The Gate of Fang and Thorn

by R. M Garino

  A grinding of stone on stone pulled him alert in less than the span of a heartbeat.

  El'Cain sends his regards, a voice sent, soft and reassuring. Help comes. Make your way toward the mountain. We will meet you there.

  Logan flinched and grasped his head. He almost lost his grip on his sin'del. The agony caused by the telepathic sending drove a spike of pain into his forehead and caused his stomach to churn. It passed in a moment, and he fought against gasping for breath.

  He focused on the words and willed his pulse to slow.

  "El'Cain sends his regards." That was one of the most common codes amongst the Areth'kon, a favorite to relieve a graduate on duty at the Ledge. It was used to indicate the presence of an ally. Hearing the familiar phrase gave him hope. It was too simple for a code, more of a colloquialism, for the enemy to know and use against him. Only someone trained at the Vaults and the Gates knew it.

  "Make your way to the mountain," the voice said. He glanced to his right, where the ledge abutted the towering granite face.

  His decision made, he crept along the base of the wall and cast the occasional glance to the ledge above. It appeared that his transit was unnoticed.

  He stopped close to where the ledge met the swell of the mountain, his sword raised to the first guard position. A figure stepped from the shadowed recess in the wall and beckoned him forward. Logan saw their sin'del clear, though it was held close to their bodies. He did not question the apparition, and darted into the opening.

  The passage opened up several steps in, and Logan had the impression of numerous bodies in the space around him. He sensed their sin’dels, though they were subdued. The space darkened. A soft click indicated that the entrance was sealed.

  He was trapped.

  He tensed his muscles, ready to defend against the coming attack.

  Several soul lamps blossomed to life near the ceiling, and the room brightened. He stood in a large, hewn cavern reminiscent of the House barracks back at the Gates complex. There were several different terraced levels, with numerous openings leading off in different directions.

  About him stood an array of Lethen’al. They were battered and grim, their clothing and visages well-worn and often mended. Nevertheless, there was an air of military precision and cleanliness about them and the way they stood. In less than a heartbeat, he ascertained that they commanded the fields of fire within this space.

  Logan remained in the waiting stance, his blade at the ready. One of the Lethen’al saluted him, her fist pressed over her heart.

  “Well met, Yearling,” one of the females said. "You have wandered far."

  She was not as tall as he was, but held herself with an air of authority. Her strawberry blonde hair was held in an elaborate braid.

  Their weapons and armor, he noted, looked well cared for.

  Now that the welcome was made, they released the hold on their sin’dels, and the room brightened further.

  Logan did not respond, nor drop his guard.

  "It is customary to offer thanks after a rescue," she said, her countenance darkening. "Or at least a name."

  “My thanks for your assistance. I am Logan Fel’Mekrin, son to Lucien and Endeara Fel'Mekrin, and heir to my House."

  Several of the Lethen’al snapped to attention, crossed both arms over their chests and bowed from the waist. Each of them had the dark hair prominent in his family.

  She offered him a nod and studied him a moment longer. “Have you missed the extraction, Logan?”

  With a well-practiced flourish, he switched his sword to his other hand. He then activated his display, which caused the Lethen’al to exchange speculative glances. The path was illuminated by a purple line. The numeric counter still descended, and the seconds fell away. The gate had not yet opened, but his time was running out.

  "No," he said, "I am still on target."

  Best he kept his true state of affairs to himself.

  “Who might you be?” He had yet to sheath his sword, and he had no intention of doing so. For now, it was enough to keep the naked blade in plain view. By his count, it was possible to cut down at least three of them before the others were able to draw. The archers in the galleries above poised a different problem. He reassessed his chances here. It was possible to cut two down before the arrows felled him.

  The female watched him, her brow furrowed, as if she guessed his intention. He stopped his appraisal of their position, and returned his attention to her. Her chin lifted a trifle, and he had the definite sense that she weighed the costs and benefits of her assistance.

  "I am Brigit, formerly of House Kal'Parev," she said with the conclusion of her scrutiny. She spread her hands out to indicate the others. “We are the Lost Guard,”

  Logan raised an eyebrow and tried to place the title. He knew every corps and division within the Areth’kon and was able to recite them by rote. He never heard of such a group.

  His thoughts must have shown in his sin’del, and Brigit smiled at his confusion.

  “We are the remnants of those who were lost to the Sur,” she said. “Unable to return home, we have survived here, and made this place our home.”

  The revelation made Logan wary, and he lifted his sword a fraction.

  “I have met others of your kind,” he said. Now, at last, the truth was revealed. They were unable to hide what they were any longer. They too would vanish into the earth once he struck them down.

  Brigit’s face turned sad, and she shook her head. “That was not us you met. Our company has not separated nor left our sanctuary in days. I am guessing that you encountered others in your travels? Those, then, were creatures of the Sur.”

  “So you would have me believe.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “Did you note their sin’del?” another Lethen’al asked. This speaker wore no weapon, and had the stance and bearing of a Mala'kar, but was so thin as to appear a weakling. Logan knew better. He encountered fighters like this before. He suspected that he was plenty strong, and frightfully fast. His appraisal finished, he considered the question. He too, had the look of a Fel’Mekrin about him.

  “They hid them,” he said.

  “No one can hide a sin'del that well. They simply did not have one,” Brigit corrected. “Those are called the Lifeless. It is a favorite trick of the Sur. The bodies of fallen Lethen’al are prized vessels here. They are possessed by the spirits that dwell in this place, binding any si'ru that are trapped here. They are half formed beings that can neither talk nor think, but can mimic that which they are shown. Be glad it was not a Lo’ademn that possessed them. The first is quickly dispatched, but the others watch and learn. They are harder to beat. Most Lethen'al that encounter them do not survive.”

  "I did."

  “Heir to House Fel’Mekrin, indeed,” the thin one said. His sin’del shone with satisfaction.

  Brigit shrugged. “We do not hold to the old allegiances too tightly here."

  That would explain why the last two he faced pushed him harder than the others, Logan thought. The Lifeless did not talk. He allowed himself to relax.

  “Have you eaten?” Brigit said. “We have provisions, though our fare is not the best. Shrulk is an acquired taste. They decompose slower here than in the Patresilen, and hunger makes them palatable.”

  "I still have my own rations." Logan recused himself from the feast. "I do not wish to take what little you have."

  They are real, he thought. It struck him as odd. He already accepted them for who they claimed to be.

  “I would love to sit and get warm, if even for a moment,” he continued.

  “Then let us sit.” Brigit led him down the steps formed in the stone. “You can tell us of the world we have lost.”

  Logan sat before the fire, but kept close to the wall so as to face them all and protect his flank.

  Just in case.

  "Are the Lifeless common?" he said once Brigit was seated.

  "Far too common." She tossed a hunk of wood onto
the fire.

  “The Sur is a place of lies,” the thin Yearling said. “Getting careless gets you dead.”

  “Relax Garrett,” Brigit said. “You’re getting all maudlin again, and we haven’t even started drinking.”

  “You drink?”

  “We wish,” another said from the back of the group.

  “It is a joke of sorts,” Garrett added. “Helps remind us of home. Gives us a moment of normalcy.”

  “How long have you been here?” Logan laid his sword across his knees.

  Garrett shrugged. Brigit shook her head. Some hung their heads, while others spread their hands.

  “Time is… different here,” Brigit said. “There’s no real way of knowing.”

  “Let’s start simple,” Logan said. “Who was Commandant when you left?”

  Brigit cut a slice of meat from the roasting leg with her belt knife and tore a chunk with her teeth. “Thoreau,” she said while she chewed. Logan tried not to frown at the lack of manners.

  Many of the Lost Guard agreed with Brigit and repeated the name.

  “Ellina,” Garrett said. “Davin’s daughter, herself.”

  “Cillias,” another said from further back. “Only Thoreau I’ve heard of was a whelp at the Vaults.”

  "We hold the lineage of House Rhen'val sacred here," Brigit said. She touched the broach on her chest, as if in reverence. "It reminds us of who we are, where we are from, and what we have sacrificed."

  Logan looked about, studying the Lethen'al.

  Perhaps they were who they claimed to be.

  "I know the Field Marshal's daughter," he said, his words tentative. "Her mother's name is Arrolyn, and her grandfather is Thoreau, the current Commandant. His mother was Catalan, and her father was Cillias. His mother in turn was Ellina. She in turn was the daughter of Davin, the son of Sui Rhen'val."

  "Seems you know her well," Garrett dropped down near him.

  "I intended to marry her," Logan said. The statement brought a grim turn to his thoughts. The memory of Arielle's face, the pity that thinned her lips when she looked at him reminded him of her defection.

  Logan stared at the glowing embers, watching as drips of fat slid off the meat to flare against the coals. No one spoke in response to his comment.

  Not knowing what else to say, he pointed to the broach Brigit wore pinned to the weapons belt that crossed her chest. It was a representation of the arch that formed the Gates of Golorath, framed by a pair of angelic wings.

  “That's the crest of Noble House Rhen'val,” he said. “Why do you wear it?”

  Brigit smiled.

  “It was a gift." Brigit wiped her fingers on the leg of her trousers. "And I am proud to wear it."

  "A gift?" Logan said, looking up at her. "From whom?"

  Brigit smiled and leaned closer.

  "There is a woman who comes here often. She brings us provisions from time to time. Weapons, armor, sundry items that make our lives easier."

  "Someone from the Patresilen knows you are here?" Logan said. "They know you are all alive?"

  "She keeps our secret," Brigit said. "At our request."

  "Who is she," Logan asked, though he already knew the answer.

  "A Mala'kar of tremendous power," Brigit said. "She rescues the si'ru that are lost in this place. She has been coming for years. She has rescued many, many si'ru."

  Logan started at the news. If it was her, if it was Arielle, why was she collecting si'ru? And why here? He gave Brigit a dismissive glance. She must be speaking of someone else.

  "And she gave you this broach?" Logan said. "How did she come by it? Why did she give it to you?"

  "It was hers to give." Brigit said. "She offered it in exchange for the one I once wore, the crest of House Kal'Parev I received from my mentor. We pledged each other aid and comfort, with the broaches evidence of our fealty."

  A chill crept across Logan's chest. Brigit's words played across his mind.

  "What was her name?" he said, afraid of the answer.

  "The woman you intended to marry it seems, Arielle Rhen'val," Brigit said, and Logan heard the pride in her voice. "A more noble Blade I have never met. There is a sadness that envelopes her, surrounds her, is part of her sin'del, but she bears her sorrows without a word. She comes often and stays with us awhile, telling us news of the world we once knew."

  Logan stood, his movement sudden, and the Lost Guard started.

  "Arielle is a graduate at the Gates," Logan said. He cast his gaze around the room, gripping his sword and holding it in the first position.

  Garrett did not move, but kept a wary eye on Logan's blade.

  "Just because Arielle Rhen'val was a Graduate when you left, does not mean that she still is when she finds her way to us." Brigit sliced another chunk of meat from the leg and handed it over to a friend.

  "There are many paths through the Bore," the Lethen'al said. Brigit shook her head, and the younger Blade bowed out of the conversation.

  "We still have yet to meet her as a Yearling," Garrett added. "It is always her older, sadder self we encounter."

  "Why is she so sad?" Logan demanded.

  "She will not say," Brigit said. "It is a private grief, and she will not share."

  Logan turned from them, struggling to retain his composure. Is it Kal'Parev's doing? He wondered. Did he do something to bring this grief upon her? His teeth ground together at the thought.

  "Be at peace, Logan," Brigit said. "You will do yourself injury."

  "You can ask her yourself when next she comes," Garrett said.

  Logan looked up, and Brigit made a patting gesture to Suresh, as if to urge him from his train of thought.

  What are they not telling me? Logan thought.

  "The broach I traded for this one was given to me by my mentor when he accepted me as his Yearling,” Brigit said, changing the subject. “He told me he was proud of how far I’d come. I was staring at it, wrapped up in my own thoughts, and I didn’t respond fast enough for him. In his next breath he told me he’d cut my feckin' legs off at the knee if he had to tell me to move again.”

  Logan nodded, though not really interested in what she was saying.

  “Sounds like an Elc’atar,” he said.

  “Mala'kar,” Brigit corrected. “There was no way to mistake the bald bruiser for an Elc’atar.”

  Logan focused on her, replaying her words through his memory.

  “You’re Hammer’s Brigit,” he said after a moment of scrutiny. Brigit started at the name and left her seat.

  “You know Hammer?”

  Logan nodded. “He's the Master of Cadets at the Gates. Rumor has it he wouldn’t take another apprentice after you. He claims he has no luck with Yearlings.”

  Brigit moved closer and placed her hand on Logan's shoulder.

  “No luck with Yearlings?" she said. "His tutelage has kept me alive. Because of him I can still scream my defiance in the Apostate’s face.”

  Logan drew away and faced the fire.

  She was so long lost, and none of her House were aware that she lived. If only they knew, he thought, they would mount a rescue chanting that silly war cry of theirs. Fight one, fight all. His own House would mourn him, but see his plight as a failure, leaving him to his fate, even if they knew.

  “Why do you not leave?” Logan said, the thought having only occurred to him as he spoke it.

  “We guard the Bore,” the Yearling who remembered Davin’s daughter said. “We prevent the spawn of this place from entering the Patresilen.”

  “Garret speaks true,” Brigit said. “We have made ourselves useful in our exile.”

  “The Lost Guard,” Logan said, finally understanding their use of the term. “I cannot think of a more honorable post to hold.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  An Offer

  The Lo'ademn are a special problem," Garrett said. He offered Logan a slice of meat. Logan shook his head and held up his hands.

  "How are they a problem?" Logan said. "Th
ey're bound, in the Patresilen, and on the Quain."

  "Not all of them," Garrett said. "Many never entered the Patresilen. They're still here in the Sur."

  "Is that what you do?" Logan said, not quite believing his ears. "You hunt Lo'ademn?"

  "We harry them," Brigit said. "We thin the herds of shrulks. No one hunts Lo'ademn."

  "Not if they want to live long," Garrett added.

  "But how are you able to hide from them?" Logan said. "Surely they must know where you are."

  Garrett rolled up his sleeve and presented his forearm for examination. A glyph, one of the runes the Magi used was etched into his skin. It was shaped like a "T," with hooks on the ends of the upper horizontal arm, and an anchor on the bottom.

  "These hide us from them," he said. "The shrulks can sense us when we're close enough, but a Lo'ademn will look right past us."

  "The sanctum is similarly warded," Brigit said. "You are safe here."

  "Why do you not return home?" Logan said. "Why remain here?"

  Brigit gave him an odd expression and seemed to study him before she answered.

  "We're bound here," she said. "We can't pass through the Gate of Fang and Thorn. We've tried. We've waited for it to open and tried to enter when other cohorts passed through. We physically cannot pass, whether we go in first or last. We cannot get through. It's as if the gate is not open for us."

  "Why?"

  "We do not know," she said, a touch irate. "But we cannot."

  "If you could get through, would you return?" Logan said.

  The Guard exchanged uneasy glances.

  "Some would," Brigit said. "But for others, if they returned to your time, everyone they knew would be long dead."

  "I bloody well knew Davin's daughter," Garrett said. "Who's living that can make the same claim?"

  "The Matriarch," Logan said. "She fought against the Apostate himself."

  "True." Garrett shrugged. "But what would I say to the likes of her? Hey, remember when your daughter died? I think I'll pass on that."