The Gates of Iron

by David Debord

  As he passed through a row of pubs and inns, all dark, a shape lying on the ground caught his attention. His hand went to the hilt of his long hunting knife and he approached with caution. As he drew closer, he realized it was a body. Somehow, he knew who it was even before he knelt over her, pressing his hand to the wound in her chest.

  Melina!

  Chapter 7

  “My children! Where are my children?” The woman tried to reach Pedric Karst, newly-crowned King of Kurnsbur, but his men held her back. She beat at their arms before crumpling to the ground in a heap. She looked at Karst through a curtain of lank, black hair. “I know you’ve taken them, you monster!”

  Karst kicked his horse’s flanks and trotted away. He didn’t care what happened to the brats of Malgog filth. When they were well clear of her, he slowed to a trot. Down a steep embankment, the Igiranin River wended its way south toward the lands of the Black Mangrove clan, the only barrier to his establishing a port city. He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head.

  “What did happen to her children?” he asked Jakom, who, along with Arlus rode alongside him.

  “They were needed for the temple, Majesty.” A hint of bitterness touched Jakom’s voice.

  Karst considered this. Instituted by his father, Rimmic Karst, the temple had operated outside of his writ since he’d seized control of northwestern Lothan and united it with his family’s duchy of Kurnsbur in southeastern Galdora. He supposedly ruled here in Salgo, the new city that would be the capital of the new nation of Kurnsbur. Commoners bowed their heads when he passed, yet the priests looked down their noses at him. It was time for that to change.

  “I think it’s time I paid a visit to the temple.”

  “I don’t think they would welcome that.” Jakom kept his eyes fixed on a spot in front of them, but he couldn’t stop his ears from turning red.

  “What are they going to do? Bar my entry?”

  “They have a force of guards who might do just that.” Jakom raised his hand to forestall Karst’s protest. “Remember, Majesty, your father established the temple as an independent entity. Those who answer to a god cannot answer to civil authority as well.”

  Arlus rode up beside him and pointed to a place where the river narrowed. “The perfect place for the bridge, no? Less distance to span.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I want to know what is happening in the temple.” He felt his temper rise and his hand went to the hilt of his sword without thought.

  Jakom noticed and his eyes widened. “Forgive me, but is that necessary? You know I serve faithfully, but your father has made it clear that you are to lead the nation and the military but leave the temple to its own devices.”

  Karst took a deep breath and got his temper in check. He wondered if his father had set him up as a puppet leader. That seemed to be Rimmic’s plan, but Pedric had other ideas.

  “Let me make myself perfectly clear. My father is not in charge. I am. Is that understood?”

  Jakom nodded. “I just don’t think it would be wise to interfere with the temple. The work they are doing is important to your father’s, I mean, your plans.”

  “All the more reason I should know what they are doing.” He wheeled his horse about and put his heels to its flanks. A warm sense of satisfaction surged through him. Finally, he was taking control.

  The temple was a circular, terraced structure of mud bricks, rising to a peak nearly two hundred hands high, easily the tallest structure in Salgo. Flowers, shrubs and fruit trees grew in the terraces, and a few temple servants tended them. The ever-present column of white smoke poured from the chimney at its apex. Karst grimaced. It was a far finer place than his own quarters—something else that would have to be remedied soon.

  He dismounted, tied his horse off, and signaled for his men to follow. Striding forward, he drew his sword and held it low at his side. Padin, Danlar, and Arlus immediately followed suit. Behind them, a cluster of soldiers followed along, looking darkly eager for a fight.

  “Your Highness, surely weapons are not needed?” Jakom drew his own sword and hurried to keep pace.

  “Not if the guards don’t try to stop us.” Karst turned to Jakom. “You almost sound frightened. Do I need to replace you as my personal guard?”

  “No. It’s just that, it’s not the guards that frighten me.” He grimaced, glanced at Karst, and then hurried on ahead. “Make way for His Royal Highness, Pedric Karst, King of Kurnsbur!” he bellowed.

  One of the guards lowered his spear and took a step forward before backing off. Two temple guards against twelve armed men would stand little chance.

  Karst scowled at the guards. “Have you forgotten how to show proper respect?” Each man dropped to a knee and lowered his head. “Disarm them,” Karst told Jakom and Padin, and they hurried to obey.

  “You may rise.” The guards stood and eyed him warily. “I wish to see the high priest. Lead me to him.”

  “Your Highness, he is leading worship at the moment and cannot be disturbed.”

  “I have not yet had the chance to worship in our temple. It is time I rectified that. Lead the way.” He put steel in his words and emphasized them by pointing his sword between the man’s eyes.

  Both guards rose and stalked into the temple.

  “Kill anyone who offers resistance.” Karst sheathed his sword and tried to suppress his jangled nerves. It would not do to appear afraid. He was king here.

  Candles set in alcoves offered faint light within the dark corridor. The passageway circled the base of the structure, winding inward. They passed a few closed doors and a narrow staircase but encountered no guards, nor anyone from the temple.

  The deeper they penetrated, the more oppressive the darkness grew. Karst imagined he could feel its weight pressing down on him. The stale scent of wood smoke and something more acrid hung in the damp air, and he felt a throbbing, pulsing vibration all around. He wanted to ask if anyone else felt it but feared it would be seen a sign of weakness, so he kept his silence.

  Finally, the corridor ended at a barred door. Here, a single guard waited. He looked at Karst with a bemused expression but lacked the temerity to challenge him. Finally, he dropped to a knee and averted his eyes.

  “I would see Malaithus.” Karst poured all the authority he possessed into the words.

  “I fear that is impossible. The High Priest is in worship right now and cannot be disturbed.” The guard did not look at Karst, but his voice was strong.

  Karst turned to Padin. “Bring me his head.”

  “No!” The guard sprang to his feet. “I mean, His Holiness has given us strict orders. Anyone who disobeys is...” He blanched.

  “Is what?” Karst asked.

  “Your Highness, you will have to see for yourself.” He turned, removed the bar from the door, and opened it just enough for one man to slip through at a time.

  Perhaps fearing an ambush, Jakom entered first. Padin and Danlar followed. Karst took a moment to set two of his men to watch over the guard and make certain he did not raise an alarm, before entering the chamber with the remainder of his men bringing up the rear.

  The sanctuary was thick with the same smoke that poured from the top of the temple. Karst wrinkled his nose. Here was the source of the acrid smell he now recognized as burnt flesh. Beams of light from windows high above sliced through the haze, revealing a ring of priests lying prostrate on the floor, encircling a fiery pit and a stone altar. The high priest stood with his back to the door. A child lay bound on the altar and two more lay weeping nearby, their wrists and ankles tied with thick rope. A single guard stood over them, his attention fixed on them as if he could not bring himself to look at what transpired on the altar.

  As a drummer, hidden somewhere in the haze, pounded out a primordial beat, the High Priest, Malaithus, raised an obsidian knife and plunged it into the chest of the child on the altar. The priests all around him began a rhythmic chant which was soon picked up by a large chorus of voices.

&n
bsp; In the haze, Karst had not noticed the peasants seated around the outer wall. They swayed to and fro and chanted in a monotonous rhythm. He considered the scene. He and his men could deal with a handful of priests and guards, but a hundred or more zealots maddened by religious fervor could be dangerous if something set them off.

  The priest removed the child’s heart and held it aloft, blood streaming down his arm. As the chanting rose to a crescendo, he hurled the heart into the fire. The congregants roared in ecstasy as the flames turned icy blue.

  There was a sudden, oppressive weight in the air. Karst staggered and put his hands to his head. He felt like something was squeezing his mind, beating down his will. All around the worshipers were falling face-first onto the packed earth floor. He dropped to a knee and gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain control. What was happening to him?

  The chanting sharpened into a single word that echoed mournfully through the sanctuary.

  “Wake... wake... wake...”

  “My Lord.” Jakom’s voice shook. “What is that...thing?”

  Karst forced his eyes open and looked up at the roiling cloud of smoke. Terror silenced his scream.

  Chapter 8

  Oskar left breakfast early. He didn’t want to be late for his first-ever class at the Gates, and he had a stop to make along the way. His heart raced as he hurried down the empty hall. He wasn’t sure he should be doing this, but he had no better idea.

  Inceptor Darhon was seated at his desk when Oskar arrived at his office. He looked up but didn’t speak.

  “Inceptor, may I ask you a question?” Oskar’s heart pounded in his chest so furiously he was surprised Darhon couldn’t hear it. Darhon continued to stare. Since he hadn’t declined or sent Oskar away, Oskar decided to ask his question. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “I received my belongings last night.”

  “That is not a question.”

  “No, but one of my items is missing. It’s something that has sentimental value and I would like to have it back. I wondered if it might have been... misplaced.”

  A long moment of silence greeted his words, and he wondered if he’d given offense. Finally, the inceptor took a deep breath, exhaled, and reached for a quill. “If an item was withheld, it is because it is regarded as potentially harmful to you or other novits.”

  Oskar thought this an absurd stance to take, considering the novits were learning sorcery, magic, and combat, but he kept that thought to himself. “It was a book. Rather, a collection of writings.”

  Darhon dipped his quill and began scribbling. “Books are given to Master Corwine, the keeper of the archives. He will return it in due course. Good morning.”

  The dismissal was plain. Oskar wanted to know when he could expect the book’s return but thought the better of it. He made a hasty bow and hurried on to his first class.

  He arrived just as everyone was taking their seats. His appearance drew several stares and a few whispers as he sat down on a bench beside his roommates. One young man, blond with pale blue eyes, turned and looked him up and down. He answered Oskar’s polite nod with a sneer, then whispered something to the youths on either side of him, who chuckled and stole glances in Oskar’s direction.

  “That’s Agen, Shaw, and Dronn. They’re from wealthy families in northern Cardith and think they’re better than everyone else. Steer clear of them.” Naseeb scowled at the backs of the young men.

  Oskar grimaced. He’d imagined those in training to be seekers would be above such pettiness. He was about to say so when the master entered the room.

  Sorcery was taught by Master Ashur. A bald, spindly man with pinched features, he spoke in a low tone that forced the listener to strain to hear him. It also served to sharpen their focus. Oskar found himself leaning forward, eager to take in every word.

  Today’s lesson was about focusing energy into the tiniest space possible. All sorcery, he reminded them, was a matter of a person gathering in the life forces all around them, and focusing them upon an object.

  “The uninitiated assume that all sorcery is, by nature, destructive. We, of course, know better.” Ashur gave them a look that promised stern correction to anyone who did not know better. After explaining the theory, he led them out the side door onto a terrace brimming with greenery.

  If he didn’t know they were on an upper floor, Oskar would have thought they’d walked out into a garden. Fruit trees grew in giant clay pots, grape vines wound around the terrace rails, and potted ferns hung from hooks all around.

  “Find a partner, pick a few grapes, preferably the overripe ones, spread out, and practice.”

  Oskar was about to ask which of his roommates would partner him when Master Ashur’s voice rang out. “New boy. Come here!”

  His throat tight, Oskar hurried over to where Ashur waited. “Yes, master?” He hoped he hadn’t somehow broken one of the rules Darhon had warned him about but refused to share with him.

  “Are you a beginner? That is, have you channeled power?”

  “Yes. I mean, I have channeled power. Some.”

  Ashur nodded. “That is very well. You have much to learn in order to catch up with the rest of the class.” He pursed his lips as one of the students missed his grape entirely and managed to singe the hem of his robe. “To some of them, at least. Now, show me what you can do. Reach out.” He folded his arms across his chest and took a step back.

  Most of the class was focused on the lesson, but Oskar caught sight of Whitt, Naseeb, and Dacio watching him. Agen and his friends had also taken an interest.

  Oskar took a few breaths to calm his racing heart, opened himself and reached out. He immediately understood the reason for the terrace’s abundant plant life. It provided an ample supply of life force from which to draw. He let the power flow in, felt it course through him, and realized Ashur had not told him what to do with the power. Hastily, he looked around and his eyes fell on Agen, who snickered and pointed at Oskar.

  “Look at the country lout.” He didn’t bother to keep his voice down. “He has no business here.”

  Oskar didn’t think. He reached out with the power, as Aspin had taught him, formed it into a wall, and gave Agen a shove that sat him down hard on his backside. Agen sat there in the middle of exploded grapes, looking shocked and angry.

  “Very good.” Ashur nodded once. “You are prepared for the coursework. On the other hand, using sorcery against a fellow member of the Gates is strictly prohibited. It is the first rule of the Gates. You shall remain behind after class to clean the terrace. This evening, report to the kitchens to work off your demerit. Now, find a partner and continue the lesson.” The master turned his back and started circling the room, watching the students who had immediately returned to their work.

  Oskar didn’t know whether to feel proud or disappointed. He’d proven his worth but, in his very first class, had earned himself a punishment. And, by the look on Agen’s face, he had made an enemy.

  “That couldn’t have gone much worse.” Oskar stared down at his feet as they descended the stairs.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Naseeb gave him a friendly pat on the back. “You could have failed to channel.”

  “If I had failed to channel, I’d never have knocked Agen down and wouldn’t have landed myself in the kitchens on my first day.”

  “Had you failed,” Dacio interrupted, “Agen would have seen you as an easy target and made your life miserable. Now he has to take you seriously. As for kitchen work, don’t worry about that. Everyone steps a toe out of bounds here and there.”

  “Except you,” Naseeb retorted.

  Dacio ignored him. “Honestly, don’t fret over it. Master Ashur respects skill, and you clearly have it, especially for a novit. Not many of us have sufficient control to do what you did to Agen.”

  “All I did was push him.” Oskar tried not to smile. His gran had always said, “Don’t take your prize pig to town.” As a child, he’d thought it was a warning to be careful with the things
you treasured. It was years before he realized it meant not to be overly proud. Still, the compliment was welcome and reassured him that perhaps he wasn’t entirely out of his depth here.

  “Most of us have little control over the amount of force we use,” Whitt said. “You used just the right amount. You’ll have to teach me how you do it, that is if you aren’t too tired from scrubbing pots tonight.”

  Now, Oskar permitted himself a smile. “Actually, I had thought of visiting the archives. Are we allowed to visit so late?”

  “Novits are not permitted in the archives,” Dacio said. “You must be an initiate.”

  Oskar’s heart fell. Browsing the Gates’ legendary collection of books and scrolls was the thing he’d been looking forward to the most. He’d just have to work hard to reach initiate status. But there was still the matter of his book.

  “I don’t actually need access to the archives; I just need to ask about my book.” He went on to explain about his missing book and what Darhon had told him. “I suppose I could ask Master Corwine about it.”

  Naseeb blanched, quite a feat considering his dark complexion. “I wouldn’t bother Master Corwine.” He looked around before lowering his voice to a whisper and continuing. “He’s the touchiest of all the masters. Anything can set him off, and he’s unforgiving.”

  “I’m sure he’ll return your book in time,” Dacio added. “Just be patient.”

  They reached the ground floor and followed their classmates out into the walled grounds behind the main tower. Here, a cobblestone path wound through a formal garden, tended by several robed men.

  “Are those saikurs tending the grounds?” Oskar asked, noting the men’s apparent ages.

  “Yes,” Naseeb whispered. “Every man at the Gates is expected to contribute in some way. Tending the grounds is preferable to scrubbing floors. Some consider it meditative while others are assigned the duty as a penance for unsanctioned behavior. “