Heaven's Gate

by Toby Bennett

  “I wish you were delirious, ‘general’, that might mean I wasn’t here. I could be somewhere comfortable right now and all this could be happening in your mind, though I think I’m the last person you would ever think of, so I guess it must be real. Who knew that the boy, who had me thrown out of the longspurs would go on to do so well?” Aden’s voice carries unmistakable contempt, “I knew that priest had messed with your head all those years ago, but I never imagined that you’d become….” Aden stops and throws himself to the ground as another volley resounds from the snipers above them.

  “I changed my name,” the General says weakly, not knowing what to say to the mutant. Even when he had first joined the Longspur gang and they had ridden together, he had always treated the mutant with contempt, he’d always been a believer in purity but he’d had to work his way to the head of the gang before he could do anything about the scum that rode in the outlaw band. Then he had had the boys give the mutant a proper send off, they’d left him and two like him, bleeding on the streets of a parched little town he could no longer even remember the name of and now the selfsame monstrosity had saved his life.

  Blake sets his back to the wall and slides his sabre from it’s sheath, next to him Lillian is emptying her bullets into the sand-covered soldiers jogging towards them. With the two pillars of tumbling silver behind them, the corpses make perfect targets, but even though every one of Lillian’s bullets finds its mark, they are doing little more than slowing their approach. Blake sends one of his own heavy caliber bullets into the pack, causing one of the corpse’s heads to explode in a spray of crimson and splintered bone. The creature falls back twitching to the sandy floor of the desert then slowly begins to rise again.

  “You’d best be ready to run when they get here.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you, I just want to buy you a head start.”

  “So I’ll be first into the bullets, thanks very much.”

  “Or we could go together now!” Blake shouts back over the roar of gunfire as the distant thunder of hooves suddenly materializes into a charging column of troopers, crashing into the back ranks of the advancing corpses.

  Tenichi’s men quickly find that their pistols are little use against the milling corpses, it is a testament to their training that the Chief Pardoner’s best barely slow their charge as they draw sabres as one and proceed to cut their way through the dead towards their true quarry.

  “Quickly! Get the girl!” Tenichi calls out, as he hacks off an undead soldier’s arm. He is so intent on reaching the fleeing pair that he ignores the risk of the snipers on the rock walls around him, it is only when his second in command falls, only to rise and continue fighting on behalf of his enemies, that Tenichi realizes the full extent of his danger.

  “We need light, to find them and we must kill the Necromancer,” the Pardoner calls out to his men, his eyes already searching the rock walls for Rugan, “he must keep eye contact to raise those not touched by his hand.”

  At their commanders signal the Pardoners produce flares, which they fling as high as they can against the rocks, wherever they hit the devices burst and the chemicals inside them begin to burn. Light erupts in the ruins and sure enough, Tenechi can see the priest standing not far above him. The gun in his hand bucks as he sends a round through the priest’s chest. A wicked grin crosses the Pardoner’s face as Rugan sways with the impact but instead of falling the lich turns and smiles back, dropping the glamour around his face to reveal a taught death mask, dried by days in the desert sun, a dark cavity between the eyes tells the tale of Rugan’s death. Few men of the Union would have ever heard of a lich, the creature was an anathema, forbidden even amongst the Necromancers who created them but Nathaniel had dedicated the last ten years to study, he knew what the abomination represented to his chances of doing his master’s bidding.

  Casting his pistol to the ground the Pardoner draws his sword and hacks about him with devastating strength, when he has cut a space for him to turn his horse he falls back, allowing his troopers to take the brunt of the attack of the undead. Once he is a distance from the melee, the Pardoner reaches into his pack with an trembling hand and draws forth a yellowed scroll. Even as he unrolls the parchment, he scans the scene hoping that the fugitives have gained some cover, the girl is no good to them dead. Shouting so as to be heard over the noise of the gunfire the Pardoner summons his master’s creature. At first there seems to be no response, just a shifting in the sand, a wave that gets bigger as it surges past the Gates and explodes into a giant figure of silver and gold.

  The construct launches itself from the sand in a blur of motion, its silver skin defying the impact of bullet and blade. Seconds later the air is misted with the blood of both the living and the dead. Nathaniel has only ever seen a few of his master’s creations and this one he had only glimpsed, the parts required must be found not made, the skill of reassembling them into a working mechanism takes an artist’s skill in itself. Nathaniel could never help but be awestruck when he saw one of Kalip’s creations and this is by far the most impressive. It makes the smooth insectoid bodies of the gritters look frail and cumbersome, what little he can discern of it, that is, though the blur of frenetic activity and the clouds of gore and sand that fly around it. Nathaniel watches in shocked wonder as the thing produces blades and spikes reducing the undead soldiers to chunks of flesh, which it incinerates with twin gouts of flame from tubes high on its shoulders. The living do not receive this treatment for one reason, somewhere at the heart of the beast covering in the metal body like so much armour is a vampire, a beast long trapped in the mechanical body that is driven to heedless blood lust by the fluids being drawn down various snake like tubes. The thing is unstoppable, as much an abomination as the lich on the hill and prepared to match its unholy fury against the mindless obedience of the lich’s army of corpses. Only the list of instructions on the scroll in the Pardoner’s hand offers any hope of controlling the construct’s instinct for destruction.

  “What in the name of shit and sand is that?” Aden screams over the noise of the frenzied battle.

  “Nothing that we can deal with,” Blake answers back looking at the thrashing silver demon with true terror, “we must find a way out of here before that thing reaches us.” Another barrage of bullets follows Blake’s assertion, most ping off the construct’s metal skin, but enough resound off the wall behind them to make the small party weight any thought of breaking cover.

  “They’ve pretty much got us pinned down here,” Lillian says, looking at the General, “we’ll have to be quick, there’s no way Leedon can make it.”

  “If we do get out of here can you think of a better person to have as an ally?” Aden argues.

  “Since when would he help a mutant or anyone else for that matter?”

  “I think this might have cured him of some of his beliefs, besides could you really leave anyone to face that?” Aden asks as the vampire construct tears into yet another screaming victim and his horse.

  “Whatever we do we must do it soon, there is simply no more time to wait for Yorick or the book.” Blake says, fighting despair at having once more seemed so close to the end of his quest and being thwarted.

  “Then I believe that I am just in time, if you will pardon the humour.” A new voice says.

  Blake is startled to find a small figure seated next to him, Yorick is barely above five foot five in height and the ancient book, covered in an almost transparent orange material looks oversized in his hand. Blake does not bother to ask the obvious question, he knew that there was no way that the diminutive vampire could have approached without him noticing, which left only two options, he had just arrived through non physical means or he had always been there waiting under the sand, like the corpses at the entrance of the ruins. With the amount of sand flying every where at the moment there is no way to tell.

  “Shall we go?” Yorick asks, “I do assure you time is short.”

  C
hapter 17:

  “Into the Ruins of the Past”

  Five desperate survivours tumble into one of the narrow inlets in the rock, behind them stray bullets kick up the sand and a silver monstrosity stalks the sandy floor of the natural arena looking for more victims, making no discrimination between the living and the dead.

  “Here quickly!” Yorick says, handing the orange folder to Lillian.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Just read this line out, clearly as you can.” Yorick answers, underscoring a line of faded letters with his short finger.

  “But it’s just my name and a few num ….” The sound of metal on stone comes from only a few hundred meters behind them, followed by the scream of one of the troopers who had sought sanctuary in the half buried ruins.

  “Just read it! The Tinker’s creation is nearly upon us.”

  “Lillian Carter, override 33H-Z77,” Lillian reads out obediently. It was just like one of the reading exercises her governess might have given her, and she tries to recreate the same tones and clarity that her governess had been at such pains to instill but despite her best efforts there is no change in their surroundings.

  “You see no magic nothing….”

  Yorick makes no response, he is digging feverishly at the sand beneath them, as his excavation widens Lillian begins to hear a low whine.

  “Good! Sounds like you said it in the right way, now you just have to put your hand on the box. It’s got to work this time!” The little man insists as he tears back the quick flowing sand to reveal a square metal box of scarred silver. With a cry of triumph Yorik blows away the last of the sand somehow contriving not to shift more of the powder like stuff back onto his find.

  “Quickly!” he says again, grasping Lillian’s hand in a grip as cold and unforgiving as stone and dragging it into the hole. The sand instantly caves in, burying her arm up to the elbow but she can feel her hand resting in an indentation in the cold metal.

  “Keep your hand flat and say it again,” Yorick urges.

  Obediently Lillian repeats the phrase.

  “Still nothing,” she complains. Not far away a horse screams into the darkness.

  “Don’t move your hand!” Yorick barks, moving his head from side to side and mumbling to himself, “got this far now what could it be? What? What?” Suddenly Yorick’s eyes light on the necklace hanging from Lillian’s neck. “Of course! I knew I’d forgotten something.” the small man exclaims, grasping the pendant and snapping the thong that holds it in one quick movement.

  “Ow, you could have just asked for it!” Lillian complains, but Yorick ignores her and instead thrusts the crystal down through the sand. Lillian can feel the stone still warm with her own body heat resting on the metal box, it.s tip just touching the end of her index finger. “Say it again!”

  “Lillian Carter, override 33H-Z77.” Lillian repeats. “OW!” this time there is a sharp pain as if something has bitten the tip of her finger. Unmindful of Yorick’s warning, she snatches her hand away causing the little man to cry out in alarm but he calms down quickly as a steady hum begins to emanate from beneath the sand, followed by a low rumbling and grinding from the wall in front of her.

  Sand and stone crumble inwards as two metal doors, buried for untold centuries slide smoothly open; all five people clustered near the entrance tumble forward on a wave of loose sand and debris. Blake is the first to stand up again, the corridor is carved into the very rock and lined with lighted strips which glow a dull red. A growing hum comes from somewhere deep inside the structure, as old mechanisms spring back to life. A voice at once feminine and yet utterly alien, begins to repeat a garbled and corrupted message, “Quar..intine.. Proceed in extrac…regret plan…t leave canceled pennnndin over..ide”

  Blake shudders as he looks down into the dimly lit depths of the tunnel, the echoes of Golifany and the Citadel are unmistakable.

  “Hurry now! We must keep going,” Yorick calls back, already making his way down the tunnel. This is the first time I’ve ever got this far and I have no wish to start all over again.”

  Outside the last trooper still hiding in the ruins squeals as Kalip’s metal monster tears the life from him. Lillian catches her breath at the sound and the implications of Yorick’s words. If Blake were right and there were as many worlds as choices, how many times had the diminutive Elder witnessed their deaths at the hands of the silver killer or Rugan’s undead followers? They had been lucky, so far, in part because of Yorick’s knowledge of the ruins, acquired, no doubt, through trial and error; if she understood things right then they would never even have met Yorick if they hadn’t made the right decisions up until this point. However, if Yorick claimed not to have made it this ‘far’ before, then there could be any number of potential catastrophes awaiting them, not that it’s really any different to the way things have gone up to now she reminds herself but any comfort she might have felt at having a prophet travelling with them had just been dispelled.

  A glance in the Pilgrim’s direction tells Lillian that Blake is no more confident than she feels, in the dim red light of the passage the Pilgrim’s face looks drawn and tense. She cannot tell if this is because he is so much nearer to the end of his long Pilgrimage than he has ever been before or for some deeper reason. There is no way for her to share the bloody memories of Golifany and the terrible dark suspicion that is taking hold in the Pilgrim’s mind. Despite his fears, Blake joins the rest in their journey down the sloping tunnel, each step brings the memory of another life, another soul he must answer for. Memories of the times he had sought death like a lover yet always rejected her. Much blood had been shed to keep him from her, now as he wanders through the red lit corridor it seems to him as if he is wading through each guilty drop of it.

  *

  Outside, the discovery of the door has not gone unnoticed, at least by the lich, Rugan mentally reviews his rapidly diminishing force and comes to the conclusion that there is no way it can prevail against the Strigoi construct. Barely twenty snipers are still firing from the hill and the sandy floor of the ruins is littered with the twitching limbs of his followers. Through out all this the Tinker’s machine has shown no sign of slowing, or even taking any damage from the constant barrage of gunfire. Until now Rugan would have sworn that there was nothing so single minded and unstoppable as one of his own creations, it had never occurred to him that the Strigoi could make such a thing. Grinding brittle teeth in frustration the ex-confessor orders the last of his minions to abandon their positions and attack the construct on mass. Even the severed limbs respond to this command, dragging and wriggling towards the place where the silver giant still stalks looking for prey hidden in the rubble and rocks of the long ruined town. Rugan has no illusions about the chances of stopping his adversary but his task is clear now. If he cannot defeat the construct then perhaps he can find the Pardoner, who no doubt has some means of controlling the thing. A wicked gleam lights his pale eyes at the thought of a final revenge against the Pardoner. One way or another Rugan knows that he must prevent the Strigoi servant from finding the doors. Since their very inception the Necromancers had been charged with protecting the Gate. What that actually meant had eroded with time but the lich was not given to speculation, all it knew was that if it could find and kill Nathaniel Tenichi, possibly even gain control of his machine then it would be all the more easy to destroy those who had dared enter the forbidden ruins. At the moment that seems a tall order but even if he could not claim Tenechi or his machine only one or two of the fugitives have to die in order for him to even the odds.

  Nathaniel pears into the darkness and the dust stirred up by his master’s creation. He is more than a little nervous by this time that the thing might have hurt the girl in its mindless frenzy, but he fears to call it off lest Rugan’s zombies have not yet been dealt with. It is fine balance though, because he would rather face fifty of the undead troopers than his master’s wrath at having been denied the Gate. There was every chan
ce he would end up as parts of another construct such as the one that raged through the ruins. There was no chance of seeing the girl if she were in trouble, so he kept the scroll held in front of him, listening for a feminine scream that would mean it was time for him to bark out the command word that would force the construct to retreat.

  The Pilgrim and the mutant would no doubt try to protect the girl, so in theory at least, he should have time to call it back. At least that is what he hoped as he waited, barely breathing, for that call. He could always claim that the machine had been ordered to stop and failed to do so, Nathaniel doesn’t know whether that excuse would do him any good, though he might be doing himself more harm to tell his master that he had lost the girl and the Gate and that it was all his creation’s fault. No the only thing he could do was listen for the first sign of trouble and try to call the thing back before it could do any irreparable damage. He could not even use the vial of his master’s blood tucked into his saddle bags to revive the girl, Kalip had been very specific about not contaminating her blood.

  So intent is the Pardoner on the darkness and the dust, that he does not notice his attacker approach, until a lifeless hand encircles his wrist and tears him from his mount. Nathaniel shouts rolling with the fall in an attempt to protect the brittle parchment in his hands. Sure enough his shoulder takes most of the impact and he rolls over coughing and partially winded, to look up into the lifeless eyes of Father Rugan. The face of the lich is at once familiar and terribly alien, somewhere a long way behind those flaccid orbs there lay a spark of the hatred that Rugan had borne him whenever their paths had crossed, but it is only an echo of living emotion, meshed in the soft corruption of rotting flesh. Fresh icor runs slowly past the lich’s eye from the hole in its forehead, more than half its brain had leaked out of that ragged portal and the larger exit wound in the back of his head. There is nothing organic left in the old priest’s hatred, only what is left when we strip all thought or feeling from emotion. Nathaniel knows that Rugan has every intention of making his death as painful and full of terror as he can but Nathaniel also knows that the tortured creature in front of him has only the vaguest idea why it will do this.