The Temple of Heart and Bone (2 page)

The
wind would help. It would carry off any words that called out from the cottage.
Drothspar didn’t look back. He walked under the roiling clouds and into the
coming night. The reds and golds of sunset had faded, and a pale blue light
hazed the land. Looking up into the shadowy trees, he considered his hasty
decision to leave. His only other choice would have been to turn around
empty-handed, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that. He had thought about
sneaking out before the argument had started, and that would have been only
moments earlier. He knew the path through the woods fairly well, dark or not.
Besides, it would be good to have a peace offering to bring home.

Drothspar breathed deeply. He
inhaled the scent of the trees and the coming rain. The more he breathed, the
more his pain and anger subsided. He felt his steps fall on the soft ground of
the forest floor. He touched his hands to the coarse bark of the trees. He wished
he could flash back to the cottage, apologize to Li for being forgetful and for
what he had said.

He shook his head. They could not
have remained in the city. She knew that. It would have been too great a
risk—for them as a couple and each, individually. Excommunication was no small
matter. They would have been beyond the protection of the law. Even her family,
powerful as they were, would have risked dispossession and loss of title had
they tried to shelter the couple. He chewed over her words and realized that
they had been a reflex, a reaction to his own.

He knew that she cared. She cared
more than anyone he’d ever met, certainly more than most of the priests he had
ever served with. Many priests and their wives were more concerned with status
and power than compassion or spirituality. Li had been helping an injured child
when he had first met her. The child was Eastern, a child, so he’d been taught,
of heresy. That hadn’t stopped Li from helping. Moved by the woman’s disregard
for prejudice and his own concern for the child’s injury, Drothspar had stopped
to ask if there was anything he could do to help. In that helping he had found
the sort of love upon which dreams—and lives—were built.

He could feel her, still, in the
growing night. From the moment they’d met, helping that injured child, a bond
had grown between them. It wasn’t just the warmth of love, it was physical. He
could
feel
her presence. He knew when she was close. There was a
palpable feeling in his chest. When she was far away, the feeling diminished.
It faded to a profound emptiness.

She felt the same, although her
senses were a bit sharper. She could tell, for instance, when he’d been hurt.
Once he’d been working the garden and cut his hand deeply. He’d simply wrapped
it up and kept working. When he arrived at the cottage, she’d known before he’d
gotten his hand out of his coat pocket. He had even tried hiding injuries from
her, just to test it. Somehow, she always knew. He shook his head and smiled.
He would ask Mrs. Fern for her best honey, and two jars at that!

It had to be close now, he
thought, the Ferns’ farm. He strained his ears to listen for the lowing of the
cattle. The wind, continuing to gust, carried away all sounds in the distance.
Drothspar looked up toward the sky, but all he could see were the dark crowns
of massive trees. He watched the leaves flutter and twist, softly whispering
secrets that only the wind would share. Light had almost completely drained
from the world.

Drothspar walked on, stumbling at
times, over covered roots or broken limbs in the moss-covered carpet of the
forest floor. He was sure he was close to the farm when a vast hiss and rattle
rose in the trees above him. He watched as the leaves on the surrounding trees
flipped over, revealing their undersides. Like a wave, the leaves began their
reversal moving from east to west, against the wind. Following their
progression, Drothspar noticed a sooty orange light seeping through the trees
ahead. The light was unnatural, out of place. Slowly he understood. The Ferns’
farmstead was burning.

A muffled thudding intruded
itself on his thoughts. He strained his ears and neck trying to make out the
approaching sound. It was rhythmic and quick, like a gathering of heartbeats—or
hoofbeats. Turning his head, he saw a number of shadows darting through the
forest. They dodged in and out of the trees. As they rushed closer, Drothspar
could see that they were soldiers. Some carried lit torches in their off hands.
Others whirled swords, inversely-curved sabers that glittered orange and black
in the torchlight. They shouted fierce cries that were torn away by the wind.
Some few of the horsemen noticed Drothspar on the path. A detachment of five
riders broke off and headed toward him.

Drothspar looked at his
surroundings. There was no place to hide. There were no weapons to be had. He
gathered his thoughts and realized he was about to die. He looked into the wild
eyes of his killers and understood the meaning of the flames at the Ferns’
farm.

He thought of Li, and almost
dashed off to the cottage. He knew he would never—could never make it. If he
ran to her, he would die struck down from behind, all but pointing the way to
the cottage.

They were closer now. A rider
wearing Maryndian plate armor urged his horse toward Drothspar. There was a
look of fierce joy in the man’s eyes. Strangely, Drothspar thought, the rider
sheathed his sword and drew a long dagger, a double-edged blade with a curved,
golden hilt. Drothspar saw it coming, felt it pierce deep between his shoulder and
neck. The blade was cold in his chest, cold like winter’s ice.

Grasping the hilt of the weapon
with both hands, Drothspar clutched the dagger to himself. He held to it
fiercely, as a mother might hold her child from a thief. Though he pushed it
deeper, he refused to let go, and he pulled the rider off balance. Through the
fog of pain, he noticed the man’s armor looked familiar. In a flickering,
illogical moment, his eyes fixed on a spot on the breastplate, a place with two
rivet-holes, and the outline of what had once been, most likely, a crest.

Drothspar closed his eyes for a
moment and clung to the dagger. Pain coursed like ice-water through his blood.
The rider cursed loudly and released the weapon to steady himself with his
reins. He turned his horse in circles, clawing at his waist for another weapon
to finish his work. He stopped, startled to hear a brazen horn echoing through
the trees. More hoofbeats, louder and deeper than before, rose out of the
growing night. The plate-clad rider turned to his four comrades, spoke
something Drothspar did not quite understand, and fled east.

Drothspar fell to his knees. The
blade thrilled weakly against the beating of his heart. A flood of sound rushed
to his ears, and the trees seemed lighter. Toppling over onto his side, he felt
his back rest against a fallen log, his hands gripping the hilt and handle of
the dagger the entire time. He could smell the soil of the forest floor. Color
slowly faded from his vision and sound slipped from his ears. Still and silent,
he never noticed the new horses leaping, one after another, over his body and
the log. Flashing like arrows in the night, the riders shot over him, pursuing
the invading marauders with bloody justice.

Time
moved on from that fateful day. Seasons turned, moving inexorably from year to
year. The forest survived the conflagration of men and nations, sending
whispers once again from leaf to leaf along the invisible air. The same leaves
lived out their cycles, budding from brilliant greens to fall in showers of
rich reds, golds, and browns. They blanketed the mossy forest floor, covering
over the year of nature and the deeds of men. Providing homes for some of the
smallest creatures, the fallen leaves continued to serve life. In their decay,
their very being became nutrients for generations of flora and fauna. The cycle
of living and falling continued for seven years.

In the seventh year, a strange
caravan came into the West. It stopped in the small Maryndian border city of
Æostemark in late afternoon.

Æostemark had been all but
destroyed in the invasion seven years prior. Virtually all of its inhabitants
had fallen before any aid could reach them. Standing on chipped and pitted
walls, the defenders had crumpled under sheets of arrows. Fighting in the
streets, soldiers and able-bodied men were swarmed under by invaders. Hiding in
houses, in cellars, in corners dark and small, women, children, the old and
infirm were slaughtered without mercy or compassion. Where they could not be
dragged from for sport, they were sought with long weapons. When weapons could
not reach, they were put to the torch, to burn with hastily added fuels of
broken wood or scavenged coal. If all else failed, they were simply left to
starve.

Seven years later, in the aftermath
of war and cruelty, Æostemark was still a nearly deserted town. Some few lived
there who had managed to survive the initial invasion. Mostly these had lost
their entire lives—homes, families, and finally their minds. With harrowed,
haunted eyes, they drifted from wreckage to rubble, lifting a single brick
here, a charred plank there, hoping for some sign of life. They lived out the
fiction of farmer by day, tending chores they had tended in their former lives,
and returned to the city at night, searching and sleeping in ruins that had
once been their homes.

New life stubbornly clung to the
fallen city. A border station had been built to watch the path of the past
invasion. It had been built from the stones and rubble gathered around
Æostemark and brought, by wagon, to the site of the border post.

Some of the post’s garrison had
taken to trying to rebuild portions of Æostemark, hoping to one day make it
habitable enough to keep their families close. Thus, the eastern-most sections
of Æostemark, those closest to the border station, were in better order than
the rest of the city, rebuilt under the toiling hands of soldiers whiling away
their off hours.

In truth, it was not only their
families that drove them. They knew, should an invasion strike again, their
small station itself would not hold long. With practical eye, they set to
rebuilding fallen gates, and resetting crumbling stones, creating for
themselves a fallback position. It was not much, but they knew it was their
only hope to survive once some of their number had started the ride for help.
The more experienced soldiers knew that even this measure of fortification
would not defend them from a determined invader, but, just as importantly, they
knew it was work for idle hands and hope for idle hearts.

As the small garrison built up
its presence in the fallen city of Æostemark, so other hearty souls,
entrepreneurs from the West, came to find their fortunes on the border, as
well. Merchants, hoping to serve the garrison or to trade with the East,
rebuilt small shops and warehouses. The doors of these new shops were stout and
their windows small and barred. The security measures were aimed more at
itinerant looters than the maddened former inhabitants. The looters, like some
sort of macabre prospectors, came and went with the seasons. Their methods,
however, were brutally direct. They took what they wanted, if they could, and
so the fledgling merchant quarter of ruined Æostemark looked to their own
defenses. This was the city as the caravan entered. Æostemark was a mixture of
scabrous old and hastily constructed new.

The core of the caravan was a
strange wooden wagon, more of a small home on wheels than any sort of carriage.
It was ornate, painted a brilliant red and framed in gilded trim. Its roof was
reminiscent of a long boat, with upturned points at front and back, and a
saddle-like depression in the center. A stone chimney pierced the aft section
of the upraised roof, and smoke poured continuously from its pinnacle. The
wheels were large and wide, their red paint and gold-leaf covered with
spattered, drying mud. The wagon was drawn by eight black horses under the
watchful eyes of two teamsters. The horses were larger than the common mounts
of Sel Avrand, and they bore their burden as if they were made for it.

Flanking the red and gold wagon
were two smaller wagons, covered with canvas supported by a wooden structure
not unlike distended ribs. With these wagons, and surrounding the first, was a
contingent of cavalry. Though the horses they rode were Eastern mounts, they
did not have the garb or bearing of Avrandian riders. These were armed men,
glittering retainers in segmented metal armor. From their waist to their
shoulders, the armor surrounded them in overlapping bands; rings of steel that
afforded them freedom of movement to bend in their saddles and still guard
their bodies. Some of the men had this same segmentation running down either
leg, while others’ legs were covered in combinations of leather and chain. At
their sides they wore curiously-curved swords, swords that bent forward instead
of back.

Dutifully, the caravan stopped at
the border station. One rider, the leader of the cavalry contingent, rode up to
speak for the party. He was a man in his early thirties, handsome and fit.
Black hair, framing his chiseled features, hung just over his sky-blue eyes.
The border sentry took special note that the leader’s armor, unlike that of the
other riders, was Maryndian plate. His eyes had just focused on two rivet-holes
in the breastplate when the leader cleared his throat.

“What is your business in the
West,” the sentry asked gruffly.

“Our lord is on a religious
pilgrimage,” came the reply.

“Where are you bound?”

“Æostemark, for the night.”

“And then?” the sentry inquired.

“Where my lord commands me,”
answered the soldier. The sentry made a note of all visible soldiers and wrote
it into his log. He took his time before turning back to the soldier.

“Continue,” he said, “and welcome
to the Kingdom of Marynd.”

“Thank you,” the soldier said
simply, and turned to ride back to the caravan.

The wagons rolled to the ruined
center of town. Forming their own outer ring, they surrounded the circle of the
city’s crumbled fountain. Robed men stumbled out of the two smaller carriages,
along with a great black cat.

The men, dressed in black silk,
scurried about in preparation. A large stone monolith, once the centerpiece of
the fountain, now lay on its side. It was quickly covered with a gold-trimmed,
black silk cloth, giving it the appearance of a stone altar. Braziers were set
on either side, and thick, tallow candles were lit to gutter on the stone,
itself. Stakes were driven into the ground behind the makeshift altar, thick
logs that took the combined efforts of the cavalry soldiers to erect. The
stakes stood eight feet tall after they were driven into the ground, and one
stood behind each of the braziers.

The great cat, black as the
velvet coat of night, prowled the perimeter of the fountain, looking with
glowing eyes on all that was and all that was not. It was larger than a
panther, appearing more like a jet-black tiger. None who looked on it had seen
anything like it. Few that had seen it had lived to tell their tale, or so it
was whispered. Walking slowly, sometimes stalking, and sometimes stopping to gaze
off into nothingness, the great cat orbited the human efforts on strong, silent
feet.

Fires were set in the braziers,
adding their glow to those of the candles. Evening was falling on the city of
Æostemark, darkness was growing, and doors were being shut and bolted.
Strangely, the maddened inhabitants of the city worked more feverishly this
night than any other since the invasion. Guards changing posts at the border
commented on the behavior as they walked out to duty or in for the night. No
longer content with just one brick or two, the wailing insane tore entire piles
of rubble to the ground. Their hands bled and some of their fingers wore down
to exposed bones. The guards shuddered and made signs to ward off evil. Those
walking out to the garrison quickened their pace, and those in for the night
sought shelter in bright lamps, stone walls, and numbers.

As darkness descended on the
city, two detachments of the caravan’s dismounted cavalry left the center
square with torches. One group set out to the north, and the other moved out to
the south. Preparations at the makeshift altar continued, as black-robed men
intoned prayers in an ancient, long-forgotten tongue. They held their hands out
over the braziers as they muttered, and the flames flickered to the cadence of
their words. Some held knives over the flames, rolling them slowly,
purifying—or infecting—them with sooty flames and harsh, urgent phrases. Smoke
rose to the sky in two dark shafts, lit from below by the golden braziers.
Shadow and light danced around the scene, shifting constantly over the faces
and bodies of the black-robed men. Some of the remaining cavalry gathered up
wood in a pile at the rear of the fountain. They built for themselves a large
bonfire, radiating light in all directions, and affording them a view of the
entire square. The bodies of the three wagons sent shafts of darkness into the
city. The shadows played across the ruined buildings, darting from left to
right, joining in the frenzied search of the mad.

For a time, all was silent in the
center of the city. Night progressed in a dark meditation, broken only by the
clatter of stones overturned by the citizens of Æostemark. Some two hours
before midnight, the full moon began its climb from the behind the ruins. At
its first pale light, the remaining cavalry formed a circle around the fountain
and drew their curved swords as one man. They stood then like statues,
alternately bathed in the sooty golds and yellows of fire, or shadowed by the
shifting play of light.

At one hour before midnight, the
detachments of cavalry returned, one from the east and one from the west. From
the east, the soldiers dragged a gagged woman, struggling and kicking, her bare
feet bleeding along the ground where they touched. Overpowered by the many
hands around her, she was bound to the stake on the right behind the brazier.
From the west, the other detachment dragged the limp form of one of the border
guards. He was beaten and bloody, and his unconscious eyes were rolled deeply
back in his head. He was lifted into the fountain’s ring and bound to the other
stake. The returning soldiers filled out the circle created by their
compatriots and also drew their curved blades.

One half-hour before midnight,
the ornate wagon opened its door and a tall, gaunt man stepped forth. The gaunt
man wore a black cassock, though he was quickly covered with a thick, red cape.
Some of the black-robed servants came over to attend him, and they pinned the
cape to the man’s arms, revealing its golden interior. One of the black-robed men,
bowed, entered the ornate wagon and emerged with a black mitre. The servant
bowed again, then placed it on the head of his master.

The gaunt man, who moments before
had appeared old and frail, came alive with energy. He looked around at those
serving him as if seeing them for the first time. He jerked his hands loose
from their aid with a strength that pulled two of them from their feet. He
glared at those around him, and his eyes took on a terrible hunger.

He looked at the creature pacing
between the light and the shadow and lifted his head briefly. The great
prowling cat fell out of its course and walked directly up to the man. An
emaciated hand reached down and touched the cat’s head. It was not a touch of
affection or care, but more of recognition. The cat bowed its head away from
that touch and returned to its pacing.

The mitred and robed man stepped
up to the altar prepared for him, placing both hands on its surface and facing
it from the front. He, like the others before him, began to speak in an ancient
and forgotten language, his eyes flowing at times from the altar, along his
left arm to the woman, then back along his right arm to the man. Centering his
eyes on the altar, he knelt once, then stood again. He walked around the altar
to stand between it and the bound captives behind. He reached for one of the
prepared knives on his left, turned and faced the man on the stake.

The old man spoke slowly,
monotonously, and his words grew louder. He did not change expressions as he
felt the passing of midnight and plunged his knife under the breast of the
border guard. Cutting with surprising strength, ignoring the stifled cries of
his victim, the old man looked briefly into dying eyes and drew out the
steaming, twitching heart. He turned, his voice growing again, and placed the
heart in the brazier, watching it gutter and smolder.

Stepping back to the altar, he
drew a second knife from the left and opened his hand over the brazier, mixing
his own blood with the now charred heart. Calling up to the sky, his voice grew
to immensity. It shook the very foundation stones of the dead city, and a great
echoing wave washed out and over the countryside. In its wake, a massive dome
of sickly, blue-green light covered the land for miles around. Æostemark lay at
the center, a dead specimen under an impossible bell jar.