‘How are there so many races?’ Gray asked, exasperated. ‘How can one possibly know of all of them anyway?’
‘The anthropology of species in and around the Old Country is fascinating,’ Zabrielle said, brightening. ‘There are lovely books to be read on the subject. Mitra and Srinivas have written extensively, and their analysis is welcomingly interpretative.’
‘Great,’ Gray said dully. ‘I’ll be sure to read them when we’re done saving the world.’
The gate grew larger. It was huge, they realised, and frayed indeed. The stones had certain symbols on them that they could not recognise, and had collected moss over time, making the whole thing a grey-green monolith, cracked at places, eaten away at others, but still standing, a thick, solid arch about thirty feet high and wide—a giant entity, perhaps the last memoir of cracked Kolkata to be seen on their way out. They would have stared at it in greater wonder if the Guard had not been there.
There were three of them, the Old Guard. All were ominous, tremendously tall, and loomed far above them. They wore armour of stone, plates that resembled slabs of rock with finely chiselled joints, gauntlets and boots several times wider than the thickness of human limbs, and tattered cloaks that fluttered in the winds like enormous flags, all black. Their heads were covered by helmets of the same stone—the same stone as the gate, they realised now—helmets that covered all the sides of their heads, with intricate carvings chiselled, and a flat, slightly angled stone front. There were no holes for the eyes, none for the nose, just a smooth, polished surface of stone.
The trio stood still as the stone around, looking down at the siblings and their strange company.
‘We seek to pass,’ Zabrielle said, cutting to the chase.
The reply was immediate, an undertone from beneath the rock. A grind, like the earth itself. ‘Why would you leave the Old City behind?’
‘Our business is our own,’ Zabrielle said. ‘Will you let us pass?’
‘Answer the question in truth,’ the sentinel said. ‘It is required.’
A shiver went down Gray’s back. They were giants, the Old Guard. If there was an altercation, they could not possibly take on this kind of brute force, this feeling of ancient strength that their mere presence seemed to radiate.
Maya spoke suddenly. ‘We seek to save the city. From the End of Days, the Apocalypse. Hence we travel to Zaleb Khadd to find the Keeper.’
Zabrielle turned to look at her, her eyes wide. ‘What have you done?’ she whispered.
‘What? I was—’ Maya started, but the Old Guard cut her short.
‘The End of Days,’ the guard said noiselessly. ‘We tire of our responsibility, you who seeks to pass. We would welcome the Apocalypse, and the freedom it brings.’
‘No,’ Maya and Gray swore together. Fayne readied himself, changing his posture quietly.
‘We cannot let you pass,’ the guard concluded.
‘Yet we must,’ Zabrielle said. ‘By force, if necessary.’
Gray’s heartbeat was quickening, as was Maya’s. A fight. A fight after a long time.
‘Then the rules of single combat apply,’ the guard said. ‘Your weakest will fight our weakest. If these terms are not acceptable, then all of us may engage in battle.’
Everyone turned to look at Gray. He was trembling.
‘Impossible. He can’t take on this beast,’ Maya said. ‘What are our chances of a three on four?’
‘Three of these guys?’ Gray stammered. ‘Massacre.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Maya hissed. ‘Fayne, Zabrielle. Can you take on one each?’
‘There aren’t three, fatiya,’ Fayne said. ‘He said all of us, he means the entire Old Guard. The full number is unconfirmed, but I have seen up to eleven of them fighting together.’
‘Fayne speaks the truth,’ Zabrielle said, grim.
‘Where are the rest of them? I can only see three here!’ Maya said angrily.
‘Underground,’ Fayne said. ‘They rise to summons.’
‘If only, if only I had practiced playing the violin more,’ Gray mumbled.
‘Shut up,’ Maya hissed. ‘Sending Gray in there is not a solution. I won’t allow it. What are our other options?’
‘We can fight all of them, fatiya, but I shall fail in my charge. I will not be able to protect you if I am battling several of the guards together.’
‘I’m not sending all of you to die,’ Gray said suddenly, drawing the Sadhu’s Shotgun.
‘You are going to die if you take him on!’ Maya said, grabbing his shoulder.
‘I’m going to awaken the shotgun,’ Gray said, his eyes drilling into Maya’s. ‘I know Ba’al meant that to happen as a last resort, but it might just save my life here.’
Maya opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she couldn’t. There was nothing to be said, the guard waiting for his answer. She knew there was no other path to take. ‘Goddammit,’ she cursed. ‘That filthy shotgun better be as powerful as the legends say.’
No one stopped Gray as he walked forward and faced the guard. ‘Fine,’ Gray said, his voice still shaking. ‘Single combat, then.’
The guard looked at him with its flat, consistent face. ‘You are not the weakest,’ it said. ‘She is.’
Gray spun around. The Old Guard was pointing at Maya. Impossible. This could not be happening. What about all that magic, what about her destiny?
In that split second, Gray hated himself for being jealous of her, for having wished her ill even in the slightest sense. Maya was walking forward all too quickly. ‘Fine,’ she was saying. ‘Let’s do this.’
The other guards were stepping back, clearing an area for the fight, as were Fayne and Zabrielle, with futile reluctance. ‘No!’ Gray exclaimed.
‘Get out of the way, Gray,’ Maya said harshly.
‘You will die!’
‘Get out of the way!’
A pause. Then Gray moved slowly, mechanically, walking past his sister, not daring to look at her, away from the guard and towards the other two. It was vacuum, this interval that he spent walking back, a void in which time had stopped and he simply walked, walked without time being in the way. No birds cawed, no wind blew, all was still. Then he reached Fayne and Zabrielle, and turned around, just in time to snap out of his illusion—the guard was drawing a sword.
It was a sword the guard had previously slung on its back, a sword with a blade made of the thick, ancient stone of the gate, the thickness rendering it more like a club than a slender sword. It was several sizes larger than Maya, a weapon remembering every bloodstain.
One blow from that thing will kill her, Gray thought. Maya opened her gauntleted palms and waved them around in the air, as if to feel some of the magic flowing there. What is she thinking?
Maya realised this was going to be her first battle, her rite of passage to bear the power expected of her. The first fight ever. Of course she was the weakest, she was nothing but big words; even Gray had fought more than her. It was time to do something.
It starts. The guard rushed at her, slow but steady, picking up momentum, raising its sword. Dust poured from its armour as it ran, the joints getting new lease. Maya dived and dodged its first blow. The sword plunged into the ground with an earth-shattering note. Soil erupted, clumps of barren earth flew. Maya gathered herself, shaken, and backed away. She was clenching and unclenching her gauntlets.
‘She’s going to die!’ Gray repeated angrily. ‘How can both of you just stand by and watch?’
‘We aren’t just watching, Gray,’ Zabrielle said softly. Gray turned to her, and noticed the Demon was sweating, not something he had seen before. His eyes went to her hands. They were behind her back, cupping something. Something glowing.
‘How much longer?’ Fayne asked as the guard pulled the sword out of the ground and turned towards Maya.
‘A little more,’ Zabrielle muttered. She was in pain. ‘One wants it to affect all three.’
‘Faster!’ Gray cried, unmoved.<
br />
Maya backed away, slowly, as the guard approached her. It wasn’t running. A walk, a sure walk. The guard wasn’t going for an overhead blow this time. No, Maya guessed it would be a horizontal swing, nearly impossible to dodge. She felt strange, her mind felt clear despite all the signals that made her body speed up. She steadily backed away, but there wasn’t much space left. The guard was gaining.
Maya closed her eyes. She heard its footsteps approach, a great plodding, shaking the very ground. Shaking her. She ignored the sound and tried to go beyond. Towards something else. Something in the air, something supposedly around her. Anything. Any feeling which did not feel quite normal, which would be the magic.
Nothing. She opened her eyes. And ran, ran towards the guard, closing the distance between them. The act seemed suicidal, and suddenly she realised she was screaming, a war cry, a cry that surprised the guard, and by the time it had raised its weapon, Maya had run past it and towards her companions. She turned around again, facing it, panting, adjusting her hair, clearing her vision.
The guard turned and spoke. ‘No more games, little girl,’ it said in a broken voice. ‘It is time that you savour my stone blade.’ It started walking again, weapon half raised.
Maya turned to look at the others. ‘Zabrielle,’ she panted. ‘I can’t feel any magic.’
Zabrielle did not reply.
‘She’s sure feeling a lot of magic right now, sis,’ Gray said.
Maya nodded. Good. She had never felt like a Sorcerer, but that was a problem for another time.
‘He’s coming,’ Fayne warned.
‘I’m ready,’ Zabrielle said, her voice threatening to break.
The guard broke into a run, sword raised at its side, ready for a lethal swing that would fling Maya meters into the air, shattering her bones at the point of impact, a swing she would not get up from. It reached Maya and swung its sword. Gray and Maya screamed together. Fayne leapt towards the guard. And Zabrielle, bringing her open palms forwards, unleashed the spell.
A giant pulse passed through the area, a wave that swept Maya off her feet, a ripple that knocked a leaping Fayne off course. Sounds emptied themselves for a second, impersonating nihility. Then everyone recovered. Gray saw his sister getting up from the ground, unhurt, and Fayne landing a distance away from where he had originally intended. They looked at the guards.
The Old Guard were frozen stiff, all three of them. At first glance, Gray simply thought they were standing still, but then he noticed the stone. A new layer of stone had enveloped them, making them mere statues, rendering them immobile. The guard about to hit Maya was paralyzed in mid swing. Zabrielle was barely standing.
‘Seven kilometres,’ she said, and collapsed, hitting the dry ground without hesitation.
‘Zabrielle!’ Gray cried and rushed to her. ‘She’s alive,’ Fayne said, walking to them. ‘It is the spell. We must move.’ He slung Zabrielle across a shoulder—immediately reminding Gray of the days they had carried Maya like that—and started walking. Maya hadn’t moved. A short distance away, she stood looking at them as they approached her.
‘Is she all right?’ Maya asked, grim.
‘Yes. We must move,’ Fayne said. ‘This spell will not last forever.’
They walked underneath the Frayed Gate and saw a slab on the ground beyond. It was like a sundial with many arrows, each pointing towards a different gate. The Winter Gate, an arrow said. West. They started off in that direction. The same stone flatland lay ahead of them, and then, far in the distance, what must be the Shadowlands—a black landscape. Black, unlike the gradual dark the setting sun commanded.
‘They cannot harm us beyond the seven kilometres?’ Gray asked Fayne.
‘No.’
‘How will we know when we are past their domain?’
‘I count the steps, myrkho. We will know.’
Night fell, and they kept walking. The moon was a mere sliver, lending them the faintest of light. Not enough to distinguish anything, but just enough to not be walking in blackness.
It was around midnight that Maya noticed the silhouettes. ‘They’re chasing us,’ she whispered.
Gray turned around. Behind them, across the rocky plain, came several figures. Guards. They were too many to count.
‘Why didn’t the rest come after us earlier?’ Gray asked.
‘The spell must have blocked the summons,’ Maya said. ‘Not a time to ponder. Fayne, how much longer?’
‘We still have a kilometre, fatiya.’
They ran now, Fayne leading them despite the weight of Zabrielle. They ran relentlessly, Gray and Maya panting for breath as they did. They tripped and fell in their hurry, and it was Fayne’s ready hand that put them back on their feet. Vegetation appeared. Bushes, bramble. Their clothes got snagged in thorns, and they tore themselves free in their mad hurry. Everyone but Fayne glanced back frequently. Their pursuers had almost caught up with them, unforgiving in pursuit. They could hear it loudly now, the pounding on the stones as the guards ran. An infernal pounding. A grim reminder.
Fayne stopped all of a sudden and turned around for the first time. Gray came to a stop beside him, then Maya, both panting like animals.
‘Are we safe?’ Maya asked, wheezing.
‘No,’ Fayne said. He looked at the siblings, his glass eyes reflecting their faces. ‘You must trust me now. Follow.’ And he ran again. But he went left this time, away from the direction they had been heading in so far. Gray and Maya hesitated for a mere second, then scrambled after him. Running, running, running. Minutes. Perhaps the quarter of an hour. Fayne was running, running, running, and then he had come to a stop. Maya and Gray skidded to a halt, and discovered why.
They were on the edge of a cliff. The plains had given way to a rocky cliff, a sudden expanse of sky. Far beneath them, past the branches of scraggly trees and jutting rocks, snaked a river, a bare line, reflecting the moonlight in teasing shimmers.
‘No, no, no, no, Fayne,’ Gray panted.
‘You must trust me,’ Fayne repeated.
Maya said nothing. She looked back and saw that the guards were only a few yards away, the pounding of their feet deafening.
‘Death, one way or another,’ she said.
‘This is no time to—’ Gray started, but then stopped. Fayne was setting Zabrielle down.
‘I will throw you,’ the assassin said, looking at Maya. ‘You will fall in the river. I will not miss.’
Maya nodded. Fayne bent and gently picked her up in his arms, backpack and all. They looked at Gray for a moment. He looked back, noticing how they looked like lovers in the gentle moon. The hordes gaining behind them seemed to slow down, the clouds of dust raised translucent, dreamy. ‘Well, do it!’ Gray cursed. Maya went lightly, a mere toss, as if she were to be caught by the wind, hauled away in some fairy tale. She dipped out of sight immediately, her figure growing smaller by the second. Before Gray knew what was happening, Fayne was picking him up.
‘Don’t miss, man.’
‘You have a long way to go,’ Fayne said, and Gray felt himself fly in air. A pun. Freefall. He was looking up, the cliff getting smaller, rapidly losing size, then a speck, then another figure thrown. He tried turning and found, to his great surprise, that he could. Rocks. The side of a mountain rushing by, rushing up with incredible speed. He tried turning some more, and it was then that he hit the water.
In a moment, he was several feet beneath. The shock of the impact stunned him, He could not comprehend he was in water. He opened his eyes and saw only black. His breath was being snatched from him. He panicked. There was a pull and it was pulling him somewhere but he did not want to give in. Looking around, wildly, flailing his limbs desperately, he saw the merest of shimmers. The surface. He moved his arms into a swim, fighting the current, and then he broke free, broke through, filling his lungs with air, sharp air which hurt. The river, it was all around him, it was wide, not as thin as it had seemed. It was still pulling him along, and he did not fight it. He adju
sted, trying to stay afloat, and wiping his eyes, he looked up.
There, above him, far above him on a distant cliff, something only madmen would have jumped from, a group of huge figures stood in the moonlight, watching him go.
‘Goodbye, you bastards,’ Gray choked out in the water. There was no sign of the others, not that he could see.
6
The river carried Gray throughout the night. It was not as fierce as before, having degraded to an easy current. Gray caught a thick, fat branch and held on throughout, resting as much as he could. He entered a stupor of sorts, letting the nameless river have its way with him, letting it carry him wherever it pleased.
It chose to drop itself into a large body of water, and the fall from water into more water jerked Gray out of his trancelike state. He was an excellent swimmer, and had no problem coming back up to the surface and looking around. Dawn was coming and the hint of daylight was enough to lift his spirits. He realised he was in a lake, something far easier to get out from. With quick, swift strokes, he headed for the nearest bank. A long swim, but he made it. Climbing out of the water, he lay down, tired, thinking. His backpack was gone, lost to the river, with the shotgun and the violin tied to it. He did not know where the others were, but if they followed the river like him, they would end up here as well. One of his options, therefore, was to wait. Daylight would make finding them easier. He gave in to his exhaustion and succumbed to sleep.
He was in a clearing. The trees were strange, dry, and leafless. He had seen trees like these before, somewhere. They had small, dark holes in them, holes from where the whispers came, whispers he had heard before, in a language long before his time. He could recognise the Old Tongue, but this was not it. This was something much more secret, this language.
He could understand it perfectly.
Blood makes you free, the trees sang.
Gray wondered if it really did. He looked down at his right hand, where he held a curious weapon, a funnel-like object made of bones. He had no idea what it was, or how he would use it. He looked up and saw the trees parting, making a path for him. He walked. His scars began hurting as he walked. That was funny, Gray didn’t know he had any scars. His back. That’s where the scars were. Later, he’d look at them later. He walked and walked, through this forest of murmuring trees, until he reached another clearing.
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