The crowd of folks amassed in the Gate pavilion was calming, as the men and women gathered there grew tired of the place and went home for the night. Halas and Cailin had a game involving this crowd. They would sit in the grass and watch, then choose a person at random and create a story for why that person was here. Whoever told the most creative tale won the game, but after a while each tale was the same, because the people at the Gate were always the same: gossip mongers, more interested in who came and went than even their own families. Even in the winter months, when no new faces came through, there seemed to be a crowd. Some people, it seemed, just had nothing better to do.

  Halas walked quickly through the city toward the house of his teacher. A few citizens still milled about in the streets, taking care of the last of the day’s errands. One man in particular caught Halas’ eye. He wore an unusually frilly and unusually purple robe that billowed about his feet. Two young girls chased behind him, carrying the tail of his robe and tripping over their own feet, but the man was oblivious. Halas watched him, amused, even turning around and walking backwards until the man disappeared. I must tell Cailin about this, he thought.

  Conroy lived clos
e by, and soon Halas, still laughing about the man in the robe, arrived at the manor, knocking twice on the thick door. It opened, and Conroy’s gnome stood before Halas, a look on his face matching that of the earlier caravan driver. “I’m here to see Mister Conroy,” Halas told him.

  “Of course you are,” the gnome said. He stood just slightly taller than Halas’ waist, with a well-groomed beard and red cheeks, rosy from near-constant irritation. The gnome—Halas had never bothered to learn his name—led him through the house and into Conroy’s study, all the while grumbling to himself. He had always been an unpleasant creature. Halas didn’t know why Conroy kept him around.

  Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dusty tomes both ancient and new. It was a library, a study, and something like a tomb. The room smelled musty and dead. Dull yellow assaulted Halas from all directions. The study was easily his least favorite room in the Conroy manor. Being in it made him uncomfortable. Being in it for prolonged periods of time made him sick.

  Mister Conroy sat behind a desk piled high with books and scrolls. Halas could remember when his hair was brown, though that had been a long time ago. It was now a shade of deep gray, with flecks of color here and there. He looked over his spectacles—another irritant—at Halas. “Ah, hello there!” Conroy said cheerfully. “I did not expect to see you this evening. How is your father?”

  “He is all right. Our potatoes are ready to be harvested. I’m sure he’s excited about that.”

  “Halbrick always is. I’m afraid I don’t have much for you to do today, but I wonder if you could perhaps translate something for me.” Conroy then lifted a scroll from the pile, showing it to Halas. “Tell me, Halas, do these symbols mean anything to you?” Halas looked from Conroy’s wrinkled face to his wrinkled finger, pressed tightly to a piece of parchment. Strange symbols stared up at him from the page. They were jarring to look at, round but squared, each letter seeming to contradict and yet mirror itself. Halas frowned at the characters.

  “They are unlike anything I have ever seen,” Conroy continued, making Halas feel a little less foolish. No one was as well traveled as Mister Conroy. The man had been all over Aelborough.

  “I do not understand them,” Halas said. Conroy nodded, as if he had expected that answer. Of course he had. “Sorry,” he added, unsure of what else to say.

  “Nothing to be sorry for, dear boy. Nothing at all.”

  “Where did you find these?”

  “That is unimportant.” Conroy gave the usual answer, and Halas was not surprised in the least. “However, if you do not understand them, I’m afraid you cannot be of any use to me today. You may go home. Give my regards to your father. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  The gnome ushered Halas to the door and on to the street before he could even mention his birthday, a little irked that the old man had not done so. The night bit into him, chilling him through his cloak. He shoved his hands into the pockets and hurried home.

  The Duer cottage was not a very large one, but it suited the family just fine. A round building with a slanted roof, it appeared to be larger than it really was. Inside were only three rooms: a kitchen that also served as a living and dining area, a bedroom belonging to Halas and Garek, and a bedroom belonging to their father. No one could call the Duers wealthy, in any sense of the word. The cottage walls were barren, devoid of the art Garek so often pined for. Each bedroom was sparsely furnished, one chair and one bed for each occupant. The walls were peeled and cracked. Yet despite all this, the cupboards of food in the kitchen were always well stocked; Halbrick never failed to see to that, and Halas owned plenty of his favorite books. Out back behind the cottage was a richly cultivated field, perfect for their potatoes.

  The Duers were what most people referred to as quarter-farmers, meaning their field was relatively small and yielded little crop. The area around Cordalis was surrounded by these quarter-farms. They were reserved for either the very poor, who could not afford more space, or the very rich, those who viewed farming as a hobby rather than a life’s work. Halbrick was proud of his potatoes, however, and did not mind the title. Between the house and the field was an enclosed privy, hidden from the city and any farmers with unusually keen eyesight. If Halbrick was anything, he was private.

  Halbrick sat in the kitchen, chewing a wad of tobacco. He grunted at Halas as he entered, and Halas went straight to his room, tossing his cloak into the corner. Garek sprawled out on his bed, bouncing his coin off the ceiling. He looked upset.

  “What’s wrong?” Halas asked.

  “Father’s angry with me,” Garek responded. The coin dropped to the floor, and Garek didn’t bother to retrieve it.

  “What for?”

  “I came home late. I didn’t find a buyer. I didn’t shine his boots and build him a castle before he woke up this morning. Take your pick.”

  “Sorry,” Halas said for the second time that night, for the same reason. He crawled into bed and fell asleep. It was a long time coming.

  Halas awoke the next morning to the chirping of songbirds and a warm swatch of sunlight streaming across his face. He rubbed his eyes and wandered into the kitchen. Garek sat at the table, devouring a bowl of porridge. Halbrick was nowhere to be found. “Where’s Father?” Halas asked.

  “Out,” Garek said cheerfully through a mouthful of food. Some of it trickled down his chin. “Happy birthday.”

  Less than an hour later the two marched up toward the Gate, laughing and joking. Though there had been little to threaten Cordalis for many years, the city wall was a relic of its origin, when war was frequent and demons loomed over the realm. At sixty foot-lengths high and near twenty thick, it had never been breached. Cordalis was a city built to last, it was said. The Gate pavilion was a broad pentagonal courtyard rimmed by the wall. Stairs cut into the stone led to the top. Beyond the courtyard there was a second, smaller wall, and through that a tunnel. This tunnel led to the city itself. The crowd had returned in full force. Halas and Garek wandered the courtyard, waiting for Cailin. Garek juggled his coin from knuckle to knuckle. He flicked it at Halas. Halas snapped it out of the air. For a moment he looked at the coin, feeling quite proud of himself for catching it. Garek grinned. Halas offered the coin, but when Garek moved to take it, Halas pulled his arm back. “Stop throwing it at me,” he said.

  Garek frowned. The coin was a gift from their father. Neither remembered how long ago it had been given. “Yes, yes, fine,” he said.

  “Good.” Halas tossed Garek his coin. Garek tucked it away.

  Cailin approached, breaking into a run when she saw the two brothers. She wrapped her arms around Halas’ neck and kissed him. Halas grinned when it was over. “Happy birthday,” she said. “When are you moving closer to me?”

  “Soon.”

  “Soon?”

  “Soon. I promise.” He laughed.

  “Good. Plenty of lots are open. I think my neighbors are all leaving the city. Most are awaiting buyers for their homes. Some haven’t bothered.”

  “Why are they leaving?”

  Cailin shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s the most curious thing. Folks are just… up and leaving.”

  That was troubling to Halas, but not too much. It was just too good to see her again. It had only been a day, but that day felt like weeks. He smiled and took her hand, saying, “Maybe it’s your smell.” Laughing, she pushed him, and that was the end of that.

  He turned to Garek. “Now what? Olan? He wanted to walk the wall today.”

  Garek spread apologetic arms. “I promised Des.”

  Halas groaned. “Desmond? Come on, Garek, must you?”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve never taken issue with him before.”

  Cailin gave a dramatic sigh. “I suppose we’ll just have to endure.” She cracked a smile at the brothers.

  “Well, no Olan then. All right, let’s go get Desmond.”

  Halas told them of the man in the purple robe as the three walked to a nearby neighborhood, sto
pping at a house with a roof made of thatched sea grass. Taking care to avoid the broken step and the enormous cat lying above that, they advanced up the porch and knocked on the door. A man just younger than Halas came out of the house, the beginnings of a goatee forming at his chin. Garek flicked the loose end playfully, but Desmond swatted the second attempt away. Natives to the northern land of Springdell, Desmond’s family had moved to Cordalis when he was ten years of age. He still managed to retain bits and pieces of his old accent. It gave his speech an odd quality that Desmond absolutely adored. The accent made him quite popular with strangers, and Desmond relished every moment of the attention. Things became particularly irritating when the boy was drunk, and Halas frequently had to restrain himself from punching Desmond in the face.

  As always, Desmond was drawn to Halas as if by tether. “So Halas,” he said, “what is it like?”

  “What is what like?”

  “You’re of age!” Halas had turned twenty that day, and as such, he was officially an adult in Aelborough. Well, in Ager, anyway. He wasn’t sure how many years it was outside the country. “You can finally move away from this horrible place!”

  “No, I can finally move into this horrible place.” Desmond laughed.

  But it was something to consider. Halas could move into the city and do what he wanted. No more farming. As much as Halas loved being outdoors, he hated farming. Farming was the avatar of the mundane, and Halas hated the mundane more than anything else. He had a few hundred detricots saved up, perhaps enough to buy a small place somewhere close. One of Cailin’s empty lots, perhaps. “So, what today?” Des asked.

  “Tavern?” Garek suggested.

  “Let’s stop by the marketplace first,” Cailin said. “Mother wants me to pick up a few things.” They started walking.