The Elven (25 page)

“Guillaume?” called Nuramon, who was still standing close to the double doors at the entrance. “Where are you?”

Guillaume appeared from behind one of the columns. He seemed uncommonly calm, almost enraptured. “You should have let them take me. After that bloodbath, they won’t rest until we’re all dead.”

“Could it be you have a death wish?” asked Farodin, an angry edge to his voice.

“Didn’t someone send you to kill me, too? What sense is there in fighting for the right to be my executioner?”

Farodin gestured dismissively. “Anyone who broods on death in a battle can count on losing his life. You’d do better to make yourself useful. Get us to the back entrance. Maybe we can slip out that way unseen.”

Guillaume spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “This is a temple, not a fortress. There are no back entrances, no hidden tunnels, no secret doors.”

Farodin looked around in disbelief. Beside the entrance, a spiral staircase climbed to the two galleries. High up, just below the beams supporting the ceiling, curved high stained glass windows with images of priests, recognizable by the deep blue cowls obviously favored by the Tjured sect. Perplexed, the elf gazed at the windows. One of the glazed images showed a priest being pushed into a large pot on a fire. In another, a priest was having his arms and legs hacked off, and a third showed a blue-cowled monk being burned on a pyre by wild men wearing animal skins. Almost all of the windows showed similarly murderous scenes. Now Farodin understood why Guillaume was so calm. To die horribly was clearly the ultimate fulfillment for a Tjured priest.

A thunderclap snapped Farodin out of his thoughts. Fine dust filtered through cracks in the temple portal. A second thunderclap followed. The heavy doors creaked on their hinges. Farodin cursed under his breath. It seemed the king’s guard had found something they could use as a battering ram.

“Stop praying and do something useful,” the elf snarled at the two priests kneeling at the menhir. “Get the oil lamps out of the niches. Nuramon, look around and see if you can find a torch. Then everyone get up to the highest gallery. I’m going to get us out of this cage.”

One of the thick oak planks creaked and split. The door would not hold much longer.

Farodin drove the priests mercilessly. As they climbed the spiral staircase, they had to bundle their robes to avoid stumbling, like a woman would have to gather her skirts. From the second gallery, they could reach the temple windows, which were set in deep recesses because of the thickness of the walls. When he stretched, Farodin could just reach the bottom edge of the recess. He pulled himself up and into the recess and found himself standing before the image of a priest whose smashed limbs were threaded through the spokes of a wheel. The faces of his torturers looked like masks, and the artist had given no thought at all as to how the colors of the glass could harmonize with the morning light. It was an inferior work, the kind of thing that one with even a little aptitude might improve upon with a year or two of halfway ambitious diligence. Shoddy work like this could not bear comparison to the windows in Emerelle’s palace, which were assembled from thousands of glass fragments. Albenmark’s most talented artists had spent decades working on them, and their masterpieces created a consummate play of light and glass at any hour.

Farodin drew his sword and smashed the agonized face of the glass priest. The panes shattered, and with a few swift strokes of the sword, Farodin cleared away the lead framework so that he could observe the men attacking them in the temple square below.

Down in the gallery, Farodin heard the priests lamenting, Guillaume’s voice the clearest among them. “By Tjured, he has destroyed an image of the holy Romuald. We are lost.”

Farodin took a step back inside the alcove so that he was out of sight of the square. From where he stood, he could see that the tower was encircled by wooden scaffolding. Just a small step below the window was a narrow platform for the stonemasons who worked on the facade. From there, one could move farther along the scaffolding. Farodin looked at the construction skeptically; everything about it looked rickety.

At one side of the tower was a boarding house for pilgrims. Statues of saints were set in alcoves along its facade. It was certainly more decorative than the tower where the faithful prayed to Tjured. With a little pluck, it would be possible to jump from the scaffolding down to its roof. From there, they could make their way across other rooftops and escape the king’s troops.

Farodin climbed back down from the window. The priests were waiting for him, their faces stony. Nuramon shrugged helplessly. “I can’t understand them.”

“What is so hard to understand?” asked a young, red-haired priest. “You have destroyed an image of Saint Romuald. Romuald was an ill-humored man who only found his way to Tjured late in life. Then heathens in the forests of Drusna murdered him. He cursed all who raised a hand against him, and within a year, his killers were dead. The heathens were so impressed that they turned to Tjured by the thousands. It is said that Romuald’s curse continues to the present day. Anyone who damages an image of him should prepare for the worst. Romuald is still bad tempered, even as a saint.”

Farodin could not believe what he was hearing. How could anyone believe such rubbish? “You’ve done nothing,” said Farodin. “Romuald’s curse is on me and me alone. You don’t need to worry, we—” With a crash, the temple doors split open.

“Nuramon, go ahead. Lead the priests. We have to climb over the framework outside to the roof of the building next door. One at a time. We’ll be less conspicuous that way. And we shouldn’t put too much weight on the scaffolding.”

The shouts of the soldiers reached them from the hall below.

“Pour the lamp oil over the scaffolding when you escape,” Farodin added.

“Why me?” Nuramon asked. “You know the way—”

“And I’m better with a sword.”

Nuramon looked at him, offended.

“Just go! I’ll hold them off.”

Heavy steps were climbing the spiral stairs. Farodin took some of the lamps and threw them down the stairs. Then he ripped one sleeve from his shirt and soaked it with oil. He ignited the cloth on the flame of a lamp. The oil was poor quality and difficult to get burning. When it did catch, it gave off thick black smoke. The elf threw the torn sleeve down the stairs and watched as the flames licked at the spilled oil from the lamps he’d thrown. The flames quickly burned the cloth to ash . . . and went out.

Farodin stared down the stairs in disbelief. Could they have used oil any cheaper? The first soldier rounded the curve of the steps. He raised his shield in alarm, suddenly wavering when faced with Farodin. The men coming behind him shoved him forward.

Farodin stretched and loosened his muscles. He would show the humans a good fight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a group of archers lining up on him from the hall below. Their aim was poor, though. Crossbow bolts thudded into the wooden panels of the gallery, and one shattered a large window.

Spurred on by the angry shouts of his fellow soldiers, the man with the shield took a big step up the stairs, and slipped on the oil. He fell back heavily onto the steps, taking several of his comrades down with him.

“Come on,” Guillaume called from the window alcove. “The others are already on the roof.”

The elf slid his sword back into its sheath. Guillaume took his arm and pulled him up to the alcove. The priest was astonishingly strong for a man so thin. He had helped Farodin up with one hand. Was this strength also part of his father’s legacy?

A crossbow bolt crunched into the arched roof of the alcove above
their heads. From the square in front of the temple, the voice of the soldiers’
commander could be heard. Their escape route had been spotted.

“You go first,” said Farodin.

Guillaume hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I . . . I’m afraid . . . of heights. When I look down, it’s like I’m paralyzed. I . . . just can’t. Leave me behind.”

Farodin grabbed Guillaume’s arm roughly. “Then we go together.” He dragged him to the edge of the alcove, and they both jumped onto the wooden platform below the window. The scaffolding shuddered under their impact. His heart pounding, Farodin pressed back against the stone wall.

A dull thud, and the framework shuddered again. Somewhere below, a wooden strut gave way and clattered into the depths. Below, near the entrance to the temple, a group of soldiers were holding a heavy beam between them and slamming it against one of the main supports. The idiots seemed oblivious to the risk of sixty feet of scaffolding crashing onto their heads.

Something below splintered. A jolt ran through the framework. One of the stonemasons’ platforms tilted and fell, breaking several stays on the way down.

Farodin felt his belly clench painfully. A few heartbeats more, and the entire construction might collapse.

“Watch out,” shouted Guillaume.

The elf spun around. The soldier who had slipped on the oil moments earlier jumped onto the platform just behind Farodin and Guillaume. A splintering sound accompanied the heavy man’s landing on the boards. His axe sliced forward in a glittering arc.

Farodin dropped low, ducking the blow. He swung one leg, trying to hook his foot behind his adversary’s ankle. Suddenly, the entire platform gave way. The elf reflexively grabbed hold of a wooden stanchion even as the soldier, arms wheeling, tumbled into the depths. For a moment, the heavy wooden platform seemed to regain a precarious balance, but it was angled down steeply.

Farodin’s heart was thumping hard. They had to get off the scaffolding. As if to underline the thought, a crossbow bolt slammed into wood a hand’s width from his head.

Guillaume had managed to rescue himself along a narrow board connected to a ladder that led down to the next level. Guillaume crouched on the board with his arms wrapped around his knees and pressed himself back against the tower wall. Nuramon and the two Tjured priests were lying low on the roof of the pilgrims’ house to stay out of sight of the crossbowmen in the square. Farodin could see the captain of the guard dividing his men into small squads and sending them out to surround the building. The escape had failed.

Again, the battering ram crashed into the scaffolding below. A squealing, creaking sound ran through the fragile construction. The platform next to Farodin tilted. The elf looked down apprehensively. If it fell, the platform would slice through a dozen cross-struts like an enormous blade.

Farodin swung hand over hand along a beam to where Guillaume crouched. The priest had his eyes closed and was praying softly.

“We have to get away from here,” Farodin shouted. “This whole thing is going to fall any second.”

“I can’t,” Guillaume groaned. “I can’t move another inch. I . . .” He swallowed hard. “My fear is stronger than me.”

“You’re afraid of falling? Move, or we both die.” Another shudder ran through the scaffolding, reinforcing Farodin’s words. The tilting platform next to them rocked back and forth. Suddenly, a sharp report rang out. The final splinter still holding the platform snapped, and it plunged earthward.

Farodin grabbed hold of the priest and pushed him forward. Like a giant cleaver, the falling platform chopped through poles and struts. One large section of scaffolding came free from the rest and tilted slowly toward the oak tree on the temple square.

With the unsuspected strength of panic, Farodin lifted the priest and carried him in his arms like a huge child. Guillaume clung to him in mortal fear. Farodin could hardly see where he was treading.

The whole structure seemed to be in motion. The planks they were moving along were shaking more and more. Farodin saw the pegs that held the scaffolding to the wall pull free. They were too late. They wouldn’t make it down the ladder to the platform below, from where it was just a short jump to the roof of the pilgrims’ house. They would have to risk a leap from higher up.

Farodin ran as he had never run before. Struts and splintered timbers rained down around them. The framework swayed like a drunkard. The elf knew that carrying Guillaume, he was too heavy to make such a jump. The priest clutched at Farodin like a drowning man pulling his rescuer under with him in fear.

Without warning, the plank Farodin was running along gave way. Two more steps and they would have reached the jump-off point. As he fell, Farodin reached for the heavy rope slung around a beam that was tilting into the depths.

Something heavy hit Farodin in the back as hard as a troll’s fist. He felt several ribs break. The rope had swung him toward the pilgrims’ house and now began to swing back.

Half-conscious, Farodin let go. Guillaume let out a shriek as they fell, and they hit the roof hard. Slate shingles smashed under the impact. Farodin was spun around. With nothing to hang on to, he rolled down the slope of the roof. His hands scrabbled helplessly at the smooth shingles, then he slipped over the edge of the roof. With his left hand, he managed to grab hold of a protruding beam. His body swung down and slammed into the wall of the house.

“There’s one,” someone below him shouted.

Farodin had his other hand on the beam now. He held on, but he did not have enough strength to pull himself up again. Crossbow bolts cracked into the wall beside him.

With a ear-splitting shriek, the scaffolding surrounding the temple collapsed. Dust billowed over the square.

Something hit Farodin’s right thigh, and the elf cried out in pain. A bolt had passed through his leg and impaled itself, blood-smeared, in the wall.

Slowly, Farodin’s fingers were losing their grip on the end of the beam. His will was broken. He could fight no more.

“Take my hand.”

Farodin looked up into frightened sky-blue eyes. Guillaume had crawled to the edge of the roof and was reaching down to him.

“I can’t . . . ,” said Farodin.

“Tjured, cast out my fear,” the priest murmured. Sweat covered his face as he pushed himself a little farther down and grasped Farodin’s wrist. With a heave that nearly dislocated his shoulder, Farodin was back on the roof.