The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  He followed Desmond across the ship, and they could see the trapdoor when Absolon’s best boys decided to finish things.

  There were six of them. They were all armed, and they quickly surrounded the four in a semicircle. Desmond’s eyes widened. Halas was amazed, but it was Des who spoke. Screamed, rather.

  “Is this a good time!”

  “It’s the best time,” replied Bartholomew Hadric, the boy who had done most of the hitting when they’d ambushed Garek. “You’ve caused us tremendous embarrassment, and there may not be another.”

  “And you are concerned…with us? The battle rages all round, and you wish to beat us up. Don’t you realize how incredibly idiotic that sounds?”

  “No. We’ve decided against the beatings. This time, we plan to kill you.”

  Desmond stomped his foot and blinked rapidly, positively overcome with rage over the absolute stupidity of the situation. Halas thought his poor friend might actually explode. He looked from face to face, searching for some sort of sympathy or agreement. “Am I going mad? Are you boys that dense? This is not a good time for an argument!”

  Hadric stepped forward, a sword in his hand. “Drop it,” he commanded.

  “You sound ridiculous,” said Garek. “Like a child who has finally stumbled upon his father’s tools. Desmond is right; this is not an appropriate time at all to have this out! We’ll have our spat later, but for now, there are more important things to deal with, don’t you agree?”

  Garek advanced toward the trapdoor, keeping his weapon ready. From behind him, Bartholomew gripped his sword tightly. Evidently he did not agree. Giving a shout of rage, the boy lunged. Halas saw this and threw himself forward. Halas was quicker. The best boy swung his blade at Garek, but Halas grabbed his wrist, pushing Hadric away from his brother and twisting him to the ground. The boy kicked at Halas, and Halas dodged away out of instinct. Instead of crying off, the boy charged. Halas spun past him and pushed forward with Silvia. Bartholomew gave a weak gasp, looking stupidly down at the weapon in his gut. Halas came back into reality and shook his head. A sort of battle-rush had fallen upon him, but faded just as soon as he’d plunged his father’s sword into a child’s stomach. He was sad and terrified. This was different from the soldier. This boy was innocent. Stupid, but innocent.

  And Halas had killed him. He tore the blade free with disdain. “Leave us be!” he commanded to the others. The boy stumbled, fell to his knees, stared at Halas. The story of his life was one for the books, and he was surely immortal in it. Aren’t all the greatest heroes?

  The cooking boys disbanded, slinking away and avoiding the battle. Halas thought it miraculous that they had not been attacked during the little confrontation.

  He made the mistake of glancing at the dead boy, seeing his face, a face locked in a silent scream of pain. There were clear rivers in the grime on his cheeks where he had cried. Halas tore his eyes away as easily as he had his sword, and they went below.

  “Where now?” Prince Aeon asked.

  “Infirmary,” Halas suggested. His voice cracked. Bartholomew Hadric’s blood was hot on his skin. They hid under the beds, the only noise coming from the battle up above. Soon, even that was silent. Halas was alone with his friends and the best boy’s haunting gaze. He heard the door swing open, and saw two pairs of feet enter. None of the four in hiding moved. Were these friend or foe?

  That question was answered a moment later. “There’s nothin in here worth takin,” said one. The boots stopped by the far wall, and Halas heard the sound of something being rummaged through. Then there was a crash.

  “What about the kitchen?” asked the second voice. He knelt, and for one petrifying second, Halas thought that they would be discovered. But the man’s back was to them, and he was only picking up a small package. The man stood up quickly.

  “Where is the kitchen?”

  “Well I don’t know! It must be around here somewheres; let us find it before the others do and spoil all the food.”

  “Idiot! Can’t you think with anything but your stomach?” The two men stormed out, leaving the door open behind them.

  That was it. The Wandering Blade was lost, but were any of her defenders still alive? Halas hoped so. But there were more pressing matters: how many of the queen’s soldiers occupied the ship? Certainly there was no way the three friends could fight their way free, even with Prince Aeon helping them. “We should surrender,” Garek whispered.

  “No!” came Prince Aeon’s voice. “We cannot do that.”

  “And just why not?”

  Silence. Halas had his back to Aeon, but he could tell the boy was trying to find his words. Then, “Tormod and I are on a mission. We cannot let these men take me; Aelborough itself hangs in the balance. We must sneak away.”

  “While that is an easy prospect to speak of, it shall be much harder to accomplish,” said Garek.

  Going against all of his better judgment and common sense, Halas crawled free of the bed, crept to the door and peered into the hallway. It was empty. “Then we had better move now, and be quick about it.”

  “There’s another way out, rather than the trapdoor,” Desmond offered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Another door near the cargo hold.”

  They followed Des, and sure enough, there was the door. Halas opened it a crack and looked around. This side of the deck was empty. The night air was pleasantly warm on his skin. They clung to the shadows, each one doing his best to keep his footfalls silent. Eventually, they stopped behind a pile of crates, strapped down underneath the stairs that led to the bridge. The ship was anchored not ten meters from the closest pier, and a long plank had been stretched to reach it.

  The smell was overwhelming. The last of the battle had been fought only minutes beforehand, but already the stench of death was heavy in the air. Halas wondered how anyone could stand it. The smell combined with the thick, hot air made him want to hurl his lunch over the side. He didn’t, of course.

  There were indeed some survivors. A dozen sailors, all lined up and on their knees, surrounded by a host of soldiers. Tormod was among them; Prince Aeon let out a little gasp. Halas also saw Captain Brennus and Cloart.

  Pressed up against his side, Halas felt Garek tense up. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “That’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Nolan Dooley.”

  Halas looked. Sure enough, there he was: Nolan Dooley, Thief Extraordinaire, the man who had stolen over half of the Duer’s money from Halas and Garek. What was he doing here? There was a woman next to him, with black hair and yellow eyes. Her eyes…they were unlike anything Halas had seen, like gemstones, or brilliantly gleaming stars. She was the most beautiful woman Halas had ever laid eyes upon, and yet, there was a certain foulness about her that he could not quite grasp. He knew he had seen her before.

  Recognition dawned on him then—she was the woman from his daydream. The girl he had originally mistaken for Cailin.

  She walked to Tormod. Tormod turned his head to the captain and offered a weak smile. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and that was all. Brennus looked into his eyes for a moment, and cast his gaze back to the deck. The girl put a hand on Tormod’s forehead.

  “You belong to me now. Cadelegh.” A mist formed and swirled around the girl, surging down her arm and into Tormod. He grimaced at the final word, but for a moment, nothing happened.

  That quickly changed.

  Tormod blinked his eyes and scrunched his nose, as if confronted by a horrible odor. A trickle of red formed at the corner of his left eye. His hands, plastered white to the bloody deck, began to shake. The rest of him quickly followed suit. Tormod’s teeth chattered together as if it weren’t a sweltering summer evening. Nolan bent down and put his face inches from Tormod’s. The big man’s eyes were wide with fear and pain. “Why—?” was all he managed to say before he bit down on his tongue.

  And then, Tormod’s eyes exploded.

  Someone screamed.
Blood squirted over Dooley’s face; the former thief and current madman seemed to relish it. Halas’ own eyes were rooted to the scene, as were those of his friends. Unfortunately, it was not over. Tormod reeled backwards like a fish out of water, landing hard on his shoulders. Halas heard the sound of bones cracking as the big man thrashed amidst the blood of the crew of The Wandering Blade, screaming in uncontrollable anguish. Aeon uttered a little squeak.

  Immediately Halas lurched backwards, wrapping both arms around Prince Aeon’s head and bringing him to the ground. They saw no more, but they heard. Tormod’s strangled cries echoed out over the whole dock for what seemed like an eternity. He was suffering an agony that was incomparable with any agony suffered before. His sounds were unearthly, wretched.

  “We have to get out of here,” Garek croaked when it was finished. Halas saw that he was trembling.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Desmond said. All the joy was gone from his features. His face was pale in the moonlight, and his eyes were red. “Wait here. Move on my signal. I’ll find you.”

  “What signal?”

  “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

  Desmond stole away, disappearing over the side of the boat.

  “Raazoi,” Nolan Dooley said, “was that really necessary?”

  “Yes,” she said seductively over her shoulder, “it was.”

  Nolan Dooley shrugged. “Would anyone else like to try that?”

  The sailors were silent. Captain Brennus spat. “Cloart,” Raazoi, the woman, said. “Please stand.”

  Cloart did so automatically. He did not look afraid, but deeply saddened. He stared at Tormod’s body, and his hands grasped repeatedly at nothing. He did not seem to be aware of the gesture. Prince Aeon was sobbing into Halas’ sleeve.

  “Cloart,” she said, “you have done terrible things. You betrayed your friends to us in return for your safety. What do you say to this?”

  “Why are ye tellin’ them this? Please, speak no more.”

  “I gave you sedatives that would let this end without blood, yet you did not use them.”

  “I couldn’t poison these men! I couldn’t do it.” He was weeping.

  “Please, please be silent. Please.”

  “You had yet another opportunity when those boys attacked the draftee. The prince was alone. You were to steal away in the night and deliver him to me.”

  “There was no time!”

  “And then, last night, I told you to break into his room and slit his throat.”

  “I could not kill a boy…”

  “He is most certainly dead now, and if not, he shall be soon. Your failure to act cost you the lives of everyone on this ship.

  “I tell you this, because I want your dear friend the captain to decide your punishment.”

  “What? No! Ye promised ye’d let us go!”

  “Did I? I remember no such thing.” Nolan cackled. “Well, Captain Brennus? Have you decided?”

  Captain Brennus shook his head. “Cloart, how could you do this?”

  “She was to spare me, both of us! She promised me. She swore!”

  “Get out of my sight, you disgusting little rat. I am ashamed to have ever been friends with you.” He appeared to be finished, and two soldiers took Cloart by the arms. Before they could take him away, Brennus continued speaking. Raazoi stalled the soldiers with an uplifted finger.

  “I helped you! And you betray me? Why would you do such a thing? These men are my family! You were a part of that family, until you did…this. You make me sick! I hope you suffer a million deaths in the Inferno! You are truly worse than even Nebi.” To say that one is worse than Nebi the Forsaken is the most terrible thing to say to a man. Even the worst of enemies never utter such words. But Brennus, former captain of The Wandering Blade, said them, and they appeared to strike a chord deep in Cloart’s heart.

  The two soldiers dragged Cloart away. He made no move to stop them, staring sadly into Brennus’ eyes, tears forming at his own. They moved out of sight. Halas released the prince, who lay still, quietly sobbing. He was worried about Desmond; the soldiers dragging Cloart moved in his direction. “How deliciously evil,” Nolan was saying. “Can I do the next one?”

  He took a crossbow from one of the soldiers. A dozen more stepped up, raising weapons of their own. Halas wanted to scream, but there was nothing he could do. These men would die regardless, and this seemed merciful compared to Tormod’s end, which had shaken him to the very core. Halas felt numb. He could not get the noises his friend had made out of his head.

  “Look!” someone cried, pointing. Everyone did, including Halas. A plume of fire sprouted on the dock; one of the storage sheds was burning. The crowd of citizens that had assembled for the scene started to panic.

  “We have to help put that out,” said a soldier. His voice wavered, and Ha-las realized that even the soldiers were bothered by the manner of Tormod’s death. Raazoi smirked. Halas was hopeful. This could be the distraction they’d been looking for. Brennus and the rest of the surviving crew might actually be able to make it out of this! Halas was starting to climb to his feet when the witch dashed his hopes completely.

  “Kill them first!”

  The bows sounded and the sailors fell bleeding to the deck. Brennus’ eyes were empty before the arrow struck. That quickly, he had gone from a proud captain to a broken man. Just as quickly, he had gone from a broken man to a corpse.

  “Put it out!” someone shouted, and then more than half of the soldiers raced down the gangplank toward the fire.

  “That’d be Des,” Halas whispered. “Get him up.” He wished in his heart that Desmond had been just a few seconds quicker. Perhaps the sailors could have mounted some kind of attack, and they could have survived.

  And there was the witch to think about. How could anyone fight against such powers? For that matter, how could anyone escape from under her nose? Halas and his friends had to run across the bulk of the deck to escape, right past the girl. His chest tightened at the realization.

  Things happened quickly. Garek helped Prince Aeon to his feet, and they made ready to run, but Nolan saw the movement. Dropping the crossbow, he drew a slender sword and came into view. “Do I know you?” he asked, momentarily confused. Halas took advantage of the pause, stabbing clumsily at him, but Nolan parried. Garek moved at the soldiers. He kicked one in the chest and knocked him into the water. Two of his mates dove in after, and a third engaged Garek. Halas’ momentum carried him forward; he and Nolan hit the deck. Halas rained down blows with his fists. He grabbed his sword and stabbed Nolan in the gut. Nolan coughed blood, but Halas was already moving, dragging his brother, Prince Aeon, and his father’s sword down the gangplank. Behind them, Nolan stumbled over the edge of the ship.

  “We must go back!” Prince Aeon said. “We must go back for Tormod! Please, please! Please, Halas, we have to go back!”

  As much as Halas wanted to, he knew they could not. There was nothing they could do for the poor man; Tormod was gone. Desmond, dripping wet from head to toe, barreled into them, and Halas nearly stabbed him, but held back in time. “Damn it, Des!” he shouted.

  They saw a line of spears in the air, running down the pier. The soldiers were giving chase. Halas led his friends around a group of confused citizens, trying to put out the fire and help the soldiers at the same time. It was the chaos caused by these citizens that saved Halas and his friends that night. Halas pushed through a small cluster, making sure his friends were still behind him as he cleared the dock. They were. The four ran into the street. The world seemed to shake around him, as if he were still on the boat. But the boat was gone.

  Behind them, The Wandering Blade was burning.

  Sub Chapter Six

  Pale dawn had risen, making his eyes ache along with everything else. “You okay?” someone asked.

  Do I look it? Nolan wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Instead he groaned. The physical pain was the least of his worries—seeing that girl, being on that ship, a
ll of it just seemed like too much. The man scooped him up and made his way down the street. “What’s your name, son? Talk to me until we get home. It’ll keep you awake. What’s your name?”

  “Nolan.” He coughed. “Nolan Dooley.”

  “How’d you get like this?”

  “Carriage.”

  “Carriage? Painful things, those.”

  The constant bobbing and weaving of being carried made Nolan feel ill. He leaned away from the man and wretched. The man kept going. “Not far now,” he said. “How long you been out here?”

  “Don’t know,” Nolan said. His vision was starting to blur.

  “Here we are!” said the man. Carrying Nolan, he stepped into a large room and approached the counter. “Boy’s hurt,” he said. “Says he got hit by a carriage.”

  “Ouch,” said a raspy voice that Nolan couldn’t see. “Put him in the sicky corner. It’s empty.”

  “A small mercy. A man deserves to heal in private.”

  “Then take him home with you,” the raspy man suggested.

  There was a brief silence, and then the man who’d rescued Nolan carried him into the corner, laying him down on a mat on the floor. He pulled a blanket over Nolan’s chest. The raspy one appeared next to them. “Ten detricots covers bathing, feeding, and basic medical care for a week.”

  “Yes, I’ll pay. Assuming the boy can pay me back.”

  “I’m…pay you,” Nolan whispered. He was dipping out of consciousness. He didn’t have ten silvers, but they wouldn’t be difficult to obtain once he was healthy.