The King Beyond the Gate

by David Gemmell

  “The sons of Joachim. It is a cult, I think; I’m not sure. Let me sleep now.”

  “Rest well, Rek. You have earned it.”

  “There is no need to use the name in private.”

  “There is every reason. We must all live the part from now on. I don’t know anything about your ancestor, but I think he would have been proud of you. It took iron nerve to go through that.”

  But Scaler missed the compliment, for he had fallen asleep.

  Pagan returned to the outer room

  “How is he?” asked Belder.

  “He is all right. But a word of advice for you, old man: no more cutting remarks! From now on he is the Earl of Bronze and will be treated as such.”

  “How little you know, black man!” snapped Belder. “He is not playing a role; he is the Earl of Bronze. By right and by blood. He thinks he is playing a part. Well, let him. What you see now is the reality. It was always there—I knew it. That was what made me so bitter. Cutting remarks? I am proud of the boy, so proud that I could sing!”

  “Well, don’t,” said Pagan, grinning. “You have the voice of a sick hyena!”

  Scaler was wakened by a rough hand clamped over his mouth. It was not a pleasant awakening. The moonlight made a silver beam through the open window, and the breeze billowed the curtain of lace. But the man leaning over his bed was in silhouette.

  “Do not make a sound,” warned a voice. “You are in great danger!” He removed his hand and sat down on the bed.

  Scaler sat up slowly. “Danger?” he whispered.

  “The prince has ordered your death.”

  “Nice!”

  “I am here to help you.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “This is not jest, Lord Earl. I am Magir, leader of the Cheiam, and if you do not move, you will find yourself in the Halls of the Dead once more.”

  “Move where?”

  “Out of the city. Tonight. We have a camp higher in the range where you will be safe.” A slight scratching noise came from beyond the window, like a rope rubbing on stone. “Too late!” whispered Magir. “They are here. Get your sword!”

  Scaler scrambled across the bed, dragging his blade from its scabbard. A dark shadow leapt through the window, but Magir intercepted it, his curved dagger flashing upward. A terrible scream rent the silence of the night. As two more assassins clambered into the room, Scaler screamed at the top of his voice and leapt forward, swinging the sword. It hammered into flesh, and the man fell without a sound. Scaler tripped over the body just as a dagger flashed over his head but rolled onto his back, thrusting his blade into the man’s belly. With a grunt of pain he staggered back and pitched out the window

  “Magnificent!” said Magir. “Never have I seen the tumbler’s roll so brilliantly executed. You could be of the Cheiam yourself.”

  Scaler sat back against the wall, sword dropping from nerveless fingers

  Pagan crashed open the door. “Are you all right, Rek?” he said. Scaler turned to see the giant black man filling the doorway like an ebony statue while the door sagged on broken hinges.

  “You could have merely opened it,” said Scaler. “Gods, the drama around here is killing me!”

  “Speaking of which,” said Pagan, “I have just killed two men in my room. Belder is dead; they cut his throat.”

  Scaler pushed himself to his feet. “They killed him? Why?”

  “You shamed the prince,” said Magir. “He must kill you—he has no choice.”

  “And what of the spirit of Joachim? What was the point of bringing him back?”

  “I cannot answer that, Lord Earl. But you must leave now.”

  “Leave? He killed my friend, probably the only friend I ever had. He was like a father to me. Get out and leave me alone, both of you!”

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” warned Pagan.

  “Foolish: It’s all foolish. Life is a farce—a stupid, sickening farce played out by fools. Well, this is one fool who has had enough. So get out!”

  Scaler dressed swiftly, buckling on his sword belt and taking his blade in his hand. Moving to the window, he leaned out. A rope swung in the night breeze, and Scaler took hold of it, leaping from the window and sliding hand over hand to the courtyard below.

  Four guards watched him in silence as he landed lightly on the marble flagstones. He walked out into the center of the courtyard and stared up at the windows of the prince’s chamber.

  “Prince of cowards, come forth!” he shouted. “Prince of lies and deceit, show yourself. Joachim said you were a sheep. Come out!”

  The sentries exchanged glances but did not move.

  “I am alive, Prince. The Earl of Bronze is alive! All your assassins are dead, and you are about to join them. Come out or I will shrivel your soul where you hide. Come out!”

  The curtains of the window moved, and there stood the prince, his face flushed and angry. He leaned on the carved stone sill and shouted to the sentries.

  “Kill him!”

  “Come and do it yourself, you jackal!” yelled Scaler. “Joachim called me his friend, and so I am. In your own temple you heard him, yet you send assassins to my room. You spineless pig! You defile your ancestor and break your own laws of hospitality. Offal! Get down here!”

  “You heard me—kill him!” screamed the prince. The sentries moved forward, lances leveled.

  Scaler lowered his sword, his bright blue eyes fixed on the leading warrior.

  “I will not fight you,” he said. “But what will you have me tell Joachim when next I meet him? And what will you tell him when you walk the road to Sheol?” The man hesitated as, behind Scaler, Pagan ran across the courtyard, two swords in his hands. Magir was beside him.

  The sentries braced themselves for the charge.

  “Leave him be!” yelled Magir. “He is the earl, and his challenge is laid down.”

  “Come down, prince of cowards,” shouted Scaler. “Your time is come!”

  The prince clambered over the sill and leapt the ten feet to the flagstones, his white robes flaring out in the breeze. Walking to a sentry, he took the man’s tulwar, testing it for balance.

  “Now you will die,” said the prince. “I know you are a liar. You are not the long-dead earl—you are a deceiver.”

  “Prove it!” snapped Scaler. “Step forward. I am the greatest swordsman ever to walk the earth. I turned back the hordes of the Nadir. I broke the blade of Joachim Sathuli. Step forward and die!”

  The prince licked his lips and stared into the blazing eyes. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, and in that moment he knew he was doomed. Life was suddenly very precious, and he was far too important a man to allow some demon from the deep to trick him into combat. His hand began to shake.

  He felt the stares of his men on him and glanced up to see the courtyard ringed with Sathuli warriors. And yet he was alone; not one of them would come to his aid. He had to attack, but to do so meant death. With a wild scream he threw himself forward, tulwar raised. Scaler buried his sword in the prince’s heart, then dragged it clear, and the body sagged to the flagstones.

  Magir stepped to Scaler’s side. “Now you must leave. They will allow you to pass from the mountains, then they will follow to avenge this killing.”

  “That’s of no importance to me,” said Scaler. “I came here to win them. Without them we are lost, anyway.”

  “You have the Cheiam, my friend. We will follow you back into hell itself.”

  Scaler looked down at the dead prince. “He didn’t even try to fight. He just ran forward to die.”

  “He was a dog and the son of a dog. I spit on him!” said Magir. “He was not worthy of you, Lord Earl, though he was the greatest swordsman in all of Sathuli.”

  “He was?” said Scaler, astonished.

  “He was. But he knew you were a greater man, and the knowledge destroyed him before your sword could do so.”

  “The man was a fool. If he only …”

  “Rek,” said Paga
n, “it is time to leave. I will fetch the horses.”

  “No. I want to see Belder buried before we leave this place.”

  “My men will see to it,” said Magir. “But your friend speaks wisely, and I will have horses brought to the courtyard. It is only an hour to our camp, where we can rest and speak of your plans.”

  “Magir!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I thank you.”

  “It was my duty, Lord Earl. I thought I would hate this duty, for the Cheiam bear no love for Drenai warriors. But you are a man.”

  “Tell me, what are the Cheiam?”

  “We are the drinkers of blood, the sons of Joachim. We worship only one god: Shalli, the spirit of death.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “One hundred only, Lord Earl. But judge us not by our number. Rather, watch the numbers of dead we leave behind us.”

  17

  The man was buried up to his neck, the dry earth packed tightly around him. Ants crawled on his face, and the sun beat down on his shaved head. He heard the sound of approaching horses but could not turn.

  “A pox on you and all your family!” he shouted.

  Then he heard someone dismount, and a merciful shadow fell across him. Glancing up, he saw standing before him a tall figure in a black leather tunic and riding boots; he could not see his face. A woman led the horses around to the front, and the man squatted down.

  “We are seeking the tents of the Wolves,” he said.

  The buried man spit an ant from his mouth. “Good for you!” he said. “Why tell me? You think I have been left here as a signpost?”

  “I was contemplating digging you out.”

  “I shouldn’t bother. The hills behind you are full of Pack Rats. They would not take kindly to your intrusion.”

  “Pack Rats” was the name given to members of the Green Monkey tribe after a battle some two hundred years before, when they had been deprived of their ponies and forced to carry their possessions on their backs. The other tribes never forgot the humiliation or allowed the Monkeys to forget.

  “How many are there?” asked Tenaka.

  “Who knows? They all look alike to me.”

  Tenaka held a leather canteen of water to the man’s lips, and he drank greedily.

  “What tribe are you?” asked Tenaka.

  “I’m glad you asked that after offering me water,” said the man. “I am Subodai of the Spears.”

  Tenaka nodded. The Spears were hated by the Wolfshead on the ample grounds that their warriors were as vicious and efficient as their own.

  Among the Nadir there was seldom respect for an enemy. Weaker foes were treated with contempt, and stronger ones were regarded with hatred. The Spears, though not exactly stronger, fell into the latter category.

  “How did a Spear fall to the Pack Rats?” asked Tenaka.

  “Luck,” answered Subodai, spitting more ants from his mouth. “Pony broke a leg, and then four of them jumped me.”

  “Only four?”

  “I have not been well!”

  “I think I will dig you free.”

  “Not a wise move, Wolfshead! I may be forced to kill you.”

  “I am not concerned by any man who is captured by a mere four Pack Rats. Renya, dig him out.”

  Tenaka moved back to sit down cross-legged on the ground, staring at the hills. There was no sign of movement, but he knew they were watching him. He stretched his injured back; over the last five days it had eased greatly.

  Renya scraped away the hard-packed earth, freeing the man’s arms, which were bound behind him. Once free, he pushed her away and struggled until he had pulled himself clear. Without a word to Renya he walked to Tenaka and squatted down.

  “I have decided not to kill you,” said Subodai.

  “You have great wisdom for a Spear,” said Tenaka without taking his gaze from the hills.

  “This is true. I see your woman is a Drenai. Soft!”

  “I like soft women.”

  “There is something to be said for them,” agreed Subodai. “Will you sell me a sword?”

  “With what will you pay me?”

  “I will give you a Pack Rat pony.”

  “Your generosity is matched only by your confidence,” observed Tenaka.

  “You are Bladedancer, the Drenai half-blood,” observed Subodai, removing his belted fur jacket and brushing more ants from his squat, powerful body.

  Tenaka did not bother to reply; he was watching the dust swirl up in the hills as men took to their horses.

  “More than four,” said Subodai. “About that sword … ?”

  “They are leaving,” said Tenaka. “They will return in greater numbers.” Rising to his feet, he walked to his horse and vaulted to the saddle. “Good-bye, Subodai!”

  “Wait!” called the Nadir. “The sword?”

  “You have not paid me the pony.”

  “I will—given time.”

  “I have not time. What else can you offer?”

  Subodai was trapped. Left there without a weapon, he would be dead within the hour. He contemplated leaping at Tenaka but dismissed the idea. The violet eyes were disconcerting in their confidence.

  “I have nothing else,” he said. “But you have a thought, I can tell.”

  “Be my bondsman for ten days and lead me to the Wolves,” suggested Tenaka.

  Subodai hawked and spit. “That sounds marginally more appealing than dying here. Ten days, you say?”

  “Ten days.”

  “With today counting as one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I agree.” Subodai raised his hand, and Tenaka took it, hauling him into the saddle behind him. “I’m glad my father is no longer alive to see this day,” muttered the Nadir.

  As they cantered off to the north, Subodai thought about his father. A strong man and a fine rider, but such a temper.

  It was his temper that had killed him. After a horse race, which Subodai won, his father had accused him of loosening the saddle cinch on his own mare. The argument had blown up into a full-scale fight with fists and knives.

  Subodai still remembered the look of surprise on his father’s face as his son’s knife was rammed home in his chest. A man should always know when to control his temper.

  The Nadir twisted in the saddle, his black eyes resting on Renya. Now, there was a good woman! Not good for the steppes, maybe, but good for plenty else.

  For nine days more he would serve Bladedancer. After that he would kill him and take his woman.

  He turned his gaze to the mounts. They were fine beasts. He grinned suddenly as the full joy of life settled over him once more.

  The woman he would take

  The horses he would keep.

  For they would be worth riding more than once.

  Lake was sweating heavily as he cranked the thick wooden handle, dragging the bow arm and the twined leather back to the hook. A young man in a leather apron passed him a loosely tied bundle of fifty arrows, which Lake placed in the bowl of the device. Thirty feet down the room two assistants lifted a thick wooden door into place against the far wall.

  Ananais sat in a corner with his back against the cool gray stone wall of the old stable. The machine had so far taken more than ten minutes to load. He lifted his mask and scratched his chin. Ten minutes for fifty arrows! One archer could let fly twice that number in half the time. But Lake was trying hard, and Ananais could see no reason to demoralize him.

  “Ready?” Lake asked his assistants at the far end of the room. Both men nodded and hurried away behind large sacks of oats and grain.

  Lake glanced at Ananais for approval and then tugged the release cord. The massive arm flashed forward, and fifty arrows hammered into the oak door, some passing through and striking sparks from the wall beyond. Ananais strode forward, impressed by the killing power. The door was a mess, having given way at the center, where more than a third of the shafts had struck home.

  “What do you think
?” Lake asked anxiously.

  “It needs to spread more,” said Ananais. “If this had been loosed at a charging mass of Joinings, fully half the shafts would have hit only two beasts. But it needs to spread laterally. Can you do that?”

  “I think so. But do you like it?”

  “Do you have any slingshot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Load that in the bowl.”

  “It will ruin the cap,” protested Lake. “It’s designed to shoot arrows.”

  Ananais put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s designed to kill, Lake. Try the shot.”

  An assistant brought a sack of shot and poured several hundred pebble-sized rounds of lead into the copper bowl. Ananais took over the cranking of the device, and they hooked the leather into place within four minutes.

  Then Ananais moved to one side, taking the release thong in his hand. “Stand clear,” he ordered. “And forget about the sacks. Get outside the door.” The assistants scurried to safety, and Ananais tugged the release. The giant bow arm leapt forward, and the slingshot thundered into the oak door. The sound was deafening, and the wood split with a groan, falling to the floor in several pieces. Ananais gazed down at the leather cap on the bow: It was twisted and torn.

  “Better than arrows, young Lake,” he said as the young man ran to his machine, checking the cap and the leather drawstring.

  “I will make a cap in brass,” he said, “and increase the spread. We shall need two cranks, one on either side. And I’ll have the slingshot filed to give points on four sides.”

  “How soon can you have one ready?” asked Ananais.

  “One? I already have three ready. The adjustments will take only a day, and then we shall have four.”

  “Good work, lad!”

  “It’s getting them up to the valleys that concerns me.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We don’t want them in the first line of defense. Take them back into the mountains; Galand will tell you where to place them.”

  “But they could help us hold the line,” argued Lake, his voice rising. Ananais took him by the arm, leading him out from the stable and into the clear night air

  “Understand this, lad: Nothing will help us hold the first line. We don’t have the men. There are too many passes and trails. If we wait too long, we shall be cut off, surrounded. The weapons are good, and we will use them—but farther back.”