Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2)

by David Farland

  Thomas went to the edge of his bed, set his lute on it, and looked up at her. “Well, Maggie,” he said conspiratorially, “how do you think they liked our performance?”

  “Our performance?” she asked.

  “Aye. We gave them a good fight, and a grand song. I swear, the inn will be full tonight. You’ve never seen such drinking and carousing as you’ll see tonight. I’ll make you a fortune, sure.”

  “What?” Maggie asked, taking a deep breath. “You mean that was all an act?”

  “I know about love,” Thomas said, and from the way he had sung, Maggie knew it was true, and she wondered if he secretly intended to let her marry Gallen after all, but his next words dashed that hope. “But it’s for your own good that I’m keeping you from your beau.”

  “For your profit, you mean,” Maggie grumbled.

  “That, too,” Thomas said honestly. He watched her for a reaction, but she didn’t give him the pleasure. “Maggie dear, if you live long enough, you’re going to find that sometimes you have to play the villain in another person’s life. It’s just the way of things, that sometimes our goals cross. You’ll have to spoil someone’s plans, ruin their day—maybe even stick a dagger in someone’s back. Just remember this: when that day comes, make no apologies for what you’re doing. If you must play the part of the villain, play it with gusto. It’s one of the sweetest sensations in life.” He held his breath a moment, then said, “At least, that’s how I intend to play it.”

  Then he lay down on the bed, put his dirty boots on the blanket. “Now there are rules in this world that tell us how to get along in polite society. I didn’t make those rules, but we have to live by them. One of those rules is that we don’t go marrying children. So, you’ll wait to get married, till you’re the proper age. That’s final.”

  “What if Gallen and I don’t follow your rules?” Maggie said. “What if we marry, and run away?”

  “Think about what you would be giving up, woman: your young beau has won himself a reputation as the finest bodyguard in seven counties. Rumor says that he’s killed as many as forty highwaymen. It’s a grand reputation, a romantic reputation.

  “And as if his reputation as a fighter weren’t enough, now folks are saying that angels—the Angel of Death himself, by God—have come down from heaven to help Gallen O’Day drive Satan from the village of Clere.

  “Why, with such talk, Gallen could find himself sitting in the seat of the Lord Sheriff of Tihrglas in a year, and in five years he might be Lord Mayor of the whole land.

  “But on the bad side, Gallen has also been accused of consorting with devils, and for that he could be hanged.

  “Now, I doubt both stories. But, as they say in the south, ‘You could spin the wool from a whole flock of sheep and never come up with such a marvelous yarn.’”

  Thomas sat up, leaned closer. “In any case, the wedding must be canceled for now. If things go ill for Gallen, then your good name won’t be besmirched. There’s not a man or woman alive who didn’t fall in love at your age, and they’ll forgive you for your wrongheadedness. On the other hand, if things go well, then Gallen will need to wait to marry you, if only to enhance his political career, and in another year you can marry the man you love, and someday you’ll find yourself living in one of the finest houses in the land! Oh, oh, oh, wouldn’t that be grand?”

  Thomas smiled and shook his head. “Och, I think you’ve got a future, darlin’. I can hardly wait to meet this Gallen O’Day.”

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  That afternoon in a forest glen high above Clere, Gallen O’Day practiced fighting alone with his knives. He wore some attire he’d earned while fighting off-world to save the Lady Everynne: a robe woven of thread that held small nanotech machines that could change colors to fit with any background, and others that could mask his scent; tall black boots and gloves that had a selenium matrix worked into various parts of the toe, heel, palm, and fingers so that his blows carried more punch. And most importantly, he wore his mantle, a personal intelligence made of small black metallic rings, strung with silver knowledge disks.

  As Gallen practiced, the mantle fed him images that he could distinguish from reality only because the mantle fed him no audio: five swordsmen with sabers and small shields swirled around him in a fevered dance. They wore white robes that swished silently as they leapt over the forest floor, kicking up humus, grimacing and sweating with every slash and thrust.

  Gallen leapt and ducked, weaving between them, seeking to block or avoid their blows as much as possible, slice them with his own daggers. When he scored a hit, his blade would mark them with blood, so that after hours of practice, the swordsmen now appeared as gory apparitions.

  Yet they were extraordinary swordsmen, each man fighting in a different style, using his own tactics. One was a whirling madman whose sword blurred in continuous motion; another stood back and studied Gallen, seeking to strike only at the most opportune moment, then jab with deadly precision. Another used the cutting edge of his shield as much as he did his sword, while the other two seemed to change fighting styles to suit their needs.

  Gallen was struggling for air, sweat pouring from his body. Yet his enemies showed no sign of slowing due to fatigue. Gallen had wanted to stop for nearly an hour, but he was trying to build his endurance, so he kept up the gory battle. Time and again, his foes stabbed him, and each time, the mantle sent him a searing phantom pain at the point of impact.

  When Gallen’s arms were impossibly heavy from fatigue, his mantle suddenly dispersed the image of the fighters, and Gallen stood panting. “Why did you stop?” he whispered.

  “You have an incoming message from the Lady Everynne,” the mantle whispered. “Are you ready to receive it?”

  Finally she sends word, Gallen thought, after two weeks. “Yes,” he answered, and Gallen sat down in the shade on a rock encrusted with yellow lichens. He closed his eyes, stilled his breathing, waited for Everynne’s image to appear.

  Instead, the sky darkened, as if it were covered with a curtain, and he heard the rumbling of thunder in the distance. His heart pounded in terror, and he found himself in a strange city on a cobbled street, leaning against a stone wall in an alley.

  What’s this? he wondered, willing his head to turn and look about. But the view did not change. Instead, he only saw the view as if he were staring ahead, and Gallen realized that this vision of another world must be a part of Everynne’s message.

  He looked about, watching the narrow streets to his right, the smooth stone buildings with enormous doors and huge windows set high off the ground. He was in a business district of a large city, and all the shops were closed for the night. The black cobblestones gleamed wetly. Through the thick storm clouds, he could make out the muted light of three separate moons, and dim lights shone from a few windows down the street. But the alley behind him was dark and sheltering. He looked farther down the street to his left, hoping for more darkness, but there was a tavern there with a lantern burning from a hook outside its doors. He couldn’t run that way. The light would show him up.

  Not again, not again! he thought, and his lips emitted a high whimper. Yet Gallen knew it was not his own thoughts or words, but the words of someone else. The fingers that clutched the edge of the stone wall were slender, on pale feminine hands, and Gallen felt the unfamiliar weight of a woman’s breasts on his body, and wondered at it.

  “I am feeding you the memories of a dead woman. This is Everynne’s message to you,” his mantle whispered.

  Off in the near hills, light flashed in the clouds, then thunder snarled and echoed, washing away all sound. He waited breathlessly, listening for sounds beneath that booming echo. Down the stone street, around a corner, he heard booted feet thudding against stone, saw three men rush into the square. Their sabers were drawn, and they silently moved into the shadows, scanning ahead.

  Gallen—or the woman whose memories Gallen was reliving—moved farther back into the alley, suddenl
y looking about for safety. There were no windows, and the lip of the roof was ten feet above her head. Her only hope lay behind a heavy oak door.

  She went to it, tested it. The door was securely locked from the inside. Its brass handle was too heavy for her to break. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder boomed. She rattled the door as loudly as she could under the cover of that noise, not knowing even what type of business this was, hoping desperately that the shopkeeper slept at the back of the shop, that he would hear her and come to her rescue.

  She thought she heard the heavy thump of a foot on wood floors behind the door. “Is someone in there…?” she whispered fiercely.

  No answer.

  She couldn’t wait again. “Help me!” she whimpered, hoping that the person behind the door was human, that he would taste the pheromones of her Tharrin body and be forced to respond to her plea. “Please, open the door,” she begged. “The Inhuman is coming!”

  She rattled the door again, this time without the covering echo of thunder. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she wiped it away just as a thin drizzle began falling. From behind the door, a woman’s voice whispered. “Go away! I have children in here to care for. Don’t bring trouble down on this house!”

  And with those words, the Tharrin whimpered, knew that she had just heard her death sentence. By her very nature she was forbidden to harm anyone. She could not endanger this family. She lurched back from the door as if it burned her, and a new steadiness came over her. She whispered to the woman inside, “Stay in with your children, then. There is only enslavement out here.”

  She wondered if there was a place to hide, but as she glanced back at the mouth of the alley, she saw a swordsman standing in the open, looking at her. The wind was growing wild as it will before a storm, and his shadowy cape twisted and fluttered behind him. He whistled softly, and with his free hand motioned to his companions. Presently, they joined him, and the three proceeded toward her abreast. A heavy, steady rain began sweeping toward her in a curtain. The alley filled with the hiss of rain slapping against stone.

  The Tharrin sniffed the air, smelling rotting food and dust from a trash bin behind her, then let out a bloodcurdling cry, something that might have come from the throat of a child, Gallen decided, for it did not sound like the voice of a woman, and suddenly he understood that this was no woman’s body he was in, but the voice of a girl barely into her teens.

  The three men rushed toward her, one of them pulling a heavy bag out from behind his back. “Shush, child,” he hissed. “We do not want to harm you! We only want you to join us!”

  The young woman went rigid. She had a knife sheathed at her hip for just such an emergency, a knife tipped with deadly poison. But she was a Tharrin. She could not harm another sentient being, and the men before her were not evil, only the victims of evil, hosts to the Inhuman.

  She pulled out her knife, waved it before her, hoping that the threat would hinder them. “Stay back!” she warned. Then she shouted once again, “Help me! Help!”, hoping that perhaps someone at the tavern down the way might hear her.

  One of the men laughed. “You won’t use that,” he said with certainty, and the young woman strained her ears, hoping desperately to hear the sound of running footsteps, of rescuers. But she only heard the steady rain, and realized that it must have covered the sound of her cries.

  The servants of the Inhuman marched toward her warily. They were almost upon her. Lightning flashed above them, gleaming off their swords.

  They think I can’t use the knife, she considered, and she stood up straight and tall, knowing what she must do. She reached up quickly and slashed her own throat from ear to ear.

  The searing pain was exquisite, shocking, and she felt the hairs on her head stand on end in reaction. Her heart thumped wildly, kicking in her chest, and hot blood spattered down between her breasts, a seeming river pouring out of her. She staggered back against the wall, felt the poison doing its work, numbing her jaw and neck. She tried to remain standing for a moment, but the knife slipped from her hands, and she slid down the wall.

  Suddenly the three servants of the Inhuman were upon her, and one of them, a man with a dark red moustache and crazed eyes, grabbed her by the head and shouted in her face. His voice was a roaring watery echo in her ears, the voice of a waterfall or a storm rushing through trees. “You think you can escape us so easily? You think you can hide in a temporary death? When you next take a body, we will hunt you again! We will not give up so easily!”

  And then he let her hair go, and she was falling, falling into pain and darkness, and the cold rain sizzling on the stones was the only sound as she silently gulped, crying as she died.

  A woman’s voice, Everynne’s voice, rang in Gallen’s ears, but he did not see her image, only a gray light in the distance. “Gallen, these are the memories taken from Ceravanne, a Tharrin who somehow managed to stay alive on Tremonthin for the past sixty years. When last I saw you, I told you that I would call upon you again for service. Her clone has been infused with all her memories but the last. I charge you to go to Tremonthin and protect her. I charge you with becoming Lord Protector of the planet for now, and as part of that charge, you must seek out and destroy the Inhuman.”

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Thomas Flynn bolted the worn wooden latch to his room at Mahoney’s Inn, then sat on the plump feather bolster, tasting the scent of a cold room that had been closed too long. It was a simple room—a chest of drawers with a small brass oil lamp on it, along with a white ceramic basin and pitcher of water should he want to wash off the dust from the road. He looked out the window with its old wavy glass, past the few small house-trees and sheds to the mountains beyond.

  Everything in Clere seemed so normal, so restful. Yet he was the only guest at the inn this night—the only person brave enough to have stayed here in the past two weeks, so rumor said.

  But Thomas Flynn knew a bit about people. Rumors of demons might keep folks away, but a demon itself wouldn’t—not if it was safely stored in a jar of brine. Thomas had seen oddities displayed that way—a cat with two heads, a midget child. And he wondered if he might be able to preserve something as large as one of these demons in such a fashion.

  Thomas could imagine how the sign out front might read: Thomas Flynn’s Curious Inn. Aye, people were afraid to come around now, but in a couple weeks, he might have them pounding the doors.

  Thomas had never believed in demons or angels, but something had frightened these people, and if a battle had been waged, then there would be corpses about.

  It was early afternoon, but he had several good hours of daylight. He rested on the bed for a while, feeling his brain swim around in his skull from too much rum, then went downstairs to the common room. It had begun to fill up nicely. A good thirty men lounged about.

  He managed to warm himself another bit of rum without falling into the fire, then drank it and clattered the empty cup against the bricks of the fireplace to get attention. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m after finding myself the corpse of a demon. I imagine they should be in the woods about, and I’m offering a bounty. I’ll pay twenty pounds to the first man who brings me one!”

  One customer had been drinking, and he began coughing his beer up through his nostrils. Another had been leaning in his chair, and he barely saved himself from falling over backward.

  “Uh,” one lanky woodsman said, “talk to Gallen. He’s the only one who goes about these days. He’s in the woods now. Some say he’s still hunting the last of the demons down!”

  “Hunting demons, is he, eh?” Thomas shook his head.

  Thomas looked out over the crowd. There were some stout men in the group, but none of them were eager to take him up on the offer. They stood drinking, studiously ignoring him.

  “All right, fifty pounds, then!” Thomas said.

  No one stirred, and frankly, he could go no higher.

  “Man, you don’t have to kill the buggers, mind you!
” Thomas said. “If I understand right, they should already be dead.” But no one budged.

  “Och, there must be a trapper hereabouts, someone with the need and gumption to hike the woods?”

  Several men shook their heads, and Thomas was a bit amazed at their lack of spine. “Then come outside and point the way to Geata na Chruinne for me. I’ll go myself!”

  A couple of men led Thomas outside, pointed down to the ridge of a nearby mountain. “At the foot of the ridge is the gate. If you wander around enough, you’ll find it in a dark hollow there. It’s about four miles by foot, and no man in his right mind would get caught off the road there after dark. The wights are thick in Coille Sidhe.”

  Several onlookers stopped to see what Thomas was up to, and Thomas said loudly, “Oh, sure I’ll be back by sundown. I plan to have a word with the man that wants to marry my Maggie.”

  Thomas went to his wagon, got out his walking stick and half a skin of stale water. His joints felt loose, and his head was a bit foggy. And he found himself watching the gray woods, wishing that Gallen was here now. The men of town were spooked, sure enough, and he convinced himself that was good news, for it meant that perhaps there was something for him to find out in those woods. Perhaps he’d find more than he could handle.

  He headed north, walking to the edge of the forest, and a shout went up from some of the boys. Soon there were forty people walking behind him, children and women, curious fold, but most of them stopped at the edge of the wood, frightened to go in.

  Thomas turned and addressed them. “If any of you older boys have a mind to come with me, I’ve a mind to go and collect some artifacts. I’ll be looking for the skulls of demons or angels, any of their clothing or weapons. I’ll pay a pound for each boy that comes with me to pack the bounty out.”

  Many of the boys looked around a bit as if trying to think what business they might have elsewhere, but one young lad stepped forward on shaky legs, a tough-looking boy with a broad chest and intelligent eyes. “I’ll help, for five pounds.”