Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (4 page)

The leader of the band ruminated for a moment, unhappy at this news. “Then I’ll make do with your sword instead. After all, I cannot return without a trophy or Dhagmurna won’t believe you’re dead. A sword of Honor would lend credence, would it not?”

The first emperor had decided that this strong steel was so dangerous that too much of it in the wrong hands could (and almost did) destabilize the empire. Therefore, he’d issued a decree that no one should be allowed to possess a steel blade of any kind larger than his hand unless issued a special grant by the emperor himself. Seven times seventy of these swords were granted to each kingdom, as well as the Temple of the Traveler. Built into the hilt of each sword was a numbered symbol of this grant, an oval medal called an Honor. A broken sword could be replaced, but only if the Honor was returned intact. Wielding a blade without Honor was a crime punished by death.

Tashi snorted. “Rest your weary head in my mouth, good chicken, said the fox. A guild that ordered my killing when I was a loyal member would not hesitate to slay me as an unarmed outsider. No, I have need of both my teeth and breath for a while longer, thank you.”

The slaver feigned affront. “Your sister and family lands are still intact,” said Sulandhurka, stealthily sliding out his prized throwing dagger and watching the other man’s throat like a target. “Though you would not give your consent, she went quite willingly to Dhagmurna’s bed. The child of their wedding night arrived sooner than most, I heard.”

Without a word, the sheriff drew a shining, amazingly sharp sword, plated in sesterina. All the hunters gasped at the quality of the weapon and the speed with which it had been unsheathed. The nervous lieutenant stood like a scarecrow between the insulted man and the one who uttered the slur. Unable to help himself, despite the desperate situation, Hon Li said with admiration, “That’s a Sword of Miracles, isn’t it?”

“He probably stole that from our master,” accused the slaver, absorbing every detail of their surroundings for exploitation in the coming clash. The fugitive had draped his cloak over the bridge supports to keep the cold stone from leaching the heat from his body while he waited. What was good planning to keep muscles combat-ready could be deadly in a situation like this, for the man now stood on the far end of the cloak. The ledge was narrow enough that his opponent would have to dodge toward the river to avoid eating a dagger. When Tashi shifted his weight toward the water, Sulandhurka would pull on the cloak, sending the man to his death. It would be a shame to lose the sword, but with any luck it would get stuck in his lieutenant’s body when he was impaled.

“My blade was handed down to me from my master, who received it from the hand of the Emperor Myron the Seventh’s chief bodyguard Nieral, who in turn acquired it as a reward from Warlord Akashua himself,” the sheriff proclaimed proudly. He might have gone on to list the sword’s whole lineage had not the comedian intervened to lighten the tension.

The emperors all had six fingers per hand, a trait that proved their divine heritage. Unfortunately, the royal line had become dangerously inbred in an effort to maintain this recognizable attribute. Babu grinned disarmingly and said, “I heard that Myron the Seventh couldn’t count higher than twelve without dropping his pants. Fortunately, he preferred to run around like that. He used to ask young people at court if they wanted to meet the royal staff. On his more erratic days, barn animals would be promoted to fill judge positions. His keepers must have had quite a time of it, chasing the naked, old bugger around the island. When he was sky-clad, no one at court was allowed to look below his chin. They think that’s how the assassin snuck by the soldiers; it was probably a pygmy from the far desert lands.”

The slaver raised an eyebrow. There were a dozen conflicting rumors about the assassination. The only certainty had been the turmoil and constant fighting to fill the vacuum of power afterward. No one had united all six kingdoms since, and very few with any Imperial blood were left alive to try. The message had been a subtle one for a jester: learn from the mistakes of the past.

The sheriff calmed himself and said, “I am the rightful bearer now and cannot abandon my position.”

“Your position is not a good one, as I see it,” clucked Sulandhurka.

“You need me to get out of here,” the fugitive announced. “Sitting here all this time, I have formed a plan. But I will only share it if you swear truce.”

Sulandhurka put away his knife. “Fool, they can all see in the dark and we cannot. Why not just smear barbecue sauce on your liver, hang yourself from a flagpole, and be done with it? Once more I ask you, Tashi. Why should we trust a thief and an oath-breaker?”

The founder of the Brotherhood had been guilty of even worse charges. The arch-traitor Xavier broke his oath as a sheriff in order to save his order from political destruction, turning all those who remained in Tamarind into heretics and thieves in the eyes of the faithful. But the sole remaining sheriff instead took off his money pouch and threw it to the lead hunter. The slaver grunted appreciatively at the money, though his eyes watered at the garlic. “What’s this?” he asked, removing the nails. “You took this from one of the businesses who pay for our protection?”

“I took that from a way station where the owner had been robbed and murdered by the same demon that just killed your men,” explained Tashi. “Even though I’m out of the guild, I still wear the same symbol. I’m here to kill the wizard that holds that creature’s leash. Are you with me, or will you side with our common enemy, the enemy of all breathing men?”

Sulandhurka sighed. “You will have amnesty if we approve your plan. After the necromancer is dead, we will see. If you honor your agreement, you will go free, and it will be as if we never met you. If you play us false, you will have cause for regret. I have taught many double-crossers the error of their ways.”

Tashi nodded but did not sheath his sword. “The plan is thus. You three cross the river clinging to the underside of the bridge, passing hand over hand. When you arrive on the other bank, I will go above and distract the necromancer. While I hold his attention, you all ride up the wheel into the mill, and attack him from behind. The wizard will be staring into a glass globe to see his pets. Shatter it, and you will have weapons you can use against whatever spirits are left.”

“You’re not afraid?” asked the jester.

“No. I can hold them for as long as I need to,” Tashi said matter-of-factly.

“He’s planning to stab us while we cross,” claimed the slaver, because that is what he would do. “Or better yet, he can wait until we are exposed and point us out to the wizard. The necromancer will be so grateful for the gesture that he’ll let our little Tashi go free. I think not. The plan needs one change. My lieutenant Hon Li will accompany you. At the first sign of treachery or cowardice, he has orders to kill you.height="0p>

Tashi looked wryly at the shocked lieutenant. “If he’s willing to face the demons with me, I won’t turn down a man to guard my back. New money,” he said. Freshly minted coins were the only ones guaranteed to have all the gold and silver in them; thus, they were the preferred form of payment for mercenaries. New money became slang for anything that was the best deal possible in a life-or-death situation.

Sulandhurka fished the strings of money out of the innkeeper’s purse and transferred them to his own. The garlic he handed to his lieutenant. Hon Li’s eyes began to water, but not because of the smell. The comedian was already swinging monkey-style across the bottom of the bridge. The heavier slaver had a more difficult time, sweating and cursing all the way.

When the men on each bank were ready, Tashi climbed back to the toll sign at the entrance to the bridge shouting, “Wizard, we demand the right to a duel of honor! One champion and one second each.” As he railed, the lieutenant emerged from his side of the bridge, the signal that the other two had sprinted safely to the wheel. The man with the Sword of Miracles stood firm, bracing his left side against the balustrade of the bridge. He shouted, “If you do not face me like a man, I will come in there after you. I’m going to count to ten.”

The lieutenant crouched behind Tashi, trying to watch both ways at once. The fugitive had assured him that the saurian spirit would only attack from behind or below. Their best defense would be to keep their backs against the sturdy stonework and use their blades to protect their exposed ankles. If forced to attack by its master, a normal beast would try to knock them over by striking with a forceful leap just above the waist. If something jumped at him, the fearful lieutenant was instructed to deflect it, knocking it off the bridge and into the water.

Meanwhile, Tashi moved gracefully into the most stable stance he could, concentrating on his own breathing. He practiced an ancient martial-art style whose name translated into “wrestling with giants.” The art was most effective against the tall Imperials, using their own height against them. After his injuries, practicing the art helped him regain control over his anger as well as rehabilitate his damaged leg and shoulder sinews. He didn’t remember learning it as a child, but his body knew all the basic forms so well that his mind would have only interfered.

This particular maneuver, “the great boulder in a farmer’s field”, was taught at the very highest levels of the discipline. He learned the technique while working as a bodyguard for the priest who had saved his life and given it renewed meaning. In becoming the boulder, the warrior established a close connection with the physical world around him, and tapped that strength to reinforce his own existence, his own personal gravity. The trick lay in solid confidence, peaceful meditation, and focusing the power of the will. Becoming the boulder only exaggerated what you already were. Tashi concentrated on becoming progressively heavier until he became the proverbial immovable object. He felt the weight of the artifact on his chest pull downward even more as he entered the proper state. He’d succeeded in this endeavor once during a tournament but never during actual combat.

Every few breaths, the lieutenant would quake out another number. By the time he had counted up to four, they could see the grass moving. At eight, they could hear the galloping on the packed-clay path. The man with the Sword of Miracles held his pose, unmoving. At nine, he saw the eyes and a white flash around the beast’s muzzle. A heartbeat later, it launched savagely at his ches. Tashi exhaled sharply in preparation for the blow. A brief clang sounded on impact like a hammer on an anvil, but it could have been his imagination. Either way, the boulder had not moved.

The spirit rebounded onto the dirt, head weaving in confusion. It opened it jaws as if for the normal, follow-up bite, and Tashi’s right arm darted out without conscious thought. The bright sword sliced through the open mouth and did not stop until it jerked out the back of the skull. The head and body slumped in different directions, the ectoplasm dissipating before it struck the earth.

“Ten,” the sheriff said, taking a cleansing breath to relax himself.

The necromancer was furious at losing his second demon of the day. He appeared at a mill window, nigh frothing at the mouth, cursing in three languages at once. The tick in his eye was unnatural. Normal people did not blink and twitch that often. Perhaps this wizard was controlled as much as he was the controller. There was a pecking order to these things. Upon consideration, Tashi decided that an important wizard wouldn’t be given the menial task of guarding a toll booth day and night. He pointed his gleaming sword tip at the raving man like an extension of his own finger. “You will open the same way if you do not let us pass.”

The cursing wizard screamed horribly and convulsed. His mouth and eyes opened wide, his jaws locked, and something vomited forth like the glint of sunlight on the waves of the Inner Sea. As it fell to the ground, sand and debris began to swirl into a dust devil. A low moan escaped the lieutenant as he stroked the pouch of garlic with his left hand.

“Hold, and guard your mouth gate. Do not breathe if you can help it,” whispered Tashi, bracing to face this new threat. He’d never faced such a demon before, but had faith that the rune wards covering every spiritual nexus of his body, and the item around his neck, would protect him from any evil. The dust devil of the wizard’s fury built in intensity and size as it spanned the intervening gap. The lieutenant ducked behind Tashi again, sacrificing the shield of the bridge in favor of greater distance from this impending doom. Tashi, himself, might have been carved of stone as the spinning cloud zigzagged toward the pair, howling. When it drew close enough, tendrils whipped out and probed every part of the swordsman. Though the grit stung his cheeks and eyes, the wisps recoiled whenever they touched him. When the demon was sufficiently frustrated, Tashi used his confidence as a weapon against the noisy spirit, “You cannot have me. Flee my wrath and return to your host.” As a novice at the demon business, he made the typical mistake of not being specific with either order.

About that moment, the two hunters creeping into the mill planted a dagger deep in the throat of the necromancer. Then Babu clubbed him from behind so hard the shutters broke asunder and the wizard was propelled out the window. For a timeless moment, the body seemed to hang in midair before plummeting down to dash against the hard ground. The men in the mill whooped and began shattering every trace of magic paraphernalia they could find. The demon spirit became frantic at these events, whipping all manner of loose matter through the air at gale speeds. The lieutenant began hyperventilating in panic and ran from the epicenter of the assault. The frenzied spirit felt this movement, tasted the delicious aura of fear, and poured itself into the man through his heaving lungs.