Keystone (Gatewalkers)

by Frederickson, Amanda

  The terradi drew a second blade, a long, wicked knife with a serrated edge made for catching the opponent's blade. He caught the spearhead and twisted, trying to wrench it from Rhys' grip. Rhys spun free, putting more distance between himself and the terradi. The second blade began turning the fight to the terradi’s advantage. Rhys now also had to keep his spear from being entangled.

  Charlie's own nerves began tightening like her bowstring. She forced herself to relax. Tensing would disrupt her aim and she needed to be ready to respond to anything. Maybe she should take a shot at the terradi commander, though that would risk shooting Rhys instead.

  The terradi pressed closer and closer. He landed a blow across Rhys' upper arm, slicing through his leather armor. Rhys ducked away, but his arm faltered as he went for another hit. The terradi caught the spearhead and this time yanked Rhys close, the curved sword slicing narrowly close to the side of Rhys' head. Rhys dropped the spear and slammed both palms to the terradi’s breastplate. White lightning exploded around the terradi. He roared, limbs jerking and twitching.

  With outraged roars, the other terradi turned from the soldiers to fall on Rhys. Rhys snatched up his spear again, but now he was surrounded and separated from the others.

  Rhys called out an order, but no one obeyed.

  The soldiers had stopped listening. The circle broke, the fight turning into a wild free for all. Charlie shot into the melee and nocked another arrow to her string, her eyes searching desperately for Rhys among the roiling bodies. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

  ***

  Captain Meryl’s hand curled tightly around the grip of his sword, but he obeyed his orders and stayed hidden. When the Blood Prince’s ambush party left and the black gate closed, he would sweep in and re-take the camp, then he’d take the survivors back to Iomara. In the meantime, he watched, taking note of details to include in his report.

  The entire incident happened exactly as he’d been told.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Black Gate Opens

  Fighting for her concentration, Charlie picked off two more targets. Then more terradi broke away in her direction, and she realized in horror that her defenders had joined the general melee. Charlie's first impulse was to break and run again, but she couldn't just abandon Rhys and Jack, even if it was hopeless after all. She shot an arrow into one of the blue terradi, managing to get it in the stomach, but the other kept coming, sword drawn. Her next shot missed. She jumped down from the wood pile, but had nowhere to run. Charlie watched death approaching with a calmness she hadn’t expected. The bow fell from her fingers, her hands somehow not able to hold it anymore.

  She saw Jack. He shouted something, reaching toward her, his eyes wide, but there was no way he could reach her. The terradi loomed larger and larger over her, his heavy blade swinging in. It arced above her head.

  No. The terradi wasn’t looming larger. She was getting smaller. Charlie stumbled, her balance somehow wrong. She hit the ground on all fours and squealed in shock at the sight of her bony, knobbed hands. Hands covered in gray fur. All the fear she’d expected to feel moments ago poured in. Charlie dashed away in a blind panic but found herself running on all fours.

  She darted into a fallen tent, and turned back to look.

  The terradi prodded her tunic in confusion, left on the ground with her bow and the rest of her gear. Charlie looked down and around at herself. The fluffy tail behind her was her final confirmation. She was a squirrel. A rat with a fluffy tail.

  "Jack, I am going to kill you!" she tried to shriek, but it came out as a garbled squeal.

  Charlie stuck her squirrelly head further out of the heaped cloth, trying to see what was going on. She still couldn’t see Rhys.

  Numb, she looked for him on the ground among the fallen. She didn’t see him there either, but it was harder to make out the bodies. The circle had completely fallen apart.

  Then she saw Jack.

  He lay on the ground, a gaping hole in his chest. Turning her into a squirrel might have been the last thing he’d done. Even as she watched, one of the terradi grabbed a handful of Jack’s long blond hair and hacked off his head. He looped the blond hair through his belt to display his grisly trophy. Charlie flinched, quivering. Jack’s “eventual” permanent death had come.

  It was all going downhill fast. The last few fighters were being rounded up or slaughtered.

  What was she supposed to do now? Heartsick, she huddled under the fallen tent, watching as the creatures consolidated their few prisoners. At least Rhys seemed to have killed the big terradi commander.

  Goblins were stripping armor and weaponry from the corpses, and a few of the terradi began collecting the heads of their fallen; apparently it was a greater number than they liked. Good.

  Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. Two large blue skinned creatures dragged Rhys between them, his armor stripped off, spear gone, and blood streaming from his temple. He looked disoriented and confused, but he was breathing.

  Another terradi tried to grab for him, but one of the ones dragging him shoved back, resulting in a snarling argument. Probably over whether to kill him or keep him. The keeper grabbed his sword and ran the other terradi through. The keepers won out.

  “Charlie!”

  She found herself pounced by two balls of light, who were now nearly the same height as herself.

  Lallia wrapped her arms around Charlie’s squirrel neck. “We were so scared that you were gone! It’s all so horrible!”

  “Where have you two been?” Charlie demanded, more worried than angry. Her tail flipped back and forth, out of control.

  “Hiding,” Tom said miserably.

  Two of the terradi, dressed differently from the others, came to stand in the center of the triumphant raiding party. They wore robes instead of armor and by lack of blood spatter they had not taken part in the fighting. A green skinned creature knelt between them, bigger than the goblins but obviously not a terradi.

  The terradi mages made some sort of speech in their deep, garbled voices and drew a pair of silver daggers, carved with ornate runes. The blades slashed inward, opening deep gashes in the green skinned creature's flesh. It died with a gurgle, slumping to the ground. A black void opened in the middle of the square, circled with crackling purple lightning.

  A gate. A big one, unlike anything Charlie had seen before.

  Lallia’s pink glow paled. “Black Gate,” she whispered, as if saying the words would draw its attention. Tom nodded, his hand on his plastic sword.

  The terradi herded their prisoners into the Black Gate. The purple-edged darkness swallowed them up, sucking them down like a black hole.

  The terradi captors hauled Rhys up by his hair and shoved him through the gate.

  “Not good,” Charlie said. “We have to follow them.”

  Both pixies let out distressed squeaks. “We can’t! We’ll die!” Tom said. By the terror in their faces, he wasn’t exaggerating.

  “Then I’ll follow alone.” Charlie’s small squirrel heart thumped wildly, seeming to take up most of her chest. No pixies, no mage, and no vampire. How in the world can a squirrel hope to survive?

  The goblins followed the terradi through the gate, carrying their prizes and leaving the dead to rot. Charlie didn’t doubt that the gate would close once they finished filing through, and her chance would be lost.

  Now or never.

  Charlie flung herself from under cover, her eyes fixed on the absolute black of the gate’s center. She dodged around bodies and feet of the creatures, springing and hopping, claws digging into the ground to propel her forward. She threw herself across the threshold.

  She met with a solid blast of cold. Blood-draining-gut-sucking, eye-popping, skin-shrinking cold. It felt like liquid nitrogen poured over her body. Her fur felt like ice crystals, ready to shatter if she moved.

  When she came out the other side, the warmer air hit her like the heart of a furnace. She felt ill, numb, and dirty.r />
  Disoriented, Charlie scrambled to escape the forest of legs. Something kicked up a fuss behind her, distracting their eyes and attention.

  She spotted a hole in a nearby wall and dove into it, smacking her nose against the shallow back. Her heart felt fast as a hummingbird’s wings, her furry little ears primed for any sound that meant danger.

  Calm, Charlie girl, she admonished herself. Calm down. Panic gets you nowhere. Or killed. She peered out of her little cranny. They emerged in a castle courtyard, lit by staked torches. The castle’s stained gray stone loomed high above them, disappearing into the black night.

  It seemed that she’d gone through the gate just in time, because by the looks and sound of it the gate cut off sooner than it was meant to, stranding the last of the raiders behind.

  Most of the few prisoners were herded in one direction, but the terradi hauled Rhys in another. Charlie scurried after Rhys, keeping to the shadows and skirting walls.

  ***

  The world swam. Torchlight and stone wall and hard ground and black sky and the moons. The moons hovered over all like shining, bleached skulls. Skull. Sharp, throbbing pain pounded against his skull. Blood on his face. Ribs shattered. Stabbing his side with every breath, even as they tried to repair themselves.

  Something wrong with his head. His arms arrested by meaty blue hands. Both sides, jostled relentlessly between them like a mouse between a cat’s paws. Could not think.

  Rhys squeezed his eyes shut against the spinning world. He fell limp, letting his captors drag him. Dead weight. Dull points dug into his left palm. He almost released the small object in his tightened fist. No! Never let go. Could not remember why, but he could not let go.

  Danger. His blood caught fire, renewing the ache of healing bones. Vampires. He sensed them. Rhys pried open his eyes and struggled to stand on his own feet. Must not show weakness. No vulnerability. Had to think. Had to think clearly.

  Rhys forced himself to focus on the hall; a grim affair of bare gray stone, the ceiling lost in darkness. A handful of candles offered dim light, but most of the room’s occupants did not require it.

  Cloaked figures scattered through the hall, eyes hidden behind masks. A dozen. More than a dozen. All stood unnaturally motionless, no fidgeting or shifting weight from foot to foot. Vampires. So many gathered in one place. Too many.

  Rhys felt the eyes of the other vampires fasten onto him, the smallest changes in posture marking the knife-edged tension as he invaded their territory. His instincts screamed to fight for his life. But the vampires remained where they were. Waiting. Watching.

  A throne sat at the end of the hall, draped in crimson cloth and bedecked with spreading deer antlers. A black haired man wearing an elaborate antlered half mask sat on the throne, unmoving and silent. The empty eyes of his mask chilled Rhys to the soul.

  The terradi threw Rhys to the floor before the throne. He caught himself on his elbows, but the jolt rattled his shattered ribs. He choked on a gasp, but kept from making a sound. Rhys clamped an arm around his ribs, pushing one back into place. He struggled to draw breath without screaming.

  “My lord Blood Prince, this vampire fought with Edouard’s soldiers,” one of the terradi growled, throwing the commander’s head to the Blood Prince’s feet. “Dragus is dead, too.”

  Faint hisses whispered through the room. The Blood Prince lifted his hand, silencing them.

  “Welcome, Rhys Death Wind, servant of the Duke of Alta. Though it seems you have cost me valuable servants.” The vampire prince’s voice was warm and smooth, almost inviting. It also held a ring of familiarity. Rhys had heard that voice before. Somewhere.

  Rhys’ head snapped up, glaring at the throned figure through narrow eyes. How did he know of Rhys’ work for Gareth of Alta? It seemed Master Mage Dragus’ spying had extended much further beyond simply the princess and the Keystone. And this was the man Dragus worked for. The one behind it all. The one who claimed to be Crown Prince William of Seinne Sonne.

  Up. Get up. He could not stay on the floor before this man.

  Rhys slowly pushed himself to his feet to stand swaying slightly, left arm clutching his ribs. He wiped blood from his face, leaving a streak. “You somehow know of me,” Rhys said steadily, “but I cannot say the same of you.”

  Deliberately slow, almost languid, the vampire prince tilted his head to one side, the black eyes of the mask regarding the pale form before him. “Yes, I know of you. The vampire who hunts his own people. In certain circles you are quite well known, and I make it my business to know everything of interest regarding our ilk.” Rhys noticed that he allowed his lips to part as he spoke, flashing glimpses of fang. Even smiling. So different from Rhys, who kept his mouth nearly closed to hide his secret. “I know, for instance, that you allowed an entire hunting party to die, simply so you could kill the vampires yourself.”

  Rhys knew his shock showed on his face, but he quickly wiped it away. That incident was sealed in Guildmaster Scatha’s records. It was how she came to offer him a place in the guild; because Rhys succeeded where an entire hunting party failed. Master Dragus’ fingers had dug deeply.

  The prince’s smile grew wider. “Now, what business could Alta’s favorite toy have in the Northern Reaches? Could it be that the Death Wind searches for a certain missing princess? Perhaps Alta seeks to gain favor with the High King by having a hand in the rescue of his sister. Or perhaps the Death Wind himself wishes to join our crusade." The prince laced his long fingers together. "After all, what we do here will benefit all who are cast out by the elves." The empty eyes watched Rhys closely. “Would you not prefer to live without hiding behind a façade? No longer at risk of exposure?"

  Rhys remained silent. The Blood Prince’s methods were hardly to be recommended, kidnapping girls and slaughtering healers.

  "No?" The Prince sounded amused. "Perhaps you prefer living in secret. Never knowing when someone will find out what you are and destroy you for it."

  Rhys’ defiance wavered. His first years as a vampire were spent living in terror, and though he’d adapted to his new lifestyle there was always chance of discovery. Having a silver stake pressed to his heart was not an experience he desired to repeat.

  "I do not care for it," the Prince said flatly, his smile vanishing. "We cannot change what we are. Why should we suffer for it? Die for it? Allow them to kill us for it?"

  "They cannot help their fear," Rhys said hollowly, his shoulders sagging slightly. After all, vampires were monsters in the end.

  "Yes," the Prince said, his voice hard. "They should fear us. They should fear us all the more for what they have done to us. They have made us stronger." The Prince leaned forward, his intensity like a living thing crackling in the air. “What would you do if I said that you can purge the last vestiges of your weak mortal blood? Truly transform into one of the Night People?”

  A strange fire leapt into Rhys’ chest. Any natural born vampire was easily stronger and faster than himself. He would know; after all he lived with three of them for two years. “How do you mean?” he said, but his cautious tone did not fool the vampire prince.

  “The true tragedy of those that are brought into our family by being bitten is that the very thing sustaining them becomes a weakness. When you feed, the venom in your blood looses its strength. Your own strength is diminished. Waiting between feedings allows you more strength, but the longer you wait the greater the thirst becomes. If you do not feed, you will die or be killed.”

  Rhys slowly nodded.

  The Prince’s mouth curved into a smile. “I see myself in you. You wait to hunt because you enjoy the power. The strength. Mere men cannot stand against you. I can offer you that strength permanently. No weakening. No waiting. You could hunt whenever you please without diminishing yourself.”

  The tip of Rhys’ tongue absently flicked over his fangs. “How do I know there is any substance to your claim?” Rhys had never heard of such a thing. Nor had he heard of a cure to the vampire venom unti
l after his transformation. Dragus’ strength had nearly been that of a born vampire. Had he taken this offer?

  “Think of it, Rhys Death Wind,” the Prince said. “You are meant to be one of us. You share the same hunger as the Night People. The hunger for strength, for power. Blood is merely the means to gain that power.”

  Perhaps, but that was also the price: blood. Others’ blood. “I cannot simply accept,” Rhys said. Though accepting the offer of transformation needn’t include accepting a place as the Blood Prince’s man. That he could not accept.

  The Blood Prince’s smile twisted into a bitter smirk. “Why? For the sake of loyalty to your pale Duke cowering in the shadows of his castle?”

  “Many have done things they are not proud of, if it is a matter of survival,” Rhys said quietly. The instinct to preserve one’s life proved very strong indeed. Duke Gareth of Alta was no exception. Nor was Rhys.

  “We would know best, would we not?” the Blood Prince said. “Make that choice once more. Choose the power, and a place among my men.”

  His men. The dead traitor Dragus. The terradi who attacked Mae’s search party. The ones who kidnapped Mae. Rhys’ fists tightened and his blood turned even colder.

  His muscles so tight that they quivered, Rhys released his ribs and unclenched the fingers of his left hand. A small pewter dragon with outspread wings sat in his palm, the purple glass orb in its claws nearly black in the candlelight. Charlotte’s pendant.

  Pain that had nothing to do with broken bones or torn flesh ripped through him.