Read Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity Online
Authors: Scott Rhine
Initially a puppet ruler, the new emperor of the north made an alliance with the beleaguered Keepers. He would bring new life to their mountain, protection, and peace. They, in turn, would be his personal guards and share with him the secrets of the past.
Sandarac brought them knowledge of mines, gained from his stay in Kiateros. Thus the emperor commissioned a secret set of railed carts, powered by counterweight systems, to take the faithful more quickly than ever to and from the top. Instead of four hours, explorers could have eight, and personal weight restrictions ceased to be a limitation. Without this mechanism, Sandarac’s own visit to the summit and the resulting side-effects would never have been possible.
Ever since his first visit to the ancient City, Sandarac had been plagued by dreams, both confused and prophetic. To interpret them, he sought counsel from his extensive intelligence network and the newest sect in the North, the Temple of Sleep. Over the last ten years, the strength and frequency of these dreams had grown, as had the local legends around his predictions. Treason, the death of nobles, or the failure of crops—nothing could surprise Sandarac.
Yet on this night, the Pretender was troubled by his dreams and called upon the seeress herself to attend him. Zariah the seeress was a preposterously old and shriveled woman. She seldom left the protection of her ruins, but the Pretender wouldn’t come to her. The true reason was a carefully concealed state secret; Sandarac had a severe disability. Were his weakness known, the people might call him the Lame King, or the Beggar King. This would damage his image and thereby his claim to the throne; thus, the truth remained buried behind new rituals and protocols deployed under the guise of the new emperor’s safety. He brought the tradition of the palanquin back into vogue and was carried everywhere in this elaborately decorated, curtained box. Unfortunately, his majesty’s experiences in prison had also left him claustrophobic, such that he could never comfortably travel more than an hour from his throne.
Zariah had a score of her elite Somnambulists carry her to the palace. The Somnambulists were entranced soldiers, totally under her control, and immune to pain and fear. Though slower than normal soldiers, her guards never hesitated and could keep attacking, even after losing limbs. Any man she had contact with in her temple could be turned into a dream walker, giving them frightening potential as spies and assassins. This ability made other politicians nervous and often hostile. In exchange for her guarding the path from the Inner Sea to the capital, the Pretender kept everyone else out of her sacred city. His majesty’s uen nightmares made Zariah one of the most powerful women in the world.
The seeress complied with the summons as soon as it reached her, navigating the stone streets of the capital under cover of darkness. Anyone else would have waited on her pleasure. But she honored Sandarac because she believed the man had the best chance to unite the kingdoms again. The man was of the proper bloodline, had a decent measure of magical talent, and knew his administrative skills. Sandarac had once used his skills to escape the dungeons of the north, as his legend claimed. When the soldiers of Kiateros recaptured him, Sandarac had been permanently hobbled to prevent him from running again. This did not stop the attempts, however, and more damage was done each time they caught him. Between his body and his natural inclinations, this emperor would never be a warrior.
Yet Sandarac trusted the seeress to promote his best interests and keep his secrets because he knew hers. Soon after arriving in Reneau, the new emperor had located the source of her incredible powers and could have destroyed it at a moment’s notice. For her part, Zariah supported the status quo because, given the present circumstances, Sandarac was an ideal leader.
The Pretender fought the silent war for dominance on the battlegrounds of economics and intelligence, with spies and supply chains. Food, blankets, boots, and knowledge of both landscape and people were all necessary to win. While waiting for a real advantage, Sandarac rebuilt the Imperial infrastructure. His coffers were dedicated to the eventual victory of his alliance. Unlike many of his predecessors, this emperor’s needs were modest, and never opulent. His worst vice was having palace rooms that were too large with too many windows to heat economically in the winter. Zariah drew her shawl about her to defend against that inevitable chill.
After a brief standoff, her Somnambulists were permitted onto the palace grounds, but only she was permitted to enter the emperor’s council chamber. Forty stout, Keeper guards stood between the sleepers and the throne. Zariah applauded the chief of security for his caution. However, she exaggerated her own frailty to make the expedition to the chambers take as long as possible. A woman’s importance could be measured by how long a man could remain patient.
Inside the enormous council chamber, Sandarac sat on a well-cushioned chair before a small, round table. The room was lit by candles, darkness hiding the far corners. Had he the use of his legs, his majesty would have been pacing. Normally, nothing affected his illusion of perfect control. Sandarac’s narrow facial hair, even at this late hour, was impeccably trimmed, and his golden, fur-lined robes unwrinkled. The Pretender reminded her of a rich child’s dress-up doll. Only his simple, iron-circlet crown with the three stark, upright spikes revealed the true seriousness of the figure.
When Zariah had seated herself, he began. The seeress would not be rude enough to demand an explanation, but he knew what was on her mind. “I had another dream of power.”
Zariah removed her black veil of her office from her face. Her eyes were a rare, pale green, but the wise man did not stare into them for too long. “Tell me about it.”
His majesty took a drink of heated cider to calm his nerves. “It was about gold coins. My coin with the three lions spun on the floor in a game of chance. A coin with six lions, from the old empire, came out of nowhere and collided. Both wobbled, coming close to toppling. Then a man dressed as one of the old sheriffs stomped on them both. When he removed his boot, only one coin remained. I asd him who won, but that’s when the dream ended. So, wise one, what does it mean?”
“I can give you the obvious interpretation, but to be complete, I will need to do a reading,” she said, cautiously.
“Your usual price?”
Zariah gestured helplessly. “My bones will ache after handling the plaques. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”
“Very well, I’ll instruct the ki mages to give you a full year this time,” Sandarac agreed, not even quibbling over the blatant extortion.
“His majesty is generous. May he live long, and have many heirs,” she began ceremoniously.
He waved his good hand, “Dispense with the requisite ass-kissing. I can’t sleep till this is resolved.”
She smiled. Zariah liked this would-be emperor. “We’ll begin with the simple symbols. You and your throne are the first coin. Each kingdom is represented by a circle on the back. The game of chance indicates many probabilities in flux. The fate of all the kingdoms hangs in the balance and the confrontation will be coming sooner than we expected. The sheriff represents some ancient law or religious principle that will resolve the conflict. Those who oppose it will be crushed under its iron boot heel.”
“Yes, but who wins?”
“The contest can still go either way. Your actions can affect the outcome,” she said cryptically. His majesty tapped the tabletop impatiently, commanding the reading. She took her time withdrawing the large deck of cards from her black handbag and settling into the proper frame of mind. The cards were just a prop to give the supplicant something to focus on while her mind roamed the astral plane. Any card could apply to nearly any situation if one knew the proper frame of reference. While his highness divided the deck, the seeress lit a stick of incense from a candle on the table.
When she reached the necessary state of consciousness, Zariah flipped over the first card, the problem. It was the Wheel. “The problem is the fortunes of war, the vagaries of probability, the future and how we control it. But it also, like the back of a gold coin, can represent time, a calendar. What time mark was at the top of the spinning coins?”
“Now that you mention it, they both indicated Emperor’s Day,” he said after a moment’s consideration.
“An apt omen,” she said. “Very soon if it is this year’s calendar, or it may just be a metaphor. The next card is your near future,” she said, turning a second card that depicted a row of men with bared swords. “I guess there’s not much room for doubt there.”
“Far future.” The third card showed the Emperor. “Again, something we already knew. Sorry.”
“The past.” The fourth depicted a man with his head chopped off, but the card was inverted. “In this case, the card doesn’t represent the victim, but the figure of the executioner lurking in the background.”
She skipped over to a minor side card to get more details. “He’s associated with the Crowd. This usually represents the will of the people.”
The fifth major card was a common traveler, a walking figure whose face was turned away. “This card represents the nexus. He’s an actual man, traveling, who used to be an executioner. The sheriff in your dream may be a real person. Control him and you control the outcome.”
Flipping over the other minor cards, Zariah announced, “He’s just entered your realm. The whirlwind is on his heels. Find him before the fighting begins and victory is yours. If he slips through your fingers, so will your dynasty.”
Dubious, Sandarac stared at the cards. “How do I know this isn’t just a wild-goose chase? A mysterious traveler? That sounds pretty cliché.”
She shook her head. “No. I can’t see him yet, but he’s real. The shadows he casts are long indeed. If you doubt me, close your eyes and take any card from the remainder of the deck. This will be your sign, the way you will recognize him.”
Sandarac reached without hesitation and turned over a second traveler. This one had a face obscured by a corona of light. “The Messenger,” she gasped. This card was one of the major arcana, typically referring to a literal messenger or a revelation. But in rare circumstances, it symbolized a visit from the Traveler himself. It was known to be the last card drawn by Myron before his spectacular demise.
His majesty dropped the card on the floor. “May all the gods help us.”
The wagon with
the valuable bell was nearly to Innisport, only a day-and-a-half’s travel from the outskirts of the teeming metropolis. Because the roads were ill-maintained in this region, every hour saw less progress than the one before. The incessant sweat, fear, and boredom had stretched nerves in the group to the breaking point. Sulandhurka was driving the ox team himself, hoping to eke a little more speed out of the lumbering beasts. Seeing the sun pass the midday mark made him apply the lash with increasing fervor. The others in the back were playing the game they had been using to pass the leagues.
“If I were guildmaster, I’d have ten wives,” said Gallatin.
“Together, they’d spend your share in under a year. What good would that be?” said the new lieutenant.
“Besides, in my experience, satisfying just one woman keeps me busy enough,” the smith said sagely.
“Have a little trouble down there, do ye?” insinuated Gallatin, pointing his thumb at the smith’s codpiece.
Rather than laugh with the others, the smith shot back, “Have you ever bothered to please or even get to know a woman? Better yet, have you slept with any woman who you didn’t pay?”
The two stood to confront each other, but the bouncing of the cart made a staring contest difficult. The lieutenant intervened, “Easy gents, it’s just supposed to be a little exercise for the mind. Don’t nobody go straining a muscle.”
Sulandhurka sensed a need to help out the peacemaker. “The smith’s got a point, though. You just need one, if she’s the right one. The Dhagmurna only has one wife, but she’s a real firebrand. It’s a pity her brother’s dead now.”
“Who was her brother?” asked the new lieutenant.
The smith looked away.
“He’s the one who led our raid into the Spirit Temple,” said Sulandhurka.
“Brave man,” said Bunji, who could never remember to use his cover name. “What happened?”
“Giant,” said the other three in unison. They had rehearsed their story for the guild very well. Bunji knew no other version and would corroborate the lie for them.
After a moment of silence, the game resumed. “If I were guildmaster, I’d have a golden chamber pot,” ventured the lieutenant.
“It wouldn’t hold up under your weight,” noted the smith.
“Are you calling me fat?” challenged the other.
The smith shook his head. “The metal’s just too soft, you see…” Just then the front, right cartwheel hit an enormous hole, pitching all the men forward violently. Only the slaver kept his seat.
The slaver applied his whip to the animals, but the wheel was lodged firmly. “Smith!” he shouted impatiently.
Without hesitation, the smith rolled over the side and into the mud, taking his bag of tools along with him. Wriggling underneath the wagon, the craftsman assessed the situation. He tapped on the wood in several places with his hammer. The tool’s handle was new, fashioned on the road from some dark hardwood. He was proud of its heft and how well it fit in his hand. “The axle still looks sound. No real damage. Maybe you could haul it out without all that dead weight.”
“Again with the fat cracks,” complained the lieutenant.
“You heard him, off-load!” snapped Sulandhurka.
The two men in the hay wagon each grabbed a side of the bell and started pushing. To get the bell on, they had lined the cart with saplings, trimmed into staves and greased. These makeshift rollers helped them move the bell slowly toward the tail of the wagon.
“Somebody dug this pit,” the smith announced, barely above a whisper.
“The trees have eyes,” hissed the slaver in the same way. “Unless we move now, we die.” Since he couldn’t go forward, the slaver directed the oxen to back out of the hole. Arrows thudded into the south, inland side of the wagon and its wheels. Seeing the cart attempting to crush him, the smith rolled out into the gutter filled with water and long duck grass. The new handle of his hammer snagged under one wheel, though, making a dreadful, crunching sound. On inspiration, the man improvised a death scream, gargling to a halt in the water of the ditch. He could catch up with the others later or help them by surprise. But without his weapon, he would be of little use.
The slaver exerted his will on the animals and managed to back out of the trap. During this delay, two swordsmen stepped out of the scrub ten paces away and approached the rear of the wagon. Their Honor emblems and black, silk pantaloons announced them as members of the House of Kragen. Sulandhurka lashed the creatures forward, inching around the trap. A tall, silent man in black armor approached the front of the rig, accompanied by a thin wizard in a jeweled skullcap. The slaver hoped to run his emies down. However, the wizard touched the first ox on the forehead, and it collapsed in a heap of meat. The progress of the wagon halted immediately as the fallen ox slid until it tangled in the legs of the other.
Sulandhurka quickly snaked his whip around the neck of the wizard. The ki mage’s eyes bulged as he clawed at the leather cord. Then the slaver jerked the handle back, pulling the wizard off his feet and snapping his neck. The silent, armored man beside the wizard sliced through the whip to prevent a repeat performance. Nevertheless, magic had ceased to be an issue in this battle.
“How the blazes did they get here ahead of us?” wheezed Gallatin as he pushed the bell toward the back of the wagon. Veins stood out on his neck and forehead from the effort.
“I told you travel is always faster by water,” Bunji replied. Of course, the wards on their own boat might not have been fully charged, and they’d had no supplies for a prolonged sea voyage. But the lieutenant had feared this confrontation all along. Fortunately, he had the best bunch of cutthroats he’d ever met facing the ambush with him.
At the proper moment, the mercenaries in the rear heaved the bell over the edge at their pursuers. Although the heavy sesterina only bruised some toes and the shin of one man, it managed to pin the other man’s foot. All three members of the executioner’s party drew steel at about the same time. Gallatin gave a war cry and impaled the pinned man.
Bunji danced defensively with the other.
Sulandhurka smiled. If they stayed close to their opponents, the archers were neutralized. The tall man with murder in his eyes looked vaguely familiar, but the slaver couldn’t place him. The Imperial would have the reach on him in a fair fight, so the slaver decided to fight close and dirty. Convinced his side now held the advantage, Sulandhurka leapt down on his target from the height of the driver’s perch.
“Traitor,” the man facing Bunji spat.
“My lord is gone. I am free. I’ve done nothing against your house, I swear,” the lieutenant asserted, parrying a flurry of steel.
Gallatin stemmed the tide with an attack of his own. Yet Navara was one of Kragen’s finest swordsmen and defended himself against both men while he took their measure. The traitor was competent, but didn’t have his heart in the venture. The stranger didn’t deserve to own a sword. Gallatin’s eyesight was suspect, his technique crude, and his grip too loose.
“His heir lives,” said Navara.
Bunji looked down, aghast. “I would never have… You must understand… I beg mercy,” he said, and dropped his own blade.
Taking advantage of the shock, Navara used a spiral twist to disarm Gallatin. The would-be vineyard owner had no uniform and now no blade. But the battle could still go either way in the next few heartbeats. He needed time to get one of the staves off the back of the wagon.
Licking his lips, Gallatin whispered, “That bell is worth a lot of money, Mister. My share is yours if you give me your word you won’t stab me in the back as I run.”
Navara raised his sword. “If you leave me your Honor, I will do nothing to harm you.”
Gallatin pretended to flee, but grabbed a wooden pole on the way by. As soon as his hand touched the pole, an arrow sprouted in his shoulder. Shreking, he dropped the wood and ran in earnest. “My archers, however, made no such deal.”
The slaver was rolling in the dirt with Morlan, Lady Kragen’s mute bodyguard. More experienced at bar brawls and waylaying than his opponent, Sulandhurka was giving the already-injured Imperial a sound pummeling. But when the slaver saw his only remaining troop member race down the road, growing one shaft after another, he decided to fold his hand and leave while the archers were distracted. Navara was too busy accepting the traitor’s surrender to notice either for the moment. Using his sleeve dagger, the slaver thrust through the center of the Imperial’s pantaloons and into the dead ox. He had missed a crippling groin injury, but grazed the inner thigh and trapped the man with his own fancy clothes. Although Sulandhurka scoffed at pretentious nobles and their impractical clothes, he’d never thought such fashion would work to his advantage. With a press of the button on the hilt, he activated the barbs, anchoring the man and the weapon securely in place.
Crouched over, Sulandhurka dashed for the gutter. He was already framing the revised story he would tell the guildmaster. A single stride from safety, the slaver’s attention was pulled back to the road by a sharp whistle.
A large military dart crunched through the sinews at the back of the slaver’s right knee. The pain crippled Sulandhurka, toppling him onto the road. Morlan, whom the slaver now recognized, cut off his own pant leg with a dagger. Sulandhurka reached for another dagger in his sleeve, but found no more in the sheaths. The dagger Morlan was using was the very weapon normally housed there. The slaver cursed himself for not recovering the blade and making sure the deed was complete. After all these years, his undoing would be an amateur mistake, one that he had berated dozens of recruits for.
All was not yet lost. If he could crawl to that tree and use it for support, the slaver felt he could finish a lone pursuer in a sword fight. He began the painful crawl toward his hope.
The smith watched the bleeding Imperial stride toward the slaver. In an instant, he weighed his own odds with no weapon against four archers, two blades, and a double turncoat. In his bag, he still carried the shards of the miracle sword. He might kill one or two perhaps, but the look on that Imperial’s face told him Sulandhurka was already gone. Swallowing his pride, the smith slunk off. If he could beat the hunters back to their boat, he might have a chance of survival.
Morlan fought the slaver like an automaton. First, he chopped the fingers off the man’s left hand so that he couldn’t use it to stand. Although the slaver toppled like a tree, he refused to yield, scoring several shallow scratches to the Imperial’s face and exposed leg. But the need to stanch the blood flow from the stump of his hand was hindering the slaver’s effectiveness. Eventually, Morlan snuck past his decaying defenses and smacked Sulandhurka in the jaw with the hilt of his own dagger. The slaver collapsed to the ground afterward.