The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  “Hear that, Gare? Just a fortnight.”

  Garek grinned, but it was a sad grin. “Yes. Two weeks.”

  He leaned over and was sick again. Halas breathed a single laugh and went back to his patting.

  Desmond’s reaction to the news was a happy one. “That’s great!” he yelled, pumping his fist into the air triumphantly. “I cannot wait until we are in Earlsfort. I hear the place is bigger than Cordalis! Imagine all we can do there.”

  “I can imagine,” Garek moaned. Des was perched on the edge of Halas’ bunk. Garek sprawled on his own, a pillow over his face. Halas occupied the room’s single chair.

  “I think I may actually kiss the dirt,” Halas said.

  Des scrunched up his face in a look of amusement. “We’ve been on this boat three months, Hal.”

  “You mean to say you aren’t excited?”

  “Oh, I’m certainly excited. This place is boring. I was hoping for something of the sea serpent variety, perhaps a dragon or two. Storm was nice, though.” He swept his hand over the scar on Halas’ arm for emphasis. Halas rolled his eyes.

  “You’re here for the wrong reasons, Des.”

  “Fun is never wrong, Halas. Never.” His tone was so somber and serious, his expression so straight and stern, that Halas laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.

  The rain poured continuously for nearly four days before ending just as suddenly as it began. There was no gradual runoff, no lessening. One second it rained, the next the sky was clear. Halas marveled at the sun; it felt good against his skin. Warm.

  Some of the men stripped down, lavishing in the heat. Halas peeled off his shirt. It was soaked with rainwater. He slung it over one shoulder and closed his eyes, taking everything in.

  Suddenly, he wanted to be with Cailin more than anything in the world. The rain had been miserable, and now it was gone. The voyage had been miserable, but now it was almost at an end (Halas forcibly omitted the fact that they were only to be in Earlsfort for two weeks). The sun was out, he was drying off, and life was good. The only thing missing was Cailin, and her absence put a hole in his heart bigger than he knew. His chest tightened and his legs felt faint. He wanted her so badly, to feel her skin, smell her hair. Halas sat down on the deck and looked at the sky.

  “Oh, Cailin,” he whispered. He held a hand up to shield his eyes, and imagined that somewhere, possibly on their knoll, she was doing the same thing.

  For the rest of the voyage, Cailin never ceased to occupy his thoughts. She danced through his mind throughout the day. As he cleaned, she cleaned with him. He did not, could not, listen to Aeon or Tormod as they told tales that normally kept his rapt attention. He never even wondered about his father and the forest. Nothing except Cailin.

  So when Halas first heard the ‘land ho’ from the crow’s nest, he was roused from his daydream. He rushed to the rail but could not see much, only a black speck on the horizon.

  Nevertheless, it filled him with hope. They’d reached a major milestone in their journey, and it was now almost halfway done.

  “In another few hours we’ll be at Earlsfort!” Captain Brennus cried, and several of the men hooted a response, stomping on the deck and cheering. Halas cheered right along with them; he couldn’t wait to set foot on dry land. He’d had enough of boats to last a lifetime. He went back to the cabin to tell Garek and Des the news. They were as happy as he was, Garek jumping into the air and laughing.

  They went back on deck, all three suddenly impatient, wanting their leave to begin. Though it was only two weeks, setting foot on land was going to be wonderful. Halas couldn’t stop smiling. “Wait!” the man called from the crow’s nest. “There are ships behind us, closing fast!”

  “What?” Captain Brennus walked to the aft of the ship, lifting his spyglass. “They hold the banner of Queen Anaua, and a strange serpent I do not recognize.”

  Beside Halas, Prince Aeon whispered, “Oh, no.” Tormod hurried to the captain.

  “We must flee,” he said.

  “What? Flee? From the queen? That’s absurd!”

  “Yes, Captain, it is, but we must.” He was whispering now, so the others could not hear. “The boy I have with me is in mortal danger.”

  “I told you you’d bring this down upon me! I’ll have you skinned, you rotten bastard!”

  “Calm yourself! If we make Earlsfort before those men catch us, the boy and I will leave your ship and never return. We’ll be out of your business forever, and you may do whatever you like.”

  “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do on my rutting ship!”

  “Captain, please. We have to run. We must. If those ships catch us they will do unspeakable things to your crew and to your ship. If you allow them to catch up, they atrocities committed would be on your hands, not mine.”

  Captain Brennus glowered, but he was stuck. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Full sails, boys! We run! Everyone into your uniforms! Any man not on duty should arm himself.” He spun to face Tormod. “It will be nightfall before we reach Earlsfort, even going full speed. They may very well be upon us by then.”

  “Then we’d best be ready to fight.”

  Halas had his father’s sword; Garek had the plain iron broadsword; Desmond had a small hand axe. They stood in the belly of the ship, watching as the sailors who were unarmed proceeded in a line to the armory, taking a sword here and a spear there. Everyone aboard wore their silver uniforms, though many only wore one piece of it. Halas followed his friends up to the deck. Tormod stood stoically at the rail, watching the fast-approaching ships. “They will be here shortly,” he said. He hefted his enormous sword. “I want one of you to wait by Aeon’s door, guard it. I will do my best to be nearby, though I may not be able to. The other two stay inside with Aeon. Who will be out?”

  “I will,” Halas said, before the others had a chance to volunteer. His stomach immediately went cold, and he felt it travel up his gullet until it perched just under his throat. His chest clamped shut, trapping it there. Tormod clapped him on the back.

  “Right then. Des, Garek, get inside.”

  Desmond put a hand on Aeon’s arm, but the prince stiffened in place. “I can fight!” he said.

  “I know you can,” Tormod said. He knelt in front of the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re good with a blade, and even better without, but we both have our duties, Aeon. Protecting you, keeping you safe, is mine. We’re near enough to Earlsfort that we may dock before all of this is over. If victory is in any way uncertain, you have to promise me you will get clear of this ship.”

  “Tormod, do not say that.

  Everything will be all right.” Tormod nodded. “It will be. But if it isn’t, you get off this ship and disappear. Promise me.”

  Aeon looked like he wanted to argue. For a moment, he appeared to be two people: one, the noble prince who would risk anything for his subjects, and two, a scared little boy. Halas felt very uncomfortable watching the prince’s face. “I promise,” Aeon finally said.

  “Thank you. Now get inside. Halas, stay close.”

  When the door was securely fastened, Tormod set about helping the sailors mount a shield wall on the rail. Halas waited by the cabins. Tormod never went far, helping the sailors with their weapons or those few that had it with their armor, a strap here, a buckle there. Halas could see the ships now. There were four of them, rapidly gaining on The Wandering Blade. Martarey and two other sailors manned a nearby ballista, and were already taking aim.

  “Do not give an inch! They will not take this ship; they will not have our home!” Captain Brennus cried. He wore his full uniform, with a silver hat and cape that identified him as captain, and walked up and down the deck, touching or consoling his men where it was needed. He’s a good man, Halas thought.

  Making sure that Prince Aeon’s door was locked, Halas turned to face the approaching ships. They were close enough now that he could clearly make out the ravens on each banner. A whole host of them, it seemed. They
may as well be an armada, he realized. He didn’t want to be in a battle. The thought of it terrified him, made him ill. The day’s food was ready and waiting in his throat. He choked it down. Was the prince’s door locked? Halas checked again and found that it was. What were battles like, anyway? He imagined them from the stories to be orderly things, where lines of men charged at each other in neat little rows and killed each other in neat little rows.

  Facing the prospect now, he knew it would be far more tumultuous than that. Sure, there might be neat rows at the start, but how could chaos not ensue from such a thing? Upwards of a hundred men, running to and fro, hacking each other to pieces, fighting for their lives. Their friends.

  It nagged at him now that Aeon’s door may not be locked. Halas turned back to jiggle the handle.

  What if he himself was forced to take a life? Could he do it? Did he have it in him? There had been people he’d said he wanted dead, but had he meant it? Nolan Dooley. Absolon’s best boys. Garek, a time or two. Death was the ultimate end to everything. All thoughts of any sort of afterlife left him then, standing beside Tormod on the deck of The Wandering Blade. There would be no paradise, no White, no Inferno. Just blackness. Endless, empty blackness.

  Aeon’s door was securely locked. Halas was almost certainly going to die here. Only looking at the tower of a man that stood beside him stilled such thoughts.

  At least Tormod was here.

  The sun set and the world was red, the water the color of blood. The queen’s ships were almost upon them, almost within range for the ballistae. Sailors were running up and down the line with buckets of water, ready to douse any fires that would be set upon them. “Prepare arrows!” Captain Brennus shouted. All down the line, archers stepped forward, placing their bows between the notches in the shield wall. “Loose the ballistae!”

  Only two of the ship’s ballistae faced the oncoming attackers. The tips of their arrows were wrapped in canvas and carefully doused with oil. After this was done, the canvas was set aflame, and two giant missiles sprang forth from The Wandering Blade, only to splash harmlessly into the river. Halas’ heart sank, but it didn’t seem to faze Brennus. “Load!” the captain yelled. “Loose!” One hit home this time, dragging across the side of an enemy boat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Immediately, the men began pulling at the crank, resetting the ballista. They loaded it, Brennus gave the cry, and then they did it all over again. Moments later, the scorpions let fly.

  Queen Anaua’s ships were closing. Halas could see the banners now, and that peculiar black serpent. There were at least five ships representing each. The largest of these was pulling away from the rest. A woman’s voice shouted from the deck. “Captain Brennus! My name is Raazoi! You have what I want! Give us the boy, and none of your people shall come to harm!”

  Halas felt confused. The ship was close, yes, but still an impossible distance for voices to travel. Brennus stood nearby, gripping a cane tightly in his hand. Its head was silver and heavy. Halas thought the cane concealed a sword. He recognized the type of weapon from Conroy’s museum. Standing nervously beside him, Cloart whispered something. The captain shook his head, raised his hands to cup his lips and called back. “Not a chance! You shall not have him!”

  The woman, Raazoi, did not respond. Instead, a massive bolt shot across the water, skimming the surface and splashing down just yards from The Wandering Blade. Halas jumped. “Loose! Martarey, strike them down!” the captain screamed, and the Blade returned fire.

  “Sink the bastards!” Flanagan yelled. Several of the men echoed this cry. Halas looked around. He did not see Cloart.

  Arrows began to shower the deck. “Loose arrows! Loose at will!” Brennus cried, and the sailors shot back. A ballista round scored the deck near Halas with a tremendous crunch, and he nearly threw himself down to be at the mercy of the queen’s men.

  It certainly didn’t sound like a bad idea.

  No, he thought. Don’t do that. Stay and fight. Stay and fight!

  An arrow whizzed past his head, embedding itself in the prince’s door with a heavy thunk. Halas turned to stare at it, perplexed. It quivered in the wood. He reached out to touch it. Nothing seemed real. The arrow was a mirage, surely. Halas was at home, sleeping. Dreaming. Yes, this was all a dream. He smiled.

  Tormod ruined everything, grabbing Halas by the shoulder and shouting his name, snapping him from his reverie. Well, shit, Halas thought.

  He drew his sword. The ships were close now; two were circling around to the front. Halas didn’t know what to do. “Do not let them board!” Brennus screamed. On the closest galley, Halas could see men on the masts, holding ropes, ready to swing. They landed on the deck of the Blade, behind the line. Sailors turned about to fight them. Halas shrank backwards, pressing himself to Prince Aeon’s door. The arrow fletching scratched at his ear, but he ignored it.

  They were laying down boarding planks now. Tormod grabbed one by the lip and pushed. “Help me!” he yelled. Halas thought Tormod was talking to him, but his legs refused to cooperate. Luckily, Brennus was there. He rushed to Tormod’s side, and together the two pushed it into the water, along with the soldiers who were attempting to cross. Halas could hear them screaming as they floundered in the water, and that gave him hope. Every little bit counted, right?

  But there were so many. A soldier jumped down next to Tormod, only to have his head crushed. Tormod lunged for that gangplank, pushing it into the water. More soldiers poured on to the Blade. They wore jet black chainmail. Gustava limped away from the fight, a bloody arrow in his side. Tormod pushed him aside, swinging his sword to keep the soldiers at bay while the sailor moved further from the battle, cutting down a man who landed near him.

  A soldier came around the back of the cabins, holding a small crossbow that fit in one hand. He raised the weapon and fired. The bolt stuck in Tormod’s shoulder, eliciting a growl that sounded to Halas very much like it came from a bear. Halas skittered toward Tormod, but the big man waved him off. “Door!” he cried, and rushed past Halas, toward the man who’d shot him. The soldier, previously untouchable, turned frantic as he saw that his bullet hadn’t downed the giant. Tormod scooped him up and hurled him over the side. He took the man’s weapon and pointed it back toward Halas, loosing the bolt into the chest of another soldier, one Halas hadn’t seen. Was it really that simple to lose track of yourself?

  With that thought, he’d lost track of Tormod. Panic set in. They came from all sides, wielding finely made swords and, in some cases, shields. Halas raised his blade to block an attack from the left. He moved toward where Tormod had gone, but the soldier wasn’t keen on letting Halas escape. He pressed his advantage, swinging wildly. Halas picked off each attack, and with each movement he grew more confident. He was not just some farmer, as he’d previously thought. No, Halas Duer had trained under some of the best.

  But it wasn’t enough. Halas had training, yes, but this attacker was a soldier, a professional. Halas stumbled and nearly fell, barely bringing his weapon in line. He felt like the man was playing with him, enjoying the scene. There was a crazed smile on his face, a smile that belonged well away from here. Halas moved forward, trying to get in close, but the man lifted his elbow high and slammed it into Halas’ chin, dropping him. The world blurred, but only for a moment. Through sheer force of will, Halas brought things back into focus.

  The soldier stood above him. He kicked aside what Halas thought might have been a shield and might have been a head, and lifted his blade. Halas mirrored the man and kicked wildly, catching his gut and leg and forcing him away. Halas grabbed Silvia and lurched to his feet, but the soldier was gone. Halas shook his head. He’d lost track of someone again, a frightening prospect. He still couldn’t believe it could be so easy.

  The Wandering Blade was a madhouse. People ran in all directions, flashes of black armor and silver clothing. Halas saw Absolon load an enormous crossbow with several arrows and jettison them into a crowd. He watched Flanagan fend off four men at once
. He saw Brennus, holding his left arm weakly at his side, fencing a soldier. Halas moved to help him, but three sailors took the duty, grabbing the man who dared wound their captain and tearing him apart.

  Where was Tormod? Halas wanted to call for him, but was afraid he would cry if he opened his mouth. He glanced around. Surely Tormod had only been gone a few seconds. How long had Halas’ fight with the soldier taken? Not very, he thought. Tormod would be back.

  And he was. He came around the back of the cabin shortly afterward. He smiled at Halas. “Are you all right?” Tormod asked.

  “Yes. I think so. A man tried to…”

  “Good.” Tormod ran past him again. Halas saw that another soldier had attempted to take the position, and Halas had once again failed to notice. Tormod dealt with him in short order. “Be more careful,” he said to Halas.

  “I will.”

  “You are doing quite well.”

  Tormod was a whirlwind of destruction. Where he went, soldiers died, and where he wasn’t, they overwhelmed the defending sailors. He never strayed far from Halas and Prince Aeon’s door. Though he was in such a frenzy, Halas feared for the outcome of the battle. There were just so many soldiers! He was not alone in his worry; evidently Tormod shared it. The sheer number of them moved him into places he did not want to go, forced him away from battles he would have otherwise dominated. Halas wanted to help, but wouldn’t he just get in the way? This was he, his father, and the forest all over again. Let Sea do his work, he told himself. Tormod was such a fluid fighter. There was a grace about him, but at times it looked to Halas like he was simply flailing in all directions. Swordplay at its finest?

  “Get them down below!” Tormod ordered Halas. He was engaged to a man clad entirely in black, with little armor to speak of. Both fought with animal ferocity. Halas grabbed the handle to pull the door open, but of course it was locked. He pounded on it.

  “Garek, Des!” he said, “we’ve got to get down below. Come on!”

  The door opened, revealing three bewildered young men. Desmond pushed past Halas suddenly, grabbing a soldier’s arm and shoving him against the railing. The soldier tripped over his boots and fell sideways. Desmond raised his axe and brought it down with all the force he could muster, splitting the man’s nose open at the bridge and burying it into his face. The man flopped weakly. Desmond’s weapon came free with a noise that Halas never could quite get himself to remember properly. Halas looked at him, meaning thanks, but Desmond was already moving on. He led the way to the trapdoor. Halas took up the rear, desperately watching for soldiers. There were none nearby, only bodies. He didn’t know where Tormod was.