The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Travis envisioned Sirith, the rune of silence, and Jack's voice was cut short. He had known Jack would object to his plan, but Travis couldn't let anything stop him.

  He opened the box, took out the Stones, and held them in his right hand, feeling the hum of power against his skin. It would be so easy. He was a runelord—all he had to do was invoke their power and he could do anything he imagined. The wall between the worlds would fall down like a curtain, and he would see his friends standing before him, smiling, arms outstretched . . .

  No. That was precisely why it was so dangerous to use the Stones. Because it was easy.

  I won't become like Mohg. I won't.

  Travis sensed Jack's muffled protest, but he ignored it. Tightening his fingers around the Stones, he spoke the one word that could save him.

  “Reth.”

  Power condensed out of thin air, striking him, racing along bone and flesh, as if his body was a lightning rod. He went rigid, unable to blink, to breathe, as the magic coursed through him—down his arm, into his hand, crackling around the two Stones like the vengeful blue fires of heaven.

  The flames burned themselves out. Sweating, trembling, Travis slumped against a cement column and looked down. He expected to see a charred stump, but his hand was whole, unmarked save for the thin white scar on its back. Stiffly, he turned his hand over and unclenched his fingers.

  The Stones glistened on his palm, smooth and perfect. Krondisar seemed small and dull in the gloom beneath the bridge, while Sinfathisar shone with soft gray-green light. For a time he simply stared. At last a laugh rose within him, only when it reached his lips it emerged as a sob. Nothing had happened. The Stones weren't so much as scratched.

  “Maybe it's because I'm on Earth,” he said. A passing bicyclist glanced at him, then pedaled hard down the path. “Rune magic is weak here. That has to be it.”

  You're wrong, Travis.

  Travis tried to shut out Jack's angry voice. “Magic doesn't work right in Denver. It's dangerous, but I'll have to risk going back to Eldh to destroy the Stones.”

  But you can't destroy them. That's what I was trying to tell you, only you were too hardheaded to listen.

  “I won't believe that. There's got to be a way.”

  There isn't. The Stones cannot be destroyed.

  Travis felt his own anger rising. “And how would you know?”

  Because we already tried long ago to destroy them.

  Travis's anger sublimated into a soft breath, white on the cold air, and melted away. “What?”

  It was in the years following the War of the Stones, Jack spoke in his mind. In the first days of Malachor. After Ulther wrested them from the Pale King, the Great Stones were given to the Runelords.

  “For safekeeping,” Travis managed to croak.

  No, not for safekeeping. With the Stones, the Pale King might have gained dominion over all of Eldh, and his master, Mohg, would have used them to break the First Rune. It was decided that it was best for the world if the Stones were no more, so the first mission of the Runelords—the very purpose for which the order came into being—was to destroy the Great Stones so that they could never again be used for evil.

  Travis couldn't believe what he was hearing. The Great Stones made the wonders of runic magic possible. Would the Runelords really have given that power up so readily?

  There was some dissent, Jack's voice said in answer to these thoughts. A few said that rather than destroy the Stones, we should use them for good. Kelephon was chief among them. I imagine even then he was scheming a way to gain the Stones for himself. However, though he was the most powerful among us, even he dared not stand against the will of King Ulther and Empress Elsara. For years we labored, exerting all our skill and effort in an attempt to destroy the Great Stones. But no matter how many of us came together, no matter what runes we chanted or sundered, we could do no harm to the Stones.

  In the end, the only way we were able to damage the Stones was by seeking out blood sorcerers in the far south. Three came back with us to Malachor, enticed by gold, and working together they were able to remove a single grain from Gelthisar. However, in the process, all three were slain. And when the grain they had removed came in contact with Gelthisar, it bound itself to the Stone, becoming one with it again.

  Travis squeezed his fingers around the Stones. So that was how Dakarreth had managed to remove two grains from Krondisar. The Necromancer's magic—like the magic of all the New Gods—was of the south, and born ultimately of blood sorcery.

  Do you see it's no use, Travis? The Stones are greater than any of us. There is nothing you can do to destroy them.

  Could that really be true? Travis remembered a story he had read long ago, about terrible rings of power that only a dragon's breath could destroy.

  No, Travis—the dragons ever loathed to come near the Great Stones. The Gordrim are older than the world, but the Imsari are older yet. The dragons have no power over them. And it's a good thing. You heard what the scholar you spoke with this morning said. Breaking apart things is dangerous, and there is nothing more primal, more powerful than the Imsari. What if you really were somehow to break them?

  A jolt of fear coursed through Travis. What had Professor Sparkman said? Something about how a chain reaction, if nothing stopped it, could go on forever. . . .

  Travis swallowed the sickness in his throat, then put the Stones back into their iron box and shoved it into his pocket. He started trudging down the bike path.

  What are you going to do now, Travis?

  “I don't know, Jack.” He felt tired and hollow. “I can't destroy the Stones, and I can't take them back to Eldh. And if I try to leave Denver to find the gate they've created, Duratek will catch me.”

  By Durnach's Hammer, what are you talking about, Travis? Didn't you hear the voices on the contraption your scholar friend was listening to this morning?

  Travis shook his head. What was Jack talking about? The voices on Sparkman's receiver hadn't said anything that could help him, though they had belonged to Duratek agents—he was sure of that. No one else on Earth would make a communications code out of Eldhish words—

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Eldhish words. He had set the silver half-coin down, then had listened to them speak something in a mixture of English and Eldhish. He wracked his brain, trying to remember.

  They said they were heading to the taldaka location, Jack said. And they also made mention of a senlath.

  The silver half-coin, in his pocket now, worked its magic, translating the Eldhish words. Senlath meant priest. And taldaka was . . .

  “Gate,” Travis murmured. “They were talking about the gate. It's not somewhere else in the world. It's here in Denver.”

  Which meant there was a way to stop Duratek after all.

  Hope rekindled in Travis, bringing with it new energy. He started moving once more, jogging along the river path. “I have to go see Sparkman again, Jack. I have to listen to his receiver and monitor their transmissions. If I do, maybe I can learn exactly where in Denver they've hidden the gate.”

  Very well, Travis. But do be careful. Night is coming soon, and it's not safe to be out alone in this city.

  “It's all right, Jack. I'll be meeting up with . . .” What were Jay and Marty? He had only met them last night, so they couldn't be friends, could they? “. . . with some guys I know. We'll stick together.”

  This seemed to satisfy the voice in Travis's mind, and it stayed quiet as he headed back downtown and caught the free shuttle up Sixteenth Street. Dusk was falling by the time he reached Civic Center Park. Columns glowed in the half-light, like the bones of a ruined Greek temple. He searched around and saw two figures—one tall, one short—near the center of the park. Travis hurried over to them.

  “Dammit!” Jay jumped around. “You shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that. Especially not when people have been disappearing. I practically shot out of my skin.”

  “Sorry,” Travis mumbled. He alwa
ys forgot others didn't see so well in gloom as he did.

  “So,” Jay said, “did you get your thing done today, whatever the hell it was?”

  “Not exactly.” Travis looked around. “Where's Professor Sparkman?”

  Jay shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don't give a rat's ass where that nut job is. Maybe the voices told him to whack his head off this time. Anyway, it's going to be a cold night, so let's get a move on before all the good spots are taken.”

  Travis gazed around the shadowed park, but he saw no sign of a wheelchair.

  “We can come find him tomorrow,” Marty said in his slow voice. “He'll be here once the sun is up.”

  They headed back to the viaduct by the river where they had spent the previous night but found it already taken—though the new occupants were having no better luck starting a fire than Jay and Marty had. Travis started to move forward, to help, but Jay grabbed his arm.

  “You don't know those guys, Travis. They could pull something on you.”

  “You mean like a knife?” Travis said, giving the little man a pointed look.

  Marty shook his head. “I told you it was a bad joke.”

  “Both of you maggots shut up,” Jay said, and he stamped back up the embankment.

  They ended up in a narrow alley between two warehouses off Kalamath Street. They built a fire from more pilfered loading pallets, and Travis pressed his hands to the cinder-block wall, muttering Krond over and over, until waves of warmth radiated forth. Jay let out a laugh and pressed his back to the wall. Marty opened his knapsack and pulled out a loaf of white bread and packages of bologna and American cheese—all bought at a 7-Eleven with proceeds from the day's bottle-collecting venture.

  Travis tried not to eye the food as Marty put together a thick sandwich, then to his surprise and delight Marty held the sandwich out toward him.

  “You provide the heat, we'll provide the food,” he said, grinning.

  “You got that right,” Jay said, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “Having a wizard around is damn handy.”

  Travis accepted the sandwich in shaking hands—he hadn't eaten since the shelter that morning—and managed to wait until Jay and Marty had sandwiches themselves before greedily eating it. They talked and ate until all the food was gone, then lay close to the fire on ragged blankets as Travis whispered Krond again and again. Before long the food and heat did their work, and he drifted into a dream in which Anna Ferraro stood over him, her TV reporter smile firmly affixed to red lips.

  “So how does it feel to know you're going to destroy the world?” she said, jamming a microphone into his face.

  Travis fought for words. “I . . . I don't want to destroy it.”

  “So that means you believe you will,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

  “No, I didn't mean . . .”

  “That's all we have time for.” She pulled the microphone away. “You know, you shouldn't all go to sleep at the same time. That is, unless you want to be the next ones to vanish. It's dangerous out here.”

  Travis jerked awake, and after that he kept watch for several hours, staring into the dark until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. At that point he woke Marty with a gentle shake. The tall man agreed to keep a lookout, then wake Jay to take the last watch. Travis curled up next to the dying fire and whispered Krond until sleep took him once again.

  When he woke, the sky was as flat and white as a sheet of paper, and Jay and Marty were already rolling up their blankets. The fire was out, and it was bitterly cold.

  “I don't want to be the last ones to breakfast today,” Jay said, “and I figured you'd be dragging us by the park again to see old Sparky. So let's get moving.”

  Despite all they had eaten last night, the idea of food set Travis's stomach to growling. Trying to keep warm took a lot of energy. Or was it using magic that made him so hungry?

  Civic Center Park was on the way as they headed back to downtown. The gold dome of the Capitol blazed to life as they walked between the library and the art museum into the park. Sunrise. Sparkman should be there.

  Travis searched around, then saw it not far off—a wheelchair, angled away from them. Only it was sitting in a patch of shadow by a tree. That was odd. He hurried over, Jay and Marty behind him.

  “Professor Sparkman,” he said as he approached the chair, “I need to listen again to your—”

  He came to a halt, staring at the wheelchair. It was empty. For a moment Travis thought it wasn't his. Then he saw the faded bumper sticker slapped on the back of the seat. E=mc2. There was no sign of the receiver.

  Jay clamped his wool hat down on his cranium. “Hell, I was only kidding about him chopping off his head.”

  “He didn't chop off his head,” Marty said, brown eyes sad.

  Travis shuddered. It was just like his dream about the TV reporter. It's dangerous out here, she had said. He touched Professor Sparkman's empty wheelchair and breathed a foggy sigh. “They took him.”

  “The aliens,” Marty said.

  Travis didn't have the energy to disagree. He leaned on the handles of the wheelchair. Now how would he learn where in Denver they were hiding the gate?

  “Well,” Jay said with a shrug, “since we're not going to talk to Sparky, we might as well go get breakfast.”

  27.

  Aryn stood atop the battlements of Calavere and watched the band of horsemen ride toward the castle.

  She had first spied them when they crested a hill more than a league from Calavere, and now they moved along the road like a dark cloud. She wondered what land they hailed from. One of the Free Cities? The Dominion of Embarr? She would find out soon, and anyway it was a small band—no more than twenty.

  Then again, if one was patient, even a large bucket could be filled a drop at a time.

  They had begun arriving the day after Grace left Calavere. The first was a band of thirty men who rode shaggy horses across the Darkwine Bridge. They were brutish and half-wild, clad in leather and mismatched armor. However, to Aryn's surprise, when their leader presented himself to Boreas in the lower bailey, he spoke in the well-mannered tones of a nobleman. He was a duke of Eredane, and those who followed him earls and knights. They had been driven from their keeps by the Onyx Knights over a year ago, and had spent the time since living on the edges of the Dominion, hiding from their enemies, and harrying them when they could.

  “Things are worse in Eredane than you know,” the duke said after he gripped Boreas's arms in greeting. “The dark knights rule by sword and flame, but even they do not dare stand against the Raven Cult. More fall under the shadow of the Raven each day—entire villages are branded with its sign, and they take to the roads, abandoning field and home, marching I know not where. On some terrible pilgrimage, I fear.”

  Each day more men arrived at the castle, some on horses, some on foot. They came alone, or in small bands, or in companies of a hundred or more. A few of them were nobles, like the duke and his men, but many more were farmers and freemen, or merchants and traders and craftsmen. Some, given their rough looks and even rougher manners, were little better than mercenaries and thieves. Boreas welcomed them all.

  They hailed from every direction. Some spoke of daring escapes from Brelegond, which—like Eredane—was ruled by the Onyx Knights and plagued by the Raven Cult. Others had abandoned farms and families in Calavan, Galt, Toloria, and Perridon. They had put down hoes and spades and had traded them for old swords that had lain in chests, forgotten for years.

  The only Dominion not represented so far was Embarr, which boded ill for that land. However, of all the Dominions, Embarr was farthest from Calavan. Perhaps men would yet come from there. Besides, it was not from the Dominions that most of the men would come. Like all the Mystery Cults, the Cult of Vathris Bullslayer had its origins in the ancient lands of the south, and it was to the south that King Boreas looked.

  The first men from Gendarra and the other Free Cities had arrived several days ago. They
were equipped with fine armor and swords, for some of the wealthiest merchants in the Free Cities were patrons of Vathris. Men from Tarras had begun to arrive as well, and yesterday the first band of men from Al-Amún had reached the castle, riding white horses with arched necks.

  The men were as proud and exotic as the horses they rode. Their hair was long and black, and gold and lapis lazuli gleamed against their dark skin. Aryn thought them as fierce as they were beautiful. They saluted King Boreas with curved swords, and he invited them into the castle to speak.

  Women were not welcome in the great hall when the king was meeting with his warriors, and Aryn imagined that was doubly true for witches. Nor did she have Aldeth to spy for her any longer. However, she had other ways to observe. She had cast a spell on a small amethyst, and she had left it in a niche near the king's throne at an opportune moment.

  Late last night, when she was certain she wouldn't be seen, she stole back into the great hall to retrieve the gem. Once in her chamber, she held the gem in front of a candle, and in its many facets she saw reflections not of herself, but of the great hall. She watched as the men of Al-Amún approached the throne, and the gem seemed to hum in her hand as the words they and the king exchanged sounded in her mind.

  You have answered my call more quickly than I could have hoped, King Boreas had said.

  One of the men bowed before him, then spoke in a richly accented voice. I must confess, Great Man of Vathris, it was not in answer to your call for war that we first set out on the road to the north.

  Boreas raised an eyebrow, and another of the men stepped forward.

  A vision came to some of us in our dreams, he said. In it, Vathris appeared and told us the Final Battle drew near, and that it would be fought not in the south, but in the icy lands of the north. So we began our journey, and it was only as we were about to set sail across the Summer Sea that your message reached us, and by it we knew our visions were true.

  And how many more are behind you? Boreas said.

  The man who had first spoken laughed. We are but the first of many. Already they gather at the ports faster than ships can bear them across the sea, and so they build more ships. A great host comes behind us, a host larger than any this world has ever seen. The end of all things comes, and any true man of Vathris would die before he would ignore the call to war. So what if it is our destiny to fail? At least in fighting, we will know a glory greater than any other.