The temple keeper wakes breathless and damp with sweat. The sky is still dark, but a faint orange light glows on the eastern horizon. In the distance, shouts ride the air and the rumble of war lurks below.

       The horde is coming, he thinks to himself. He mutters a foul-tasting curse and goes to his small window. From his chamber beside the temple, he can see most of the city. The palace is the only building on higher ground. 

       Impending battle fills the streets with panic. Townspeople search for escape, for hiding, for safety. At the walls, the city’s men enforce the gate and equip the ramparts. But he knows it’s no use. Not if what he has heard about the horde is true. Still, he thinks he may survive—not by fighting and winning, but by fleeing and running.

       He dresses and grabs his staff, a few coins, a burlap sack, and a dagger. With a final glance and a curt nod, he leaves his quarters and walks briskly to the main temple.

       The center of the temple is dominated by a two-story statue of the city’s patron god—a haughty and unyielding figure. Several priests and priestesses look through the outer doors and murmur amongst themselves. The more devout are bent to the floor where they wrap themselves in whisperings and silence. One of the high priests casts a questioning look at the temple keeper, who gives a small bow before hustling away.

       He takes stairs down into the deeper chambers of the temple. He knows these spaces well. This is where he has turned back outsiders, cleaned utensils used in sacrifices, and spied on the high priests. 

       He shuffles down an empty corridor that is sporadically punctuated by torches and curtained doorways. At the last doorway, he pauses just long enough to give three chimes with a bell and enters. 

       Oil burners, emitting low and solemn light, are placed in alcoves in the walls. On the right and the left, floor-to-ceiling murals depicting a proud people cover the walls. Ahead stands three, small figures atop three, ornate pillars. According to the priests, they are older than the city’s elders, older than the city’s previous inhabitants, and even older than the city’s foundation. 

       The left is slender, serious, and crafted from silver. Those that seek wisdom and knowledge worship it. The center has sharp angles and a wide stance—cut from a black rock that fell from the sky. It emanates strength and victory. Finally, the right is moulded gold—squat, fat, and grinning. It offers good fortune to its devotees.

       The temple keeper squares his shoulders. This is the pantheon, and it’s coming with him. This is the way to his new life. If he can escape the city with these gods and deliver them as promised, he will be made a high priest. If he’s found out before he escapes the city, he won’t just be frowned upon, he will be executed. But now the men of the city have other priorities: battle with the horde. That wasn’t part of his plan, but if he’s cunning, he can use this to his advantage.

       He takes a deep breath. With a few quick motions, he stuffs the gods into his burlap sack and cinches it shut. Reverence and repentance can come later. Only action matters now. 

       Three chimes sound at the door. Turning toward it, he hefts the gods over his shoulder and strides across the room. He steps aside as three priestesses enter. Normally he would greet them with a smile and receive the same in turn. Now, he doesn’t meet their gaze. He pushes through the doorway, and an idea takes form as he hears the gasps on the other side. Pulling a torch from the wall, he discards it beneath the curtain. A necessary distraction, he reasons. He hears their muffled shouts as he reaches the end of the hall. He pauses for a moment to readjust—the silver god was jabbing him in the ribs. Satisfied, he clenches his jaw and moves on.

       The streets are chaos. Townspeople run uphill toward the center of the city where the palace sits unusually still and silent despite the clamor. The king, his guards, and a lucky few from his entourage must already be sealed in the palace. Maybe he’s sealed himself in his tomb, the temple keeper thinks. As he carries his load from one back street to the next on his way to the north gate, he wonders if this will be a complete destruction or if captivity will be offered to the women and children as some small mercy. The horde is unpredictable. 

       With only a few turns left, he enters one of the darker alleyways on his route. His pace quickens but then slows almost as quickly. A couple of figures separate from the shadows: looters. They’ve already cut him off. Enjoying their newfound lawlessness, they size him up. What prizes will he yield? Tightening his grip on his staff and widening his stance, he determines that they won’t discover the answer to that question.

       The first attacker lunges, causing him to step back, while the second edges behind him. Another lunge, but this time he swings his staff. Expectantly, the thief grabs hold and gives a forcible yank. But the temple keeper lets go, sending him reeling. This success is short-lived as the second attacker charges into him. Together they go down. For a few seconds they’re a mass of confusion, but a flash of dagger stills the commotion. 

       Invested in the outcome, the first of the looters looks on. Movement. The temple keeper rises, gripping his bloody dagger. He takes a step toward the man, who, seeing his comrade mortally wounded, turns and runs. 

       Remembering to breathe again, he runs trembling fingers through his hair. When he looks down, he sees the body of a young man—a life leaving years too soon. He slices the air and curses.

       With much effort, he manages to drag the dead man to the wall. No time and no way to give proper burial rites; getting him out of the way will have to be enough. The bag sits nearby, even more ragged than before. In the tussle, the black-rock god tumbled into the alley, but he pushes it back inside and shoulders his burden.

       

       He reaches the north gate acutely aware of the sun’s rising position in the sky. With every passing hour, the horde is that much closer to surging through. He straightens his tunic and assesses the situation. 

       The gate is barricaded with thick lumber. A few men of war have been spared from the main battle to provide a defense here. They dawdle about, kicking rocks, drawing in the dust, or examining their reflections in each other’s shields.

       Several townspeople peek out of doorways or from alleys. Suddenly a sobbing woman launches at an opening between the guards. The first guard misses her, but then she is knocked to the ground. She never touches the gate. She is kicked, spit on, and quickly forgotten in the dust. The guards go back to their business as if they only brushed off a locust. No one moves to help her.

       Leaving through the north gate is out of the question. He retreats into an alley and slumps against a wall to think. He should have known this gate wouldn't let him out of the city. The plan was undone long ago. He had been forced into action much too soon. 

He rips at the weeds growing out of a crack in the wall but then stops. An idea takes root. It wouldn’t have been an option in a time of peace—it would have been too heavily guarded. But now… Now it just might work.

       He begins to backtrack. A year ago, while spying on two priestesses, he had learned of a small palace garden that the prince used for his trysts. Inside was a secret door that connected the garden with the prince’s chambers and some unknown location outside the city. He had taken note, thinking such information useful for the coin that could be made from selling it or the leverage it could provide at a time of need. But now it proved more useful than he could have expected. That’s it, he thinks. Absent-mindedly, he reaches into the sack and rubs the golden god.

       The sun reaches its peak as the temple keeper reaches the palace walls. Working his way along the outside, he finds a side door guarded by two boys on the cusp of manhood.

       Suddenly, a resounding crack echoes across the city. This is followed by a loud roar and the clash of metal.

       Steeling himself, he strides quickly and confidently over to the young guards. “What are you two still doing here? The gate is breached!”

       The youth look at each other doubtfully, “We were told not to let anyone in or out. Or else.”

       “Bah! We need all of our warriors at the south gate.” He claps his hands and makes them jump. “This is the time for action.”  Looking the boys up and down, he smiles grimly. “You’re warriors, aren’t you? Glory and honor are yours to seize!”

       The boys puff up their chests, stamp the butts of their spears on the ground, and dip their heads. Both have to readjust their helmets as they trot off to war. 

       He bites his knuckle until it bleeds. If the gods do not grant me pardon, it will take another half-century to atone for all the wrongs I’ve committed today, he thinks. He sags and places his bag between his feet and kicks it. He only allows himself a moment leaning against his staff. Then he tries the door. He curses. The door is locked, and he forgot to swipe the keys. Now he will have to climb the wall.

       He grimaces as he straightens from his drop into the garden. He glances around. No guards. No enemies. He relaxes his grip on his staff.

       The prince’s private garden is small but beautiful. Vining plants decorate the walls while a carved bench, exquisite flowers, berry bushes, and several boulders adorn the remaining space. A path of large stepping stones lead through the grass from the door in the outer wall to a door in the palace. He slowly wanders further in. This is no time to admire the sights or the smells. He must find the secret door. 

       Walking over the stepping stones, he notices something unusual. When his staff struck one of the stones, the sound was different. He taps it again, then again harder. There’s a hollow sound, an echo on the other side. Dropping to his hands and knees,  he runs his fingers around the perimeter of the stone. On the side closest to the palace door, his fingers find grooves for both hands. Stepping off the stone, he places his hands and strains against the weight of the rock with all his strength. Slowly and smoothly, the stone opens to reveal a dark tunnel. Without a second thought, he descends the steps and pulls the stone down behind him.

       No light enters the passage, but the temple keeper does not mind. He’s found his way through passages just as dark. Carefully, he descends the steps, using his staff to probe ahead of him. Eventually he comes to the end of the steps, yet the floor continues on a downward slope.

       It’s not long before he reaches a point where the echoes change and a faint breeze can be felt. Another passage. This to the prince’s chambers, he guesses. Tempted to follow it to see what he might find, he resists and readjusts the bag, switching it to his other shoulder. Then he continues downward along the passage straight ahead.

       By the time he sees light, he’s lost track of how long he’s been in the tunnel. As his eyes adjust, he quickens, but he stops short when he reaches the source. The light isn’t the outline of the opening. It’s coming from overhead. He drags his hand across his face and sighs as he realizes the truth. The tunnel has collapsed. He will have to climb the rubble to get out. 

       The dirt, sand, and rock shifts under him as he scrambles up, but he makes it to the opening. Squinting against the light, he makes out that it’s not quite large enough for him to escape through, so he carefully expands the hole. Grit from above showers him, but he soon has a space large enough for his head and shoulders. 

       Anxiously, he brings his head up just enough to look around. The sun still hangs high in the sky. He hasn’t been underground nearly as long as he thought. A breeze rewards him for his trouble with a gentle touch and the smell of smoke. Behind him to the west, the city is burning. To his right a hill rises to limit his view to the south, and to his left an open plain parallels the city walls. He can see figures moving on it, but they are no threat to him, yet.

       Most importantly, he sees the grove he needs to reach. It’s farther than he would like—maybe seven stone throws away, and there’s no cover. He’ll have to run for it, but not until it’s dark.

       He crawls back into the tunnel and takes a moment to open the bag. Two gods leer up at him, and the third sneers from under them. He closes the bag and looks away. These are the way to his new life. Distant cities will honor him for what he’s done. He might even be hailed as a hero. And maybe, just maybe, the gods will bless and protect him for the rest of his days. Capricious things. He closes his eyes to wait and falls into a shallow slumber. 

       He wakes to footsteps and voices echoing down the tunnel. He’s not interested in meeting their owners. He looks up. Judging from the light, the sun must be setting. It’s still too bright for his run to the grove, but this will have to do. If he’s fortunate, most eyes will be watching the city, but he will still need to move fast.

       Preparing himself, he repositions his dagger, hoists the bag onto his shoulder again with a wince, and draws up his tunic. One moment he’s climbing out of the hole, and the next he’s making a mad dash across open territory. His staff threatens to trip him and the heavy bag beats and bruises his back, but he pushes on for one stone’s throw and then two. His shadow keeps pace ahead of him. He moves faster than he knew he could. The trees grow as he approaches. He already imagines the birdsong above the refreshing gurgling stream. He didn’t realize he was so parched.

       He hears shouts with only one stone throw left before the grove. Glancing back, he trips and goes down hard into the dirt. Dazed, he checks himself. His dagger is sheathed; it hasn’t pierced him. His staff lies behind him. His back is wet where the gods spurred him forward—from sweat or blood he does not know. His momentum caused the bag to tumble forward, throwing the gold god out and into a rock. He is sure they are all marred unacceptably. 

       He groans. He can’t afford this delay. He is sure those shouts were for him. Struggling, he drags himself up and forward. He leaves his staff behind but collects the bag and shoves the gods in it once more. Hopefully he can fix them later. Running with a limp, he covers the remaining distance to the grove. 

       

       Trees, shade, cover, and a few moments to breathe and think. If he can get to the stream, he might be able to lose his pursuers. The breeze brings more shouts with it. He must move. 

       He pushes his way through the undergrowth. It’s thicker than he expected, but he sees light ahead. There must be a break in the trees at the stream. 

       As he steps into the light, he realizes several things at once: there is no break in the trees, this light is not the sun’s, and a warrior in full armor stands before him with a drawn sword. He stops cold. A Shining One, he thinks. For he sees now that the unearthly light emanates from this man. 

       He swallows and hardly dares to breathe. He’s heard the stories. Knowing that death awaits him if he makes the wrong move, he slowly kneels. Compelled to further demonstrate his respect, he removes his sandals. He stays like this, waiting to be commanded or killed, for endless moments. Finally, when he can bear it no longer, he snaps like a bow and flies like an arrow.

       He didn’t think it was possible, but he runs even faster than before. He weaves through the undergrowth, between trees, around and sometimes through bushes. He stumbles into and across the stream. He turns and runs beside it, and as much as possible, in it. He cuts his feet on the rocks, but the occasional stretches of sand and mud are welcome. He’s covered in sweat, mud, and blood, but none of that matters compared to his life.

       Shouts again. Suddenly, he’s slipping and sliding in the mouth of the stream. The river. He’s gone as far as he can with the grove. He can’t follow the river south, that will surely lead him to the horde, and he can’t go north, his tired legs won’t be able to outrun pursuers—man or not. He can only swim and hope he can hide in the hills and valleys on the other side.

       The river is swift and deep. He needs both hands to swim. He confirms his bag of gods is slung tightly over his shoulder, then he steps forward and sinks calf-deep into the sediment. He wades further into the river, and his steps disappear behind him.

       

       The temple keeper has never swam in such deep water in all his life. He’s able to keep his head above the surface for only a few moments before the river engulfs him. It welcomes him as the gods drag him further down. 

       The bag twists and tangles with his tunic. His strokes become frantic, but the more he struggles, the more he sinks. The gods wrestle him with every movement. He is at their mercy, and they have none. Still, he can’t imagine life without them. He’s cared for them for so long. He clings to them, there in the dark, at the bottom of the river.

       It’s there that he finally sees his gods for what they are: death. They’re not the gods of wisdom, strength, or fortune. They’re idols of pride, malice, and greed. If he wants to live, he must cut free of them.

       He remembers his dagger. By some act of grace it is still belted in. It’s twisted awkwardly, but he manages to free it from its sheath. His movements exaggerated underwater, he manages to cut the cord and some of his tunic. The dagger is discarded, and he kicks away from the gods as they settle into the silt of the riverbed. They will wait there for their next devotee—maybe forever.

       He kicks upwards again, but he can’t make progress to the surface fast enough. His panic escapes as bubbles. Desperate, he thrashes the water. His chest feels ready to burst. Finally, he closes his eyes and yells.

       

       Everything is bright when his eyes open. He’s on his stomach with his cheek to the ground. Coughing racks his frame and he turns to the other side. A man’s feet step into view. “Aziru,” a voice says. The temple keeper nods and closes his eyes.

My heartfelt thanks to Mark Mulnix for his time providing feedback and edits to this story. It's at least seven stone's throws better because of him. He's the best resonator a guy could have. 

As always, thanks to my wife for her support and encouragement. Not to mention her attention to detail. She makes me look good.