The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  “What have you done?” she hissed. Her voice rose to a shriek. “What have you done to me, you wretched children?”

  “You are neither dead nor alive,” Teravian said, his gaze fixed on her. “So we've given you those things you could never have. The gift of life—and of mortality.”

  “No!” Shemal cried out, and in that sound was such poison, such hatred, that men covered their ears and horses screamed. Like a flock of crows, shadows gathered around the body of the Necromancer, concealing her with black wings, then flew away, leaving only emptiness in their wake. Shemal was gone.

  Aryn cast a stunned look at Teravian. “Is she dead?”

  “No, not yet at least. She is only fled. But now that she's mortal, she'll feel all the weight of the eon she has dwelled upon this world. She won't come back. Please, Aryn, help me.”

  He was lifting King Boreas's shoulders from the ground, and Aryn assisted him, and they laid the king's head upon Teravian's lap. Blood still stained Boreas's lips, and his flesh was the color of ashes. His eyes were shut.

  “He's dead,” Teravian said softly, wonderingly. “He was so strong—I could never be as strong as he was. Only I'm alive, and he's dead.”

  Aryn only shook her head, unable to form words. Sorrow was like a knife in her heart. She touched the king's face with trembling fingers. Faint but clear, she sensed one last glimmer of life, like the flare of a candle just before it sputters and goes out.

  I love you! she cried out to the darkness. My king, my true father. I love you with all my heart!

  No words came in reply, but she felt warmth, love, pride. He felt no pain; he regretted nothing.

  She wept openly now. “I sense him still.”

  Teravian gripped her shoulders. Hard. “Tell him. Tell him that I didn't betray him.” Tears ran down his cheeks. “Tell him I would have given my life for him.”

  Aryn met Teravian's haunted eyes. “He knows.”

  The candle flared, went out. The thread, as bright as steel, went dark. Boreas, King of Calavan, was dead.

  A chant rose on the air, deep and thrumming. Men had gathered in a circle around them, and they were speaking a lament in low voices.

  May he dwell in the halls of Vathranan now

  May his blood bring life to the land

  May he feel the winds of Vathranan now

  He sits at the right hand of Vathris

  A gentle touch on Aryn's shoulder. “Sister?”

  She turned and gazed into warm brown eyes that looked out from a smooth, dark face. It was Lirith, shapely and perfect as Aryn knew her. She gripped Lirith's slender hand with her own withered one.

  “You're whole,” Aryn breathed. “By Sia, you're whole.”

  Lirith smiled. “As whole as I can be. Thanks to you. Your magic undid the spell of the Necromancer.”

  “I think it did more than that, beshala.”

  They looked at Sareth, who stood above them. He pointed down, to his feet planted firmly on the ground. One foot was shod in leather. The other foot was bare and perfectly formed. The women looked back up. In his hands, Sareth held a length of carved wood. His peg leg.

  Lirith leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him. “Sareth—oh, Sareth.”

  He held her tight, his expression one of wonder. “Beshala,” was all he said, stroking her black hair. “My beloved.”

  Aryn looked down at her hands. The right was still withered. Why had the magic not made her whole like Sareth?

  Because you are whole, Teravian spoke in her mind, and he placed his right hand over hers.

  She looked up, into his eyes, and nodded.

  When their threads touched, she had learned more than just how to weave the spell he had devised to harm Shemal. She had glimpsed his memories as well. King Boreas had known of the Witches' plot to use Teravian against the Warriors of Vathris; it was Ivalaine herself who had told the king, and he in turn had told Teravian. Their counterplot was simple: Teravian would let Liendra and the Witches think they had his allegiance. He would get close to them, learn what they were planning, and reveal it to the king before they could succeed.

  Only Boreas and Ivalaine had not counted on the presence of the Necromancer. Shemal had made it clear to Teravian that if he revealed her presence, she would slay his mother and father. Teravian had known she had the power to do it, and so he had been bound, unable to tell the king the full truth. However, even as he did Shemal's bidding, in secret he probed her, sought out her weaknesses, and devised a spell that could do harm to her.

  “The spell would have killed you,” Aryn said. “You would have poured your whole life into it, and it would have taken you. Only it still wouldn't have been enough.”

  Despite the grimness of his face, a smile touched his lips. “Only it was enough—because you were there.”

  He sighed, then laid Boreas gently back on the ground. Around them, the men continued their chant.

  “So now what do we do?” Sareth said, still holding on to Lirith, his gaze on the fallen king.

  Aryn gripped Teravian's hand. “They will still follow you. The Warriors saw you drive Shemal away, they've seen you weep over your father. They know you were true to him. All you have to do is create the illusion of the bull again.”

  “No, Aryn.” His expression was resolute. “I'll work no more illusions. I think Liendra's cronies have all fled, but the men saw them, and her body is still here. They know I was in league with the Witches. They'll never follow me.”

  “It's true, I fear,” Lirith said. “I've seen what would happen if you take that path. The men would turn against you, the Warriors would lay down their swords and return to their homes.”

  Aryn looked up at the witch. “Then what can we do?”

  “They won't follow me,” Teravian said. “But there's another whom they will.”

  Sareth looked as puzzled as Aryn felt, but Lirith nodded. “I see it as well. There is still one the Warriors of Vathris will follow north to Gravenfist Keep.”

  This was too much for Aryn. “But Boreas is gone. Who are you talking about?”

  “You,” Teravian said, touching her cheek. “I'm talking about you, Aryn.”

  Her mouth dropped open. This was madness. However, before she could speak, ruby-colored light permeated the air. The chanting of the men ceased, replaced by gasps and murmurs. Aryn followed their gaze upward.

  Crimson light filled the sky; the dawn had come. Only dawn had already come. How could there be two suns in the sky?

  One of the fiery orbs shrank in on itself, descending from the sky, alighting on the ground before Aryn. The light dimmed—but did not vanish—revealing a small girl clad in a gray shift. Her feet were bare, and her tangled red hair blew back from her scarred face.

  Despite her sorrow, despite her weariness, wonder filled Aryn. And hope.

  “Tira,” she said. “How is it you're here?”

  The girl laughed and threw her arms around Aryn.

  “No!” came a strangled cry.

  Fear replaced wonder, and Aryn looked up. Lirith had gone rigid; Sareth gripped her.

  Aryn gently pushed Tira away and rose, moving to the witch. “Sister, what is it?”

  Lirith's hands curled into claws. Her voice was hoarse, chantlike. “The gates of winter have opened. The Pale King rides forth, his army behind him like a sea of darkness.”

  The men in earshot let out oaths and made warding motions with their hands. Teravian leaped to his feet.

  “It's all been for nothing,” the prince said, clutching Aryn's arm. “It will take us a fortnight to march to Gravenfist. Queen Grace will never hold out for so long.”

  A buzzing filled Aryn, as well as understanding. “You're wrong. It has been for something. Grace won't have to hold the keep for long before we can get there.”

  Teravian looked at her as though she were mad, but Aryn knelt beside Tira. She touched the girl's scarred face. “Have you come to take us to Grace?”

  Tira shook her head. “Du
rge,” she said.

  46.

  It was almost showtime.

  Sage Carson, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral, watched in the mirror as the stylist arranged his hair. Her touch was light and deft. With each flick of the brush she coaxed several coal black strands into precise formation, then locked them into place with a puff of hairspray.

  He admired her work; it wasn't so different from his own. Find the stragglers and individualists, those who strayed from the flock, and bring them into line. It was those who chose to deviate from the herd that brought unhappiness—to others and themselves. The world would be a better place if everyone followed the same path. The right path. And Carson had spent the last twenty years making sure his path was the one everyone else followed.

  A knock came at the door of the dressing room. The door opened, and the head of Kyle Naughton, one of the young assistant producers, popped through.

  “Twenty minutes to airtime, Mr. Carson. Everything's ready onstage, and the choir is warming up.”

  Carson started to nod, then stopped. The stylist was still brushing.

  “Thank you, Kyle. I'll be out soon. I think it's going to be a special show tonight.”

  Kyle grinned and gave a thumbs-up. He adjusted his headset, then retreated through the door, closing it.

  Seeing the clean-cut young man now, it was hard to remember that just four years ago Kyle had been a drug addict who had sold his body to whoever would pay in order to buy his next fix. Carson had found him on East Colfax, not long after first coming to Denver. In those days, Carson's show hadn't been what it was now—the number-one-rated television program in all of Colorado. To help get the word out—his word—he would take to the streets, driving through the darkest parts of the city.

  When his car stopped, Kyle had climbed in, thinking Carson just another trick. Then Carson had shown him another path; Kyle had been with him ever since. They were all so loyal—his flock, his followers.

  “How long have you been with me, Mary?”

  The stylist didn't pause in her work, but in the mirror he saw a smile appear on her lips.

  “It'll be nineteen years this summer, Mr. Carson.”

  Mary had been one of the very first to come to him. She had worked for him when he began his first show on a public cable-access channel, taping his sermons in an abandoned gas station outside of Topeka. First people had ignored him, then they had laughed at him. The ministers in their fancy churches had been so proud, so righteous. They had said he wasn't a true pastor, that he was a charlatan. They had thought, just because they had official pieces of paper on their walls, that they were better than he.

  Well, he had left Kansas behind, and no one could laugh anymore. He commanded the Steel Cathedral. Two thousand people came every weekday to see him. Hundreds of thousands more watched his show. And his Saturday night broadcasts—like tonight's—were the most popular of all. You didn't need a degree to talk to God, to talk for him. All you had to do was believe.

  “You're a good soul, Mary,” he said.

  Her smile deepened. She was sixty, he supposed, but still pretty. She didn't seem to age anymore. Nor did young Kyle Naughton.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carson.”

  “You can go now, Mary. I'd like to be alone, to prepare myself.”

  Without a word she set down the brush, then left the dressing room, shutting the door behind her.

  Carson removed the towel that covered his shoulders—carefully, so as not to muss his crisp white suit—then gazed at himself in the mirror. He always took ten minutes before the show to himself. This was his time to gather his thoughts, his time to think about what he was going to say to his flock.

  His time to listen to the Big Voice.

  Carson would never forget the day he first heard the Voice. It had come in his darkest moment, just over four years ago. The unbelievers in Kansas had finally rallied against him. They had seized the cable-access channel that aired his show, claiming it was needed for use by the public schools. And no doubt they would indeed use the channel to teach their lies about evolution, and to show students those lessons in fornication they called sex education.

  Despite his prayers, his last sermon was cut off in mid broadcast. He and his followers were escorted out of the recording studio by the police. It was over. As so often happened in this wicked world, the unbelievers had won.

  Then the Big Voice had spoken to him.

  At first he thought he was going insane. He had become weak in his despair, and he turned to alcohol, which he hadn't touched since starting his ministry. However, still the Big Voice spoke to him: deep, thunderous. Over those next days he had tried to shut it out, but nothing—not cotton in his ears, not loud music, not the pounding water of a cold shower—could stop it. Finally, he had lain down on his bed, and he had listened.

  I will gather many followers to you, the Voice said, and though it was only in his mind, it was as clear as if it came over the radio with the sound turned up all the way. You will have a great flock at your command.

  “How?” he had dared to whisper to the water-stained ceiling of the motel where he had holed up. His heart had ached with longing; he wanted to believe. “How can that happen now?”

  You must believe in me, the Voice said. And you must do as I tell you.

  He did. The first thing the Big Voice told him to do was to pack his things, to take what few followers would come with him, and to go to Denver, that he would find everything he needed there.

  Carson didn't see how that could be true, but he did as he was told. Early on he realized that everything the Big Voice told him was true. It told him men in suits would come to his motel and bring him the money he needed, and the next morning they did. At the time he didn't recognize the name of their company, though he had come to know it and its crescent moon logo well in ensuing years. They were servants of the Big Voice, just as he was.

  In return for the money, he gave the men messages from the Voice. The men in suits knew of the Big Voice, but it was hard for them to hear it. Carson found that difficult to believe; to him the Voice was like a trumpet in his head. Yet it was true. The Voice would speak to him, and he would relay its message to others. He was touched. He was a prophet.

  But a prophet of whom? In those first months, even years, it had been easy to believe it was God who spoke to him.

  Who are you? he would speak into the darkness, kneeling on the floor, hands clasped together.

  I am the end, the Voice said. And I am the beginning. I will be the destroyer of all things. And I will be the maker of all things as well.

  These words filled Carson with dread, but they also brought a quickening to his blood. The world was fouled and corrupted. Was not the only way to cleanse it to destroy it and make it anew?

  In Denver, Carson's congregation grew rapidly. The men and women in suits, the ones from the company called Duratek, wrote him check after check. With that money he built a church, and the followers poured through the doors to listen to him preach. Then the owner of one of the Denver television stations called him and gave him a show. More people came through the doors of the church, rich and poor, young and old, all looking for an answer to the emptiness in their lives.

  Soon the church was too small, and he drew up plans for a cathedral, one so high it would rival the mountains, and so strong nothing could shake its foundation—a cathedral of steel. He felt fear when he went to Duratek; he knew it would cost an enormous sum of money. However, the Duratek lawyers wrote the checks, and building began. Carson chided himself. He should never have doubted.

  Except, deep in the most secret recesses of his heart, he did doubt. As time went on, as the cathedral climbed ever higher toward the sky, a fear grew in him.

  It was all so good. Too good. The Big Voice had given him what he had always wanted—a great flock to follow him—but what did it want in return? He relayed the words of the Voice to the agents of Duratek Corporation on a regular basis, but that was hardly a burden. Like the
Voice, they seemed to want little of him; they never asked to be mentioned as a sponsor of his show in exchange for the checks they wrote him. It didn't make sense; surely the Voice wanted more of him. However, when he asked, it never told him what.

  Gather your followers unto you. That is all I ask.

  For now, Carson would add to himself. But what would the Voice seek later in return for what it had granted him? That seed of doubt sprouted in him, blossoming like a dark flower, and in time he began to fear that the Big Voice was not truly the voice of God, but rather the voice of Satan.

  It seemed impossible. The Voice in his head was deep and ancient and beautiful. But was not Lucifer the fairest of the angels before he was cast out of heaven? Did not the Devil tempt with sweet words and promises? He brought people to him not with fire and sword, but by giving them what they most wanted.

  For over a year, Carson had struggled with this fear, though he did not show any outward signs of it. Even those in his inner circle didn't sense his doubt. His show climbed in the ratings, and construction of the Steel Cathedral proceeded according to schedule.

  At last his new church, his new house, was completed. On that day Carson at last understood the truth, and it was even more terrible than his darkest fears. The Big Voice was not God, and nor was it Satan. It was something else, something other. More real, more present, and more powerful than anything dreamed of by the hearts of men.

  It was not God.

  It was a god.

  The day draws close, the Big Voice spoke to him that night he stood on the empty stage of the Steel Cathedral and imagined the audience that would fill the ocean of seats for the first time the next day. Soon the gate will open, and I will leave this forsaken world. My exile will be over, and I will return. The world will tremble beneath my feet, and night will fall forever.

  The world. When the Voice spoke that word, a vision formed in Carson's mind, only he saw not the world he knew, this Earth, but a different place, one distant, yet strangely close at hand. A world of possibility.