The Gate of Fang and Thorn

by R. M Garino

  Logan paused at the entrance of the labyrinth, and motioned for McAlister to take his place in file.

  “We need to delay them,” Logan said. McAlister considered the statement before nodding his agreement. Out of their company, he was the most devious when it came to anti-personnel traps and snares.

  A glance down their path revealed the ghosting silhouettes of the shrulks in stark relief along the top of the ridge.

  "These are all interconnected," McAlister said. He punctuated his word with a few well-placed slashes of his sword. He brought a huge swath down, and blocked the entrance. His sin'del flared while he adjusted specific branches. The spikes grew even more, and the stalks held to their place. A tendril of energy remained across the path just beyond the barrier.

  "I'm satisfied that will delay our enemy," he said. "If even for a little while."

  Logan clapped him on the shoulder, and they ran to regain their Pride.

  The world pressed in against them when they slipped beneath the enfolding embrace of the branches. He was thankful that the thorns were so large; if they were smaller, he had no doubt they'd be lodged beneath the skin when they grabbed at him.

  The sound of his Pride's voices made him redouble his efforts.

  Logan stood atop a stalk, and it moved beneath his feet, casting him forward. He stumbled and fell.

  A thorn, the size of a small dagger punched into the side of his abdomen, just above his pelvis, and another raked along the edge of his jaw.

  Had he really thought the size of the thorns a good thing?

  Without his perch, he dropped a foot to the floor, snapping half the spike off when his body pulled against it.

  He cried out when he landed, his core aflame with the puncture. The pain radiated across his belly, up his torso and down his leg. Frantic, he clawed at his body, searching for the fragment. Brushing the edge of it, he screamed out.

  McAlister was there, and with a hand on Logan's shoulder, he gripped the thorn.

  "This is going to hurt, brother," McAlister said.

  "Just do it," Logan panted.

  McAlister nodded and pulled.

  Logan cried out again, his back arched when the barb slid out. In the distance the shrulks called out, voicing their distress at not having reached their prey. The thorn was barbed and it pulled and pinched his flesh when removed. McAlister cast it away and pressed a cloth against the puncture. The blood seeped around his fingers while he sought to staunch the flow.

  "Hold this." McAlister positioned Logan's hands over the compress, and hefted him to his feet. "We can't stay here."

  Hunched over his wound, Logan motioned his friend on with a nod of his head.

  "We'll tend it later," he said.

  "Of course we will." McAlister slipped his arm around Logan's waist to help him stand.

  The branches parted, and gave way to an opening broad enough for them to pass beneath without too much effort. Logan winced with each step, and having to bend was torture. A dozen yards brought him abreast with the rest of his company.

  His companions stood within a spacious courtyard, before a solid wall of yellowed, unbroken limestone. Glyphs were scratched into the surface, forming the outline of an arched gate. Several of the Lethen’al studied the structure, their sin'dels condensed into soul lights and held within their palms to give them light in the darkness.

  Vadin used the tip of his knife blade to scratch something new into the collection.

  "Need help here," McAlister called when they passed the last of the thorns.

  Cormac rushed over and examined the wound. He hissed when he revealed the damage. Logan waved him off. He already felt a flush of warmth radiating outwards, across his abdomen and sliding around his back.

  The thorn was poisoned.

  And it spread fast.

  Logan blinked to clear his vision. He was glad he passed the responsibility of returning the tactical display to Sionid. Now, he hoped that she possessed the wherewithal to see the mission through to its completion. He shook his head. No, he told himself. She was capable of doing this. He had faith in his Pride.

  He grasped Cormac’s shoulder to steady himself, despite McAlister's hold on him.

  “This needs tending,” Cormac said, his voice pitched low.

  Logan shook his head.

  “It’s too late,” he said, slurring his words together like some debased commoner. “And we don’t have the time.”

  Cormac ignored him, and dropped his pack to the ground. From one of the side pockets, he produced a bandage and a pair of small pouches. Pulling open the drawstring of the first, he extracted a wad of leaves, and without waiting for Logan’s permission, shoved them into his mouth.

  “Chew these.” He opened the second. Logan complied, and a bitter taste spread across his tongue. “They taste like shit, but they’ll dull the pain. Now to stop the bleeding.”

  “The thorn was poisoned,” Logan muttered, his lips numb from the juices.

  Cormac nodded, but continued his work.

  “We know," McAlister said.

  Cormac wet a piece of cloth from his canteen and sprinkled a generous helping of powder from the second pouch.

  “We’ve all been scratched," he said. "This will sting a bit.”

  Logan failed to stifle a scream and tried to pull away. McAlister held him fast, and Cormac followed him, keeping the cloth pressed tight to his side. It seared into his skin, seeming to fill the wound with tongues of flame.

  “Just breathe.” Cormac held Logan’s gaze. “It passes. Just breathe.”

  Logan followed the instructions, and with each breath, the pain retreated a little further away. After a minute, he nodded, indicating that he was good. Cormac patted his shoulder and went back to his pack. He returned with a rolled bandage he used to secure the cloth. After a moment, McAlister let him go.

  He was able to stand on his own and took a few tentative steps toward the others.

  “You alright?” Vadin stepped back and spread his arms wide to indicate the scribbled gate. "So, what do you think?"

  Logan hobbled over with cautious steps.

  Vadin scratched their names along the outer edge of the gate, just beneath eye level. Logan examined the others marks, and sure enough, it was a catalogue of names. These were the inscriptions of the Yearlings who came before them.

  He traced his fingers over them and smiled.

  A suitable gesture, he thought. They began their tenure as Yearlings by carving their names into the walls of the Azdaha cave. They ended by carving their names in the Sur.

  Fitting.

  His finger paused in its cursory progress, pressing against one name in particular.

  Lucien Fel'Mekrin.

  His father’s name.

  He drew off his glove, and exposed his bare skin to the stone. A flash of images flooded his mind. His father and his cohort, battered and bruised while they carved their names into the stone. They were filled with pride, with fear, with a joy that their trial was ending.

  "Who are they?" Sionid said, her voice filled with awe.

  Logan turned to her.

  Between them stood an array of phantom figures, gossamer and ethereal. His father and his Pride. Logan was stunned.

  "My clairvoyance," Logan said.

  "This is new," McAlister said. "You've never projected what you saw before."

  "I didn't know I could," Logan said. His shoulders straightened. He knew such things were possible, and his tutors explained it to him on numerous occasions. But to see it happen, to take that step.

  It was more than he ever hoped for.

  His father's simulacrum stood here, an echo of the past. Like his Pride did now, he waited for this gate to open and bring him home.

  "Logan, this is such a blessing to see," Alis said. "Thank you."

  A whirlwind of conflicting emotions collided within Logan. A quick scan of the surface produced his grandfather’s name, and his great-grandfather’s as well. There was a long, disting
uished line of Fel’Merkrins who walked the Sur and returned.

  Each ghost came to life before them.

  At the same time he resented the reminder of his father. There would be no shared celebration, no mutual commiseration. His father would not be there to witness his return.

  Lucien left their family a long, long time ago.

  Logan removed his hand and replaced his glove.

  A crouping cough ended his reverie and pulled him back to the moment.

  A chorus of coughs and howls replied in unison, the cacophony disconcertedly close. Everyone’s attention was affixed to the pathway through the thorns.

  The calls increased in volume.

  They knew their prey was close at hand. From what he knew of shrulk behavior, they would be tearing at the branches that barred their path, ripping through other members of their pack if need be.

  “Sounds like a great many,” Bryan said. With a shrug he readied his shield, swinging it off his shoulder. “Who’s in the lead again?”

  “Alis,” McAlister said. Logan looked his question at him, and in an unusual display, McAlister grinned back at him. “She has you beat by one. We had ourselves an adventure while you were away.”

  Logan looked back at her. He forgot to keep count. The tallies granted them bragging rights back home. Good for her. She grinned, her head held high.

  “Well done, sister,” Logan said with a wink. “Think you can hold your lead?”

  Alis drew her sword. “Watch me.”

  An explosion ripped through the rose bushes, making the ground tremble beneath them.

  “How long till apogee?” Bryan said, referring to the opening of the gate.

  Sionid consulted the display. “Maybe half of an hour, if I'm reading this right.” Logan glanced at their position, and nodded his agreement.

  “Why?” Senet said. "You have plans?"

  “Well,” Bryan said, “there is this Elc’atar I fancied to ask for a drink.”

  “Deidra doesn’t have two words for you,” Vadin said.

  “She didn’t have two words for me when I was a Yearling,” Bryan said. “Things are different now.”

  The banter was good, Logan knew. It kept their minds from dwelling on what was to come. They were well aware of what awaited them, and chose instead to focus their attention on more pleasant thoughts.

  “Our lives before Sionid’s,” Logan said, reminding them of their objective. They had to keep her alive. She had to escape the Sur.

  Another explosion tore through.

  “You’ve outdone yourself McAlister,” Senet said. “I take it you're responsible for the anti-personnel tactics? Well done.”

  “Thank you. What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  No one replied. Death was approaching. From the shadows of the branches a shrulk raced, the wind of its passage ruffling its feathers. Alis was closest, and dispatched it with a quick lunge to its breast.

  Shrulks exploded from every direction before the corpse hit the ground.

  Logan charged ahead, swinging his sword to meet his foe. A spray of dark blood filled the air where his blade passed. He pivoted, redirected his sword and danced between the attackers. His movements were slow, dulled by the weight of the poison in his system.

  He was still fast enough to hold the line.

  Cormac fought to his left, with Bryan and Alis further out. McAlister stood to his right, Vadin and Senet further down the line on his side. Their positon was fluid, their movements timed to that of the others through harsh experience.

  Normally, he would have ventured out into the heart of the enemy, trusting his life to the skill of his arms and wrists. Now, however, he held position with his comrades and his attacks blended with theirs.

  The jaws of a shrulk clamped down on his left wrist while he backhanded another. Its alternating rows of teeth bit deep, acting like a saw against his flesh. He pulled his arm closer, and skewered the beast through the throat. Cormac’s blade flashed, severing the creature’s head from its body before it drew him down. Logan thrust his arm behind him, with the head still attached. The pressure of the teeth disappeared when Sionid pried the lifeless jaws open. Focusing his sin’del, Logan did what he could to staunch the bleeding.

  The onslaught did not stop. They did not pause. There was no respite, no time to draw a breath and regroup. Each member of the Pride fought to keep the line solid and protect Sionid.

  The courtyard filled with a pearlescent light, and the shrulks paused their advance, stunned by the brightness. Their astonishment did not last for long; those at the rear pushed their way forward and the assault renewed.

  Logan chanced a glance behind him to confirm his suspicions.

  The gate was open.

  It appeared within the carved outline, the yellow limestone giving way to a swirling arch of blue light.

  “Sionid! Go!” Logan commanded.

  She looked at him, her sin'del revealing her hesitation. She did not want to leave them.

  "Return the display, soldier!" He commanded, his tone brooking no disobedience.

  Sionid saluted, and charged through the opening. She was swallowed by the light.

  The display was returned.

  His mission was complete.

  Logan wanted to turn, to run through the crack between the worlds. His companions, however, held the line and bought time for the next to escape.

  “Fall back!” he ordered. “Through the gate. All of you, go! Now!”

  He had to make sure the others passed through. He would hold the line for as long as he could. He was heir to House Fel’Mekrin, and there was no less he could do.

  This was what he wanted all along, a death to be proud of.

  Vadin and Senet broke away and dove through the portal. The gate dimmed by the slightest degree. Bryan hesitated before he joined them. Alis followed behind him.

  “We trying to see who can hold the longest?” McAlister yelled to be heard over the din.

  “I gave you an order, soldier,” Logan replied. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  The light from the gate lessened yet again. McAlister saluted with his hand to his chest and made for the gate. A shrulk leapt in front of him, and without breaking his stride, he lopped its head off. It bounced through the opening seconds before he charged into the light.

  Cormac inched backward, hard pressed by the shrulks before him. Logan dispatched his opponent and moved to assist.

  “Just go!” Cormac yelled. “Go home, brother! Lead our House to glory!”

  Logan shifted toward the gate without thinking. He took a pair of steps before Cormac’s shout brought him back around.

  The opening dimmed further, and cast waves of illumination across the horde like sunlight reflected off water.

  A shrulk came up behind Cormac, through the gap Logan left exposed. It latched its jaws onto his shoulder and yanked him to the side.

  The gate forgotten, Logan charged forward and swung his sword.

  He severed the head from the beast and pushed Cormac behind him toward the exit.

  Logan positioned himself between his friend and the horde, his ears laid back against the sides of his head.

  The glow of the gate disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Wayward

  The Gate was closed.

  Their way home was gone.

  They were trapped in the Sur.

  These thoughts flitted through Logan’s mind, but he ignored them and took the fight to his enemy. The shrulks pressed around him, desperate to reach and tear at him.

  His sword dispatched them first.

  “Open it!” Cormac screamed. His pommel pounded on the granite, and the sound was tiny against the rage of the shrulks. “Let us out!”

  “Cormac!” Logan took the head off another beast and changed his position to see his friend. “We will find another way out. But I need your help here now.”

  Cormac looked to him, his sin’del awash with panic.

  “Hel
p me, brother!” Logan called.

  Cormac’s sin’del surged with the usage of the new term. It settled around him and firmed. He raised his sword and rushed to join the fray.

  Logan shouldered a beast aside and thrust his blade into the heart of the one behind it. He withdrew the weapon and slashed open the belly of the first. Cormac slammed into the line sword first and cleaved a shrulk in two.

  For decades they fought side by side; as Cadets at the Vaults, as Graduates at the Gates, and then as Yearlings travelling the Patresilen. The patterns of combat were well ingrained in them, and they fell into a long practiced rhythm. With their backs protected by the other, they held their ground. They chopped down each monster that came their way. They worked their blades with quick, precise strikes and sent arcs of blood and gore through the air. The now dormant gate was covered with crimson splatters.

  Shrulks snapped and howled at them. They reached in with talons and questing jaws. The two forsaken Elc’atar made no sound, save for the grunts of their exertions. They cut and slashed at their foes, they punched them and kicked them. And still more took the place of the fallen. A grin crept across Logan's visage, and a quick glance behind him showed its twin on Cormac's.

  This was the end they dreamed of as cadets.

  Horns sounded through the din, and at first, Logan failed to take note. They sounded again and whipped the shrulks into a greater fury. Their heads sought for the source and their onslaught slowed. Logan and Cormac did not pause, but cut them down where they stood.

  An arrow punched through the throat of the shrulk that stood before Logan, and it fell to the side lifeless.

  “Bathe the Blades!” A war cry, familiar in its intonation and meaning followed the horns.

  The Lost Guard erupted from within the underbrush of thorns.

  Cormac was stunned by the arrival, and Logan pushed in front of him. Better to be safe, he thought. No need for a friendly fire incident.

  The Lost Guard cut their way into the horde and surrounded the two Elc’atar.

  “This way.” Brigit offered them a brief salute before she repositioned to face the enemy. “Stay in the center of the formation.”

  To the Guard, she shouted, "Company, forward!"