Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (3 page)

There was no doubt in the sheriff’s mind that the innkeeper had been reaching for the salvation of spirit metal. That meant the man had probably been murdered by a revenant beast. These vile creatures didn’t know they were long dead and persisted as ever-hungry shadows of their former selves, going through the same motions. Their touch could disrupt nerves or cause cramping of muscles, like he had seen on the ankle. Several times, he had seen spirits move light-weight items: blow maps off a table, wrap a swimmer’s leg in seaweed, or hurl tiny chips of stone to induce an avalanche. However, spirits had to be very angry and expend a great deal of life force to affect the physical world directly. These spirits often fed on those buried alive in order to become stronger. The more they fed, the more solid they could appear.

But that sort of supernatural animal never wandered far from the Inner Sea, and couldn’t cross the protective wards that every peasant had cast over their thresholds. A quick check verified that the man’s slippers were not muddy and did not match the tracks made near the pantry. Having eliminated all other alternatives, the sheriff deduced that the beast had been
summoned
for the express purpose of killing. Sighing heavily, he went outside to make sure the culprit wasn’t still lingering around. A thorough check indicated that everything of value from the first floor had been loaded into a wagon and hauled away to the north. He did manage to find a shovel with a broken handle in the shed.

By the time the last spadeful of dirt had been thrown into the grave, the sheriff had spent nearly all of his lead over the hunters and received little rest in exchange.

Fortunately, there had been a large, detailed map painted on the wall of the common room where he had eaten his journey bread. On the wall, this way station was marked with the traditional X. One of the characters grabbed his attention more surely than the whisper of steel sliding from a sheath. A nearby temple site had originally been labeled in white paint with an old symbol for
spirit
. This label had since been converted to the one for
demon
using black ink.

From this place of tragedy, he took the nail symbol from above the front door and a cup of sediment from the bottom of the pickle keg. He put botho the new coin pouch at his waist and set out the after the summoner’s wagon.

The band of fourteen hunters traveled down the road in pairs. On each man’s shoulder was a badge showing two crossed swords. They were all members of the elite executioner’s guild of Tamarind.

Hon Li, the dapper lieutenant, complained, “Boss, why are we chasing this fugitive across the ass end of the world? Patience is wearing thin for the whole group.” Usually, they carried out sentences on condemned criminals from the surrounding kingdoms, like cutting the hands off of thieves. Townspeople always showed the guild respect. In major cities, guildsmen could always drink, bathe, sleep in a dry bed, or find a companion to warm it for free. None of that was available out here.

Sulandhurka was an ex-slaver; no one had dared question him. He glared at the idiot, a beanpole-thin weakling who had only qualified for his rank based on his family connections. His assignment to this squad was more babysitting than command training. After weeks of silence, the leader said, “The sanction came from the guildmaster himself.”

“There won’t even be a bounty?” the lieutenant hissed. “Send some of us home. He’s only one man. Why waste four swords from Kiateros and all the support crew?” Such swords could slice through armor and lesser metals like a seamstress through silk and were rare things indeed. The art of their making was the greatest secret of the metalworking guilds of the northern kingdom.

“The fugitive is a traitor from inside our own ranks. He knows as much about the hunt as we do. This won’t be like taking down an unarmed, panicked peasant; Tashi will be slippery and deadly.”

Their quarry had to be close, but they had no way of knowing where. The hawk had flown away without warning half an hour ago—just deserted them. This company considered this an ill omen because their banner was the hawk. Ever since the bird left, their leader told them to listen and be careful every thirty paces. To make matters worse, the road was heading straight down into the marsh. Instead of trees, duck grass as thick as corn stalks grew on either side of the road to the height of a man’s hip. Anything could be hiding in the long weeds. The scrub forest, though meager, had provided at least some cover from the rain and kindling for fire.

The group came to a halt in front of an elaborate, stone bridge, an old-fashioned sort made with a single, high arch and floored with wooden planks. The wood had been covered in soot to repel rain, but there were still dubious, leg-sized gaps torn or rotted through in places. Nonetheless, it was their only way across. The river may have been a mere stone’s throw wide, but it had steep banks and a current strong enough to drag a man under before he could call for help.

On the other side of the river, a mill wheel creaked as it turned steadily. The immense, old, stone mill appeared untenanted and in ill repair. The many windows and holes in its walls watched them approach. An archer could be waiting in any of them. Water from the wheel fed into a smooth, stone trough twenty feet off the ground. The aqueduct ran straight east with inhuman precision. The pillars and arches supporting it had no seams visible from this distance. The place reeked of old magic, long lost to men.

The trail beyond the bridge was not so much a road as a maze of silt heaps and sand bars. It would be dak soon, but the slaver demanded they press on. “He can’t be far. If we lose him in the quicksand, we lose what he stole, and I don’t want to explain that to Dhagmurna. What’s that up there?”

“The map calls it Miller’s Crossing, sir,” his lieutenant piped in.

“I was talking about the sign on the bridge, asking for volunteers to read it. While you’re over there, scout me a safe path across. And remember…,” Sulandhurka cautioned.

“Listen and keep an eye out. Yeah, yeah,” muttered the comedian in the rear. Babu was just the opposite of the lieutenant, good at everything he did without effort. The backup swordsman took nothing seriously and always wore a secret smile on his broad, flat face.

Normally irritated beyond measure by Babu’s antics, the lieutenant chuckled because, if he had learned nothing else about the military, he knew that shit always rolled down hill. “No, he was going to say ‘you can take one volunteer with you.’ Guess who?” Babu didn’t grumble but followed the second-in-command while the rest of the group maintained a safe distance from the mill windows.

The pair ran over to the sign in a crouch, attempting to use the stone sides of the bridge as partial protection. From a distance of thirty-five feet, the slaver bellowed, “Well?”

The lieutenant swallowed and read the sign again. In a strained voice, he stage-whispered, “There’s a big box here, with a slot in the top. The warning over top of it says we have to put in a gold coin apiece if we want to leave this place alive, sir.”

The guild of executioners never paid tolls. All the men chafed at the insult. “Smash it,” the slaver ordered. The lieutenant nodded to the comedian, who crushed the box with his mace. After several blows, the container fell off its moorings and shattered on the road.

“Empty, sir. There’s nothing but a funny mark inside,” called the lieutenant.

Sulandhurka scuttled over to see the mark for himself.

Meanwhile, one of the men had gone into the long marsh grass to urinate. His friend waded in to see what was taking so long and found the first man facedown in the water. When the second man bent over to help his friend up, something slashed at his throat and froze his vocal cords. A heartbeat later, something jerked his pant leg hard, sending him to the ground. More than one creature hid in the grass, and they were hunting together as a pack. Clawed feet pounced on his back.

As the slaver arrived at the box, a third man attracted everyone’s attention when he said, “Ah hell, it’s raining again. But why’s it red?” Then he screamed when phantom teeth tore out his hamstring from behind.

The eight men standing in what was supposed to be a safe place watched something nearly invisible knock the victim down and hunch over to tear into his kidneys. Only the eyes, nostrils, and serrated maw of the attacker could be seen faintly, but the cumulative effect was saurian. While the victim thrashed, two swords and three arrows passed harmlessly through the carnivorous spirit’s chest.

“Well grab it with your hands and open it wide like a dog’s jaws. Let me see that soft, pink gullet,” said a hunter, with his bow cocked back.

Sulandhurka knew before the next action that disaster was in the air. The poor pikeman, who had wrapped his hands over the jagged edges of the maw, first lost his grip and then two fingertips off his right hand. The hastily fired arrow went through his left hand as the beast raised its head to sniff him. The bleeding volunteer ran screaming into the duck grass, and the invisible carnivore crashed after him, rustling the tassels like an evil wind. After running twenty feet, the volunteer jerked to a halt and vanished beneath the green waves.

The morale of the group broke all at once, and they scattered, running for the safety of the trees. Sulandhurka swore as he searched for an enemy to fight. Then he heard a muffled voice from under the bridge. “Hide down here. The demons can only see what the wizard in the mill does. Besides, the big one is very clumsy and can’t negotiate the slope. They’re all afraid of the running water.”

While the slaver considered the possibility of a trap, Babu gasped, “There are more of those things?” Then the joker vaulted over the right rail of the bridge and skidded painfully down the shale-lined bank, abrading away a fair bit of clothing and skin in the process. He might not have been able to halt his descent, but an arm reached out of the shadows and caught him by the shoulder of his uniform. The comedian sighed in relief, thanking the man. His rescuer had no badges, but the cloth tabard covering his chest was emblazoned with three crossed swords instead of just two. For once, the wise-cracking executioner was speechless.

Since the injury over his right ear, the sheriff couldn’t remember his given name. The slaver interceded. “As a child, people in Tamarind Pass called him
Shoto Tachi
, or little sword, because he was the constant companion of his father,
Daito Tachi
, the big sword or head sheriff.”

The words had the ring of truth, so the sheriff nodded. “At three, I mangled the title to Tashi. I was so proud of the label, but everyone else thought it was hilarious.”

“Because it was only a syllable away from saying you were a girl!” said Babu, laughing. “Classic. And you kept the nickname?”

“That name gave me a lot of experience at fighting from a young age.”

The lieutenant looked both ways in a panic when he heard thunderous steps clomp around the base of the bridge. All the men fell silent out. When the threat moved away, Tashi whisperalk“The rest of your men are safe now. The wizard cannot see far.”

“But we’re cut off from them because of the monsters,” the lieutenant concluded. Tashi nodded.

The comedian wrinkled his nose and said, “What’s that stench?”

All three hunters sniffed the air, their heads swiveling as one toward Tashi. He endured the indignity stone-faced, but almost regretted his assistance. To him, the others smelled of fear. Fear attracted demons to these men like a pack of jackals sensing easy meat. Their leader with the wide face reeked of wine and ambition. “Garlic,” the sheriff explained.

“Yes, I heard once that spirits have an acute sense of smell. I’ve seen dogs thrown off track by such tricks. You rob them of sight by hiding down here. The river confuses their hearing, and the garlic blinds their noses. You are a sly fox, Tashi,” Sulandhurka told him grudgingly.

Tashi did not bother to brag about the one demon he had already slain. Instead, he sought information. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

The slaver smiled winningly. “The locals were quite helpful. They told us the road would be flooded this time of year and gave us a short cut.”

“To hell,” muttered Babu. This earned him a hearty laugh from all. “With friends like that, one doesn’t need enemies.”

“Speaking of which,” said Tashi, “I propose a truce between us.”

“You want me to take the oath of an oath-breaker?” the slaver shouted. Again, the clawed footsteps trampled overhead, quieting the men.

When it was safe again, Tashi whispered, “There has been no blood between us. My grievance with the murderer who leads you has been resolved, property for property. I bear you no ill will. We should concentrate on our common enemy, the wizard.”

The ex-slaver held out his arms and shrugged, appearing reasonable and understanding. “No one has to get hurt. Just give back whatever you stole from inside the altar plus what’s in your purse, and we’ll shade the truth a little. We’ll tell everybody the demons chased you down, and no one will bother you again.”

Tashi smiled in turn. The admitted liar asked for someone to believe him. The most amusing thing was that none of them knew what they had lost. “You can have the purse and all that goes with it. But the ancient scrolls are no longer in my possession. I was sent this way to lead you away from them.” He failed to mention the other item, the heavy artifact he carried slung around his neck. The scrolls had been instructions in the ancient ways, including the basic operation of the device he carried.