The Gates of Iron

by David Debord

  “Who would be in charge? The bone women must attend to their clans.”

  “How about the elders who are no longer able to fulfill their duties as they once did? Their bodies are weak, but the knowledge is still there.”

  “Interesting.” Effie touched a finger to her chin and looked up at the ragged patch of blue sky visible through the dense cover of greenery. “Anyone with a particular skill could be a teacher. It would not have to be restricted to bone women.”

  “It could also be a place where the sick are tended to.” Shanis grew more excited as she spoke. The ideas were pouring forth faster than she could voice them. “If all the clans’ healing knowledge is pooled in one place...”

  “I see. Very well.” Effie cut her off in mid-sentence, turned, and hurried over to the bone women who were watching the lesson. After a few minutes of intense conversation and several annoyed glances from Gillen, who was still trying to teach her spell, the women gathered around Shanis and began peppering her with questions.

  “This school you are starting, where would it be?”

  “Who would be in charge? We will no take orders from clan chiefs.”

  “I hope you don’t expect us to create war magic for you. That is not what bone women do.”

  Shanis held up her hands to stem the flow of words that threatened to engulf her. She wanted to tell them it was just an idea, and they should forget she’d suggested it, but she was a ruler now and need to act like one.

  “The school would be here.” It made sense. Calmut was in a central location, and it was a place all Lothans held in high regard. “The bone women would, of course, be in charge.”

  The women exchanged satisfied smiles.

  “Answerable, of course, to the crown.” That wiped their grins away. “My yoke is light, I assure you. I expect this to be a seat of learning, and a place where those in need can come for help. All the things that bone women do, I want you to learn to do them better, and share them with all the clans. No one may hold back knowledge from anyone, including me. And if anyone wants to teach or learn ‘war magic’, as you call it, you will permit them to do so. I don’t like war any better than you do, but the better prepared we are to defend ourselves, the less likely others are to attack us. Do you accept my conditions?”

  “The clan chiefs will never approve,” Maisie, a young woman of the Hawk Hill clan said.

  “It’s not their decision; it’s mine.” Shanis knew she was testing the limits of her authority in this. She did not yet wear the crown, and the Lothans were not mere serfs ready to bend the knee to any so-called noble. Leading them was like riding a wild horse bareback: you held on tight and tried your best to nudge them in the proper direction without being thrown. In this case, however, she would not bend. Why shouldn’t the bone women have a certain degree of autonomy and a measure of power? And the gods help the first man who told her that women could not be trusted with power or responsibility. “What will it be?”

  “Yes,” Effie said, and the others added their assent.

  “If I may make a suggestion?” Heztus had sidled up to her unnoticed. “There is an old temple not far from here which I believe will suit your needs. It will require a great deal of work to make it fit for habitation, but the roof is solid and there is a large block of penitent cells that could be converted to living quarters.”

  “Assemble a team of workmen and begin immediately,” Shanis said.

  Heztus looked like he’d just stepped in a pile of goat dung. “I don’t believe I’m the best person for this job. The men do not like to take orders from a dwarf, you see.”

  “We will see to it you do have all the help you need.” Jamma, a woman with silver-streaked red hair and skin like old leather, spoke up. “There are young men and boys aplenty in our clans who do spend too much time playing at swords and not enough time at honest work.”

  “The girls can help too,” Maisie added. “And we will be there to make certain no one shirks their responsibilities.”

  “Wonderful.” The expression on Heztus’ face made it clear he thought it was nothing of the sort. He turned pleading eyes to Shanis. “I assume you wish me to serve in a supervisory capacity? I’m really not much of a laborer.”

  Shanis had to laugh. “Just see to it that the work gets done to their satisfaction.” The bone women turned on Heztus and all began giving orders at the same time.

  Shanis spared one sympathetic glance at her friend and then looked around for Granlor. He waited nearby with their horses, looking at the bone women with a sour expression on his face.

  “You have something to say?” Shanis asked.

  Granlor shook his head.

  “A wise choice.” Shanis swung up onto her horse and heaved a sigh. “Let’s find the clan chiefs and tell them what I’ve done.”

  Chapter 4

  “That’s Vatania?” Oskar scarcely managed to choke out the words. He’d been to Karkwall and thought himself prepared for a big city, but this was something else entirely. Far below them, where the Blue River twisted its way south and east, the outskirts of the city blanketed the world in a jumble of wood, stone and smoke. Dirt roads clogged with traffic, mounted and afoot, meandered toward the city walls, just visible in the distance. And beyond them, lay the inner city and, Oskar knew, the sea.

  “That is part of it,” Aspin said, guiding his horse down the winding road.

  Oskar hesitated for a moment, still mesmerized by the vast sea of human habitation that lay before him, and then hurried to catch up, his horse bouncing him roughly in the saddle.

  “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘there.’ We’ll reach the outskirts of Vatania in less than an hour. After that, another hour to the city walls, and the Gates.”

  Oskar shivered at the mention of the fabled headquarters of the saikurs, so named for the iron gates at its entrance. He forced his mind back to what Aspin had said. Another hour after entering the city proper?

  “The city is that big? I thought once we were inside the city it wouldn’t be so far.” Oskar tried, but could not paint the picture in his mind’s eye. It was too vast.

  “The distance is not so great. What will slow us down are all the people we will have to navigate around. The closer you draw to the Gates, the slower the going.” Aspin sounded as if he would rather be anywhere but here. His temper had grown noticeably shorter since they had crossed the border.

  From central Lothan, they’d traveled northeast through Diyonus and then here to Vatania, a coastal city in southern Cardith. He’d been thrilled at the prospect of seeing the great cities of Diyonus, with their fabled rooftop gardens, but their travels had taken them through rural areas, and the few stops they made had been in villages not much larger than his home of Galsbur, where he’d grown up. Still, he’d enjoyed the trek through a country about which he’d read and heard tales.

  Along the way, Aspin had intensified Oskar’s training, instructing him in a variety of subjects as they rode, until Oskar felt as though his head would explode if he learned one more fact. The evenings were devoted to practicing with the quarterstaff, at which Oskar was competent, and sword forms, at which he was hopeless.

  Each night, just before they drifted off to sleep, Aspin warned him of all the things he should not reveal to anyone within the Gates: Shanis, Larris and Lerryn, The Silver Serpent, the Keeper of the Mists, the re-unification of the clans, the lost city of Murantha, the Thandrylls, the warning signs of a new Frostmarch. Essentially, anything interesting that had happened to him during his travels was taboo. Now, as they drew ever closer to Vatania, Oskar wondered if he was in any way prepared for what he would face beyond the gates of iron.

  Oskar sighted the iron gates that barred entry to the saikurs’ headquarters long before he and Aspin reached them. Set between two high, crenelated walls of gray stone, they stood higher than the tallest building in Galsbur. Admittedly, that was less than forty spans, but still, the gates
were impressive. Drawing closer, he saw the runes carved upon their surface. Common wisdom held that they were defensive spells that rendered the gates indestructible, and they cast curses upon any who attacked the walls, but Aspin had confided in him that the symbols merely made the iron impervious to rust. Of course, there had been a twinkle in his eye when he said it—one of the few traces of humor in the otherwise stolid man.

  The gates stood open, a squad of guards barring the way. One guard stepped forward as Oskar and Aspin reined in. He stood ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance.

  “Who seeks to pass beyond the Gates of Iron?”

  “Aspin, a saikur.”

  Silence. Finally, Aspin cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Oskar.

  Flustered, Oskar managed to stammer out the words Aspin had taught him. “Oskar, one who humbly seeks admission to the Gates.”

  Wordlessly, the guard stepped aside, and they rode in.

  “You’ll have to do better than that.” Aspin’s placid expression remained unchanged, but the disapproval in his voice was impossible to miss.

  “I will.” Privately, Oskar wondered if could really do this. Suddenly, the very idea of a farm boy from Galsbur studying to be a saikur, or seeker as they were commonly known, seemed the greatest of follies.

  They rode through a forested area which made the Gates seem as if it were set apart from the surrounding city. The woods soon gave way to a broad, manicured green space, and beyond it, the foreboding towers of the Gates.

  Aspin led the way to the stables, where they dismounted and turned their horses over to the stable hands. Oskar patted his mount, a chestnut stallion named Oaken, and whispered a word of thanks for bringing him safely to Vatania. It was something his father had taught him to do. The stable boy heard him and nodded his approval. Oskar slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, hefted his quarterstaff, and followed Aspin.

  By the time they reached the front steps, Oskar felt like he’d swallowed a bullfrog. His stomach heaved and cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Every step he took seemed an insurmountable task, but he soldiered on until they stood at the front doors. Here, they were once again met by guards, one of whom asked their names. This time, the question was no mere formality. He passed word to a messenger who hurried away, returning minutes later with a brown-robed man with a wan face and receding hairline.

  “Aspin.” The man’s nod was polite if perfunctory. “The prelate will receive you in his study immediately.”

  “Thank you, Nolan.” Aspin turned to Oskar. “Good luck, young man. Work hard and learn all you can.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the huge, gray granite castle.

  Nolan crooked one finger, indicating Oskar should follow him. The high-ceilinged entry hall was built of the same granite as the exterior and lit by torches that glinted off the flecks of mica embedded in the rock. There was no time to take in any more detail than that because they soon left the main passage into a smaller hallway. Three turns later and Oskar was thoroughly lost.

  They finally came to a halt in front of a closed door. A graying man with broad shoulders and a wide brow answered on the third knock.

  “A new member of the novitiate to see you, Inceptor.” Nolan bowed.

  “Thank you. You are dismissed.” The man turned to Oskar. “Come inside.” He gestured to a wooden bench in front of a cluttered writing table. Oskar took a seat and the man settled into a chair.

  “I am Inceptor Darhon. I will be responsible for you during your time in the novitiate.” He moved aside a stack of papers, uncovering a leather-bound book. The binding was cracked and the pages brittle, and he opened it with care to a place he had marked. “Your name and your home, please.”

  “Oskar Clehn, from Galsbur in Galdora.”

  Darhon picked up a ragged quill, entered the information, and then blotted the entry with sand. When he finished, he set the book aside and fixed his gaze on Oskar.

  “Why do you want to enter the Gates?”

  “I want to learn.” Aspin had told him to keep his answers simple, and that was the simple truth. He’d always loved learning.

  “What do you wish to learn?” Darhon’s voice betrayed no emotion.

  “History, logic, magic, sorcery. Everything, I suppose.”

  “Why do you seek this knowledge?”

  That wasn’t so easy to answer. How did you explain the thing that, more than anything else, made you who you are?

  “I’ve always sought knowledge for its own sake. I read every book I could get my hands on and listened to every story the elders told.” He shrugged.

  Dahron began shuffling papers, but the questions continued.

  “What will you do with the knowledge you glean from this place?”

  Oskar shook his head. “Something good. I don’t know, I suppose I’ll learn that too.” He felt he was failing the interview. Dahron would probably send him on his way in short order. He was, after all, just a farm boy.

  “Do you wish to be a saikur?” Dahron still looked down at his papers, but his tone was sharp.

  “I suppose I do.” Oskar kicked himself. Why hadn’t he considered his answer? Aspin had warned him to take care of what he said.

  Dahron looked up and smiled.

  “If you aren’t certain now, you shall soon find out.” He laid his papers down, laced his fingers together, and locked eyes with Oskar. “You will begin as a novit, with no status. I may dismiss you at any time for any reason: violating rules, failure to attend classes or see to your duties, showing a lack of promise. Any reason at all.” He fell silent and waited for Oskar to nod that he understood before continuing.

  “Leave your personal effects here. They will be returned to you.”

  Oskar winced. He owned nothing of significant value, nor was he attached to many of his few possessions, but there was his book. In his youth, he’d copied sections from Lord Hiram’s books, and when he left Galsbur, he recorded their travels, copied passages from books in the great library at Karkwall, mapped their journey, and even made rubbings of glyphs in the lost city of Murantha. It now comprised a thick bundle of papers wrapped in coarse leather and bound with twine. He hated the thought of giving it up, even briefly, but what choice did he have?”

  “Do you have any questions?” Darhon asked.

  “Could I get a list of the rules?”

  “Learning the rules is part of your novit training. I suggest you do so with all due haste. Now, follow me.”

  An hour later, Oskar found himself bathed, de-loused, and garbed in an itchy tunic and hose. He was issued two spare sets of clothing, a coarse blanket, a surprisingly comfortable pair of boots, and a plain, brown cloak, the twin of the one the Thandrylls had given him so long ago. Aspin had kept it, thinking it a bad idea for Oskar to show up at the Gates already dressed like a saikur. Heart pounding, he stood outside the door to his dormitory. The page who had led him here smirked at his hesitation and pointed at the doorknob. Heart in his throat, Oskar opened the door and stepped inside.

  The conversation in the room ceased. Three young men sat on bunk beds to his left and right. Directly opposite the door, a window looked out over the forest and onto the city. Oskar would have been eager to take a look were he not so nervous. He forced a grin.

  “I’m Oskar.”

  “It’s about time we got some fresh meat in here. I’m tired of being the new kid.” A young man with light brown skin and glossy black hair stood and offered his hand. “I’m Naseeb, and these piles of horse dung are Whitt and Dacio.” Whitt, a bulky blond, and Dacio, an angular youth with a crooked nose and dirt brown hair, added their greetings. “Toss your things on the empty bunk above mine. It’s almost third bell.”

  “What does that mean?” Oskar hated feeling ignorant, but his only hope of learning his way was to ask as many questions as possible and hope no one steered him in the wrong direction.

  “It means food.” Whitt slid down off his top bunk and la
nded on his booted feet with a thud. “It’s not tasty, but there’s always plenty, and you look like you could use a little feeding up.”

  Oskar blinked. All his life, he’d been on the heavy side, but long months of travel, mostly through wilderness, living on trail rations, and practicing with his staff, had wrought a change in him to which he was not yet accustomed. He was tall and broad of shoulder, but he’d lost his girth, and his cheeks were no longer plump.

  “Food will be welcome.” He tossed his bundle onto the bunk— his bunk.

  “Don’t forget your cloak,” Naseeb said. “Never leave quarters without it.”

  “Thanks. I asked the inceptor about the rules, but he said I had to learn them on my own.”

  His three roommates laughed.

  “Darhon does that to everyone. Just pay close attention to what we say, and never forget a word, and you’ll be fine.” Naseeb’s dark eyes twinkled. “Now, let’s go before I shrivel up and blow away.”

  The smells of cooking reached Oskar long before they entered the dining hall: the aroma of freshly baked bread and something spicy. His stomach rumbled and his new companions laughed.

  “Your stomach might not thank you for what you’re about to feed it.” Naseeb led the way into the dimly lit room. Tall, narrow windows cast slivers of orange sunlight across the rows of trestle tables where men of varying ages, all clad in brown robes, sat conversing around bites of bread and mouthfuls of a thick, brown stew.

  As they joined the line of men waiting to be served, Whitt began to speak in a low tone. “All the men working the serving line are novits or low-level initiates. When they serve you, nod once and say, “Thank you.” Don’t say anything else, but don’t forget to thank them.”

  “How about the fellow with all the ear hair?” A tall man with a pronounced widow’s peak and thick sideburns paced like a caged animal behind the serving line.

  “That’s Master Moylan. Don’t let him hear you talking about his ear hair. He’s supposed to have tried every remedy to get rid of it, but every time it only grows back thicker.” Whitt’s expression turned grave. “If he speaks to you, address him as Master and don’t look at him with a speck of defiance. He’ll have you scrubbing pots with your hair if he thinks you’re not showing the proper respect.”