The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Vani’s eyes were frightened. “Travis, please. Do what she tells you. I do not . . . I do not wish to lose her.”

  “You can do it, Travis.” Beltan laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you can.”

  For so long, he had been afraid of what he was, of what he could do. Afraid of hurting others. In that moment—for the first time since that stormy October night when Jack gripped his hand beneath the Magician’s Attic and made him a runelord—Travis set fear aside. Power was not evil in and of itself, he knew that now; it was what the wielder chose to do with it that shaped it for good or for ill. He hadn’t asked for this power, but it was his to wield, and he was going to use it how he chose. Not to destroy life, but to preserve it.

  Travis gripped the Stone of Fire in one hand and pressed the other to Vani’s stomach.

  “Krond,” he murmured.

  He spoke the rune, not in panic or rage or despair as he had in the past, but gently, out of love. There were no flames this time. Instead, a soft red-gold glow sprang into being around his hand, spreading out over Vani’s belly—then sinking into it. Vani gasped, her eyes going wide, her back arching. A shudder passed through her, and color crept back into her skin. Then a strange thing happened. It seemed a voice, tiny and innocent, spoke in Travis’s mind.

  Hello, Father.

  Travis snatched his hand back. Vani and Beltan stared at him.

  “What happened?” Vani said.

  Travis shook his head. The voice had been so clear, so full of joy and love. But that was impossible.

  The old woman moved close to Vani, touching her body with probing fingers. At last she let out a grunt.

  It is well. The child’s roots are stronger now, and it grows again in her womb. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at Travis. It grows quickly, in fact. Too quickly. But then, this child has not one father, but two.

  “What’s she saying now?” Beltan said.

  Vani looked at him expectantly. Travis opened his mouth, unsure just how to tell them.

  A sound pierced the air, like the keening of cold wind over sharp stones. It was a cry of hatred, of fury, of utter despair. The sound was far off, but not so far that all of them didn’t shiver as it faded to silence.

  “By the Blood of the Bull, what was that?” Beltan said, his face pale.

  Before anyone could answer, a column of gold sparks shot up to the roiling sky, plunging into the clouds. It emanated from behind the spine of a low ridge a half league away, near the base of the mountains. The column blazed against the darkness for several heartbeats, then ceased.

  A tug on Travis’s arm. It was the man with the wise brown eyes—their shaman.

  Come now, he said in his hooting language. The end has begun.

  Travis looked at Vani and Beltan. “I think we have to go. Toward that light we saw.”

  Beltan helped Vani to her feet. “Can you walk?”

  “Let’s go,” the T’gol said.

  57.

  They followed the man in the ocher-stained hides as he set out across the valley. The old woman who had told Travis to use the Stone of Fire came with them, but they left the other Maugrim behind. They did not speak as they walked. Ash swirled on the air, stinging their eyes and making their throats ache.

  They reached the ridge, which sprawled like the carcass of a dragon at the foot of the mountains, and scrambled up its flanks. Loose stones littered the slope, their edges sharp as knives. Crimson lightning stabbed at the clouds as they climbed. The sky seemed to boil now, like a pot of some vile liquid. A sickness came over Travis every time he looked up; he kept his eyes on his feet.

  They had nearly reached the summit of the ridge when a hot bolt of pain shot through Travis’s chest. He staggered and would have fallen and gone skidding down the slope were it not for Beltan’s strong hands steadying him. A sound thundered in his skull, like a thousand voices speaking a single word in chorus.

  Bal.

  Death. It was the rune of death.

  “Travis, what is it?” Ash made the knight’s face a gray mask.

  The voices in Travis’s mind faded to silence. The pain in his chest was gone, but his right hand itched. “I don’t know. I felt something, only it’s passed now.”

  Vani touched his cheek. “Your face, it’s so pale. What is it, Travis?”

  The wizened Maugrim woman pulled at his sleeve. You will see, the coin translated her grunting speech. Come, now.

  They continued on, and after a few more steps they reached the top of the ridge. Travis blinked the grit from his eyes, then stared in disbelief.

  Thirty paces away, on the flat top of the ridge, stood three figures. Travis knew two of them well: Falken and Melia. The third was a tall man, powerfully built, though his white hair and time-etched face spoke of age. The man wore a black robe embroidered with scarlet runes. His fingers twitched around the blade of the sword that pierced his chest. Falken’s sword. The bard gripped the hilt in his silver hand.

  The white-haired man opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a gush of blood. Tears traced lines through the layer of ash on Falken’s cheeks.

  “For Malachor,” he said and jerked the sword out of the other’s chest.

  The white-haired man fell to the ground. His robe fluttered. He was dead.

  Falken bowed his head. Melia moved to him and laid a hand on his arm. “It is over at last, dearest one.”

  Travis’s paralysis broke. He shouted—a wordless sound of joy—and ran over the broken ground toward Melia and Falken. The bard and the lady looked up, astonishment shining in their eyes. Then Melia was running as well, and Travis caught her in his arms, lifting the small woman off the ground.

  “Am I dreaming?” Melia murmured.

  Travis held her tight. “I’d think we both were, only I’d choose a happier place for my dream than this.”

  “It is happy with you here, sweet one.”

  All the same, she was weeping, and it did not seem all her tears were ones of joy. Travis set her down. Falken was there now, and Beltan and Vani. It seemed so strange, to be embracing one another in such a lifeless place. All the same, it filled Travis with warmth.

  The Maugrim man and woman nodded to Melia and Falken, and the bard and lady bowed in return. Curiosity glinted in Falken’s eyes, but Melia smiled.

  “It is long since I have had the pleasure of meeting the Gul-Hin-Gul,” she said. “I am honored.”

  Falken shot her a sharp look. “You mean you’ve met the True People before?”

  “Once. It was over a thousand years ago, just after we banished Mohg from the world, just before they vanished into the mists of the deepest forests and wildest mountains.”

  “You mean all this time you knew the Maugrim still existed?” Falken said, his expression stunned.

  Melia gave the bard a fond smile. “I know lots of things, dear one.”

  The Maugrim man spoke to Melia in his strange language. The honor is ours, ancient ones. We saw you come through the pass into the land of He-Who-Wields-The-Ice. We would have greeted you then, but we knew the one we waited for was coming.

  Melia turned her golden eyes on Travis. “And now he is here, in this place.”

  “So this truly is the end, then,” Falken said. He gazed at the bloody sword that lay on the ground.

  “Kelephon,” Beltan said, glancing at the dead body of the man. “You’ve killed him, Falken.”

  So that was who the white-haired man was. Travis pressed his hand to his chest, remembering the pain he had felt a few moments ago. Kelephon had been the last of the Runelords. Now there was only Travis. Or was that true? Was there not one other who could yet break runes?

  With his boot, Falken nudged Kelephon’s arm, and the runelord’s dead fingers fell open, revealing a Stone. It was smooth and spherical, its surface a mottled snow blue. Travis heard a hum, like the sound of metal against dry ice.

  “Gelthisar,” he said, standing next to the bard.

  Falken nodded. “Kelep
hon tried to use the Stone of Ice against us, but I don’t think he had time to fully master its power. It had been long centuries since he last held it, and its touch seemed to freeze him. For a moment he couldn’t move, and it was enough for me to put my sword in him.”

  Travis shook his head. “Why did he have the Stone? And how did you find him here?”

  “It was Shemal,” Melia said, her eyes going hard. “She led us here.”

  While the wind moaned over the ridge and silent lightning flashed above, they listened to Melia and Falken tell how they had come to this place. After leaving Calavere, the bard and the lady had set out on Kelephon’s trail and soon found the runelord in Embarr, where—in the guise of General Gorandon—he was amassing his Onyx Knights for an all-out assault on the remaining Dominions. Falken and Melia had not been able to get close to him, but then they had spied one of the Pale King’s ravens, and in a daring ploy they had caught the attention of the bird. They had convinced the raven to spy on Kelephon, and to take news of what it saw back to the Pale King.

  Shortly thereafter, more ravens had flown from the direction of Imbrifale, and then Falken and Melia had seen Kelephon riding north, cloak flying, a look of fury on his face. It had worked—the Pale King had grown suspicious and had summoned his runelord to him. Kelephon had had no choice but to go and feign loyalty, not if he didn’t want his treachery revealed. Without his presence, the spell with which he held the Onyx Knights in thrall weakened. The order began to crumble; many of them began the long journey back to Eversea in the far west.

  “I don’t understand,” Beltan said. “Why did Kelephon go back to Imbrifale right when he was ready to attack? Why didn’t he just turn against the Pale King then?”

  “That’s why,” Travis said, pointing to the Stone on the dead runelord’s hand.

  Falken nodded. “He always intended to steal Gelthisar back from the Pale King. I suppose he lusted after it all those years. He had known its touch once, before he surrendered it to Berash, and he wanted it back.” The bard knelt beside the corpse. “I imagine he convinced the Pale King not to take the Stone into battle, to keep it safe in his fortress in Fal-Imbri instead. Once Berash rode through the Rune Gate, Kelephon absconded with the Stone. He was trying to escape through this hidden pass when we came upon him.”

  “I thought there was no way in and out of Imbrifale,” Beltan said with a frown.

  Falken stood. “So did I. I suppose this way has been here for centuries—from the very beginning, perhaps. My guess is, when the Runelords raised the Fal Threndur, Kelephon created this pass in secret, keeping it concealed from his brethren. I’m not sure even Berash himself knows about it, though it’s clear the Necromancers did.”

  Melia picked up the tale then, telling how after they saw Kelephon ride north, they had turned their attention to Shemal. They had searched for the Necromancer without luck. Then, only a day ago, Melia sensed her presence, fleeing north.

  “She was wounded and unguarded,” Melia said. “That was why I was able to discover her so easily. We followed and came upon her here. I believe she was seeking to enter Imbrifale even as Kelephon was fleeing it, though what her purpose was I do not know.” A shiver passed through her. “I feared I would not have the power to face her.”

  Falken laid a hand on her shoulder. “But you did.”

  Melia gazed at a scorched circle on the ground. “She was severely weakened. How Shemal came to be wounded, I don’t know, but it was the reason I was able to stand against her. Somehow she had lost her immortality. She still had her magics, but in the end she was too weak to work them—she could no longer hold on to her mortal form. She is . . . dissipated.”

  “Dead, you mean,” Beltan said. “Shemal is dead.”

  “More than dead. Her spirit is gone, as dust before a wind. Just like poor Tome and the others.” Melia bowed her head.

  Vani knelt beside the scorched circle on the ground. “There are strange tracks here, like those of some great cat.” She looked up. “Did you see such a beast?”

  Neither Falken nor Melia answered.

  “So now what do we do?” Beltan said.

  The Maugrim man made a breaking motion with his hands. The end must be made to come. He pointed to the Stone resting on the dead runelord’s palm.

  A sick feeling filled Travis. That couldn’t be the answer; there had to be something else they could do. “The Rune Gate.” He looked at Falken. “You said it’s opened again, that the Pale King has ridden through.”

  Falken nodded, his face grim. “Grace rode to Gravenfist Keep to stand against Berash, and to await King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris. Although whether she has held or the keep has fallen, there’s no way to know.”

  “Yes there is,” Travis said, his voice shaking. “We can go to her. We can go to Gravenfist Keep right now and help her fight until King Boreas gets there.”

  Melia turned her amber gaze on him. “Can we?”

  These words were like a blow; Travis staggered. “What are you talking about?”

  Melia looked up at the roiling clouds.

  “The sky,” Beltan said softly. “Something’s wrong with it.”

  “It has been broken,” said a voice behind them.

  The voice was sharp-edged but haggard—a man’s voice. They turned to see a figure in a black robe appear from behind a boulder, walking down the last few feet of the hidden path toward them. The man moved slowly, as if weary beyond imagining. He came to a halt a dozen paces away. The heavy cowl of his robe concealed his face. Vani crouched, ready to spring.

  Travis tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue was dry as sand. “What do you mean?”

  The man held out his hands. On it were the fractured pieces of a disk of creamy stone. Travis could still make out the symbol that had been embedded in the disk: a curved line over a single dot. Tal, the rune of sky. The broken pieces of the rune slipped through the man’s fingers and tumbled to the ground.

  Anger and sorrow tore at Travis’s heart. “You. It was you we saw at the Black Tower. You’re the one who killed Sky—you’re the other Runebreaker.”

  The man said nothing, and the others stared, shock written across their faces—all except for the two Maugrim, whose brown eyes were as calm as ever.

  Bitter laughter rose in Travis’s throat. “So, have you come to take the Stones from me? They’re all here. I have Krondisar and Sinfathisar, and here’s Gelthisar.” He pointed to the Stone resting on Kelephon’s dead hand. “It’s everything Mohg needs to break the First Rune.” He drew the two Stones from his pocket. “Have you come to take them to him?”

  “No,” the man in the black robe said. “I will not take the Imsari from you, Master Wilder.”

  Travis clenched his hand around the Stones. “But you broke the rune of sky. You opened the way for Mohg so he can return to Eldh and break the First Rune.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  The man pushed back his cowl. Intelligent eyes gazed from a face that was a shattered mask crisscrossed by white scars. His lips twisted in a sardonic smile.

  “Mohg will not break the First Rune,” Master Larad said. “Because you will, Master Wilder.”

  58.

  Travis knew he should do something, that he should speak a rune to save them. Master Larad was the other Runebreaker. He was in league with Shemal.

  He had slain Sky.

  The last time they had seen Larad, the runespeaker had been leaving the Gray Tower, banished by All-master Oragien. In the months since, he must have found the Necromancer Shemal, must have cast his lot with hers out of bitterness at his exile. He had journeyed to the Black Tower, and he had murdered Sky—sweet, voiceless Sky, who had somehow been both man and rune. Larad had made off with the rune of sky, taking it back to Shemal. And now he had broken it.

  Do it, Travis! Jack’s voice—and a hundred other voices—roared in his mind. Speak Krond. He cannot match your strength, Runebreaker though he may be.

  Travis gathered his will.
However, before he could speak the rune, an animal snarl sounded to his left, and a shadow streaked toward Larad. For a stunned moment Travis thought it was Vani, but the T’gol stood next to Beltan, and this thing moved on all fours.

  It was a panther, its eyes gleaming like gold moons. Dimly, Travis noticed that Melia was no longer beside Falken. The panther crouched low before Master Larad, growling deep in its throat, ready to spring. The runespeaker staggered back a step and held up a hand. It was stained with blood.

  “Please, listen to me,” he said, his voice tight with pain and fear. “Kill me after you hear these words. I don’t care, for I imagine I’m dying anyway. But first you must listen to what I have to tell you, Master Wilder.”

  The rune evaporated on Travis’s lips. It had been hard to see against the black fabric, but now Travis did: There was a dark, wet patch on the right side of Larad’s robe, and it was growing.

  “Stand back,” Falken said, his voice stern.

  The panther snarled again, its tail twitching.

  Falken made a fist of his silver hand. “I don’t care what you think he did. It can’t be chance he’s come upon us in this place, and we’re not going to kill him before we listen to what he has to say. Now stand back, Melia.”

  The panther let out a complaining growl, then a nimbus of azure light sprang into being around the great cat. Its form shimmered, changed, and a moment later Melia stood in its place. She smoothed her black hair with a hand as the nimbus faded, and her amber eyes gleamed with anger and suspicion.

  Beltan appeared nonplussed at this transformation, and Vani looked on in curiosity, but Travis forgot Master Larad and instead stared at Melia.

  “Have you always been able to do that?”

  She gave him a sharp smile. “It’s my little secret, dear. Although I suppose that cat’s been let out of the bag, if you will.” Melia turned her gaze on Larad, and all traces of her smile were gone. “For some reason I cannot fathom, Falken seems to be of a lenient mind. I am not so merciful. You killed Sky in the service of Shemal. Why should I not kill you now?”