The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  I beg the Afterlife, he pleaded silently, just give me one clear chance.

  “And now,” Ragnar suddenly said, “for the finest prize of all. Please come in, my sweet, and meet our guests.”

  A woman walked into the room wearing an emerald green, floor-length gown.

  “I present to you my . . . companion,” Ragnar said slyly. “This is Celeste.” He nodded, and slowly, gracefully, the woman turned.

  Tristan froze, his heart racing wildly. The woman standing before him was the mysterious beauty he had rescued from suicide that night on the cliffs.

  Her clothing was different, but it was the same woman. Of that there was no doubt. He took in the long, red hair that swooped down over the forehead, the brilliant, sapphire eyes almost hidden beneath it, and the hint of the cleft in her strong chin. His mind raced, searching for answers.

  She’s one of them, he realized. She must be. But why was she on the cliffs that night?

  After looking first to the wizard, Celeste finally turned her eyes toward the prince. The color drained from her face, and her lovely red mouth opened partially in disbelief. Recomposing herself, though, she narrowed her eyes and very minutely shook her head once, indicating that she did not want him to speak of their previous meeting. Tristan gave a small nod of agreement. What is going on here? He looked away as Celeste seated herself on Ragnar’s right.

  A centuries-old hate evident in his eyes, Ragnar looked at Wigg. “So tell me, Lead Wizard,” he asked sarcastically, “how does it feel to see me, your old friend, after all these years? I observe that you no longer have your wizard’s tail. No matter. The Directorate is no more, anyway. It is my understanding that Failee herself took your tail from you. How appropriately disgraceful.”

  Wigg at last collected his thoughts.

  “How is it that you live?” he demanded weakly of the blood stalker. “You were never granted time enchantments, because your transformation by the Coven happened before the enchantments were ever developed! You should be dead!”

  “Oh, but I was granted the enchantments.” Ragnar smiled. “And by someone you knew well. I have been waiting all of that time, here within these caves. Be that as it may, I am anxious to complete my business with you.”

  “And what would that business be?” Wigg asked.

  “Several things, actually,” Ragnar responded. “Not the least of which is to give you what you came for.”

  Wigg again seemed stunned, but recovered quickly. “And that is?” he asked skeptically.

  “Why the Tome, of course,” Ragnar said. He dipped his right index finger into the vial of yellow fluid. Placing the fingertip into his mouth he closed his eyes for a moment, smiling again before reopening them. Tristan’s sensibilities recoiled at the brazen vulgarity of it.

  The three individuals in their thrones stared down on the prince and the wizard as the amazing radiance continued to flood the marble floor of the room. Tristan looked with hate into the ratlike eyes of Scrounge, and the assassin shot back an unafraid glare that each of them understood well. After a time, Wigg spoke again.

  “You’re addicted, aren’t you?” he asked. “Tretiak and I believed that might happen. Especially if you survived long enough.”

  Addicted? Tristan asked himself. What in the name of the Afterlife is Wigg talking about?

  “Of course I am addicted, you conceited bastard!” Ragnar hissed back. “You had to realize that I would be! And still you did nothing! Not a single search party sent out to come and look for me!” He finally collected himself, settling back into his chair. “But all of that will be paid for in full today,” he said more softly.

  “We were unaware at the time you would become addicted. We had no way to know,” Wigg said sadly, taking a step forward. With the wizard’s unexpected movement, Scrounge raised the miniature crossbow slightly. Tristan curled his fingers around the knife in his pocket. This will happen yet today, he thought.

  “It was only later, as our knowledge of the craft grew, that we realized what we had done,” Wigg continued. “You must also know that the ingestion of your own brain fluid was an accident! Tretiak and I were only trying to help you!”

  His eyes turned to the golden dagger on Ragnar’s belt. “That’s mine, isn’t it?” he asked solemnly.

  “Yes,” the blood stalker sneered, slowly sliding the blade from the scabbard. He held it to the light of the chandelier. “ ‘In Brotherhood We Serve the Vigors,’ ” he quoted sarcastically. “A truly ridiculous concept. Had you ever been properly exposed to the Vagaries, you would know that the drivel of the Vigors is not only less powerful, but quite insipid as well.”

  Tristan had suddenly endured quite enough of listening and doing nothing. “Why do you want my blood?” he shouted at the stalker. “And who are the wraiths?”

  Ragnar smiled. “The wraiths are only several of an entire host of servants. Why I have need for the blood of the Chosen One will be revealed to you at a later time. For now, suffice it to say that you will find it very interesting.”

  “The ghoul-like consuls and the hatchlings,” Tristan hissed. “I suppose they are simply more of your followers?”

  “Not followers, exactly.” Ragnar smiled, pursing his lips in thought. “More like servants. The consuls you fought with and killed are simply those that were ‘left over,’ so to speak. They are the ones who initially resisted me, so I turned them into what you saw there in the Caves. They are now relatively mindless, but still have their uses. You also might be interested to know that the second generation of hatchlings, those which carry weapons and can speak, now number in the tens of thousands and are already camped here in your beloved Eutracia. To the north, in the fields of Farplain. They will also prove to be extremely useful.”

  Tristan looked to Wigg in horror. The wizard seemed as shocked as he. But the blood stalker had not finished taunting them.

  “Please forgive me,” he said politely. “For I digress. Living underground for three centuries has a certain effect upon one, if you will. I believe you were asking about ‘followers,’ were you not? Oh, I will indeed have followers, but they are not ready just yet. Only when the time is right shall they be brought forth.” He paused, leering wickedly at the prince. “Tell me, Chosen One, can you guess who they are?”

  Tristan shuddered inside. He did not dare utter his suspicion for fear that saying it might make it come true.

  “Ah,” the stalker said. “I can tell that you already know. Yes, Chosen One, it is indeed so. My followers will be your very own consuls of the Redoubt.” Again he paused, savoring his statement. “And Wigg! Frankly, you surprise me!” he continued. “It was quite foolish of you and the dearly departed Directorate to send them forth from the Redoubt, searching for stalkers and harpies during such a fragile time in the history of your pompous monarchy! And then you and the Chosen One ran off to Parthalon, leaving them all here to fend for themselves in this shattered, chaotic shell of a nation! What were you thinking? But I thank you, nonetheless.” He grinned at the wizard, relishing every word. “By the way, there is no longer any point in searching for them,” he whispered vehemently. “I have them all.”

  Tristan looked up at the woman called Celeste. He thought there was a hint of shininess in her sapphire eyes, as if she was fighting back tears. But then it was gone; he had probably been mistaken. Regaining his focus, he looked over to Wigg.

  The wizard was psychologically beaten—both from the loss of his powers and the devastating revelations he had been forced to listen to. He raised his eyes to Ragnar.

  “You’re draining the stone, aren’t you?” he asked weakly. “Its powers are somehow being transferred to the vein that runs through the walls of this place. Don’t lie to me. I know it to be true.”

  “Quite right, Lead Wizard,” Ragnar said, taking another fingerful of the yellow fluid and placing it into his mouth. “I knew you would recognize the meaning of it immediately. Just think! In less than three months’ time, all that you have ever worke
d for, including the impending training of the Chosen One, will be of no consequence. A beautiful thing, is it not?”

  Ignoring Ragnar for the moment, Tristan turned his attention to Scrounge, who was sipping from a cup of wine that had appeared in his hand.

  “Why the reward for me?” Tristan shouted at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than walk atop tavern bars, handing out illicit posters? If it’s me you want, I will gladly come to you right now!” He fingered the knife in his pocket. “I won’t need another note of invitation,” he whispered viciously.

  “As far as your reward goes, you will learn later why it has been offered,” Scrounge replied. “Interestingly enough, despite the hugely handsome sum, we don’t want you to be taken. Curious, isn’t it? And as to your offer of a duel, please know that I would like nothing better than to take you on right now.” He smiled, happily taking another sip of the wine as if none of this mattered.

  “Rumor has it that you’re very good,” he continued. “And that you somehow even managed to slay the commander of the Minions. Even so, I doubt you’re good enough to take me. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. Right now you couldn’t even raise your sword. And what a shameful act it is, you carrying around the same disgusting, foreign-made weapon you used to willingly murder your own father. The same blade those ignorant, winged freaks from Parthalon employ. No, Chosen One, we will not fight, at least not now. But another time, I promise you.” Scrounge mockingly raised his cup in a gesture of false courtesy.

  Tristan could contain himself no longer. Despite his relative weakness, he sent his hidden dirk unerringly across the room, straight for Scrounge’s forehead.

  Lazily, almost effortlessly it seemed, the assassin lifted his miniature crossbow, and a yellow-tipped arrow seared across the expanse of the room, striking Tristan’s knife in midair. Both fell noisily to the marble floor, disappearing into the ankle-deep glow still rolling in from the hallway.

  “You see?” Scrounge said, clucking his tongue in condemnation. “Just as I said. Too slow.”

  Tristan stood there weakly, seething at the arrogant assassin, not knowing what to do. His eyes full of hate and frustration, he looked to Wigg for guidance.

  “Pick up my arrow, Chosen One,” Scrounge’s voice ordered from the other side of the room.

  “What?” Tristan asked, momentarily nonplussed.

  “Are you deaf as well as difficult?” Scrounge asked cattily. “Pick up my arrow and bring it to me on bended knee. Now. They’re expensive, and I wish it back. And don’t touch that crudely made piece of iron you call a throwing knife that is lying beside it.” He smiled at the prince. “I don’t have the patience to shoot one of your toys out of the air again.”

  Tristan’s endowed blood began to rise in even greater anger from the insulting demand. One day this man will die before me, I swear it, he promised silently.

  “I will never kneel to you,” he growled. Lowering his eyes in hate, he took an aggressive step toward the assassin. “If you want your weapon so badly, come and get it yourself. There are several ways in which I would enjoy giving it to you.”

  Scrounge laughed. He stood, placing his hands on his hips. “The Chosen One’s reputation indeed proves true! Impetuous to a fault! No matter, though.” He turned to Ragnar. “I believe now is as good a time as any, don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed,” Ragnar answered.

  Almost immediately Tristan felt his arms being clamped to the sides of his body, his feet no longer able to step forward. Ragnar had enveloped him within a wizard’s warp. The prince could see that Wigg had been similarly affected.

  “This is not necessary!” Wigg shouted at the stalker. “Why are you doing this?”

  “We simply wish you both to remain quite still for a moment, while Scrounge and I take care of some long overdue business,” Ragnar said almost happily. “It is especially important for the prince to be held, for he has a famous habit of becoming unpleasantly athletic. Scrounge, you may go first.”

  The assassin jumped down from the throne, looking into the azure haze that curiously covered the floor. Finally recovering his arrow, he held it in his right hand as he approached the prince.

  Sweat ran into Tristan’s eyes, and his breathing came faster. He struggled desperately against the invisible bonds holding him, but it was clearly no use. If there was one thing in the world that he could not abide it was being contained or restricted. He desperately wanted the chance to circle Scrounge and actively engage him on his own terms, his dreggan slashing as he went. But locked within this unforgiving warp he had no choice but to stand frozen to the floor and let the assassin do whatever he chose. Then his eyes fixed on the yellow-tipped arrow, and his heart skipped a beat with the sudden, horrific understanding of what was about to happen. The sickening arrow was now only inches from his face.

  “Ragnar!” Wigg screamed. “I beg you, do not do this! He is the one for whom we have waited so long! Kill me if you want, but let him live!”

  “He will leave here alive, Wigg, of that you can be sure,” Ragnar said softly. “And, given the purported quality of his blood, he may not even feel the effects of the poison coursing within his system for as long as several days. But to let him live indefinitely is not something that we are prepared to do. The Tome states that he will lead the world forward to a new age. But we have other plans. We wish to do that job ourselves.”

  Tears began to run from the wizard’s eyes as he continued to plead for the life of the prince, his words the only weapons he had left. “How could you do such a thing?” he whispered incredulously. “You used to be one of us!”

  “But I am one of you no more!” Ragnar snarled back. “You helped see to that yourself.”

  Tristan struggled to muster his courage as the assassin brought the arrow close to his face. A slow and horrifying death. That was what Faegan and Wigg had told him happened when someone was scratched by a weapon coated in the brain fluid of a stalker.

  “If you want me dead, why don’t you just get it over with!” he shouted.

  “Because we do not wish for you to die quickly,” Scrounge answered. “There are many more interesting things we wish you to witness before you finally leave this earth.”

  “Before all of this is done, I shall kill you,” Tristan whispered, his voice barely audible. He spat all the saliva he could muster directly into the assassin’s face.

  Scrounge smiled and wiped off the spittle. “Still giving orders, even in the face of death!” He laughed. “I commend you! And as for your invitation to a duel, as you already know, I heartily accept.” Scrounge looked to Ragnar for permission to commence.

  Smiling, Ragnar nodded. “You may place the blade anywhere within the warp you wish,” he said.

  Scrounge walked slowly around the prince, his spurs ringing out coldly against the marble floor. He savored each moment like a cat toying with mouse—a mouse that was trapped in a corner, and could not move.

  Tristan strained uselessly against the confines of the warp as Scrounge wandered behind him, out of his sight. Then the assassin came full circle to face him.

  Slowly, carefully, Scrounge pushed the tip of the arrow through the warp, touching Tristan’s right shoulder. With a quick, unforgiving stroke he incised a straight line into the prince’s skin. Tristan’s azure blood began to well up and trickle down his arm, dripping through the haze, splattering softly onto the floor.

  Then Tristan felt the familiar itch of accelerated healing. He craned his neck to look at his shoulder, and his eyes went wide. He could literally see the wound closing. Before several more moments had gone by it was completely gone, as if Scrounge’s weapon had never touched him. Even Faegan cannot make the incantation perform so well.

  “Yes,” Ragnar said to the prince as if reading his mind. “I healed you. We couldn’t have your famous azure blood dripping all over the floors, now could we? It would have created such a mess. But I healed your skin only. Your blood is still polluted by my brain fluid.�
�� The stalker smiled, stabbing another finger into the vial of fluid and placing it into his mouth.

  “Now both of you and the Paragon you love so much will die at approximately the same time,” he said softly. “Separate phenomena, to be sure, but with the same timing and ultimate effect. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  A thousand emotions swirled through Tristan’s mind, and his chin slumped onto his chest. If Wigg and Faegan are correct, then I am surely a dead man.

  He looked at the woman named Celeste. Again he thought he could see a hint of shininess in her eyes, but perhaps it was simply the light. Turning his dark eyes to Wigg, he saw that the lead wizard was crying softly. Then Wigg raised his face and glared at the mutated blood stalker.

  “Ragnar,” Wigg breathed through his pain and hate. “He is the Chosen One. You have no idea what you have just done.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Ragnar purred back. “Things have now been set in motion, the likes of which your feeble mind could only dream of.”

  “I assume you have some type of similar fate in store for me.” Wigg now sounded resigned.

  “Similar, but not exactly the same,” Ragnar answered. “Your fate is to be special, and it is to happen now. I have had the luxury of three centuries to perfect it, and you will be impressed.”

  “Before you do whatever you intend, I have some questions,” Wigg said. “At least satisfy my curiosity.”

  “By all means ask them,” Ragnar answered politely.

  “First: the great sea, here within the Caves. Where did it come from? How is its existence possible?”

  “I cannot take full credit for the phenomenon,” Ragnar answered. “It was a by-product of the excavation needed to house the hatchlings as they matured. It seems there is an underground river that runs through this area, not unlike the falling, red waters of the first chamber that for so long supported the life of the stone. The first time an attempt was made to acquire room for the second generation of hatchlings, the unusual spring was laid bare, and it flooded the entire space, creating the sea. But rather than being red, the waters of the sea are azure, like the manifestations of the craft. I have not fully researched whether there is any connection between the two, but I shall. After all, the waters must be azure for some reason, mustn’t they? I feel there is much, much more to learn about the Caves than any of us ever expected. In fact, it is now my belief that there are worlds here, below ground, that we never knew existed.”