The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  “Thanks,” she said as she slammed the trunk shut, then opened the driver's side door.

  “Wait,” Travis said hoarsely.

  She turned around. “For what?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  She smacked her forehead. “Jesus, you're not a mugger, you're a fan. Just my luck. Well, here's one last news story for you, pal: I'm not giving out any more autographs. Why? Because I just got fired, that's why.”

  Travis's fear receded. She was older than she looked on TV, more serious. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, the thick makeup she wore couldn't completely hide the lines of weariness around her mouth. On screen, her eyes had always seemed as glossy as her lips. Now they snapped with a sarcastic light. Maybe TV could make anyone look pretty and vapid.

  Those eyes narrowed. She gave him a piercing look, then nodded and shut the car door. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Why did you get fired, Ms. Ferraro?”

  She crossed her arms across her overcoat and leaned back against the car. “Good question. And call me Anna. Ferraro was my bastard of an ex-husband's name.”

  “So why do you still use it?”

  “Do you really think anyone would hire a reporter named Anna Blattenberger?”

  He winced. “Good point.”

  She chewed one of her fingernails; the stylish red nail polish was chipped. “Not that anyone's going to hire me now, no matter what name I use.”

  “What happened?”

  She looked away. “There was no warning. I was in the editing bay with Kevin, one of the photojournalists. We were cutting together a story we shot this afternoon.”

  “One about the disappearances among the homeless?”

  She looked back at him, her gaze calculating. “Yes, about the disappearances. Only when we were nearly done, Victor came in—he's the news director. He asked Kevin to leave us alone, then he told me to go clean out my desk. That was it. He didn't give me a reason. He just said I had fifteen minutes to leave, and that if I talked to anyone, he'd have security throw me out of the building. So I packed my box. And on the way out, I saw Victor was still in the editing bay, deleting all the footage Kevin and I shot from the video server.” She shook her head. “But why?”

  The question wasn't for Travis. He answered all the same. “Because he's working for Duratek.”

  She scowled at him, her makeup cracking. “What are you talking about?”

  Travis had to be careful how he worded this; she had to believe him. “Something is wrong in this city, and Duratek Corporation is part of it. They're behind the disappearances.”

  Ferraro stood up straight. “You have evidence of this?”

  “No. I only . . . I know it's true, that's all, and I can prove it to you later. But first we have to get on TV. I have to get a message out to all the people of Denver.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So that's it. You're just some nutcase who wants to spout off about his manifesto on TV.”

  No, she had it all wrong. “Please, you've got to believe me. I'm not crazy.”

  “Really? You sure could have fooled me.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one up, and took a drag. “I know who you are, by the way. It took me a minute with the beard and the hair, but we showed your photo enough times on the news last fall. You're the guy the police were searching for, along with that doctor. You're Travis Wilder.”

  He clenched his hands in his pockets. “So are you going to call the police?”

  “I might. But you wanted to talk, so let's talk.”

  Anger flooded him. “Why? So you can land a big scoop and get your job back? That's all you care about, isn't it—getting the story? That was why you cut off Sergeant Otero when he was trying to talk about the disappearances.”

  “It's true, I did cut him off in that piece. Do you know why?” She tossed down the cigarette and stamped it out with a heel. “Otero does care about the disappearances, but he's one of the few who does, and I wanted people to get angry, to call the police, to force them to do something. Journalism isn't just about recycling information, Mr. Wilder. It's about getting a reaction out of people, making them care.”

  His anger cooled into shame. “Did it?” he said finally. “Get a reaction?”

  She didn't meet his gaze. “No.”

  He nodded, then took a step closer. “They're afraid, Anna. The people of this city. Of every city in this country. They're not going to stand up against Duratek, not unless they know the truth.”

  “Which you do,” she said with a skeptical glare.

  “No, not completely. But I do know Duratek is linked to the disappearances. And I . . . I can show you something that might help you believe me.” He squeezed the iron box in his pocket.

  She sighed. “Fine, let's pretend for a minute that you're not just an escaped mental patient with severe paranoia and a messiah complex, and that Duratek is somehow behind all of this. I can't say it would be a complete shock—journalists have been trying to dig up evidence of shady dealings at Duratek for years, only without luck. But even if you have evidence to prove it's true, there's still no place I can take the story.”

  “What about another TV station?”

  “No go. Victor has a lot of friends in this town. None of the other news directors will even talk to me now. Same goes for the editors at the newspapers.”

  There had to be somewhere else they could go. “I don't understand.” His voice was a croak. “I thought news was about telling the truth.”

  She laughed, a bitter sound. “You really are crazy, Mr. Wilder. Nothing is what it seems on TV. That's the first lesson every journalist learns. It's all a fantasy. Here's a good example for you: You know the televangelist Sage Carson? He's always preaching about helping others, so I thought he would lend a hand, maybe show some pictures of the missing men and women on his show. But you know what? He wouldn't even return my calls. So much for charity.”

  Hope turned to dust in Travis's chest. Anna Ferraro had listened to him, but she couldn't help, and he doubted anyone else would believe him.

  “Don't look now,” Ferraro muttered, “but here comes the goon squad.”

  Travis turned to see a pair of thick-necked men in blue uniforms walking across the parking lot. For a terrified moment he thought they were police officers. Then he saw the patches on their uniforms; they were security guards. All the same, they carried guns.

  “You were instructed to leave the property within fifteen minutes, Ms. Ferraro,” one of the guards said as they approached. “You're now trespassing. If you don't leave immediately, we'll call the police.”

  She glared at him. “Cut the tough guy act, Ben. Believe me, I'm getting out of this dump.”

  The other guard gazed at Travis, eyes suspicious. “Who are you?”

  “A man who was kind enough to help me put my things in the trunk,” Ferraro said. “Unlike any of you, Ron.”

  “You need to go now,” the first guard said, his eyes dark, without expression. “Both of you.” He reached for the cell phone clipped at his belt.

  Ferraro jerked open the car door. “God, Ben, when did you turn into such a creep? You used to be a gentleman.”

  The guard said nothing as he raised the phone. The logo emblazoned on the device glowed in the light of a nearby streetlamp: a white crescent moon merging into a capital D. A coldness spilled into Travis's gut. There was something about the monotonous way the guard talked, about the flatness of his eyes. Something wrong.

  “You have to go, Anna,” Travis whispered. “Now.”

  She met his gaze, then nodded. “Let me just give you a tip for helping me with the box,” she said—loudly, for the benefit of the two men. She rummaged in her purse, then pushed a crumpled piece of paper into his hand. He shoved it in his pocket.

  Travis stepped away as she got into the car and shut the door. She rolled down the window and looked out. Her expression was still one of annoyance, but Travis saw the glint of fear in h
er eyes.

  “Be careful,” she said, glancing past him.

  “Don't worry about me,” he said with a sudden grin, and he tightened his grip around the box in his pocket.

  Ferraro gave a grim nod. She hit the gas, and her car peeled out of the parking lot, speeding down Lincoln Street. Travis felt his grin crumble away, and he turned around.

  “Who are you?” the first security guard, the one called Ben, said. His eyes were like black stones.

  Travis shrugged. “She told you. Just a guy who was helping her with her box.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Come on, Ben,” the other guard said. “Leave him alone. He's just some homeless guy scrounging for tips.”

  Ben shook his head. “I have to report this.” He punched a button on the phone. The crescent moon logo glowed in the dark, white as bones.

  Fear flashed through Travis. He couldn't let them do this. He opened the box in his pocket, and his fingers brushed the smooth surface of one of the Stones—Sinfathisar by its cool touch. He pointed his other hand at the phone.

  “Reth,” he said.

  The phone shattered in the guard's grip. Shards of plastic traced red lines across his face, but he did not flinch.

  The other guard did. “What the hell?” He grabbed for his gun with a shaking hand and pointed it at Travis. “I don't know what you just did, but you're coming with us.”

  “No,” Travis said, then spoke another rune. “Dur.”

  The gun flew up, striking the man on the bottom of his jaw. His eyes rolled up into his head, and without a sound he crumpled to the pavement.

  The remaining guard, Ben, was watching him with his lifeless eyes. “I know who you are.”

  Travis swallowed the sick lump in his throat. “And I know what you are. You gave it up for them, didn't you? You're not a man anymore, you're a thing. No, don't come closer.”

  The guard stopped. “There's no point in resisting. The world is changing. A new order comes, and those who resist it will not survive.”

  “Neither will you,” Travis said through clenched teeth.

  The guard raised big hands and lunged for him. Travis was faster.

  “Dur!”

  He directed the full force of the rune not at the man's gun, but at the center of his chest. The guard stopped. A shudder passed through his body, and he lifted up onto his toes, as if something was pulling him from above. His eyes bulged, and a dark trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  “Help me . . . Master,” he choked. “I don't want . . . to die.”

  “Too late,” Travis said. “You're already dead.”

  He made a fist of his left hand, closing his fingers around empty air, then pulled back. At the same moment the thing burst from the guard's chest: a dark lump of metal. It thudded to the pavement and rolled to a stop. The guard stared forward with empty eyes. Then he toppled facefirst, a corpse long before he hit the pavement.

  Sound and motion. Travis looked up. A door opened in the side of the building. Several shadowy forms rushed out. In the distance, the wail of sirens approached. So someone had made a phone call after all.

  However, it wasn't guards or police officers he feared now. Blue-white light spilled from the mouth of a nearby alley, and a metallic whine rose on the air. Renewed dread pumped energy into Travis's legs. He turned and ran from the parking lot.

  “Alth,” he whispered, speaking one last rune before closing the box, and shadows gathered around him, cloaking him in darkness as he vanished into the night.

  35.

  “This is perilous, sister,” Lirith whispered as the two witches moved as quietly as they could down the corridor. “I do not know why I agreed to this.”

  “Because you know as I do we have no other choice,” Aryn whispered back. She did not spin the words across the Weirding; it was too dangerous to speak that way with so many witches about the castle.

  Lirith clutched Aryn's gown, holding her back. “If Liendra or one of her spies sees us here—”

  “Then we tell them the truth,” Aryn said, trying to sound confident. “We tell them we're going to Queen Ivalaine to try to convince her to help us.”

  “To help us, yes—against Liendra.”

  “We'll just leave that last little bit out.”

  Lirith gave her a dark look. “And don't you think Liendra has ways of getting the truth out of us?”

  “Maybe. But if she has the power to pick apart our minds, why hasn't she done so already? Liendra has a hold over the Witches—but I don't think it's as strong as she would like us to believe. We weren't the only ones who joined with the Pattern reluctantly. She has to play her cards carefully.”

  “As do we,” Lirith said. However, she let go of Aryn's gown, and the two women continued down the corridor.

  The last two days had been the longest of Aryn's life. Liendra had vowed to watch them closely, and the golden-haired witch had not lied. It seemed at every turn she was there, or one of the young witches who followed her every command as if it were the word of Sia herself.

  Except they've shunned the name of Sia, just as they've banned the crones from their covens.

  And that was the one thing that gave Aryn hope. Without the older witches and their wisdom, Liendra and her minions were bound to make mistakes. At least, Aryn had to hope so.

  That Liendra plotted something to prevent the Warriors of Vathris from marching north to Gravenfist Keep was a given. Even King Boreas seemed certain of that fact. However, exactly what Liendra planned was a mystery—one they had to solve if they were to have any of hope of stopping her. And they had to stop her. Grace was depending on them.

  Aryn longed desperately to reach out with the Touch, to fling her consciousness over the intervening leagues and speak to Grace. She didn't dare, of course, and not just because of all the witches in the castle. The Pale King's pylons had been awakened at the command of their master, and their magic tangled through the threads of the Weirding like vipers.

  We haven't forgotten you, Grace. Already the Warriors of Vathris number five thousand, and more come every day. Just hold on a little while longer.

  She had to pray the words to Sia rather than spin them across the Weirding, but maybe somehow, by the will of the goddess, Grace would get the message.

  In the meantime, the best way to help Grace was to learn what Liendra was planning. Whatever it was, it had to come soon. The army of Vathris was to depart on the morrow under the command of King Boreas. Liendra was running out of time.

  Which made her behavior earlier that morning all the more strange. They had encountered her at breakfast in the great hall, and she had been all smiles and bright laughter. She had seemed utterly unconcerned that the men of Vathris were ready to march.

  “We shall see what weather tomorrow brings,” was all the golden-haired witch said. “Storms can come upon one swiftly this time of year, as I'm sure the king knows.”

  Aryn had dared to relay these words to the king. After all, Liendra couldn't punish her for talking to her liege and warden. At least, she hoped not. However, Boreas had seemed every bit as unconcerned as Liendra.

  “Of course Lady Liendra plots against me,” the king said, standing before the roaring fire in his chamber. “She's a witch. She can't help plotting.” He raised an eyebrow, giving her a piercing look. “No offense intended, my lady.”

  Despite her fear, Aryn gave him a wry grin. “None taken, Your Majesty.” Then she voiced the question that had weighed on her mind these last two days, asking the king why he had allowed Liendra and her witches to stay in the castle.

  Boreas laughed. “That's simple, my lady. It's far better to have your enemies near at hand, where you can keep a close eye on them. I do not plan on being caught unawares by any spells Lady Liendra might try to spin.”

  Aryn wanted to believe that, but she didn't know if she could, and that was why they had to try to speak to Ivalaine. Until recently, she had been Matron of the Witches, and if a
nyone knew what Liendra intended to do, it was her. There was just one problem: Ivalaine had forbidden Aryn and Lirith ever to try speaking to her again.

  The two witches turned down an empty corridor. Ivalaine's chamber lay just ahead.

  “What if she's not there?” Aryn said, suddenly uncertain at the wisdom of this.

  “She will be,” Lirith said. “The servingman I spoke to said the queen takes all her meals in her room.”

  Aryn reached out with the Touch, but she sensed no threads nearby. She hurried after Lirith to the queen's door. They exchanged one last nervous look, then Lirith lifted a hand to knock.

  The door flew open.

  “Did I not tell you I would have nothing to do with you?” Ivalaine hissed.

  Lirith gasped, and Aryn clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The queen of Toloria was barely recognizable. Always in the past she had carried herself tall and straight, her flaxen hair as flawless as her skin, her eyes as clear as ice.

  That woman was nowhere to be seen now. Ivalaine stooped over, her shoulders hunched like an old woman's, her gown wrinkled and soiled. Her hair was snarled and dull with oil, and scratches marred her face, as if she had been clawing at it. Her eyes were the same ice gray as always, but they seemed too bright, and they focused on nothing for more than a second.

  Lirith recovered first. “Please, Your Majesty. We have to speak with you just this once. After this, we'll leave you alone, if that's what you wish.” She reached out a hand.

  The queen batted it aside. “I wish you to leave me alone now. I should weave an enchantment—I should make you run away screaming.” Her fingers fluttered, then knotted together. “But my spells have fled me. The authority of the crown has fled me. Love is all I have left, and bitter comfort that is. Would that I had nothing left at all.”

  She turned from the door and lurched into her room. Aryn and Lirith exchanged startled glances, then they stepped into the queen's chamber.

  The smell hit Aryn at once. The air was thick with the reek of spoiled meat. The room was dim—tapestries had been drawn over the windows—but after a moment Aryn's eyes adjusted. Trays of food lay all around, none of it eaten. Aryn glanced at the nearest tray; maggots writhed atop a piece of venison. She clutched a hand to her throat to keep from gagging.