The Legend of the Gate Keeper Anthology: The Shadow, Land of Shadows, Siege of Night, Lost Empire, Reborn, The Trials of Ashbarn, End of Days

by Jeff Gunzel

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  The rain had broken now, and the sun was coming out. The man in black quietly tied the beautiful white horse to a tree outside of a red barn, then snuck around through the tall grass to the side of the two-story house made entirely of gray stone. The beautiful cottage seemed to make the red barn appear out of place.

  The cloaked figure carefully climbed up the grapevine that ran up the back of the stone house and quietly opened the window before sneaking inside. The room was furnished with a large bed, coat rack, and a small wooden table with two fine, polished wooden chairs. Last but not least was a huge dresser with a full-sized mirror attached to the top of it.

  “Hey, who is that?” came an older man’s voice from down stairs. “Jade, are you up?” Slow footsteps could now be heard coming up the stairs.

  The black cloak went flying into the closet, followed by both shoes. A lacy baby-blue nightgown was thrown on in seconds. One, two, three pins were removed from long, black hair now flowing over petite, yet defined shoulders.

  The door opened and a white-haired, kind-looking old man walked into the room. “Oh, good. You are awake, Jade. Are you ready for breakfast?” the man asked with a warm smile.

  “Yes, father,” came the sweet, innocent reply. “I’ll be down in a minute.” The young girl smiled, her flowing black hair roughed-up and messy. She tilted her head to the side as she fluttered those innocent crystal-blue eyes.

  Chapter 3

  The hot, dry air whipped around in mini spirals, turning a pinkish red with the dust and debris picked up from the sandy desert floor. The faint color gave the illusion of life to the mini tornadoes before they unwound, releasing their contents back onto the ground and losing the animated effect. The very moment the wind died down, the scorching sun took over once again, mercilessly baking the desert landscape. Wavy lines of distortion drifted from every rock formation, disrupted only when the winds picked up yet again, and the hot, sweltering, air formed the dancing sand ghosts once more.

  Many miles north, deeper into the wasteland than anyone has ever gone, is a sight so out of place, it would appear to be a mirage to anyone that laid eyes on the spectacle. There, in the middle of the sandy tomb, a fertile oasis teemed with life. Beautiful palm trees were alive with all sorts of colorful birds, both perched and airborne, singing contentedly without a care in the world. A babbling brook split the oasis in half, and it was full with goldfish both white and orange, each up to a foot in length, lazily swimming to the edge of the stream just to slowly turn around and return the way they came. Exotic fruit trees of all sorts are scattered about randomly, including apple, orange, plum, and some sort of yellow fruit that is not known anywhere else in Tarmerria.

  At the very top of a cliff is a flat area with no trees or birds. The only vegetation was long, green grass with a few dandelions and other weeds mixed in. A jet-black marble tower protruded from the flat surface, standing several stories tall. In all its unnatural beauty, it’s quite clear no human created this. Wide at its base, it continued to grow thinner as your eyes followed the structure from base to top. At the midway point, the tower splits into three columns, each reaching up towards the sky. The middle column was straight as an arrow, but the other two each bent towards the center, giving the whole tower the shape of a bent pitchfork. There was no door or entrance that could be seen, but the smoke coming from the middle column made it clear that someone or something lived inside.

  The interior of the tower was no less impressive than the outside. The upper-level room was full of hand-carved furniture fit for royalty. A large, thick, sturdy wooden table, along with matching wooden chairs of equal quality, was placed in the corner of the room. A large, black, wooden dresser stood opposite the table. But the most intricate piece of furniture by far was the king-sized bed that looked to sleep five. The sheets and blankets were checkered with reds, blues, yellows and greens. Set with just as many colors was the giant see-through net that hung from a metal frame surrounding the bed, although the colors were not as bright due to the thin material. It was all a stark contrast to the jet-black, shiny marble floor and the dull gray stone walls.

  The walls were full of tapestries, each with gold-embroidered edges. Some images were of mythical creatures tearing apart humans, but most were of kings and queens, all with servants surrounding them, bowing or holding jewelry placed on a pillow, reaching out towards their masters.

  The bedcovers began to stir, then, with a jolt, a large figure sat up. Yellow catlike eyes with dark pupils shaped in slits stared straight ahead at nothing for moment. A snout like a pig’s with two small tusks protruding from the lower jaw completed the unearthly features of the half-demon, half-man monstrosity. The seven-foot beast of a man jumped out of the bed and marched towards the window.

  Dragot, as he was called, patiently held out one finger, and within a few seconds a large blue parrot flew to him, hovering in front of his pig-like snout momentarily before finally perching on the offered finger. “A beautiful day, is it not?” came the soothing, calm, articulate voice as the monster stroked the feathers of his pet with his other hand. With a little flick, the bird left its perch and flew back out the window and into the heavenly oasis.

  Dragot strolled across the smooth marble floor and entered a large walk-in closet. He returned with a golden helmet that had three green stones embedded in the forehead, and two golden horns on the very top. The nosepiece split his face and fit perfectly over his snout. A long, flowing, gold-colored robe with stripes of green and black completed the outfit. Gray, gnarled bare feet seemed completely out of place, given how exotic the rest of the outfit was.

  Leaving the room through the thick wooden door, the demon clasped both hands behind his back as he gracefully stepped down the long, spiraling stairway. The beast slowly traveled down the narrow steps with a smile on his face.

  Dragot was in no hurry this day, or any other day for that matter. He had lived a thousand years and was all but guaranteed to live a thousand more. The creature never felt rushed, but that is not to say he was not driven. Soon, the world of humans will be at an end.

  At the bottom of the stairs was yet another doorway, leading into a long hallway with no ornamentations of any kind. The hallway emptied into one of the largest rooms in the tower. There, splitting the room, lay a long red and black carpet with white lace on each side, leading up five steps and right to the base of Dragot’s huge throne. The mighty chair was made of gold, with red cushions attached to the seat and back. The entire top trim was encrusted with jewels of all different colors. The two largest were red, but most were green, with a few black ones.

  Little servants with brown hooded cloaks scurried around the room, seemingly trying to look busy with the entrance of Dragot. One moved quickly across the floor on all fours, pushing a small rag back and forth as he went. Another began frantically wiping down the already-sparkling great throne, which surely didn’t need it. The beast ignored them for the most part. The briggit, as the small creatures were called, bolted away with a series of clicks.

  Taking a seat while surveying the room, their master pointed to one of the hooded creatures which appeared to not have a face at all, but just a black void under his hood. “You there, go down to the cells and bring me that human. The one chained to the wall,” he commanded in a rather soft, kind voice.

  The creature made a series of clicking sounds as it scurried away.

  Dragot leaned his chin in his hand and slouched down in his great throne, appearing to be a bit bored as he rubbed his fingers across his knee. His thoughts began to wander around in his head—thoughts of that inevitable day when the plague called humanity was no more. He allowed himself a small smile at the pleasant thought. Then the little creature returned, along with two others. One was pulling a chain attached to a metal collar around the neck of a skinny naked man who was pulling back, clearly terrified and crying for them to let him go. The other two were pushing against him as they clicked angrily. It was obvious they wer
e not very strong, seeing as how it took three to pull a half-starved slave into the room, but the briggits served their purpose. They were little more than servants, although they could also be used as spies when sent into human cities.

  “Bring him to me,” the half-demon said with a kind smile on his face.

  The hooded creatures pushed and pulled and clicked away before finally getting the man into a kneeling position before their master.

  “Now leave us,” Dragot ordered while making a dismissive motion with his hand.

  The three briggits scampered away quickly, as if given to the count of three, although no such command had been made.

  The naked man was left to kneel with his hands clasped together against his forehead and his eyes shut tightly, both muttering and trembling at the same time.

  Dragot slowly stood up. “Tell me, does that really work for you? Praying, that is.”

  The man was now relieving himself on the carpet as his trembling became uncontrollable, but still he kept his hands clasped together, and mumbled indecipherable verses followed by, “Help me, God, please help me.”

  Dragot walked circles around the poor man, never taking his eyes off him. Wearing a lopsided smile, he finally stopped right in front of the man. “You see, this is what I’m talking about,” he said in an even calmer voice as he slowly pulled out a dagger from inside of his clothing and walked behind the terrified man. He made sure the man saw the dagger. “If I told you I was going to cut off your ear right here and now, do you really believe your god would try to stop me? Hmm?”

  Just like that, in one clean cut, the man’s bloody ear was now on the floor. He screamed as he held the side of his head, tipping over and laying face down as warm blood trickled through his fingers. He was jerked back up by the collar he still wore, and forced to look directly at Dragot when he spun the man around.

  In a nearly musical voice, Dragot said, “Now, if I said I was going to cut off every body part one at a time until your god came to save you, what would you say are the odds that I won’t complete my task?”

  The man howled in pure terror. Drool flowed from his panting mouth. He could not catch his breath as panic threatened to consume him.

  Then, in a voice that bordered on rage, Dragot screamed, “This is why you vile humans should not even exist! You continue to put blind faith in deities that either don’t exist or don’t care about any of you.” Then he put his face right next to the poor man’s good ear and calmly whispered, “You see, this is the face of a god. The ones you pray to don’t control your life. I do!”

  Just then, one of the briggits came running into the room, clicking urgently.

  “What?” Dragot exclaimed with sudden emotion, then simply decapitated the man with a single stroke of his large dagger.

  The corpse flopped over next to its head, which upon being removed from the body by the sudden swipe of the dagger had flown straight up in the air, but did not roll far upon hitting the ground a few seconds later.

  Dragot scrambled with more urgency than he had shown in many years. He had planned to have fun with his toy for hours, but now that was completely forgotten about. He hurried through the great hall, down another flight of stairs, and into a small room where a withered old hag of a woman was standing.

  The woman was badly hunched, and had one eye completely closed. A yellow stream of puss oozed from it. Her skin was very pale, to the point where it was almost gray. Her clothes were little more than brown rags hanging off her broken-down body. White, stringy hair that flared out in all directions made her seem to be covered in static electricity. With a sudden flare of temper, Dragot barked, “What is it? What did you see, witch?”

  She seemed amused by the intrusion, and even by the display of anger. The woman looked at the demon with a slight smirk, appearing to be in no hurry. Then, as the smile faded from her face, she finally clutched a necklace around her neck, still without saying a word. It had a green jewel encased in a gold border and was attached to a silver chain. The necklace began to glow.

  The witch cocked her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her good eye rolled back into her head, revealing the back of her eye. She began to gurgle incoherently as her eyelid fluttered. Then she began humming rhythmically as a strange fog began to fill the room, her body displaying quick little convulsions.

  Dragot had seen this show before, and was not the slightest bit rattled.

  Suddenly, her head snapped straight back, followed by her whole upper body doing a full back bend, so she ended up holding herself up by her hands and feet. She turned to face Dragot, looking at him upside down.

  As her mouth opened, a low, demonic-sounding rumble came from her mouth, and a voice not hers said: “The gate keeper has come of age. The Guardian seeks to protect him. When the dead follow him, the nations of man will unite.”

  Dragot trembled with anger. So the prophecies have finally come to fruition. Some mortal is going to try to take on a god.

  The demon stormed out of the room and began to think. He had known this day was coming for quite some time. Even he could not deny prophecy that was etched in the stars, but knew it was not absolute, and could be rewritten if the elements were correct. Now that it was here, he was going to have to deal with a very real threat.

  He felt foolish for a moment. His only real purpose had been to wait for this very moment, and now that it was here, he had been caught off guard. He had spies all over Tarmerria, however, and now that the man-child was of age, he could be detected. The manhunt needed to start immediately. His eyes and ears, human or otherwise, needed to be updated. I want him alive!

  He then smiled and composed himself once more. No mortal will ever pose a threat to me. Not even the Gate Keeper.

  Chapter 4

  The whole town was bustling with energy ahead of the upcoming celebration. The streets were alive with colorful streamers hung from the trees planted on the sides of the roads. Wagons parked up and down the sides of the streets were sprinkled with colorful sparkles and glitter. Almost all the shops would be closed today, but their doors would be covered with still more vibrant decorations.

  Some porches held scarecrows sitting in rocking chairs, wearing hats and smoking pipes, while others had baskets of fruit that anyone was allowed to enjoy. Others hung origami birds attached to thin wires so they would appear animated while twisting in circles with the slight spring breeze.

  It was midday. Everyone was still setting up their stands and carts to be filled with fruit pies, chicken kabobs, kettles full of baked beans and other sorts of wonderful things. There would be a stick-fighting tournament later in the day, as well as choreographed sword-fighting that would resemble a dance. Others would wear costumes and parade around the streets, handing candy to the children.

  A common sight year-round, but especially today, were black banners graced with an orange sunset. This was the flag of Bryer, and the symbol used to represent the town both during business and celebration. But tonight’s celebration was to be the envy of all. Around this time every year, Bryer celebrated “Sanctas,” or “The Harvest.” In its early days, Sanctas was a way to celebrate and be hopeful that the bounty of crops that year would be plentiful. It was a long-standing tradition, a custom only done by Bryer, which had been practiced for many, many years. But in reality, the long-standing tradition these days was simply a celebration of life.

  With all the unrest and hard times to be found in Tarmerria, Bryer considered itself to be quite lucky, all things considered. Similar to Denark, Bryer’s trade business was vital to surrounding communities, so they were in little danger of being attacked anytime soon. The money they earned was plenty to sustain the smallish town, and Lord Hubert Pike was more than fair when it came to taxation as well as the general business of running the town and its people. What he had discovered in his many years of service was that balance was always the key. Even when the crops yielded far more than was expected that year, the surplus was divided equally in all phases.


  Taxes were rarely ever increased because he stuck with the yearly budget, never getting out of control when it came to spending on necessities for the well-being of the town. If the delicate balance of business with Denark ever went south, there would be enough coin left to turn the local economy in another direction if need be, even if that took a few years.

  As the lord walked down the main street made of gray cobblestones, all who saw him waved and whistled. He waved back and greeted most folk by their first names as he shuffled along. There was no entourage of soldiers or leathers scanning the rooftops for assassins with crossbows, or leading him through the streets, peeping around every corner for trouble. This was his town, and as much as he loved it and every soul within its borders, they loved him back tenfold.

  Hubert was a tall, heavy man with broad shoulders who exuded an aura of confidence when he marched down the street in long strides with his head held high. He wore a permanent smile as he gazed from one side of the street to the other, with his long, gray ponytail whipping back and forth presenting a stark contrast to his bald forehead. A long, brown coat made out of wool, matching pants, and a pair of black leather boots completed his attire. He strolled past all the shops and their owners, whom he saw almost each and every day. After deciding the yearly party preparations were coming along quite well, he decided to stop by the blacksmith’s.

  The shop was owned by Henry Aethello, but most of the work was done by his son, Eric.

  The tall, young man was at his usual station in the booth outside the shop, banging away with his hammer, wearing his usual black, sleeveless leather vest. He carried on as he assembled a set of horseshoes for an order that was less than twenty-four hours old. The young man’s arms bulged with muscles built up through years of not only blacksmithing, but weapons-training with his father almost every day.