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

by David Farland

  At dusk, he stopped, weary to the bone, and said to the three other men, “It may be that we have passed the Tharrin’s trail. I for one believe that we should go back.”

  “Bransoon told us to head east. He’s first mate,” a sailor grumbled, a small red-skinned man with yellow eyes.

  “But we’ve been walking all day, and still have no sign of them,” Zell’a Cree said. “Don’t you think it likely that we passed them already?”

  “Maybe,” the sailor said, scratching his ear with a long knife. “But what if you’re wrong? What if they’re a kilometer down the road, or five kilometers? The wind and current are strong. Maybe they decided to follow the coast by boat. If they’re ahead of us, and we turn back now, we could lose them. But if they’re behind us, most likely they’ll just come down the road right into our arms.”

  Zell’a Cree studied the men. It seemed just as likely to him that Gallen and the others would run off into the woods and never be found again. There were hundreds of small hamlets scattered throughout these mountains, with roads going everywhere. It would be easy to lose them on back roads.

  The three sailors seemed nervous, and they kept looking east, as if in a hurry to be off. “I’m not sure that you men want to find Gallen,” Zell’a Cree said. “I think you’re afraid of him.”

  One sailor licked his lips. “It’s not healthy to tangle with him, that’s for sure. What can four of us do against him?”

  And Zell’a Cree had to admit that tangling with the Lord Protector had proven to be an unhealthy pastime.

  “Aye,” the others agreed. “We’re heading east, and when we find the next town, we’ll notify someone in authority that Gallen may be coming. Then I for one will sit and have a long beer, and thank my ancestors to be quit of this mess.”

  Zell’a Cree saw his mistake. He couldn’t trust these men to hunt Gallen properly. In all likelihood, the first mate and his men would just as soon never meet Gallen again, either. But there was a reason why Zell’a Cree had been given his own hunting pack to lead. He had to trust his own wits, his own instinct. “I’m going back,” Zell’a Cree said, “to check the road again.”

  And he turned back, heading west. It was cool under the trees at night. Even for a Tosken it had been a long day. He felt worn through, but he picked up his pace and began jogging along the road.

  At a farmhouse, he suddenly caught the scent. Gallen, Maggie, Orick, and some others had come out of the road here, just minutes ago. And the smell of Im giants was heavy all around. In the dark, he could see warm glowing footprints where someone had stood by the road for a bit—a giant—waiting for the others to come.

  But at the roadside, the scent suddenly became very weak. Gallen and the others were not walking, they were riding.

  And Zell’a Cree detected the heavy, malodorous fur of a travelbeast. Since the creature had not passed him, it must have gone west toward Battic.

  Zell’a Cree redoubled his efforts, running over the hills, pumping his legs with a fury. If Gallen had fallen in with Im giants, and if he had a travelbeast, then any creature afoot would be hard-pressed to catch them.

  So he ran as if to outrace the wind; Zell’a Cree stretched his legs, letting them pump in steady rhythm, the sweat pouring down his face. “I am Tosken, I am Tosken,” he repeated over and over as he pounded the dirt roads, racing under trees past farmhouses where dogs rushed out barking and snapping and then finally fell back in defeat when they tired. Zell’a Cree’s mind retreated from thought until there was only the race.

  He heaved great, gasping breaths. He’d been made for great strength and great endurance, but he had not been formed to breathe such thin air as this planet offered. Most times, it did not bother him, but running, the constant pumping of legs, wore him down.

  In an hour, he reached Battic, and dared not take the tunnel into the city—not if Gallen was with the Im giants. At Battic one road branched south, and the first mate and his men were to have followed that road. A second road went west.

  Zell’a Cree scrambled over the hills, until he found the exit heading south, and there he did not find Gallen’s scent. Which meant that Gallen had anticipated an ambush, and he was circling around it.

  Zell’a Cree raced through the woods till he reached a hillside above the west road. There the woods had burned away in ages past, and only low brush survived on the stark, windswept hillsides. He could see parts of the road for six kilometers, and there, at the edge of his vision, burned the forms of the racing giants as they sprinted down the road, protecting their wagon.

  Suddenly, the wagon stopped. The giants waited for a moment, glancing about anxiously.

  A man climbed up in the back of the wagon and stood looking toward Zell’a Cree. He wore a dark robe, and wore a sword at his back. Gallen O’Day.

  To most peoples, even the Im giants, Zell’a Cree would be invisible at this time of night, at such a distance. But Zell’a Cree had been running, and he imagined that the heat of his own body must be radiating like a torch. Yet of all those below, only Gallen O’Day could see him.

  The tricky little man could see in infrared. Zell’a Cree had had no idea that the Lord Protector possessed such talents.

  They stood for a moment, gazing at one another across the distance, and Gallen raised an arm, as if to wave, then suddenly clenched his fist, drawing it downward—one of the secret hand gestures of the Inhuman—a beckoning call. Then the wagon lurched forward, the travel beast rushing over a hill, and was gone.

  For one moment, hope flickered in Zell’a Cree. If Gallen knew the hand signal, then he had been infected by the Inhuman. The Word had indeed entered him.

  Yet something was wrong. If Gallen was Inhuman now, then why did he run? Why did he not bring the others so that they too could be converted? The only answer seemed to be that Gallen had been strong enough to resist the Word. Had Gallen beckoned him in mockery?

  Zell’a Cree licked his lips, angry. Sweat poured down his face, and he gulped for air. He’d been two days without sleep, and he’d just run twenty kilometers. He could go no farther tonight. He let himself collapse into a sitting position.

  So Gallen O’Day was not as blind and helpless as other men. He had more resources to draw upon … and he had resisted the Word.

  Zell’a Cree considered his own resources. He imagined the roads south, drew a map in his mind. The Inhuman, had given him a great gift—the memories of a hundred lives lived and wasted. Over six thousand years of memories. Twelve of those lives had been spent in cities and villages between Battic and Moree. He recalled childhoods spent playing on obscure tracks, the life of a tinker working between towns, the days of a Thoranian guard who traveled with a tax collector. Zell’a Cree concentrated, recalling each road, each main track.

  Gallen might go far west to avoid detection, but he was in a hurry. If he went too far, he’d have to cross the Telgood Mountains, and that would cost him many days. At the most, Gallen could go four hundred kilometers out of his way, but then he’d have to go south, closer to the hosts of the Inhuman.

  Sooner or later he’d turn up on the road to Moree. Zell’a Cree had no choice but to race south now, checking for Gallen’s trail, hoping to enlist other servants of the Inhuman in his quest.

  Perhaps I’ve been too naive, Zell’a Cree considered. I’d hoped to take Gallen alive, but he really isn’t as essential as Maggie and the Tharrin. The practical thing would be to kill him.

  Once the decision was made, Zell’a Cree felt an enormous calm.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  As the wagon stopped, Orick looked up at Gallen, saw him study the distance behind them, then make the strange pulling gesture at the sky as if trying to wrap clouds in his hand and draw them to earth. Gallen’s expression was distant, and Orick could see that some heavy burden was upon him.

  “Gallen, what’s wrong?” Orick asked.

  “Nothing …” Gallen said, obviously disturbed himself. “It’s just—I saw Zell’a
Cree behind us.”

  “How far?” one of the giants asked, drawing his sword as if to do battle.

  “He’s back several kilometers—at Battic.”

  The giant grumbled, sheathed his sword, and took a moment to swab the wagon’s axles with grease from a bucket.

  Gallen turned and sat back down in the driver’s seat, urged the travelbeast forward, and the giants began running. The travel beast was terribly strong, much faster than a horse. Although the huge wagon carried four people, a bear, and supplies, it fairly sang over the roads. The craftsmen who had built it had invested a great deal of time in carving every panel, and they’d spent equal care in designing the suspension. Orick had never ridden in a wagon that was its equal, and he was grateful for the smooth ride, not for his own sake, but for Tallea’s. The warrior’s wounds had healed at the surface, but the giants had carried her from the camp to the road, and every jarring step was a pain for her.

  So as they raced through the night, Orick lay beside her, keeping her warm, singing to her.

  Everyone was silent. Since Maggie and Gallen had been hiking all across the countryside, when they tired the giant Fenorah took the reins and Ceravanne sat hunched beside him with her cloak draped tightly about, to keep out the cold. Gallen and Maggie lay in the back of the wagon.

  Gallen stretched out beside Orick under a blanket, with Maggie beside him, and Orick could feel a certain tenseness in Gallen’s muscles.

  Orick took a moment to consider, trying to remember how far a kilometer was. He was still not accustomed to measuring things as the starfarers did. When he was satisfied that Zell’a Cree was far away, he breathed deeply, quietly, trying to get back to sleep, but it wasn’t much use. They traveled under the clouds for a while, and then the stars came out—a vast panoply far brighter than the dim stars back on Tihrglas.

  Maggie was looking up at the sky, too, and she whispered, “Ah, Gallen, look at all of the stars.”

  “We must be close to the galactic center here, closer than we are back on Tihrglas—”

  “Not much closer,” Maggie said. “We’re on the far side from Tihrglas, closer to the Dronon worlds. They’re out on the rim, but we’re halfway to the galactic center here, a little above the spiral. See that bright band—how wide it is?”

  And Orick saw. Indeed the Milky Way was but a dim river of stars back on Tihrglas, but here it took up the whole night sky. The starlight alone was enough to see by, fairly well.

  “Gallen,” Maggie whispered, changing the subject, worry in her voice, “what was that hand signal you gave Zell’a Cree?” Orick could barely hear the question over the sounds of running feet, the creak of wagon wheels, the jostling of springs.

  “I don’t know,” Gallen whispered.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Is it something you learned from the Inhuman?”

  “I really don’t know,” Gallen said. “I was just standing there, and it came to me. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  Maggie seemed to take this in, and Orick realized that they were discussing something private, something dangerous. What would Gallen have learned from the Inhuman? Orick wondered. They were whispering, and with the way the backboard for the driver’s seat leaned, it would baffle the sound for Ceravanne and Fenorah.

  Maggie sat up and readjusted her pack, using it for a pillow. “I wish we were underground this night, Gallen,” she said. She looked at Orick.

  “Orick, are you still awake?” Maggie asked.

  “Huh, ah, yes.” Orick yawned.

  “Oh, good night, then,” she said; she rolled over.

  Orick saw his mistake. If he’d feigned sleep, then Maggie and Gallen would have kept talking. Instead, Maggie drifted into a light sleep. But Gallen lay for a long time, his muscles rigid, until the rumble of the wagon lulled even him to sleep. Orick roused enough to look over the backboard, and a hundred yards back, the giants were running three abreast behind the wagon, a strong, comforting presence.

  Orick lay watching the sky, and the marvelous wagon moved so gently over the road, he felt that he was floating under the stars. They passed through several small towns, and each time, dogs would bark and geese would honk, and then they’d be left behind. But then the trees closed over them, and for a long time there were no houses to pass. They were moving deeper and deeper into the wilderness.

  A few hours before dawn, they came to the sea and clattered over a long bridge, then at some woods along an empty beach the giants stopped for the night. Two of them stayed up as sentries, watching the road, and the others built a small fire and napped. Ceravanne and Fenorah camped under a tree, while Orick slept in the wagon with the others. At dawn Orick got up, while the giants fixed breakfast—salty corn cakes covered with peaches, dried apricots, and cream.

  Orick walked along the road, and quickly realized that they were on a small island between two branches of a river. And on the island two enormous cliff faces, each over two hundred feet tall, were carved with the images of eagles. One eagle, with its wings raised, faced the north sea. The other, with its wings folded, looked upriver, its beak wide as if it were screeching.

  And the bridge they had crossed was a marvel—nearly a mile of vast granite pylons held stonework that was intricately carved along the side with a massive frieze that displayed images of grotesque gargoyles, squatting and grunting as they shoved handcarts over the bridge. The images were somehow both comic and beautiful. And the bridge was enormously wide, enough so that four or five carts could have gone abreast.

  On the far side of the island was a shorter bridge, just as intricately decorated, and Orick suddenly saw why the giants chose to camp here: the island could be easily defended.

  Orick climbed a steep, pine-covered ridge until he reached the top of the eagle that gazed out to sea. There, on the head between the eagle’s wings, he found Gallen sitting, dangling his feet as if unaware that he was perched above a deadly drop. Gallen wore the black gloves and boots of a Lord Protector, along with his robe that would stay black unless he willed it to change some other color or let it blend into whatever background he happened to be standing in.

  Orick climbed beside him, sat gazing out to sea, resting his muzzle on his paws. The double suns had just risen, and the sea was flat, smooth, a deep, pristine blue. Orick could see salmon finning in lazy circles out in the water, and cormorants were flying out to sea, shooting just above the waves.

  Orick said, “Did you see the bridges?”

  “Indeed.” Gallen sighed. “This place is called Profundis, and those unbreakable bridges were carved long ago by a race called the Thworn. If you look west, on that bluff over there, you will see the walls to an ancient city, Tywee.” Orick looked over to a dome-shaped bluff beside the sea and noticed for the first time some crumbling walls among the trees. “Eight hundred years ago, a young man named Omad fell in love with a beautiful princess, and she agreed to marry him if he took her armies and unified this region. He did so—by making pacts and trade agreements, so that never a drop of blood was spilled. And after their wedding he wisely built the bridges—not only to facilitate travel in his own lands, but to keep enemy ships from sailing upriver into the heart of his realm.

  “You see, this river accepts drainage from all the land within a thousand kilometers in any direction, and so it is the major artery leading south into the heartland.”

  “Did the king build these statues, too?” Orick asked.

  “Yes. A bloody, barbaric race called the Dwinideen were great seamen, and they had often raided deep into the fertile inland. As the bridge was being built, the Dwinideen harried the craftsmen, slaughtering many people, much to the dismay of Omad. But the Dwinideen were superstitious, and they feared Capul, the sky god who appears in the shape of a fish eagle. They believed that if one dies, and the fish eagle gets at the body, the eagle will carry off the dead person’s spirit to be eaten so that the dead can never be reborn. So the King of Tywee carved this statue, and when next the Dwinideen attacke
d, Omad took thirty of the Dwinideen captive. With his own hand he hurled them from the eagle’s head to the rocks below, crying, ‘Thus shall my enemies die!’ There were many fish eagles living here then, as there are now, and they fed on the carcasses. Afterward, the Dwinideen feared this place and never returned. For the rest of his days, Omad regretted that he was forced to shed blood to protect his kingdom.”

  Gallen fell silent. His voice seemed grim. Almost, Orick thought, as if he were grieving for the long-dead king, and there was pain in his eyes, a quiet wisdom that seemed out of place on Gallen’s features.

  “Hmmm …” Orick said, wondering how Gallen had learned so much. Gallen must have spoken of this place with the giants.

  In the distance, toward the ancient city of Tywee, Orick saw the white flashing of wings as a fish eagle swooped to grab a fish from the water.

  “If this bridge is so important, why isn’t there a city here now?” Orick asked.

  “The kingdom fell into ruin. It was attacked from the south, by men who came out of the desert. The villagers who live here now are weaker men, too divided to stand against their overlords. They pay a small tribute and live in relative peace.”

  “And who might these southern warriors be?” Orick asked, knowing that they would have to go south soon, and might have to pass through their lands.

  “Can you not guess?” Gallen said. “They’re the Tekkar.”

  Orick licked his lips. “I don’t like the Tekkar.” He’d known that they served the Inhuman, but somehow he imagined that they would be far away—not a present danger. “Will we meet more of them soon?”

  Gallen said, “We made good time last night. A hundred kilometers since sunset. And it’s a beautiful, clear day. We’ll go a hundred more kilometers before the day is done. But we are almost a thousand kilometers from the desert, and the Tekkar do not like climates as cool and wet as this. It will be a few days before we find them.”

  Orick grunted in relief, and Gallen sat brooding, looking out to sea. Orick headed down between the dark pines to see if breakfast was ready. Squirrels were out in the morning sun, searching for nuts, chattering. At the foot of the trail, Orick found Maggie.