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

  * * *

  “We know you’re in there,” shouted the large, grizzled man. “Cease this black magic and we may just spare your lives.” Laughter rose up behind him. With more spaces than teeth showing through his grimace, he buried his axe deep into the thick wood again. The hefty man swiped a hand across his bald head, removing the sweat and rainwater. He took a deep breath before bracing his foot against the door, then wiggling the axe free with a crackling sound. Muttering incoherent curses, he leaned heavily on the handle, trying to catch his breath.

  “Is the reward higher if we bring them in alive?” grumbled the dark-haired man to his left, just before burying his own axe into the door. He raised a bushy black eyebrow. “Otherwise, we could just bring their heads as proof. Right?”

  “Stop this witchery at all costs,” said the big man, running a large hand down his face, trying again to remove the moisture stinging his eyes. “Those were his exact words.” He rubbed his hand across his soaked shirt, as if this would somehow help dry it. Heavy rain continued to fall, stinging his exposed head, the winds picking up. “There are evil things going on in there. Dark magic that must be stopped.” He turned back to the group of leathers behind him. Torches flickered in their hands, the flames getting beat down by the driving rain. Clouds of steam formed then dissipated in front of their mouths as they breathed heavily. “Well, don’t just stand there, you fools. Help us break it down!”

  Barking dogs could be heard off in the distance. Two of the men moved up to the splintered door. “Why don’t we just wait for the others?” said a short man, his blue eyes wide with fear and suspicion. “They’ve obviously caught the trail and will be here shortly.” The sword for hire rubbed his hands nervously, eyes darting from side to side.

  “Because if we stop them first, we’ll be able to haggle over a larger cut of the purse. What’s the matter, Gren? Afraid of that superstitious lot, are you?” said the big man. Nervous chuckles echoed his jibe.

  “Of course not,” Gren shrieked, his voice cracking. “Give me that.” He snatched the big man’s axe before marching up to the splintered door. Eyeing an already weakened spot, he began chopping away at the damaged area. With just a few more swings, he managed to penetrate the door. He stopped chopping and glanced back with an unsure look. The big man pointed to the splintered hole with his chin. Confidence waning, yet his pride at stake, Gren pressed his ear to the door.

  A moment ago, the sounds of splintering wood and angry calls had echoed in all directions. Now, it had become eerily quiet, save for the sound of heavy rain drumming the stone wall. Hearing nothing, Gren cautiously slid his head up the side of the door and peeked through the newly made hole. “It’s too dark to see,” he mumbled, rolling his head from side to side. “I can’t see if anyone’s—” His head fluttered with a sudden vibration. With a high-pitched shriek that could have shattered crystal, he spun away from the door, a dagger embedded in his eye. He dropped to his knees, blood running freely from the socket. His hands lightly fingered the hilt as if it were hot, unsure whether or not to try and pull it free.

  Ignoring their fallen comrade as he sat there in shock, the leathers charged the door. With renewed anger, their axes chopped away at the failing wood. Within seconds, the splintered door fell away, leaving them staring into the darkness. Axes clanged to the ground, the hiss of drawn swords filling the air. They had worked so hard to gain entrance, yet now none of them wanted to go first.

  Had they rushed in, they might have overpowered the assassin hiding in the dark. But like in any battle, seconds often meant the difference between life and death. Speeding arrows came zipping from the darkness. Two leathers grabbed at their chests, while a third gripped the black-feathered shaft embedded in his throat. They crumpled to the ground like old blankets.

  “Fall back,” yelled the big man, waving at the others to take cover. A few leathers fired back while hastily retreating—clumsy rushed shots that clacked off the stone border around the dark opening. Some leathers skittered around trees, pressing their backs to the thick trunks. Others dropped to the ground, scrambling along on hands and knees. They quickly made their way behind bushes and large shrubs.

  The big man squatted down behind a dead tree, his chest rising and falling with steady breathing, the regular breathing of a veteran not so easily rattled by the surprise attack. Next to him squatted a thin-faced man with a pointed nose, his long, greasy hair slicked down by the driving rain. With dark eyes as large plates he stammered, “W-What do we do? How m-many do you think are in there?”

  The big man sighed, then peeked around the side of the tree. Another arrow zipped past his ear, forcing him to pull back immediately. “We wait for the others,” he groaned, unable to hide his disappointment. Snapping his fingers several times, he finally got the attention of another leather hiding behind a nearby tree. After a series of angry-looking hand gestures, the blond-haired man with double hoop earrings nodded his understanding.

  With his back still firmly against the tree, the blond-haired man waved his torch back and forth. The orange flame sizzled against the heavy rain as it danced in wide, sweeping arches. Shouts of acknowledgement could be heard off in the distance. Flickering lights began moving towards them through the night. Hounds barked excitedly, stretching leashes, pulling hard against their masters. Within minutes, dozens of shadowy shapes emerged from the darkness. Some held torches with low-burning flames. Others had already drawn their weapons; tiny glimmers of torchlight reflected off short swords and rusted daggers.

  The big man’s fingers flickered in silent communication, urgent, rapid movements warning the men of danger and imploring them to take cover. With understanding nods they melted in around the others, each one dropping low and seeking cover. With his bald head furrowing in frustration, he began to ready the men, his twitching fingers guiding each man into the proper position for an organized assault.

  The assassin shouldered his small bow and moved back from the doorway, hands resting on the hilts of two short swords as he watched. Hopelessly outnumbered, the goal was not to defeat them here, only to buy as much time as possible—to at least give Berkeni and the other mystics a chance.

  The air around him seemed to change in an instant. It was vague and subtle to anyone else, but a clear signal to the assassin. He dipped his shoulder and performed a series of rolls as a flaming bottle came through the doorway. End over end it tumbled in slow motion, until it finally hit the far wall, exploding into a massive ball of fire. The man sprung back to his feet and assumed a low crouching position in the far corner. Other flaming bottles followed, spewing liquid fire with each shattering impact. He kept calm as the flames licked up the walls and slowly spread across the floor. Thick, greasy black smoke with its choking chemical scent rose to the ceiling.

  The assassin spread his fingers slightly and took a slight breath through his tightly covered mouth. Determining there were no sleeping agents added to the oils, he dropped all the way down, belly flat against the floor. He could probably make a long stand from this position before eventually being overwhelmed.

  Sprawled across the cold stone, he slid the tiny bow from his shoulder. One by one he emptied his quiver of arrows, placing them at his side, inches apart. Looking through the curtain of fire as the dying flames began to calm, he calculated the most likely path for an assault: a path where the liquid blaze had died down the most. He notched an arrow.

  A series of crossbow bolts came streaking through the doorway. They sprayed the room, clacking harmlessly off the walls. It was apparent the men outside were just firing blindly, hoping to clear a few enemies before storming in. They didn’t know they were only dealing with one. The assassin possessed the patience of an oak tree, and would wait as long as needed. However, none of that stringent discipline would be necessary.

  Like demons desperate to escape their blazing underworld, men launched themselves through the flaming doorway. Each leather roared with exuberance, their twirling blades searching for fle
sh. Although a significant factor, not all of them were driven by promised riches. Many actually believed in this mission of justice and would have taken this assignment for free. After all, the vile mystics in this tower were doing the work of devils. Tampering with the balance of nature could only be perceived as black magic. And practitioners of black magic were to be stopped at all costs.

  The first three men that leapt through the wall of fire were greeted with an arrow each; eye, throat, heart—each was dead before thudding to the floor. Unfazed by the quick slaughter, other brutes rushed in behind. Several held small shields, making themselves slightly less vulnerable. The man in black fired off several more shots, hoping to remain unnoticed in the ensuing chaos. It worked for several seconds, an eternity in the heat of battle. But by the time the eighth mercenary fell, all eyes were set on him.

  Springing to his feet, the killer abandoned his bow and unleashed his swords. The trusty weapon had done its job, but the element of surprise was no longer a factor. Steel was the only option now. Trying to keep them guessing, he rushed at the first and feigned a high slash to the head. When the mercenary raised his shield to block, the assassin tapped it lightly.

  There was no power behind the strike, but the man standing next to him grimaced, the assassin’s second blade sinking deep into his leg. The grimace became a howl when the blade tore free, leaving a large flap of skin to hang like a rag. The mercenary holding up his shield paused at his companion’s bloodcurdling shriek. The pause proved fatal, as the same blade slashed across his gut, allowing his innards to spill onto the floor.

  With more men flooding through the doorway, the mystics’ sole ally would soon be horribly outnumbered. But fear was not what gripped him. This had been a suicide mission from the start. The only thing to do now was to find a way to buy Berkeni every possible second. Mind racing, he glanced to the only possible way he could buy enough time for the others to complete the ritual. Must cut off the stairway. Hold them as long as I can.

  He dashed across the room and down the short hallway, paying no attention to the surrounding fires. The oil-fueled flames were already beginning to die down, and there was very little material here that could burn anyway. A red-haired mercenary beat him to the bottom step, but a quick three-slash combination—one on his arm and two across the chest—left him incapacitated. The assassin jumped over the larger man’s mortally wounded body, then turned to face the quickly growing mob while he backed his way up the stairs. Showing little sympathy for their fallen brother, the body was simply pushed aside as he bled out. Instead of rushing up the stairwell, the leathers stalked up single file, matching the killer step for step.

  The assassin decided the stairs were a good place to make a stand. At best, they could only attack two at a time, given how narrow the steps were. Not great odds, but better than being surrounded and eventually swarmed. He blinked before rethinking the math here. Yes, two could stand side by side on this stairwell, but could two actually fight that way? Arms flailing about like that? And what of the man opposite the wall’s support? Surely he would likely fall off the edge and die on the stone below.

  Yes, this will do, thought the assassin as he kept on backing his way up the steps. However, he didn’t want to lead them straight to Berkeni either. At some point he would have to turn offensive and hold the position. I won’t let any of you stop them. You fools have no idea what’s at stake.

  * * *

  The figures in brown cloaks surrounded the baby, each with their open hands pointed to the skylight. The infant lay there quietly throughout their constant chanting. “Ohimemackaraoome,” they moaned over and over, swaying back and forth. This went on for several minutes, Berkeni standing next to the child in silence. His eyes bounced nervously between the windowed ceiling above and the open doorway. Chaotic sounds of battle carried off the walls and down the hall, making it impossible to determine how much time they had.

  Now feeling the proper flow of energy at last, Berkeni opened the book where his finger had been reserving the page. Any one of these mystics would easily be the most powerful man within ten thousand miles of any random location. Yet here they all stood, working together as a single unit—a miracle in itself. This was the kind of raw power needed on this day. This was the kind of skill necessary to bring the world of man into a new age. There would be no margin for error. Failure was not an option.

  Berkeni smiled down at the child. He grinned back, those dark eyes glistening in the low light. “If only I were as brave as you are, little one,” the older man whispered. Suddenly his face hardened, and he refocused on the task at hand. He joined in the chant for a minute, then his eyes fell back to the book. He began to read aloud, “Tramenathokudabendin...”

  Berkeni’s eyes rolled up in his head, changing into milky white orbs. Tongue-twisting gibberish began to spill from his mouth, words that went far beyond the complexity of an ancient language. The sounds were sharp and guttural, like they were never meant to roll off the tongue of a human. His voice became a low growl, the rolling, gurgling sounds of an ancient beast.

  In a sudden gesture, Berkeni thrust his hands into the air, his eyes flashing back to normal. Lightning crackled across the sky and the rain intensified. The storm was so loud now, the drumming sounded like an army of rodents running across the rooftop. The glass in the ceiling rumbled and vibrated as if being bombarded by a waterfall. The slender man’s eyes began to glow a light blue as tiny bolts of yellow jumped back and forth between his extended hands. The jagged, staticky flashes seemed to absorb directly into his skin before leaping back in the other direction.

  His voice rang out like a bell, “Ancient guardian, hear our call. The end of days will soon be upon. I awaken you from your peaceful slumber. Accept this vessel of flesh and blood, so you may walk amongst us once more.” Lightning bolts shredded the sky. The dark room was suddenly illuminated by nature’s fury, brilliant flashes of blue and green light. “Come back to the world of man, and show the darkness what true power really is!”

  A single bolt of green streaked down from the sky and shattered the glass in the ceiling. No one looked up or even flinched while glass shards fluttered down around them. Their chanting continued undisturbed. Wind filled with rain droplets swirled around the room. Flapping hoods flew back, revealing illuminated eyes similar to Berkeni’s. Robes fluttered upward in the hurricane-like conditions.

  * * *

  The mysterious man easily parried a clumsy sword thrust, then countered with his left, opening the mercenary’s throat. Out of pure muscle memory and instinct, he immediately whirled into a five-strike counter. The prolonged assault did nothing more than shred an already dead man still on his feet. His corpse finally tumbled over the side, then hit the stone below with a wet smack. The endless line of mercenaries continued to advance up the steps, despite watching another of theirs fall.

  The assassin was confident none of these men would pose any real threat one on one. Despite their numbers I can hold them here. As long as they keep coming one at a ti— Fire shot through his side. More on instinct than controlled movement, he raised his sword, intercepting the oncoming sword strike. The leather’s eyes grew wide with terror, knowing he had just failed to take advantage of the wounded assassin. A blinding whirl of steel made short work of the stunned man.

  Backing up another step, the assassin saw the crossbow bolt lying at his feet. It had only grazed him, but left a rather serious gash. He spun his blades in a flashy blur of steel, which made the next man up leap back in caution. With a quick glance below, he saw the big man loading another bolt into his crossbow. The others surrounding him were notching arrows as well.

  Fully aware of the warm blood running from his side, he glanced around, trying to decide if there was a better place to make a stand. No place to take cover, and I’m completely exposed. I can’t hold here much longer. The man in black was ready to give his life if necessary, but there had to be some logical chance of success. If he stayed here in the open, the
ir arrows would tear him apart. What good would that do? I need to get back to the others. They must be warned.

  He turned up the steps as another bolt whizzed past his ear, then snapped off the stone wall. Predictably, the others gave chase, thinking he was making a run for it. Timing it just right, the killer kicked backward with his heel, hitting the first advancing mercenary square in the chest. The powerful hit launched him backward, knocking several others over the side. Not looking back to see how much disruption was caused, the man in black bolted up the steps and down the hall.

  * * *

  Swirling winds spun violently around the room, leaves and dust giving life to the twisting spirals dancing about. A constant light show flickered about the room, bolts of green and blue streaking across the night sky. The men continued their chanting, somehow able to ignore all the commotion around them. Even the sounds of battle in the hall did nothing to break their apparent trances. “Guardian, we beg of you, enter the land of the living,” Berkeni bellowed, hands reaching to the sky.

  The rain and wind slowed immediately. An eerie calm hung in the air. The men stopped their chanting and now stood in silence, a dead silence more suited for a graveyard. One man shifted his stance slightly, producing a crackling as glass crunched under his foot.

  Small at first, a slim line of golden sparkles trickled down through the open ceiling. The tiny flecks spiraled in a tightly wound funnel that seemed to connect with the infant’s belly. Within a heartbeat or two, the golden spiral had begun to thicken. The base of the funnel rotated around the child, making it look as if someone were pouring glitter on him. Then the funnel began to rage and swirl, violently spinning over him. It threatened to consume the baby or possibly carry him away into the night.