Heaven's Gate

by Toby Bennett

  The clown reaches into the recesses of it ribcage and draws forth a bag, heavy with silver. “A show of good faith,” the corpse breathily intones.

  “Drop it and leave,” Blake says, staying astride his horse, his gun still leveled.

  “You will come then?”

  “I will find this woman…”

  “Lillian.” The clown interrupts.

  “I will find her and what the leeches want with her, if it serves my purpose to intervene further I shall. You will get no more assurance from me than that.”

  “None was asked,” the clown responds, bending his creaking body into a bow before scampering behind the rocks and back into the desert night.

  Blake dismounts and retrieves the purse; sure enough it is filled with polished coins that glint even in the darkness of the desert night. Minutes pass, the purse lying heavy and unheeded in his left hand. Unconsciously Blake returns his gun to its holster and remounts, tucking the purse into the recesses of a saddlebag.

  “It’s almost certainly a trap,” he whispers to his patient horse but the animal simply continues to stare down on the winking lights of the town.

  “Guess the wind’s blowing that way though,” letting the animal take a few steps towards the settlement, “I just wish that, for once, we had a choice.” The horse remains silent, as it stoically follows where its master leads.

  The guard of the south gate looks up at the sound of the horse’s snorting. Until that moment no one had looked directly at either horse or rider as they picked their way through the ragtag alley ways of the slums; they had not been invisible, as such, but the eye just seemed to slide off the pair; a blast of sand swirling in ever faster from the desert or some other minor distraction would cause an observer to blink or look away and in those few seconds horse and rider were gone, passing, unmarked into the heart of Limit. One of the beggars casually slumped a few meters from the gate slaps himself and rubs tired eyes, unable to hide his surprise that a lone man and such a fine horse could have made it so far though the slums at night, unmolested. Briefly, he wonders if the rider is one of the Guild, if his passage has been sanctioned but there are none of the subtle signs used by the people of the street, no marks on the saddle of his horse nor on his person to indicate the man is untouchable. The beggar even goes as far as to flash a few fazes in finger speak but the man makes no response. Not that the beggar would believe he is not watching but the stranger’s glances are those of a soldier not a thief. The dark eyes are always moving sure enough, seeking danger and weighing risk but it goes no deeper than that, the beggar’s own eyes flit in the same way but they also pause to mark anything valuable. There is no hunger in the stranger’s look

  “There is a train expected?” The rider asks, leaning down in the saddle and fixing the gate guard with his hard gaze, quashing any notion of a bribe before the thought is fully formed.

  “One is due.” The guard answers formally, making to open the gate then stopping himself as he remembers his duty. “But no one is allowed through this late without demonstrating that they have the price of a ticket. Sorry mister, but them’s the Prefect’s orders.” The guard adds quickly, unwilling to anger the man looming over him.

  “I believe this will be sufficient to board.” Blake shakes open his heavy purse and allows some of the polished silver coins to wink in his palm. Out of the corner of his eye he notices one of the beggars slip into an alley to his left. So much for entering the city unnoticed. Blake is not naive enough to believe that the wall is any barrier to the true masters of the thieves of Limit, indeed it is not unknown for walls like the one in front of him to be used to keep people in, as often as they are used to keep people out. He must not allow himself to become lulled into false security by the bright street lamps and clean white buildings of the inner town. Be it desert or city, strangers are prey in the Bowl.

  “You may pass then, sir.” The guard says, satisfied by the gleam of coin and eager to return to the peace of his lonely vigil. If he has seen the beggar peel off from his fellows with an alacrity unshared by most cripples, then the man gives no sign, there are, after all, many ways to make a little extra at a job such as his and even if a traveller was tight with his coin, the thieves were more than happy to make up the shortfall.

  “You’ll want Hathorn,” the guard shouts after the rider, as he ducks beneath the archway in the wall.

  “What?”

  “To get to the station, the quickest way is down Hathorn Street.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The least I could do,” the guard responds, wondering privately why he had not chosen to insist on a bribe before sending the man over to Hathorn; there was no denying that it was the quickest road but no local would go so near the Chapter House after dark.

  The minute he passes though the arch of the gate, Blake feels the hot desert wind dissipate. The scents of the gardens around him replace the cloying stench of the sun baked slums, somewhere he can hear laughter and the notes of a steel stringed guitar growing nearer as he leaves the main street and takes a left into Hathorn. Despite this improvement in his surroundings Blake’s hand rarely leaves the worn stock of his oversized gun. His grip tightens when he notices that the streetlights, which had shone in many other roads, are deficient on Hathorn and its surrounding alleyways. Perhaps the lamp lighter has been remiss or the gas line is under repairs, allowing only a few low flames to be lit but Blake is not surprised when a voice comes from one of the darkened side streets.

  “Good evening, brother.” The shout rings out as he passes the third block of houses, perhaps it is his imagination but the sound of the guitar and the laughter from the taverns seems louder now, as if the good citizens of the inner town are doing their best to blot out the fraternal greeting.

  “I said ‘good evening, brother’,” the voice calls again, amiably enough but Blake keeps riding studiously ignoring the man addressing him. It is at this point that the speaker makes the mistake of trying to grasp the horse’s reins. He recoils with a scream as the big animals square teeth come down on his wrist. The music from the distant tavern never misses a beat as the first of Blake’s assailant’s curses echo through the night. More men join him in the road as if conjured by his frenzied incantation.

  Despite the noise the windows and the door of the houses around them remain closed, no citizen raises a cry or seeks to find the source of the disturbance. It becomes rapidly apparent to Blake that even behind the safety of their high wall, the inhabitants of the inner city have learned to be as selectively blind and deaf as their neighbours in the slums. The reason for this similarity becomes apparent when the leader of the small band steps into the light. The dark blue coat is old but well cared for and the three crucifixes adorning the breast are obviously polished daily along with his boots. Even if he had not had these trappings there is no mistaking the carriage of a veteran Crusader. The man had not stolen the sergeant’s coat, he had earned it in one or other of the great battles and slaughters before the Citadel. He might even have stood on the plain of Golifany, more than three quarters of Leedon’s men had been gathered there. Then again it was just as likely that the sergeant and the rough ol’ boys behind him had never bothered to leave their hunting grounds amongst Limit’s wealthier citizens. After all, no wall could hold back the Crusade, certainly not when it was at its height. Blake did not doubt that there was a large chapter of Crusaders in the city, he should have guessed it when he saw the size of the cathedral spires; he knew what he would be asked, even before the sergeant phrased his demand.

  “My associate gave you greeting, brother.” The sergeant stands at a distance that put him out of reach of the horse’s hooves or bite.

  “Naturally I would have stopped had I known him to be on Church business, brother but it is not often that I am accosted by men of God on the street at night.”

  “All times are right to do his work and darkness must be put to what uses it can before the light of his word illuminates us all.” The s
ergeant responds quoting the passage word for word from the Crusader bible.

  “Indeed, brother, so what use has darkness in your endeavour this evening? I would ask you to be quick in your explanation, for I must catch the train.”

  “He’s got a damned nerve!” One of the men behind the sergeant growls

  “Hush up, Mel.” Another hisses back.

  “Since you’re in a hurry I’ll state things plain,” the sergeant ignores the men’s whispered interchange, “my brothers and I were wondering if you wished to pay a tithe to the Church and her soldiers, who keep us all safe and warm in our work on dark nights?”

  “How much money does your good work require?”

  “One or two silver marks would usually do but a man who can afford to take his horse on the train…” the sergeant opens his hands expansively, “surely he can afford more and if not we could always save you the bother of having to find a buyer for your horse.”

  Blake’s eyes narrow at this, a bribe or a tithe he had expected but this was more. Obviously the sergeant had gone beyond even the liberties allowed him by the Chapter House. Blake doubted that the men here planned for their masters to even see a penny of their gains from this night. It was only to be expected, teach men even the beginnings of corruption and they will quickly become masters on their own.

  “Any coin I have left after I have purchased my passage and that of my horse I will happily give to the Church but my business is pressing and my horse is not something I will willingly part with, besides what would you want with such an ill tempered animal?” Blake looks significantly at the man still nursing his injured hand.

  “I suggest you reconsider that, friend. Travel on the train’s roof is free, if you see your way clear to fulfilling your obligations to mother Church and the Christ man then you might yet make your journey. It is a poor Christian who would put his needs before the needs of the Church, so I feel that we must make an example for others, what say you?”

  Murmurs of agreement greet this pious proposition from the Crusader’s followers. Blake cannot bring himself to number the other thugs as Crusaders, though no doubt some still laid claim to the blue. That such opportunist scum had fought next to him at Golifany was unthinkable. Even after an unnaturally long life, he was still unable to accept the rot at the heart of an ideal he had once killed and strived for. Purity could not be touched by such filth he assured himself, no matter how many monsters had gathered under the banners at Golifany the ideal they had fought for remained unsullied. He had to hold that as certain because, though these men could not know it, had probably never seen that bloody sunset, of all those monsters that had gathered, he held himself the worst.

  “Let’s have your answer, then. Will you give or must we take?”

  “Be warned ‘brother’! You call me brother and I accept it, for there is more truth there than you know. I am Captain Samuel Blake. I fought at the Citadel. I was first through the breach. I have no wish to harm my brethren, even those fallen to thievery. I shall not give up my horse and my business is too pressing for me to waste much more time in banter.”

  “Thievery he calls it!” The sergeant displays mock outrage. “Since when would a brother bulk at a contribution to the Church? Do you think we did not see your fine officer’s sword poking from your saddle? Do you think such things will soften us? At least we kept the blue past that worthless battle, ever since things have gone downhill. Used to be a time when we didn’t have to ask for alms, then cowards like you left us to fight some last battle and deserted us. There’s been no ‘last battle for us has there lads?”

  “No, sir,” comes the loyal chorus.

  “I’m not impressed by some old battle that that sword may have been at, with or without you. Instead I say you, be warned, you are no brother of mine and….” Blake’s hand moves faster than the eye, a blur of motion barely registered in the poor light, punctuated by a flash like lightening and a roll of thunder, “ …I am glad of that.” Blake’s voice echoes in the eerie silence that follows his gun’s blast. Even the music has stopped for the moment, just long enough for the sergeant’s body and its ruined head to slump onto the cobbled street. It takes a moment for the rest of the men to register that their leader has fallen to the rider’s bullet and not some divine display of wrath. After all, the stranger’s hands are empty, only the thin stream of smoke curling from the large caliber pistol on his hip gives any indication as to the source of the attack.

  “I would be loathe to see any more of my brothers hurt.” The rider seems to swell and become part of the shadows as he speaks; from somewhere in that darkness two eyes like dim coals ignite the fear in the heart of each man there, causing them to run like frightened children. Behind them the phantasm shrinks to a silver haired rider, left slightly weary by his exertions.

  “One more soul to answer for,” he whispers to his horse as he looks down at the dead brigand. “It didn’t have to be this way.” As he crosses himself, he is unsure whether he is speaking to the corpse or himself. It is always like this after he spends some of the energy he has stolen; just as the unholy essence gives him a terrible predatory drive, so its expenditure leaves him unfocused and dispirited. He is hollow now but far from empty! The hunger will build again soon, made all the more urgent by this latest loss but just for now neither his quest nor his need touch him. He lets the horse pick its way back into the well-lit streets of Limit and down to the train tracks. The only reason for his choice of direction the warm desert wind at his back.

  Chapter 4:

  “A Fly on the Wall”

  Olstop had once been a large city by the standards of the Bowl, the proximity of the Blue Snake meant that it was surrounded by tall trees and prime farm lands. Since its founding the city has marked the border between the old Thatcher Barony, so recently acquired by the Inquisition and the Carter family’s territories. The Carters were now almost certainly the richest clan in the Bowl, that is with their neighbour to the south gone. Olstop’s decline in size had come in spite of its good location and the wealth of its overlords. Like so many things in the Bowl, its fate had been decided by the trains. Once, they had run regularly through the green lands and made the city a flourishing metropolis, since the war ended, however, the old tracks were never used, except by hand carts and the occasional steam engine; the fact that the Carters could even field these engines was a sign of their wealth. Most enterprises found the necessary use of combustible fuels prohibitively expensive but the Carters had long harvested these lands for food and lumber and they were loathe to lose them, thus they had used the old track and constructed their own engines to ferry as much as possible up to the main line. Some of the rest went on the barges struggling their way up river but in spite of all their efforts there was simply no way to keep up the prosperity the city had once known and Olstop had the look of an old timer, doing his best to keep a shine on a worn out pair of shoes.

  The Hitching Post stood on the outskirts of this slow sprawl, serving those who still travelled the trade routes between the Blue Snake and the Line. Even though a lot of the migrant workers were gone these days and the merchants had little love for Inquisitors, the Post still saw a fair amount of custom. Like it or not the land around Olstop and beyond was simply too valuable to abandon, as people might abandon so many other settlements when the trains stopped coming. Merchants overcame their distaste for greedy Churchmen and the extra effort and expense of transporting their goods, and still came seeking the renewal of their contracts and the masters of more distant baronies still sent representatives to ensure that the all important fruits of this verdant land kept flowing. Despite its regular custom, The Hitching Post was by no means the best inn to be found on the outskirts of Olstop but it was clean and out of the way and that’s how many of its clients liked it.

  The latest arrival at the Post was well shrouded in the folds of an over-sized poncho and the shadow cast by an equally over-sized hat. A more perceptive observer might have guessed that something
about the newcomer’s carriage was feminine but to the average onlooker her sex was indiscernible and this could be any one of a thousand waifs and rogues that plied their varied trades along the river. The fact that the traveller does not remove her hat when she enters the common room is cause for some concern on the part of the other patrons. Custom dictates that eyes should never be hidden when in company. The eyes of the dead are often the only warning the living get, too often the failure to spot the blank, irisless eyes of the possessed had caused death in the Bowl. Being so far from the true fringes of the desert, this breach in etiquette causes only a low hum of speculation, which ends when the innkeeper confronts the shadowed figure. After a quick murmured interchange he takes a long hard look at the face under the hat, then gives nod.

  With that reassurance, the tension in the room dissipates as quickly as it had built and the room swallows the stranger up, making her part of the crowd. Only one set of eyes still follow her and they belong to a fly clinging to the rafters above with brittle grey claws. The fly has been dead for some days now and it is becoming hard for the little spy to hang onto things without the naturally sticky secretions of its small body. Behind the multifaceted eyes, two minds connected by their mutual position of this tiny vessel are debating.

  “It seems you were right,” one of the voices buzzes, the sound covered by the rattle of the fly’s brittle wings, “the foolish girl is running straight back to her father.”

  “Where else could the spoilt child go? She cannot think of life away from the privilege she has known and she cannot face the thought of marrying Angus, far too pious far too controlling. She didn’t couch it in those terms when she asked for my help, of course, but the cause for her distress was clear as day. All her life she’s been pampered and allowed to run wild now suddenly she is reduced to a bargaining chip.”