Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen (49 page)

Sleepers began to stir around them. The campfire was very near the wagon so that the prince could see to work on the puzzle. The large, muscular man backed away. “We found the perfect choke point to hold against the army. He’s keeping watch. We estimate that they’ll be arriving shortly after dawn.”

“You left him
alone
?”

Simon peeked under the tarp at the partially assembled throne. Then he peeled the covering off entirely to get the best view of the obsidian artifact.

“He has two archers and a couple invisible talking-animal-thingies.” As she pulled the whip off the front seat of the wagon, the smith added, “I need your help getting the prince to order the rest of the troops to double-time it to his location.”

“How are sixty men going to hold off over two hundred?”

Calmly, Simon said, “You have more allies than you know. Our witch is currently emptying the Imperial garrison guarding the northbound pass so that the throne can reach its homeland.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted, lowering the whip.

“The rest of our team is taking out the ballista aimed at the trail and creating a distraction. Our leader will signal when it’s safe for his highness to proceed,” the architect said, not taking his eyes off the pattern on the back of the throne.

“I see,” she said, straightening her uniform. If she had to give a briefing, she wanted to look the part. “And the talking animals?”

“They’re Dawn folk who rallied to our cause. We should have seven by the time the enemy arrives. They claim to be worth thirty men each and respect your husband. I wouldn’t have left him so underprotected, but if any of the enemy scouts catch our team from behind, my wife dies and your wagon will never reach the garrison. We ran here as fast as we could to get reinforcements.”

To the smith, Sajika said, “Him, I trust. Now, go wake the prince.”

“He left orders,” the smith objected.

Sajika leaned over, grabbed a metal triangle and rang it loudly with a rod. “Mealtime! Moving out in twenty, maggots. Move it or lose it!”

Though motivated, the men would take almost an hour to dress, eat, and have everything packed up. The gruel didn’t even have time to simmer; they had to eat cold rations as they doused the fires.

“He definitely told
us
not to help,” she reminded.

Simon smiled. “I can drop a few hints, and he’ll think it was his idea. I do it all the time with clients.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance be searching for a job, would you?”

Simon shrugged. “I suppose. I can’t very well go back to Reneau after aiding the escape of the Pretender’s consort, an accused assassin, and the man who destroyed the Temple of Sleep.”

Sajika smiled. “Just the sort of résumé that we’re looking for. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I teach architecture, among other things. I’m rather famous. I helped my father build the temple on that mountain.”

“I just happened to have an old Kiateran palace in need of renovation. I can be your first customer. You can live there while you fix things up. What else do you teach?” Because of her spy training, she flirted with the handsome, older man to get information out of him.

He took a step back to avoid her advance. “Philosophy. I consult on all manner of building and math problems, but my
wife’s
the real genius in the team.”

The admission and the subtle stressing of his faithfulness startled her a little. She asked, “How would you like to be a royal advisor? I think you’d be an excellent role model for our new monarch.”

****

Sarajah had to slow her pace to creep around Mud Springs unnoticed. The tiny village had perhaps twenty crude huts and five barns. The barns smelled of oats and hay. Cow manure was minimal because it’d been shoveled into compost bins for garden fertilizer. The dirt track through town was cleaner than roads in the capital. As she crouche behind one of the barns, the smell of hickory smoke reminded her of how chilly she was.

Ignoring complaining joints, she kept moving. The cards weren’t her god anymore; they could be challenged. They could be proven wrong. She had to get to the parapet. On the final approach to the garrison complex, Sarajah slowed to a walk. She had to appear normal. She chose a bright blue outfit with lacy frills.

Knocking on the front door, she smiled disarmingly as the peephole slid open. “Gate’s closed till dawn.”

“I’m not here for the gate; I’ve come for Lord Yondir,” she insisted. When the man didn’t react, she added, “Binky’s expecting me.”

The commander himself came down to the gate, intrigued. After peering through the hole, he grinned like a fox. “Well, well, what could you possibly say to induce me to open this door?”

“Nightingale,” she whispered.

He opened the door over the objections of his guard. She handed the mesmerized Yondir the writ and ordered, “Tell your men I’ve brought sealed orders from Emperor Sandarac. He’s asked for your team to reinforce the siege of Semenea. The fate of the empire rests on your shoulders. Depart as quickly as possible, and leave the fortress in my hands.”

****

Two hours before dawn, the two winged creatures arrived at the back stairs, and Pinetto described the plan. The one with the blue dot screeched in a language he didn’t understand. The panther-headed creature translated, “Couldn’t the army just cut down a tree to form another bridge?”

The wizard used a few recently acquired swear words. He woke the archers and sent them to the top. “If anything tries to cross, kill it. If you can’t kill it, die loudly so we know what’s coming.”

They saluted and ran to guard the chasm.

An hour before dawn, Legato’s men started trickling in. The smith himself showed up and clapped Pinetto on the shoulder. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

“I can’t. I’ve got too much energy,” the wizard complained.

“Prince Legato is assembling throne pieces like crazy since Simon gave him the critical clue. He kept six swords and sent everyone else, including his remaining twelve swords, here. This looks easier in the daylight. The top of the first flight makes a great vantage point for the archers,” admitted the smith. “But we need to guard the choke at the highest point of the road. If only we had something more to hide behind.”

Pinetto strode up to a large pine that had taken decades to spring up beside the campsite. Charging another spike, he flipped it into the soft wood. The impact site exploded into aromatic splinters. “Help me push this over,” said the wizard.

The prince’s men stared in wonder as the tree toppled under the combined efforts of the smith and the invisible panther. Rumors flew about the smith’s inhuman strength. “Wouldn’t a hatchet have been easier?”

Pinetto nodded. “But this looks natural, like lightning.”

Baran mumbled, “It’s a start. It’d help if the barrier were a little higher.”

“Have the men dig a trench behind it. Use those maple syrup catchers to collect sand and water,” the wizard said, pointing to the pail in the center of camp. “When the fireballs start flying, we’ll need a way to extinguish the survivors.”

“Maple syrup? Huh. I wondered what those tiny buckets were for,” said the smith, happy to have a project to keep the troops busy. “But before we dig, we have to have a plan for deployment and leadership.”

“I’m not an officer,” asserted Pinetto.

“Uh . . . that ship’s already sailed. What’re our short, medium, and long-term objectives?”

The tall, young man rubbed his forehead. “Short-term: kill the two fire mages. They’re the only ones who can harm our Dawn allies, the prince, or the priest.”

“On our side, we have about nine hands of men: two sword, two spear, two club, two archers, and one dagger—our friends the scouts. Ask yourself: how do we accomplish the short-term objective?”

“One hand of archers dedicated to each wizard. I can try to draw them out, and the archers concentrate fire on their assigned man. Right wing targets the front or right caster, and the left wing targets the other.”

The smith nodded. “So we deploy about half the archers to each side. Four can make tree stands on the river side. Some can crouch behind the dirt piles from our ditch. A bunch can line the stairs, especially that front landing. We use the clubs to guard the vulnerable riverside archers and the entrance to the stairs.”

Pinetto caught the planning bug. “Medium term: we use Dawn creatures, height, and surprise to push as many of the enemy off the cliff as we can.”

The smith translated the idea into a small-group military plan. “The scouts are good at sneaking and camouflage. We send the three spirits with about two daggers each to dig into the rock wall. After we kill the wizards, we signal the spirits. When our allies jump out of hiding, the enemy should flee in terror. Our daggers will stab anyone who falls in the panic, creating more fear. Most of the ones left in the enemy front line should be jumping into the river by then. We have the spearmen clean up. Repeat that as many times as we have Dawn creatures. The enemy might even rout, making this whole plan moot.”

Pinetto said, “Long term: We hold this position until the Door closes and then fall back to the bridge.

“When the enemy counterattacks, our people on the far side of the trench fall back, luring the Intaglian troops in. Then the swordsmen hack them to bits while they try to climb the hurdle. When the enemy bunches up, the archers fire until they’re almost out of ammunition. The archers can fall back to the bridge first. When we signal the closing of the Door, the clubs run up and join the fray, giving the swords time to retreat. The spirit folk should keep throwing the other guys off the edge.”

The smith nodded. “We stall the enemy at the bridge until the prince signals us he’s reached his own country. He said he’d send barrels downstream to let us know.”

Soon, Sarajah was standing alone in the garrison building, watching the Pretender’s troops march south. When they were out of sight, she spent twenty bits pushing the giant doors open alone. Zariah would have remembered to have them do all the legwork before leaving. Then again, the witch would have fed on them. After warming up again by the fire, her hand felt better and Sarajah ascended the tower stairs.

She jogged up the path and crossed the narrow bridge in the last of the darkness. She left her backpack on the garrison side, reasoning that if she survived she’d need to return this way. In the dim, predawn light, she could see the troops on the parapet. There weren’t many guards around the perimeter. Who’d be foolish enough to invade the lair of undying ki mages in the middle of the night? There were two ballista and five guards. She scrambled from rooftop to rooftop, observing her quarry. She changed her cloak to the same gray as the stone to better blend in. Darting quickly and then freezing in place every seven paces kept her unseen. The ancient commander in a black skullcap was visiting each post near the end of the shift. The outer walls were crenellated with seven-foot-high merlons and three-foot-wide gaps where archers or men with oil could punish those below. He was halfway between the weapons, directly below her, when she felt the humming through the roof tiles. The sound originated from the northernmost of the six wings—the inner sanctum. When the tuning fork around her neck sang in sympathetic vibration, the wall commander looked up and saw her uncovered face.

Before he could cry out the alarm, Sarajah slid off the roof and onto his back. With a jab to the throat, she paralyzed his vocal cords. Stronger than he should have been for his advanced age, the mage threw her to the ground. She rolled with the attack and came back with one of her own. He blocked the first three punches, but didn’t see her leg lash out. The seeress tripped the man with such force that his wrist snapped against the merlon. This didn’t slow the old man. He picked himself up and raised his good arm to point at her.

The tuning fork was trembling so hard that it hurt her ribs. On impulse, she took out the device and aimed it at the outstretched hand, inches away. When the ki mage launched some sort of energy wave at her, the spell rebounded. Sarajah was knocked to the cobblestones, while the mage skidded through the crenel and over the edge. She watched him plummet. When he was about a dozen feet down, the ancient man withered and shrank. The protection ended at the temple boundaries; every injury he’d receivd in the temple over the years affected him at once. When he bounced off a rocky outcropping, his body flew to pieces. “One down; eight to go,” she murmured.