The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  He straightened up. There was a harsh twang, and an arrow thudded into the tree next to his head. They all spun around.

  A soldier stood above him. Three more appeared at his side. Halas saw a bowman in the trees.

  They’d been caught!

  “I’d lower your weapons, if I were you,” said a voice. “I believe you boys are lost.”

  Bale son of Bale was a soldier, through and through. He was ten years old when he killed his first brigand, a wimpy lad just older than himself. He’d returned with the boy’s head, and would remember his father (a captain of the Agerian Guard) beaming at him, his few remaining teeth glistening with red wine as he spoke to his son.

  “I’m so very proud of you,” he’d said.

  From then on, Bale son of Bale was a soldier. He’d joined the military shortly after his fifteenth birthday, after his father had died of stomach rot. His mother had persevered for almost a year before succumbing to the same, and Bale son of no one was left with a brother of three and a meager position in the army. He’d risen through the ranks quickly, making corporal before his seventeenth year. Bale had killed bandits, thieves, murderers, and even a pack of organized raiders that terrorized some of the southern communities.

  A full-fledged captain at twenty, there was not a single thing Bale could not handle, except Digby.

  Where Bale had his sense of duty, Digby had an entirely different perception. Duty to Bale was doing the right thing no matter the cost, protecting the innocent and the royalty above all others, upholding the righteous and quashing the evil.

  Duty to Digby was following orders.

  As luck, or most certainly the opposite, would have it, Digby had been put into Bale’s unit, despite the deep dislike and mistrust the two had for each other. They had set out of Fort Torrance a mere two hours after the fugitives who had kidnapped the as-yet-unnamed-important-person, as Bale’s superiors had identified him, and now they had them. The party was staying in Bakunin, the little hole in the ground that was the only sort of pseudocivilization this side of the mountains.

  They had orders to keep things quiet and not disturb the village, so Bale had moved his soldiers quietly around the outskirts, setting up camp within an empty farmhouse whose owners had been given to the winter. Bale’s informant, a dirty Sayad if there ever was one, had said that the kidnappers planned to go to the tundra. This news had set unease in the pit of Bale’s stomach, but not Digby. Digby held his bow roughly and shook his head.

  “Do your duty,” he’d said curtly.

  “Are you not curious?” Bale had asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Digby had responded. “Our orders are to take these outlaws in, and kill them if we have to. We cannot deviate from our orders.”

  Bale, who was where he was precisely because he had deviated from orders (his decision to do so had saved nearly forty lives at the expense of his captain’s, and thus no one ever knew he had broken the chain of command) had shaken his head and arranged his men around the farmhouse. Their informant had told Digby that the men planned to leave that very day.

  Now, as Bale watched his breath crystallize in the air with bored fascination, he heard footsteps and faint voices.

  “There is a farm here,” said a gruff voice, “but I see no one within. We should go around.”

  Bale peered through the branches and observed their enemies. Three of them were children, his age, maybe a little younger. Bale, having achieved so much at such a young age, paid them no disrespect for what would have been considered by many as a disadvantage.

  The fourth man, the man in the lead, was the oldest, and he frightened Bale. His cool green eyes seemed to see everything from under his hood, and his voice was steadier than stone. His sword was finely crafted, as was his bow. Yes, that one was certainly the most frightening of the four. Bale felt the dread in his gut deepen. He did not know that this man was the one who would help usher both Bale and Digby into the land of the dead, but he certainly suspected something was amiss.

  Digby was off to Bale’s right. On Bale’s signal, he fired an arrow into the tree near the party. It thudded solidly into the wood, quivering for a bit before coming to rest. Bale signaled to the rest of his men, and stepped into the clearing.

  “I’d lower your weapons, if I were you. I believe you boys are lost,” he said.

  “We are,” said the boy with what was once the ragged remains of a goatee, and now was something entirely unrecognizable. “Can you direct us back to town?”

  “Amusing. Stay your hand and lay down your weapons. We have you surrounded by bowmen. If you should make even the slightest movement, you shall be shot down where you stand.” His gaze dropped to the youngest of the group, with hair that dangled in front of his eyes and a cocky stance. Looking at that boy, Bale former son of Bale choked.

  The boy was Prince Aeon.

  “My liege,” he breathed, and found himself dropping to one knee. His soldiers were silent, but one by one, they too knelt. Digby tensed by Bale’s side. “Is it really you?”

  “It is I,” said the prince. He strode forward and drew his sword, holding it in an awkward salute. Bale drew his own steel and returned the gesture. “Men of Ager,” he announced to the clearing, “you have done well in fulfilling your duties, but you have been given them in falsehood.

  “I am not a prisoner. I travel with these three men of my own volition; they are my friends. We are on a mission of great importance. Of this mission I can tell you little, but know this! We are not to be hindered any further. You will return to Bakunin and await my return. Once my errand is complete, I will surrender myself to your custody and allow you to transport myself and any who wish to go with me back to Cordalis. Of this you have my word.”

  “Surely,” Bale said quietly, “you cannot expect us to take you for your word. You are under duress, my lord. What is your mission?”

  Prince Aeon sighed. He glanced at the blond-haired boy, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The prince looked back to Bale. “You have heard the tale of the Temple of Immortals, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you know that if that Temple is destroyed, there will be nothing to prevent the Ifrinn from returning to Aelborough.”

  “Of course.” Bale’s arms stiffened at the mention of the Ifrinn. Every boy and girl in Aelborough knew that tale. Depending on the region, they had different versions of it, of course, but the gist was the same: there was a Temple in the arctic that warded the gates to the Infernos of Hell.

  “Someone seeks to destroy this Temple. My friends and I journey to protect it. Every second you dawdle here brings our foes closer, and creates a further disadvantage for us.” Prince Aeon’s voice took on a sudden harshness then. “Stand aside! Return to Bakunin, and disturb us no longer!

  “ Stand aside!”

  For a brief moment, the clearing was silent. Then the captain stood. He whistled sharply to his men. “We shall obey the prince’s word,” he said. “I deem him to be telling the truth, and I would not have us be the cause of his mission’s failure. I would not have that mission failed at all. Prince Aeon, I would be honored if you would take me into your service. With my men, we…” he was cut off by the arrow that was lodged in his throat. Halas registered the bowman’s movements, but it was Elivain who acted.

  The bowman off to the right was attempting to notch a second arrow when Elivain drove his home into the aggressor’s eye. Just like that, everything stopped. There was silence for another moment, and then Bale formerly of Bale began gasping for air, writhing in the snow. Soldiers and the four travelers ran to his side.

  “There is nothing we can do for him,” said Elivain after a cursory examination. He laid a hand on the dying man’s chest, and muttered a soft prayer. The man’s eyes locked with Halas’. For a moment, Halas wondered if he should put him out of his misery. No, that would be barbaric. He cursed himself for thinking such thoughts.

  The poor man. His eyes were already dead, half-glazed and p
ale white, but still scared. They were wide, and he was trembling. Halas realized that he was too. He touched the soldier’s hand, searching his brain for any sort of prayer or verse that might help put him at ease. But Halas was not a religious person. He wondered what was colder, the man’s breastplate or his flesh.

  Bale gave one final wheeze, and was still. One of his men cried out in anguish. But then all the sorrow was forgotten, and the soldiers brandished weapons against the four travelers. Elivain reached for another arrow; Halas drew his sword.

  Aeon simply held up his hands, a look of solemn regret on his face.

  “Let us not fight,” he said. “Enough blood has been spilled this day. Return to the village, I command you. I beg you.”

  Looks were exchanged between the men, but gradually they began to sheath their swords and lower their bows. They picked up their fallen leader and, one by one, trudged back toward Bakunin.

  They’d left the bowman behind. When the rest were gone, Desmond looked at the body. “Reckon we should bury him?”

  “No,” said Elivain, his voice as cold as the tip of Halas’ nose. He knelt by the dead soldier and took up his quiver. “Let’s keep moving.”

  As the land stretched upwards, the trees thinned out almost completely. The three friends and Elivain crested one final ridge. Before them was a great expanse of tundra, stretching as far as the eye could see. Halas started forward on what he thought to be the last legs of their journey. The snow was thinner here as well, almost nonexistent, and he cast off the snowshoes, strapping them to his back. They were cold even against his layers.

  No one spoke, disturbed as they were by the episode with the soldiers. They just walked solemnly forward, each step taking them closer to their destiny. Days passed, a week, two. Elivain shot a deer. There was no time to harvest the whole animal, and they left more than half of the carcass behind. Every morning, Halas awoke ready for anything. He told himself each day that this could be the day they found the Temple, and Raazoi. He told himself each day that this could be the day he died. Could he face that? He’d have to. He knew he ought to savor every moment, but he could not. The days were cold and slow, and on the tundra nothing ever seemed to change, making it appear that they were making no progress. Each day was the same.

  Halas walked until his feet were dragging, and still he was in the lead. Elivain would tell him if he was going the wrong way, if Elivain even knew. Halas wondered why they’d taken the man along.

  At least they should have left him in Bakunin.

  He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the ground as it began a sharp decline. His toe jammed into the dirt and his leg flared in pain. He fell forward and was suddenly falling, sliding in the snow. Desmond and Aeon cried out; Des jumped for his friend and grabbed on to his boot. Both continued to slide. Elivain took hold of Aeon’s hood and yanked, barely managing to pull the boy back, as Halas and Des went over the edge of a cliff.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deyrey Baaish

  A groan. Halas opened his eyes—at least, he thought he did, he was unsure if they were open or closed. There was nothing but darkness and pain. Waves of it surged through his wounded leg. Halas reached for where it hurt and hissed through the pain. He groaned again and looked around. Nothing. Pitch black. Darker even than the forest. Where was he? He felt the area around him, searching for—for what? Desmond. There had been some sort of cliff, or a hole, and Desmond had gone after him.

  Halas opened his mouth to speak, but could not. His throat was a raw mess, and the darkness was oppressive. Halas did not wish to reveal himself to anything that could have found a home within it.

  “Des?” he asked cautiously.

  He heard the sound of someone shuffling away, and a very distinctly human gasp of alarm. “Desmond!”

  There was silence. Halas nearly called out again, but Desmond finally answered. Incredible relief hit him at the sound of his friend’s voice. “What? Bloody hell, Halas?”

  “Yes. Get back here.”

  “Where?”

  “Follow my voice. I’m here. I’m here. What happened?”

  He felt Desmond’s hand on his own, but was suddenly struck with a thought. What if it isn’t Desmond? There could be all manner of creatures down here with them. He closed his eyes and drew in breath. It would be no good to panic. “What happened?”

  “You fell, you dolt. I jumped after you. I remember a…a tunnel, I suppose, of ice. Then I fainted until just now.”

  “Sounds like you’re the dolt.”

  “I’ll remember that next time you decide to jump off of a cliff. I thought you’d seen it, honestly. The hole was very large.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you have your matches?”

  “I hope so. Check for yours, too.” Still sitting for fear his leg would explode again, he groped for his pack; he still wore it, but the fabric had torn in several places. He pricked his finger on something. One of the snowshoes. The wires had snapped. Halas was careful to take them off and toss them aside. He set his pack on the ground, wishing his eyes would adjust to the darkness. His hands found the flap, and he reached inside. It was wet. Had the water bottles been destroyed?

  There were three. Two were torn to ribbons, but the third was intact. Halas unscrewed the stopper and took a sip. He’d have to save it. “How much water do you have left?”

  “All three bottles. Spódhla?”

  Halas felt the offered stick of meat press against his arm. He took it, chewing thoughtfully. What would they do? Where was Aeon? Had he gone after them as well? Had he and Elivain continued on? He figured Aeon would have spoken by now, unless he was injured or worse.

  Oh no.

  He felt furiously for his matchbook. The matches were wet, forcing him to expend two, cursing himself for the waste all the while. He managed to strike the third, barely illuminating the area around his hand. He looked around.

  They were in a cave, that much he could tell. He lowered the match to the floor, moving his arm in a slow arc. Yes, they were definitely in a cave. Desmond succeeded with his matches on the first try. The light reminded Halas of the orbs in the forest. The orbs that had almost killed them. “I’ll look for a way out,” Desmond said. Halas agreed. The match burnt his finger, and he dropped it with a curse. He lit another one; it took two tries.

  Desmond’s light disappeared shortly after, and he lit another match as well. His must be dry, Halas thought with a little envy. Fortunately, he could see no sign of anyone else, only bits and pieces of Desmond as their lights hit just right. Des was moving in a circle around Halas. Finally, he spoke. “Only one way,” he said from far away. “Follow my voice.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Halas whispered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My leg. I must have landed on it.”

  “Your leg?” Desmond asked. “From the tigers? It’s still bothering you?”

  “I’m all right. I just want to be sure the thing still works.”

  There were shuffling footsteps in the cave and then Desmond put a hand on his shoulder. “Here,” he said. Halas took his hand and Desmond helped him up. Halas stood on his good leg for a moment before testing the waters, prodding the ground with his foot. The pain was there, but relatively distant. Manageable.

  “All right,” he said. “I can walk.” His voice was steady, but he could hardly contain his relief. To be stranded down in this pit was bad enough, but to be crippled as well? Halas didn’t want to entertain the thought, but as always, he could not help himself. Desmond would stay with him, would carry him if need be, but what then? The two would be forced to wander blind until death took them both. For a while they made small talk, neither one wanting to speak of the Temple, or Aeon, or this cave. They both agreed that they would wait for their eyes to adjust, but they never did. The darkness was complete.

  Desmond spoke. “Give me a snowshoe. I cannot find mine.” Halas backtracked, groping blindly. He stumbled upon one of the shoes, an
d walked back to Des by the sound of his voice. Desmond took it, and Halas heard the sound of ripping fabric. Then nothing. Then Desmond lit a match. He’d fastened a shirt to the snowshoe and set it aflame. It glowed around them, at least two foot-lengths in each direction. The globe of light nauseated Halas somehow, and he turned away, blinking his eyes to keep away the tears.

  “Put it out,” he muttered.

  “You don’t like it either?” Des asked. “Thank the gods. It makes me sick to look at.”

  “And I.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Shall we keep moving?” Halas finally asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Come to the wall.”

  They did, and Halas clutched his friend’s hand almost desperately. He and Desmond felt around the outside of the passage that may or may not lead out of this place of perpetual darkness. It was small; they would have to crouch. That worried him, with his leg. Still holding Desmond’s hand, Halas started to move. He heard Desmond’s awkward footsteps behind him. That and their breathing were the only sounds, and they cast terrifying echoes in the void.

  Suddenly he was holding nothing at all. He froze, refusing even to breathe. “Des?” he whispered.

  “I’m here.” Hands on his back. Good. “There’s got to be a better way to do this. These gloves make things hard to hold, and I don’t reckon we’ll be able to remove them anytime soon. There’s a rope in my pack.”

  Halas heard Desmond stepping, turning around. When he stopped, Halas opened the flap, reaching blindly into the thing. He was reminded of a prank Gale had pulled on him when Halas was twelve and Gale fourteen. He’d showed up at the Duer cottage one day with a plain wooden box. Inside the box, he’d said, was candy. All Halas had to do was reach beneath the shroud and take it. Halas had not been completely taken in, but in the end he’d relented.

  His hands had gone into the box, felt past the shroud, and instead of candy, they had closed around a snake. The snake bit him. Halas had jumped free (thirty feet in the air, Gale still maintained to this day), the snake still attached to his thumb. He’s smashed it against Garek’s bed, screaming all the while. Halbrick had stormed in. He’d clouted Gale pretty hard across the ears and sent him home before tending to Halas’ wound.