Mouth as dry as desert sand, heart thumping, he kept low and skulked from shadow to shadow. Perhaps his dark mantle and wiry frame helped to hide him, or maybe the tired men on watch weren't exceptionally vigilant. For no one spotted him, and eventually he peered back and judged that he'd left the camp a long bowshot behind.
Now he could turn his steps toward the temple, and until he drew near to the ring of pickets surrounding it, give more thought to haste and less to stealth. If that was what he really wanted to do.
Did he? At that moment, he was free. Safe. He needn't face the autharch's soldiers and undead horrors again, nor scorn and possible punishment from his own comrades. He could avoid it all simply by running away.
But he wouldn't avoid the guilt that would come as a result. Bareris, damn him, had warned that it would weigh on him like a curse till the end of his days.
Kemas made sure his broadsword was loose in the scabbard, then he headed east.
Stands of apple and cherry trees rose among the fields surrounding the temple. As Kemas had already discovered to his cost, the autharch's pickets were lurking in the groves, taking advantage of the cover, and no doubt eating the ripening fruit. Unfortunately, even knowing they were there, Kemas saw little choice but to skulk through the orchards himself. The only other option would be to attempt his entire approach to the shrine over open ground.
He made it far enough to spy the limestone wall of the temple complex between the trees. Then a soldier pounced down in front of him, or at least it startled Kemas so badly that it felt as if a wild beast had plunged out of nowhere to bar his path. In reality, the legionnaire had simply slipped down from the crotch of the tree where he'd been perching, his form obscured by the night.
"Who are you?" the picket asked.
Kemas reminded himself that it was dark. He was, more shy;over, wearing the uniform of the autharch's guards and coming from the direction of the noble's camp, not the temple. Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He took a breath and said, "The officers decided you could use a few more men standing watch up here."
"Did they send you without a bow?"
Kemas shrugged as if to convey disgust at the idiocy of the men in charge.
"Come talk to the sergeant," the picket said. "He'll tell you what to do."
No, Kemas thought, he'll recognize me. He had too good a look at me when you bastards caught me before.
He wanted to turn tail, but if he fled now, he'd never reach the temple. He smiled and said, "All right." As soon as the soldier turned his back to lead the way, he'd draw and cut the fellow down from behind.
But he was no accomplished deceiver like Bareris, and something in his tone or manner must have put the legion shy;naire on his guard, because the man frowned and gripped the hilt of his own blade. "Tell me the name of the person who ordered you here," he said.
Kemas whipped out his sword and ran at the picket, hoping to kill his adversary before the other man's weapon cleared the scabbard. But the soldier scrambled backward, and that gave him time to draw. He beat Kemas's blade out of line and extended his own, but fortunately, his aim was off by a hair. Otherwise, Kemas's own all-out charge would have flung him onto the point.
He hurtled past the picket, knew the man was surely pivoting to strike at him from behind, managed to arrest his forward momentum, and lurched back around. The guard's sword flashed at his neck, and he parried it.
The jolt stung his fingers but didn't quite loosen his grip. He riposted, and trained reflex guided his arm through one of the moves his teachers had drilled into him. He feinted to the flank, disengaged, and cut to the head. His sword split the left side of the pickets face from brow to chin and crunched into the bone beneath. The soldier's knees buckled and he dropped, dragging the blade down with him.
His feelings a tangle of relief, incredulity, and queasiness, Kemas stared down at the other swordsman. Shouts and the thuds of running footsteps jarred him from his daze. The legionnaire's comrades had plainly heard the ringing of blade on blade, and they were rushing to investigate.
Kemas yanked his sword free and sprinted onto the clear ground between the grove and the temple wall. When he'd covered half the distance, arrows started flying after him. He couldn't see them, but some came close enough that he heard them whisper past his body.
He fetched up in front of one of the sally ports. The light of the torches on the battlements shined down over him, and he realized that, even though he'd distanced himself from the trees, he was likely a better target than before. He pounded on the sturdy oak panel. "It's me, Kemas! Let me in!"
With a crack, an arrow plunged into the door. Kemas threw himself flat and continued to shout. Other arrows clattered against the entry. Some rebounded and fell on his back and legs.
Then he caught the groan of bars sliding in their brackets. He looked around, and the postern opened just enough to admit a single person. He jumped up, scurried through, and the small gate slammed behind him.
With the arrows streaking at him, he hadn't been able to think of anything else, and felt a giddy elation at escaping them unscathed. Then, however, he observed his rescuers' glowering faces and the naked weapons in their hands.
"Surrender your sword," Zorithar said. With his long, narrow face and broken nose, he was one of the senior Fire Drakes and notorious for the harsh discipline he imposed on the youths in training. His expression and tone were like cold iron.
Kemas gave him the weapon hilt first. "I need to talk to Master Rathoth-De. It's important."
"Don't worry about that," Zorithar said. "He'll want to talk to you, too."
Kemas's new captors marched him to the hall where the high priest administered the temple in times of peace, and where he still sat in the place of honor at the head of the council table. But he had no martial expertise, and thus it was Rathoth-De who was actually directing the defense.
The commander of the Fire Drakes looked too old and frail for that duty, or any responsibility more taxing than drowsing by the hearth. But his pale gray eyes were clear and sharp beneath his scraggly white brows, and he carried the weight of his yellow-and-orange plate armor as if it weighed no more than wool.
He studied Kemas's face for a time, then said, "It was a crime to run away and folly to return."
"He ran afoul of the autharch's men," Zorithar said. "They were chasing him, and apparently he had nowhere else to run."
Kemas swallowed. "With respect, Masters, that isn't true. I mean, it is, but there's more to it. I came back to bring you this." He proffered Bareris's letter.
Rathoth-De muttered and ran his finger under the words as he read them. His scowl deepened with every line. "It says here that the autharch knows everything about the temple, includ shy;ing which section of the north wall has fallen into disrepair."
Kemas took a deep breath. "Yes, Master. He tortured me, and I told him." He might have explained that at the end it was a charm of coercion that had actually forced him to talk, but somehow that seemed a contemptible evasion.
Zorithar sneered. "No surprise there. You'd already proved yourself a coward. He turned his gaze on Rathoth-De. "Maybe we can reinforce the wall."
"Master," Kemas said, "if you read on, you'll see that the scout from the Griffon Legion believes that our best hope is to let the autharch execute the plan he's devised and then turn it around on him."
Rathoth-De skimmed to the end, then grunted. "This does suggest possibilities." He explained Bareris's idea.
Zorithar frowned. "We've never even heard of this Anskuld person, and we don't know that we can believe a word he says. This could be a ruse."
"If I may speak, sir," a warrior said. "I have to say, I don't think so. I was watching from the wall when Kemas ran to the temple. The archers were doing their best to hit him. Which they wouldn't, if the autharch wanted him to deliver a false message."