The King Beyond the Gate

by David Gemmell

  “We will wait for you outside the village,” he said.

  Valtaya and Renya followed them.

  “It is a strange thing,” said Ananais. “For centuries the Drenai have turned back enemies who would have done this to our land. And now we do it ourselves. What breed of men are they recruiting now?”

  “There are always those who love this kind of work,” answered Tenaka.

  “Among your people, maybe,” Parsal said softly.

  “What does that mean?” snarled Ananais, turning on the black-bearded warrior.

  “Forget it!” ordered Tenaka. “You are right, Parsal; the Nadir are a vicious people. But the Nadir did not do this. Nor did the Vagrians. As Ananais has said, we are doing it to ourselves.”

  “Forget I said it, General,” murmured Parsal. “I am just angry. Let’s get away from here.”

  “Tell me something,” Galand said suddenly. “Will killing Ceska change all this?”

  “I don’t know,” Tenaka replied.

  “He needs to be smashed.”

  “I don’t think six men and two women can bring down his empire. Do you?”

  “A few days ago,” said Ananais, “there was only one man.”

  “Parsal is right. Let us get away from here,” said Tenaka.

  At that moment a child began to cry, and the four men ran to the bodies, hauling them aside. At last they reached an old fat woman, her dead arms curled protectively around a girl of five or six. The woman’s back bore three terrible wounds, and she had obviously crouched down over the child to shield her from the weapons. But a lance had ripped through her body and into that of the child beyond. Parsal lifted the girl clear, then blanched as he saw the blood that had soaked her clothing. He carried her out of the village to where the others had dismounted, and Valtaya ran forward to relieve him of the slender burden.

  As they laid her gently to the grass, her eyes opened; they were blue and bright.

  “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “Please?” Her eyes closed, and the woman from the village knelt by her, lifting her head and cradling the child in her lap.

  “It’s all right, Alaya; it’s me, Parise. I have come back to look after you.”

  The child smiled weakly, but then the smile froze and twisted into a grimace of pain. The companions watched life depart.

  “Oh, no! Please, no!” murmured Parise. “Sweet gods of light, no!” Her own babe began to cry, and Pagan lifted it from the ground to hold it against his chest.

  Galand turned away and fell to his knees. Parsal moved to his side, and Galand looked up at his brother, tears streaming from his eyes. He shook his head, for no words would come.

  Parsal knelt beside him. “I know, Brother, I know,” he said gently. Galand took a deep breath and drew his sword.

  “I swear by all that’s holy and unholy, by all the beasts that crawl or fly, I will not rest until this land is clean again.” He lurched to his feet, waving his sword in the air. “I’m coming for you, Ceska!” he bellowed. Hurling aside his blade, he stumbled away toward a small grove of trees.

  Parsal turned apologetically to the others. “His own daughter was killed. A lovely child … a child of laughter. But he meant what he said, you know. And … and I’m with him.” His voice was thick with emotion, and he cleared his throat. “We’re not much, him and me. I wasn’t even good enough for the Dragon. We’re not officers or anything. But when we say a thing, we mean it. I don’t know what the rest of you want out of all this. But those people back there—they are my people, mine and Galand’s. Not rich and noble. Just dead. That old fat woman died to protect that child. And she failed. But she tried … gave her life trying. Well, so will I!” His voice broke then, and he swore. Turning, he walked quickly to the grove.

  “Well, General,” said Ananais, “what are you going to do with your army of six?”

  “Seven!” said Pagan.

  “See, we are growing all the time,” said Ananais, and Tenaka nodded.

  “Why will you join us?” he asked the black man.

  “That is my business, but our ends are the same. I came thousands of miles to see Ceska fall.”

  “We will bury the child and head for Skoda,” said Tenaka.

  They rode warily throughout the long afternoon, Galand and Parsal riding wide on the flanks. Toward dusk, a sudden storm burst over the plains and the companions took refuge in a deserted stone tower on the banks of a fast-flowing stream. They picketed the horses in a nearby field, gathered what wood they could find near a cluster of trees, and cleared an open space within the tower on the first level. The building was old and square and had once housed twenty soldiers; it was a watch-tower from the days of the First Nadir War. There were three levels, the top being open to the sky, where sharp-eyed scouts would watch for Nadir or Sathuli raiders.

  Around midnight, as the others slept, Tenaka called Scaler to him and led him up the winding stair to the turret.

  The storm had moved on to the south, and the stars were bright. Bats circled around the tower, dipping and wheeling, and the night wind was chilly as it swept down from the snow-clad Delnoch range.

  “How are you faring, Arvan?” Tenaka asked Scaler as they sat beneath the battlements away from the wind.

  Scaler shrugged. “A little out of place.”

  “That will pass.”

  “I am no warrior, Tenaka. When you tackled those soldiers, I just lay in the grass and watched. I froze!”

  “No, you didn’t. Everything happened at once, and those of us standing just reacted more quickly. We are trained for it. Take the brothers: they moved to the only spot the soldiers would break for and stopped any survivors from escaping to bring help. I didn’t tell them to do it; they’re soldiers. Now, the whole skirmish lasted maybe two minutes. What could you have done?”

  “I don’t know. Drawn my sword. Helped!”

  “There will be time for that. What is the situation at Delnoch?”

  “I don’t know. I left there five years ago, and before that I had spent ten years in Drenan.”

  “Who rules?”

  “No one of the House of Bronze. Orrin was poisoned, and Ceska put in his own man. His name is Matrax. Why do you ask?”

  “My plans have changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “I was intending to assassinate Ceska.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I plan something even more foolish. I am going to raise an army and bring him down.”

  “No army in the world can stand against the Joinings. Gods, man, even the Dragon failed—they didn’t even come close!”

  “Nothing in life is easy, Arvan. But it’s what I am trained for. To lead an army. To bring death and destruction on my enemies. You heard Parsal and Galand; what they said was right. A man must stand against evil wherever he finds it and he must use all his talents. I’m not an assassin.”

  “And where will you find this army?”

  Tenaka smiled. “I need your help. You must take Delnoch.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly!”

  “You want me to take a fortress single-handed? A fortress that has withstood two Nadir hordes? It’s insane!”

  “You are of the House of Bronze. Use your head. There is a way.”

  “If you have already thought of a plan, why don’t you do it?”

  “I cannot. I am of the House of Ulric.”

  “Why so cryptic? Tell me what to do.”

  “No. You are a man, and I think you sell yourself short. We will stop in Skoda and see how the land lies. Then you and I will bring an army.”

  Scaler’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

  “A Nadir army?” he whispered, blood draining from his face. “You would bring the Nadir?”

  “Only if you can take Dros Delnoch!”

  7

  In the dark of the library the abbot waited patiently, leaning forward on his desk, his fingers steepled and his eyes closed. His three companio
ns sat opposite him, immobile, like living statues. The abbot opened his eyes and regarded them all:

  Acuas, the strong one, compassionate and loyal.

  Balan, the skeptic.

  Katan, the true mystic.

  All were traveling, their spirits entwined as they sought the Dark Templars and threw a veil of mind mist over the movements of Tenaka Khan and his companions.

  Acuas returned first. He opened his eyes, rubbing his hands over his yellow beard; he seemed tired, drained.

  “This is not easy, my lord,” he said. “The Dark Templars have great power.”

  “As have we,” said the abbot. “Go on.”

  “There are twenty of them. They were attacked in Skultik by a band of outlaws but slew them with arrogant ease. They are truly formidable warriors.”

  “Yes. How close are they to the Torchbearer?”

  “Less than a day. We cannot deceive them for much longer.”

  “No. A few more days will be invaluable,” said the abbot. “Have they tried another night attack?”

  “No, my lord, though I think it likely.”

  “Rest now, Acuas. Fetch Toris and Lannad to relieve you.”

  The abbot left the room and the long corridor beyond, making his way slowly to the second level and the garden of Decado.

  The dark-eyed priest welcomed him with a smile.

  “Come with me, Decado. There is something for you to see.”

  Without another word he turned on his heel and led the priest to the steps and the oak doors above. Decado hesitated in the doorway; during all his years in the monastery he had never ascended those steps.

  The abbot turned. “Come!” he said, and stepped into the shadows beyond. A strange sense of fear gripped the gardener, as if his world were slipping away from him. He swallowed and began to tremble. Then, taking a deep breath, he followed the abbot.

  He was led through a maze of corridors, but he looked neither left nor right, focusing his gaze on the gray cassock of the man walking before him. The abbot halted before a door shaped like a leaf; there was no handle.

  “Open,” whispered the abbot, and the door slid silently into a recess. Inside was a long chamber containing thirty sets of silver armor draped with cloaks of dazzling white. Before each set was a small table bearing scabbarded swords placed in front of helms crowned with plumes of white horsehair.

  “Do you know what these represent?” asked the abbot.

  “No.” Decado was sweating freely. He wiped his eyes, and the abbot noticed with concern that the haunted look had returned to the former warrior.

  “This is the armor worn by the Delnoch Thirty, led by Serbitar—the men who fought and died during the First Nadir War. You have heard of them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me what you have heard.”

  “Where is this leading, my Lord Abbot? I have duties in the gardens.”

  “Tell me of the Delnoch Thirty,” ordered the abbot.

  Decado cleared his throat. “They were warrior-priests. Not like us. They trained for years and then chose a distant war in which to die. Serbitar led the Thirty at Delnoch, where they advised the Earl of Bronze and Druss the Legend. Together they turned back the hordes of Ulric.”

  “But why would priests take up weapons?”

  “I don’t know, Lord Abbot. It is incomprehensible.”

  “Is it?”

  “You have taught me that all life is sacred to the Source and that to take life is a crime against God.”

  “And yet evil must be opposed.”

  “Not by using the weapons of evil,” answered Decado.

  “A man stands above a child with a spear poised. What would you do?”

  “I would stop him—but not kill him.”

  “You would stop him with a blow, perhaps?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “He falls badly, strikes his head and dies. Have you sinned?”

  “No … yes. I don’t know.”

  “He is the sinner, for his action ensured your reaction, and therefore it was his action that killed him. We strive for peace and harmony, my son—we long for it. But we are of the world and subject to its demands. This nation is no longer in harmony. Chaos controls, and the suffering is terrible to behold.”

  “What are you trying to say, my lord?”

  “It is not easy, my son, for my words will cause you great pain.” The abbot moved forward, placing his hands on the priest’s shoulders. “This is a temple of the Thirty. And we are preparing to ride against the darkness.”

  Decado pulled back from the abbot. “No!”

  “I want you to ride with us.”

  “I believed in you. I trusted you!” Decado turned away and found himself facing one of the sets of armor. He twisted around. “That is what I came here to escape: death and slaughter. Sharp blades and torn flesh. I have been happy here. And now you have robbed me of it. Go ahead, play your soldier’s games. I will have none of it.”

  “You cannot hide forever, my son.”

  “Hide? I came here to change.”

  “It is not hard to change when your biggest problem is whether the weeds prosper in a vegetable patch.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you were a psychopathic killer, a man in love with death. Now I offer you the chance to see if you have changed. Put on the armor and ride with us against the forces of chaos.”

  “And learn to kill again?”

  “That we shall see.”

  “I don’t want to kill. I wish to live among my plants.”

  “Do you think I want to fight? I am nearing sixty years of age. I love the Source and all things that grow or move. I believe life is the greatest gift in all the universe. But there is real evil in the world, and it must be fought. Overcome. Then others will have the opportunity to see the joy of life.”

  “Don’t say any more,” snapped Decado. “Not another damned word!” Years of suppressed emotion roared through him, filling his senses, and forgotten anger lashed him with whips of fire. What a fool he had been, hiding from the world, grubbing in the soil like a sweating peasant!

  He moved to a set of armor placed to the right of the rest, and his hand reached down to curl around the ivory hilt. With one smooth movement he swept the blade into the air, his muscles pulsing with the thrill of the weapon. Its blade was silver steel and razor-sharp, and the balance was perfection. He turned to the abbot, and where he had once seen a lord, he now saw an old man with watery eyes.

  “This quest of yours, does it involve Tenaka Khan?”

  “Yes, my son.”

  “Don’t call me that, priest! Not ever again. I don’t blame you—I was the fool for believing in you. All right, I will fight with your priests, but only because it will aid my friends. But do not seek to give me orders.”

  “I will not be in a position to order you, Decado. Even now you have moved to your own armor.”

  “My armor?”

  “You recognize the rune on the helm?”

  “It is the number one in the Elder script.”

  “It was Serbitar’s armor. You will wear it.”

  “He was the leader, was he not?”

  “As you will be.”

  “So that is my lot,” said Decado, “to lead a motley crew of priests as they play at war. Very well; I can take a joke as well as any man.”

  Decado began to laugh. The abbot closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, for through the laughter he felt the cry of anguish from Decado’s tortured soul. Despair swept through the priest, and he left the room, the manic laughter echoing after him.

  What have you done, Abaddon? he asked himself.

  Tears were in his eyes as he reached his room, and once inside, he fell to his knees.

  Decado stumbled from the chamber and returned to his garden, staring in disbelief at the tidy rows of vegetables, the neat hedges, and the carefully pruned trees.

  He walked on to his hut, kicking open the door.
>
  Less than an hour before this had been home, a home he loved. Contentment had been his.

  Now the shack was a hovel, and he left it and wandered to his flower garden. The white rose carried three new buds. Anger coursed through him, and he grasped the plant, ready to rip it from the ground. Then he stopped and slowly released it, staring at his hand and then back at the plant. Not one thorn had ripped his flesh. Gently he smoothed out the crushed leaves and began to sob, meaningless sounds that became two words.

  “I’m sorry,” he told his rose.

  The Thirty assembled in the lower courtyard, saddling their mounts. The horses still bore their winter coats, but they were strong mountain-bred beasts, and they could run like the wind. Decado chose a bay mare; he saddled it swiftly and then vaulted to its back, sweeping out his white cloak behind him and settling it over the saddle in Dragon fashion. Serbitar’s armor fitted him as his own never had; it felt smooth, like a second skin.

  The abbot, Abaddon, stepped into the saddle of a chestnut gelding and moved alongside Decado.

  Decado swung in the saddle, watching the warrior-priests as they silently mounted. He had to admit that they moved well. Each adjusted his cloak precisely as Decado had done. Abaddon gazed wistfully at his erstwhile disciple; Decado had shaved his chin clean and bound his long dark hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes were bright and alive, and a half-mocking smile was on his lips.

  The night before Decado had been formally introduced to his lieutenants: Acuas, the heart of the Thirty; Balan, the eyes of the Thirty; and Katan, the soul of the Thirty.

  “If you want to be warriors,” he had told them, “then do as I say, when I say it. The abbot tells me that there is a force hunting Tenaka Khan. We are to intercept it. The men we shall fight are true warriors, so I am told. Let us hope your quest does not end at their hands.”

  “It is your quest, too, Brother,” said Katan with a gentle smile.

  “There is no man alive who can slay me. And if you priests fall like wheat, I shall not stay.”

  “Is not a leader obliged to stand by his men?” Balan asked, an edge of anger in his voice.

  “Leader? This is all a priestly farce, but very well, I will play the game. But I will not die with you.”