Shadowblade (8 page)

Once inside the temple compound, Hugh was strapped to a cart and wheeled across the open courtyard to the temple itself. All the while his analytical mind was processing scenarios, deducing likely outcomes and waiting to take advantage of any way out of this mess; even if it meant falling on someone’s sword. His insides were turning to water at the thought of what might happen should the forces of the Arnathian Empire learn the secrets of his spy network. The worst of it, however, was likely worse than a mere compromise of his network. Should this man truly be a Soulbound Smiter, the devious bastards would likely gain control of his body thus gain access to all of his thoughts and memories and the considerable knowledge stored in his brain.

A very skinny man in the white and gold robes of a priest of Qra’z stood at the temple door, the morning light shining on his bald pate.

“Well, well, Hugh Renaul it is. Hmm.” The man’s squeaky voice and annoying accent revealed he was from the Arnathian Capital. Hugh tried to scowl at the man, but the best he could manage to do was growl with his jaws clenched tightly by the
lock
spell cast upon him. If he was going to die, he would do his best to die on his own terms and at the very least die defiantly. He would never, ever, sell his soul to the foul priest or this cursed Smiter.

“Very nice specimen, Hother.”

“Jus’ pay me, priestie. No time for games.”

Hugh took some comfort in that. It appeared to him as though the Hother was going to leave him with the priest. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I will, Hother. But you will bring this one inside before you unlock him.” The Hother pirate growled with impatience and picked up the man, stiff as a board and threw him roughly inside the temple.

“There! Inside he is. Nah, PAY ME!” shouted the pirate. Hugh knew this Hother must be a powerful Smiter to talk to a priest of Qra’z in that way. Not because the priest was more powerful in magic than this Smiter, although that might be the case, rather it was that priests of Qra’z commanded respect under Arnathian law. Arnathians would tolerate no less.

The priest shot the Smiter a dark look and reached into his pouch producing a handful of Arnathian gold crowns.

“Nah, nah, priestie. Tha’ won’t do at all! I need stone currency. I’m for tha Eastern Kingdoms affer hare! Pay up!”

“Indeed,” said the beady eyed priest. Hugh did his best to remain silent and forgotten as the pair haggled. He hoped the Smiter would unlock him without binding his hands. A wild hope. His eye muscles had been unaffected by the spell and he was able to glance around; the temple was completely empty. A lone brazier smoked with incense on the altar at the far end of the sanctuary. The temple was lavishly decorated in the fashion of temples elsewhere in the empire. Hugh had never set foot in this temple, he somehow had never given any thought to what it looked like on the inside. The floor of the sanctuary was covered with luxurious carpeting and on the walls hung fine tapestries and paintings, while large golden statutes watched from alcoves. Clearly, sermons in this room were meant to remind the faithful of the ever-present greed of their god, he thought wryly. It seemed to Hugh that everywhere he looked the eyes in the paintings and on the statutes watched him, was a threat -daring him to act. With thoughts of defiance, Hugh vowed to act and hoped he could kill one of these men in the process.

The priest opened a pouch that had been hidden deep inside his robes and paid the Hother in gem currency. Consisting of small disks, or coins, made from rough emerald and ruby stones not fit for jewelry, gem currency had been used in Hybrand prior to occupation and was still in use in the Eastern Kingdoms. Nothing more was said between the two as the Hother strode toward the door. Before stepping out the surly man waggled a finger at Hugh and muttered something unintelligible before flinging open the door and leaving. Feeling his muscles suddenly relax as he was
unlocked,
Hugh shoved his hand into his pocket to reach for something that would help him end this situation. He was amazed at how much his joints hurt with the movement, even though he had only been under the spell for a few minutes. He pulled the wormwood rod from his pocket and held it to his throat as he rolled on the floor. But he hesitated before speaking the incantation.

Maybe I can escape
, he thought
. This is just a priest
.

Fool, you know the routine! End it, now!
he answered himself. With renewed determination he chose to do his duty. He forced the tip of the rod into his throat and tried to utter the incantation, but no sound came out. He almost cried with desperation, but his voice made no sound. He shoved the rod back in his pocket.

“Hmm, hmm,” mumbled the priest. “Why do you try to speak in my sanctuary? I wonder. No use. There is a
silence
spell at work here. Only I may speak, and those whom I choose to allow.” The skinny priest chuckled and grabbed the Cklathman with unusual strength, hoisting him to his feet. Beady black eyes in a flat face trying to read him over a hooked nosed made the man look something like an owl. “Sacrilege is not tolerated in here. Hmm.”

With one hand on his golden dragon pendant, and the other on Hugh’s arm, the skinny man led him to a staircase behind the altar. Hugh had already thought about why the priest had not summoned anyone else to help him. The odds were that this priest was either a powerful fighter and could whip him with one hand, or he was one of the few priests gifted with powerful magic. Sensing the latter was the more likely scenario, Hugh knew that going deeper into the priest’s lair was a bad idea and decided to make a break for it. He calculated the odds of getting caught versus the odds of escaping long enough to cast his spell. Then he dismissed the odds; after all, he really had no other choice.

Hugh slid his wormwood stick from his pocket and then he jammed it in the side of the priest’s head, hoping to stun him long enough to make it out the temple door. The moment wood struck bone, Hugh turned and ran as fast as he could toward the exit, his pouches and pockets flapping. He mentally recited the incantation that he would veritably shout should he make it safely to the exit. He sensed freedom as he reached the door and then-

-fell flat on his face,
locked
again. Tears rolled down his cheeks as rough, but invisible, hands picked him up and lifted him from the ground. Slowly, inexorably, he drifted across the sanctuary toward the staircase, hopes dashed. This spell was much stronger than the last, leaving him barely enough control to breathe. He was able to glimpse, with some satisfaction, that the priest was still in a crumpled heap near the alter, blood dripping from his temple.

Down the tight spiral staircase he floated, in the firm and unyielding clutches of the unseen. Hugh knew now that the end was near, and it was going to end badly. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this and he cursed himself for a coward for not thinking of it earlier; the dagger concealed in his belt was going to be his only way out now.

After what seemed an eternity on the tight spiral staircase, he arrived at the bottom. And here was something Hugh had never imagined he would see in a temple of Qra’z. In a Smiter shrine to some foul demon, maybe. But a temple of the Golden Dragon god? Never.

Five cages just tall enough for a man to stand, but not wide enough for a man to sit, were positioned around the room. In each was the corpse of a man, eyes large and black and vacant. Among them he noticed his contact, Regari Gnocco, an operative who hailed from Lower Arnathian Plains. The man was definitely dead by the look in his eyes, yet he could not help but notice a subtle twitching movement of the hands. He would have sighed, had he been able, and instead let out a ragged breath through his involuntarily clenched teeth. This was definitely going to end badly.

This room was adorned with tapestries and paintings as above, yet the subject matter of these paintings was far different from what was above. The tapestries showed shining warriors with golden skin and golden armor stepping from shimmering portals, which Hugh assumed led from the heavens. These must be the mysterious Cjii, the immortal race of people blessed with powerful magic that served the Golden Dragon god. Much was written of them in legends and myths but the position of the church was always one of ignorance to their supposed existence.

Two altars stood side by side at the opposite end of the room. Above each altar were sculptures of blood red dragons with eyes of gold, not the golden dragons favored by Qra’z. The rest of the room was decorated with dragon’s heads, long razor-like dragon’s claws, and sinister weapons and tools with various hooks and blades and spikes.

Hugh had studied much of the arcane world and knew what he was seeing in this chamber. It was spelled out in the tapestries that decorated the walls. Invisible hands laid him upon a large stone altar and draped a crimson and gold cloth over his body. He never saw who or what was responsible for depositing him there and assumed that the priests of Qra’z were in league with something dreadful and nefarious. He forced his mind to continue his assessments and calculations, knowing that what was coming was going to be horrible indeed, and it was better to face something like that without thinking about it.

He laid there for what seemed like hours, unmoving, his joints and muscles painfully rigid and unyielding. Unable to blink, barely able to breath. Hugh tried to think of every possible way out of this mess, but he came up empty. Hopelessly bound to this inevitable course of action he began to accept that he would be unable to change his fate; at least that is what he would let his tormentors believe.

Hugh was thinking of something he learned long ago during his studies as member of the Order of the Open Palm, a monastic order devoted to Zuhr. There were methods of meditation and mental escape that could help one endure suffering and pain and he was certainly skilled in those. But the monks also taught him something he desperately hoped he hadn’t thought of too late; the
surrender
. The
surrender
had been used with success by the monks whose roots went back centuries before the advent of the Order of the Open Palm. In those days of strife and war, the monks had been trusted to carry out highly secret missions for the church. According to his mentors, a few had successfully employed this method to save themselves from horrible torture and to protect the secrets of their god.
However, one must define success,
he thought,
pragmatically.
Then, he reconsidered.

There was no need to define that at all.

Judging that any fate on his own terms would be far better than having his soul sent to serve Qra’z in the afterlife and his body turned into a willing vessel for one of the cursed Cjii to possess and steal his thoughts, he began the meditation process that he hoped would end his life on his own terms. The
surrender
had one purpose; to free the soul and send it to join the father of all gods, Zuhr, in paradise.

For a long time he remained alone in the chamber with the not-so-lifeless corpses watching over him. Dimly he became aware of voices but he efficiently tuned them out and concentrated on surrendering his soul to heaven. Slowly he became tired and concentration became more difficult as his mind tried to wander off into the dream world. But he knew that was a trap for the unwary, and the dream world would lead him to wakefulness and pain and the betrayal of those he trusted most; including his new faith in Zuhr. No, he focused his mind on the goal at hand and the dream world slipped by him. Now he seemed in another place, far from his own world, drifting among the stars. A bright light shined, blinding him, as though a door had been opened to illuminate the darkness. Finally, he could see again and walked toward the door. As he entered the doorway, leaving his mortal world behind, pure knowledge flooded his mind and he understood. Everything. There were no more questions. Now he understood why.

His vision and hearing and other senses left him then and all he knew was the pure happiness of being with Zuhr. Pain was a distant memory and was gone. He left the world behind then, and nothing else mattered.