The Gates of Golorath

by R. M Garino

  “I have a message for you, Kal’Parev,” Laine said. None of the uncertainty that boiled within him showed on the surface. “Rhen’val always pledges Fel’Mekrin. Do you know why that is?”

  A smile quirked the corner of Angus’ mouth, and he pushed away the first five flippant responses that entered his mind. There was no point in bringing their spleen out too soon. “Do tell.”

  “It is because Fel’Mekrin only accepts the very best. Where else should the descendant of the Areth’kon’s founder strive to be?” Laine was pleased with his statement, and his reasoning, gesturing to his comrades to share the moment.

  “Is that intended to be intimidating?” Angus said. “And is there a point to this?”

  Petulance suffused Laine’s sin’del, and was mirrored with quick precision by his peers. He pulled against Angus’ shirt in an attempt to draw him closer. Angus quirked his eyebrows and resisted the pull, a questioning expression on his face as he stared down at his aggressor.

  Laine moved closer instead, the sneer plain on his face. “We’ve been watching you.”

  “And have we liked what we saw? I know I’ve got a fine bum and all, but did you happen to notice my pretty eyes too?”

  Laine drew a deep breath, turning his face to the side and making a show of trying to stay calm.

  Restraining his own ire was hard, but the Magi stressed the mental disciplines with as much rigor as the Areth’kon enforced the physical. Calling upon their teaching, Angus suppressed his emotions. It was best to rattle theirs a little. An emotional response clouded thought and stilled clear thinking, thereby forcing the mind along predetermined pathways.

  To allow another to dictate my emotion is to allow another to dictate my response. My actions are my own. The recital, so often repeated, took a fraction of a heartbeat to flitter across his consciousness.

  “We’ve seen how taken you are with Arielle Rhen’val,” Laine said.

  “That’s because you’re keenly observant, as any good stalker should be. Tell me, what color are my underclothes today?”

  Angus’ higher mind detached itself from the situation, leaving his lower, base mind to interact with the members of the Fifth. Baiting them would not take a terrible toll on his faculties, and would not require much thought.

  “I’m telling you that you had better drop the matter.”

  “But that might break it.”

  There were a number of ways to end this situation. Angus examined and rejected them with detached clarity, moving down several levels of probability.

  Option: draw his blade and sever the offensive limb, swift groin kick to the sycophant, and he would be in an ideal position to put his blade between the Suixander’s ribs. First level outcome: threat neutralized, severe bodily damage to two opponents, immense satisfaction and bragging rights. Second level outcome: possibility to withdraw before drawing the attention of their entire House was non-existent, and he would incur demands of reparation from a major House to a smaller. Third level outcome: reparations would be paid, and House Kal’Parev would lose face as the response rose above the level of the threat. Parallel third level outcome: incurring perpetual debt and obligation to Laine for the handicap. Conclusion: unacceptable on a personal and House level.

  “She’s promised to Logan.”

  “You mean like a present?”

  Option: feign meekness and ask for pardon. First level outcome: increase in Fifth squad’s bravado by furnishing them an uncontested victory. Second level outcome: personal loss of face and continued, escalating aggression from the Fifth. Third level outcome: Incremental diminishment of House Kal’Parev’s standing due to his personal history and lineage. Parallel third level outcome: hostility from House Kal’Parev toward Fel’Mekrin in attempt to regain public perception of honor.

  These thoughts, as well as other permutations, flashed through Angus’ mind in the span of time it took his heart to measure three beats. His fatigue from the day was making his thoughts sluggish, and he berated himself for his torpor. Gavin, his former Magi instructor, would not be pleased with his performance if he could see how slow he was.

  “We intend to make sure no one tries stepping into Logan’s territory. Least of all a filthy Kal’Parev.”

  “The road to damnation is paved with good intentions, you know. I’m just saying.”

  “Let us just say it wouldn’t end well for you,” Hyde said, moving closer to stand shoulder to shoulder with Laine.

  “That’s right,” Galton said, almost on top of his fellow. “You could get hurt.”

  “By doing what? Dropping things? I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. Your logic is unique, and I find myself at a loss.”

  “You know damned well what we’re saying.”

  “Do you need to emphasize a word in every sentence? Sorry, but it’s a bit distracting. Is it a Fel’Mekrin thing?”

  “We’ll emphasize our boots against your head in a moment,” Laine said.

  “That is a Fel’Mekrin thing,” Galton said.

  His decision was made; the three were beginning to wear upon his nerves. With his face a laconic mask of dim-witted amusement, Angus rejoined his lower mind and chose the only available course of action.

  He punched Laine in the face, hard enough to break his nose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  What I Do

  Thunderous applause still barked from the crowd, along with whoops and cheers. Darien and Denuelle were on their feet again, joining Ba’ril and Gwen to bask in the crowd’s adulation. Gwen actually bowed to the audience before sheathing her blade. As Arielle and Nessah drew nearer, the cheers rose in intensity.

  The crush of the bodies forced Arielle to acknowledge them. The graduates gathered close, eager to congratulate, pat her shoulder, or, as was the case of the more brazen, engulf her in a hug. One had the temerity to try and kiss her! A quick jab of a folded knuckle into his sternum made him think better of the idea. The Elc’atar and Yearlings of course stood apart, forming their own small groups or standing alone. Some had their heads together in animated conversation. One was clapping in a slow, congratulatory measure as he stared at her.

  Cavallo stood apart from the celebrations, standing alone. He met her stare with a steady gaze, and bowed his head in a slow show of congratulations. The memory of Gwen’s deadline made Arielle cast her gaze at the sky. At least an hour until Close, she estimated, more or less. The crowd moved around her, blocking Cavallo from her sight.

  Gwen was entangling herself from a young graduate; apparently, she was not opposed to a congratulatory kiss. Nessah was the center of attention, holding her own with Gwen for once. Ba’ril was recounting his version of the events everyone had just witnessed, while Caradoc used his shoulders to work his way out of the crowd, his gloves pressed close to his chest. Denuelle and Darien, as the only ones to fall, hung back from the celebration, although they clapped just as loud as anyone. Gwen grabbed them each by an arm, and pulled them into the middle of the crowd. Mugs of ale had appeared, held aloft and passed along, and more sprang from the mysterious source. Arielle voiced her thanks to the offers of congratulations and compliments.

  Forcing her attention away from the throng, she concentrated on her wound. Gathering her life force, she divided it into separate layers and focused the different parts into the gash. With a tug, she pulled the flesh together. The bleeding slowed, and then stopped. The flesh beneath the tear in her trousers was an angry red line that was already fading to soft pink. Arielle allowed herself a small smile. Her skills at healing had jumped by leaps and bounds since arriving at the Gates. But now, she had watched a Mala’kar heal, and the methods they used were far more effective than anything she had learned yet. This was the easiest she’d ever sealed a wound. Eventually, her instructors assured her, she would be able to do this unconsciously, even while in the midst of combat. She had watched the Elc’atar spar enough to see the truth behind the words. A wound taken during a parry would be gone by the time a thrust was completed. In
deed, those she’d fought at the bridge were walking about as if her Pride had never touched them.

  A tingle ran up her spine as a sudden influx flooded into her. Her sin’del expanded in a sudden rush, seeming to take her ability to breathe with it. She felt a corresponding explosion behind her, pulsing in time with her own. She whipped her head around and there he was, standing at the periphery of the crowd, his white hair covered in mud and pine needles.

  Angus Kal’Parev.

  She was aware of the attention she was drawing, how everyone was turning to stare at her, nudging their neighbors and pointing. She did not care. His eyes were locked onto her. An anxious flutter filled her belly, the nervousness spreading to her limbs and quickening her pulse. Even at this distance, she could make out his features with clear distinction, and she felt herself memorizing every detail of his face. Without choosing to, without conscious thought, she found herself moving toward him the same instant he did. He was smiling, ignoring the mass of dark hair around him.

  The crowd surged between them, and she found herself blocked by a pair of Yearlings. She tried to push past, shouldering her way between them. One of them grabbed her in a hug and swung her around. A sense of subdued panic engulfed her as she lost sight of Angus, and she wriggled against the arms that gripped her. Both young men were speaking, their voices excited and rushed. Their words washed against her without registering. Arielle managed to push the Yearling away, only to find the second blocking her path. He was not smiling, and the grip on her elbow was strong enough to get her attention.

  She knew him, Arielle realized as she focused on his face. His dark hair and sharp features, his high cheekbones marked him as a Fel’Mekrin by blood. Davin, she thought his name was. He was a cousin of Gwen’s with some distance between them. His sin’del shone now with an ill-concealed rancor that translated itself into his grip. Arielle had to crane her neck a considerable distance to meet his glower.

  “Logan will be proud,” Davin said, his light and cheerful voice at odds with his darkened face. “As will your father. You marched into an enemy House and demanded satisfaction. And you dropped your opponent in seconds. Yes, he will be very proud. You can believe that there will be many messages sent his way tonight.”

  Davin was smiling by the time he finished speaking, and it was a cruel, twisted thing. Arielle could hear the threat plain in his voice, and she knew he was not just discussing swordplay. Her temper raged within her, as fierce and as pure as when she marched through the Le’Manon doors. He dared to threaten her with running tales to Logan, as if she were skulking around and sneaking behind his back! His sin’del was awash with personal ambition, the need for glory, and the desire for recognition. It was too easy to reach out and seize it, to take control of it, to begin drawing it away, infusing her own field with Davin’s energy. It was indeed satisfying to watch his smirk slip away, to see him release her arm, to stagger away from her. An expression of confusion contorted his visage, and cracked his aggressive facade. The other Yearling stepped away, fingering the hilt of his sword. Arielle raised an eyebrow at him, clasping the hilt of her own.

  “Do not presume to monitor me,” she said, her voice odd and hollow in her ears. “I do not answer to Logan, nor anyone save my own self.”

  She returned her attention to Davin, who had dropped to one knee, his fists upon the ground supporting him and keeping him upright. He was trying to stand, his head hung forward, and his arm was shaking as it propped him up. From the far side of the assembly there was a commotion. The sound of steel clashing against steel met her ear, but she ignored it, focusing on the problem before her.

  “I will not tell you this again,” she said, her voice projected to carry. She was speaking as much to Davin as to the crowd who watched what was happening. “What I do is my business, and no one else’s.”

  Davin’s life force was bleeding away, swelling Arielle’s own, and he tottered and swayed as if he were an old man. Arielle, by contrast, felt immense and godlike as power coursed through her.

  “Rhen’val!” Trenton’s voice barked through the din of the celebration. Arielle jumped in surprise. A fraction of a second later, she heard another voice shout “Kal’Parev!” from the far side of the crowd.

  She slammed Davin’s power back into him in a rush. The impact lifted him from the ground and threw him backward into the celebrating Blades. He landed, knocking others aside.

  Trenton was stalking through the crowd, his huge arms swatting Yearlings and graduates who were too slow to move or recognize his presence. Arielle snapped to attention. He stopped in front of her, enraged and breathing heavily through his nose. Towering over her—Arielle just reached the center of his chest—he stood clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. A tremor danced along the side of his nose, making the nostril quiver. She fought the urge to draw back from his snarl, and told herself not to swallow.

  “In there,” Trenton said, his voice a rasping whisper of a threat as he pointed toward the lecture halls. “Now!”

  Arielle saluted without words, her voice unable to work. She crossed both arms over her chest, bowed at the waist, and walked in the indicated direction.

  “Double-time scrub!” Trenton said. “I said now!”

  Arielle was running before Trenton finished yelling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Impact

  The shock of the punch removed Laine’s grip on Angus’ shirt, and sent him reeling to his knees. Angus spun, reversing his direction, and struck out at Galton with the toe of his foot. It was not his preferred target, but that one had begun to move, whether to catch Laine or press and attack. His foot swung over Laine, but Galton pushed out of his way. Raising his fists into a standard guard, Galton moved in as Angus completed his rotation. He was fast, and led with a jab to Angus’ jaw. He followed it with a series of shorter jabs to the ribs, and a roundhouse punch to the face. Galton kept his head down, focusing on where he placed his blows. He completed the well-rehearsed sequence and danced back a step. His fists dropped as he did so, showing his surprise.

  Angus was still standing, shaking off the blows. He grabbed Galton’s shirt and pulled him in, punching him in the face. He clouted him twice more. The third hit struck the temple and dropped him to the ground.

  Seeing his companions engage with little or no effect, Hyde decided to move as Galton fell. Drawing his sword, Hyde swung in a descending arc. Angus had projected that by using feet and fists the trio would respond in kind and weapons could be avoided. It was considered a lapse of honor to draw first, and outright dishonorable to draw on an unarmed opponent. A brawl was, after all, preferable to a duel regardless of the odds. Based on the flows of Hyde’s energy, he should have accounted for this probability. He had not, however, anticipated the sword, and as such, he was not positioned to defend against it.

  The familiar sense of his squad were a presence behind him, pressing in with increasing speed. He captured the attention of the Fel’Mekrin crowd, and several weapons were already drawn. The distinct sound of war cries accompanied the sharp rasp of many blades leaving the scabbard. “Fight one, fight all!” sounded in the air behind him, and he knew his friends rushed to his aid.

  Angus’ sense of time slowed as he pivoted. He could hear several voices call Hyde’s name, most encased in tones of outrage and urgency. He could hear Demona’s voice shouting the Kal’Parev war cry in tandem with Thomlin’s, their unified voices cutting through the din.

  As if of its own volition, and against all logic and training, Angus lifted his left arm to protect himself, forearm parallel to the descending blade. His sin’del contracted, pulling in around him, growing dense and heavy in anticipation of the strike.

  Hyde’s sword crashed against Angus’ arm with a crystalline peal and a flash of blue-white light.

  The impact drove him back a step, his arm whole and still attached to the rest of his body. He stared at it a moment, as did Hyde, their faces matching displays of disbelief. There should be no
thing more than a stump spurting his lifeblood onto the ground. Instead, his sin’del was compressed tight against his entire body, shimmering in its radiance. Angus flexed his hands, but his energy field did not hinder his movement in the slightest.

  Hyde held his sword, its point lowered almost to the ground. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung slack and agape. A quick glance to either side showed the same shocked disbelief etched on the faces of the horde. Almost as one, they backed away with an instinctive caution.

  Angus swung his fist. Hyde came to life with the movement and raised his blade into a defensive stance. Angus’ arm thundered against it. Again the air filled with a crystalline peal and a flash of light as he came in contact with the steel. Angus followed with a left, and Hyde swung a clumsy counter to defend against it. His fist caught the flat of the sword and the resonance changed to a deeper gong. The weapon shattered under the impact and the hilt slipped from Hyde’s grip. Angus closed the gap between them, stepping into the field of fear that had become Hyde’s sin’del. Without hesitation, he swung his right fist. Bone cracked beneath his knuckles as he connected with those prominent Fel’Mekrin cheekbones. Hyde’s head snapped back, the crack of vertebrae sounding amid the commotion. His feet followed his head, leaving the ground as he fell backward.

  For the first time Angus became aware of battle sounds behind him. Laine was on his feet, blood streaming down his face from his fractured nose and several long cuts. He moved his sword with desperate, quick movements. Demona matched him stroke for stroke with her own blade, and landing strike after strike on his form. Beyond her Hironata caught Kassidy in the middle with the cudgel he swung, lifting her off the ground. Enid slipped under the guard of her opponent, Sloane, swung around behind her and cut her hamstring before cracking her head with the pommel of her sword. Ossian took advantage of a sloppy thrust to grab Ailis, the woman he faced, and pull her to meet his elbow. Ti’vol broke Coreen’s arm and nose as she tried to push past her. Thomlin jumped over a falling body as he moved toward Angus, his sword red with fresh blood. The Fifth was down, but the rest of its barracks were closing in on them.