The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  “Goodbye, Elivain,” he said. “Thanks for nothing, you louse.”

  “Goodbye, Brown,” Elivain said. “Should things go as planned, you will no longer need my protection.”

  “Planned, eh? If you should abandon us in our time of need, us who took you in and gave you shelter when you were desperate, then so be it. We would be better off without your meddlesome intervention!”

  At this, Elivain snarled. It was a savage, animal thing. He dropped his bundle and strode the distance to the man called Brown, drawing a hidden knife from the folds of his cloak as he went. “You may think poorly of me at this hour, but know this! I do not abandon you; I do not abandon this city! I leave now to strike a blow at Torgeir the Oppressor, and you know that! My skills will be far more effective outside this town than within it, and you know that very well, Brown! So think poorly of me if you will, but do not presume to think that I abandon you!” He stopped roughly five paces from the man called Brown, and lowered his knife. “I would not abandon you, any of you. Seek not the comfort of Talia’s bed tonight, Brown, or forever after.”

  The man called Brown scowled deeply. His wife looked at him, aghast, and pulled away. He glared at Elivain but said nothing.

  The villagers did not know how to react to Elivain’s outburst. He watched them all. Halas thought he was searching for more confrontation, but there was none. A ruddy-faced child approached Elivain, offering a wrapped loaf of bread. Elivain took the bread and knelt before the child. He muttered something that Halas could not hear, and the child walked back to his mother. Elivain stood and returned to the caravan.

  “Shall we?”

  They went.

  Elivain’s first outing was a disaster. He tried leading the caravan down through a ravine, but the wagons and horses struggled. Wheels jammed in the mud and tangled undergrowth. One of the horses stumbled, going out from under his rider in an instant. When all was said and done, both horse and rider were uninjured, but the caravan had to retreat backwards and take to the road once more. The road led them out of the mountains. Elivain spent much time in the surrounding woods, scouting the terrain. The men suspected that this was to avoid Bernard Claymont’s anger, but if they had truly known Elivain, they would have known he feared no such thing.

  Each man in the caravan was worried. They all wondered to themselves when Torgeir would strike. Halas woke up every morning feeling relieved. He went to bed every night with his heart in a vice.

  The hours stretched infinitely as they traveled through Torgeir’s country, what a man in Busby had so aptly dubbed the lawless lands.

  There were no other towns, but they soon came upon the wrecked caravans that had been spoken so fearfully of. The first was only a few hours away from the ravine. A collection of wagon husks that had been long since burned decorated the path in a circle. They had died defending themselves. Corpses of both man and beast filled the husks and road. Halas rode up to one of these corpses, one that was by now more bone than flesh. He looked down at it, biting his lip. One of the caravan drivers swore.

  Desmond and Aeon rode up beside him. Somewhere toward the back, Crowe’s voice ordered a clearing of the bodies for burial. “Are you all right?” Desmond asked his friends. Halas nodded. He felt as if there should be tears shed for these men who died alone in the cold wilderness, but no tears would come. Halas looked at Aeon. The boy’s cheeks were red and his eyes were runny. He wiped them quickly on his sleeve.

  “Aeon…” Halas whispered, trying to maneuver his horse closer to the boy to try and comfort him.

  “This must be what The Wandering Blade is, now, after the battle. They burned it, didn’t they? They burned the ship and everyone onboard, survivors or not.”

  Halas nodded somberly.

  Aeon continued. “We were on that ship for nearly three months. It was our home. And now it is a graveyard.” He turned to Halas, and Halas could see that his eyes were hollow. “And the worst of it is that it is all my fault.”

  “No,” Desmond said weakly.

  “It is! Look into my eyes, Desmond, and tell me that those men would not still be alive if not for my intervention.”

  Desmond put a hand over his stubbled face. He’d been trying to grow a goatee back in Cordalis, but now it resembled something altogether more feral. “Aeon, that is simply not true. You are not at fault. You cannot help your parentage. As Prince, you stand for something, and they knew that. Those men died defending you, defending their country and ideals.”

  “Those men did not die for anything of the sort. They died because I was on their boat and I was a target! They fought only for themselves. Do not make them martyrs, Desmond Mallon, for they are not. They are victims. I do not value my life over any other, and I will not have anyone else do as such. Any man who would die for someone like me is a foolish man, and foolish was something Captain Brennus and his men were not.”

  Desmond looked down and quickly rode away.

  Behind them, Crowe and Bernard Claymont were having a disagreement. A portion of the men were trying to deal with the bodies at Crowe’s wish, but there were just as many who stayed on their mounts, looking uneasily between the caravan leader and his lieutenant.

  “Sir, these men deserve a proper burial,” Crowe said.

  “And we simply do not have the time. We cannot tarry in these dangerous lands, my friend. Torgeir’s men may come upon us at any hour, and I would not prolong our stay here for the dead. The dead do not care how their remains are dealt with.”

  Crowe sighed. “I suppose you are right. It just does not sit right with me, leaving them here.”

  “I feel there will be many more of these sites to come. You may want to reexamine your feelings.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Claymont rode away, leaving Dale Crowe thoroughly chagrined. Halas looked back at the scene. For a brief moment, he saw it as it had been, harried men on horseback pushing through Torgeir’s lands, cursing and screaming. Despite the fear, there was still mirth, still good. A lute playing softly from inside one of the wagons. Laughter. The clinking of glasses.

  And then there was only death.

  Bernard Claymont was right—there were a great many more dead caravans. Skeletons picked clean to the bone. Eyes peeking out from burnt out wagons. Carrion birds by the score, circling above. The stench was unbearable. To compensate, Halas quickly learned from Crowe himself. The man who reminded them so painfully of Tormod had tied a rag around his neck and covered the lower portion of his face with it. Occasionally he would wet this rag from his canteen. The other men soon followed suit. Claymont hid himself in his wagon and slammed shut the windows.

  They passed these awful graveyards each day. Crowe steered the caravan around them, but the sites, it seemed, were unavoidable. Bones seemed as frequent as grass, and what few rivers they saw were stained red.

  Two days had passed since Busby when the caravan first heard from Torgeir’s men. They traveled through a winding valley, with tall trees obscuring the sun. Halas thought any number of men could be concealed in those trees, or the cliffs above them. The thought chilled him. He kept one hand on his sword.

  Halas nearly flew from the saddle when a horn blast interrupted the silence. At the head of the column, Crowe drew his sword. “Ride on! Ride on! I need one rider from each wagon, to me!” he cried. Halas rode forward, gesturing for Des and Aeon to stay with Walter.

  Another horn came from further up the bank. It was quickly followed by a third. Halas pulled Owain to a halt near Crowe. A group of riders had assembled. “We’re going to clear a path,” Crowe told them. “Follow my lead!”

  They spurred the horses on. Halas managed to keep pace with a barrelchested rider he didn’t know. They moved ahead, passing swiftly through the valley. As they reached the end, nothing came of it. No men could be seen. There were no more horns.

  It was all a farce.

  Elivain, sitting atop his horse near Halas, swore. The barrel-chested rider echoed his statement. “The basta
rd’s playing games with us, isn’t he?”

  “Dwell on this not,” Crowe said. “Torgeir’s men will come, and when they do, we will be ready for them. Do not fear his tricks, for they are harmless.”

  “I should hope so,” said a man Halas thought was called Porter.

  But to Halas, Crowe sounded uneasy. And still, they wondered when Torgeir would strike.

  It happened three days out of Busby. It had been almost a full day since they’d passed the last boneyard, but evidently there were fresher corpses near at hand. Elivain returned to the wagons, dragging a half-dead man in one hand, his other holding a bloody knife.

  “Scouts!” he said. “Tell them what you told me!”

  The man laughed, stopping only to cough blood. “You’ll all be dead soon,” he yelled. “Every one of you!”

  Elivain growled and slashed the man’s throat. Halas put an uncomfortable hand on the hilt of his sword, looking around. The woods were still, and now that he paid attention, that scared him most of all. In death they were alive.

  At once, Crowe set to work. “Circle the wagons,” he ordered. “My Lord Claymont, please get inside. All caravan guards to the front line. Circle the wagons!”

  Twenty-nine horses formed a rim around the wagons, the crew and passengers hiding inside, many of them constructing barriers to protect them from stray arrows. Halas was between Des and Aeon. He gulped. What if they made it no farther than here? What if they failed in their mission? He found himself missing Garek, wishing he could dash back to Earlsfort and take his brother home, wishing at least he could have said goodbye. But most of all, he found that he missed Cailin. He missed her smooth hair. He missed her face that was beautiful even when covered in dirt. He missed her soft voice.

  They were in a field, surrounded on two sides by tall, threatening trees.

  All was silent.

  A single arrow arced through the air, striking a caravan guard in his chest and throwing him from his horse. Elivain’s bow twanged, his arrow launching for the woods where he knew to be a bandit. At once, the other archers in the caravan followed suit, and soon the battle was joined. Halas wished he had a bow. As it was, he could only hope that no stray arrows hit him.

  When seven of the guards were dead and two wounded, the fighting stopped. A host of men rode from the woods to ride in circles around the formation, prodding them with long and sharp spears. Halas still did not draw his sword, knowing it was useless. The horsemen jeered at them, spitting and taunting. Every so often one would dart in, exchanging blows with a guard and riding back to his friends. But there was no real desire to kill the men of the caravan, Halas saw. They were just toying with them.

  Perhaps the killing came later.

  The bandits stopped. They were twice the number of the caravan guards, forming a circle around them. They quarreled viciously amongst themselves, even drawing down on one another in some cases. One rode to the front. “Who is in charge here?”

  “I am,” said Crowe, sitting up straighter on his horse. He was wounded in his shoulder.

  The man rode up to him. “In the name of Torgeir the Mighty, I demand that you surrender your riches, or your life is forfeit,” he declared.

  “Then my life is forfeit!”

  The bandit raised his eyebrows. He spurred his horse, and they trotted closer until the bandit and Crowe were nearly face-to-face. “I give you one last warning, fool. There shall be no others.”

  But Crowe was still. “Very well then,” said the bandit, and he drew his sword. But before he could raise the weapon, Aeon moved to say something, but Halas saw this and beat him to it.

  “Wait!”

  “Halas!” Desmond hissed.

  The bandit turned to regard him, and laughed. “What do you want, boy?”

  “We have no treasures with us.”

  The highwayman laughed again. “Am I to trust the silly words of a child?”

  “I am not a child, and you did not let me finish. We do not have any treasure with us, because we’ve hidden it.”

  This piqued the man’s interest. “Oh?”

  “Yes. I know where it is, even, but I will only take you on one condition: Torgeir himself must come with me. Alone.”

  At this, the man laughed even harder. He rode to Halas. “You are in no position to be making demands. You will take me to your hidings. Torgeir does not deal with His subjects.”

  “Then he is a poor king!”

  The bandit took Halas by the neck. This seemed to upset Owain, who, with a great whinny, reared up on his hind legs. The poor bandit was still holding on to Halas when it happened, and was thrown from his own horse. His fellows looked on in astonishment, and several made as if to shoot Owain. But the man stilled them with a wave of his hand. He was laughing again.

  “I like that beast,” he said. “And I find myself liking his rider. I will agree to your conditions then, Brave Rider. I am Torgeir the Mighty. Let us go now. Vir! Take his sword.”

  “Very well,” said Halas. He looked at Des and shrugged, trying to appear casual, though he was barely able to keep himself from shaking. Two men rode forth and took his sword. Torgeir mounted his horse, and Halas led him off, back toward Busby.

  Of course, there was no hidden treasure, and Halas knew that. But a plan had been formulating in his mind. He had the bandit lord alone, and unwary. That plan had ended the moment Torgeir ordered him disarmed. Now he was worried. What was he to do? There was a knife in Owain’s saddlebags. No more than a letter opener, but it was something.

  He just had to get to it.

  Perhaps he could offer Torgeir the deal Aeon had spoken of: as much of the king’s gold as he could carry. If that didn’t work, well, Halas supposed he’d just jump on the man and have at it.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” said Torgeir, breaking the silence. The caravan was out of sight. “What’s your name?”

  “Halas.” His eyes widened—he’d broken his cover!

  “Everything all right?”

  “No. Well, yes. No. I suppose not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Halas pondered a moment. He decided that the king of a group of thieves and murderers cared little for Agerian lawbreakers. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “That depends. Are you taking me to your treasure?”

  “Of course.”

  “My men have watched you since you passed my borders. When did you have time to bury your things?”

  “We did it under cover of night, from beneath a wagon.”

  “Ah.”

  They rode for some time. At length Torgeir spoke again. “How far?”

  “Not very.”

  The path had gone into a natural ditch, lined by two ridges just above their heads. Halas was the first to see the danger. Two tigers leapt from one of the ridges like streaks of dark fire. Their fur was the color of the night sky. He marveled at this for a moment before he cried out, steering Owain clear and spurring him on. The first tiger missed Halas, but the second landed squarely on Torgeir, carrying the bandit out of the saddle and to the ground. Owain stumbled and Halas fell, hitting the ground with a hard thump. The horse stopped and kicked at the dirt, as if he were trying to tell Halas to get back on. Torgeir’s horse screamed.

  Halas rolled over on his belly and saw the tigers. Both were on top of Torgeir, who was fending them off with his bracers and knees. Halas scrambled to his feet. He turned back to Owain and dug madly through the saddlebags. His hands closed around the hilt of the knife. There was no time to think.

  Torgeir yelled. The first tiger’s jaws had clamped shut around his arm. Halas rushed at them, driving the knife into the top of the beast’s head. It released Torgeir and roared, turning to Halas and bearing him to the ground. Halas kicked it in the teeth, knocking a few out, but only succeeded in angering the creature further.

  Halas glanced at Owain. The horse moved toward the fight, but then his fear caught up with him, and he moved backwards. The tiger on top of Halas r
oared again and collapsed. It felt to him as if a house had been dumped on his chest, and suddenly he was gasping at breaths that were devoid of air.

  Then the weight was moved. Torgeir heaved the tiger off of Halas with a strained grunt and sank down against the natural wall. Both men were breathing heavily. Halas saw that the second tiger was dead. There was a dull, throbbing pain in his leg where the bulk of the beast had landed.

  “Thank you,” Halas said. Torgeir grunted again. “Are you all right?”

  “Actually, Halas, I believe I am slightly drunk, as luck would have it! This was fate, and you saved my life,” he said, “though I would have taken yours. I am in your debt. Should we ever meet again, I will do my best to pay that debt. And I give you one favor that you may ask of me. Think hard, for it will only be one. And should I refuse, you will not get another option.”

  Halas did think about it. There were a few obvious choices. He should ask Torgeir to renounce his kingdom and cease his highway robbery. But what if he refused? He would, for sure. Owain nestled his head on Halas’ shoulder; Halas stroked his muzzle.

  What if he didn’t? What if he agreed to give up his country? The chance was slim, but it was there. Torgeir was clearly a madman; there was no telling what he would agree to. Halas could free Busby and the countless other villages under Torgeir’s control, as well as make the region a much safer place for travelers.

  But what of the mission?

  If Torgeir refused, Halas would not get another favor. What if he didn’t allow them to continue? Halas wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. He did not wish to make this decision.