Thirteen
Inken squinted into the noonday sun, blinded by its light, the heat searing into her burnt skin. Her face was the worst, the gashes and sunburn still fresh from exposure to the desert. Her cheeks throbbed; the ache of her broken bones dull by comparison. Sweat ran down her back. The air was suffocating.
A granite bridge stretched out before them, half a mile long. The old brick pavement stretched wide enough for five horses to ride abreast. Stone railings in the form of vines stood either side, worn smooth by the passage of time. Wind whistled between the bars.
Beneath the bridge stretched a crater almost two hundred feet deep and half a mile long. Around the edges landslides had taken bites from the smooth crater walls. The bridge had stood strong through the years, but each year it cost more and more to maintain the old structure. The crater was all that remained of the great Lake Chole.
Inken glanced across at Eric and Alastair. Alastair had walked for the entire day, leading their horses across the perilous countryside seemingly without fear. He still looked fresh, almost excited, as they stood now so close to the city. For that she was thankful – neither herself nor Eric were well enough to walk. Between her injuries and Eric’s sickness, they had been lucky to have the two horses.
They stopped at the foot of the bridge. No one spoke; in fact, no one had spoken all morning. The tension was unsettling – but she was not eager to break the silence. She had woken to a throbbing headache, her vision coming in and out of focus. Her thoughts had been sluggish, but she knew enough to realise she had been drugged. It took almost an hour for the symptoms to wear off.
Then there were the signs she had noticed around the campsite. The air reeked of smoke, and not from the regular campfire. Conspicuous scorch marks dotted the cliffs around the camp, even turning the rock molten in places. Something had happened during the night and she would put gold on it having something to do with Eric’s illness.
The young man had barely stirred all morning. Alastair had not bothered to wake him as he packed up the camp, or as he helped lift Inken into his saddle. Eric’s eyes flickered as Alastair lifted him onto the other horse, but he had hardly made a noise. Inken had rarely seen such exhaustion, but a chilling suspicion had taken root. She’d heard Magickers sometimes experienced extreme exhaustion after performing great works of magic.
She almost dismissed the thought out of hand. The young man had been so kind, so innocent. Yet something had happened while she slept – and the signs around their campsite seemed too similar to the description given of Oaksville. Their story did not add up and Inken could not ignore the signs.
Was Eric the boy she hunted, the demon of Oaksville?
Yet he had been the one who’d seen her in the desert, the one who had helped her, saved her.
Inken thrust the thoughts to the back of her mind, focusing on the present. No longer able to stand the silence, she said. “This bridge is a reminder of our folly.”
Eric stirred, twisting in the saddle to look at her. He seemed more alert now. “What do you mean?”
“The original bridge was destroyed when Archon laid siege to Chole. Afterwards, it took years for Chole to recover enough to rebuild. Almost a decade had passed before construction started. By then the rains had retreated behind the volcanoes and the lake had started to shrink.”
“And they still built it?”
Inken nodded. “The change was so gradual; people were convinced it would be temporary. So they built the bridge, and here it stands traversing barren rock, testament to their ignorance.”
The silence resumed and Inken looked away. She already missed the easy conversation of the night before. Something had changed.
Alastair tugged on the reins and led them out onto the bridge. Inken snuck a glance at Eric as they drew side by side. He sat straighter in his saddle now, although there were dark rings circling his eyes.
“What will you do in Chole, Eric?” she asked.
Eric was staring over the rails, at what by now would be at least a hundred foot drop. He shivered and looked away from the edge. “I’m not sure. I guess we’ll take you to the temple first. Hopefully there are still healers there who can help you. That and find some food. I’m starving.”
Inken’s stomach growled in agreement. She could feel her injured strength shrinking with hunger. She prayed to Antonia those at the temple would be able to heal her injuries. The two of them had done their best patching her up, but without a healer it would take months to recover. Even then, she would be marked by horrible scars for the rest of her life. She trembled at the thought. She had never been vain, but even so…
“What about you, Inken?” Eric ventured a question. “What will you do?”
What will I do? She asked herself. Claim the bounty? Aloud, she said. “When I am healed there are some friends I must visit, to let them know I am back and alive. I expect they will all enjoy a good laugh when they hear about my folly. At least it will make a good story.”
Eric chuckled. “I’m sure they will be happy to see you.”
Inken nodded. “Perhaps. How long will you be staying in the city?”
Eric glanced at Alastair. “I’m not sure. Alastair hasn’t said.”
Inken had quickly realised it was the old man who made the decisions, but was surprised at how little Eric knew. Perhaps Eric is his unwitting pawn, she thought. Or perhaps they are just two weary travellers, she argued with herself.
“What are the people here like, Inken?” Eric ventured.
“They mostly keep to themselves. The desert has made them hard; they do not tolerate any weakness from their own. But they do like outsiders – the city would not survive without them. The only resource we have are a few gold and sulphur deposits in the hot springs around the mountains; everything else we buy from the trade caravans that come through every month.”
The city walls loomed above them as they reached the end of the bridge. The wind had worn the stones smooth and cracks riddled the mortar holding them in place. Elsewhere the rocks had worked their way free, leaving pitted holes across the smooth surface.
The bridge finished at a gaping abyss in the wall where the gates had once stood. Now the tunnel stood open, the great wooden doors long gone. No one had cared to replace them. Timber was expensive here and the desert protected Chole now.
A man stood within the shadow of the tunnel, garbed in the blue and black of the city guard. Despite the shade, he was sweating through his chainmail and half helm. He held a spear loosely in one hand, an iron shield in the other. A sword was strapped to his waist.
The steel rings of his mail chimed as he moved to bar their way. He held his spear defensively before him. “Stop, what is your business in Chole?” he didn’t seem too interested in the answer.
Inken grimaced. As much as they tried, that was the way of things in Chole. Order was slowly evaporating in the Dying City. As the population shrunk, more and more turned to crime to make a living. Meanwhile, the city guard dwindled. The city’s underworld no longer had much to fear from the Magistrate.
“My name is Alastair, and this is Eric. We found this woman, Inken, in the desert. She’s been badly injured, so we’re taking her to Antonia’s temple to be healed.”
The guard glanced at Inken. She didn’t recognise him, thankfully. It would be bad enough telling the tale herself, without word of her folly spreading ahead of her.
One look at her face was enough to convince the guard. He waved them through without another glance.
Inken sighed as the shadow slid across her face. The relief from the sun was instant, soothing her burning skin. Unfortunately the stifling heat remained.
On the other side of the wall the tunnel opened out into a short street. Buildings hemmed them in on all sides, each in a state of disrepair. Those who lived closest to the walls were generally the poorest and here the houses were little better than flea ridden hovels. Open sewers ran along the roadway, carrying with them the stench of human waste. Garb
age littered the streets. A pack of dogs looked up from a pile as they approached, and then retreated down the street. The rats ignored them.
They rode deeper into the impoverished city, seeing little of its human inhabitants. The few they did glimpse moved about their business quickly, ignoring the strangers. Others sat hopeless against the grimy walls, their hands stretched out in silent entreat.
As they passed a homeless man who had lost both of his arms, Inken caught a glimpse of Eric’s face. His eyes were wet with tears, his gaze lingering on the desperate man as they passed. His mouth opened, but no words emerged.
His reaction only added to her confusion.
They moved on, leaving the poorest districts behind. Dried out fountains appeared, although Inken had never seen them run. They stood as another silent reminder of Chole’s past. The muddy road turned to brick, although even here the passage of time and people had worn deep grooves into the ground. The piles of garbage shrunk, although the stench remained.
Alastair led them confidently through the maze of streets. Inken watched him closely. It was clear he had been here before, probably many times. Chole’s streets were a rabbit warren at best and few other than locals could find their way confidently. Landmarks were rare – one dead garden looked much the same as another.
The city seemed empty and they made good time. Inken was thankful it did not take them long to reach the temple of Antonia. Here at last was a building that had resisted the erosion of time. Marble columns as thick as the giant redwoods to the west towered over them, bordering the stone steps which lead up to an outdoor patio. Overhead stone eaves rested atop the pillars.
Priests garbed in light green robes sat in quiet meditation in the shade of the courtyard, while behind them the pillars gave way to the walls of the inner temple. The quiet chanting of a hymn drifted on the breeze. A priest waved to them for his seat at the bottom of the stairs and said he would take care of their horses.
Inken stared up the steps, heart sinking. They were only two dozen in number, but even so, they were well beyond her strength. It took a shoulder from Alastair and her own grim determination to make the climb.
Her heart warmed a little when she noticed Eric following them up. It made her feel slightly better to see he also needed a hand from a monk to reach the top. She had enjoyed his quiet company, whoever he really was.
They made their way through the meditating monks, drawing the eyes of a few curious watchers. Inken’s shoulders were tense with anticipation. If there was no healer here, she would have to make do with the services of a doctor. One would probably be among the priests, but she knew which option she preferred.
Another monk stood waiting for them in the doorway to the inner temple. His robes were edged with gold, with white bands adorning the sleeves and collar. A purple diamond patch on his right breast marked him as a doctor. He offered a friendly smile as they approached, wrinkles appearing around his amber eyes. His hair was jet black streaked with grey.
His smile faded as they reached him, a concerned frown taking its place. “Welcome, travellers. My name is Michael. Please, come this way,” he spoke in a warm voice. His eyes lingered a moment on Inken before he added. “Quickly.”
They followed him through the doorway. Inside was dark, lit only by a scattering of candles, and the air was thick with incense. The scent carried the whisperings of fruit and flowers, a rare offering in the desert city. The floor was covered by a worn green carpet, which led to a simple wooden alter at the end of the room. Citizens and priests knelt on the ground around the room, offering their silent prayers to the Goddess Antonia. In the far corner, a young man played the piano, the gentle music welcoming them into the sanctuary.
Michael led them to a small door beside the alter and through into a corridor. Doors lined the hallway on the left, while on the right windows opened up onto a central courtyard. Inken shrugged off Alastair’s hand and hobbled across. She peered through the panes in astonishment.
The building ringed a courtyard at its centre. In the courtyard was a garden, filled with the green of life. Plants grew from soft, moist earth, defying the fierce heat of the sun. They thrived amidst the brick walls, trees and vines thrusting from the earth, ignorant to the desert without.
Inken stared, feeling a new respect for the priests who lived here. To be able to grow anything in Chole was an accomplishment, and they had achieved far more than that.
Michael coughed, drawing her attention away from the miracle beyond the glass. They continued along the corridor, Inken snatching glimpses of the garden as they moved. She wished she had visited this place earlier. She had never paid much attention to the religions of the Three Nations, but perhaps she needed to reconsider.
She was thankful it did not take long for Michael to find the room he sought. He pulled open a simple door and beckoned them inside.
Within was a simple room without any decoration or furniture. A man sat alone on the tiled ground, watching them with pure white eyes. Skin hung in folds from his face and long locks of grey hair tumbled down his back. A narrow scar stretched across his face. His arms were frail and marked by old battles. He wore robes similar to Michael’s, except where a pink diamond had replaced the purple.
Inken sighed in relief, recognising the mark of a healer.
“Welcome, Alastair. It has been a long time,” the healer’s voice rasped like gravel.
Alastair grinned. “So it had, Elynbrigge. I fear my time has been rather occupied lately. She has had me dancing to the old tunes.”
“Ay and without luck I have heard.”
Alastair nodded. “But I hear you might help me with that.”
Elynbrigge smiled. “Ay, I can.”
Inken looked from one old man to the other, a dozen questions jostling for her attention. How do these two know each other?
Michael was clearly just as confused. His frown had grown as two greeted one another like old friends, and it took him a moment to regain his composure. “Elynbrigge has only been here a few weeks, but he is a great healer. You are very lucky, young lady. Our temple is not usually so fortunate to host someone of Elynbrigge’s talents.”
“Nor will it for much longer, I am afraid,” Elynbrigge added.
Michael nodded, an edge of sadness in his eyes. Inken could understand his disappointment. It was clear the priests were dedicated to preserving the Goddess’ temple. It must sting their pride to lack anyone with healing magic.
“Now, Alastair, I am afraid you will have to wait just a while longer. First, I shall attend to this young lady. I can feel her pain from here. Please, miss, sit down here.”
Michael helped Inken to sit before the ancient man. Her broken leg made even this simple act a struggle. She tried to sit with her good leg beneath her in support and the broken one stretched out in front of her. She used her good arm to hold herself straight, cradling the other close to her body.
Elynbrigge laughed. “Michael, her discomfort is screaming in my ears. Please, young lady, you may lie down. The others can clear out if there is not enough room.”
Inken sighed in relief, stretching out on the cool tiles. “Thank you. My name is Inken,” she added.
“My pleasure, Inken,” Elynbrigge replied. “Now, to business. Your injuries are quite severe, but they are within my ability to heal. It will be painful, however, and time consuming. You will need to be brave, and patient.”
“It’s okay, I can take it,” she glanced over at Eric and Alastair. “Thank you for saving me. I owe both of you my life. If you ever need my help, you need only ask.”
She closed her eyes then, wondering where the words had come from and unable to look them in the eyes. Yet she had meant them. Whoever they were, they had saved her life, and one should always pay their debts.
“It was our pleasure, Inken. Perhaps we will see each other again. We shall leave you to your healing,” Alastair turned to Elynbrigge. “We will talk soon, old friend. I will return after we have made ourselves comf
ortable.”
Elynbrigge nodded in return.
Alastair waved goodbye and left the room. Eric moved to follow, but turned back at the doorway. “I hope we do meet again, Inken. In better times though. Take care,” he flashed a gentle smile as he slipped out the door.
Then he was gone and Inken felt suddenly, unexpectedly alone.
“Brace yourself, Inken. We begin.”
******************
Eric stared up at the pale cream ceiling, wondering at the feel of a bed beneath him. He could not remember how long it had been since he had slept in a real bed. It wasn’t a very soft bed, but compared to hay, hammocks and the rocky ground, it felt like heaven. He closed his eyes, wanting the peace of sleep, but knowing it would not come. A restlessness had come over him as they left the temple, one he could not shake.
Outside the sun was setting on the Dying City. There was no mystery as to where that nickname had come from. Their second story room looked out over empty streets. Most merchants had already packed away their wares, surrendering the city to the unscrupulous night. A scattering of guards still patrolled, but Eric suspected they could do little to control the city’s denizens once darkness descended.
He hoped the inn would prove a safe haven, standing proud as it did amidst the abandoned buildings and hovels. The bar downstairs was well lit and decorated with old wooden chairs and tables, giving it a homely feel. The keeper had unlocked the door cautiously, but welcomed them with a smile when he recognised Alastair. He offered them their pick of the rooms, with Alastair finally settling on one that suited him.
The room held two single beds and a small table and chairs, which sat before the large double window. The tiled floor offered some cool relief from the heat outside. The room smelt of dust and old cloth, but the thick wooden door ensured little noise could be heard from downstairs. They had draped their saddlebags over the foot of their beds, leaving the horses to the inn’s stable hand.
Eric’s thoughts turned to Inken. He had been unable to shake her from his head since they left the temple. Images flashed through his head; the moonlight reflecting off her soft curves, her gentle smile as she looked at him, the cool glint of the killer in her eyes. He pictured her slipping through the night, bringing the soft kiss of death to her foes.
Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) Page 14