Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity

by Scott Rhine

  The king resented being put on the spot, but had heard enough gruesome stories in his childhood to fill in the details. “We take punishments for each of the crimes you committed, say wooden spikes, a burning moat, and wild, starving dogs. Next, we take a sacrificial animal to represent the accused.”

  “Like our ox, Red?”

  “Exactly. Then we chase it off the wall. Whatever happens to the animal then happens to you. It’s left to the gods to decide. The system’s pretty foolproof. If, say, it misses all the spikes and just breaks its legs, it can’t run. Then we set the dogs loose, and they tear it to pieces, wailing in agony. You don’t want that. An arrow through the heart with blindfolds would be peaceful.”

  “What if the ox survives?” asked Brent, hopeful.

  The king shook his head. “Every time that happened, they added another row of blocks to the Wall of Judgment. It’s too high for anything to survive.”

  “But what if?” pressed the boy.

  “Then the gods will have made their desires clear. You and your friend would go free,” the king said, humoring the poor, condemned child.

  “The Judgment of the Gods it is then! Thank you, sire. I won’t forget this,” said Brent.

  As the guards led the boy away, one of the advisors appeared from behind a curtain and said in the king’s ear. “Wisely done, sire. I will amend your original decree at once. This’ll guarantee us a much larger audience, and the boy seems almost happy. He’ll go to his grave praising nd yoname.”

  The king was not so pleased. “Jenson, what if this man really was the Herald?”

  The advisor smiled patronizingly. “Your majesty, I seldom take the time for debates about religious trivia when there is a war to win.”

  Chapter 31 – A Very Civil War

  The smith fidgeted as a tailor fitted him with a black, silk vest

  to go over his white, linen kalura. He’d been posing in front of a gold-trimmed mirror for over two hours, and he’d rather have faced a street mob than continue for another minute. Strellikan arrived just in time, dressed in a casual, midnight-blue robe and his favorite, brown wig. His lordship pulled the tailor aside and said, “Wonderful work, Jacamo. How has our young guest been?”

  “My, he’s a big one,” the man with the chalk and measuring cord whispered with a lisp.

  The master of the Royal Mint wasn’t flustered by this comment. “Yes, well he needs to be big to do his job. The current unpleasantness in the streets makes it necessary for a man of my station to protect himself. A personal bodyguard seemed prudent.”

  “And tasty,” the tailor said with enthusiasm. “Have you seen the interesting brand on his shoulder?”

  At this, Lord Strellikan raised an eyebrow. “Jacamo, might I have a moment alone with my new retainer to discuss the arrangements for tonight?”

  The tailor sighed audibly and left with the encouragement, “With that beau in my clothes, everyone will be so jealous of you.”

  The smith looked relieved when the clothier departed, but came to attention when the lord approached him. Strellikan waved at him. “Relax. I came to give you an update. After tracing all the runes, fitting all the pieces, and studying the layering to the best of my ability, only one step remains before we can begin repair. I need to identify the maker and the method used to apply the sesterina. This information is critical if I am to restore the Sword of the Defender accurately. We also have a certain duty to preserve any historical data that would be destroyed the moment we heated the metal or struck with a hammer. To this end, I’ve handed the hilt over to a scholar friend of mine to examine.”

  The smith put his hands on his own forehead to avoid clamping them around the master of the Mint and shaking him. “You what?”

  The aristocrat remained as placid as ever, holding up his pale, vein-riddled hand. “It’ll be safer there than on my estate. The royal guards have been through my work area twice, commandeering every weapon we have. There are bigger problems than yours in this kingdom. There seems to be a war afoot in our back yard.”

  “Has the blood feud escalated?”

  Strellikan brooded for a moment before saying, “No, I’ve heard rumors that it’s much more serious than that. How much more, no one in my employ is certain. I aim to find out tonight.”

  “You’re running a reconnaissance patrol into Innisport?”

  The Lord wrinkled his lip at this suggestion. “I’m throwing a fete.” When the smith’s confusion seemed to deepen, the aristocrat explained. “An outdoor dinner party with entertainment. A civil war demands a civil gathering.”

  ght="0" width="29">The smith’s disbelief couldn’t have been more tangible. “Are you making a cruel joke or just insane?”

  The Lord of the Mint stared him right in the eyes and said firmly, “My good Mr. Anonymous, you wanted noble help. Well, this is how nobles do things. If we want to know something, we feed a large number of officers and officials, loosen their tongues with wine, and listen. And before you object to the scope of the party, the easiest way for you to meet my scholar friend is by meeting half the blue bloods in the area. People are watching my movements now, and two visits so close together would generate unwanted speculation. Do you have any other problems?” His voice made it clear there should be none.

  Leaning close, the smith muttered, “This outfit makes me look ridiculous.”

  “Nonsense. It’s all the rage with men your age. You’ll need to look the part if you’re going to tag along with me at the party. I’ve told everyone you’re my new security specialist, which is true after the way you just wandered unchallenged onto my estate. As long as you remain silent and stay close to me, you should learn a great deal.” He continued, offering random pieces of fete etiquette. The master of the Mint wrapped up by adding, “Don’t stare and don’t appear too interested in anyone you’re eavesdropping on. Maintain the illusion that every discussion is private. Are you almost finished here?”

  “I know I am,” said the smith wryly.

  “Good,” said Strellikan, ignoring the undertones. “Otherwise, you’ll be late for your hair appointment.”

  The smith began ripping loose pins and fabric. “Wait a minute. I draw the line at my hair. No one touches my topknot!”

  The aristocrat wrinkled his upper lip again. “Yes, well perhaps there’s a reason for that. We’ll start with a good cleaning, a trim to neaten the edges, and then the curling irons.” When the smith screwed up his face to object, Lord Strellikan silenced him. “Enough childishness, sir. If we were going to invade a brothel and beat an inebriated wastrel into making a loan payment, I would dress like you to appear disreputable and menacing. But when in the Inner Islands, do as the islanders do. You need to pass unnoticed among the cream of Zanzibosian society. The hair makes the man.”

  Chastised, the smith grumbled, “All right. But if that tailor tries to take my inseam one more time, I’m going to pound him into next week.”

  Amused, Strellikan decided to avoid the issue. “That’s between the two of you, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have other preparations to make.”

  ****

  The fete was splendid, grander than any party the smith had ever been to. There were flutes playing in the foyer, wine in the fountain, a fire-eater in the courtyard, and seven different types of appetizer on one table alone. As per their agreement, the smith hung back and glowered like a bodyguard, while the master of the Mint hobnobbed in turn with each of his guests for a length of time appropriate to their station. Strellikan made sure to preen, showing off his newest wig. The smith-turned-bodyguard also used this time to adjust the snug stockings that kept riding up his crotch. He swore the tailor must have done this to him out of spite. After talking to Lord Strellikan, a few guests smiled and waved at the smith for no apparent reason; some even blew kisses or winked as they passed.

  True to his word, the aristocrat had most of the city news in short order. He took a moment out on the balcony in the cool, night breeze to share the intelligence. �
��A few days ago, there was a major skirmish between the factions of the blood feud down in the waterfront district. A few hands of the king’s men got caught in the crossfire and accidentally killed.”

  The smith grew serious. “That was no accident. Executioners never kill anyone without a reason.”

  Strellikan raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, when a full company of the king’s men came to restore the peace, guess what they found?”

  “An ambush, overwhelming force,” deduced the executioner.

  “Yes, from some warship that appeared under cover of fog. I don’t know why you need me,” joked the aristocrat.

  The smith was lost in calculation. “An Imperial warship? That could deliver a force of 200.”

  The master of the Mint said, “That doesn’t sound all that bad; the garrison here numbers over a thousand. They should be able to hold out easily against such a small group.”

  The smith shook his head grimly. “When comparing armies, we only count swords. The guild uses a ratio of about four to one for support personnel and archers to skilled swordsmen. That ship could hold over 800 trained killers each load. For some reason, the Guild and House Kragen are working together.” He paced, doing the math. “Your garrison had about 100 Honors—they use a lot more fodder. By now, 50 have been captured, bringing the combined enemy force to about 400 Honors.”

  When Strellikan didn’t react, the smith shouted, “This is big! In this whole city, there are only about 50 royal Zanzibosian swords left to resist. That’s an eight-to-one advantage. After a brief siege on their armory, they’ll be crushed. We need to find out what this alliance is after immediately.”

  Strellikan laid a hand on his arm to soothe him. “Relax; enjoy the party. Nothing is going to happen tonight. The fight has been going on for almost a week. I’m sure the king will just bring in reinforcements from elsewhere and crush this uprising.”

  The smith disagreed. “Have there been sorties at the city gate?”

  The aristocrat shrugged, and waved to his guests below. “For the first three or four days, nothing major.”

  “Who’s in charge there?”

  “Dhagmurna.”

  “He doesn’t leave his office unless there are heads to knock. Who’s with him?”

  “A hawk, a few archers, and maybe even a mage.”

  The smith closed his eyes, and recited in depressed tones, “He’s killing all messenger birds. He stopped either because a message got out or nobody could arrive in time to stop him. There are five major cities in Zanzibos, each with at least thirty swords, but some f them are pretty remote. Plus, a few of the swords were sent north investigate that magic flash in the sky.”

  The master of the Mint rubbed his chin pensively when this tidbit slipped out, but said nothing to interrupt. “All this means that if the coward king sent a hundred swords from the capital, by the time they arrived, the siege would be over, and the invaders would have a new total of 450 swords. With these city walls and even a day to prepare, there’s no way the king can retake this city. It’s fallen already; the king just doesn’t know it yet.”

  The master of the Mint stared for a moment, mouth dry. “Your knowledge of our military forces is impressive, but you know little of the spirit of nobility. House Kragen has done nothing to harm the population at large. Perhaps their lady’s intentions are less malicious than you imagine.”

  “All the more reason to divine her true goal, milord. When you hear about a tidal wave, you get out of its path or you get swept away,” countered the smith.

  “Is there any chance you are mistaken about the inevitability of the outcome?” Strellikan asked, a dozen new plans competing in his mind.

  His new bodyguard shook his head. “Only Bablios might tip the scales, if they acted decisively.”

  “Two score Babliosians have lain siege to Tamarind.”

  “We left more soldiers than that behind. If the guildmaster did his job, and I’d bet anything he has, our women and children could hold off that many from the fortress of Tamarind for the next year. This weak response is uncharacteristic of the Prefect. Is he distracted?”

  “There are vague rumors of a troop buildup by the Great Library,” admitted Strellikan.

  “I’d chase those rumors, even if you have to offer a few gifts. That kind of information is worth more than the gold it costs.”

  The aristocrat nodded and turned to go back inside. “This may mean a few last-minute invitations.”

  “One more thing. A lot of people have been staring at me and waving. Do you know why that might be?”

  Strellikan grinned wickedly. “Some friends of mine wondered where I located such a well-constructed companion on such short notice. So I told them the truth. You just crawled into my bed one night and we’ve been partners ever since.”

  The smith floundered, fish-faced for a time. “But that’s not… we’re not… I didn’t…” He calmed himself for a moment and asked, “Are you?”

  The aristocrat’s smile got even broader as he made his way back to the party.

  Over the next few hours, they pieced together some of the Kragen goals. The first building captured was the royal office of deeds and records. Within five days, Humi was the acknowledged owner of vast tracts of land in the city. The blood feud had been resolved by an agreement of service reached between the parties. The nephew of the king, also able to grant minor titles, was the next target. While a small contingent held the royal troops at bay, the majority of the unified force had, as predicted, all but taken control of the city’s day-to-day activities. The union of boatmen helped House Kragen by refusing to ship anything down-river to the capital. The most vocal proponent of the blockade was a man from Barnham who claimed that a lone, tattooed knight of Kragen had once saved his grandmother, and vowed that Kragen had always ruled fairly.

  Classes were suspended at university while recruiters from the sept interviewed potential wizard assistants, army engineers, and clerks. Faculty and bureaucrats opposing the faction found themselves in prison. Once firmly entrenched, the invaders began focusing on the royalist hold-outs in the armory with a vengeance.

  Later, while the smith stewed and drew charcoal map sketches with arrows on a piece of parchment in the parlor, Strellikan conversed with his historian friend who’d arrived at a more fashionable hour. “So what did you think of our little cultural find?”

  “A beautiful forgery,” said the amateur historian, sampling the curry dip with approval.

  The silence was palpable. “But it was a real Sword of Miracles from the emperor’s own bodyguard,” insisted the smith.

  Lord Strellikan’s friend didn’t seem inclined to debate the issue further, but patted the smith on the head like a child as he crossed the room. “It was a sword of the first circle, and priceless, but it was not the Fiery Sword that Cuts All Things. It probably even fooled the bodyguard, but not me. First of all, the true sword wouldn’t have shattered as you described, Strellikan. According to the ancient texts, the harder you swing the Defender’s sword, the hotter it gets until it glows like molten metal.”

  “Could your reference text be wrong?” asked Strellikan.

  The historian smiled patronizingly as he handed the silk-wrapped hilt back to the master of the Mint together with a small, round piece of lead. Strellikan examined both and handed them to the anonymous smith for safekeeping. “Perhaps, but this is incontrovertible. Note that the Honor I peeled off is stamped with a false number one. The Honor beneath it is a much higher number, thus forged much later. I’ve been able to date the creation of the forged seal to some time in the last fifty years, definitely before the Scattering took place. However, I have no records on this technique for applying sesterina or any idea of who the smith may have been. He was a true artist.”

  Lord Strellikan dismissed his friend with profuse thanks and insisted he try the stuffed quail at the buffet. When they were alone again, the smith said, “Shit. Now what do we do?”

  Strellikan seemed puzzled. �
��We restore this piece as planned, starting tonight. What else? The only question left is: who do we sell it to and for what advantage?”

  “But it’s worthless,” complained the smith.

  “Hardly. When we’re done, this sword will be the Defender of the Realm,” the aristocrat insisted.

  “But he’ll tell everyone it’s a fake,” said the smith.

  Lord Strellikan stroked the smith’s worried face. “You still don’t know how we operate. He thinks I am selling antiquities on the black market the same as he does. If he utters one word, I tell the authorities about a certain desert dig site and some ancient swords thought long gone. When he dies, his heir is my sister’s child, who’s my ward. You see, if he ever sees the whole picture, which is unlikely, and works up the courage to tell, he forfeits his life and all worldly possessions to me. This dealer would never risk his weapon collection falling into anyone’s hands, especially not mine. I’d melt them down in front of him before seeing him executed. None of this will ever point back to you. Regardless of his actions, the new owner of the Defender would keep the secret of the sword and uphold any story we tell. The legend of the real sword brings power, and no one would sacrifice that.”

  The smith was about to object further when Commander Navara of House Kragen strode into the room. He was too shocked to react when Lord Strellikan kissed him on the cheek, patted him on the bottom, and told him to run along. Navara ignored the catamite bodyguard and concentrated on the master of the Mint. The visit was brief. From the doorway, the smith overheard an ultimatum. Lord Strellikan had three days to turn over the keys to the Mint and all its records. Henceforth, all the gold in Innisport belonged to House Kragen as reparations. If he didn’t hand over the keys by the day after this coming holy day, the lord would be jailed and his possessions confiscated.