What Remains of Heroes (39 page)

Gloating.

Then Lannick realized it.

I have my
hatred
.

His timidity vanished, and he wore a mask of cold, indomitable hate. He cleared his throat again, this time with ferocity and resonance, and it sounded in his head like the growl of some great, predatory beast.

He could see Fane leering over him and he so desperately wished he were face to face with the man once more. He thought how he’d seize the man by his throat, and curse him with all the curses of the old hells.

Fane, you took from me my family, my pride, and very nearly my life. But I swear to you before my life ends I will take from you even more than that awful
sum.

He lifted his head and beheld the men once more, his teeth bared. He ripped his sword from its sheath and held it upward, his heart thundering with its most primal emotions, rage chief among them.

I need not craft a speech. Only a
word
.

He reared back his head and screamed to the heavens with a force that came from every corner of his being. The pigeons on the rafters fled from that sound, alighting into the night sky through the windows carved high in the tower. It seemed for a long moment the sound of his scream rang through the old stones of Gregor’s Watch.

“
Vengeance!
”

25

Dead Gods

“
I
don’t like this
place, spooker,” whispered Lorra as her eyes darted about the shadows. She shivered and tossed the leg of a broken chair into the fire before her.

Bale was loath to admit it, but he agreed with her. He hunched closer to the fire they’d made at the edge of the gloomy interior of the Temple of Cirak, staring out upon the depths of the yawning chamber. In the center of the chamber stood a ring of imposing statues of the seven Sentinels, their metallic surfaces flickering in the firelight. About them were massive, intricately carved pillars stretching far above toward a domed ceiling decorated with a fresco of the War of Fates. Bale guessed it would have been an inspiring place in a gentler age, a place of reverent majesty. But now it had an unsettling quality to it and its darkness weighed heavy on the heart.

He thought again of his decision to come here and wondered at the wisdom of it. He knew little of Lyan the Just, for the ancient texts mentioned her only rarely. She was said to possess Illienne’s sense of justice, but Bale surmised that could mean a variety of things. He glanced ahead to her statue, depicting her holding a sword in one hand and a set of scales in the other.
How would this banished Sentinel judge me? With her scales or with her sword?
He sighed heavily and looked upward into the dark.
What am I really here to tell her? That Castor’s spirit is lost and Rune is under attack? What would possibly move her to care about such news? This is a mad endeavor.

Lorra tugged at the sleeve of his robe. “You’re sure?” she said quietly. “You’re sure we should stay longer? I’m guessing the daylight will soon be gone.”

Bale pressed a dangling strand of hair behind his ear. He looked at Lorra, doing his best to wear a consoling smile. “We should be safe. The Old Faith instructs that garghuls—hobblers as you call them—cannot enter holy shrines.”

Lorra’s eyes dropped to the fire. She was a handsome woman in the flickering light, her features more fine than severe and her wrinkled brow more dignified than dilapidated. “As long as you’re sure.”

Bale presented his bravest face.
Of course I’m not
. “Of course I am.”

“This place feels like a tomb,” she said. “No windows and no way to see the sun. It feels… angry, somehow. It stinks of the dead gods.”

Bale found it difficult to maintain any pretense of courage and dropped his head. He so desperately wanted to be inspired by the temple, to be moved to valor and purpose, but instead he felt only the weight of old stones and dark shadows. The temple stirred a quiver in his chest, a disturbing fear he could not overcome.

“How long must we stay?” Lorra asked. “We’ve been here for an entire day or maybe longer, but I have no idea since we can’t see the sun or moon or anything else. Whoever you’re supposed to meet is not here, probably long gone or eaten by those hobblers. How long will you wait before you give up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He felt lost and afraid, certain he would succumb to one of the many perils about him, whether it be something dreadful within the temple, the snapping maw of a garghul, or a tumble off the mountain path. He so wished to be tucked safely within the Abbey, studying an old book in the soft glow of a candle.

After a time he stood on complaining knees and shuffled toward the statues of the Sentinels. He wandered among them, seeking the slightest hint of solace. There was Thaydorne the Strong, broad-shouldered and brave and standing with an upraised sword—
Ealyr Rigellus
, or Heaven’s Reaper in the modern tongue. The very blade said to have wounded Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares, the blade that allowed Illienne to drag the foul god into oblivion. There was Valis the Watchful, depicted with his head deep in his hood, keen eyes studying a far horizon. And then Kressan the Kind, bronze hands held to her heart.

He came then to the statue of Castor, progenitor of his order. The very man whose soul had passed to the friend Bale knew as Lector Erlorn. Bale rested a hand upon the statue and looked up to its wide, wise eyes.
Help me, friend, for I know not what to
do.

“Do you hear that?” Lorra hissed.

Bale froze, stilling himself and listening. Although he heard nothing, he knew Lorra’s ears to be far sharper than his own and he’d grown to trust her. He listened for a moment longer and heard a scratching sound, something against the temple’s stone façade. The sound of it sent an icy rush up his spine.

“You’re sure they can’t get in?” Lorra whispered.

“Perhaps just insects,” he said with a tremor in his voice. “Or rodents. Or something like that. Certainly nothing to trouble two bold adventurers, right?”

The sound was louder this time, seemingly all about them.
What if they did enter, somehow? Are those old beliefs even true? How could we hold off so many?

“We need to leave here the moment dawn breaks,” Lorra urged. “We cannot wait for your friend any longer or those things will find a way inside.”

Bale’s heart thumped in his chest. He couldn’t stomach the thought of dealing again with those things. There had to be an answer in the temple, some consolation for his dangerous journey. His mind whirled. He thought of the legends associated with the temple, of the story that it had been built atop an even older shrine.
Is there something more to this temple?

The scratching sound came again, louder this time. Bale imagined dozens of garghuls standing at the temple doors, their teeth chattering and gnashing and eager for living flesh. He thought too of the Sentinel Lyan, bitter over her exile and holding no tolerance for mortal beings.
If one or the other is inside this place, that could mean a most horrible ending… I cannot do
this!

It felt suddenly as though the room had been drained of its air and there was none of it left to breathe. He gasped, feeling a shaking in his knees and a sweating in his palms. The room spun dangerously about him. He whimpered and sank to the floor, his fear and futility overwhelming. He curled his arms about his knees and shuddered.
Forgive me, Illienne…

A loud crash sounded, from somewhere. Outside or inside he could not be sure.

Lorra sprang upward and moved ahead of him and then reached back to press a firm hand upon his shoulder. Her body tensed and her head moved slowly from side to side as though searching the room. After a time her shoulders relaxed and her stance eased. “There’s nothing inside here. No breaks in the stone. We may be safe for now, but who knows how long the doors can hold… Is there another way out of here? Another part of this temple?”

Bale bit his thumb and felt a tear slip across his cheek.
The temple is built atop another shrine
… “Perhaps.” He arose, cursing his weakness and angrily swiping the tear from his face.

I am too weak an
instrument
.

“Here!” Bale said, gesturing toward a broad tile with a shaking finger. “There’s a symbol in the center of the tile. It’s an old glyph meaning ‘passage’ or ‘doorway.’ This must be an entrance to whatever sits beneath this place.” He inhaled deeply, thinking of the involuntarily motions of his hand when he summoned the Lector’s final actions.
The ‘Sacred Place,’ he called it. Not the Temple of Cirak. There’s something else, then. Something below.
He took a deep breath and tried to slow his rapidly beating heart.

“Well let’s go,” Lorra said, holding a makeshift torch near the tile. “We’ll see what’s there and then leave this place.”

Bale stepped away from the tile and looked to the statue of Castor. “Dare we go through with this?”

Lorra grabbed his sleeve and spat angrily. “You’re asking
me
, now? After offering me a paltry handful of silver crowns and then leading me to what very well may be my grave?”

Bale sniffled and shook his head. “Sorry. The question wasn’t meant for you.”
Castor, what must I
do?

“Well
who
, then?” she demanded. “Are you asking those hobblers outside?”

Bale pressed his hair behind his ears. “I’m not a courageous man, Lorra.” He choked back an unexpected sob and tried to calm himself. “I have no choice but to try to complete this task. I just worry I haven’t the heart to do it.”

Lorra regarded him with a harsh gaze but after a time her eyes softened. “You know, I have no regrets about leaving my village anymore. I’m relieved, really. I figure it’s not too bad a thing if I never herd goats again, and am never again forced to, ah…” She paused and stiffened. “Let’s just say I won’t be awfully sad if I don’t see my father and brothers anymore.” Her grip on his sleeve tightened and she looked at him with earnest eyes. “I’ll be your courage, Bale, when you need it.”

Bale grinned but the expression sank to a frown as he pondered the pains the woman had endured.
It’s troubling that things so fragile as we are given lives so
difficult.

“Let’s do this, Bale,” she said. “Together.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, seeing the strength in her eyes. It struck him not as a strength born of position or knowledge or talent. Rather, Bale guessed it came from having survived so many untold hardships, from having experienced the most awful betrayals. It was the unspoken strength of the beaten but not broken, that certainty within the soul that one had withstood the very worst life had to offer, and yet remained standing.

Perhaps there is some hope, then, after
all
.

He clenched his jaw, summoning courage, and dropped to a knee. He looked again at the glyph, noticing it was etched with a thread-thin lining of gold that glimmered in the torchlight. It was an ancient symbol in the divine language of spellcraft, the very tongue gifted to the Sentinels by Illienne long ago. He traced the glyph with a finger, silently repeating its sound, ‘
Ea-appar
,’ in his head.

He closed his eyes and whispered the word, dreading the consequences but refusing to abandon his task.

There was at once a great rumbling, the sound of stone grinding against stone. Suddenly, the tile began to recede, dropping into the darkness below. Bale scrambled backward onto the surrounding tiles, his mouth agape.

Slowly the stone shifted, moving to reveal a narrow stairway. The stone sank into the deep darkness, and at last settled to a stop with a reverberating thud.

“I’ll grab some wood for torches,” Lorra said. “Then let’s go.”

Beneath the temple was a series of corridors, a maze of blank stones and black shadows. Bale reckoned if it weren’t for the gnawing sense of fear in his gut the place would seem not unlike the Abbey in Ironmoor.

They moved slowly through the tight passageways, frequently stopping to study the darkness ahead before creeping forward. The sputtering torchlight played tricks on the eyes, causing the shadows to dance among the breaks in the stone blocks and creating the illusion of movement. Yet, there were no sounds other than those of their footfalls. Bale pressed close to Lorra, allowing her to lead the way.