A Templar's Apprentice (24 page)

“What did ye tell them, Seamus?”

“That Alex is following a map, seeking whatever lies a' its end.” He took a short breath. “They know his safe places an' that the stars are the markers. They know he has a talisman that is helping him find his way.”

My breath came out in a rush. “Ye gave him away! How could ye?”

“Do ye think for a moment that I don't ask myself that? Ye've no idea what Philippe is like, Tormod. So fair an' fine-looking, but he has the soul of a viper. The things that he did, the tortures he devised …” Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. “An' now they have Alexander an' the carving. 'Tis over.”

The bulk of the carving felt heavy in my sporran. Should I tell Seamus that Philippe's men did not have it? Should I give the carving over to him? Had he not already compromised our duty? Would he do it again?

The Templar's words echoed in my mind.
Trust no one. Safeguard it.

A wash of fear crested in me. Would not these same tortures befall the Templar if he had survived the last encounter?

“We must go back,” I said.

Seamus looked at me long and hard. I saw something flash in the depths of his eyes, and it frightened me. It was a longing, a longing for death.

W
e took the chance that it was the last thing they would ever expect — that we would return. Seamus and I backtracked to the place we had been. The ash of the fire was long cold, but Seamus knew where they were going. He had been in and out of consciousness for many days before they found us, and had listened when they thought that he could not.

They were taking him to the walled city of Carcassonne, no more than a day from our last camp. Philippe waited there for word from his men on the ambush set for us.

We rode as fast as our burdened mount would take us, stopping only long enough to dismount and walk for stretches to relieve him. The land was easy. Slight slopes and valleys filled much of the trek, then gave way to a heavily forested wood. The wind was brisk. A seasonal storm was setting to open up on us. The skies were dark and overcast, and the hills a myriad of summer green.

My mind twisted and turned, thoughts whirling without beginning or end, all centered on how we could
do anything to aid the Templar. He would be heavily guarded. And we were but two.

For all my thinking, I had come up with nothing by the time we arrived, and a feeling of despair settled over me. The city was a fortress. Its walls were great blocks of granite. Its windows were few and set high in the towers. Guards patrolled the gate, and sentries stood in the towers. How would we ever get inside, and what would we do then?

We camped in the woods, watching and timing the guards. I repeated the rotation aloud often in that first day, marking time with the progression of the sun across the sky. Seamus sat and watched silently. Where his mind had gone I had no idea, but late on the second day of our watch he spoke.

“There's got to be a way in.”

I saw it just when he did. A single horse-drawn cart traveled the path to the gates.

We waited several candle marks. Time seemed to stretch on forever. Finally the cart reappeared, and it was no longer empty.

“Stay here,” Seamus said. “I'll be back shortly. If anyone marks me, I rely on ye to cover my back.”

He left me standing there wondering just how I was supposed to do that. I drew my dagger and crouched in the tree cover, the sword from the staff at my side. The wind blew down over the valley, rustling the branches,
rattling my knees. Every noise made me jump. Every breath I took was labored.

Seamus appeared driving the wagon a short while later. Where the former driver and his passenger were, I didn't know, but he now wore a dull brown robe over his tunic. “Get in and pull yer hat low.”

I climbed up and glanced back into the wagon. Fresh dark splotches stained the wooden planking.

He pulled the cart off to the side of the road. Waiting. Watching. I wanted to ask him what we were doing, but he had the look of the Templar — absolute concentration. A quarter mark of the candle later, he urged the wagon back onto the road.

“The new guards are in place. Let us hope they didn't speak much on the change.” He flicked the reins. “Keep yer head down an' say nothing.” I'd never seen him this way — solid, serious, deadly. I ducked my head and we rolled on across the drawbridge and boldly up to the gate.

“State yer business,” called the guard.

“We're to pick up a body. Overdue, too,” he added.

“You were supposed to be here earlier,” the man said keenly.

My heart was beating triple time. Without thought I called up the power of the land and whispered a push of uncertainty. Immediately I felt the hum of another. Seamus had added his influence. The guard did not
pause, just called for the gate to open, and the cart rolled inside with no fanfare.

Inside was a wide cobbled road. Seamus urged the horse with the reins and slowly we clopped up the slope, around the bend, and out of the sight of the guards.

“Ye've learned something while we were apart,” said Seamus. This was as close to a compliment as ever I had received from him.

In a dark alleyway, in a seemingly less used part of the city, we tied up the horse and wagon and set out on foot. “They've got to have him in the citadel. They spoke o' cells in the bowels o' the city, where the inquisitor has free rein.”

The thought made me move faster. I had been lagging, frightened by the silence around me and over the ease of our entrance. With barely a sound we slipped through the darkened alleys. Seamus moved with unerring accuracy. “How do ye know where ye're going?” I whispered.

“There is only one way, Tormod,” he said. “Can ye no' feel his pain?”

I glanced quickly at Seamus. His face was pale.

I focused and found that I could feel the trace of the Templar's aura, mingling with the beat of the land. Pain rippled across the surface of my back. I hissed, wishing that I hadn't.

“Distance yerself,” he commanded. I heard him but was too caught up in what I had tapped. “Focus. Ground. Shield!” he snapped. He sounded so like the Templar that I reacted and the pain receded. “Good. Ye need to practice that, Tormod. Ye cannot allow yerself to get trapped in a loop o' someone else's aura. Ye might never regain yer full faculties.”

This Seamus was new to me. I didn't know what to say. I followed him without a word through the alleys and around corners as he tracked the Templar's pain. I did not, however, open myself to that trail again. Seamus led the way.

The citadel was a heavily protected keep built into the rock of the hillside in the lowest part of the city. Two guards stood at the front and one patrolled the roof. We crept around the perimeter looking for an entrance, but there was no other way in.

“No one goes in or out,” Seamus murmured. “The guards are on high alert.” I was stooped next to him beside the eastern wall of the keep. The ground beneath my feet was soft and smelled badly. I moved to Seamus's left to seek stronger purchase.

“God's thumbs, Tormod. What did ye step in?” He shook his head to clear the smell from his nose.

“I don't know, but it's making my eyes tear. Seems to be a stream o' it running right through here.” I scraped
my boots on the harder dirt trying to get rid of the filth. Then it hit me. “No one goes in, but something is getting out. Look!” It was hard to see in the dark when not seeking it, but once recognized, it was discernible. The stream of muck was leaching from a grate set low in the side of the keep. A gulley of runoff snaked directly to where I'd been standing. The privy pits.

“D
o ye think we could fit through?” I asked staring at the grate and dark space behind.

“Aye. It looks to be wide enough for two side by side, but 'tis only waist high. I don't know what's on the other side o' it, but 'tis worth a try, don't ye think?” A rotten smell wafted up my nose. It was all I could do to keep from answering no. This foul, disgusting discovery had been mine.

“Let's go,” I said, anxious to be on our way.

“Hold,” said Seamus. “If I've not offended the Lord, mayhap He will help us in our endeavor.” He made the sign of the cross and I followed. “Our Father, who art in heaven …”

We clasped arms, as I'd seen him do with the Templar. “May the Lord guide our steps,” he said.

“And our faith remain true,” I replied. Seamus could not seem to meet my gaze, and I wondered for a moment what was wrong.

I didn't, however, have time to think on it, for it was time to move. The guards were leaving their post to brief the sentries coming on duty. We would only have moments, and we took the opportunity given, leaving our concealment at a sprint. We followed the path of the foul-smelling stream across the way and up to the wall. To avoid their eyes, we flattened ourselves against it and inched our way to the grate. Seamus leapt the small mouth of the gulley and positioned himself on one side. I stayed on the other. Then, as one, we met in the middle and tested its strength.

On the first tug it moved not at all, but on the second there was a wavering, and the mortar used to hold it in place crumbled beneath our onslaught. The grate was very old, and the constant flow of muck had eroded its metal edges. I could hear the guards moving into place. They were not directly above, but close enough that I thought I'd die then and there.

On the third try the grate came free with a soft rusted whine. Quickly we threw ourselves back, flat against the wall. I heard the guards approach, above.
Pressure blossomed in the back of my eyes, and I felt the hum coming from Seamus.

“Just a boar,” said a guard.

“A nice meal that would make, eh?” spoke another.

“A sight better than the stale oats we've been given,” replied the first.

The sound of their footsteps receding allowed me to breathe once again. Seamus motioned me in. With one last breath of somewhat fresh air, I ducked and darted in through the grate.

Ugh! It was all I could do not to shout the word aloud. The place was disgusting, as foul as ever I had smelled. In the black of the pits was the refuse of many. As we stepped into the depth of it, the slime slid past my ankles. I felt it squish beneath my boots, and when I forced myself to put my hands before me, I touched a wall that was coated.

“Gawd,” I whispered, snatching my fingers back. I was at the base of a long shaft. The space was actually quite wide at the bottom. Seamus entered a moment later and I heard a slight gagging as he fought to keep from retching.

I had moved as far as the hole would allow me, to the left. Now, I hurried past him, to the right. Ahead there was a door. On it a small, rusted latch snapped off at my touch, leaving us locked out where we were.

“Great.” Seamus's disgust was near on as annoying as it had been on the ship.

“Well, if ye've got a better way,” I snapped.

“Shhh.” He hissed. “Step back.”

Inside the corridor a disturbing sound reverberated, a strange rustle and crack that chilled me to the bone. Beside me Seamus gagged.

“What?” I whispered.

“Cat-o'-nine.” His voice was strangled. “The lash.”

My body went cold as the sound came with an unrelenting rhythm. Without wanting to, I strained to hear the gasp of a prayer between the lash strokes.

In my mind I matched his prayers, sick in my heart and soul. Questions fell but none were answered. The lashing seemed as if it would go on an eternity.

“Back.” Seamus's sudden whisper had me scrambling away from him. A soft thrum seemed to fill the space around us as he laid his hands on the door. It was black as pitch, but the edges of him faintly glowed. His body was stiff and still. Then from beyond the door the lashing and questions stopped. The door to a cell opened, and the sound of men passing came to me.

We waited in silence. I would not make the mistakes I had made with the Templar. Seamus moved first. “Give me yer dagger.”

I fished it from my sporran and handed it to him.

He jammed it hard in the latch I had broken. It seemed impossible that it worked and no one heard, but moments later the door opened.

The light from a torch slowly filled the space, then waned as whoever had been there disappeared on their way.

“Others will not be far off. They'd not leave him alone.” His voice was low and breathless. Slowly we crept out. The corridor bent a short distance away, and he held me back.

“Stay here a moment.” I didn't even hear his steps, but a moment later came a dull thud, the sound of something large hitting the floor. In the dark silence I heard the soft rattle of keys.

“Tormod, come,” he whispered loudly.

I moved quickly, stumbling, but righting myself when my feet encountered a body on the floor. “Is he dead?” I asked, sickened.

“No. Come, help me.”