His hands were dirty from working the earth. It was dark, soft, moist earth. Perfect for the plants he so vigilantly cared for and tended. Indeed, the temple was an oasis of life and colour in a golden, barren landscape. In the black earth grew many shades of green, as well as colours you would not find anywhere else in the area. Red, violet, yellow and blue flowers were basking in the sun, protected from the inhospitable outside by the tall temple walls.
The dark flowerbeds were contained by light, almost white, stones. They lay on either side of a pale cobblestone path, which led from the gate in the wall to the entrance of the temple itself. It was not a big temple, hardly any bigger than a normal house, but it was built in massive stone that shone brightly in the constant sun, and the walls surrounding it were thick and sturdy. The cobblestone path wasn’t more than eight paces long and a couple paces wide, the flowerbeds adding some extra width between the walls. Wall to wall the temple was about four meters wide and a good eleven-twelve meters long, including the building.
A wide, but short set of stairs led up to the entrance of the temple, which had no door. It lay slightly elevated above the ground, and housed a basement partly built into the ground below. Its roof was flat, and a ladder led to the roof from the inside, through a square hole in the ceiling. It offered a good view of the flat terrain surrounding it.
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The finest dirt had settled in the grooves and patterns of the skin on his fingers, refusing to let go and accentuating his unique fingerprints. Dirt had crept up under his nails, and they were now black-tipped. He watered the plants from a large ceramic jug he had got from the basement, where he stored his water. There were many, many jugs of water down there, but he still had to use it carefully. The dry season would last a long while yet.
He followed the routine of his day. Tend the plants, exercise, train, eat, do a bit of maintenance if needed, sleep. There hadn’t been other people in the temple for a long time. He had memories of other people; priests, guards, his family. He was young when they were taken from him, and he had been forced to grow up on his own. Not only grow, but train as well. So that he could defend the temple. In truth, had he not had the temple walls to protect him, he might not have made it.
As he stood there beholding his flowers, reminiscing, as he sometimes indulged in, he was roused by a nearby scream. He knew what came next, but there wasn’t any hurry. He calmly went inside the temple, and when he came back out it was a different silhouette from the one that went in.
The armour was old and worn, but still heavy and sturdy, and well maintained. It fit perfectly over his broad frame; so much so that you might think it was made for him. But it was a remnant of the community that had once thrived here, and it was part luck, part iron-willed determination that had made a young, lonely boy grow into the heavy bronze plates.
The helmet had only narrow slits for seeing through, and it was impossible to see the eyes gazing out from behind it. In fact, there was not one part bare flesh showing through the armour, and one could question if there was something human within it at all.
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There were legends about a solitary temple standing somewhere on the plains, far from any recognizable landmarks, and thus difficult to find. They said it was a brilliant, white temple, with great walls surrounding it. These legends would have it that the temple housed great treasures from a forgotten time. Artefacts of great beauty and mystical power were said to adorn the halls of the temple, and that the riches housed there were fit for kings.
The old, the wise, the drunk and the young who told these legends claimed that the temple had been abandoned by all of its priests and guardians save for one. This lone defender was all that stood between a man and the treasure. Anyone getting ideas of raiding the temple would soon be turned away from it however, as this lone defender was not an ordinary man. No one was even sure it was a man at all. There were stories about a golem, armour animated by magics to defend the temple. Or a giant of a man, in a suit of armour which had no equal in all the lands. They said no matter how many men you could muster, or no matter how well equipped they were, the lone defender would dispatch of them all – that he was invincible.
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On his way to the gate, the bronze-clad temple dweller passed an awkwardly assembled dummy figure, built from wood and cloth. It was made to represent a warrior, albeit a stiff and immobile one. It looked beaten and abused, and the wood had been cut too many times to be counted. There had been many similar figures before this one, but they could only take so much training before they broke.
The man stopped in front of the heavy gates leading to the outside world, and he waited. Not long afterwards he started hearing voices from the other side. He did not understand their language, but he knew what they were here for. He waited a few minutes more, then he removed the heavy wooden beam used to lock the door and opened it.
The group of men outside were caught by surprise. Sure, they had anticipated the fight with the dreaded golem, but they figured they’d have to get over the wall first. The last thing they were expecting was for the golem to simply stroll out through the gate to face them head on. There was shouting and scrambling for weapons and shields, but the golem did not move. It simply watched them, sizing them up.
It was a ragtag group of raiders, it seemed. Most of them were wearing identical leather armours, with similar metal helmets. They were probably from some army, and the leader looked to be from the same army, except his armour was metal plate. Then there were some tribesmen, in cloth and furs, with shields of animal skins and spears. A few wore nothing but cloth, and weren’t equipped with more than a knife or dagger – lowly thieves. There were about 20 of them, in total.
The golem took a few slow steps to position it smack in the middle of the group. There were ropes and half-assembled ladders lying about on the ground. The raiders eyed the golem, on edge, hands gripping their weapons tightly. They had dreaded this fight, and it was made no better by it coming sooner than expected. They cast the occasional glance at each other, all of them waiting for someone else to lead the attack.
After a few tense, silent moments, their leader cried out, wondering what they were waiting for. The golem shifted its grip round the spear it was carrying, and its other hand gripped the handle of its shield tighter. At first, only one raider had the guts to attack, and he charged the golem from behind. The golem didn’t seem to notice, but at the last second spun around to catch the attacking sword on its shield, batting it out of the way. It followed by thrusting its spear towards the attacker, and it went clean through the man. There were a few gasps and flinches among the raiders, and some of the less disciplined, like the ill-equipped thieves, backed away.
The soldiers and tribesmen stood their ground however. They realized the folly of attacking the golem one by one, and soon enough there was a coordinated attack, coming from all sides. In the ensuing skirmish, not one blow was delivered to the body of the golem. There seemed to be a rhythm to its movements, almost like a dance, and wherever a sword tried to strike, there was a shield blocking it, or a spear diverting it. In between the blows hailing down on it, the golem even had time to deliver attacks of its own. Some were pierced by the spear; most were sent flying as their faces met with the golem’s shield.
Less than a minute into it, all the combatants save the golem laid scattered on the ground. There were casualties, injuries and deserters, but no one left to fight. The raid leader stood there watching the golem, not entirely sure what to do. Suddenly he was violently pushed forward, and he stumbled towards the golem, struggling to keep on his feet and dropping his sword. In his place now stood a larger man, clad in heavy armour and sporting a single, great axe. He laughed as the raid leader scrambled to get his sword and get away from the golem, boasting that he would be the one to defeat the mystical golem of the white temple.
The axe-wielding warrior had reason to be confident. He was quite the legend himself, having survived the frontlines of two wars, been crowned champion of the pits in Grening, and never met a man able to best him in battle. He started walking towards the golem with determination in his eyes, and the golem came to meet him.
The warrior knew that it is always best to defeat your opponent without ever being hit yourself, and to assure this he had a habit of initiating a fight with a feint attack. The strategy had been very successful during his career as a warrior, and not only had he become expertly good at it, one could argue that it was because of his mastery of the feint attack that he had become the legend he was.
For some reason, which the great axe-wielding champion will never now, the golem anticipated the feint, countered, and managed to drive its spear through the warrior’s throat. When he pulled it back out the limp body fell, shaking the ground when it hit. The golem looked towards the raid leader, still looking on a few paces away. It started heading for him, and he was frozen in place by fear. When it reached him, he dropped his sword and closed his eyes, praying to be spared. Suddenly he noticed something in his side. He opened his eyes to find the golem using his own sword to cut his armour plate off him, but without injuring the man within. When the armour was off, the golem carried it with him through the gate doors and closed them behind him. The soldier, stripped of sword and plate, ran.
As the golem went past his dummy on his way back to the temple, he placed the metal armour he had taken from the raider upon its wooden shoulders. He spent some time taking off his own bronze plates, washing them clean of blood and placing them neatly on the table reserved for them inside the temple. Then he went back outside and after a moment’s silence and thought, he started gathering the things he needed from his garden to make today’s dinner.
That night there was a feast outside the temple. All sorts of animals gathered to get their share of raider flesh, and by morning almost all trace of the skirmish had gone. The rope and ladders were taken by the temple-dweller and the bloodstains faded quickly under paws and wind. A day later and no one would have guessed that there had ever been any raiders in the first place.
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In the distance, Godo could see a structure. It was white and square, gleaming in the sun. After swimming down the river to avoid his tribesmen, he had picked a direction and started walking. He had walked until any familiar areas were left behind, and then continued onwards. He had not seen any people, and surprisingly he hadn’t seen much wildlife for a good while either. Now the bright structure in the distance had grabbed his attention. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and he headed for it, curious to see what it contained.
