The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Looking closer, Geldon could see that the man was holding something under his left arm. A roll of papers, perhaps. His clothes were mostly of dark brown leather, and his high, black boots had silver riding spurs attached to the heels. A long dagger in a black sheath was fastened low on his belt at the man’s left hip, a tie-down strap holding it to his thigh. But what caught Geldon’s nervous attention was the man’s right arm.

  The right sleeve of the man’s leather shirt was rolled up to the biceps. Strapped to the top of his right forearm was a miniature crossbow, the likes of which Geldon had never seen. Its general shape and construction at first seemed fairly basic. But on closer examination it could be seen that instead of carrying a single arrow, this one carried five. They were arranged on a circular wheel, attached between the bow and the string. The bow was cocked, with an arrow notched in it and ready to fly. The width of the cocked bow was not more than that of the man’s forearm. Beneath and behind the bow ran a series of several tiny, interlocking gears. Geldon was at first stymied to understand why, until he deduced that after one arrow was shot, the gears could apparently automatically cock the bow, notching another one. It seemed quite possible that the man could literally loose one arrow after another until all five were gone. The entire affair took up so little space that if the man had been wearing his sleeves down, one would hardly notice the difference. And then the dwarf noticed something else strange.

  The tips of each of the five miniature arrows were stained with yellow. Geldon turned back to Rock with a questioning expression.

  “Scrounge,” Rock answered quietly. “The most accomplished assassin in all of Eutracia. It is said that he works for only one benefactor, but no one seems to know who that is. Nonetheless you should not cross him, for he also kills for pleasure. The death of a hunchbacked dwarf would mean nothing to him.”

  The one called Scrounge walked up to the bar and arrogantly stood up on one of the chairs, then walked back and forth on the top of the bar itself, his spurs jangling lightly. He kicked off many of the liquor bottles and glasses in his way, including Geldon’s ale tankard. Smiling, he watched them explode on the tavern floor in broken splatters of liquor and glass. He looked down at the dwarf for a moment, and Geldon’s heart missed a beat.

  But Scrounge simply smirked at him, then lifted his face to the waiting crowd. The room was as silent as death.

  “Good,” he began in a loud voice. “I can see that I have your attention. Therefore I shall be brief. My benefactor has been gracious enough to ask me to come to you today with a proposition that I believe shall interest you all. It seems he has proof that a very dangerous criminal has returned to the land. My employer has offered a substantial reward for this man’s capture. Dead or alive. Actually, my benefactor would prefer him taken alive. But to my mind, dead is just as good.” He smiled, revealing several yellow, decaying teeth.

  “The reward for this man is to be immediately paid in kisa. Let there be no mistake. The reward is high—the highest ever seen in the history of our nation.” He paused to allow the tension in the room to build. “The price for the head of this criminal is one hundred thousand gold kisa.”

  The silence in the room was shattered by high-pitched, almost hysterical cries of delight and some loud applause. In a moment, feet were stamping the floor, and fists pounding the tabletops. Ale tankards and wineglasses jumped with the commotion, spilling their contents. Scrounge politely waited for the din to subside before continuing.

  One hundred thousand kisa, Geldon thought, stunned. He had not been in Eutracia long, but he certainly knew enough to understand that such a sum amounted to more than most of these people could earn in fifty lifetimes. He turned back to watch Scrounge.

  The assassin took the roll of paper from beneath his left arm and began to unfurl it, smiling. “And now for the identity of this man,” he said. He unrolled the first of the posters and held it before the crowd. Geldon’s blood froze. The crowd fell silent.

  The likeness on the poster was that of Tristan of the House of Galland, prince of Eutracia, and there were words in large, dark print beneath it.

  PRINCE TRISTAN OF THE HOUSE OF GALLAND,

  Wanted Dead or Alive

  for the Murder of the King, Nicholas the First!

  One Hundred Thousand Kisa reward, Paid in Gold!

  Geldon simply sat there, staring at the awful thing. The prince, the one so instrumental in not only saving his nation but also the entire world as they knew it, was now a common criminal.

  No, he suddenly thought. Not common at all. This is a king’s ransom. And no one in the nation knows he is innocent except for the few of us living in the Redoubt.

  Scrounge walked back and forth along the wet bar top, making sure that everyone could get a good look at the poster.

  “Harbor no illusions as to the guilt of this man, this onetime member of the royal house,” he shouted. “His crime, that of taking the head of his very own father, was witnessed by hundreds of our good citizens on the very day of his coronation. It cannot be disputed. For this my patron has decided he must be brought to justice, and swiftly.” He looked out over the crowd as he continued to hold up the awful warrant. “These are about to be posted in every corner of the kingdom. As citizens, it is your duty to bring the prince in. The fee will be paid promptly upon proof that the man brought to us is indeed Tristan, prince of Eutracia.”

  He unfurled the remaining posters in his arms, throwing them among the crowd. The frantic spectators began to push and shove, reaching for them. Some brief scuffles broke out, and upon seeing them Scrounge smiled widely.

  “Good!” he shouted. “It is heartening to see your level of enthusiasm! Bring him to us, and you shall be rich beyond your wildest dreams!”

  Geldon lowered his head, imagining the effect of these awful posters. At last he looked up and, pretending to be a part of the enthusiastic crowd, took a poster off the bar. Carefully folding it, he placed it inside his shirt.

  This changes everything, he realized.

  All around him, people were hungrily reading the posters and taking in the likeness of the prince. Then, from the back of the room, a man came slowly forward to stand along the wall to Scrounge’s right. His beard and hair were shot through with gray, and he had a tall, mature bearing. Ex-military, Geldon thought. The newcomer stood there glaring at the assassin as if he didn’t care what Scrounge thought of him. A Eutracian broadsword identical to those once used by the Royal Guard hung low on his left hip. He folded his arms across his chest in a clear posture of challenge, and Geldon could see that the look in his eyes was one of hate.

  This cannot end well, Geldon thought.

  In the relative quiet of the great room, the man suddenly drew his sword from its scabbard, the blade making a defiant, unmistakable ring through the air. Scrounge immediately turned toward the source of the sound, for the first time illustrating just how quickly his reflexes could take hold. His eyes locked upon the man brandishing the sword as its blade reflected off the oil lamps.

  “You’re a liar, and a filthy one at that,” the man said almost quietly, the words dripping like venom from his mouth.

  At first Scrounge seemed intrigued. “And just why is that?” he asked almost cordially. The room had become as still as a graveyard. Table and chairs began to screech away from the man with the sword. Still he held his ground, continuing to glare up at Scrounge.

  “Because I had the privilege of once being a commander in the Royal Guard, and I knew Prince Tristan personally,” the man snarled. “I do not know where he is now, or why he left us. But I also know that if he killed his own father, which I seriously doubt, there must have been a good reason. A great many things happened to a great many people that fateful day—the prince included. I refuse to believe he willfully committed patricide.” He paused briefly, the light still glinting off the razor-sharp blade of his sword. “I will not let you foul the land with your perverted posters. Even if I have to kill you to stop you.” The wo
rds hung for a long time in the stillness of the room, as if begging to be answered. The challenge had been made.

  “Ah, a relic from the past,” Scrounge said mockingly. Arms akimbo, he shook his head back and forth in derision. “I knew there were still a few of you left limping about the land. From what I have seen of you fellows, you really don’t constitute much of a presence. And certainly not enough to regain control of this poor, beleaguered nation. The only thing that matters these days is how many kisa a man has in his pocket, and everyone knows that. No, I’m afraid your particular brand of antiquated honor just doesn’t count for much anymore.”

  The crowd burst into laughter, hoots, and hollers. Realizing the crowd was on his side, Scrounge cleverly let the jeering run its course.

  “Besides,” the assassin continued almost happily, “hundreds of people saw the treacherous prince do it! They can’t all be wrong! He used one of the winged monster’s own swords to take his father’s head upon the very altar of the Paragon. No, my friend, I think you should just go back to your rather deluded memories of the past. Leave such things to those of us who know what to do, and how to do it.” The crowd jeered as the man with the sword grew red in the face.

  “If you will not desist in this madness, then I shall kill you where you stand!” the Royal Guard officer exploded, taking a step closer.

  This will be his mistake, Geldon thought. He is acting with his heart, instead of his brain.

  Strangely, Scrounge lowered his head and closed his dark eyes. A faint smile played on his lips. Finally he looked up again and shook his head knowingly, snorting out a soft laugh. “I don’t really think you’re going to get the chance,” he said softly.

  In a fraction of a second he raised his right arm, and snapped his fist toward the floor twice. Immediately two of the miniature arrows from his crossbow were flying toward the officer. They pierced him through the muscles above his clavicle and impaled him to the wall. Screaming in pain, the officer tried to free himself but could not. No one moved; no one spoke. Geldon sat stock-still at the bar. He had never seen such a fast weapon, he realized—except, perhaps, for the prince’s dirks.

  Scrounge jumped down from the bar and walked to the man pinned against the wall. The officer’s toes were several inches from the floor, and rivulets of bright red blood ran down his clothing. Scrounge bent over to pick up the broadsword that the officer had dropped in his pain.

  “Thank you,” the assassin said softly, wickedly. “I have long wanted one of these for my collection.” He placed the point of the blade beneath the officer’s chin, viciously forcing the man’s face up. “No wonder you couldn’t vanquish the winged ones when they came,” he added nastily.

  He backed away from the man, admiring the scene as if he were a painter or a sculptor trying to decide what feature he was going to change next. He then stepped in closer, leaning conspiratorially in to the officer’s ear.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but these are really quite expensive, and I need them back,” he whispered. With that he reached up and yanked the arrows from the man’s body. The officer crashed to the floor and screamed in pain. The blood from his wounds came much faster now, little rivers of it running slowly into the cracks and crevices of the dirty floor. After wiping the tips of the arrows on a nearby tablecloth, Scrounge very carefully rearranged them on the wheel of his crossbow. He acted casually, like a man who had just been target shooting rather than mutilating a fellow human being.

  Bravely, the officer looked up from the floor and spat upon Scrounge’s boots. “I will yet live to kill you,” he whispered through his pain.

  Scrounge smiled that curious smile again. “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “For you see, you ignorant bastard, you’re already dead.”

  He then carefully put the spur of his right boot up against the officer’s cheek. With a violent, forward thrust of his foot he ran the silver spur into and along the man’s face, tearing a wide gash in his flesh from the bottom of his right earlobe to the hairline. The officer groaned and fainted from the pain.

  Scrounge turned back to the spellbound crowd. “Is there anyone else here who would choose to disagree with what has been asked of you today?” he shouted. The silence in the room was palpable, and there was no hint of movement. “Good,” he said. “The next time I see any of you, it had best be because you have the prince of Eutracia in your grasp.”

  Still holding the stolen broadsword, he walked purposefully from the room. Geldon, still sitting at the bar, looked down in horror at the injured officer and then back up to Rock. What had Scrounge meant about the officer already being dead?

  “This is only the beginning, you know,” the barman said, shaking his head slowly. “I fear our land is in great distress indeed.”

  Geldon felt the poster against his skin beneath his shirt and took a long, deep, breath.

  More than you know, Rock, he thought to himself. More than you know.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  It was good to feel Pilgrim beneath him again, Tristan thought as he made his way along the secluded trail. Even the rain on his face was a welcome relief from the confinement of the Redoubt.

  The night was dark and cool. The light of the three red moons seemed to follow him as they sailed silently across the night sky. They cast a soft, almost eerie glow upon the rain-laden foliage, pointing up the silver prisms created by the raindrops still clinging to the branches and trees.

  It had stopped raining only shortly before. He had actually been glad of the downpour, for it made his stallion’s hooves just that much quieter each time they struck the ground. And the clean, unmistakable scent of fresh rain had helped to blot out the horror of all he had learned and seen that night.

  The purloined dark-blue consul’s robe he was wearing was cold and clammy, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. But he was appreciative of it, nonetheless. It covered both the dreggan and the dirks lying across his back, and its hood could be pulled up to hide his face if he came upon anyone.

  He had chosen this particular trail because it was so seldom used, especially at night. Just the same, he chose to take no more chances than he had already committed himself to. If the wizards learned of his departure from the Redoubt they would be furious.

  Rather than using the tunnels to exit the Redoubt, he had chosen to come up through the royal palace above. He had no desire to bump into Geldon upon the dwarf’s return trip from Tammerland and be forced to explain his presence in the tunnels. Although the odds of that happening were very small, it wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. Second, there was a more personal, compelling reason. He wished for the first time since the death of his family and the Directorate to visit the Great Hall, the scene of their demise.

  He had walked through the palace halls quite slowly at first, overcome by a feeling of dread, as if he might be confronted by the Minions of Day and Night, or even by one of the Coven. But he was now lord of the Minions, he reminded himself, and the members of the Coven were all dead. Here in the palace, at least, there was nothing left to fear.

  He walked toward the Great Hall slowly, almost reverently. The flood of memories from that awful day, the day everything in his life changed forever, came rushing back to him in an unexpectedly powerful torrent of grief.

  The royal palace, the only home he had ever known, had been ransacked and looted from one end to the other.

  In truth he had expected as much, but seeing it this way for the first time was still a great shock. Virtually everything of value had been taken—presumably by the Eutracian citizens, after the Minions had left. The Minions’ mission at that time had been to destroy, not to steal. The knowledge that his own countrymen had helped destroy this place only increased his pain as he walked through the broken, shattered shell that had once been his home.

  The paintings, sculptures, and other works of art, including the tapestries his mother had so lovingly created, were all gone, the hallways and rooms stripped bare. Each of the passageways a
nd chambers he now silently crept through yawned back at him sadly in their abject emptiness. Even the castle furniture was gone.

  Moonlight swept through the many open and destroyed windows, casting his shadow across the walls. He approached the Great Hall with trepidation, knowing that this room would be the most difficult to bear. Finally standing at the entranceway to the room he had so longed to see, he thought at first that his heart might burst.

  Like all the others, this room was empty. The windows were all smashed, their frames dangling drunkenly off the hinges. The remnants of the once-fine lace curtains were shredded and bloodied, fluttering uselessly in the night breeze. Despite the fact that this room had been looted, some responsible citizens had apparently retained the foresight to remove the hundreds of dead bodies that had once rested here. Presumably to forestall the vermin that would carry disease to the rest of the city, he reasoned. For that much at least, he found himself thankful.

  But they had not cleaned the floor of its blood. The warm, crimson waves of death had simply been left to dry, virtually covering the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Upon the walls could still be seen the Pentangle, the symbol of the Coven, painted in the blood of his countrymen.

  He slowly turned to find what it was he had truly come to see, to discover for himself whether they had taken that, too. He had to admit that he did not know how he would feel if it was still there. Part of him hoped that it too would be gone, so that he would not have to look upon it. But his eyes finally found it. He walked to it slowly. Gently going down on his knees, he started to weep.

  He was before the altar of the Paragon—the marble edifice upon which he had been forced to take the life of his father.

  He remained that way for some time, the tears coming freely as he was taken back to that awful day. Finally he stood, looking down at the top of the altar, where the Minion warriors had held his father down. Tristan forced his hand out, as though touching the marble could grant him some small measure of peace. But when his fingertips unexpectedly found the narrow groove created when his dreggan had gone through his father’s neck, he pulled his hand back in horror, the tears coming again. The altar’s top was still covered with the dried blood of the king. Tristan knew that even if the bloodstains faded into invisibility, for him their taint would live on in this piece of marble forever.