The Gates of Iron

by David Debord

  “I’m surprised they’d make such a punishment public.”

  “They don’t. You never know if a man is working off a punishment, taking his regular turn, or simply doing something he enjoys.”

  As they passed a bush laden with dark blue berries, a seeker bearing a full basket stepped out into the path. It was Aspin. Oskar opened his mouth but remembered Dacio had warned him that novits were not to speak to seekers unless spoken to. It was not, he claimed, a rule, but a custom and a sign of respect. He nodded instead, but Aspin seemed to look right through him. Oskar felt a flash of hurt, but it dissolved in the face of a sudden thought. Was Aspin serving a penance? He’d mentioned to Oskar that he’d been away from the Gates for some time. Perhaps he was embarrassed for Oskar to see him like this.

  All thoughts of Aspin were quickly forgotten as they reached a grassy swath of land and the other novits began stripping off their robes and removing their boots. Puzzled, Oskar followed suit. Before he could ask what they were doing, the students took off at a quick jog. Groaning, he followed along.

  He caught up with Whitt, who was bringing up the rear.

  “What are we doing?” Though his travels had made Oskar leaner and stronger, he still wasn’t one for running, and his lungs were already complaining.

  “Warming up. We do this before every class. Just follow the group and try not to come in last.”

  Oskar thought he stood little chance of finishing anywhere other than the back of the pack. They reached a stone wall, turned left, and ran along its length. Above the heads of those running in front of him, he saw his fellow novits clambering up a steep hill.

  “We’re allowed to go around, right?” he panted.

  Whitt grinned and gave him a friendly push up the hill. They scrambled up the slope, slid down the other side, and started running again. They were losing ground on the others.

  “Looks like I’m going to be last.” His side burned and he feared he would heave up the last of his breakfast.

  “Maybe you should shut up and focus on running.” Whitt put his head down and picked up the pace. Oskar tried to keep up but found he could not. He turned another corner and hurdled a series of logs, scarcely clearing the last one. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on his hands. Absently, he remembered he was supposed to roll on his shoulder or something like that, but he was too tired to care.

  “It’s just past that clearing. You’ll make it.”

  Oskar hadn’t noticed the young man seated against the bole of a tree. He had long, red hair and a crooked smile, and he grinned at Oskar from his place on the ground. Oskar thought his name was Garent.

  “I was in the lead for the first time in weeks until Agen tripped me. I think my ankle is broken.”

  Oskar heaved himself up to his feet and staggered over to look at Garent’s ankle. “It’s swollen,” he said.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” The note of amusement was evident in Garent’s voice.

  “Why did Agen trip you?”

  “Because he’s an ass who doesn’t like to lose.” Garent tried to rise, but he paled and slumped back against the tree. “When you get to the finish, tell Master Lang I’ll be going to the infirmary as soon as I am able.”

  “I’ll help you. Come on.” Ignoring Garent’s protests, Oskar hauled the young man to his feet, slipped an arm around his waist, and helped him limp to the finish.

  As they reached the grassy area where they’d shed their cloaks, Agen and his friends chanted, “Last! Last! Last!” They cut off at a single glance from the master.

  Master Lang was a barrel of a man. His arms and legs were like tree trunks and his neck looked nearly as thick. He wore his black hair shaved down almost to his scalp, save a long tail in the back. He stalked toward Oskar and Garent, his face red and his slate gray eyes narrowed to slits.

  When he reached them, he knelt to examine Garent’s ankle. He scrutinized it, stood, and turned to face the class.

  “Novit Garent is one of the fastest runners in the class. Who here passed him by when he fell?”

  One by one, every student raised his hand. All except Agen. Oskar wanted to protest but was too intimidated by the bearish Lang to interrupt.

  “You were all so desperate to avoid finishing last that you left him behind.” Lang’s low rumble sounded like a roar in the silent field. “All of you except the new boy.” He didn’t spare Oskar a second glance. “Everyone except him, run it again.”

  It was a measure of Lang’s authority that no one so much as frowned before starting off, save Agen, who shot Oskar a baleful look before following the group.

  Lang called out to a seeker who was trimming a hedgerow and instructed him to take Garent to the infirmary. The seeker hurried to the task, as quick to obey the master as any novit.

  Interesting.

  “Do you have a name, or do you prefer New Boy?”

  “Oskar Clehn.”

  “Tell me about your fighting skills, Oskar Clehn.”

  Oskar hesitated. He didn’t have any skills to speak of, but he doubted that was what Lang wanted to hear. “I’m a fair wrestler, and more than fair with a quarterstaff.”

  “What else? Bow? Sling? Your accent tells me you’re from the west. Don’t all you frontier folk learn to hunt?”

  “Not really. I’m a farmer.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Today we’re working the sword. I suppose it’s too much to hope you know how to use one.”

  Aspin had given him a few lessons but Oskar was so hopeless that he thought it better to leave that to himself, so he shook his head.

  “You have a great deal of work ahead of you.” Lang turned and walked away.

  Oskar waited while the rest of the class finished its second lap. They returned, panting and dripping with sweat. A few cast baleful looks his way. How many new enemies had his good deed made him?

  Lang didn’t give them time to rest. He barked a few sharp orders and they each took a wooden practice sword and formed up in single-file lines. Oskar found a place in back, hoping to draw as little notice as possible. The master led them through a series of basic strikes, blocks, and forms. Aspin had worked on all of these with him, but he still was terrible with the sword.

  When the warmup ended, Lang demonstrated a form called rippar, a defend and counter technique. He ran through it three times and then instructed the students to pair off and practice. Stomach clenched, Oskar looked around for a partner. He caught Dacio’s eye, but before he could make his way over to his roommate, Lang’s voice rang out.

  “Clehn! To me!”

  Oskar’s shoulders sagged as he turned and navigated the throng of students to where the master stood. He had a feeling a round of remedial lessons were on the way. When he reached the master, he was even more unhappy to see Agen standing there.

  “You have a great deal to learn and I don’t have time to baby you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to, Master,” Oskar protested.

  “Agen, here, has volunteered to teach you the basic forms. He’s the best in this class with the sword, so you’d do well to learn all you can from him. You might never become a competent swordsman, but you’ll remain a novit until I think you can wield a blade without cutting your own toes off. Get to work.”

  Agen motioned for Oskar to follow him. “We’ll begin with blocks and footwork,” he said over his shoulder. “Start by learning to keep yourself alive. You can learn to kill later.” He seemed to be taking his role as instructor seriously, which gave Oskar a small measure of comfort. Perhaps the incident in Sorcery class had given Agen cause to, if not respect Oskar, at least not discount him entirely.

  Agen selected a spot partially sheltered by trees, far from Lang, who was bellowing at one of the students. Oskar was grateful not to have his shortcomings fully exposed to his classmates, but that soon changed.

  After reviewing all the basic blocks and defensive stances, Agen took a step back and raised his sword. His lips peeled back and
his eyes sparkled.

  “Defend yourself,” he said and sprang to the attack.

  Oskar deflected the first two sword strokes, both aimed at his face but he was too slow to stop the third. Agen’s sword cracked him across the knee and he grunted in pain.

  “Never assume a pattern. Be ready for a strike at any level.” Agen readied himself again.

  Reluctantly, Oskar raised his practice sword, vowing to do better this time. Unfortunately, this, and all the subsequent times were no better. Time and again, Agen attacked him with the quickness and ferocity of a striking viper, letting Oskar block a few strokes before delivering a painful blow until Oskar could scarcely stand or raise his sword.

  Agen followed every attack with brief instruction or correction. Oskar couldn’t deny he was learning, but Agen was making it as painful as possible. The youth was undeniably gifted. Oskar had only seen a few people work the sword with such skill: Shanis, Hierm, Prince Lerryn, and Pedric Karst came immediately to mind. Agen was close to them in skill, and he took full advantage as he beat down his pupil’s feeble defenses.

  When Lang’s shout finally rose above the clacking of swords, telling them it was time to leave, Oskar let his sword fall to his side and sighed. This had, without a doubt, been the most painful hour of his life.

  His head exploded in a white hot flash of pain and a loud pop made his ears ring. The next thing he knew, he was down on his knees, holding the side of his head. What had happened?

  “Last lesson of the day,” Agen’s voice whispered in his ear. “Never take your eyes off of your opponent.” Agen picked up Oskar’s sword and strode away.

  Oskar watched through watery eyes as Agen returned the practice swords and approached Master Lang. Cold fury washed across the pain and he heaved himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to let the master or any of his classmates see him down on his knees. Spotting Naseeb and Whitt, who were donning their boots and robes, he hobbled over to them.

  “Are you all right?” Naseeb asked.

  “Fine.” He dropped to the ground and pulled on his boots. “Just stay close in case I can’t get back up again.” As he donned his robe, he spotted Agen and his friends laughing as they left the ground. He had no doubt what they found so funny. He only hoped Agen wouldn’t be his instructor in every class.

  Chapter 9

  “Our emissary has returned from Diyonus.” Krion’s frown told Shanis that the news was not good. “Until you hold the throne, they consider you just another rebel leader.”

  Shanis looked at her grandfather, and then around the circle of clan chiefs, all of whom appeared on the verge of speaking. She already knew what each would say; they had discussed this many times.

  Horgris cleared his throat and stood. “We understand you no want to keep fighting, and we do respect it, but this fight be inevitable. The rest of the world do see you the same way as the Diyonans.”

  “As will our own people, eventually, if you do not seize the throne,” Krion added. “I know you do not want a return to clan war.”

  Shanis held her silence for a few moments. Her instinct was to start raging about the injustice of it all and the stupidity of the Diyonans, the Malgog, the Monaghan, all of them, but she’d learned a few lessons about leadership, and one was not to lose control of your emotions where others could see you.

  “Has Orbrad responded to our messages?” Orbrad currently sat on the throne in Karkwall, the capital of Lothan but ruled little more than his city and the surrounding area. Nonetheless, he was king if in name only. Shanis had sent messengers to him, pointing out that the clans were now united against him, and urging him to abdicate.

  “Not directly,” Krion said. “Our spies have learned that the first messenger was locked up in the dungeon, where he soon died, and the second beheaded. Apparently, Orbrad wanted to send the head to you, but he has no idea where we are and he killed the only man who could tell him.”

  “Orbrad do be a fool,” Culmatan of the Blue Stag clan rumbled. “How can he rule Lothan, and not know of Calmut?”

  “There be a lot of things Orbrad don’t know,” Horgris chortled.

  Shanis raised her voice to be heard above the laughter that rang out through the room. “Have you forgotten what I told you about the ice cats and the army my friends and I saw in the mountains? Remember what the seeker told us—there is reason to believe a new Frostmarch approaches.”

  “All the more reason for us to unite our nation before it happens,” Krion said gently.

  “Your grandfather be right, though,” Culmatan said. “The people do be getting impatient and we fear the peace will not hold. It is not just the little things, like the marriages and that witch school, but you do refuse to take back the lands in the east that the usurper holds. You must act.” The other chiefs nodded their agreement.

  “Don’t start with me about the school. I’ve made my decision about that and it’s final. Besides, I’d like to see you try to dislodge the bone women now that they’ve settled in.”

  “And more come every day,” Culmatan grumbled. “Calmut do be full of witches and even a few wizards. In any case, Karkwall matters most.”

  “Understand, we are not hungry for war, but there are times war is necessary.” Regret hung heavy in Krion’s voice. “You must take Karkwall and claim the throne. Then, when the other nations recognize you as queen, we can see to the east, hopefully with allies at our backs. It is possible that, under those circumstances, Pedric Karst would see reason.”

  “I doubt that.” Shanis knew enough about Pedric Karst to know he could hardly be called reasonable, and that he would not give up easily. She stood and walked slowly around the room, her eyes on the ceiling. The truth was, she had made her decision about Karkwall the previous night though it pained her. She could not, however, appear to make this decision in haste.

  When she thought she’d held them in suspense long enough, she turned and faced the clan chiefs. Some looked at her in nervous anticipation, while others met her eyes with dull stares, assuming she’d continue to insist on peace.

  “What do we have to do in order to take Karkwall?”

  The chiefs all spoke at once, each with his own plan of attack. The chatter quieted when Krion raised his hand.

  “Let us first review what we face: the strongest city walls in Gameryah protecting a fortified keep. The city is well provisioned so a siege would be a protracted affair.”

  “It is the only way.” Labar, chief of the Mud Snake clan, rose to his feet. “Seal the city off, and pound the walls with siege engines until they fall.”

  “And then face another siege at the keep,” Jayan, chief of the Red Water, replied. “They can hold out a long time. Orbrad is stubborn.”

  “Do you have another suggestion?” Labar asked. “Besides, we have the Silver Serpent on our side.” He turned to Shanis. “Can you bring down the walls with it?”

  “Possibly.” The truth was, Shanis had not tested the limits of the sword’s power. She used it for healing and little else, but she had no doubt it could be turned to destruction.

  “Another reason we need to take Karkwall,” Krion said. “The library there might help us understand the extent of its power.”

  Shanis sighed. “Very well. It is time to make preparations.” Shanis felt the burden of her decision settle upon her shoulders. She would be leading men and women to their deaths, the exact opposite of what she had hoped to accomplish, but she understood the reason. “I want each clan of the Monaghan, and only Monaghan, to leave behind a small force to protect Calmut and all of those who remain here. The city is being rebuilt and that is a fine thing. We cannot stop living every time we go to war.” A few of the Malgog chieftains protested, and she silenced them with sharp words. “We cannot fight a war on two fronts and Monaghans are less likely than Malgogs to take it upon themselves to reclaim the lands in the east from Karst. We shall see to him soon enough.”

  They did not like it but saw the wisdom in her words. One by one, the
chiefs left to prepare their forces to march.

  “Grandfather, if you and Horgris would remain behind, I need to speak with you.” Shanis waited for the other chiefs to leave the room, and then called for Heztus to join her. The dwarf had been waiting outside with Granlor, who guarded the door.

  “I’ve been thinking about my escape from Karkwall,” she began when they were all settled around a small table. Orbrad had imprisoned Shanis and her friends in the dungeons beneath the castle. They had escaped with help from members of the Order of the Fox, a group dedicated to the reunification of Lothan — a group of which Horgris was also a member. “Horgris, how much help can we count on from the inside?”

  “I can no say.” The big man shifted in his seat and scratched his ample beard. “No one knows for certain how many members the order do have, nor who they are. I do have a few contacts within the city.”

  “Grandfather, you said we have spies in Karkwall. Can we get more men inside?”

  “We can try, but as soon as Orbrad finds out we are on the march, he will seal the city tight.”

  “Which will make it all the more difficult to coordinate an attack with our people on the inside,” Heztus observed. “It will be difficult, if not impossible, to get word to them.”

  “Not if some members of Horgris’ order are manning the walls.” She and the chieftain exchanged knowing looks. “We need to alert the members of the order, and our friends on the inside, to be ready.”

  The others nodded. Shanis sent for bread, cheese, and wine, and began to outline her plan. It was going to be a long evening.

  Chapter 10

  Oskar was elbow deep in hot, soapy water when the kitchen master called his name.

  “Novit Clehn! A saikur to see you.”

  Oskar turned away from the stewpot he was scrubbing and saw Aspin standing in the doorway. He was looking around the kitchen as if unsure where Oskar was, despite Moylan having just called to him. It took Oskar a moment to remember Aspin had wanted to downplay the fact that they knew one another.