The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  Halas stifled a groan. He could hear coarse breathing nearby. The beast, whatever it was, had followed him home, was now waiting just inches from his bedside, waiting to devour him.

  But that was ridiculous, and even though Halas knew it full well, it still took him almost an hour to muster up the courage to poke his head free. When he did, he expected to see a monster that stood from wall to wall, slavering hungrily over his next meal.

  But there was only a sleeping Garek in his own bed. Halas laughed at his own ludicrous reaction. It was a tired, nervous sound. Well, Garek’s snoring certainly sounds monstrous. He sighed.

  Halas crawled toward the window, looking out toward the forest. There was nothing, only the swirling mist.

  What had happened?

  It all hit him then, and Halas started to cry. He cried because for all he knew, his father was dead. His father was dead and Halas couldn’t do a thing about it, because he was too afraid. He cried because he hated himself, and he cried even more because he knew nothing could make him go back into those trees. He didn’t leave the house that day, desperately waiting for Halbrick to come home so he could explain a few things and assuage Halas’ guilt.

  But Halbrick did not return.

  “It has been two days since my father went missing. Please, I need your help.” Halas stood at the headquarters for the Badges, trying to persuade a captain to send a patrol out after Halbrick. The Badges served wherever needed. Their business was safety. They were your friends from fire and foes. The rhetoric was printed on their banners.

  “What’s your father’s name?”

  “Halbrick Duer.”

  The captain nodded to himself, but Halas doubted that he was going to remember the name. Already he knew how this would turn out. He bunched his hands into fists.

  “Right, Halback Duer. And what did you say your family does?”

  “We are farmers. We own a cottage just outside the Farm Gate. Finest potatoes in the city.” Guilt, terror and sleeplessness couldn’t prevent the pride from showing in Halas’ voice, pride he himself had no recognition of.

  The man scoffed. “Well, forget it then. I won’t endanger my men, especially over a stupid quarter-farmer who got his self lost. That forest is not worth the trouble. Move on.”

  “Move—move on? Move on?” Halas was fuming. Move on? How could they suggest such a thing! He almost took a swing at the captain. It was a tremendous feat that he managed to get himself under control.

  “Listen here, kid. There are twelve men in this building right now, and each one of them will do more for this city than your entire family ever has, or ever will. Got it? A thousand farmers sell crop to Cordalis, and one less won’t make no difference.”

  “And you—you actually want to…to go out there?”

  Halas stood outside the cottage with Desmond and Garek. It was Garek who had spoken, after hearing Halas’ plan, if it could be called that.

  “Yes, I do. Our father is out there somewhere, and he needs our help!” Halas was shocked at Garek’s reaction. For two days, he had not seemed worried for Halbrick at all. In fact, he seemed rather happy. He knew Garek and Halbrick rarely got along even in the best of times, but Halas still hated his brother for his attitude. Halas needed all the support he could gather to find his father safe and sound, and he was not getting it. Not nearly.

  “I want to go as well,” Des said, nodding to himself. “There’s still a few hours fore the sun sets. If we leave now, we can look around. Test the defenses, so to speak.”

  “With what?” Garek demanded, a bit of color coming to his cheeks. “We have, what, a bow and a few arrows? Some knives? Whatever lurks within those trees is not going to be stopped, or even frightened, by a bow and some knives!”

  He had a point. Even still, Halas wanted nothing more than to strike his brother, to hit him and keep hitting him. It is as if he does not care! Am I going mad?

  An idea came into his head. Mister Conroy had traveled all across Aelborough, collecting a great many things. Halas had spent many hours wandering his manor while Conroy related to him the stories behind every artifact.

  Some of which were weapons.

  “No.”

  The word stopped him in his tracks. He paced—stood, now—in Conroy’s study, watching as the old man leafed through some tome or another, regarding Halas with barely a passing interest.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Halas lost it. Weeks of pent-up rage flowed from him then, right on to the old man who sat less-than-innocently in the comfortable armchair before him. “Conroy…I…I have had it with this, and I have had it with you!” he cried. The old man lowered his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, looking up at the sudden outburst. “For weeks now, you have…you hardly even acknowledge my existence anymore, writing me off with a few words and the slam of a door. It’s unfair! I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now!”

  Conroy observed him quietly with the hint of a smile on his lips. What right does he have to be amused? Halas cried to himself. I need him right now, more than anything. The guard won’t help me; my own brother won’t help me! Why won’t Conroy help me?

  What is happening?

  Finally, the old man sighed, removing his spectacles and placing them on the desk in front of him. “Perhaps you should sit,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Halas said through clenched teeth. He was starting to feel embarrassed, aware of the fact that he’d just thrown his first tantrum in fourteen years.

  “Very well then,” Conroy began. “Your father is safe. It is true, he is in the forest, but he is safe. Halbrick can take care of himself. I would not have you and your friends traipsing about the forest in such a manner as you would like. That would only serve to endanger your life as well as your father’s mission. Going after Halbrick would require him to break away from his goal to rescue you. You would accomplish nothing, Halas. Your father is a master swordsman, and well-versed in anything those trees could throw at him. He will be safe. You, however, would not. I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot.”

  “You cannot? Why can’t you? Tell me!” Conroy’s tone was so patronizing. Halas was no longer a child to be coddled and protected. He wanted more than Conroy’s word as to his father’s safety.

  “You mustn’t get so angry. It’s not healthy.”

  Halas settled his breathing, attempting to calm himself with little success.

  “Your father and I are working on something of great importance. I do apologize for keeping you at a distance, but I am quite busy these days.”

  “What are you working on?” Halas was mildly interested, and he used this to distract him from the anger.

  “As I said before: I cannot tell you.”

  “You can’t…” Halas cut himself off, not wanting to have another outburst. Part of him did, but he managed to contain that part. For now. He held a clenched fist to his forehead and drew breath through his nose. Halbrick called it the bull. He’d taught the exercise to Halas many years ago. It usually helped to calm him down, but now all Halas wanted to do was punch Conroy in the nose. Halas relaxed the fist and put it over his mouth. “Did my father leave any messages? Anything at all?”

  “Why yes, he did. I’d forgotten until you reminded me. Not as young as I used to be.” Hope filled Halas with a sudden warm sensation. Could there actually be an explanation? Could it be that simple? Conroy chuckled, standing up and moving to another table that was just as cluttered at his desk. Rifling through the papers, he finally lifted a small scrap of parchment. Conroy adjusted his reading glasses, holding the paper up to the light from the window.

  “Ah yes. He says ‘Don’t forget to sell the crop. No less than five thousand.’” Halas ran his hands through his hair and gnashed his teeth with frustration, and stormed out of the house. Des loitered in the street. He hurried to Halas as he emerged.

  “Well?”

  Halas pushed past him. He wanted to be alone.

  Sever
al days passed, and Halbrick still did not return. Conroy rarely called upon Halas anymore, and Halas had given up trying to speak with the man at all. The feeling of it was awful. Conroy was more than just a teacher, he was a dear friend. Halas spent nearly as much time at the manor as he did at home, running errands, doing his studies, or simply talking with the old man. Things had changed so much in the past month. Halas found that he no longer enjoyed his life. The only thing that brightened his spirits these days was Cailin. When he was with her, he found he could focus on other things than Halbrick and Conroy. They still lurked at the back of his mind, but he did not feel as disheartened. Cailin was a joyous presence in his world, and he was incredibly lucky to have her. He sat, leaning against the front door of the cottage, gazing off toward the forest. Those trees. Those stupid trees.

  Halas contemplated inviting Cailin into his home. After all, his father was not exactly there to catch them. He would never know. Their relationship was very improper, and while Halas did not think Halbrick would mind, he would feel honor-bound to tell Cailin’s parents. Halas knew they were unaware of his entire existence, but he did not fully understand why. Halas had every intention of marrying Cailin someday, and he did not think it would be at all difficult to conceal the extent of their physical relationship for the time being. They had first made love over a year before, lying on their knoll in the middle of the day. Halas remembered it well; it had been the best day of his life. Afterwards, however, Cailin seemed out of sorts. She rarely spoke to him for several days, and seemed awkward and quiet when she did. Halas finally got it out of her that she was worried her parents would find out. “They’re very proper,” she had said, “my father especially. They will be furious if they find out I’ve…you know, before marriage.”

  Those were the days when Cailin was still shy on the matter of sex. Halas smiled, remembering it. He had promised to keep their relationship a secret amongst the adults in their lives. Only Conroy knew fully, and Halas knew he could be trusted.

  Now everything was different. Back then, Halas had trusted the old man with all his heart, but now he was unsure. The trust was severely damaged, and knowing that hurt Halas more deeply than he could imagine.

  The door thumped him in the back, and he fell forward. Garek came out of the house, giving him an embarrassed smile. He apologized several times as he slid down the wall next to his brother.

  “What’re you thinking about?” he asked.

  Halas mulled it over. “It’s been over a week, Garek, and he’s still not come home. A whole week!”

  “Conroy said…”

  “I know what Conroy said. But what if he’s wrong? What if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about? What then? Do we just sit here and leave him to die? Is that it?”

  “No. I’m not…I’m not saying that. Believe me, I’m worried about him too. It’s just…things have been nicer around here, y’know?”

  “How can you say that?” Halas demanded, getting to his feet, his fists curling up at his sides.

  “Listen to me—I’m sure Father is all right. I trust Conroy on this. I do.”

  “You don’t even like Conroy. The only thing he’s ever taught you are foreign swear words.”

  “True,” Garek conceded with a chuckle, “but there’s something…I just trust him this time, okay?”

  “No you don’t,” Halas said. He could see right through his brother. “You’re a horrible liar, and you’re not helping. Stop trying.”

  “Is that necessarily a bad thing?”

  Garek’s poor attempt at humor only served to anger Halas further. He stormed off, leaving Garek to go into town to search for a buyer. At least it would get him away from Halas for the day.

  He cast himself down on his bed, watching the trees outside. Small drops of rain pattered quietly on the window. Halas closed his eyes. He opened them to a downpour, the heavy drops hitting his window like stones. He must have fallen asleep. He heard muted voices outside the cottage. Opening the door, he saw Garek standing with the auctioneer from before, with the blue-rimmed spectacles and wide hat, holding a sopping wet cloak around his slender frame. They were standing over the potatoes, exchanging offers.

  “Won’t you come inside?” Halas asked the man, politeness winning over the anger he felt toward his brother. “I’ll make tea, or coffee, if you’d prefer.” The man was strange; it was entirely possible that he preferred coffee.

  “Well that’s quite all right,” the auctioneer said, bowing his head slightly at the gesture. “Young Garek and I have already come to an agreement. What was it, Garek?”

  “Seven thousand.”

  “Ah yes. Seven thousand. To be paid upon transport of the supply. And 31 per cent through the season.”

  Seven thousand! Halbrick had said no less than five, but seven was unheard of. How had Garek done it?

  “You’re going to have to shut your mouth sometime.” Garek’s voice snapped him from his reverie, bringing him back into the present. The buyer was marching off toward Cordalis, undoubtedly to locate a few good laborers.

  “How did you do it?”

  Garek grinned. “Secret’s mine to keep,” he said, going into the cottage and shutting the door. “Wet out there.”

  “It is,” Halas said, remembering his feelings. He wanted to stay angry, even though he knew he wasn’t anymore. “Moving them into town today?”

  “Yes,” Garek said.

  Halas had never been so wet—or so cold—in his life. He, Garek, and several laborers spent hours pushing carts through the mud into Cordalis. It became easier past the Gate, when the road became an actual road, shoddy and uneven though it was. Finally, after six loads, the auctioneer approached Halas, standing in the man’s warehouse. “I’m calling it off for today,” he said. “Tell your brother to make this the last trip. We’ll resume when the rain ends.”

  “Right. Yes, sir,” Halas told him, rushing off to find Garek. He helped him with the last cart, and the two hurried home. They came in together, collapsing on their respective beds. Though his mattress was about as solid as a slab of granite, Halas had never been so comfortable. He’d helped move the crop before, but never in the rain, and never so much at a time.

  Halas fell asleep right then, steadily soaking the bed with rainwater. It was the one night he did not think or worry about his father.

  Sub Chapter One: Nolan

  Nolan whistled a quiet tune to himself as he fingered a small coin. He sat in a plain wooden room somewhere in Cordalis, looking up at two brutish thugs. They were Dar’s cronies, and he assumed that they had recently dragged him in here. Nolan didn’t know for sure, because his last memory was running away from them. Then the bigger one had stepped out in front of him, and he’d woken up here, in the plain wooden room somewhere in Cordalis.

  Not that he minded; it had only been a matter of time. Dar was Patriarch of Wentworth family, and they were not to be trifled with.

  “Any of you chaps have something to drink?” he asked, but they remained statues. Nolan rolled his eyes and went back to his tune and his coin.

  The door swung open, and a tall, lanky man entered. He sat down before Nolan, who had dropped his coin. This was no mere enforcer, not even an interrogator. The man who had entered Nolan’s cell was Dar himself. Such a thing was unprecedented. Dar never oversaw personal matters such as this.

  In matters such as this, matters with which Nolan had become well acquainted, there was a process. Protocol. Dar’s outfit was organized in layers. For lower-level interrogations, you were locked in a small room, a room much like the room Nolan currently resided in, and greeted by a lower-level thug. The thug worked you over, and he did his job well, before releasing you into the wild to beg and pilfer.

  For higher-level events, the thugs were just there as an intimidation piece. They’d touch you, they’d hurt you, but the real hurt came from the designated inquisitors. Big, brutish men whose brains matched their muscle. Nolan had once had the pleasure of meeting an inquisitor
, and he’d been out of the game for weeks, had almost starved to death, and would have if not for Leon.

  There had never been any third-tier interrogations, until now. Nolan figured it appropriate that he was the first. But then, he didn’t really know if he was or not—perhaps those who reached this stage did not survive to tell the tale. Nolan had no intention of dying, especially not in this rat-hole.

  No, he was going to escape. No one would even lay a hand on him.

  But Dar—Dar himself—that had been an unexpected blow all of its own.

  Nolan tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. His tongue was pasted to the roof of his mouth. “Hello there, Dooley,” Dar said.

  “Can’t say I’m pleased to see you,” Nolan said. Dar chuckled.

  “Nor I you. You’ve become a nuisance of late. I cannot believe the audacity you display, freelancing in my part of the city! The gall!”

  Nolan was afraid, but even more afraid to show his fear. So, worried that his voice might betray him, he said nothing. Dar snapped his fingers, and the cronies were on him, pinning him to his chair with giantlike strength. A third entered, taking Nolan’s hands and holding them to the table. Nolan struggled, but the three men were all much bigger than he was.

  “There is a punishment for what you’ve done. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take your hands, one finger at a time. I can’t say I’m disappointed. You would have done yourself a favor, turning yourself in to the Badges. A shame my people got to you first.”

  “A big shame,” Nolan said, his voice shaking. He still struggled. Dar stood, a dagger in his hands.

  “You’ve one last chance, Dooley. Tell me where the gems are, and I’ll make it quick. Three thousand detricots is no small amount.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Nolan agreed. He looked frantically around the room for some way out. There was none; he’d have to fight or lose his hands, and Nolan was no fighter. Gritting his teeth, he planted his feet at the bottom of the table. Dar was taking his time, making sure that Nolan really took in the knife that would do the punishing. Fear was the man’s greatest weapon, and Nolan could hardly let himself give in to that. If he was afraid, he was dead. Nolan exhaled.