The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  They tore into the people in the square, both the living and the dead, like a rolling sea of death.

  Scrounge smiled at the incredible scene below him. Some of the carrion scarabs scrambled quickly over the dead, and then seemed to slow down, busying themselves atop the eviscerated bodies. The others clambered up the feet and legs of the living, their victims’ bodies and faces quickly becoming black with their numbers. The curved, black fangs tore relentlessly into the screaming victims, who fell to the bloody square, dying slowly and horribly as the scarabs consumed their living flesh.

  When all of the humans were dead, many of the beetles began congregating around the bodies that had been disemboweled. And then it became almost quiet, and the carrion scarabs started going about the second of their tasks.

  As Scrounge watched in fascination, the female scarabs began to lay thousands of white, slippery, glistening eggs directly into the warm body cavities of the dead.

  Each of the eggs, about the size of a child’s marble, came slowly from the females’ bodies, falling gently into the soft, warm abdomens of the dead men, women, and children. When a cavity became completely filled, the females would go on to the next, and then the next. When the grisly task had finally been completed, about half of the carrion scarabs marched away. The other half formed a protective ring around the dead, presumably waiting for their eggs to hatch.

  Satisfied, Scrounge looked down at the ruined city a final time, then wheeled his bird around to face the others hovering nearby. Once they gathered into proper formation, he gave them a nod of his head, and the entire flight of hatchlings soared away, melting into the blackness of the sky.

  A shadow moved within the recesses of the top of the bell tower, one of the few buildings not completely consumed by flame. And then the shadow moved again.

  Caprice, Shailiha’s graceful violet-and-yellow flier of the fields, her wings folded, finally revealed herself, walking tentatively along the ledge that lay just below the great bell. She looked down upon the carnage of the square, and then to the still-blazing remnants of the once-great city of Ilendium.

  For a moment she bowed her head, as if an overpowering sadness had come to her. And then, sensing that the danger for her had passed, she launched herself into the air. Her diaphanous wings began carrying her to the west, carefully following the hatchlings.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-one

  Nicholas, his eyes closed and his body naked, hovered high above the floor in the darkness of the antechamber. The azure glow of the vein surrounded him, running brightly through the walls. He extended his arms at his sides, and the light from the ribbon of energy glistened brightly against the pale, white skin of his perfect, muscled body. His mind turned commandingly, proudly to the awesome power and knowledge that he had already attained. Of the Vigors and the Vagaries alike.

  He tilted his head back, and his long, dark hair fell toward the floor as he revolved in the brilliant atmosphere of the subterranean room. He had come here after having been instructed to do so earlier this day. After his parents above had again revealed themselves to his mind.

  This time their voices had been much stronger, much clearer than the time before. So too was his grasp of the craft. And this day he would come another step closer to that which would eventually become their means to conquer. He would continue to absorb the power of the Paragon, and imbue it into a single being. Himself.

  Before commencing he smiled, allowing himself the luxury of returning to the earlier moment this day, when the ones from above had again called out to his mind.

  Nicholas, he had heard. Nicholas, it is we. We who exist on the other side. Those who remain in perpetual struggle with the Ones Who Came Before. Your parents above, the true masters of the Vagaries. Hear us now when we tell you that you have done well, but that there is still much more to be accomplished before we may return to the land of the living. And it is only you, our messenger on earth, who can make this possible.

  Continuing to revolve in the light, he thought back to the time when his consciousness had first materialized. The moment when he had found himself unearthed from a shallow grave, reborn in azure hands that had arrived so mysteriously from above. And then had come the flight skyward, ever skyward, cradled in those same delicate hands. He had emerged from the fog and gloom of his quasi-life to arrive before the serene masters—the ones who were the ultimate bringers of light and knowledge. Trapped in the firmament and in constant struggle with those who cherished only the Vigors, his parents could not accomplish all they desired by themselves. And so they had sent him.

  And as his time with them passed, they imbued his exquisite blood with the necessary Forestallments. But in order to employ their magnificent gifts, he would first have to harness the dynamism of the stone, for they required unheard-of power.

  The vein in the walls began to undulate more strongly, pulsing with energy. As its glow increased, Nicholas revolved faster, his body turning gracefully in the light. And then, his eyes still closed, he commanded gashes to open along the inside of each of his wrists. As he turned, small amounts of his blood began to run from the incisions, soaring outward and casting strangely concentric patterns on the walls and floor of the room. Finally opening his eyes, he looked down to regard the blood that was so prized: the glowing, unequalled, azure blood he had inherited from the male of the Chosen Ones.

  From this time forward you shall absorb the power differently, the voices from above had said. This time you will take the power directly into your blood. You are strong enough now. But you must take the vitality little by little as it leaves the stone, giving your blood time to adjust. For to do so all at once, even for you, would mean certain death. And even though you absorb both sides of the craft, it is forbidden for you to try to use them in concert with one another. Only we hold that key.

  As he called upon the energy of the vein, its magnificence slowly poured out onto the floor of the antechamber in its other form—the liquid, unadulterated power of the Paragon. Small pools of it developed as it slithered forth. Twisting and turning with a life of its own, it seemed to desperately want to join with his exposed blood. It writhed into a whirlpool, rising slowly into the air beneath the young adept. Nicholas held his wrists out to it, begging it to come closer.

  A great cracking noise occurred, the vein converting itself to bolts of azure energy. The bolts struck the incisions in his wrist with blinding speed, and the young man screamed and screamed again.

  And then the glow softened, the bolts dying away as Nicholas revolved more slowly in the silence of the room. Unconscious, he crashed the distance to the floor of the chamber.

  As he slowly regained his senses, he came to all fours. He was unhurt, but his chest was heaving, his blood more alive than ever with the power of the craft. He knew he had been successful. Although aware that he had as yet absorbed only a portion of the dynamic of the stone, he felt more arrant than ever. He raised his hands, and laughed aloud as he caused the incisions to vanish, the azure waves of strength cascading to and from between his palms in an awesome display of his newfound power.

  You are to become the vessel into which both sides shall be poured, his parents above had told him. Hold them for us until our return. For just as the Chosen One was to have been the emissary of the Ones Who Came Before, you are to be ours. It was the Chosen One himself who gave you to us, when he took you from the dead womb of the sorceress. And soon enough he will see the gravity of his error.

  The young man smiled again, thinking how true all of their revelations had been, and how anxious he was for them to display their remaining magnificence to him.

  But you are not to venture forth into the light until you are the same age as the other of azure blood, they had said. To walk among your enemies now would provide too great a temptation, even for you. You would be drawn to attempt joining the two sides of the craft, without doubt destroying all that we have sought to attain. Even you would not be able to resist this call, just a
s the first mistress of the Coven, in all her experience, could not. But it shall soon be time for you to take your place in the world above. And own it all.

  Smiling, Nicholas turned, and glided from the room.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-two

  Holding her baby close, Shailiha stood with Faegan and Wigg on the balcony of Queen Morganna’s once-sumptuous bedroom above the Redoubt, waiting for the coming dawn. The queen’s familiar but now-ransacked chambers in the royal palace had at first conjured up a great many memories for the princess. Especially of the time that she, Tristan, and her mother had been here, not so long ago, taking tea—the day Morganna had given the prince the gold medallion he still wore around his neck, an exact copy of the one Shailiha wore.

  At first, the memories had made Shailiha cry. But she had forced the tears away, determined to do all she could to help her brother.

  She was terribly worried about Tristan. His violent convulsion in the Hall of Blood Records had been a revelation, showing her for the first time how ill he really was. Once the attack had subsided, Wigg and Faegan had taken the prince, still unconscious, to his quarters, and put him to bed. Martha and Celeste were keeping watch over him, for the wizards had said that once the episode was finished, there was little more they could do. They believed that he would eventually awaken on his own, and they had instructed Martha to immediately alert them when that happened.

  Shailiha had remained by his bed the entire night, crying, afraid the twin brother she loved so much would never come back to her. Finally, with the advent of dawn, she had decided to accompany the wizards in their task.

  She turned her attention from the horizon, looking back to the smashed, violated room. One of the great looms that her mother had loved to sit before was still there, but the half-finished tapestry that was to have been her gift to the king had long since been stolen, as had virtually everything else of value. Dust and debris lay everywhere. As if they somehow knew themselves to be the new masters of the castle, an occasional rat or spider could be seen brazenly going about the business of hunting food. She shuddered. Tristan, please come back to us.

  She was standing between Wigg on her left, and Faegan on her right. The sun was just starting to come up over the hills beyond, bringing the promise of a cold but beautiful day. The birds had begun to sing, and the ground shimmered with frost, foreshadowing the coming of snow. Indeed everything from the balcony outward, in direct contrast to the room behind her, looked almost idyllic.

  Just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, casting its sharp, golden spears toward the balcony, Faegan spoke. “It is now the beginning of high noon in Parthalon,” he said, “and it is time for me to begin.”

  Closing his eyes, he commenced the spell that would produce the portal. Slowly Shailiha could begin to see the swirling glow appear, heralding the portal’s coming. On and on it came, until the entire balcony was covered by a brilliantly glowing vortex. The strain of holding it open showed on Faegan’s face.

  “Will he be all right?” the concerned princess whispered to Wigg. “It looks to be a terrible strain.”

  “It is,” Wigg answered softly. “Do not attempt to speak to him or otherwise distract him during this use of the craft.” Understanding, Shailiha nodded back.

  The moments passed slowly, the sun continuing its climb in the east.

  At last, Shailiha thought she saw a flutter in the vortex. Geldon slowly appeared from the mist, and immediately fell to his knees. Following behind him came Joshua, also obviously dizzy and disoriented. Shailiha placed her hand over her mouth in horror, not wanting to believe what she saw. The consul was holding a glowing, severed foot.

  Lastly from the azure whirlpool came something that Shailiha had seen but did not remember—something Faegan had never seen. A huge, armed, bizarre-looking man with wings fell to his knees upon the floor of the balcony. His wings flapped weakly as if trying to help him regain his balance. He was holding a crutch, which he placed beneath his armpit to assist him in standing on his good foot. Shailiha could only stare, frozen in the moment.

  As Faegan opened his eyes, he sent a bolt of the craft toward the new arrival, surrounding him within a brilliant wizard’s cage.

  “That will not be necessary,” Joshua said quickly, taking his first real step forward. “This warrior is an ally.”

  “He is right,” Geldon finally said. He walked around everyone and into the room. “He is a friend.”

  “What is going on?” Wigg shouted out in frustration. “Who is there?”

  “Geldon, Joshua, and of all things what I assume to be a Minion warrior,” the wizard in the chair answered drily. “Assuming, of course, that your previous descriptions of them have been accurate.” It was clear he had no intention of eliminating his wizard’s cage any time soon.

  Shailiha took in the huge size of the warrior, and his long, dark hair and unkempt beard. Her eyes then went to the dreggan lying peacefully at the warrior’s hip. A shiny wheel—a weapon, from what she could tell—hung at his other side. His right foot had been severed cleanly at the ankle. Despite his fearsome appearance, she could not help but feel a small measure of pity for his plight. Accepting his fate, he stared silently out between the shiny bars of his cage.

  “Are you sure?” Faegan asked condescendingly of the consul. He knew that he had little to fear from the single warrior contained within the cube, but wanted answers first. “A one-footed Minion warrior is not something that we are accustomed to seeing. It appears that you and Geldon have some explaining to do.”

  Joshua was about to speak, but then he saw the lead wizard’s eyes. “What happened?” he asked urgently, walking closer to Wigg. He looked carefully into the wizard’s face, then frantically back to Faegan. “Is he—”

  “Yes,” Faegan interrupted angrily. “He is blind. It is a long story, and one that we shall eventually share with you. But first, what is the meaning of bringing this warrior back to Eutracia? Have you gone mad?” Faegan’s gray-green eyes burned with an angry intensity that Shailiha had not yet seen.

  “He was injured beyond their abilities to heal him,” Joshua began apologetically. “And the courageous service he provided in the slaying of the swamp shrew was highly commendable. It seemed only fitting that we try to—”

  “A swamp shrew?” Faegan shouted, his eyes wide. “Do you mean to tell me that there are shrews in Parthalon?”

  “Uh, er, yes,” Geldon answered, both surprised at the wizard’s words and hoping to deflect some of his wrath away from the hapless consul. “They appeared in conjunction with a number of lakes and ponds. The Minions are trying their best to hunt the shrews down and kill them, but it is exceedingly difficult.”

  Shailiha looked at Wigg. His lips were pursed in contemplation, rather than surprise. Then she turned back to Faegan.

  “What is a ‘swamp shrew,’ ” she asked, “and how is it that you are familiar with them? You have never been to Parthalon.”

  “The shrews once roamed Eutracia,” he told her. “Yet another of the Coven’s tools. Obviously the sorceresses employed them in Parthalon, as well. Possibly they prepared an incantation to make the swamp shrews reappear in the event of their own absence.”

  “So the incantation would have been activated by the sorceresses’ deaths,” Shailiha guessed.

  “Exactly,” Faegan said, smiling at her quick grasp of the situation, as well as her growing ability to accept the seemingly impossible.

  Shailiha glanced at the Minion warrior just in time to see him look over her shoulder and suddenly go down on one knee, bowing his head. And then, from somewhere behind her, she heard the unforgiving, dangerous ring of sharpened steel.

  “I live to serve,” the Minion said reverently, his head still bowed in supplication. Whirling around, the princess gasped as she saw who was there. It was Tristan.

  Standing in the doorway of the room, his dreggan drawn, Tristan glowered dangerously at the warrior in the cage. His chest rose and fell q
uickly beneath his worn, black leather vest. No one spoke; no one moved.

  Shailiha’s eyes became shiny with sadness as she looked closer. This was not quite the Tristan she knew. He was a bit paler, the look in his dark blue eyes more intense and angry. And then her eyes went wide, and she involuntarily placed one hand over her mouth.

  A bizarre pattern of what looked like dark, spiderweblike veins covered the upper part of his arm.

  Tristan took several quick, measured steps toward the wizard’s cage, pointing his dreggan at the warrior who was still on one knee, trapped inside. “What is he doing here?” he demanded angrily.

  “As I was telling the wizards, his foot is severed,” Joshua said carefully. “It was beyond my powers to help him, other than preserving both the foot and the leg in their current state. We brought him here for healing. Under the circumstances, we thought it fitting.”

  Tristan continued to stare at the winged one in the cage. He thought of the Minions’ violation of his country, the butchering of the Directorate, and the rape and murder of his mother. Of how they had forced him to take his father’s life on the altar of the Paragon with the very sword he now held. Of the Vale of Torment, where they had slowly tortured the gentle Gallipolai upon the monstrous, turning wheels of death. And lastly to the battle he had fought with Kluge, finally acquiring his long-sought-after revenge.