The Dragon Gate (The Dragon Gate Series Book 1)

by Randy Ellefson

  “And did you learn this thing?”

  He feigned a frown. “No.” He knew exactly where the scroll was and had been all along – in one of his robe’s pockets. Cirion didn’t even know it existed.

  The dragon was disapproving. “And when were you planning to stop them? It was getting rather late.”

  Raith nodded, still feeling a bit charmed by the magnificent beast despite his new allegiance to himself. “They saw you in the sky and thought to work the gate while you were gone. I thought that would be my opportunity.”

  “But they have failed,” stated Perndara flatly, “as have you. How did you come to know they possessed the scroll?”

  He paused and decided to bolster his lies with some honesty, since he wasn’t coming off as well as he’d have liked. “Dragon Cult members stole it from Olliana at my direction long ago,” he confessed, “so it could be destroyed, but it was lost through foolishness.” He smiled slightly. The thieves had indeed been foolish, for if a man won’t reveal his identity when he hires you, you should expect your death instead of gratitude for a job well done. “When I heard this group had paid a huge sum for a scroll, I surmised they had it and convinced them I could help them here. They soon admitted to the possession but that was all.”

  He didn’t admit to hearing rumors of Cirion’s mercenaries having come before but encountered all manner of traps, which was a principal reason he’d used Cirion to get here. Better his men get killed than Raith. Every wizard needed warriors to do grunt work. Even Soliander paraded around with those other champions.

  Perndara contemplated and he knew she wasn’t entirely convinced. A long pause followed and he projected a desire to be helpful and pleasing, mixed with fear and awe.

  “I sense magic power in you,” observed Perndara approvingly. “You can be of service to me.”

  The wizard bowed, wondering where this was headed and flattered despite himself. Stop it, you fool.

  “My sources tell me the Ellorians are on their way. I want you to challenge Soliander and keep him occupied.”

  Raith hesitated. He might be far stronger than Cirion’s group knew, but he’d not win a direct challenge against that wizard. He only sought a way to achieve his goal before anyone knew what he was doing. He just hoped that whoever had opened the gate hadn’t beaten him to that goal. It clearly wasn’t Soliander and he was ready to fight whoever had done it to the death to get what he wanted. There was no graceful way to refuse this request, however, and he’d long ago learned the immense value in making empty promises to gain trust.

  “Certainly,” he replied, bowing as if honored, and with some annoyance he realized he wasn’t entirely faking it. “I will keep him from disturbing you.”

  “See that you do.” She then instructed him on where to be and what to do and he moved to the far end of the hall, so near the open gate that he struggled to keep from staring at it. Once the champions distracted Perndara and he had a moment alone with the gate, he would seize his destiny.

  “Are we going to rescue them?” Anna asked, dubiously.

  Eric frowned at the idea. Across the hall from the unlit room they stood in, a descending stairway led to the dungeon, the faint sounds of men talking and laughing drifting up from below. No one was looking forward to visiting it. If they weren’t careful, they might get to visit anyway. A patrol of guards had already passed by once. Enough torches and lanterns flickered along the stone walls that they knew company lurked everywhere, and they had doused their own.

  “I think they can wait,” remarked Eric. “I don’t want them along while we’re facing the dragon. It’s like having another enemy in our midst.”

  “Easy for you to say,” muttered Ryan, gripping the lance. “You don’t have to do much.”

  “I don’t know,” started Matt, “they’ve got another wizard with them and he could be a big help.”

  “I agree with Soliander,” said Lorian. “Though we will have to fight our way to them and it might arouse guards elsewhere, the addition of another wizard is worth the risk.”

  Rognir grunted as a loud clatter rose up the stairs. Shouting followed. “No one will think twice about a commotion down there, as long as we are quick.”

  “True,” agreed the elf, “the mercenaries are typically amateurish. Let us proceed before someone comes.” With that he peeked into the hallway and then ventured across and down the stairs, other elves and Rognir following. Before joining them, Eric frowned at his friends.

  “Keep an eye on Cirion and the others when we get them out,” he suggested. “I expect nothing but trouble from them and am surprised Lorian wants them along.”

  “Maybe he doubts our ability to help,” remarked Matt.

  “Probably,” Eric admitted ruefully. “Just don’t trust them with anything, especially our safety.”

  “Agreed,” said Ryan, wondering what Nola really had planned for him that night.

  Eric peeked into the hallway and quickly leaned back. Guards were coming, this time from another direction that provided full view of them. He ushered the others back, but the empty room provided no cover and wasn’t nearly dark enough. He tried the only door, which opened to reveal a large, empty room, two torches burning. Motioning for everyone to go in, he barely followed as the guards reached the opening. Shutting the door quietly, he turned to the others and stopped short. They were gone. So was the large hall, a much smaller one in its place, brightly lit by lanterns. Confused, he turned to the door and discovered it was gone, too.

  Ryan blinked in the bright light, which, along with the lack of dust and cobwebs, suggested a well-used room they had better leave. Suits of armor and weapons lined the walls, gleaming as if new. He turned to the others and found himself alone. Maybe they hadn’t come through the door after him, but then he saw that even that was gone, too. In its place stood a solid wall.

  Maybe the door is camouflaged, he thought, pulled off a glove to feel for a seam, but his fingertips felt only the natural pits and chips in the limestone. He was about to call out to see if they could hear him on the other side when a door creaked behind him.

  He turned as a warrior in dusky black armor strode in, malice in every step, a short plume of white feathers atop its helmeted head. The raised visor revealed a dark elf’s cruel features. The elf unsheathed a black sword, metal ringing with the motion as it advanced on him, its metal-shod feet clanging with every step like the tolling of a bell. Death had come for him at last.

  Ryan fumbled for his own sword, stepping forward to avoid being cornered and looking for an escape, but he saw only the door beyond his attacker. As if reacting to his thoughts, it slammed shut, locks clanking furiously on the far side. The elf struck at him, their blades clanging once, twice, three times. Ryan’s defenses steadily pulled his sword to one side, exposing his front, and the dark blade struck at his chest, bouncing off the armor.

  Stepping back and regrouping, Ryan parried several blows imperfectly. He got the impression the elf was testing his defenses, for the elf didn’t take every opening, instead looking for all the faults to form an overall strategy. Lorian had taught Ryan how to do it and now he knew the ploy was being used on him.

  And so Ryan went on the offensive to disrupt him. At first the elf seemed surprised, but a few strokes later Ryan stepped back with a gasp, holding his side, where a deep cut oozed blood. His poor assault had let the elf’s blade slip between the plates.

  No more attacks unless something comes up, he decided, sobering up. It’s my turn to test and evaluate.

  Time after time the swords crossed, the elf faster, the knight better protected, Korrin’s armor impervious to the elf’s sword unless a stabbing blow made it through the chainmail. Ryan’s strikes badly dented the other’s armor but happened too infrequently. The elf’s blade stabbed him again and again, a half dozen cuts oozing blood, and yet the elf had only one meaningful wound to his unused arm. Ryan was losing and not getting more blows to land.

  As if realizing this, the el
f began striking the same wounds over and over but not making them worse, just causing more pain. Being tortured to death wasn’t on Ryan’s agenda and he grew angry. He suddenly realized the elf had become predictable. Sacrificing his left leg to the next attack, he didn’t bother with the expected defense, already swinging hard at the surprised elf instead.

  Both blows struck home, Ryan’s only stinging while the elf received a deep gash that likely cracked ribs. Wild relief and anger surged within Ryan and he pressed forward, hammering down at the retreating elf’s sword arm. And suddenly he realized his strength made up for his skill. He’d been afraid to use that strength since hurting Daniel so long ago, but now rage set him free and he slammed the sword down again and again. It forced the elf to hold his blade with both hands, eliminating any one-handed maneuverability. Still using only one arm himself, Ryan punched the elf in the face with the other, feeling grim satisfaction as he knocked the elf backward.

  It was a mistake, for the elf regrouped and returned to the fight meaning business but seeming wary as they circled each other. A flurry of quick strikes kept Ryan from delivering a big swing. Cuts began to appear on him, a terrible wound causing him to limp and poorly support his weight, another making his left hand unresponsive. He grew lightheaded from blood loss, his judgment slipping.

  Maybe that’s why his sword arm dropped suddenly. The elf lunged and Ryan hauled the sword upward, blades crashing together and rising above their heads. With a crash he head-butted the elf’s face with his helmet, knocking him back and then slamming the sword into the elf’s thigh, down to the bone.

  With a shriek, the elf fell to one knee but still tried to stab the knight through the belly. Seeing it coming, Ryan brought his sword down on his foe’s neck, cutting deep through armor, bone, and sinew, nearly beheading him. Blood sprayed all over Ryan, whose anger abruptly vanished at what he’d done, the ghastly mortal wound spurting blood with each heartbeat. The elf would be dead in a minute, but not if Ryan used the last and most powerful healing spell in the Trinity Ring. He bent to use the ring but then stopped short.

  The last time he healed an enemy, Eric nearly got killed. This time it would be himself. His wounds weren’t life threatening but he’d lose another fight if not healed. His friends, Daniel, and everyone on this world were depending on him. Besides, he wasn’t ready to die. And Lorian was right. An aggressor brought death upon themselves. The choice had been made. Seeing the dark elf’s still angry eyes on him, Ryan snapped out of his particular brand of foolishness after a lifetime of it. With a coldness that surprised him, he brought the sword down one more time, finishing the elf.

  On stepping through the door, Anna spied an elaborate mural and turned to examine the depiction of a battle winding down and priests kneeling among the wounded, helping, caring, and healing them. The looks of gratitude made her realize patients didn’t care how you made them better, just that you did. All of this healing stuff wasn’t about her, and she blushed at her selfishness. If appealing to a god was the only means to heal such terrible wounds, then wasn’t she obligated to try?

  But then why her? Surely not just anyone could convince a god to heal someone through them. She wasn’t a logical choice and knew that pretending to be Eriana wouldn’t convince anyone of her merits. Rognir must have gone through some training or somehow been found worthy. Having not done either, Anna didn’t expect a god to answer her even if she tried. One never had before, since the god of Earth wasn’t real, at least to her.

  She became so engrossed in her thoughts and the mural that she lost all sense of time and only slowly became aware of the clanging of metal behind her. She turned to see Ryan fighting a warrior in black and the others were gone. On trying the door she came through to get help, she discovered it wouldn’t open no matter how hard she pulled.

  Helplessly, Anna turned to watch, wincing at every wound inflicted on Ryan, her medical training helping her assess each. His fierce expression convinced her this was a fight to the death, but the sight of Ryan beheading his opponent shocked her. For a moment she was too startled to move, but then she rushed to him.

  “My God, Ryan, are you alright?”

  Dazed, he looked right through her, woozy and disoriented. Then he crashed to the ground with a clatter.

  “Ryan, stay with me,” she begged, kneeling beside him. She had to stop the bleeding but saw nothing to use as a tourniquet except her robe’s hem. Struggling to tear off a piece, she finally used his dagger to do so. She tried to bind the worst wound on his leg, but the thigh plate stood in the way until she got it off, remembering how from their night at the inn. She pulled tight but knew it wasn’t enough, the chain mail that was covering his leg making it too hard to stop the bleeding.

  “Ryan.” She leaned over him, patting his face to wake him, getting blood all over his cheek. “Ryan, please stay with me. I need your strength.” Even as she said it, she knew he was too weak to pull the tourniquet any tighter than she had. She desperately tried again, pulling with all her might to no avail. He was going to die right here in front of her if she didn’t find another way.

  Feeling like a fool, she remembered Eriana’s method, and only a moment passed before she brushed aside her disposition about it. She placed one hand on his forehead and another on his chest, trying to remember what Rognir had told her. She didn’t know the words he used but surely the Goddess Kiarin would answer to save Ryan.

  “Lady Kiarin,” she began, struggling for words, “please spare this man’s life. He does not deserve to die here today. He shouldn’t even be here and – ” She stopped herself. That probably wasn’t a good line of thought to follow. Maybe if she admitted how important he was to her. Surely her personal connection mattered.

  “Please Kiarin. I don’t want to lose him. He is a good man, the best I’ve known, and such men are rare and deserve long lives. Please spare him.” Shaking her head in uncertainty, she continued, “I don’t know what else to say to you. Please forgive my methods and look into my heart instead, to see my words are true. Please answer my call.”

  Even as she said it, from somewhere deep within her the memory of unanswered pleas to God surfaced and along with them anger about never being answered. She tried to snuff the resentment and uttered another plea to Kiarin, but her heart also carried something akin to an insistence that she get a reply. She’d never have expressed the sentiment aloud but it lived on in her still, and that was enough. Nothing was happening.

  Ryan’s head rolled to one side and she gasped, checking his pulse with a trembling hand, begging Kiarin for help. She found no heartbeat and the flow of blood from his wounds faded, his skin white.

  “Oh my God, no. Please no.”

  She begged Kiarin again but it was too late. Ryan lay dead. Several minutes of desperate CPR followed with nothing changing. Tears poured down her face as she clung to his body, a blur of emotions raging in her. Looking heavenward, she screamed, “Why won’t you answer me?”

  But there was no response. Unable to look at Ryan’s pale face any longer, she staggered to her feet and stumbled into a corridor she hadn’t noticed before, not knowing or caring where it led.

  Even as the wizard stepped across the door’s threshold, he knew something was up. The staff sent a pulse up his arm and he found himself standing somewhere other than the large hall he’d briefly seen. Either he’d been transported or he now saw an illusion. Since the staff no longer alerted him to magic, he suspected the former. It still looked like Darlonon, but he easily could’ve been teleported anywhere on Honyn – or even off world. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  Matt stood in a ten by ten room with a corridor to one side. It offered the only way out, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to go wherever it led. The teleportation had undoubtedly been Soliander’s doing like all the magic they’d encountered inside. He wondered if something similar had happened to the others or if he’d been treated differently on account of the staff. So far Soliander’s spells had recognized it, so perha
ps only the arch wizard himself would have been transferred to where Matt stood now. The idea piqued his curiosity but stood little chance of being verified.

  The room stood bare save for an oval mirror that hung in space across from him. Aside from its lack of support, it was unremarkable. He examined his reflection, not having seen himself in the Majestic Majus’ black garb yet. The overall impression was intimidating and made worse by the black hood obscuring his face, its shadows suggesting something sinister. With a start, he realized he wasn’t wearing the hood, and no sooner had that difference registered than the reflection stepped from within the apparent mirror and into the room, the portal vanishing. Matt gasped and stepped back, but it was too late. With a curt gesture, the figure spoke a word and Matt could no longer move. It grabbed him by the robe.

  “Who are you?” the figure demanded, piercing eyes glaring.

  “Uh, Soliander,” Matt stammered, frightened.

  The glare hardened. “No, you are not. What is your name?”

  Unsure what to say, Matt repeated with more confidence, “Soliander.”

  The man’s eyes flashed. “Soranumirae,” he intoned, and sudden pressure crushed Matt’s chest. His eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe, his face turning red. Merciless eyes stared back and only when Matt started to black out did the figure speak again. “Earimunaros.” The pressure released and Matt gasped for air, dizzy and weak. Before he’d finished recovering, the figure looked ready to do it again.

  “Matt!” he blurted between gasps, in over his head and wanting out. “My name’s Matt. Sorenson, from Earth.”

  The figure’s eyes intensified as if recognizing the name, surprised by it, or both. “Earth?”

  “Yes. My planet. Where I came from.” Matt squirmed as the figure stared at him silently. Maybe he’d said something wrong.

  “And who travels with you?”