The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Martha looked up into Duncan’s gentle face, watching his long, gray hair move softly in the wind. Seeing the disappointment in his dark brown eyes, she already knew the answer to her coming question. “There is still no one?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No,” Duncan replied. “I have had no contact with any of my brotherhood for weeks now. It is as if they have all somehow vanished. There should have been many of them who would have wished to come here—needed to come here. And yet not a single consul has visited for weeks. I fear that many of the girls’ growing questions will be even more difficult to put off as the unexplained absences of their fathers become ever more mysterious.” He paused for a moment, then continued as if finally coming to some internal decision.

  “I did not wish to disturb you with this, my dear,” he said, “but it may become necessary for me to return to the Redoubt. I simply must try to discover what is going on. These are virtually unprecedented times. I fear that most of the Directorate is dead—slaughtered by the hideous creatures with wings from across the sea. But it is rumored that Wigg still somehow lives. If that is the case, he will know what to do.”

  He watched two of the girls as they tossed leaves at each other, laughing in the sun. Several of the older ones stood by, talking in hushed, private tones as they watched their friends engaged in what they perceived to be the very height of childishness. “I simply cannot believe that the lead wizard, provided he lives, has forgotten us,” Duncan added. “Or why this place exists.”

  “The food grows short, Duncan,” Martha said back to him softly. “By now the Directorate and the consuls would have normally filled our larder for the coming Season of Crystal. But this year no one has come. Perhaps it would be better if we took all of the children back to Tammerland. We could leave a scroll behind for any of their fathers who might arrive, to inform them of what we have done.” She turned her head to look at the Sippora River, watching it lazily flow by a short distance away. “If the river freezes early this year, as I fear it shall, it will make the use of supply boats impossible. Then any food would have to come to us overland from the Redoubt. Don’t forget the several years when the snow drifts on Farplain have been too deep, for even horses to make it through.”

  “I have considered this,” Duncan answered seriously. “But the impracticality of taking the girls away from here is overwhelming. The children would have to march at least as far as the city of Tanglewood before we found any relief—and given the trouble in the realm, we don’t know what we may or may not find there. Besides, with over fifty children here, we could never carry enough food for the journey. If we tried north, Ilendium is no closer, and even farther away from the Redoubt. And the stalkers and harpies are still rumored to exist. Our ultimate charge is the protection of the children, and the risk to them in such an undertaking would simply be too great.”

  He turned around to look up at the dark, jagged, impossibly high peaks of the Tolenka Mountains only two leagues away. They had always seemed yet another constant reminder of their seclusion. Our backs literally to the wall, he thought sadly.

  “This sanctuary was placed here between the Tolenkas and the Sippora River for a reason, my love,” he said gently. “You know that. What we have accomplished here over the last three decades has helped to secure the survival of the craft. Even more so now, in these times of trouble. We have every right to be proud. But in return for this honor we have paid the price of secrecy. Now that the entire Directorate may be dead and none of the few consuls who know of us have visited for weeks, we may be forced to fend for ourselves. Just as so many of our fellow citizens are now doing.”

  Duncan turned to look at the small stone castle in which he, Martha, and so many different children had lived. It stood peacefully just to the north, in the shade of the trees. “The Directorate built this place so that the craft might live,” he said quietly. “But we are only overseers, charged with trying to do our duty. Therefore, I must do what I feel to be in the best interests of the children. If I leave now, by boat, I can be in Tammerland in perhaps five or six days. Far more quickly than if I go by horse. I do not wish to leave you alone, my love, but I now see it to be the only way.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “There is another reason for me not to take the horse,” he said softly.

  “And that is?” she asked.

  He turned to her with sad eyes. “If you run out of food, you must kill him and eat him. But try to do so without telling the children.”

  Still refusing to believe that such a necessity could befall them, Martha turned to look at the rowboat that was always tied to the tree near the banks of the rushing Sippora. Since he loved to fish, Duncan had used the boat often. He had always preferred to do it the normal way, with pole and line, rather than being aided by the craft. She smiled to herself, remembering the day not so long ago when, to amuse her, he had employed his gift to make a dozen or more multicolored Eutracian trout literally jump into the boat. He had then quickly released them, saying that the process had not been fair and that it went against the teachings of the Vigors. Just one more of the many things she so loved about him.

  But he had never made so long a trip in his boat as attempting to reach Tammerland, and that worried her. They had always known in their hearts that such a day might come. But as happens with things that threaten to invade one’s life and mind, her consciousness had always sheered away from such a possibility, preferring to dwell upon her love for him and the children they protected.

  “There is yet another reason why I must go,” Duncan said concernedly, breaking into her thoughts.

  Detecting the worried tone in his voice, she turned to him. “And that is?” she asked.

  “I am slowly losing my ability to perform the craft,” he said.

  She looked at him aghast. They had endured much together, but an impossibility such as Duncan losing his gifts had never occurred to her.

  “How can that be?” she whispered back to him, making sure the children could not hear.

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “But if I am losing my gifts, then perhaps so are others of trained, endowed blood. We could be left in a world without magic. The very idea is almost inconceivable. It is therefore not only for you and the children that I must go, but also for the sake of the craft itself. I need to reach the Redoubt before I become useless in my gifts, and they can no longer aid me in my journey.”

  “You will go tomorrow, won’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer to her question.

  “Yes,” he replied, letting out a long sigh. “But before then I will provide as many fish and as much fresh game for you and the children as I can, and I will enchant it to stay edible for you, for at least as long as my powers hold out.” Despite the situation, he managed a smile for her. “It should be interesting to see how many trout I can make jump into the boat this time, don’t you think?” he asked. “I can tell you remember that day, don’t you, my love?”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  But suddenly she felt him stiffen next to her, as darkness filled the sky.

  Quickly turning, Duncan gazed upward. Then he whirled back around to Martha with terror in his face and a life-or-death urgency in his voice. “Get the girls into the castle! Now!” he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Hurry!”

  Gathering up her skirts, she immediately ran to the children. Many of the girls were already huddled together, looking into the sky and starting to scream. Seeing this, she too stopped for the briefest of moments, looking above herself.

  There were hundreds of them, and she had never before seen their like. As they came closer and the hideousness of their forms came into sharper view, she immediately scooped up two of the smaller girls, screaming orders to the others to run with her back to the castle. Finally overcoming their initial shock, the children did as they were told, running as fast as they could back to the dark gray building that was their home. But they were too slow.

  Martha was knocked to the ground by
one of the awful things. As she landed, the air left her lungs in a rush. The two girls she had been carrying went flying, landing some distance away in the grass. Amid the screams and crying of the panic-stricken children, all she could do was look up, trying to breathe again, and watch it all happen.

  The great birds with the awful, leathery wings were descending by the hundreds. Duncan was already surrounded.

  The aging consul started to raise his arm, but it was already too late. One of the birds cut Duncan’s head away from his shoulders with a single, powerful stroke of a sword. The consul’s body collapsed to the ground as if it had been made of paper, his precious, endowed blood spraying out, landing everywhere.

  Martha tried frantically to get up, slipping back down to the bloody grass twice before finally finding her feet. Tears running down her face in torrents, she tried to run to her husband. But then she found herself caught up from behind in the iron grip of yet another of the hideous things with wings. It was then that she saw what the birds were doing to her girls.

  As the frantic, screaming children ran in every direction, the great birds were landing upon them, grasping them in their long, black claws. The children struggled mightily, screaming hysterically in what was now a single, uncontrolled chorus of terror. But it was no use. As each of them was gathered up, the bird holding her called immediately out to the others in victory and then flew south, eventually disappearing into the afternoon sky. Oddly, she noticed, the birds seemed to be taking great care not to harm them.

  In no time, all of the children had vanished. Perhaps one hundred or so of the awful attackers remained standing in the grassy field before the castle. All around her, the wind buffeted about the remnants of the once-happy, laughing children: Some of their small, orphaned shoes and the occasional torn, lonely article of lost clothing tumbled across the grass or flapped helplessly in the gathering wind.

  The girls. Her girls. Carried away.

  A strange kind of quiet crouched over the scene, the horrible birds standing very still as if waiting for something else to happen. Their terrible, scarlet eyes stared at her menacingly. And then, through her tears, Martha saw something else that would remain in her memories forever.

  Another pinprick in the afternoon sky began to form. Low and near the horizon, it grew larger by the moment. As it came into view, she could see that it was yet another of the strange birds. But this one was carrying a rider.

  The bird approached slowly, spreading its wings to land expertly upon its powerful lower legs. Like the others, it had arms, wore black gauntlets upon its wrists, and carried a sword at its hip. But this one also wore a wide, black leather collar around its neck. The back of the collar had loops for its rider to hold onto. Having finally settled, the great bird bent down, the figure atop it rather unceremoniously slinging one leg over the thing’s back and gracefully sliding to the ground.

  Through her terror and grief, Martha saw the tall, lean figure approach. She took in the angular face, aquiline nose, and long dark hair that ran down to his jawline. His clothes were of brown leather, and a highly unusual, miniature crossbow adorned the top of his right forearm. As he stepped closer she could hear the jangling, disconcerting sound of spurs. His dark, careful eyes took her in. Finally he stopped before her, examining her in the fading light of the afternoon as though she were some unusual creature he had just paid to see at one of the province fairs.

  The man smiled. “Martha, is it not?” he asked almost politely. “Head mistress of this, the place known only to the privileged few as Fledgling House. Wife of the consul Duncan, of the House of Janaar, acting headmaster.” The man looked about, finally focusing on the small castle nearby.

  “A novel idea, this place, I must say,” he went on nastily. “But quite obviously its time has come and gone. And the girls, Martha! Those oh-so-bright girls! The charges you and your husband failed so miserably to protect, now proving to be exactly what we needed. We thank you. And you have been here so long, haven’t you, my dear? But all of that is about to change.”

  Martha’s lower lip quivered so badly that she could hardly speak. Her legs were weak from fear and exhaustion. She looked to the headless corpse of her husband as it lay in its own blood. The only man in the world she had ever loved—butchered at her feet, gone forever.

  “Why?” she finally whispered, her voice cracking with the strain. “Why is my husband dead, and where have you taken the children? When the Directorate hears of this abomination—”

  “Oh, but there is no Directorate, my dear,” the man said. “Or haven’t you heard? Wigg is the only survivor of that ill-fated group. He’s in hiding in the belly of the Redoubt with another wizard, named Faegan, who is little more than a helpless cripple. They’re there with the prince, who is a wanted man for the ruthless murder of his father, the late king. They are a very unsavory group, to be sure. But you will be seeing them all soon enough, I promise you.”

  The man then removed a parchment from his vest and unrolled it. Producing a quill, he walked to Duncan’s body. Reaching down, he filled the quill with blood and began to write. Martha thought she would vomit.

  Noticing her weakness, the man said, “Oh, please forgive me, my dear, but I find that endowed blood makes for the finest of writing fluids. It flows so evenly, you see. But first one must wait a bit for the blood to die. Otherwise it keeps trying to form its own patterns.” And with that he finished his ghastly handiwork.

  He rolled the parchment into a scroll, tied it with a red ribbon, and handed it to her. She wanted to refuse, but the look in his eyes finally made her take it into her trembling hands.

  “You are to be taken to the Redoubt,” he said, “where the wizards and the traitorous prince hide. One of my hatchlings will fly you there. Upon arriving you will be deposited at a great boulder, near the royal palace. Simply touch the stone at its top and it will roll away, allowing you entrance to the tunnels. You are to give this scroll to the prince, with my compliments.” The man in leather smiled once more, wickedly. “He and I are old friends.”

  Martha simply stared at both the man and the creatures he controlled as if they had all just arrived from another world. The man then turned to another of his birds. This one had a broad leather saddle strapped to its back.

  “Do you understand your orders?” the man asked the hatchling sternly. “If she falls off and dies, or if the scroll is lost, you pay for your mistake with your life.”

  “I understand, my lord,” it answered obediently.

  Martha was then roughly picked up by several of the winged things and deposited on the hatchling’s back. Not knowing what else to do, she gripped the scroll and the saddle pommel for all she was worth as her tears streamed down her face. After climbing on the back of his own hatchling, the man with the spurs and the crossbow wheeled his bird around to look at her for the final time.

  “Follow my instructions to the letter, Martha,” he said quietly, his dark eyes boring directly into hers. “Or the girls shall be forfeit for your failings.” With that he spurred his great bird into the sky. The many others followed him, their wings again blotting out the sun.

  The hatchling Martha was astride then gently lifted itself up and away. Desperately trying to hang on, she felt the bird beneath her turn south, to Tammerland.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  As Wigg, Tristan, and Celeste neared the Redoubt, Shailiha ran to Faegan, joyously telling him that Caprice and her squadron had found them. But after another message from the flier, the princess’ joy quickly faded. Apparently things were not as secure as they had at first seemed.

  Wigg was injured, and there were now three people returning, not just two. The third person was female, but unknown to Caprice.

  Faegan made sure the fliers would return well ahead of Tristan, Wigg, and the stranger they were apparently traveling with. The unknown woman had him worried. He considered barring all three from entrance into the Redoubt until he knew more. But if Wigg had been
injured, he might well need immediate help.

  Finally Faegan decided he had no choice but to allow all three of them entrance. When he and Shailiha first saw Wigg’s eyes and then the beautiful stranger known as Celeste, they were horrified and surprised at the same time.

  After examining Wigg, Faegan took him away to a separate room. After an agonizingly long period the wizards emerged, stating that the five of them, including Celeste, were going to another location in the Redoubt. They gave no explanation why, but quickly led everyone away. Tristan and Wigg then spent the next several hours discussing their experiences with Faegan and Shailiha.

  So much had happened in so short a time span that Tristan, his sister, and even the wizards seemed at a loss. They did not know how to control, even in the most minute sense, the horrific events they had all been caught up in.

  Tristan looked around, taking in the grandeur of the magnificent chamber in which they now sat. The room was huge—perhaps larger than any of the others he had seen in the Redoubt. The floor and ceiling were of black Ephyran marble. Completely encompassing each of the four walls were row after row of very wide mahogany pull drawers, each with its own elaborate, solid-gold handle. The drawers were labeled with gold plaques, but the prince was too far away to read what was engraved on them.

  The table at which the five of them sat on elegantly upholstered, high-backed chairs was huge, of highly polished, inlaid mahogany—one of many such tables here. Soft light was supplied by large, solid-gold oil lamps. A certain indefinable mustiness hung in the air. It was as if the ancient odor somehow knew that there were people in the room, and was trying to share its secrets with them.