Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (36 page)

Nigel’s breathing began to show panic. “I don’t care how many soldiers you have around him, he’ll be after me first. Since you’ve ordered the guards to deliver the captive alive, that will be their primary concern. If this man breaks loose, my life isn’t worth a shithouse leaf.”

The arrogant voice in the hall sounded irritated by this pawn’s whining, “What made you think your life was ever worth more?”

Captain Onira of the Royal Scouts and those surviving under his command staggered into the remote Zanzibosian o
utpost of Barnham. His face was lean and haggard, with eyes that had seen far too much for his years. Once dashing and all the rage at spring dances, the bachelor captain was now unshaven, his silken uniform in tatters. Still, the men at the city gate knew he was the king’s man by the way he carried himself and the gold-trimmed sword at his side. His first words removed all doubt. “I say,” he shouted to those on the city wall. “Where’s your nearest tailor?” When the guards gawked at him, he added, “To sew up the wounded.”

Within moments, a stocky craftsman wearing the sign of the candle-maker’s guild and the black stole of a master scampered out to greet him. The merchant shook his hand and said, “Thank the gods you’ve arrived; what a lucky day for us all.”

The merchant smelled of soot and sweat, and the captain wrinkled his nose. “You wouldn’t want any of the luck we’ve had the last month. I’ll need to visit your garrison immediately.” Only Onira spoke to the natives. The rest of the survivors silently followed his lead and walked in pairs, each covering the other’s back.

The candle maker helped usher the soldiers inside the city gates as quickly as possible. As the scouts moved along the narrow street that paralleled the wall, they kept one hand on their swords. Onira examined the peasants around him, noting that they were all male and carried farming implements, clubs, or a makeshift weapon of some kind. Every five paces around the wall sat a wooden bucket.

Onira decided to press his host while they were out in the open and had a chance for counterattacking. “Hello, it seems somebody has a story to tell.” When the candle maker feigned ignorance, he asked, “Why wasn’t there a swordsman here to greet us?”

“You’d have to ask the master of the port about that, sir,” said the candle maker, leading him to a nearby manor. The inside of the manor was clean and well-kept, but barren of all furnishings. The hardwood floors were polished to an absurd, amber glow, but the wrought-metal candlestick holders were all empty. There had to be a dozen elegant rooms that held nothing but an echo. “Your men can bed down here.”

“Wouldn’t the garrison make more sense?” asked Onira, puzzled by the opulence.

The candle maker seemed amused at this, but said nothing. Instead, one of the younger recruits stood at attention and asked for permission to speak.

“Corporal Shima,” said Onira. recognizing the man.

“This
is
the garrison, sir, or at least it was five years ago,” said the recruit.

The candle maker confirmed this and added on his way out the door, “The herbalist is a bit busy right now with all the injured, bu we’ll make a special effort to get your lads in soonest. Meanwhile, I’ll go get the boss so he can talk to you.”

“The Lord Governor?” asked Onira.

The candle maker almost sneered. “He and his family snuck out of the city in the middle of the night. The port master is the temporary head of the guild council. The guilds are the only ones keeping this city together.”

The scouts remained silent until the civilian was out of earshot. Onira wiped his lean face with his hand, “Nothing is ever easy. Shima, you’re from around here, then?”

Uneasy to be the sudden focus of attention, the recruit said, “Close by, sir.”

“Do you mind telling me what the blue blazes is going on here?” groused the captain.

Eager to please, Shima replied, “Yes, sir. I think blue blazes sums it up, sir. The smell of charred wood and the water buckets would indicate that they’re having a run-in with the fire mages. It happens from time to time, sir. That’s why the walls are stone.”

Shima shifted his weight from one foot to another, reluctant to say what he knew. There may have been another person from the region among the survivors, but nobody was volunteering right now. Eventually, his duty to his unit won out and the corporal spoke. “The governor’s been a bit of a tyrant, sir, using his troops to improve his own lot instead of enforcing the law. The people here hate his knights almost as much as they hate the fire mages.”

After being recognized, one of the other soldiers volunteered. “Sir, I heard a few people gossiping about us in the street. They seemed to think that our being southern knights was a good thing.”

“Not good enough,” said the captain, pounding one fist on top of another idly. “We need to find out what happened to the last garrison. Was there an insurrection? We need solid evidence, not implications. We need to sneak someone into the governor’s house and look for signs of a battle or a coup of any sort.”

“This is also the governor’s mansion, sir,” explained Shima. “He was so afraid of these people that he couldn’t sleep unless he was surrounded by armed men.”

Onira seemed offended at the idea. “Gods, if this man was such a poor governor, why didn’t anyone complain to the king and have him replaced?”

Shima stared at his feet. “They tried that, sir. The messenger was hung for treason. It seems that the governor is the king’s cousin and gives him a dozen silver every seventy collected.”

Onira grunted, “Long live the king. But it’s a sorry seat for our asses to be in. You, take half the men who have both eyes and look for anything the garrison may have left behind, any clues to what happened. You, take the rest except Shima and guard these doors. Corporal, I have a
special
mission for you.” The stomach of every soldier in the room sank at the lilt in the captain’s voice.

Poor Shima snapped to attention. “Sir.”

“Bring me the master of the birds. I have an urgent report to send and our messengers were all lost in the desert,” said Onira. The corporal didn’t dare ask what he was to do if the master of the birds refused. After the soldier nodded and began to take his leave, the Captain of the Scouts added, “And make it before the master of the port arrives. If we don’t meet with his approval, we won’t have the opportunity afterwards.”

Shima ran.

For thirty bits, the scouts looked in vain for a single remaining stick of furniture, or evidence of a struggle. They found neither. Onira was reduced to scavenging wooden planks from the attic floor to construct his defensive perimeter and stretchers for the injured.

Someone rapped sharply at the front door. Defenders scrambled, the door opened and Shima dragged in a rather disgruntled, old man wearing nightclothes. “The master of the birds, sir,” announced the corporal.

“I was taking my bloody nap!” complained the disheveled man in a nearly thread-bare robe.

“Quiet, or it’s back in the bag for you,” threatened Shima, holding up a burlap sack about half his own height.

Onira raised a hand, and led the old gentleman toward the garrison commander’s office. “That’s enough, corporal; I’ll take it from here. Were many of the birds harmed by the fire mages?” Once alone, the captain offered his guest a cup of wine.

The bird keeper seemed almost as surprised at the change in treatment as he was hard of hearing. “Eh? Yes. The entire main rookery went up in flames. But we make it a rule to always keep a few in unexpected places.”

“You are truly a wise steward, grandfather. Do you have any birds capable of making the flight to the capital?”

“Maybe one or two. But they’re for real emergencies. Why don’t you have any chairs in here?” said the old man, distracted.

“We were hoping you might shed some light on that,” said the captain in an amused tone, interlacing his fingers. “Military units often inform you of their movements.”

“That’s confidential,” said the master of the birds primly.

“So they were ordered somewhere by the crown?” guessed Onira. The old man looked pointedly out the window. “Fine. Corporal, be so good as to bring us that bag.”

“Innisport. They were all ordered to Innisport,” blurted the old man.

Onira looked surprised. “I merely wanted to search the bag for your quill and parchment. I have need of your services and assumed that the good corporal carried them here for you. As the new garrison commander, I would never dream of asking you to violate your confidences.”

“Of course.” The master of the birds laughed nervously. It was high sound, more fowl than human. “I never thought otherwise. I just had to think of what the orders were. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m sure I can trust you. You look like a trustworthy sort.”

Onira smiled. “Certainly. We are on the same side, aren’t we? I need you to take an urgent message.”

Shima handed the sweating bird keeper a quill, inkwell, and a crumpled piece of parchment. The old man began to protest, “A clerk normally does this sort of thing for me…” Shima growled deep in his throat. “… but I can manage.”

The corporal stepped outside the chamber but stayed visible just on the other side of the doorframe. The commander apologized, “Don’t take his behavior the wrong way. My men and I have been through quite a lot lately. They seem to be of the opinion that I saved all their lives. Now they’d do anything to please me. Sometimes they get carried away in their enthusiasm. You understand?”

Thus began the reporting session. Onira put his hands behind his back and dictated as he paced. Bird keepers had a kind of abbreviated note form that nobody else understood. Using this closely guarded, secret technique, they could condense vast amounts of information to a tiny roll light enough for a messenger bird’s ankle. For every few sentences, the old man would scribble a few choice symbols to summarize.

“Captain Onira, head of his majesty’s first company of Royal Scouts, reporting from the trade city of Barnham, whatever day this is of whatever month. Your Royal Highness, in whom all hope resides, over whom the desert sun sets, and from whom all life-giving water flows, the envy of every nation and scourge of… fill in the rest. A critical matter has arisen that demands your utmost attention, the exact nature of which I shall attempt to detail herein.

“House Kragen, though missing one of their front towers, seemed eager to help with his majesty’s quest for knowledge. They outfitted us with several tons of gear and provided a guide who was supposed to be one of the famed, water-seeker priests, blessed by Zanzibos himself, may his name be exalted forever. This gained our immediate trust, for who would believe the servant of god, the heart of the kingdom, would betray the servants of his chosen king, the hand of his will and the bearer of his standard to the world. Selah.

“Thus we proceeded deep into the desert. Under the guise of visiting a long-forgotten holy site rumored to be the center of the event his majesty sent us to investigate, our guide led us deep into a lair of one of the lost souls, the ancient, discontented spirits that wander the waste places.” The captain’s eyes darted about the shadowy corners of the room.

Mustering compassion, the man transcribing asked in hushed tones. “How did you finally win out over this demon?”

“Ha. In such circumstances, one does not win. One only survives, and that by the skin of the teeth. If it hadn’t been for my medal from the Order of Arusto we might all have perished. The sesterina enabled us to escape with moderate losses, a quarter of our people, but no Honors left behind. Unfortunately, the gear sitting outside the ruins was too heavy for the bearers we had remaining. While we searched through our extensive baggage to decide what items had the highest priority in our fight for survival, we discovered an even more horrible betrayal. Our guide had taken all the remaining water with him, leaving us with skins full of vinegar and barrels of rocks. Even the wine had been false.

“As soon as the sun went down, th tribesmen started attacking. It was never a full-out assault, but a steady drain, a death by a thousand small cuts. We learned to survive by eating things under rocks and preserving the waterskins of our attackers. In the end, we overcame by becoming like them.

“By the time my advance force reached their village, half our number was gone. Under questioning, the tribal elder admitted that Kragen’s guide had paid them to attack us. Most of the gear we had been hauling through the desert had been his payment. We leveled his village but spared his life in exchange for the direction our traitorous guide had traveled.

“In the process of capturing the guide, my lieutenant stumbled upon a nest of scorpions. He just kept writhing and screaming until we put him out of his misery ourselves. But we were able to use the same technique on the guide, and he admitted everything before he died. Kragen’s chief steward had ordered him to kill us all. After which, we proceeded to his majesty’s nearest garrison in Barnham where we sent news of this horrible perfidy and await our king’s next orders. Signed, your faithful servant… et cetera,” Onira concluded.

After a quick count, the master of the birds wrote, “Betrayed. Battle demon + Kragen irregulars. 20 men 14 Honors survive.” The old man finished the letter with “Next?” and the ending symbol. Pleased that the task was over, he began to air-dry the parchment and put away his equipment.