The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  But then her sense of self and her breathing slowly returned to normal, and she finally removed her hand from the creature’s head. Still standing before it, she adopted a stance with her legs spread slightly, her arms folded across her chest, and glared directly into the thing’s bloodred eyes.

  Neither bird nor woman flinched. It was as if the two of them had suddenly become locked within a place and time that somehow only they could inhabit. Everything about Shailiha now suggested an attitude of complete power and domination. Sensing the moment was right, Faegan terminated the warp holding the bird. Seeing the azure glow fade away, Shailiha spoke.

  “Who is it that you serve?” she asked rather harshly.

  “Only you, Mistress,” the hatchling answered dutifully, breaking its self-imposed silence for the first time since being captured.

  The hatchling called her mistress! Faegan’s mind shouted out to him. But of course it would! The Forestallments in Shailiha’s blood are of Failee’s doing, and she would have wanted all of her endowed creatures to address the princess in that way! It makes perfect sense!

  “And who are Nicholas, Ragnar, and Scrounge?” she asked, employing the second of the questions the wizards had instructed her to put to the bird.

  “I know of no such beings,” the bird answered obediently. “My entire world is only of you, my mistress.”

  We have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams! Faegan realized. Not only has her touching an endowed, winged creature of the craft enacted the Forestallment, just as it did with the fliers of the fields, but the superior quality of her blood has actually pushed out all of the hatchling’s memories of its original master. This bird will truly do our bidding.

  “I shall ask you a question,” Shailiha continued, “and you shall endeavor to respond without the use of the spoken word, using only your thoughts to reveal the answer to my mind. Tell me, hatchling, what is my name and title?” The princess closed her eyes, waiting for a response.

  And then suddenly there it was, resonating within her mind as clear as if the bird had spoken it with its tongue. Shailiha, fifth mistress of the Coven.

  She turned, repeating the answer verbatim to the wizards.

  And then she collapsed to the floor.

  Faegan rushed to her and used the craft to lift her body into a chair.

  “What is it?” Wigg shouted urgently. “What’s going on?”

  “She collapsed,” Faegan answered.

  The princess looked pale and drawn. Faegan lifted one of her eyelids, peering in. Seemingly satisfied, he closed it again. “I think she is going to be all right.”

  Shailiha stirred, then opened her eyes and sat up a little straighter, getting her bearings. “Did we succeed?” she asked thickly. Her hair was matted against one side of her face from perspiration, and she weakly hooked some of it behind her ear. “Did I really do it?” she asked again. “I cannot completely remember . . .”

  “Oh, yes,” Faegan answered her. “And to our wildest expectations. But there is still one thing I do not know. Are you able to communicate with the minds of all of the other hatchlings, or only this one before us?”

  “Only this one,” she answered, looking back at the bird in the glowing cage. “Why is that, when I can communicate with all of the fliers if I choose to?”

  Faegan paused for a moment, lost in the question. “Presumably because the magic sustaining the hatchlings is stronger,” he answered at last. “As such, your Forestallment, especially with your blood not having yet been trained, could only penetrate so far. Remember, we assume that this spell for Nicholas’ creatures came directly from the Heretics themselves. Given that premise, it is a true testament to your blood that you were able to accomplish as much as you did.”

  Shailiha slowly stood, testing her legs, then walked gingerly to the cage. “I no longer fear it,” she said rather absently. “It is mine now, heart and soul.” Wigg stood, and Shailiha went to take him by the hand.

  “Thank you, my child,” he said with shiny eyes, “for all that you have done here. But I think we should leave now. I want you to get some rest.”

  The three of them walked to the door. Before going through, Shailiha suddenly stopped, turning back to the hatchling for the last time. She commandingly trained her eyes upon the beast.

  “In my absence you are to obey these two men, and these two men only, just as you would obey me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered, lowering its head slightly in submission. Even the glowing sense of hatred that had once possessed its eyes was now gone.

  Narrowing his eyes in thought, Faegan leaned toward Shailiha’s ear and whispered something to her.

  The princess nodded and again addressed the bird. “There is one other order I have for you, and it is to be obeyed to the letter, as are all of my demands. Do you remember the Chosen One, the man without wings who brought you here?” The bird nodded. “Good,” Shailiha said. “Under no circumstances is he to become aware of your powers of speech. You are never to speak in his presence, nor to answer him should he ever ask you anything by which he might test you in this regard. And test you he will, mark my words. In addition, only the three people you see here before you are to know that you can speak. Should any others be present, anyone at all, you are to remain silent. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered. “It shall be as you order.”

  “Well done.” Wigg smiled.

  “Indeed,” Faegan added, winking. No longer having a reason to contain his delight, he levitated his chair and, cackling, whirled twice in a circle in the air before lowering himself back to solid ground. Wigg scowled. Shailiha smiled weakly.

  And then the three of them, one wizard on each side of the exhausted princess, left the room, starting down the halls.

  CHAPTER

  Forty

  When Tristan finally regained consciousness, pain wracked his entire body, and he was weak and trembling. His breathing was labored, and he was covered with perspiration. Lying on his back in the snow, as he looked up all he could see were the leafless tops of the trees, swaying gently in the wind. And then he vaguely remembered being dragged toward the woods by Ox. He could feel as much as see the Minion warrior sitting nearby in the snow, carefully watching over him.

  He tried to raise himself, but couldn’t help falling back to the ground. Immediately Ox was next to him, helping him to sit up. Then the vomiting came, and seemed to last forever. Finally feeling somewhat better, he looked over to the Minion.

  “Thank you,” he said weakly. He smiled at the warrior.

  “Ox only do what wizards say,” the warrior replied, an uncharacteristically worried look gracing his usually menacing face. “Ox again glad Chosen One lives.”

  “You dragged me here, didn’t you?” Tristan asked.

  “Ox bring here, so other Minions not see Chosen One sick. That bad for new lord of Minions.”

  Tristan noticed a strange taste in his mouth, coming from something that seemed to be lodged between two of his teeth. He liberated it and spat what looked to be a tiny piece of tree bark into the palm of his hand. “What’s this?” he asked. “Did you do this, too?”

  Ox picked up a small, wet length of tree branch. There were deep bite marks at its center. “Ox put this into Chosen One’s mouth, just as wizards say,” the Minion answered. “Keep from swallowing tongue, or Chosen One could die.” He smiled, almost sheepishly. “Chosen One almost bite Ox finger off.” He raised his eyebrows at the prince. “Ox thinking maybe wizards would have to put it back on, like foot.”

  Another faint smile came to Tristan’s lips. “How long have I been out?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head. Ox looked up between the tree branches, finding the sun.

  “It midday. You gone about five hours.”

  Five hours, Tristan thought glumly. I have now had the second of my four convulsions. I can’t begin to imagine a third. Two more, and I will be a dead man.

  Looking
down at his right arm, he saw that the menacing black veins had lengthened even farther, extending into his hand. His arm felt far more stiff and sore than before. He sat there for some time saying nothing, quietly thinking to himself before trying to stand up.

  With Ox’s help he finally came to his feet. He checked his weapons, also taking stock of where he was. Thankfully, the warrior had dragged him approximately twenty meters into the woods. Through a clear spot at the edge he could just make out the dark soil of the grave he had unearthed, and the heel tracks left in the snow. Choosing to say no more of it, Tristan began to exit the forest, Ox in tow. After walking silently past the grave, they headed for the Recluse.

  The partially constructed foundation of the blue marble rose commandingly into the air, resting squarely atop the island in the center of the magnificent lake. But as Tristan and Ox approached the first of the two drawbridges, they could see no one. Nor were there any of the normal, busy sounds of construction work, or voices ringing out through the air that would accompany an undertaking as grand as the rebuilding of a castle. Sensing something was amiss, Tristan and Ox slowly stopped. It was then that they heard the sound. Cheering.

  Turning, Tristan finally noticed a mound of earth to his right. It was approximately one hundred meters away, and covered with snow. It rose upward for about thirty meters, ran for some distance, and then descended to some depth. Looking at it, Tristan came to realize that it was a great bowl of some sort. The bowl was obviously man-made, and he was sure it had not existed at the time of Shailiha’s rescue.

  Looking quizzically to Ox, he asked, “Do you know what this is? Why is there shouting coming from it?” The hollering and cheering seemed to come in waves, rising and then subsiding, over and over again.

  “Was built after Chosen One leave first time,” Ox answered. He looked Tristan in the eyes, but it was clear he did not quite know how to proceed. “Is for Kachinaar.”

  Tristan looked back at the mound. “What is a Kachinaar?”

  “Is warrior’s vigil,” Ox said. “If one warrior accuses another, then Kachinaar held. If contest fails, then warrior guilty and killed, punishment already done. If contest succeeds, then innocent, warrior set free. Kluge use Kachinaar very much, sometimes in other ways. Traax use too.”

  Tristan’s jaw went slack. “What happens during this Kachinaar?” he asked quickly.

  “Kachinaar take many forms,” Ox said. “Best go look.”

  Tristan had originally hoped to see Traax, the second in command, in a private setting. But on the other hand, confronting a great number of the Minions at once might prove more effective. Provided, of course, that they accepted his rule over them. And besides, there seemed to be no one at the construction site to speak with, anyway.

  “All right,” he said resignedly. “But I do not want our appearances made known until I say so, do you understand?”

  Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. “I live to serve,” he said quickly. Together they started up the side of the embankment. Finally reaching the top, they looked down.

  Layered from top to bottom against the inner side of the earthen walls was row after row of blue marble seats filled with shouting and cheering Minion warriors. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was apparent to Tristan that many of them were quite drunk. The amphitheater was in the shape of an oval, rather than a circle, as he had first presumed. The floor in the center was made also of blue marble, presumably having been taken from the nearby construction site. Tristan ordered Ox to lie on his stomach behind the last row, then followed suit.

  There were perhaps a dozen Minion warriors on the floor of the amphitheater, where they seemed to be playing some kind of violent, deranged game. Arranged into two teams, each was struggling mightily to gain and keep control of some type of ball. As one warrior would gain possession of it and try to make it to the opposite side, those from the other team would use any and all means—short of weapons, he noticed—to try and take it away. There seemed to be no other rules whatsoever. Blood lay pooled in many areas upon the slick marble floor, and the bodies of several of the warriors, apparently smashed senseless from their previous participation in the game, lay inert along the sides of the ring. Some of them, unconscious and their mouths open, were quite obviously missing teeth. Others of them were splayed out in very unnatural directions, their limbs obviously broken. It was then, during a split-second break in the action, that Tristan could finally see the “ball” clearly. It was the severed head of a fellow warrior.

  Aghast, Tristan turned to Ox. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

  Ox indicated an area segregated from the others. Small and square, it held a single warrior. He was seated in a marble chair, his hands, wings, and feet bound tightly with rope. He looked extremely worried.

  “He accused,” Ox whispered back. “If team on right side take head across to opposite end three times first, then he guilty, and die. If team on left get head and take across other way three times first, then he innocent, and live.”

  Tristan shook his head back and forth in utter disbelief. “This is insane!” he snarled. “Only a proper court can make a man guilty or innocent! Besides, I outlawed this kind of behavior before I left Parthalon! Why are they disobeying me?”

  Ox looked back, an obvious expression of complete misunderstanding upon his face. “Pardon, but Chosen One wrong,” he said as courteously as he knew how. “Chosen One never outlaw Kachinaar. Ox know. Ox there that day in courtyard.” He looked back down to the bizarre game. “Is Minion way,” he added with finality, the pride in his warriorship showing through.

  Tristan thought for a moment, his mind going back to that awful day when he had slain their previous leader, subsequently being anointed the new lord of the Minions. Ox is right, he finally realized. I only outlawed those things that I knew of at the time. He looked back down at the horrific game as the warriors continued to gleefully, recklessly maim each other.

  “Why do they use the head of a warrior?” Tristan asked. “And where did it come from? Did they kill someone just to provide a head for this awful game?”

  “If two warriors accused for same crime, and first one guilty in different Kachinaar, then head brought here for second. Is only time this place used. Kachinaar in theater special, and much enjoyed. Minions like.”

  Tristan looked down again at the accused, sitting alone in the marble box. “If this man is found guilty, then how will he die?” he asked, playing along for the moment.

  Ox pointed to another segregated area at the side of the amphitheater floor. “There,” he said. “If guilty, warrior go to that.”

  Tristan’s eyes followed Ox’s thick arm.

  Lashed beneath huge rope nets, a long, black creature was being kept under tight control. Huge, sleek, and deadly looking, it had a barbed, reptilian tail and a head and face that closely resembled a rat. Pink, obscene-looking gills lay just behind its head.

  In the same area in which it was confined could be seen a rather large pile of what looked to be human bones, long since polished clean and glistening in the cold afternoon sun. Bits and tatters of what was once obviously the leather body armor of Minion warriors still somehow clung to many of them.

  “What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” he whispered urgently.

  “Swamp shrew,” Ox whispered back. “If warrior guilty, they push him down shrew throat.”

  Tristan shook his head and closed his eyes. For as long as I know the Minions of Day and Night, they will continue to amaze me, he thought. Just as with the wizards.

  He turned his attention back to the raucous game below, and to the plight of the warrior in the marble box. He knew he had to make a decision quickly, but he remained unsure of what to do.

  Suddenly the warriors stood and cheered. A player in the game had finally been able to take the severed head deep enough into the opposite team’s territory, placing it triumphantly on the f
loor of the theater for what was apparently the third and final time. His teammates ran to leap happily upon him, literally burying him with their bodies and wings.

  “Kachinaar over,” Ox said. Tristan held his breath, at first not wanting to ask.

  “Is he—”

  “Warrior innocent,” Ox answered, interrupting the prince. “Warrior live.”

  Tristan let out a thankful sigh and tried to focus again on his now-more-pressing problem. “Ox,” he whispered, “are you strong enough to carry me in your arms when you fly?”

  The huge Minion smiled, puffing out his chest. “Few that strong, but Ox able.”

  Tristan bit his lower lip, thinking. It would definitely create a dramatic entrance, he thought. That is exactly what I need. And now would be the perfect time. It was then that he saw Traax.

  Traax had left his seat and was walking toward the validated warrior, apparently to free him. Tristan took in Traax’s tall, muscular stature and the fact that he was one of the few Minions he had ever seen who was clean-shaven. Younger and more handsome than Kluge had been, Traax wore his long, dark hair tied in the back with a piece of black leather. The Minion commander drew his dreggan, and the familiar ring of its blade drifted through the theater. He expertly severed the Minion’s bonds with a few sure strokes, then took him into a congratulatory bear hug. The entire crowd leapt to their feet at once, arms waving in the air. Minion ale and wine slopped over many of the warriors’ heads and the amphitheater seats. The cheering was deafening.

  “Ox,” he said quickly, “pick me up and fly me around the theater twice, then land us in the center, directly before Traax.”

  “I live to serve,” the warrior said. Picking Tristan up, Ox snapped open his strong, leathery wings. Taking a few quick steps down the other side of the embankment, he launched himself into the air.

  Tristan was mesmerized by his first experience of flight. The cold wind in his face was bracing, the sensation of freedom wonderfully intoxicating. Ox soared higher, his strong wings carrying them around the perimeter of the theater. Many of the Minions began to point into the air at them, shouting among themselves. Finally completing the two turns ordered by the prince, Ox swooped to the center of the amphitheater floor and landed gently. He let the prince down directly in front of Traax.