The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  Fifteen minutes later he staggered out onto the keep roof, puffing for breath and sweating profusely despite the cold. A large crowd had gathered, carrying bags, sacks, and crates, and pushing goods piled high in the ancient keep wheelbarrows. The customary full moon guard were standing to one side, faces drawn with tension. A large contingent of Lord Laur’s own soldiers along with ten of his knights were also in evidence, Ser Laur standing beside Lady Kyferin, face as cold and hard as marble. Audsley drifted forward, suddenly unsure where to stand. At the front with the other dignitaries? In the back and away from attention?

  The Gate Keeper was standing to attention, hand resting just above the Gate Glass, ready to turn it the moment the Gate flickered to life. Ord and Janderke were waiting for him, and he stopped by their side before patting himself.

  His satchel. It was gone.

  Panic surged inside him. He knew he’d grabbed it. Where had it gone? Dumping his bedroll sausage, he searched frantically about his person. Gone! “One moment,” he whispered. “Aelderbert, watch our belongings.” The firecat leaped down onto his bedroll, and Audsley ran back to the staircase.

  “Master Audsley!” hissed Ord, but Audsley ran on, mind spinning. He had only minutes. The strap must have finally given way under the weight of everything else he’d been carrying. Holding his candle aloft, he examined each step, casting about, knowing he had to turn back, knowing that the Gate would only be open for a few minutes. “Where are you? Where?”

  He descended down to the level of the Lord’s Hall, and as he approached the archway he heard a murmur of voices. Seeing his satchel lying against the landing wall, he snatched it up, and then hesitated. One of the voices was clearly that of Lord Laur. Blowing out his candle, he sidled closer to the doorway and saw the Lord in an apparent disagreement with his priest, Elisio.

  Audsley hesitated, then pressed as close as he dared. He was no soft-soled creep-abouter, but he could tread quietly when necessary. The Lord’s Hall was dark, lit now only by a candelabra in Elias’ hand. Taking advantage of the gloom, Audsley snuck farther in, his heart pounding fit to burst, not daring to breathe.

  “…I understand,” Lord Laur was saying. “But that’s out of the question. That’s my final word on it. We’ll wait till the next opening.”

  Elisio was scowling. “You hold them in the palm of your hand. All you need do is squeeze, and this threat is finished.”

  “There are forms, priest.” Lord Laur looked at the man in disgust. “I’ll wait the month. Then we’ll proceed through the Talon, and that will be the end of it.”

  Audsley quivered, every ounce of him riven by fear. The priest turned to glance in his direction, and that was all the impetus Audsley needed. Bursting for air, he retreated back around the corner, satchel clasped to his chest, and raced back up to the roof.

  The Raven’s Gate had come alive. The space within its arch now rippled as if filled with black ink, small waves undulating over its surface. The Gate Keeper was watching the sand pour through the turned Gate Glass, face fiercely focused. Men and women were already passing through, most making the sign of the Ascendant with their hands if they were able as they took a deep breath and plunged in.

  Hurrying up, Audsley heaved his rolled-up covers onto his shoulder.

  “Thought you’d run out on us,” said Ord, staring with wide eyes at the Gate. “Wouldn’t’veblamed you.”

  “No, no, just fetching one last little thing.”

  Aedelbert twined about his legs, clearly agitated. The crowd was thinning out. More and more were stepping through the Gate, carrying all that they could. There would be no coming back for at least a month.

  Audsley felt his throat close up in fear, and he turned to smile thinly at his two men. "Well, shall we? Mythgræfen Hold awaits!”

  Not waiting for their response, he clucked his tongue so that Aedelbert hopped up onto his shoulder, then strode forward, feeling as if he were stepping toward a cliff’s edge with every intention of throwing himself over. Elon was just ahead of him, a massive load on one shoulder, a huge pack slung over his back, a small anvil held in one fist and the other by leather straps wrapped around it. Audsley watched the smith take a deep breath and then lower his chin and step into the ink.

  Only two of Brocuff’s soldiers were left, along with Ord and Janderke. “Oh,” whispered Audsley, stepping up close. The ink swirled before his face. He glanced at the upturned Gate Glass. Only a minute left before the Gate closed. “My soul to the White Gate,” he said, and stepped forward.

  There was a slight sensation of resistance, cool and smooth, like pressing one’s face into a bowl of pudding, and then he was through and stumbling on rough, rocky ground, tussocks of thick grass rising in bunches to knee height. Audsley gasped in shock and heard Aedelbert hiss in displeasure and take to the air.

  “Aedelbert! Not here! Come back!”

  It was no use. His firecat flitted up into the darkness and was gone. Hands clasped his shoulder and pulled him away from the Gate, leading him to one side. The same moon hung in the sky above them, illuminating a bone-white castle that reared up only a dozen paces before him. It fairly glowed in the moonlight. The wilderness seemed to be trying to reclaim it, sending swathes of dark ivy up the walls, while a great knotted oak rose up before the central gate, its canopy reaching the battlements above. The arched windows gaped darkly, hinting at an empty and cavernous interior, and Audsley saw that a deep fissure ran down the side of the far tower, causing it to list and look liable to collapse at any moment.

  It was a ghostly, haunted building, its pale stone made all the more ethereal by the lichen and ivy that smothered it. The teeth of the battlements were crooked or missing altogether. A cold, cutting wind was blowing in off the lake, setting the leaves to whispering and causing him to hunch his shoulders.

  “Mythgræfen Hold,” he said to himself. “Known as the Doomed. Oh, joy.”

  An owl flew out from one of the tower windows, its wings broad and white, and swept out overhead. Audsley turned to follow its passage and gasped again, a hand shooting to his mouth. They were completely surrounded by black waters; the island on which the Hold stood was even smaller than he’d imagined. The moon shone on the stark, precipitous mountains that ringed the water on all sides. Audsley’s legs felt weak. The lake was cupped as if in the palm of a giant, surrounded by peaks whose summits he couldn’t see, their lower slopes looking rugged and furred with thick trees, the upper masses ridged and glittering whitely with ice and snow.

  “Steady, Magister,” said Elon, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, my. I’d seen the maps, of course, and even read some accounts, but seeing it for one’s self, it’s a completely—well. An utterly different experience.” He smiled tremulously up at the smith. “Not the most welcoming of locales, is it?”

  Elon snorted. “It’s got atmosphere. Come on. Let’s see about getting ourselves situated. For better or worse, this is home for the time being.”

  “Yes,” whispered Audsley, nodding to Ord and Janderke to follow. He wanted to call out to Aedelbert, but didn’t dare disturb the tomb-like silence.

  Ser Wyland and Asho had lit torches whose flames streamed fitfully with each exhalation of the lake’s wind. They were stomping through the undergrowth toward the central gate, rounding the large tree, swords glittering as they used their blades to part the brush. Lady Kyferin was standing with her daughter, both of them ringed by Brocuff’s guards, while the others huddled close by. Turning, Audsley felt his stomach sink; the Raven’s Gate was dead, and the world could once again be seen normally through its arch.

  A month. A month till the next full moon.

  Elon lowered his gear to the dirt, the anvil thudding against the earth. “Edwyn, stand watch.”

  His apprentice, already showing the signs of the broad shoulders and massive forearms of a smith, nodded and stepped closer.

  “Where are you going?” Audsley had never felt panic and curiosity at the same time.r />
  Elon hefted his massive hammer. “Those knights might need a hand if they find something. I’ll tag along.”

  “Oh, me too,” said Audsley, dumping his covers onto the dirt and nodding to Ord and Janderke. “Could you keep watch? Thank you!”

  Hurrying after Elon, he suddenly realized that he didn’t have a weapon of any kind. Not even a letter opener. Still, he felt safer hurrying behind Elon than he did standing out in the open—and a wild desire to see what lay within the Hold had seized him.

  The knights had reached the front gate, which their torchlight revealed was little more than an empty archway. Pushing his spectacles up his nose, he touched Elon’s arm. “Fascinating. Note that the windows have lancet peaks, which is a strong build, but the main gate has a trefoil peak, a double arch, in essence. This place was built to withstand punishment. The walls must be terribly thick and heavy.”

  Elon grunted, hefting his hammer in both hands. The knights had turned at the sound of the their voices. Neither was wearing his helm, though both had taken the time to put on their plate. Ser Wyland nodded to Elon, and then swept his gaze past Audsley as if he were of no account. Audsley frowned and pushed out his chest. He wished that he had a small hammer or a stick to brandish.

  Asho raised his torch overhead, and the Hold’s entrance was lit warmly in pale oranges and yellows. The main arch was singed as if by fire, and the wreckage of a portcullis lay smashed asunder a few feet in.

  “Will you look at that,” said Ser Wyland softly.

  “A battering ram?” asked Asho doubtfully.

  “No.” Ser Wyland stepped forward, his steel sabatons crunching on gravel. “This looks like it was torn asunder by huge hands. Look how the metal’s warped. I’ve never seen the like.”

  Audsley shivered. A score of legends ran through his mind, myths from the Age of Wonders, tales of giants and fell beasts. Could their like still exist out here on the fringes of civilization? No, they were beyond the fringes. If ever there was a holdout for such beasts, it was here.

  He bit his lower lip and followed his companions through the archway and into the Hold proper. The torches seemed to only make the shadows darker and whip them into a dance rather than anything else; he resisted the urge to crowd in behind Elon, and instead peered around his broad back.

  They stepped out into a small, square internal courtyard. Ser Wyland and Asho raised their torches and they gazed upon the moonlit scene. A small grove of ash tree saplings had sprung up through the flagstones, their slender trunks silvered, their foliage reaching up to the second floor. The ground itself was covered in ferns, amongst which glinted traces of rusted metal, broken blades and the occasional bleached bone. Dark windows peered down at them, and numerous doorways led into the surrounding keep.

  “Looks like a last stand was fought here,” said Ser Wyland, moving forward cautiously. He toed a rusted cuirass. “A long, long time ago.” He looked over at Audsley. “How long has it been since Mythgræfen was inhabited?”

  Audsley patted at his pockets as if searching for the right text and then drew himself up. “As I remember, it’s been over a century since the last attempt. Perhaps a century and a half.”

  Elon peered up at the ash trees. “Long enough for these to grow, at any rate.”

  “Wait,” said Asho. “What’s that?”

  They all froze. Audsley tried to see what Asho was staring at, but couldn’t pierce the far gloom. “What is it?”

  “He’s watching us.” Asho drew his blade slowly. “In that corner. A small man. Pale like a Bythian, but—” He cut off, uncertain. “I don’t think it’s human.”

  Those words sent a frisson of terror down Audsley’s back and he almost leaped behind Elon. A weapon! Anything! Searching amongst the ferns, he saw a rusted blade and plucked it free. A plain sword, now all but useless, its hilt gritty and rough in his palm.

  Ser Wyland had oriented on the far corner, but it was plain he couldn’t see what Asho was talking about. “What is it doing?”

  “Watching us,” said Asho. “Now it’s stepping back. Right up against—no, it’s going through—there must be a door there. It’s gone!”

  Torch held aloft, the young knight strode through the ash saplings into the far corner. Audsley followed alongside the others until Asho stopped. His torchlight showed that there was no door.

  “Are you sure?” Ser Wyland stepped forward and frowned at the solid walls, then looked back to Asho.

  “I—yes.” Asho nodded fiercely. “I saw it. I swear to you. He was watching us. But—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “It would seem,” said Audsley, tapping the wall with his rusted blade, “that it passed through the wall. Most interesting!” He felt something tug at his memory. “I’ve heard of something like this. In a book of children’s fairy tales, I’m afraid, which doesn’t lend your account much credence, but still. Can you describe what you saw in greater detail?”

  Asho nodded and sheathed his sword. “It was small, about three feet in height. Muscled, with brawny shoulders and a very hunched back. A large head, covered in pale hair. It was quite ugly, with a huge nose and a broad mouth. I couldn’t make out its clothing, but it seemed to be wearing a vest, pants, and boots.”

  “Sounds like a Bythian of some kind,” said Ser Wyland carefully.

  “No,” said Asho. “It wasn’t human.”

  Nor are Bythians, thought Audsley reflexively, and then he felt ashamed. “Well, from what I remember, these creatures are quite awful. They love honeyed apples, but if bothered with, they will creep up on the sleeping so as to drain their blood.”

  “That’s cheering,” said Elon. “How do they defeat them in the children’s tale?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, they don’t. The farmer leaves his farm and his dead family behind in the keeping of the naugrim. It’s one of those old tales where they thought entertaining children meant terrifying them.”

  “Come on,” said Ser Wyland. “Enough. We’ll deal with this creature when next we see it, and in the meantime we’ll remain vigilant. Let’s search the rest of the castle. The sooner we finish the sooner the Lady can rest. Stay close.”

  He led them into the keep, through one deserted room after another. There had originally been three stories, Audsley could see, but the wooden floors of the second and third floors were treacherous; only the dry mountain air had preserved them this long. Guard rooms flanked the entry tunnel, while the functions of other rooms could only be guessed at. Servants’ quarters, a great hall, a kitchen, a small smithy.

  Elon poked around the rusted remains, then shook his head. “Nothing of use left here.”

  They climbed the stone staircase, but Ser Wyland decided not to try the wooden floors. Instead they went up to the battlements. Audsley shivered and hugged himself tightly as he stepped out into the razor-sharp wind, his eyes watering as he peered down at the Lady’s group below. The view was stunning. The moon was already drifting to the east, sinking in the sky. The lake was shaped like a diamond, he saw, tapering to two points while swelling out in the middle. Their island was tiny, and from the steepness of the mountain slopes as they plunged down to the waterline he could only imagine the depths of the black lake.

  “What’s this?” Asho had stopped beside a massive construct that beetled out over the gate, precariously set on the battlement. The others gathered around it. It looked like a vast crossbow, its arms thicker than Audsley’s thighs, the rope rotted and torn. It was looked large enough to have shot Asho into the void if he’d dare lie in its central groove.

  “A ballista,” said Ser Wyland, ducking under it to gain the far side. “Or the remains of one.”

  Elon rapped its frame with his hammer. “Made from iron ash, however.” He sounded pensive. “It’s not badly rotted. The dry air up here has saved it, in large part.”

  Asho grinned, his teeth white in the gloom. “Salvageable?”

  Elon hesitated. “If we were back home, with all my tools? S
ure. Here? I’ll have to examine it in the light of day.”

  “See that you do,” said Ser Wyland. “Ser Asho, join me in a circuit of the walls. I want to inspect that fissure from up top.”

  Audsley watched their torches bob as the knights walked away and buried his chin against his chest. How were they going to reside here for a month? How could they make this dour pile of stones habitable? It would need an entire village’s worth of craftsmen and masons to repair. Impossible.

  Trying not to let despair swamp him, he placed his hands on a mangonel and gazed out over the silvered lake. “You’ve always wanted adventure,” he whispered to himself. “Well, Audsley, my boy, you’ve finally got all that you could have asked for, and more. If only your friends back at Nous could see you now!”

  A winged shape flew up out of the gloom at him, and Audsley almost let out a shriek before realizing it was his firecat. Aedelbert landed on the battlement, stalked quickly toward him and sat, presenting his back to the Magister to indicate his displeasure.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said Audsley, reaching out to run his palms gently over Aedelbert’s delicately feathered wings. He found the firecat’s favorite spot, just below where his left wing connected with his shoulder, and gave it a good scritch. Aedelbert fought to remain aloof, then gave a sulky mrkao and turned to run up Audsley’s shoulder and wrap around his neck.

  “I know,” Audsley said. “But we’re together, which is something, and I promise to take care of you if you’ll take care of me. Is it a deal?”

  He stopped. In the very far distance, high above, something flitted across the face of the moon. He gripped the battlements, steadying himself as he strained to make out the shape. A bat? Not at that distance. No, it was something fell and vast. Audsley felt terror rise up within him. What had that been? Where, by the Ascendant’s love for humanity, had the Raven’s Gate taken them?

  CHAPTER TWENTY