Chapter Seven
The Temple commoners stand around in various cliques as the festivities die down, holding forth about all manner of business, delaying their return to work as long as possible. Jack walks a slow circle around the grounds. He pauses at the rear corner, near the abandoned girls’ lodge, and walks his eyes up the ascending tiers of the tapered structure and watches the chimney smoke puff out and float away on the breeze.
“What are you doing, Jack?”
He snaps his head around and sees a group of sledge workers dawdling around by the stage.
“Just looking.”
“It is beautiful. It’d better be.”
“How’s the soldier’s life treating you? Karus said you’d probably be a hero by now.”
“It’s treating me fine. Still training. I should probably be getting back there now.”
“It’s not even lunch yet, what’s the hurry?”
“Practice.”
“Oh, clear the way, the young master needs his practice.” The men let out a wry laugh as he passes. “Good luck to you.”
“Thanks,” Jack says, smiling as he strolls down the roadway toward the training camp. The fields are deserted and the barracks remain shuttered, only a couple of listless sentries stand watch.
“How was the parade?” one asks as he approaches.
“Same as the last one I saw. I’m going to the field early.”
The sentry nods and Jack heads off toward his spoken destination. When he gets around the corner, out of sight, he changes course and angles in along the side of the building. The back wall behind the washroom has turned damp and rotted, in need of replacement. He stops and darts his eyes around, checking the fields and outbuildings for any strays that might be watching. Tensely satisfied, he reaches to his side and draws a knife from its sheath and kneels down by the rear corner, working the blade between the horizontal slats along the bottom. He shimmies it down the length of the gap, prying it out little by little, careful to not split the rotted board in half.
He takes another quick look around, then sets his knife off to the side and grabs the board with both hands and pulls it free, laying it down flat on the grass. Prone on his side, he rolls into the washroom. It’s pitch-black as he walks through the barracks, hands outstretched and waving around before him to sense out obstacles. Soon he adjusts and the dim minuscule light sneaking between the clapboard cracks gives him just enough to see by. He takes up a heavy bundle of rope hung on the far wall and hears a creaking outside the door. He slips his arm through the coiled rope and hustles back into the washroom just as the locks are being fumbled with.
On his hands and knees he peers through the slim horizontal opening he pried out for himself and looks around for any legs and feet walking about. If they catch him at this he’ll be questioned and imprisoned for sure. He rolls outside into the daylight and pulls the rope out after him, taking quick haste in pushing the fallen board back into some semblance of its rightful position, then tosses the rope up onto the roof of the barracks and quicksteps away.
“Did you take a fall?” calls Feiyan.
“Huh?”
“How come you’re all dirty?”
“Getting some rolls in before training.”
“Oh. Taket’s back, we’re going out.”
Jack falls in line and treads off for the day’s regimen, fetching a look behind as he goes to make sure the lower board holds its place.
Lia can feel his eyes lingering on her through dinner. He carouses and laughs at the head of the banquet table, the center of attention, entertaining his followers with stories of adventure and conquest, and still she can feel those blue orbs tracing back to her time and again. She sits with her hands folded politely in her lap, staring absently across the table at the men sitting opposite, candelabras lighting their faces with rosy warmth. The entire Hall is draped in elegance, bouquets nestled between the serving platters and wreaths and laurel spangling the walls. Without turning her head she looks left and Arana narrows on her, tightening his thin smile. She shies away and looks down at her empty plate just as the steward comes by to snatch it.
It feels like the last meal of my life, she thinks, for surely tomorrow her world will change irrevocably—she will be sequestered into domestication by some warrior, or else serve out her life as Arana’s broodmare.
“Lia!” Lia jerks out of her reverie and faces Ezbeth, who looks on her expectantly. “It’s your turn.” Lia stares blankly. “To say a few words,” Ezbeth finishes, with pronounced irritation.
“Oh, of course. I just… I came from a small place… with no hope… no promise,” she begins, smile fossilized on her pretty face, “until I was rescued and brought here, to this Temple. I have had the chance to learn duties, and to feel like I’m a part of something much bigger than myself. I’m very thankful for all of this, and I’m looking forward to the next part of my journey.”
She has made her way down the length of the banquet table, addressing each man briefly in turn, until at last she faces Arana. She does not shy or look timidly away, but meets his piercing stare with her own, captivated by the repulsive satisfaction she sees in his eyes.
“Wonderful story,” he says.
Jack plunks down his bed, sore from the day, and reaches down underneath the wooden frame for his pack. He lays it out and rifles around until his hand grasps onto the pendant that Creston gave him. He pulls it out, mindful not to snag its leather necklace cord, and turns it over in his hands. The blended sun and moon. He rolls onto his side, kneading the pendant between his fingers, waiting for the other garrison to return from the range.
Long about dusk they come traipsing in. It is their first day back since the previous week’s exploits and adrenaline is running high amongst them. Eriem walks with new confidence—his performance was a resounding success. They stow their gear and change in the washroom before most of them set out for the Temple, back to their cottages and dormitories.
“Eriem,” calls Jack.
“Hey,” he says, setting his things down. “Good to see you.”
“How’s Jeneth and the baby?”
“Good, thanks. Prettiest thing ever.”
“I think she takes after Jeneth.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Listen, I have something I’d like to give to a friend. I wonder if you’d help me?”
“Who? What is it?”
“It’s just this.” He holds the necklace out. “I’d like Lia to have it. Will Jeneth see her tonight?”
Eriem looks skeptically at the pendant. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“We grew up together. I just want her to know I wish her good things. Will you?”
He thinks a moment. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Will she see her tonight?”
“I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“Thanks, Eriem. I owe you.”
The map is buck hide, cured with rich tannins and stretched wide and tight across the wall of Arana’s chamber. Symbols in multicolored pigment are etched across its tawny surface, showing a primitive depiction of the coast and inland territories. Spiked chevrons illustrate the encountered mountain ranges, and slithering lines the rivers and streams. Arana and Keslin stand shoulder to shoulder as they study it, swaying a touch from too much wine.
Black points show the villages and settlements, and X’s designate those that have been attacked and conquered, with tight scribbles listing the bounty and children acquired. Over the inland valley region, fresh ink is drying.
burnd and cleered
19 taken
“I would go here.” Keslin taps a point, the script denoting a village of eighty. “Or here,” he says, sliding his index finger down along the coast. “Those are forest rats, and these live in ruins and dance naked. Neither have strong defenses.”
Arana stares at the points. “Naked?”
“On a hill by the southern coast. They’re a vulgar sort.”
“Make a plan,” he says, taking his mug and lurching toward the fireplace. “Why do you have so little faith in me, Keslin?”
“I have a lot of faith in you.”
“You think I’m insufficient,” says Arana, slurring his words.
“I don’t follow…”
“Why we go out and do these ventures… it’s because you think I’m not enough.”
“Arana…”
“To protect us. I’m not good enough.”
Keslin narrows on him cleverly and scratches behind his ear like a mange-ridden mongrel. “That’s not true at all.”
“I want to go looking again.”
“We just went.”
“We were close.”
“We were not. We’ve spent years looking and it’s gotten us nothing.”
“It’s out there.”
“If it’s out there we’ll find it. But after this is dealt with.”
“There must be another city… farther north than we’ve ever been.”
“He could have lied,” says Keslin. “Maybe he didn’t want to be found.”
“He wouldn’t have lied to my father.”
“I just think it’s a stunning waste of time.”
“You’re wrong. Think what we could do if we found their secrets.”
“We could have the forest cleaned of filth in half the time if we put all our strength there. Instead we roam around, chasing whispers.”
“I know it’s out there, Keslin.” He sets his mug down with a firm thunk. “You would never have talked to my father this way.”
“I’m very sorry,” Keslin says. “Why don’t you use your powers to guide us? I’m sure we’ll find it in no time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Keslin settles back, his face cryptic. “Even still, it’s not worth the risk. Better to scout what’s close and work our way out from there. If the great city is out there, we’re sure to find it someday.”
“Fine,” says Arana, growing restless, “go south.”
Keslin nods. He pitches back the rest of his wine and braces himself to stand. “I should leave you be. Tomorrow is your big ceremony.”
Arana glares into the fire, glassy and drunk.
“A forest girl, Arana. I’m a little surprised.”
“I want… new blood in the family.”
“She won’t love you the way the others do.”
“She won’t have to.”
“Sweet little Mariset,” coos Lia. The little peach bundle in her arms gurgles and waves her hands clumsily in the air. “What do you want, huh? You want your mom?”
“Oh, please. Keep her. Maybe Eriem and I can sleep.”
“She can stay as long as she wants.” Lia peppers Mariset’s forehead with a barrage of kisses.
“Look at you, you’re a natural.”
Lia’s breath hitches and she hands the baby back to Jeneth and paces around. Haylen looks on from under her covers.
“Nervous?” Jeneth asks.
“No.”
“Yes she is,” says Haylen, “she can’t sit still.”
“That’s normal. I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“Maybe a little nervous.”
“You’ll do great. You were the prettiest girl out there this morning.”
“Thanks.”
“I brought you something. A gift from an old friend.”
Lia scrunches her brow. “Really? What?”
Jeneth draws the leather necklace and pendant from her blouse and hands it over. “From Jack. With good wishes.”
“From Jack?” Haylen bursts, hopping out of bed to get a look.
“When did you see him?” Lia asks sharply.
“I didn’t. Eriem passed it along. Says Jack hopes you’re well.”
“Is that all he said?”
Haylen grabs the pendant and holds it to the light. “Maybe he put a secret message on here for you.”
Lia turns clammy as Jeneth and Haylen ogle at the pendant under the candlelight.
“Nothing. Pretty sun and moon, though. Did he make this?”
“I don’t know,” says Jeneth—the thought hadn’t occurred to her.
“Tell him…” Lia collects her words. “Tell him I said thank you very much.”
“I’ll do that.” She looks down at Mariset’s drowsy eyelids. “I think she’s ready for bedtime. You should try to sleep, too, if you can. Come here,” Jeneth says, and stretches her free arm around Lia and gives her a tight squeeze. “You’ll be fine. Promise.”
She shows herself out and Lia kicks off her slippers and tries to follow her advice. She climbs into bed and turns the pendant over and over in her hands, trying to suss out some meaning from it. The sun and moon. She resigns that maybe it is just a simple gesture and nothing more. The strand of hope she had clung to since their eyes met earlier dissolves and vanishes. A gift. And best wishes.
She reclines and fumbles with it like a worry stone, rubbing the pendant and slipping the cord absently through her fingers. The sensitive pads of her fingertips glide over some rough hash marks indented into the leather. She sits forward and holds the strap up to the dim tallow candle at her bedside and sees that it is not hash marks at all, but writing, softly engraved on the thin leather cord. One simple phrase—
kichin at midnite — jack
Lights out in the barracks.
Jack lies tense and fidgety, clenching and unclenching his hands, staring up at the ceiling as the rustling slows and quiet snores take over. So many things could go wrong and he scrolls through the possibilities with a deepening sense of vertigo. And what comes next, he wonders, assuming they don’t end up riddled with arrow shafts on the Temple grounds? The deep woods are dangerous, but he’s not half as scared of them as he was when he was a little boy, and he thinks he can fight his way through and maybe settle someplace far away from here. A little cabin, just the two of them. He can almost see it.
His breath comes deep and measured. It is time.
He sits up rigid and slow and slides his feet onto the wooden floor, and a fast glance around the barracks shows everyone to be sleeping. His boots are at the foot of the bed and he snatches them up in slow motion then reaches down for his backpack. One unfaltering step after another he creeps down the long aisle, silent as a ghost mist, and passes into the darkened, musty washroom.
Numb and tingling he sets his things down and scoots into the corner and feels along the base for the board he loosened earlier. It pops out and he catches it, lowering it slowly onto the ground outside, and rolls through the opening. Out with his boots and pack, and the board goes squarely back into place.
The night is balmy and clear. Jack scans across the horizon then risks a jump toward the eave to fetch the rope he stashed earlier. He thumps the roof as he grabs it and lands with a soft thud, rope in tow. He freezes, listening for any commotion and hearing none.
Clinging to the shadows he sets out for the tree line, with his pack over one shoulder and the length of rope wound around the other.
When he reaches the cover of the small copse he kneels and looks back toward the barracks at the night sentry standing watch. He turns and looks at the hills. All is quiet.
He picks his way through the thin woods and trudges up a shallow incline that turns steep and rocky toward the top. At the crest he hides behind the arc of pines and looks down the sloping expanse of the desolate amphitheatre. Two sentries by the rear entrance. Jack sneaks along the ridge of the King’s Gallery and comes down the western side, crouching down below the stone wall that runs its course.
Near the bottom he stops, panting from adrenaline, and looks around for any sentries that might be strolling the grounds. The two by the entrance are talking quietly, lulled by the many slow nights they’ve spent on the shift.
Quick as a shot, Jack slips across the clearing and holds up sleek against the Temple’s sandstone footing, just next to the trellised archway that leads to the boys’ dormitory. He hides his pack in a dark corner then jumps up and latches onto one of the wooden crosspieces of the arch. The Temple’s first tier is double high and he hoists himself up onto the surface and flattens out prone. What if she didn’t get the message, he thinks with dread. What if she’s not even there?
Lia lies in bed with her eyes wide open and cooks up excuses. She’s been through a hundred and none seem remotely plausible. When it feels to be about the middle of the night, she kisses the little pendant hung around her neck and sets her bare feet on the floor, feeling around for her slippers.
The corridor is clear of roaming sentries and she walks off toward the stairs with the facsimile of casualness, though her heart pounds and there is a whooshing sound tunneling through her ears. With shaky hands she grips the banister and winds up toward the landing, running her lines over in her head one last time.
A solitary guard stands by the wooden bridgeway and he locks on Lia as she approaches.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to the kitchen, if I may. I forgot to tell the girls to add more stock to the kettle. The soup’ll be burned by morning and Calyn will have me locked in the pit.” She lets out a shrill laugh. That last bit was an unfortunate improvisation and Lia clenches her jaw. She was always a terrible liar and figures she probably just sealed her mortal fate.
“Okay,” he says.
She bows and moves past, suppressing her exhilaration, stepping nimbly across the overpass. She gets about halfway.
“Wait,” the sentry calls, “you were in the parade this morning. I saw you.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Then why were you working?”
“Just helping out. A favor for Calyn.”
“She has plenty of girls to help.”
“It’s okay, I don’t have to go now. I just… woke up and worried and…”
“No, let’s go. Together.” He leaves his post and treads across the bridgeway and grabs her by the upper arm. “Lead the way.”
My death and Jack’s too, she thinks.
She crosses the bridge and curves around toward the rear corridor. When the sentry scowls down she looks up and smiles as sweetly as she can. The service door looms ahead and beads of sweat break out on her forehead, a horrible tell, and she doesn’t think for a moment it’s gone unnoticed.
The kitchen is dark and empty. The sentry fetches a torch and they enter. The kettle isn’t even lit. He jerks her roughly around to face him.
“Hard to burn soup that isn’t cooking.”
“I… they must have…”
He squeezes her arm and a bolt of pain shoots up her shoulder. “What do you want here? Tell me or I’ll—”
Jack leaps from the open-faced oven behind them and tears at the man’s face and they fall to the ground in a struggling heap. The torch skitters across the stone floor and Lia slides away and knocks into the counter, and in the strobing torchlight she sees Jack and the sentry with their hands at each other’s throats. Jack takes a knee to the side and loses his advantage and the powerful sentry rolls on top of him, veins bulging on both their foreheads.
Lia slides along the center island and grabs for a heavy rolling pin tucked in the shelving underneath and crashes it into the back of the man’s skull with all her strength. There is a wet crunch and he rolls off to the side, unconscious. He lies there, still and bleeding, and Lia clubs him again anyway.
“Quick!” Jack is on his feet, dragging the limp body to the pantry door. “It’s locked…”
“Hold on, I know where she keeps the key.”
She douses the torch in the water trough and fetches the key from the sideboard while Jack cuts a length of his rope and binds the man, then they shove him in the pantry and lock him away.
“Jack—”
She opens her mouth to say something else and no words come. They gaze at each other in cockeyed bewilderment for a quick hot instant then Jack grabs her wrist and pulls her off.
“This way.” Rope dangles from the mouth of the open chimney and he pulls her to it. “I’ll go first, then I’ll pull you up.”
“Wait.” Lia goes back to the sideboard and unlocks a storage cabinet. An assortment of knives gleams dully. She picks one for herself and one more for Jack. “Okay. Let’s go.”
He goes hand over hand up the chimney shaft, which is still warm from the day’s roasting, and emerges at the top like a burrowing animal and looks across the rear of the grounds. Quiet. The guard on the west bridge is inside, around the corner, and Jack climbs out of the chimney and reaches down behind him to tug Lia out.
They crouch on the second highest tier, exhilarated and tarnished with chimney soot. He unties the rope and takes Lia’s hand, guiding her to the archway, then snakes the rope through one of the trellises.
Shouts echo from the distance. Jack tightens up and they cling to the side of the Temple, his insides rearranging themselves as he watches a slew of warriors course along the eastern tree line, cursing and barking orders, weapons drawn. They fan out on the grounds in a broad sweep, several of them going from door to door amongst the cottages and rousting the men from sleep.
“Lia, do you still want to—”
“Go!”
He pulls her close and tells her to wrap her legs around his waist, then he swings out over the tiers and rappels down, uncinching the rope as they descend. They drop to the ground and he looses out the rope, letting it fall at his feet in a noodly heap.
They stay flat along the corner of the Temple and Jack sneaks a glance past the amphitheatre and sights them scouring the tree line.
“Come on,” he whispers, grabbing his pack and pulling her across the way, toward the old girls’ lodge. They scurry around back and take stock of their situation. The bluffs are clear, at least for now. The sentries seem obsessed with the opposite side of the grounds and Jack figures they must be searching the woods for them. The next sight confuses him utterly. A tight cadre moves toward the Temple’s rear entrance, dragging a screaming and wide-eyed stranger along with them, all trussed up with bindings.
“Lock everything down. Lock it down now,” they yell to the perplexed guards.
Jack slinks over to a stray palm by the edge of the bluffs and starts to tie his rope, listening and watching over his shoulder at the commotion.
“What going on?” the entrance guard asks, drawing his machete and scrambling to the door.
“Spies,” they shout back. “Spies on the Temple grounds.”
Howling and maddened, the stranger thrashes against his captors, his efforts lost as they haul him brutishly down the corridor and barricade the door. He is whisked straight to the keep and shackled to the wall, and a call is sent to wake the King and his cortege.
They strip his clothes and parse through his things, leaving him naked, bleeding and chained. Keslin shambles in, his wiry gray hair matted with sweat, his eyes alive with panic. The prisoner screams out like something wild and even the warriors step back a pace.
“Who is he?” Keslin asks, stepping through the pack and stopping just outside the range of the chained man’s flailing.
“We saw him in the woods,” says Cullen. “He was watching the Temple.”
“Watching us?”
“There’s another that got past us. We’re looking everywhere.”
“Fine. Good.” Keslin darts his eyes around pensively. “Where are his things?”
“Here.”
Keslin ransacks the pile of tattered clothing, feeling along the seams and turning the pockets out. He snatches the torn satchel and dumps its contents on the filthy keep floor—a knife, a fishing line, an assortment of perishables, writing instruments. A small parchment slips free and flutters to the ground.
“Please,” the man gasps, “I’m just going through, I wasn’t doing anything.”
Keslin lifts the parchment between thumb and forefinger and carefully pries open its folds. Drawn in ink is a compact diagram of the Temple and its provinces. He turns it forward, displaying it for the prisoner.
“What is this?”
“Please…”
“Watching us,” Keslin says again, almost stupefied.
“That’s right,” says Cullen.
“Have you called out the barracks?”
“We have. They’re out now, searching the woods.”
They had sent the call as soon as the shadowed form of the prisoner’s accomplice slipped their grasp, and in the wild confusion, as the groggy men set about arming themselves and mounting the search, they had not noticed that one bunk in the barracks was already empty and void of body heat.
Jack slips over the edge first, loose dirt and gravel cascading down and clicking off the rocks far below, and he tightens his grip and slides down slow and steady with Lia not far behind. Their descent takes them to a rocky landing, still some ways above the crashing shoreline. He steps off to the side and helps her down, then looks forward to the jagged terrain. No one in sight—just a rugged and near vertical distance to cross until they can cut inland.
They cling to roots and jutting rocks and gradually pick their way to a narrow shelf that runs along the cliff face and their progress quickens. Above the din of crashing waves they hear the outcries of searchers above, parsing the grounds and ruins in rapid pursuit. They scale around an outcropping and stop cold. A lone figure barrels toward them, and as he draws near the gray moonlight shows his face dimly.
“Jack,” calls Braylon, “I thought I saw him come this—” He spots Lia cowering behind and reels back in confusion. “What is this? What is she doing here?”
“We’re leaving,” says Jack.
“No. No, you’re not. Are you crazy? Look, go back the way you came and I’ll try to cover for you.”
“We’re not going back there. Come with us if you want, but we’re leaving.”
“I can’t let you do that, you know that. What’s wrong with you, Jack? You’re putting a lot of people in danger here.”
“What? Listen to yourself, Braylon.”
Whether it is a conscious action or not is unclear, but Braylon has reached to his side and drawn his blade.
Jack grabs Lia’s hand and advances. “Let us go.”
Braylon shoots a hand out and wrenches Jack by the scruff of his shirt. He slaps the hand away and Lia squeals and shirks back.
“Here! Down here,” shouts Braylon. “I’m sorry, Jack, this is for your own good.”
Jack shoves him and tries to scramble past. Braylon raises up his blade and fixes to strike with the hilt, and as his arm arcs down Jack locks onto it and they counter each other, heaving and shoving. He draws back again and lunges forward in a rush, and without thinking Jack swings his arm up and lodges his knife in Braylon’s solar plexus. All motion stops suddenly and a warm stickiness trickles down Jack’s hand and forearm. Braylon’s mouth gawps wide open and closed like a landlocked fish and the horror of realization floods across his face a moment too late, a twisted grimace of regret and sorrow. He clutches Jack’s shoulder, his life slipping quickly away.
“Braylon—” Jack pulls him close and holds him as he dies. “I’m so sorry. Oh, no…”
“Jack…” he says, “… run…”
They are his last words.
Jack lays him down and whispers soft apologies as he tugs the boots off his feet and takes his bow and satchel and slips them over his shoulder. Lia’s fist is balled up against her mouth and she blinks tears out of her eyes.
The wolfmongrels are barking and raving just above them—Braylon’s call has drawn the pack’s attention their way.
“Come on,” says Jack, “keep quiet and stay back.”
They skulk along the thin ledge and an aura of firelight glows on the trail ahead, cast down from the torches above. The searchers are moving to the forward end so they can double back as Braylon had done.
“Oh, Jack, they’re coming.”
Jack considers jumping and making a swim for it, but the rocky shoal extends too far out and they would surely land in a broken heap. He feels his way along to a small alcove and they push through a veil of foliage, looking for a place to hide out and figure their next move. Right away Lia shrieks and jumps on Jack.
“There’s someone here,” she breathes.
Jack draws his knife on the huddled form. “Who are you?” he asks, rattling forward with his blade.
“Hold! Hold!” the man says, his voice ragged and shaky. “I won’t hurt you.” Jack pauses and tightens his grip on the knife handle. “You killed that man,” the stranger says. “You’re not… a part of them?”
“Not anymore,” says Jack, struggling to comprehend what is happening.
The stranger gasps. “You’re running.”
“Tell me who you are or I’ll kill you right now.”
“I’m the man they’re looking for.”
“I don’t…”
“Look here, boy,” he says, and points down to his leg. Even in the murky darkness Jack can see the white shinbone glistening, a compound fracture, black blood pooling around his foot. “Fell coming down here. I’m done for. And so are you if you stay with me, the dogs are on my scent.”
“They’re coming, there’s nowhere to go,” Lia says in a panic, gulping air.
“Do they know you’re gone?” the stranger asks.
“I don’t know,” says Jack, analyzing his situation freshly. “Maybe… they don’t.”
“Maybe is good enough. I think I can help you get away, but you have to do something in return.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack can hear voices descending the bluffs. They are not far off now.
“I want you to go somewhere and give them a message.” He pulls a tattered scrap of leather from his shirt and thrusts it forward. “It’s a map. You’re here,” he points to a corner of land jutting out from the coast, “and I come from here,” he moves his finger down the map and etches a scribbled star. “Go there and warn them. Tell them that Ethan and Renning are dead. Tell them Nezra knows about Alexandria.” He scrawls the message on the back of the map.
“What is Alexandria?”
“A place worth dying for. I don’t have time to say more, but if you go you’ll understand. They can answer your questions. Go there and warn them,” he speaks rapidly, “and if you swear this to me, I’ll do what I can to get you out of here safely. At least for now. Will you go? Tell me now.”
“Where are we again?” Jack asks as he takes the map.
“Here. And you’ll be going south, which is this way. Can you read?”
“Some.”
“Good. Will you go?”
Jack looks to Lia and she is dazed with fear. She nods yes.
“We’ll go.”
“What are your names?”
“Jack.”
“Lia.”
“I’m Ethan.”
He pulls himself up, dragging his wasted leg behind him.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to let them catch me. When they stop the search and clear out, run south as fast as you can.”
“Thank you,” says Lia.
“Just don’t break a promise to a dead man.”
He hops out of the shrouded recess, then drops to his knees and crawls along the ledge toward the encroaching voices.
“There—”
“There he is.”
“Get the hell off me.”
Jack and Lia hold stock still as the violent frenzy ensues. The men strike Ethan’s damaged leg, and he screams so shrilly that Lia nestles closer to Jack’s side and buries her face in his shoulder.
“What is that?”
“I killed your friend,” Ethan says, and there is another sharp crack and then silence.
Dark shapes lurk past the alcove and cast their light on Braylon.
“Dead.”
They drag his body back the way they came and join the others, still binding the unconscious Ethan. Murmurs and footsteps continue on for so long a time that Jack is sure they’ll search deeper and find the two of them cowering in the shadows. He takes the shallowest breaths his lungs will allow and sits holding Lia for the longest time, feeling like the night will never end.
In due course, the warriors take their prisoner and their fallen brother and move south along the bluffs to the spot where they descended. After they’ve gone, Jack and Lia sit motionless for another span of time, terrified to move, convinced there must be one last man lying in ambush just outside ready to slice them.
Ever so slowly, Jack leans forward and peers out. They’re gone. He sits back and holds Braylon’s boot up to his own foot. Braylon’s are a bit larger and he switches his out and gives them to Lia.
“Put these on.”
They lace their boots, then Jack shoves everything in his pack and slides the satchel of arrows over his shoulder along with the bow and steps out onto the ledge with his knife drawn. Lia pokes out behind him and they move with caution along the westward face, toward the ruins.
They pass the steep incline the warriors used to reach the grounds and they hear harried voices off in the distance by the Temple. Crouching low, they move on down the hill that leads to the valley below, spiny bushes and dry weeds scratching at them as they go. Lia’s foot slides away and Jack catches her with his free arm and they cut an impromptu switchback down the steepest part of the hill. At last the grade levels off and they pick up pace, wending their way through the collapsed wreckage and racing off on their southern course. A thin sliver of moon casts a pale nimbus over the ruins and the air is still. The Nezran Temple fades into the distance, and soft footfalls tattoo the night as Jack and Lia escape into the untamed wilderness.