Halas stopped at the gallows. Earlier in the week, a man called Martin Broadbent had been paraded through the streets to be hanged in this very spot. Citizens and soldiers alike pummeled him with stones and rotten food as they cried out for blood. That sort of public display was reserved only for the worst of criminals, and Broadbent certainly ranked among them. He was said to be responsible for at least four rapes and six murders, three of them children. Captain Onath Cullough of the Badges had finally tracked Broadbent down after a lengthy chase. His trial was brief. Both Cullough and Broadbent were heavily discussed subjects amongst the people of Cordalis. The churches, who so rarely came to agreement on what should be done, had come together to fund a statue in the brave captain’s likeness, to be raised in the city center, near King Melick’s own keep.
Today, however, things were far more tranquil. There was an auction on. The auctioneer was a tall man, with blue-rimmed spectacles and a wide hat. He danced across the scaffold with the grace that was expected of him, rattling off prices of the gnomes sitting in the dirt before him, blank looks on their flush faces. Citizens crowded the stage, calling out offers and holding their cards. Some rattled packages filled with jingling coins. “You coming?” Des asked him.
“I’ll be along in a bit.”
A gnome would be a good thing to have once Halas purchased a house of his own. He would be able to spend his days searching for employment while the gnome tended to the place, keeping it in a state of utmost order.
Unfortunately, the cheapest at this particular auction was three hundred fifty detricots. Halas moved on.
As he attempted to find his friends, a dark-skinned man in a gold suit tried to sell him several things, including a goat that could speak and a dagger sharp enough to pierce dragon scales. The possibility of a talking goat was almost too much for Halas. He hesitated when the man threw out his offer. Fifty detricots. You could not buy a normal goat for that amount of money. At the very least, it was a bargain in that regard. Halas would have followed the vendor if his friends hadn’t been waiting for him. He excused himself to the man and left. He ducked between two booths, moving toward where he knew Cailin liked to shop. Several more salesmen harangued him, each item peddled more outlandish than the last. Halas had always hated the market for precisely this reason—there was never a moment’s peace. It was common knowledge not to trust a seller unless he was parked firmly behind a booth. Booths were trustworthy; men who kept their wares elsewhere were typically cheats. Halas hated the market.
But Cailin liked it, and sure enough, Halas found her in Maryl’s booth, Garek and Des in tow. She was inspecting two blouses, though both she and Halas knew she had no intention of buying either. Cailin had her routine with the market—say her mother wanted a few things, look at the garments for a while, and then leave. It was a pastime. A crowd of like-minded women pawed through the stacks of clothing. Maryl was an interesting woman and she sewed fine clothing (something even Halas could admit) but her prices were outrageous. She belonged in a store of her own, not some dismal booth in the market. Garek and Des looked sheepishly at Halas.
“Three fifty,” he explained to his brother, who had seen him looking at the gnomes.
“Ah.”
They finished Cailin’s errands and left the bazaar. Garek suggested the tavern again, and this time no one had any objections. They arrived at The Jealous Duchess shortly after and found a table. The bar was rather empty, save for a few other patrons and an entertainer. The bard’s name was Chase, and he was a regular throughout Lord Bel. He told stories and occasionally poems. Chase was quite popular with the younger folks. Halas had chosen a table close to the bard, wishing to hear what he had to say. They dug into their food, but Halas listened to the storyteller as he told a tale older than Cordalis, than Ager itself. It was one Halas always enjoyed.
“Gather round, ladies and gentlemen. Gather round to hear the tale of Aeon the Great, youngest son of Aelworth, hero and savior to all of mankind.
“Aeon was born in the year of 14, fifteen years after the great Captain Aelworth discovered this very land and settled in this very city. As a youngster he was a prodigy; at two years of age, he was capable of complex speech and knew his written letters. Yet no matter what he did, poor Aeon paled in comparison to his elder brother. Bakunin was the light of their father’s eye. He represented hope for the kingdom that was to come, you see. Aeon himself was simply there. Aelworth loved him as a father loves a son, but he loved Bakunin as a king loves a kingdom.
“So Aeon grew up. He was a handsome boy, yet Bakunin was handsomer. He was a smart boy, but Bakunin was smarter. He was a strong boy, skilled in archery and swordsmanship and mathematics and navigation and everything else that makes for a good captain and a good king. Yet, with all his incredible accomplishments, he was nothing when competing against his brother. His brother was the kingdom, after all.
“Despite all this, it was not in Aeon’s character to despair. Instead he thrived, taking all challenges head-on, and always besting them. He was unstoppable. None could defeat him in combat, armed or otherwise. None thought faster than Aeon the Great, none scribed better, or possessed more charm.
“In the year 34, Aeon was away at a jousting tournament, where he met Kristaeanna, his soon-to-be wife. With her favor in hand, he took the tournament trophy with ease, and fell madly in love with the girl in the process. The two were married just before returning to Cordalis, and Aeon, now betrothed and with Bakunin unwed, became heir to the throne.
“At this news Bakunin was pleased; he had discovered the joys of farming and wished to make his living there instead of as king. He wished for his tools to be a plow and hoe, not a sword and shield. King Aelworth would have nothing of this, but when Aeon presented himself as heir, he was secretly pleased. For nearly a year he denied this pleasure before embracing it on his deathbed. Beloved King Aelworth passed from the realm of the living in January of thirtysix, at the age of seventy-three. There was no question as to which of his sons would rule in his place; the honor was awarded strictly to Aeon.
“For two years they lived in peace, and the kingdom prospered. There were no wars, no plagues, no famine, no poverty. Aelborough was, for all intents and purposes, the perfect place to live. But the golden years of King Aeon’s rule were short, because in April of 38, the Infernals came.
“Sayad was the first to fall. The people were reduced to nothing, nearly eradicated in the brutal genocide that followed. Before King Aeon could send aid, the southern kingdom was lost. The Infernals struck out across the land, burning what they could and slaughtering people and animals alike. The Sayad refugees fled to Cordalis and shelter. Aeon’s army met with that of the Infernals on the Fields of Shankhara, in what is now the Burning Desert. The armies were massive. It was a bright morning. Aeon rode along the columns. His armor was white, and his blade shimmered in the sun. He bore his own standard, and planted it in the grass.
“‘We will not be defeated this day!’ Aeon cried. ‘We will endure, and punish this new evil that has so wronged us! Let no demon pass these ranks!’
“And they charged, five thousand horse and twice that on foot. King Aeon led the assault. They raced across the field, but the Infernals remained unfazed. They held their ground, and Aeon’s army broke upon their formation. As the men grew closer, they wailed in fear, for the Infernals were indeed demons, twisted and blighted, like nothing any man had ever seen.
“Aeon himself was unscathed in the battle. He rode among the Infernals, and his sword sang with their blood. King Aeon cut them down as if they were nothing. His brother fought at his side, and together, they slew many. The brave fought on, but it was a hopeless battle, for too many had fled, and Aeon’s army was shattered. He and they limped back to Cordalis and sealed the gates. The Infernals were breathing down their necks.
“Aeon gathered together his most trusted advisors, including among them Kristaeanna, Bakunin, and his friend of many years, Nebi. While Aeon, his brother, and wife
were legendary heroes, Nebi was no such thing. He was, in fact, a sniveling coward with little hair and a hunch in his shoulders.” Chase hunkered down on his stool in his best impression of Nebi. Very few entertainers dared to portray the man as anything less than despicable. Halas had seen one try to make Nebi out as a misunderstood, if not pathetic, creature, but that bard had been doused with a bucket of water by several drunks and dunked in a sewer trench.
Chase continued. “‘My friends,’ Aeon said, ‘we must find a way to destroy these abominations. They are a stain on the face of this fair world, and I shall not stand for it. Enough is enough.’
“‘But what can we do, my lord?’ asked the advisors. It was Kristaeanna who decided on the plan.”
Here, the bard lapsed into such an eerily perfect impression of a woman’s voice that Halas and the other patrons could not hold their laughter. Cailin shrieked it, doubled over, slapping her knees. Halas loved it when she found something truly humorous. Her laugh was wonderful, a cool glass of mead on a hot summer day.
“‘We have discerned that these demons come from the south, correct?’ ‘Correct,’ was the response. She continued. ‘so we must lay great and powerful wards, as far from their origin as we possibly can. We must journey north of the Frigid Peaks.’
“Aeon and the others agreed. That very day, he, Bakunin, Kristaeanna, and fifty others set out from Cordalis, bound for the Frigid Peaks and the arctic beyond. Nebi would not go, but Aeon, out of some devotion to the man, insisted. He wanted to protect his friend, and knew that Cordalis would soon have to hold out against all forces. Nebi relented, but not due to Aeon’s urgings. Two days following, the city was besieged by the Infernals.
“Aeon’s journey across what is now Nesvizh was almost entirely uneventful. They were supplied and aided by the natives, some of them going so far as to join him in his all-important quest. It was when they came to the foothills of the Frigid Peaks that they first encountered troubles. For you see, Aeon the Great lived in a time when there were still goblin tribes roaming the mountains. The goblins were many, and they had united under the banner of the Infernals.
“Aeon’s party had nearly doubled in size during their trek across Aelborough, and a great many battles were fought. The goblins were inexperienced at combat and lacked the tools to wage war. They had no horses, no metals; only their dim wits, wooden clubs, and of course, fire. It was the fire, many believe, that allowed them to whittle Aeon’s forces down to almost nothing.
“During their third night through the Peaks, the goblins struck. They came from the snow like phantoms, dragging several men into the drifts, never to be seen again. Bakunin woke the camp and Aeon led the charge. The goblins were not prepared for such ferocity, and fell back into hiding. Aeon looked about the campsite, seeing the corpses and drag-marks in the snow, and he nearly wept. Nebi attempted to convince Aeon to go back the way they had come, but Aeon would have none of it. Whenever things escalated to violence, Nebi could be found cowering behind the king, and these times were no different. His whining counsel clouded Aeon’s vision, but the good king was able to overcome.
“‘We can stay here no longer,’ he decided. ‘We must be free of these dreaded mountains by sundown tomorrow. These final hours shall be grueling ones, but if you trust me and follow my word, we shall persevere, and overcome any and all challenges. These beasts are nothing compared to what awaits us back home should we fail. Come, then!’
“So they ran. They ran through the night and day. The goblins were unseen, hiding in the snow and trees. They launched great bundles of fire at Aeon’s men, cutting through them like so many bits of paper. Aeon’s men continued running, leaving their dead behind, and when it became clear to the goblins that they could win, they came in full force.
“Nearly five hundred of the things came upon Aeon, whose forces were already fighting exhaustion, grief, and the tremendous cold. Perhaps it was their grief that allowed them to stand fast and fight. Ever since Shankhara, they had suffered a brutal string of defeats, and had finally had enough. No goblin survived the battle that day.
“In the end, twenty men and women emerged into the Arctic Wasteland, battered but not beaten.
“They’d left the goblins behind, but there were still more dangers ahead. The Stoneacre Crags lay before them, great chasms in the earth capable of swallowing entire armies whole. Aeon the Great and his band were forced to abandon their mounts, and any extraneous gear. They crept across the crags with the carefulness and trepidation of tomcats. They rested between each major crevasse, and during one of these rests, Bakunin rolled over in his sleep and was nearly lost. Were it not for his brother, he would have been.
“It took a week to pass the crags, and as they progressed, Nebi grew nervous. He had been approached by the Infernals before Aeon left for Sayad with his army, and given his task. He was to kill Aeon and prevent him from casting his wards. Nebi had not wished to kill his best friend of many years, but in the end, coin had been his downfall. He was promised the king’s treasury.
“He moaned all through the journey, complaining of physical hardship and fatigue. Because of his cowardice, he could not even bring himself to look his friend in the eye when he killed him. A day after having left the crags behind, Nebi plunged his knife into Aeon the Great’s back, again and again. Aeon’s blood sprayed. When he was finished, Aeon disarmed him with the ease unbecoming a dying man.
“‘Nebi,’ he breathed, ‘my friend. Why have you done this to me?’ ‘They promised me the kingdom,’ Nebi said, and it was a lie. Even in Aeon’s final moments, Nebi could not bring himself to speak even the smallest of truths. Aeon nodded, as if he accepted this, though clearly he saw through the falsehood. ‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘I forgive you, my friend. I love you no less than I did before, I love you as I love my brother, as I loved my father. You will forever be a brother to me, Nebi.’
“Nebi was so overcome with grief at Aeon’s proclamation of mercy that he flung himself into the crags. Aeon could hardly speak, but he told Bakunin to assemble the party.
“When his men were before him, King Aeon spoke. ‘Build a great temple here,’ he said, ‘of ice and snow. This is the greatest task any of you have ever faced, but I know that you shall prevail. You are the best men that I have ever known. It was an honor being your king. Build the Temple here, and my spirit shall do the rest.’
“Bakunin led the men off to begin construction, and Kristaeanna sat with Aeon as he died. She never told his final words.
“For weeks, the men labored over Aeon’s temple. They slaved over it with precision, tending to each block with the care you would show an infant. Even still, their pace was hurried, and when they finally completed the temple, they buried Aeon within it.
“Kristaeanna spoke to the men. ‘My husband shall live on!’ she declared. ‘His spirit is immortal, and he shall dwell here forevermore, to protect against the deadly threat. Let him defend the Temple of Immortals, and let the Infernal menace never rise against us while these walls last!’
“With that done, Aeon’s spirit set to work. The Inigo River sprang up from nothing, and the Infernals were turned to sand and banished to the deserts of the south. What damage that had been done could not be undone, but further mayhem was averted. Prosperity was restored and a new king set in place.
“That king was not a blood relative of Aeon the Great, for Kristaeanna, who would have been queen, decided not to return to Cordalis. No one knows if it was fear of the Peaks or a desire to remain close to the Temple of Immortals, but she, Bakunin, and the rest of Aeon’s party decided to settle north of the mountains. She and he were married, and the village was named for Bakunin, eldest brother of Aeon the Great.
“That village is still there to this day. The long war was over, and it ended in the marriage of Bakunin and Kristaeanna.”
What few patrons there were in the tavern applauded before returning to their meals or their drink. The bard gathered his things and retired.
&nb
sp; Halas and his friends were finished with lunch, so they took to the city, wandering the streets and acting upon every dull whim before inevitably returning to the tavern that evening. The sun was low, and the Duchess had filled considerably since the morning. The four took up a booth near the bar. Halas went up to order the first round. “What’ll it be?” asked Bert. “Mead?”
“You know me too well, Bert,” Halas said with a grin. He held up four fingers. “Four, please.”
Bert went to fill their pints. Halas glanced around the barroom. He saw several courtesans in the far corner, and saw Desmond watching them. Halas chuckled, wondering idly if Garek’s friend had ever been with a woman. Bert handed Halas the mugs, and he returned to their booth. He thought of remarking to Desmond about the women, but decided against it. That seemed far too mean-spirited.
“Mead?” Garek asked, sniffing at his mug. “Have we not learned yet that Halas is not to go to the bar alone?”
“If he pays, I will stomach whatever he brings, just as long as it gets me good and drunk,” said Desmond. “Just as long.”
“I like mead,” Cailin whispered to Halas.
“Thank you.” He smiled and kissed her on the nose. “Tell me, Garek, what would you prefer? I have seen you drink Bert’s frogswallow, and that smells like death itself. You are certainly braver than I, or stupider.”
“Garek would drink horse piss if he found it laid him out properly,” said Des.
“This coming from you, Des? Oh, what a treat!” Garek lifted his mug. “To frogswallow!”
“I cannot drink to that,” said Cailin, sipping at her own pint. “Ever.”
Garek and Desmond clashed their mugs and began chugging. Halas turned to Cailin and raised his own. “To not drinking to frogswallow?” he suggested. She tipped her glass against his, laughing.
Garek lowered his mug, already nearly empty. He winced as the alcohol coursed through his system. “Not good,” he said, “not good. Desmond, get the next.”
The Temple Page 2
