World Gate: A Kethem Novel

by Dave Dickie

  “Ing esuk, nalika balik menh sun, la akur bakal turip cia saka anceman saka cara. Mipin lan mipin kula ing cara kango madhangi kawruh sing langkah kessar,” he said as he unrolled the long, thin rug he carried with him, the end facing north, the symbols running up and down its length glowing with power. It unrolled precisely as planned, the north end stopping just short of the small table with a simple cup and a dish, the cup full of water, the dish with a tough flatbread that was a common staple for long trips. He stepped on at the far end, speaking the words and touching each symbol in turn, and when he reached the end, he drank and nibbled a small piece of the bread. This time, he spoke in common. “Wandering done, I find respite, weary from the trip. There are things to see, things to learn, and when I have seen them and learned them, I shall travel again, for that is the way, the sharing of knowledge that gives life meaning.”

  And he sighed and smiled, the ceremony simple as his religion decreed, but no less powerful now than it had been when he first performed it almost seventy years ago.

  There was a knock at the door of the chamber he was in, one of the many meditation halls spread through the temple. There were times to gather, and there were times to ponder on what had been seen and heard and experienced, and the temple was there to provide both. The contemplation chambers, like this, were smaller and were lined with materials that would absorb sound to keep the outside world at bay, holding only those things necessary for the most basic rituals. “Enter,” he called loudly, turning, and a young woman opened the door and bowed. She was dressed in robes. Hasamelis was the only religious order where lower level members of the sect wore robes, while more senior members wore travelling clothes. It led to a lot of confusion outside the order.

  “Delia, I welcome you.” He liked Delia, partially because the order did not have many woman, but mostly because she was curious about everything and had an excellent memory, the two most important characteristics of a priest or priestess of Hasamelis. She was also one of the most dedicated novices he’d seen enter the ranks of the order, and was always on hand whenever he needed someone fleet of foot or sharp of eye. “Do you have news?”

  “Yes, father,” she answered, rising from her bow. “Padan has sent word with the Nitheia ring of communication. They have reached the coast of Tawhiem and landed in long boats. He anticipates two days to reach the site and will send word then, or earlier if there is trouble.”

  “Good, good,” said the old man, and he sighed heavily. “Trouble, I think they shall find.”

  The woman named Delia hesitated, then spoke. “Father, may I ask a question?”

  “Certainly, child, for what can we learn without asking questions?” he said.

  “If you expect trouble, why did you send Padan with this group of… “ and she hesitated, looked for words less harsh than ‘riff raff.’ “Of unbelievers,” she finally finished. “If this is truly the staff of Hasamelis, why did we not send the faithful? An army of the faithful?”

  The old man sighed again. “Knowledge is a two-edged sword, Delia. You cannot make decisions without it, but at times, you are forced to make decisions you would rather not make because of what you know.”

  Her confusion showed. “I don’t understand, Father.”

  He hesitated a moment, but she had promise, and the first steps on the path were sometimes the hardest ones. “Delia, it is not the staff of Hasamelis. It is an ambush, meant to take a high priest of the order, take them in a distant place, for reasons I do not understand. I only know that the story is a ruse, intended to draw us out, nothing more.”

  Her eyes had widened. “But father… then Padan is…”

  “Walking into a trap, yes. But he is aware of it.”

  She nodded, looking calmer. “Then he knows how to escape when the time comes?”

  The old man looked sad. “No. His role is to find out who has set this trap and why. He is a walking recorder. When he is in place, everything that happens, everything that he learns, will return to me. And then he will die, because whatever this plan is, it cannot be for the benefit of our order and we cannot risk them having someone that knows the inner ceremonies. He is a brave and worthy priest, and more, a friend. But there was no other way to draw these people out, no other way to find out who is moving against us. He does this knowing the price. But I could not send so many others of our order to their deaths, so between us, we arranged to hire who we could, people that would not be missed, to make it seem like nothing was amiss.”

  Delia’s mouth was open and her eyes were wide with shock. “Father… but you must know more, something that can help Padan escape. How did you know it was a ruse?”

  The old man shook his head. “That I cannot tell you, but believe me when I say it is a source that I trust. It is not the staff of Hasamelis.”

  “Please, father, you must tell me how you knew. You must.” Delia walked up and put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed, and there was the sudden crunch of shattering bones. The old man shrieked as she lifted him off the ground. “I insist, really.”

  Chapter Three

  Padan gritted his teeth. “Because I’m paying you a pile of rimii, that’s why you have to do it,” he said.

  Padan was about fifty. His face was weather-beaten by the long roads between the places he’d been. Those had been numerous, and he’d loved every one of them, had found something worthwhile, unique, exciting and different every time he travelled. It had been a difficult life at times, but he wouldn’t have traded it for another. He had his wide-brimmed hat, his staff, his stole - more of a thin scarf - his travelling clothes and his boots, all worn but not at all shabby. The staff was a magical artifact that could transform into a warhammer if needed, a warhammer with a little god-infused punch to it. The stole was the only thing that marked him as a priest of Hasamelis, which is how it was supposed to be. In the outback, on the trail to see something new and different, he was in his element. The group with him… not so much.

  The man, a Stangri fighter whose name, Gyeong, Padan found hard to pronounce, looked down at the carpet, then up at Padan. The veins moved under the skin on Gyeong's neck as he clenched his jaw. It was barely noticeable, but anyone who thought to watch the former Sa Kajok warrior's neck could see the signs of his irritation. Padan was oblivious, and wouldn’t have cared in any case. Things teetered on the edge for a moment. Then Gyeong turned, walked down the carpet while dragging his hands across the symbols sewn into it, muttered some nonsense syllables that didn’t come close to emulating the ones the Priest had tried to teach them during the trip, grabbed the bread and water at the end and walked off.

  Padan was going to curse at Gyeong but held his tongue. It would only make things look stranger if someone was watching. Not that he had any indication that was the case. The two-day hike from where the long boats dropped them had gone off without a hitch. No sign of trolls, no sign of Ibisi scouts other than the one with them, no animal threats. But… he knew what was waiting at the end, and this, this was the end. They had found the cave, exactly as Jedia had described it, sitting in a ravine in the foothills north of the Nuffiok Mountains. Those mountains had a history, along with the treacherous passages through them that humans and trolls had fought up and down for twenty years around the time the old Empire collapsed. The passages were still referred to as the Paths of Blood.

  They had found the cave just as the sun was setting the previous day, and he’d decided to camp for the night and enter in the morning.

  Padan walked over to where a small man with nimble fingers, Grimalkin, was putting out the fire they had left burning overnight in a deep pit intended to hide the flames. He nodded politely. Grimalkin smiled but it was a mechanical gesture, no real warmth to it. Padan had tried to keep himself at a distance from the crew. The guilt already cut deep. He did not need to add to it by getting closer to these people. Nearby was Stegar, the hulking, unkempt blond whose raffish appearance was at odds with the smooth efficiency he displayed in setting up camp and bre
aking it down. He avoided Padan’s eyes, playing the same game Padan was, keeping his distance, but for reasons that were his own.

  A few steps away Daesal, a medium height young woman with striking eyes, long brown hair and a permanent look of curiosity on her face, much too finely dressed for an expedition to the wilds of Tawhiem, was sitting on a rock reading one of the books that she always had around. She tended to be completely absorbed in her reading, and today was no exception. She didn’t even glance up as he walked by. Padan suspected Daesal was a Holder, a member of one of the land-owning houses that ruled Kethem. She might even be a Silver Ring, have a position just below the Gold Rings that led the house. That was unfortunate. Someone might notice if she didn’t return to Kethem, which seemed more likely than not. Why she would hide that and mix with commoners like himself was hard to imagine. Even though he was high in the temple hierarchy, he held no illusions. Holders saw divisions of rank inside the Hold as the only measure of an individual’s worth. Titles and position outside the Hold were of little or no consequence. There were other things about her that were just a bit off, like the fact that she never broke a sweat. During the hike through the outback, even he was wringing out his hat, and many years of travelling similar routes made him less susceptible to the heat than most. That, and once when they were talking, she had suddenly licked the back of his hand for no obvious reason, then turned beet red and apologized. He still had no idea what that had been about.

  Nearby Hantlin, a Kydaos priest, short, bald and looking out of his element, was finishing breakfast, a little behind the others. He gave Padan a shy smile. Kydaos was a war God, but Padan knew from experience that the order itself was more complex than it seemed. The temples were always adorned with scenes of battle and famous weapons, and the priests, who were collectively referred to as Uncle Wolf, were famed for what many would consider un-priestly behavior, particularly when large quantities of beer were involved. But the Kydaos temple was also the center of a vast array of charitable organizations, from soup kitchens to distributing blankets to the homeless. They were also the de facto handlers of the dead, arranging services for Holders and commoners alike.

  Hantlin was not typical for an Uncle Wolf. Where they were usually outgoing and friendly, mixed with a healthy dose of stoicism and cynicism earned on the battlefield, he was shy and reserved. Padan was sure there was a story there, and it probably explained why Hantlin was on the expedition at all. Uncle Wolf could join expeditions or a unit of the Kethem Guard or Navy for a tithe to the temple, and their God-provided abilities were so beneficial in combat it was worth the price. Hantlin had signed up individually for a relatively small amount of coin.

  Not far from Hantlin was Nhi Nyjha, an Ibisi who’d been in Kethem on some errand he wouldn’t talk about, but who knew the breadth of Tawhiem well enough to serve as a guide. The Ibisi were nomadic, with loosely organized tribes occupying vaguely defined territories across the plains on this side of the LanotalisSea, in what had been a large part of the old Empire. The plains ran from the Nuffiok Mountains all the way to Kuberre River, the official line of demarcation between human and elvish lands. Nhi was his tribe name, a surnames of sorts. They were not on Nhi lands, but the Ibisi tribes would give passage to individuals from other tribes, particularly if they were with a party of Kethemers, as Kethemers would trade artisan enchanter items that were rare in Tawhiem for food and safe passage. Nyjha was gazing out over the ravine with a piercing stare. He wore the rough leather pants and jerkin that were common to all the Ibisi tribes.

  Corel Saballa was cleaning dishes from the morning meal. She was a timid, shy woman who was either older than she seemed or prematurely grey, and always trying to be helpful. Ajax Mullan was standing around looking lost. Thick, muscular, and the son of a blacksmith, his skills were of decreasing value, as artisan enchanters found more niches to fill with specialized spellcasting and made old skills like blacksmithing less valuable.

  It was about as diverse a group as you would find outside a Magistrate’s courtroom, where you could find the breadth of Kethem’s social hierarchy all together in a single place. A crowd of misfits, randomly assembled. Still, it was his crowd of misfits. At least for as long as they lived, which optimistically could be counted in hours.

  Padan shook his head. It had been a sleepless night, and he wondered if he had decided to wait just to put off entering the cave. He wouldn’t be walking out of that cave alive and he knew it. The rest of his crew… he didn’t know, but he wouldn’t bet on any of them surviving.

  He took a deep breath. It was guilt he would have to live with, or more likely die with. He’d put the group through as close to the morning prayers of Hasamelis as he could manage with unbelievers. They’d broken their fast.

  It was time.

  “OK,” he yelled, “form up. Ready light spells and glow disks. Let’s do--” and then he broke off. Because in the distance, running over and through his words like a cold breeze from an open window were the howls of wolves… wolves, or something worse.

  Chapter Four

  Morning was slowly coming into focus, though Stegar preferred to make this process take as long as possible. As usual, his first thought was that things would be much easier with a little drink to take the edge off of last night’s excesses. In fact, there had been none, with alcohol prohibited by the Hasamelis priest, but it was a standard part of his morning ritual these days. He had one small flask of cheap whiskey left hidden in a pouch. Even without the need to soften the landing from a night of drinking, his fingers itched for the feel of the bottle in his hand. Instead, he found that by concentrating on the bits of sand and twigs that had wedged themselves into his armor and become tangled in his beard he could liberate himself from the incessant droning of the priest of Hasamelis, who was paying them entirely too much money to do something that probably did not need doing.

  In his morning trance, his limbs moved independently of his mind, breaking down the camp, storing his equipment neatly away, and checking and cleaning his weapons. His smooth and efficient movements were in complete contrast to the unkempt nature of his great blonde mane and straggly beard. Although the leather plates of the armor that covered his giant frame were all in repair and fit well, they were of poor quality and had the air of being lived in far too long. On the whole he looked like something that Padan had dragged off of the docks of Bythe or out of some dark alley.

  Stegar shook the last of the cobwebs from his head and checked out each of the ragtag group that Padan had assembled, making sure that there was enough light distributed amongst the group for their descent into the cave, and that everyone had weapons that would work well in confined spaces and not endanger each other. This group was not ragtag in the sense of being unskilled, it just seemed to be composed without regard to their ability to coordinate effectively in a combat situation. There was no balance, no roles, and they had certainly never trained as a unit. Still, this was the job, and he did his best to evaluate each member of the group and their skills. Padan was marching about giving orders about what to do, but Stegar mostly ignored them. He knew the mission.

  And then, as it always did, the mission went out the window. From the north came the howl of a pack of things large, hungry and canine. The cave was lodged in the side of a ravine, so by necessity that was where they had made their final camp, but now the terrain provided limited options to deal with whatever was coming towards them. Instincts kicked in and Stegar started moving amongst the group, encouraging people into position. If one or two of the bowmen could get to a position of height on the ravine walls, they would have a decent shot at the animals and the group would have better reconnaissance. He automatically began forming people into a semi-circle with backs to the cave so a retreat could prevent flanking. It irked him a little since the cave was unknown territory but, at this point, the tents were a liability because they cut down on visibility. Best to make sure any mages were in the second line but had gaps to fire through in case they actuall
y proved useful. It was clear that there were some veterans in the group, but this encounter would be useful to show how well they could work as a whole. He did not know what to do with Padan, who looked old for combat but might be able to wield the power of his god in some unfathomable way. The man looked panicky and was busy playing with his massive belt buckle.

  Stegar decided to ignore Padan and turned back to the more immediate matter. With supplies already at hand and the unit in position he readied himself. Bringing his buckler to fore he unlatched the longer of his swords. He leaned the buckler against his side, cocked his great crossbow, and then knelt, positioning the crossbow across the top of the buckler to steady it. He let his senses expand out and fill the ravine and adopted a ready calm, waiting to see from which directions death would hurtle at him today. The howls were getting closer. Getting closer fast. Forgotten were the world and its woes, replaced by duty and the focus that combat required. Rich were the deep tones of the wolves’ howls, which faintly echoed off the sides of the ravine and intermingled.

  Then, just as he was expecting the wolves, something else came into view flying around the bend in the ravine. A tall willowy figure appeared, an elf, moving with a speed and grace unparalleled in Stegar’s experience. Behind the figure the wolves came crashing into view, muscles churning, dust flying in their wake, and their great legs pounding the canyon floor. The massive beasts were obviously not ordinary wolves, and Stegar felt a chill as the full number of them became apparent. The white-haired elven warrior in front looked haggard and near exhaustion. It seemed he would not be able to go on, yet somehow he glided across the ground with a smoothness that gave the illusion that he was not running at all. Inexplicably, he was managing to move with enough speed to keep the distance between him and the wolves from shrinking.