Cathadeus_Book One of the Walking Gates

by Jeff J. Peters

  Cathadeus

  The Walking Gates

  Book One

  Jeff J. Peters

  Wise Ink Creative Publishing

  Minneapolis, MN

  CATHADEUS © copyright 2018 by Jeff J. Peters, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

  Cathadeus is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual names, characters, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63489-072-4

  eISBN: 978-1-63489-073-1

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2017942525

  Cover design by Steven Meyer-Rassow

  Cover art by Jorge Jacinto

  www.jeffjpeters.com

  To my boys, for their pure enjoyment

  To my wife, for her endless love, patience, and companionship

  And to my master teacher, for helping me to find my voice

  Thank you

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Book Two

  Pronunciation Guide

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Sunlight touched the southern peaks of the Dragon’s Spine as Thrag completed his patrol. The morning was cold and snow still covered the ground. The exposed parts of the dwarf’s face were chilled and steam appeared whenever he breathed—but he didn’t care. He loved being in the mountains, and the sharp biting feeling on his rough skin was preferable to the heat in the mines.

  Wiping the ice crystals from his beard, he lit his pipe and took a long draw before exhaling. The light crept into the clearing, and he turned to leave but stopped abruptly. A dozen yards away, barely visible in the snow, a dark shape broke the pristine white. Thrag covered his pipe and checked about. Convinced he was alone, he retrieved the small object and rolled it around in his hand, feeling the rough cuts from the crude instrument that shaped it. Even before he looked down, he knew what it was. A totem.

  Moving quickly to the nearby river, he scouted its banks. He picked up a trail and followed it until he smelled their campfire. Two large, muscular beasts stood behind the flames and slightly to one side, another lying further back and to the left.

  Minotaurs.

  They occasionally entered the Spine to hunt, wearing totems for protection that never worked, and his kin always defeated them. There hadn’t been any significant intrusion in almost six hundred years—not since the Breath of the Dragon wiped out their valley.

  “So what ya doing in the mountains?” Thrag mumbled to himself, studying their bull-like faces. They had furs and leather jerkins covering their human bodies, and their weaponry was too advanced for a hunting party. Sentries, he concluded. But for what?

  He needed to find out and report in, and they were too dangerous to be left alone. Unstrapping his giant battleax from across his back, he loosened the throwing weapon in his belt. Clenching his jaw, he readied to charge, then stopped. He couldn’t see into the trees. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but this time he had to be sure. Someone had to report, and something about this already had his beard on edge.

  Turning around, he put his back against the boulder where he hid and called. A long, peaceful sound echoed among the rocks. He knew the Mins would hear it, even though he was downwind, but he wasn’t worried—he’d been a ranger for more than sixty years and could imitate nature’s calls. His sound was strong and true, riding the wind between the mountain pines and craggy valleys before fading away. He repeated it a few more times, then waited. As expected, the Mins ignored it. Minutes passed, and he watched the trees. Then a branch moved. Against the wind. His companion was closer than he’d thought, as usual.

  Time to go.

  Thrag burst from the rocks, hurling his smaller ax at the Minotaur on the right as he sprinted across the clearing. The weapon hit the beast square in the forehead, felling him. The other Min grabbed its weapon and brayed loudly. Thrag leapt up onto a stump directly opposite the fire, using the smoke to obscure his approach, and launched himself at the beast. He came through the screen with his battleax held high above his head in both hands, yelling as he appeared. The creature raised its halberd to block the strike, but Thrag’s ax smashed into it, splitting the shaft in two. The Min stepped back to steady itself, but the dwarf wasn’t slowing. He landed in front of it, bringing his weapon around and striking diagonally across, hitting the Min below the knee and severing its leg. The creature bellowed a horrific call, falling onto its newly formed stump. The third Min was up now, a spear in hand and coming to the fight. It pulled its arm back preparing to skewer the dwarf, but a dark form hit it from behind, sending the creature hurtling past Thrag. The dwarf ignored it. He thrust the top of his weapon straight up, hitting the crippled Min under the chin and jolting its head back. Raising his battleax again in both hands, Thrag struck down with his formidable strength, burying the blade deep into the Min’s chest, killing it.

  He turned to look for the remaining beast. It hung from the massive jaws of a giant, sleek, charcoal-gray leopard standing eye level beside him.

  “About time you helped,” Thrag admonished, looking into his companion’s enormous eyes.

  The leopard gently lay the dead Min down on the ground without making a sound and stared back at the dwarf.

  Thrag rocked his head from side to side. “Well . . . thanks,” he said.

  He cleaned his weapons and searched the camp, uncovering more tracks. Following them through the trees, he found another trail leading to the old ruins.

  Crossing the flattened outer wall at dusk, Thrag hid among the long shadows and intricately carved broken stone buildings that had been cut from the mountain. He moved carefully between the fallen rocks, stopping at an open courtyard. Giant columns circled the perimeter, portions of the ceiling they once supported visible among the snow. Three heavily armed Mins stood in the center, their backs toward him, facing a man dressed entirely in black armor. Beyond them, two smaller servants w
aited, hoods covering their faces.

  “. . . finish preparing yourselves. We attack at first light,” he heard the man say over the Mins’ heavy breathing.

  It would take Thrag two days to return with reinforcements. Not enough time, he thought. He’d have to stop them himself.

  He crept closer, then signaled to the leopard, and charged.

  Throwing his ax at the middle creature, he hit the brute in the back of the head, splitting its skull and knocking him down. A brief feeling of pride flickered across his thoughts at his consistent throws, but he pushed it aside as the leopard shot past him, grappling the Min on the left. Thrag raised his weapon, preparing to strike the last beast when a crackling filled the air. Green light hit his body, encircling him and clouding his vision, freezing him in place.

  Magic, he thought as his muscles shuddered. He could resist. He knew how—but this was strong. Then he realized his mistake; the figures behind the man weren’t servants. They were witches.

  A sudden, intense cold penetrated his chest as a curved sword pierced his body. Thrag yelled out in pain. The man in black stood before him, smiling wickedly. Not a man, Thrag scowled. An elf. Two black eyes stared back at him with malice.

  The elf withdrew the sword from Thrag’s chest, and the dwarf fell to his knees. He signaled for his companion to flee. Then the elf struck again, a single quick and deadly motion that severed the dwarf’s neck, dropping his body to the ground.

  Chapter 1

  Braxton Prinn sat at the wooden table, moving his eggs around his plate drearily; his light-brown hair was a mess of unruly curls, and his normally focused green eyes were bloodshot and glazed. He knew today was Merchant Tide, the two-day market event that started each new week, and that his mom would be expecting his help. But time had slipped by last night working on a rover deer’s hide. It was the first time he and his friends had anything of real value to sell, and he was excited about the money it might bring. Now, though, he was tired and sore, his few predawn hours of rest insufficient for the upcoming day’s work.

  The front door opened, and a blast of cold air blew in, causing Brax to shiver. The long-sleeved shirt and leather tunic did little to protect him from the frigid morning air. His older brother stood in the opening, his woolen cloak dripping with rain that glistened like tiny crystals, reflecting the dancing firelight. Beyond him, the inky darkness of predawn hid the yard outside and the village beyond. Penton wiped his muddied boots and removed his blacksmith’s gloves, shaking his long black hair before hanging his cloak on a nearby hook.

  Shutting the ironbound door, he walked over and sat opposite Brax, placing an oil lamp carefully on the crimson-oak table.

  “Late night again?” Penton asked cheerfully.

  Brax nodded, smelling the heavy scent of their dad’s smithy on him. “At least we finished on time.”

  “Finally!” Penton glanced up at the ceiling. “Hopefully you won’t keep waking me anymore, going to bed so late.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Brax replied. “You’ve been waking me every week for the last four months! What is it that you and Gavin do after Merchant Tide anyway?”

  Penton leaned across the table. “Drink brew and dance with young women.” He beamed. “Something you might consider in a couple of years, when you come of age.”

  “Not likely.”

  Penton laughed. “Seriously though, I hope you get what you want for the rover.”

  “Thanks.” Braxton poked at his cold breakfast. “That’s up to you and Phin now.”

  “Why don’t you come with us? Neither of you’ve been to Amberdeen, and I know you’d rather be with her.”

  “I’d like to,” he admitted. “But I need to help at the Gate, and I promised Dad I’d pick up the monthly supply from Rusk.”

  Their mom walked in and set a plate of warm muffins down on the table. Brax grabbed a couple and juggled them to avoid burning his fingers.

  “How’s Dad managing?” she asked Penton.

  “Good, just adding a few last-minute things from the storeroom.”

  “Maybe you should go and help.” She looked back at the kitchen window. “You know he shouldn’t do any heavy lifting.”

  Penton started toward the back door, then stopped and grabbed the plate of muffins before hastily retreating out of his mom’s reach.

  Brax’s mom smiled. “Ready to go?” she asked kindly, kissing him on his messy curls.

  He got up and unhooked his wool-lined cloak from next to where Penton’s still dripped. Tying it about his neck, he retrieved the wicker basket by the fire, pushing the rover deer’s silver-white hide and small, curved horns further down into its already bulging contents. Hauling the container onto his back, he headed to the kitchen. His mom was waiting for him, her hood pulled up and a small leather bag slung over one shoulder. She lit an oil lamp, opened the back door, and hurried out into the rain. Braxton took a breath and followed her into the dark.

  They turned left and headed down the partially hidden trail, passing through their little gate and out onto the dirt road. Their weak light spilled across the street, barely revealing the house opposite, its occupants still sound asleep.

  “Are you not going to Amberdeen today?” his mom asked, as they continued toward their village.

  Brax shook his head. “I need to meet Rusk and then help in the smithy.”

  “I can manage alone, you know. You don’t have to stay.”

  “I know, but I need to help Dad. I promised as much.”

  His mom smiled. She knew he never missed helping her.

  They walked for over a mile before reaching Oak Haven’s plaza, listening to the sounds of their footfalls on the wet cobblestones as they crossed to the center. Two guards came into view, their dark, cloaked forms standing on the lower steps of the Walking Gate to avoid the rain. Giant crimson-oak pillars extended from the platform behind them, disappearing into the mist, the edges of the roof they supported barely visible above the men.

  “Jen.” The first guard nodded at seeing Brax’s mom. It was Janton Roe, of the night watch.

  “A damp market day,” the other man added, holding a long spear upright, its diamond-shaped point catching the lamplight.

  Brax’s mom returned the greetings and headed up the stone steps to the marble platform. He followed behind her, feeling the guards watching him.

  “At least the snows have stopped.” Brax unstrapped the large basket and turned toward his mom. She knelt on the cold floor, drying and clearing off the water and other debris that had blown in with the storm. Braxton hated seeing her like that and it bothered him that she worked as a servant to the Gate Keepers. He wished she’d take the trials to join their inner group. But he knew she’d never agree. She never did.

  Pulling a towel from her bag, he dropped down beside her. “I’ll do it,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  His mom stood up. “It’s an honor to help, Brax,” she reminded him, opening the basket.

  They continued for the better part of an hour, cleaning the platform and surrounding steps, placing silk cushions around the large octagon crystal inlaid in the floor. Sunlight crept in from the horizon as Braxton returned from the well. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, promising another bright spring day. A small group of villagers had gathered in front of the Gate—their crops, crafts, and other articles for sale carefully wrapped in bundles they held or carried on their backs. Penton was in line, holding a little wooden pushcart filled with tools, weapons, and other items from their smithy. Their dad leaned heavily on his cane beside him, providing instructions for selling their metal work.

  Brax’s mom filled some cups from the decanter he was carrying before setting it down on a wooden table. “Thanks for all your help today.” Her blue eyes looked up at him. “You’d better head down now, though. You know how Terran gets about anyone who’s not supposed to be up here.” She deepened her voice, imitating the big man.

  Brax grinned and quickly kissed her cheek. Retri
eving the wrapped bundle from the basket, he hurried off the platform.

  Twelve Gate Protectors had replaced the evening watch, presiding now over Merchant Tide. Armed with swords and long spears, their chainmail vests covered leather tunics and dark green cloaks draped over their shoulders, a white octagon on their breast.

  “Morning, Captain.” Brax ran down the steps. He could feel Terran’s penetrating gaze boring into his back.

  Weaving among the merchant tables and away from the growing line of travelers, he reached their meeting spot. Phinlera’s slim form entered the plaza and ran toward him.

  “Morning,” he said. “For a moment there, I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

  “What, and miss my chance to visit Amberdeen, earn money, and travel with your brother all in the same day?” She winked. “You must be joking. I hardly slept!”

  Braxton avoided her eyes and flushed at seeing the middle button missing from her tight shirt. Phin didn’t seem to notice and continued jostling around excitedly, her enthusiasm contagious.

  A shrill trumpet sounded, causing Brax to jump and look back at the Walking Gate. Eight robed figures approached the temple, their heads bent low and their hoods pulled up.

  “You’d better go,” he said, handing Phin the rover deer’s pelt and horns, along with several copper coins. “Good luck, for all of us.”