The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Watching the gnome waddle back down the corridor, Tristan realized that he was standing in an area of the Redoubt with which he was entirely unfamiliar. One corner of his mouth came up. Not knowing exactly where he was hardly seemed unusual, considering the size of this place. What did perplex him was why the wizards would require his presence so suddenly. He opened the great door.

  The room he entered was large, and elaborately decorated. The walls, ceiling, and floor were of a very rare and elegant Ephyran marble, dark blue swirled with the lightest of gray. Numerous oil lamps and chandeliers added to the soft glow of the fire burning in the light blue marble fireplace in the right-hand wall.

  Wigg, seated at a long table, looked up calmly from the volume he had been reading. The wizard’s gray hair fell from a widow’s peak at his forehead only down to the nape of his neck. The customary braided wizard’s tail had been cut off during his imprisonment by the Coven less than one month ago. Tristan smiled inside, knowing that Wigg would let it grow back out of respect for his dead friends, the deceased wizards of the Directorate. The bright, aquamarine eyes in the craggy face had lost nothing of their intensity, and the gray robe of his once-lofty office draped loosely over a body that remained muscular, protected from old age and disease by time enchantments.

  As always, Faegan was seated in his rough-hewn chair on wheels. His legs, useless as a result of torture by the Coven, dangled down over the edge of the seat. His worn, black robe seemed too large for him, and the wild salt-and-pepper hair that was parted down the middle of his head fell almost to his shoulders. His eyes were an unusually intense, green-flecked gray. His impossibly dark blue cat, Nicodemus, sat patiently in his lap.

  Then Tristan noticed the fourth person in the room. He automatically backed away, drawing his dreggan from its scabbard. The deadly song of the dreggan’s blade resounded reassuringly through the room, bouncing briefly off the marble walls before finally, reluctantly fading away.

  “You can put that away,” Wigg said wryly. His right eyebrow arched up into its familiar expression of admonishment. “He is in no condition to harm any of us. He is, in fact, a consul.”

  Embarrassed, Tristan replaced the dreggan into its scabbard. He then slowly walked to where the inert figure reclined on an overstuffed sofa that sat along one wall. The prince looked down into the face of the battered consul who lay before him.

  The man on the couch was a little older than the prince—perhaps thirty-five New Seasons of Life. He seemed to be in a very bad way. His dark blue robe was ripped and dirty, and only partially hid the fact that the poor fellow was apparently half starved. His blond hair was in knots; his face was bruised and bloodied; his cheeks were hollowed from malnutrition. Despite his condition, he was still a good-looking man.

  Tristan bent over to grasp the man’s right arm. Lifting it up, he slid the sleeve up to view the right shoulder. He saw what he was looking for. The tattoo of the Paragon, in bright red, identified the man as a consul of the Redoubt. Satisfied, the prince slid the sleeve back down and gently placed the arm back alongside the body. Then he turned back to Wigg.

  “As I mentioned, he is a consul,” Wigg said rather quietly.

  “Do you know him?” Tristan asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Wigg answered. “His name is Joshua, and despite his relative youth he is one of the more gifted and powerful of the Brotherhood. He was one of those in charge of the squads I sent out to hunt down the stalkers and harpies, just before the arrival of the Coven. As far as I know, he is the only one to have ever returned.” Wigg closed the book that lay in front of him. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his gray robe, he suddenly seemed lost in his own thoughts.

  “And you, Faegan,” Tristan asked the wizard in the chair. “Do you know him, too?”

  “No, Tristan, nor do I know any of the others of that brotherhood,” Faegan replied in his gravelly voice. A look of mild envy crossed his face. “The Redoubt is an entirely new concept to me, since it was formed after the Sorceresses’ War and I was already living in Shadowood by then. But I am truly interested in what this man will have to say when we revive him.” The elder of the wizards sat quietly, thinking to himself, and Tristan was reminded that unlike Wigg, who was used to being in the Redoubt, Faegan was still overwhelmed by the place and what it represented. Being envious of another wizard’s knowledge was something Faegan was not used to, and sometimes it showed.

  Layers of thought and deed, Tristan thought, as the often-repeated phrase jumped into his mind. It was said that the thoughts and actions of wizards were piled one atop another, like the layers of an onion. One layer was removed, only to reveal another beneath it. He thought for a moment about what his sister had said to him, about how these two wizards could forever argue with each other like a pair of old scullery maids. They were probably trying to outthink each other right now, he realized. But it was also apparent that whatever bitterness might have remained as a result of the war some three centuries ago had been forgiven.

  “How did this consul get here?” Tristan asked. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Geldon found him as he started out through one of the tunnels, to go to buy food in the city,” Faegan mused, half to himself. “When he found Joshua unconscious and bleeding, he immediately brought him here. We examined him and found him to be basically sound, despite the malnutrition and a dislocated right shoulder. Wigg used the craft to reset the joint, and I invoked an incantation of accelerated healing over it. I then induced a deep sleep within him. We were only waiting for you to come before we woke him up, so that you too might hear whatever he has to say.”

  “Then I suggest you revive him,” the prince said simply.

  Wigg looked to Faegan, and the elder wizard nodded. Narrowing his eyes, Wigg stared intently at the consul, and an azure glow began to surround the stricken man. It was the glow that always accompanied any significant use of the craft, and it was proof that the wizard was working his magic on the consul.

  As the clear blue glow intensified, the consul began to stir. Tristan walked over to the couch and looked down.

  The glow faded away. The consul opened his eyes and slowly looked around the room. When he saw Wigg, tears filled his eyes. “Wigg,” he whispered breathlessly, “is it really you?”

  Wigg quickly stood, picking up his chair to go sit at the side of the couch. “Yes,” he said compassionately, “it’s me. You’re safe now, and in the Redoubt. You’re all right, but you had a dislocated shoulder, and you’re starving. You need food and rest. But first we must know what happened to you.”

  As if Wigg’s question had suddenly triggered a flood of horrific memories, the consul cried out, trying to get up off the couch. Wigg gave him a narrow-eyed stare, and Joshua settled down. But it was plain to see that he was still in shock.

  “It was horrible!” he said, his hazel eyes wide with the terror of his memories. “The things, they came from the eggs . . . the eggs in the trees . . . endowed . . . dripping azure . . . unbelievable . . . Then the awful birds came out of them . . .” His forehead bathed in sweat, Joshua collapsed farther down onto the couch and began to sob again.

  Faegan wheeled his chair closer and looked down at the consul. It was clear that both he and Wigg were very concerned.

  “Try to calm yourself,” Wigg said softly, “and tell us what happened. Start at the beginning.”

  “I lost my entire squad to a harpy, and I was traveling alone,” Joshua began. “I did not find another squad for a long time—much longer than I thought it would have normally taken. My food was running out . . .” He paused, trying to control his emotions. “I finally found another squad of four and joined them. They were led by Argus.”

  A hint of recognition came into Wigg’s aquamarine eyes. “Argus,” he said. “He was one of the best of the consuls.”

  “Yes,” Joshua said. “With us were three others: Jonathan, Galeb, and Odom. Did you know them?”

  “I knew all
of the ones that I sent out,” Wigg replied.

  “We had only been together for three days when we started to feel it.”

  “When you started to feel what?” Wigg asked.

  “The sensation of being near such unusual, highly powered, endowed blood,” Joshua continued. “I had never felt anything like it, nor had any of the others. We were only one day away from the Redoubt when they struck us . . . Only one day . . .”

  His voice began to trail off, and the tears came again. “We had decided to stop looking for stalkers and harpies and come straight here, to see if there was still anyone of endowed blood to report this to,” he added weakly. “Both Argus and I thought it that important.”

  “And then?”

  Joshua swallowed hard, as if still fearful that whatever had attacked the squad was somehow now here, in this very chamber. “The trees above us began to glow, and very large eggs started to take shape in the branches,” he said softly. “After a little bit we could see that they were actually transparent, with birds of prey curled up inside each of them, waiting to hatch. And then they broke free of their eggs, and came for us.”

  Joshua began to cough, and Tristan reached to the table for some water. He walked over to the couch and held out the glass to the stricken consul. Seeing him, Joshua’s eyes went wide. “Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me; I did not recognize you.”

  “That is unimportant,” Tristan said kindly. “Please continue as best you can.”

  But now Joshua, curious about his audience, was looking around again. His eyes fell on the strange man in the chair with the blue cat in his lap. “And you sir, do I know you?” he asked.

  “No, you do not,” Faegan replied. “I am Faegan, and I am a wizard. But please continue.”

  After another swallow of water, Joshua began again. “The first of them that broke free of its egg made an awful noise, and Argus and Galeb sent bolts against it. But the thing just shook them off, as though their gifts did not exist.” He glanced at Wigg. “It was unbelievable. And then it flew in a direct line toward Argus, knocking him to the ground. The other creatures went after the rest of us in the same way. I was somehow sent flying down over an embankment, where I hurt my arm. I crawled back up as best I could to take a look, and what I saw . . .” He shook his head.

  “And that was?” Wigg prompted.

  “The birds’ eyes . . .” Joshua said, seemingly lost in the moment. “It’s their eyes, Lead Wizard. I shall never forget them.”

  “What about their eyes?”

  “They were bright red, and glowed with an intensity that was almost blinding.” He closed his own eyes for a moment. “It was hideous. They did this for some time, apparently surveying the campsite. Then they carried off the consuls in their claws. The entire squad, except myself . . . My friends . . . now all gone . . .”

  Faegan wheeled his chair even closer and looked hard at the consul with his intense, gray-green eyes.

  “About the eyes,” he said. “Tell me, did they glow constantly?”

  Wigg frowned, not pleased that Faegan was pushing the consul so hard.

  “Yes,” Joshua answered, “but sometimes more than others.”

  Faegan let loose a small cackle and sat back in his chair. Tristan shot a quick glance at Wigg. Faegan has some knowledge of this, Tristan speculated. He made a mental note to speak to Faegan of it later. But right now he had some questions of his own.

  “And our nation?” Tristan asked anxiously. “How fares Eutracia? None of us except one has been outside of these walls for weeks, and even on our way here it seemed that Eutracia was in the grip of something we did not fully understand. Can you tell us more?”

  “It is indeed as bad as you fear,” Joshua said, his heart obviously heavy. “The entire nation is in chaos. There is simply no authority to enforce the laws and restore order. Crime, murder, and looting are everywhere, and food is growing scarce. More people are moving into the cities every day, mistakenly believing places like Tammerland to be their best chance for survival. Many of these cities, especially Tammerland, are now straining with the flood of refugees. I fear that very soon famine may take hold in the cities, since few farmers dare to bring their crops or livestock to the market, for fear of being assaulted and robbed on the way.” He paused for a moment.

  “It is said that the citizens are killing each other for the mere basics of life,” he went on. “Many men—husbands, fathers, and sons—were lost in the recent hostilities. The poorest of the women have been reduced to selling their bodies in the streets, even in the light of day.”

  Tristan couldn’t bear any more. He walked slowly to the fireplace at the other side of the room. Leaning his hands against the mantel, he looked down into the glowing embers. With his nation in tatters, how could he remain in this marble tomb and do nothing? He had to get out and at least see for himself. I will leave tonight instead of tomorrow, he resolved. And I will not tell the wizards.

  “But what about the consuls?” Wigg asked urgently. His hands were balled up into fists, his knuckles white with anger. “It is their very mission in life to do good deeds among the populace, and hopefully at least some of them survived the attack by the Coven and the Minions of Day and Night. Are they not helping?”

  Joshua looked down at his hands. “I fear, Lead Wizard, that there are perhaps too few of us left to do any real good,” he answered. “And if the things in the trees that carried off the others of my squad are still active, perhaps we now know why. Especially if there are more of them than I saw. I had to travel for weeks to find Argus and his group. We both know that such a thing could not have happened under normal circumstances. With all of the consuls away from the Redoubt and in the countryside, we should have been bumping into one another.”

  Joshua paused for a moment, to let his words sink in. “But now, I fear, even the consuls of the Redoubt may be few. This could add immeasurably to our troubles,” he said weakly.

  The strain was clearly starting to show again in the consul’s face, and both Wigg and Faegan could see he was near the point of total exhaustion.

  “It is time for you to rest,” Faegan said gently. “I am going to put you into a deep, induced sleep. When you wake we will feed you, wash you, and give you a new robe. But right now, your most important mission is to rest. Do you understand?”

  Joshua nodded weakly and closed his eyes. The elder wizard closed his eyes also, and immediately the consul was surrounded by the azure glow of the craft. In a moment, he was deeply asleep, and the glow was gone.

  Faegan turned to look at Wigg, and Tristan finally returned from his stance in front of the fireplace to rejoin the wizards. A seemingly interminable period of silence reigned in the room.

  The madness never ends, Tristan thought sadly to himself. Finally it was Faegan who broke the silence. He closed his eyes as he began to speak.

  “ ‘And there shall be a great struggle in the skies, but it shall be as only one part of the larger, more perilous carnage below,’ ” he began. “ ‘In this the ones of the scarlet beacons shall struggle with the others who also have dominion in the firmament. And the blood of each, endowed and unendowed alike, shall flow down upon the ones below as rain, and caress the white, soft ground of the nation before it is completed. And the child himself shall be forever watching.’ ” Faegan opened his eyes and smiled slightly, waiting for the inevitable questions.

  “Another quote from the Tome?” Wigg asked. Faegan was the only living person to have read the entire volumes of both the Vigors and the Vagaries. Gifted with the very rare power of Consummate Recollection, the older wizard could recall anything he had ever seen, heard, or read throughout his entire lifetime. Wigg leaned forward intently, his curiosity at equal measure with the sadness he felt at hearing the consul’s disturbing words.

  “Yes, quite,” Faegan whispered almost to himself, obviously lost in his own thoughts. “It is a quote that has long intrigued me.” He looked up and smiled again. “For over three hun
dred years, in fact. I have never been certain of its meaning, but I believe we may be at least one step closer to learning its secrets. The ‘ones of the scarlet beacons’ I believe to be Joshua’s birds with the bright red, glowing eyes. There has been no other creature in my personal experience with such unique attributes. Still, I have absolutely no idea about what is meant by ‘the white, soft ground of the nation.’ And I certainly do not know what it means when it says that ‘the child himself shall be forever watching.’ The only child I can think of that might in any way be relevant would be Morganna, Shailiha’s baby. But for the life of me I can’t understand how or why.” He sat back in his wooden chair and stroked his cat.

  Tristan turned to Wigg to see that the lead wizard was also lost in the maze of questions that lay before them. “Do you believe the consuls to be dead?” he asked bluntly.

  Pursing his lips, Wigg placed a thumb and forefinger to either temple. “That is impossible to say at this time,” he answered. “It would certainly explain why none of them have returned to the Redoubt.”

  “One thing is sure,” Faegan ruminated. “These things—these birds of prey—are definitely not a product of the Vigors. They are without compassion, and their ends are served only through violence. Azure radiates about them, meaning that they are a product of the craft. But they also do not sound as if they are of great intelligence, and therefore may be controlled by another, higher power somewhere.”

  He paused for a moment, then turned his gray-green eyes to Wigg and Tristan. “This means, my friends, that someone in Eutracia is again practicing the Vagaries,” he said angrily. He looked down at his useless legs and, as if in shame, pulled the hem of his robe down a bit, covering them more completely. “There is nothing in the world that angers me as much as the misuse of the craft,” he added softly. The meaning of his words were not lost upon the prince and Wigg. It had been the Vagaries that had destroyed his legs.

  Tristan would never forget that day upon the mountain when Wigg had called forth the physical manifestations of both the Vigors and the Vagaries. The Vigors had appeared as a giant orb of dazzling, golden light. The Vagaries had been an orb of the same size, but black, ominous looking, and literally dripping with the energy of destruction. The two opposite orbs of the craft were constantly attracting each other but never able to touch, immediately repelling each other when coming too close.