A Templar's Apprentice (25 page)

The Templar was unconscious, his breathing shallow, and he moaned when we rolled him onto his back. His face was bleeding. I grew nauseous at the warm feel of his blood beneath my fingers. The vestment on his back was shredded.

“What have they done to ye?” My voice was hollow.
Lord, help us, please. Help him.

“Hurry, Tormod,” Seamus said. “He's deadweight an' not walking out o' here on his own.”

Seamus beneath one arm, and I the other, we dragged him, his head lolling forward in a faint.

Slowly we made our way back through the corridor and out of the doorway. The weight of his body was tremendous and the blood from his wounds slippery in my hands. The heavy, copper smell of it filled the dark space. His agony seemed to echo against the walls of my mind.

We came at last on the foul pit just as the carving began to flare.

“They're coming,” I said breathlessly. “Hurry, Seamus.”

We nearly dropped him in the struggle to get him through the grate. Seamus went first while I gripped the Templar's vestments, my arms aching with the strain. Then I pushed as Seamus pulled, dragging the Templar close against the wall to freedom. Waiting. Listening.

One. Two. Three.
We counted the guard's steps overhead.
Four. Five. Six.
“Now,” Seamus whispered, and we took off for the shelter of the darkened alleys. I thought there'd be an outcry, men at our back. There was nothing, but the trip was agonizing. The Templar remained
unconscious, his tunic soaked clear through. My arms and back burned with the effort not to drop him.

“Get up,” said Seamus, taking on the whole weight of the Templar's body.

I leapt into the wagon bed, and together we lifted the Templar and laid him in the straw. With a dark, filthy blanket that had seen much use, we covered him, hiding the white of his vestments.

“Get up in the seat and drive,” Seamus ordered, handing me the dagger. “Take him through the front gate. Use the power on the guard if ye have to.”

“Wait,” I said. “What are ye going to do?”

“Do as I say and don't question it. It's vital that ye both go on an' finish as ye were destined. Follow the map.”

I wavered. How could I leave him here?

“Go, before it's all for naught.” He took the walking stick from the wagon and unsheathed the blade. “I'll keep them occupied an' run, as soon as I know ye're safe away.” His face was white, pleading.

“No. I cannot leave ye,” I said.

He looked at me one last time, and in his face I saw that the decision was out of my hands. “I'm sorry, Tormod. For everything.” He slapped the horse's flank with the flat of the blade. “Heyah!” The animal took off faster than I had expected, and it was all I could do to rein him back in and direct us toward
the gate at the sedate pace the healer I had replaced would have.

I dared not look back, but focused all my attention on the gate ahead and the aura of the guards pacing above.
They're o' no concern,
I whispered.
Let the wagon through.
My head pounded this time with the effort.

The gate dropped, and I crossed the drawbridge. On the far side I pushed again, even though my stomach now was heaving from the mental effort I'd expended already.

North.
I urged the horse along the road and away.

Tuo da Gloriam.

The shout came at me across the distance of space and mind.

The clash of swords. Darkness. A yearning for death. Troubled eyes.

“No!” I snapped from the vision sense. “It was no' supposed to be this way! Ye said ye would leave. Ye said ye would escape.”

Another life. Another cruel end. It was too much. This all was too much. I shook as if palsied, the tears rolling down my cheeks as I slumped over in the seat.

Hush ye now, Tormod.
The Templar's soft Highland lilt whispered in my mind.

I sat up quickly and leapt into the back of the wagon beside him. “Seamus …” I whispered.

Let no' his sacrifice be in vain.
His mind voice was full of grief.
We have yet a duty to fulfill.

I
held a water skin to the Templar's lips, urging, willing him to drink. He did, but sparsely. It was almost more energy than he could expend. There was nowhere on the Templar's back that was not cut and welted.

“I can heal ye. Let me try,” I pleaded.

“Ye've done too much already, Tormod. The power changes us, takes a toll every time it is used. Ye healed Seamus.”

My head was pounding and my body felt drained. I hadn't realized why. “How did ye know?”

“I felt ye. It matters no'. We must leave here. The soldiers will be seeking us.”

I didn't push the discussion. He was sorely injured. I got down from the wagon and watered the horse. How had this come to pass? I could not seem to make my mind work it through. The carving sat at my middle in
the depths of my sporran, thankfully cool once again. I watched the Templar, sick with worry. Each time he shifted, the blood seemed to seep once more.

“Let's go.” I let the horse have one last go at the water, then took it away and dumped the little left. “Do we still have the map?” he asked.

“Aye. They never took the saddlebags from yer mount.” As he reached for it, he grimaced and his skin paled. “North and west from here.”

We set out straightaway. In the quiet drone of the horse's tread, I thought about Seamus. Part of me wanted to talk to the Templar about what had happened, but another part of me was a coward whose throat filled with lumps and eyes filled with tears each time I tried to speak. It mattered not; the Templar had fallen into a pained sleep. I would not wake him. He needed rest and healing. I had to wonder if all that we'd been through, all that had happened, would be worth it in the end.

We traveled the low rolling hills for most of the day. Even in sleep, he winced each time the wagon jarred him. Exhaustion and pain issued from his body, and the feel of it twisted my insides. He woke several times, and at each interval I urged water on him.

By nightfall we were deep into a forest that marked the gradual ascent into a group of low-lying hills. The dark of the sky was a silken purple, the dots of the stars
like fireflies above us. I decided to stop for a rest and drew up before a rippling basin of water, fed by a cascading fall over the jagged rock of the hillside. Cool mist surrounded the place.

Labored breath rang in my ears. I looked around disoriented. Steep rocks filled the space before my eyes. Feet stumbling. Climbing.

The carving in my sporran was burning.
Focus. Ground. Shield.

“Templar Alexander …” I whispered. Fumbling, I drew the carving from the pouch as he woke and inched his way to the edge of the wagon bed.

He was pale and drawn, barely managing to sit as he followed the direction of my gaze. With a gasp that disappeared beneath the crash of the water, he crossed himself with reverence.

In the spray of the crystalline waterfall, a brilliant splayed cross was illuminated.

“What does it mean?” I whispered in awe.

“Look!”

I turned to find his gaze not ahead, but above. There in the sky directly atop us was the glow of the constellation that matched the one we had been staring at from the beginning. The constellation that marked the map.

“Behind the falls,” I said. “An old man came this way.”

With a torch made of a dried tree limb and a strip of my tunic, I led the way carrying the last of our supplies, his sword, and my dagger. The Templar had all he could handle lifting himself in his weakened state.

The climb was slow. In the dark, footing was unsure. The cool mist coated my skin, but I was warm beneath the carving's steady glow.

At the mouth of the cave I helped the Templar over the last of the climb. We stood on the ledge as he gathered strength, staring into the depths of the blackness. The crash of the water echoed with the beat of the land, and I listened, taking it deep inside me, then letting it drift out again.

The Templar stood beside me, suddenly stronger and steadier than he had been only moments before.

“'Tis an ancient healing site,” he said. “Can ye feel the power?”

“Aye,” I said. “What is it?”

“'Tis said that throughout our world there are places where the earth's power is concentrated, where the pulse beats strongest, and the heart of the land lives. This is one of them.”

He took the torch and moved into the cave, shining the light on the walls. Images were scribed there, ancient
and beautiful — older even than the ones on the astrolabe. I moved close, running my fingers along the nearest. There were symbols and pictures, and in the midst of it I saw a cross similar to that of the Templar Order. I saw things that were half man, half animal. And lines that ran in patterns with no beginning or end. “Can ye read it?” I asked.

“No. Perhaps if I had more time.”

In the back of the cave we found the remnant of a long-dead fire. Twigs and old logs lay nearby. I stacked them and lit the bundle with the torch.

“Ye will need as many torches as we can make,” he said. “The tunnels are black as pitch.”

“I?”

He didn't speak for a moment. Then quietly he said, “They are coming, Tormod.” He sat down beside the fire, staring into the orange glow of the flames. “We've spoken before o' the pebble dropped into the stream, aye?”

“Aye,” I replied, remembering. “Ye said what we saw as the future could be changed.”

“What I have seen has already begun to change, Tormod. Ye have changed it. This is yer legacy. Yer duty to fulfill.” He reached for his sword, though the movement clearly sent pain cascading through him. He bared the blade from its sheath. “It is my duty to make sure ye have the chance.”

“No,” I protested. “This is no' a thing I can do alone. Ye cannot stay here.” It was always all right when he was by my side, but I knew what he proposed.

“I must keep them from reaching ye. I have seen what is to come. It is vital that I protect ye. 'Tis my calling, though for a while I was no' very good a' it.” He slowly began his exercises. “I don't have the endurance to travel the tunnels that lead off from here. There is no telling how far they twist beneath the mountain.”

I had come far in overcoming my fear of the darkness, but this was different altogether.

“There is wood enough for several torches.” He pointed his sword toward a pile of sticks in the corner. “Use the blanket. Make strips an' tie them to the top.” He continued to work his body, readying for confrontation. His back was oozing fresh blood with movements that had to be painful, but he kept at it.

“How are ye feeling?” I asked.

He didn't answer immediately. “Tormod, our goal is within reach.” His voice was strong and determined. “I will guard yer back an' do what I must.”

I looked at the torch in my hand and dropped my head. “I am afraid,” I said.

“Wise men fear, Tormod, but they don't let the fear stop them from accomplishing what they must.”

“I am not worthy,” I said. “I'm not like ye. I question His will. I'm no' good enough to be a Templar.”

He looked up at me, compassion in his eyes. “O' course ye are, lad. A Templar is just one who believes, one who is called. Ye, Tormod, have been called. Do ye disbelieve that for a second?”

I thought on it. I felt the carving warm, now back inside my sporran, and remembered the many visions that had come to me over the past few months. “I know that I have been called. I just worry that when it comes time to do something about it, I will fail.”

“We can only do our best, Tormod. 'Tis all that is asked o' us.” It was so simple to him. His faith was stronger than any man I'd ever met.

“Are ye ready?” he asked, sheathing the blade.

I had enough food and water for several days. And as I lit the first torch from the embers of the fire, he approached.