Along the walls small shrines to various gods and demigods were situated, and before several of these people prayed. Kaspar realized he was observing rites in a faith he knew nothing about, for to the best of his knowledge the temples of his homeland had no counterpart to Geshen-Amat. For a brief moment he wondered if there truly was a god, and if so, were his powers and influence limited only to this land?
They reached a large hall containing dozens more shrines, but opposite the entrance rose up a heroic statue of a seated man. His face was stylized, his eyes, nose, and lips being rendered in a manner Kaspar could only call simplistic. In his homeland, as well as the other kingdoms of the north, the effigies of the gods and goddesses were of human proportions, save when they were small icons placed in roadside shrines, or adorning the homes of the faithful. But this statue was easily thirty feet from its base to the top of its head. The figure wore a simple robe, with one shoulder bare, and held out his hands, palms upward, as if granting a benediction. To its left and right, in roughly human proportion, sat the two figures Kaspar and Kenner had seen in front of the temple, the men with the heads of an elephant and lion.
Before the statue sat a lone monk, his hair white with age. The younger monk escorting them said, “Wait here, please.” He continued forward and spoke briefly into the older monk’s ear and then returned. “Master Anshu will see you momentarily.”
“Thank you,” said Kenner.
Kaspar said, “I must plead ignorance of your faith, brother. I am from a distant land. Can you enlighten me?”
The monk grinned and with unexpected humor said, “Would that enlightenment were that quickly achieved, my friend. Then we would have little work to do in this realm.”
Kaspar smiled at the jest, and said, “Tell me about Geshen-Amat, please.”
“He is the godhead, the one true divinity of which all others are but reflections. He is the one above all.”
“Ishap?” Kaspar asked quietly.
“Ah, you are from a distant land. The Balancer is but one aspect of Geshen-Amat. Those who sit at his feet, Gerani—” he pointed to the figure with the elephant’s head “—and Sutapa—” then the figure with the lion’s head “—are avatars, sent forth by Geshen-Amat to teach mankind the One True Path. It is not an easy path, but it does eventually lead to enlightenment.”
“Then what of all the other temples?” asked Kenner.
“Geshen-Amat provides many ways to travel the One True Path. There are avatars for every man and woman to embrace.”
Then Kaspar understood. “Ama-ral!”
The monk nodded. “In the ancient language, yes.”
“In my land that was considered a heresy and a terrible war was fought over the doctrine.”
“You are an educated man,” said the monk. “Here is Master Anshu.”
The elder monk approached and bowed before Kaspar and Kenner. He was wry and his skin was as brown as sunburned leather, but he had bright brown eyes. His head was completely shaved, and he wore the same brown robe and sandals as the young monk. The men returned the greeting and then the old monk said, “My disciple says you are in need, brothers. What may I do for you?”
“We have come into possession of an artifact, perhaps a relic, and we believe it may be cursed.”
The older monk turned to his disciple and said, “Bring tea to my quarters.” Turning to Kaspar and Kenner, he said, “Please, follow me.”
He led them out of a side door and through a long hallway, by the quiet. “You can barely hear the sounds of the city.”
“Meditation is served by silence,” said the old monk. He led them to a door and opened it for them. “Come, please.”
He indicated that they should remove their boots and Kenner and Kaspar complied. The room was large but sparsely furnished. A reed mat filled more of the floor, upon which the old monk sat. There was a small, low table to one side, which he reached over and placed between them. A moment later the young monk entered and provided cups and a pot of tea. He served Kenner and Kaspar then Master Anshu. When he departed, the old monk said, “Now, tell me about this cursed relic.”
Kenner started slowly, telling the entire tale of his group and how they had traded with local villagers for the artifacts they had looted from what appeared to be a tomb. When he detailed McGoin’s gristly murder the night before, the old monk nodded. “It may very well be that this is a cursed item. We live on a world that has seen elder races, and the burial places of the dead are often protected by wards of dark magic. I should like to see this relic.”
“Now?”
The old monk smiled. “If not now, when?” He stood up and without saying a word, motioned for the two men to put their boots on and return to the garden. He followed them outside where the young monk waited and said, “We shall accompany these gentlemen.”
The young monk bowed and fell into step beside his master. They quickly made their way down the steps of the temple, across the square, and down the street to the inn.
Kenner said, “I’ll go get Flynn,” and went into the inn, while Kaspar led the monks through the gate to the courtyard. They approached the wagon and the old monk’s steps faltered. He turned to his disciple and said, “Return to the temple at once! Bring Master Oda and Master Yongu. Hurry!”
The young monk ran off, and the Master Anshu said, “I can sense at this distance that you have something in that wagon that is…wrong.”
“Wrong?” asked Kaspar. “What do you mean?”
“I cannot describe how I know, but whatever you have in that wagon is not merely a cursed relic or artifact. It is something more.”
“What?” asked Kaspar.
“I won’t know until I see it.”
Kenner and Flynn exited the inn and Kenner introduced the old monk to Flynn. Kaspar said, “We seem to have something unexpected here. There are others coming from the temple.”
“Why?” asked Flynn. “What’s unexpected?”
“I won’t know until I view what’s in there,” the monk said, slowly approaching the wagon.
Kaspar jumped into the bed of the wagon, drew the tool box out from under the seat, and pulled aside the tarpaulin. He used a pry bar to lift the lid of the coffin.
The old monk moved to the side of the wagon and could not clearly see into it. Kaspar held out his hand and the old master gripped it with surprising strength, and Kaspar helped him into the wagon.
The monk turned and looked down upon the black armor. His mouth opened, but no words were spoke. He exhaled a deep breath, as if sighing with relief, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed. Kaspar grabbed him to keep him from falling, and then he handed down the still form to Kenner and Flynn.
Kenner knelt beside Master Anshu. “He’s alive.”
Kaspar turned and looked inside the coffin. For an instant he though he saw a hint of movement in the eye-slit. But then nothing.
“See if you can revive him,” he said, leaping down from the wagon.
A few minutes later, three monks entered the courtyard and when they were a few feet away from where Kenner, Kaspar, and Flynn gathered around the unconscious monk, they halted.
The leader of the three was a powerful-looking, middle-aged man, with a shocking streak of gray hair through an otherwise black mane he wore to his shoulders. He had a robe of the same cut as the others, but in black rather than brown. “Step away from Master Anshu, please,” he instructed.
Kaspar and the others did so and the black-robed monk took one step forward and began an incantation, waving his hands in a complex pattern in the air. The other two monks lowered their heads as if in prayer.
Kaspar heard and saw nothing unusual, but suddenly the hair on his arms and neck stood on end! He turned to look at the wagon and saw a pulsing light surrounding it. The horses started to whinny in their stalls and become agitated, and Kaspar and the others took another step backward.
Then the light was gone and the two brown-robed monks hurried forward to attend to Ma
ster Anshu. The black-robed monk moved purposefully past the others and jumped into the wagon bed. He took a long look down at the figure in the coffin, then he put the lid back in place. He took the hammer out of the toolbox and with deft blows had it quickly fastened shut.
The old monk was beginning to revive. He came to stand before Kaspar and the others. Without preamble, he said, “That thing must be taken from here tomorrow.”
He turned to walk away but Kaspar cried, “Wait a moment, please!”
The monk stopped.
Kaspar said, “Master Anshu said the armor was wrong. Is it cursed?”
“Our master is correct. The thing in the coffin is not cursed, but it is wrong. You must take it from here quickly.”
“Can you help us?”
“No,” said the black-robed monk. “I am Yongu, and the safety of the temple is my concern. That thing must be taken from here and the longer you tarry, the more harm will come.”
“Where should we go?” asked Flynn.
Yongu said, “I do not know, but if you linger, innocent people will be harmed.”
“Why the rush?” asked Kaspar.
“Because the thing in the coffin grows impatient. It wishes to be somewhere.”
Kaspar looked at the others, then said, “But where?”
Master Anshu said weakly, “It will tell you where to go.”
“How?” asked Flynn.
“If you go the wrong way, you will die. As long as you live, you’re heading in the right direction. Now, forgive us, but we can help you no more.” He raised himself to his feet, took two steps, then stopped and said, “But one thing I can tell you. Turn your steps westward.”
The monks left, and Kaspar said, “Westward?”
Kenner shook his head. “But we need to go south, then sail northeast.”
Kaspar shook his head. “Apparently not.” He walked back toward the inn. “We leave at dawn, my friends.”
Kaspar turned away at the door of the inn and Flynn said, “Where are you going?”
“To see if I can find a map,” answered Kaspar. “I need to see what is west of here.”
Without another comment, Flynn and Kenner went inside the inn, and Kaspar set out in search of a map.
TEN
WESTWARD
Kaspar’s brow furrowed.
He, Kenner, and Flynn sat at the table in the common room of the Four Blessings Inn, concentrating on the three maps Kaspar had contrived to purchase after the monks had left.
While he had been finding map merchants, Flynn and Kenner had returned to the temple to try to prize whatever additional information from the monks about what was “wrong” with the armor, but they came back with nothing. The monks would not speak to them. Flynn was convinced that they should not move on in the morning, to force the monks to return and speed them on their way.
“How reliable are these, I wonder?” Kaspar asked.
The stout innkeeper approached their table with three fresh cups of ale. “Planning your next journey?” he inquired.
“If we can depend on these,” said Kaspar.
The innkeeper looked over their shoulder then reached out and removed the top map. “You can burn this one. I recognize it; it’s a copy of a copy of a very old, inaccurate map.”
“How do you know?” Kenner asked.
“Used to be a merchant-trader—like yourselves—before I settled down here. Reached an age where I was tired of thrashing bandits and dodging raiders. Let me go see what I’ve got locked away in my trunk. I can show you a couple of things.”
He returned a few minutes later with an old map, drawn on rolled-up leather. “This I bought from a trader up in Ralapinti, when I first started out. I had one wagon, a mule, a sword which I’d won in a card game, and a bunch of junk to sell.”
He unrolled it. Unlike the maps they had, this one displayed the entire continent of Novindus. As well as the original ink, there were additional notes and drawing, which Kaspar assumed the innkeeper had made. “See here.” The innkeeper indicated their location, in Shamsha. “From here to here,” he said, moving his finger in a line, “all three maps are pretty accurate, but after that…”
“We need to go west,” said Kaspar.
“Well, there are two ways to do it. You can head back up north for a few days and you’ll find a road heading west. It’s not a bad way to travel if you’re not in a hurry. You wind through the foothills of the Mountains of the Sea—lots of passes and some decent game if you’re hunting along the way.” He paused, tapping his finger on his chin. “I think it took me a month or so the last time I took that route. Of course, that was thirty years ago.
“Most people would just head south to the City of the Serpent River and then catch a ship to Maharta.”
“Why Maharta?”
The innkeeper sat down, uninvited. He pointed to the map. “If you head straight west from here, you end up just about in the middle of the Great Temple Market Square.” He scratched his chin. “From there, if you keep going west, there’s not a lot you’d want to mess with.
“I take you for outlanders. You speak well enough, but I’ve never heard accents like yours. Where are you from?”
“Across the Green Sea,” said Kaspar.
“Ha!” The innkeeper slapped his hand on the table. “I’ve heard tales of traders from across the sea showing up from time to time. Tell you what, after I finish supper and take care of my other customers, let’s sit and talk. If you’re going west, there are some things you need to know if you want to stay alive. And I’m curious about your homeland.” He stood up. “I don’t miss the dangers, but I do miss the excitement.”
He departed and left the three men puzzling over the new maps.
It was late when the innkeeper returned. “Name’s Bek, which is short for Bekamostana.”
“I can see why they call you Bek,” said Flynn. He introduced himself and his companions.
“Now, tell me what you need to know.”
Kaspar said, “We were told to go west, so I guess that means Maharta.”
Bek said, “‘Queen City of the River’ they call her. Once the most prosperous, beautiful, wonderful city…well, we used to say in the world, but that was before we learned about those places across the sea. Anyway, the old Raj, in my grandfather’s time, well, he did right by his people. It’s not the biggest city—that’s the City of the Serpent River—but it’s the richest. At least it was at one time.”
“What happened?”
“The Emerald Queen is what happened,” said Bek. “No one talks much about it, because everyone knows what happened; our parents taught us.” He stroked his chin. “She came out of somewhere up in the north of the Westlands.”
“Westlands?” asked Kenner, looking at the map.
Bek put his hand over two-thirds of the map of Novindus. “Here are the Westlands,” then he covered both sides, “and in the middle lay the Riverlands, and to the east—”
Flynn finished, “Are the Eastlands.”
“You catch on,” said Bek with a grin. “Time was, you could travel either the Serpent River or the Vedra River almost all the way without much difficulty. Oh, there were a few bandits, according to my grandfather, but back then the City of the Serpent River controlled most of the land around the river all the way up to the Hotlands.
“The Vedra is lined with city-states, each with their own territories, but apart from a border skirmish now and then, it’s pretty peaceful. It’s when you get away from the rivers that things start to get nasty.” He indicated the area west of Maharta. “That’s the Plain of Djams. It’s all grasslands. Don’t go there.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. Nothing worth trading for, and it’s inhabited by these really murderous little bastards, about four foot tall. No one can speak their language and they kill all trespassers. They usually stay away from the river so there are still farms on the west bank, but go more than a day’s ride from the river and you’re likely to end up with some
poisoned darts in you. Can’t see them coming. No one even really knows what they look like.
“After that, you reach the Pillars of Heaven.”
“What are they?” asked Kenner.
Bek’s finger pointed to a range of mountains. “Ratn’gary Mountains. Biggest mountains down here. About three days up from Ratn’gary Gulf. Legend has it you’ll find two things there: the Necropolis—the City of the Dead Gods, where all the gods who perished in the Chaos Wars wait—and high above, the Pillars of Heaven—two mountains so tall no man has ever seen their peaks. And on top of those peaks is the Pavilion of the Gods, where the living gods reside.
“It’s all legend, of course. No man living has ever tried to go there.”
The three men exchanged glances and after a moment of silence Bek asked, “So, what is this expedition then?”
“We were told to go west,” said Flynn. “That’s all.”
“Who told you?”
“The monks you sent me to see last night,” said Kaspar.
Bek rubbed his chin. “Well, seems to me you don’t ignore those sorts of suggestions. I mean, you needed some advice and got it. But you’d think they would be a little more specific than just ‘go west,’ wouldn’t you?”
Kaspar wrestled with the idea of telling Bek about the cargo they had in their wagon, but decided the old innkeeper was unlikely to have any additional insights. He stood up. “Well, we’re off at first light. We’re going to offload our cargo and take a boat down to the City of the Serpent River—it sounds like a better choice than going over the mountains by wagon.”
Bek said, “Takes about the same amount of time if you include all the loading and offloading, securing passage and the like, but in the end you’ll have a better chance of getting there intact.”
“Is it safe to assume the clan war is over?” asked Kenner.
“Never safe to assume anything about the clans down there, but most of the bloodshed is over for the time being, according to what I hear. Just make sure you bribe all the right people when going from one clan district to another. My advice would be: as soon as you get off the boat, go right at the first big boulevard. I can’t recall its name, but you won’t miss it. There are maybe half a dozen little alleys, then this one big street running north and south. You’ll want to go straight on, ’cause that’s where everyone else will be going. That would take you to the great northern market square, and all the good inns. But if you turn right, you’ll stay in the Eagle Clan’s area of control. They hold everything along the river, down to the docks. If you bribe a guard or two, you’ll have no trouble. Find an inn at the docks and wait until a ship’s bound for Maharta. Shouldn’t have to wait more than a day or two as most of the sea trade from the City puts in at Maharta before heading down the coast to Chatisthan and Ispar.”
Exile's Return: Conclave of Shadows: Book Three Page 12