The Fatal Gate

by Ian Irvine

  “Get some sleep,” said Llian, putting more wood on the fire. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  She pulled her sleeping pouch up to her neck and lay down, her head pillowed on her arms. “Not sure I can sleep,” she murmured, “with it watching us.”

  “Can it actually see us, down here?”

  “It’s got a kind of presence now,” said Ifoli. “It’s tap-tapping on my skull, trying to get at me.” Her eyes were huge, wet and staring. She jerked the sleeping pouch up over her head and lay there, rigid as a log.

  Regg returned and went to his own sleeping pouch. Even more troubled now, Llian circled the campsite, knife in hand, then circled again beyond the reach of the firelight. Apart from the sound of waves breaking on the rocks and the regular crack of thunder, the night was still.

  After three hours he woke Regg for the next watch, but Llian was too on edge to sleep. He dozed a couple of times but each time snapped awake to see that the stars had hardly moved. After an hour or two he got up. Ifoli was trembling in her sleep and Regg’s head was drooping.

  “Get some sleep, lad,” Llian said. “I can’t.”

  He was pacing in the semi-dark when he heard a distant crackling, like a heavy object rolling over dry leaves. The sound was ever so slowly moving down the mountain.

  A cold breeze on the back of his neck made him shiver. He crept up the rise behind the campsite, trying to make no sound, and looked up at the mountain. The top two-thirds of the forest was glowing!

  The yellow-green radiance was creeping down on all sides, and it was brightest on the eastern side of the mountain where they had encountered the unreality zone. It was coming for them and it was only a few hours after midnight. Six or seven hours until they could cross the gravel spit to Mollymoot.

  Llian hurtled back, crashing through tall ferns that whipped at his face and stumbling over unseen rocks and logs. Ifoli was still twitching in her sleep. Regg was perched on a stone, head pillowed on his arms, and woke with a start as Llian skidded into the campsite.

  “Get up!” he gasped.

  Ifoli jerked upright. “What …”

  “Unreality zone is spreading down the mountain. Got to go, now!”

  She rose shakily, holding her back.

  “Is the lump—?” said Llian.

  She grimaced. “Worse than ever.”

  Llian heaved his pack on and led them down to the scalded ground of the salt flats. “The glow’s moving fast.”

  “But what is it?” said Regg, bewildered.

  He was an ordinary country boy who might never have seen any kind of mancery. How could he hope to understand what was happening here?

  “Magical pollution from the summon stone,” said Ifoli. “Dark waste that corrupts everything it touches.”

  “And the stone’s using it to lure us back,” said Llian.

  “Then where can we go?” Regg said hoarsely.

  “Down to the shore. Quick!”

  By the time they reached the inner edge of the mangroves the glowing unreality zone had developed three fast-moving lobes. The middle lobe was rumbling straight at them, the others heading out to either side as if to hem them in.

  “It’s trying to stop us getting to the gravel spit,” panted Llian.

  “We can’t cross it anyway,” Regg said gloomily. “It’ll be underwater for hours.”

  Ifoli doubled over, gasping. Llian could feel the heat radiating from the lump in her back, yet she was shivering violently.

  “If we stay here we’ll be trapped,” he said. “If we can reach the end of the spit, we might be able to fight it off until we can cross …” But he could not lie to himself—in his heart he knew it was almost hopeless.

  “How—fight off—unreality zone?” said Ifoli.

  Suddenly the left- and right-hand lobes extended like drops of glowing honey hanging from a spoon. “It’s accelerating,” cried Regg. “Can it read minds?”

  “Down to the water!” said Llian.

  As they squelched through sucking mud into the mangroves they lost sight of the lobes, which was worse than seeing them. He went ahead, feeling his way. In the tall, stilt-rooted mangroves, all he could hear was the lapping of waves on the distant shore, the whine of mosquitoes and his own heavy breathing.

  They ploughed their way to the shore. Llian looked right and a yellow glow was creeping from tree to tree, no more than a hundred yards away. Fear struck him a series of hammer blows, beating him down.

  “Left!” he rapped. “Faster!”

  But it was impossible to hurry here; the sticky mud clung in layers to their boots and the best they could manage was a zombie walk. Regg, despite his sore ankle, was fastest. Ifoli was blanched of face and stumbling. Llian glanced over his shoulder; the unreality zone was moving faster than they were. At this rate they’d never make it to the gravel spit.

  “Regg, carry her.”

  Regg, ignoring Ifoli’s protests, heaved her over his shoulder and they laboured on, but before they had gone another hundred yards the lurid yellow light brightened ahead of them and a second lobe swept down through the mangroves. They were trapped.

  Llian’s bowels spasmed painfully. What would the unreality zone do to them? Would it drive them insane, or turn them into monstrosities like the forest plants they had seen yesterday? As far as the summon stone was concerned, the more corrupt the better—before it fed on them.

  Regg put Ifoli down. “What now?” she said, sagging against him.

  “Into the water,” said Llian.

  “But we’ll be trapped,” Regg said wildly. The glow had turned his grey eyes a sickly yellow.

  “Most kinds of mancery don’t work in water.”

  “This is alien mancery; it may follow different rules.” Ifoli looked around wildly. “But it’s our only chance.”

  She held onto Regg’s shoulder and they waded out until the sea was waist deep on her, then walked slowly to their left, parallel to the shore. The water drew the warmth from Llian’s body and Ifoli was already in bad shape. How much longer could she keep going?

  The two glowing lobes converged in the mangroves, only thirty yards away. Dark knobs formed all over the stilt roots and twisted out in all directions, coiling and writhing and battering at everything they touched, including each other.

  The oyster shells were also growing madly, doubling and redoubling in size and forming spikes and razor-sharp blades, deadly to anything that came within range of the writhing roots. They were trapped in the sea … and what if the unreality zone followed them in?

  “What’s it doing?” Regg said shrilly.

  At the shoreline, the unreality zone formed little yellow-green bulges that extended across the seabed for several feet, only to be broken up by the waves and fade out.

  “If we stay out here,” said Llian, “I don’t think it can get to us.”

  “But the tide’s rising,” cried Regg, holding Ifoli up. “It’ll drive us into the mangroves and we’ll be hacked to death.”

  “We’ll have to swim around to the spit. There’s a break in the mangroves there.”

  “Ifoli can barely stand up.”

  “Have to manage,” she gasped.

  Llian led them out until the water was up to her shoulders then turned parallel to the shore. The waves weren’t breaking here but the surge was troublesome and it was hard going, especially for Regg who, despite living by the sea, was a poor swimmer and had refused to discard his precious fishing rod.

  Ifoli’s teeth were chattering. “Are you up to swimming?” said Llian.

  She nodded. “Lump’s gone down a bit. The cold water helps.”

  It was less than a mile to the spit and the narrow break in the mangroves, but it took them an hour to swim it. They had to stop every couple of minutes so Regg could stand up and catch his breath, and by the time they got there he was gasping and grey-faced.

  The shoreline was gravel here, and the beach about thirty yards wide, heaps of flat oval pebbles and cobbles piled up b
y storm waves. Nothing grew in it and the unreality zone was struggling to cross it, though wisps of glowing yellow clung to the pebbles here and there and Llian, not knowing what power they had, was reluctant to go ashore.

  But they might have no choice. They were exposed to the wind here, the water had leached the warmth from their bodies long ago and Ifoli was in a bad way. Llian did not see how she could last.

  They stood in hip-deep water, pressed together for warmth, eyeing the glow that now covered the mangroves to east and west for as far as they could see. Only the oval gravel bank resisted its progress, but for how long?

  The next two hours, until the winter sun finally rose sometime after seven, were eternal. “Th-three hours to go,” said Ifoli, her teeth chattering so hard that Llian was afraid they would crack. “Only three more hours.”

  It was a clear day, and the sunlight warmed them a little, though it created another problem—they could no longer make out the glow on the shoreline. They had no choice but to go into deeper water, cling together and pray.

  Finally, around nine, the falling tide began to expose the shoreward ends of the gravel spit to Mollymoot, though it would be three-quarters of an hour before the central part would be above water. Llian, Regg and Ifoli were moving down the spit when every hair on his body stood up and he heard, in his inner ear, a shriek of terror that would live with him all his days.

  Mummeeeee! Mummy, Daddy, it’s got me. Help!

  Through Sulien’s eyes he saw a gigantic winged beast with six-inch talons, a myriad of bone-crushing teeth, and saliva dripping from its leathery lips. It was hundreds of feet in the air and carrying her away.

  “Hold on!” he screamed, witless with panic. “I’m coming!”

  He tore free of Ifoli, knocking her down, and splashed out along the submerged spit. He could think of nothing save getting to Sulien as quickly as possible, and nothing could be allowed to stop him.

  “Stop!” shrieked Ifoli. “Regg, grab him.”

  Llian evaded him, waded out from the end of the bar until the water was up to his shoulders, then thrashed towards Mollymoot. But he had only gone ten yards when a powerful current dragged him to the left, off the submerged gravel and into deep water. He turned towards Mollymoot and swam harder, but now he was fighting a current that was moving faster than he could swim, and it was rapidly exhausting him.

  He was being swept east towards the Sea of Qwale, and there was nothing out there for more than a hundred miles.

  PART TWO

  ALCHEMY

  25

  SUCCUMBING TO THE DARK SIDE

  After the brutal confrontation with Grand Master Tule, Aviel could not sleep. What if the scent potion to deal with him went wrong? She was a novice working on an art she did not understand, and just because the Eureka Graveolence had gone well, this did not mean any other potion would.

  She went back to the workshop, lit a candle and turned the pages of Radizer’s grimoire. Even the minor dark potions were dangerous to make and more dangerous to use, and they did not always work the way they were supposed to. She did not want to harm Tule. She might have turned to the dark side but she wasn’t that far gone. She had to find the simplest, easiest and safest way of disabling him for a few weeks.

  Was a few weeks enough time to make some nivol? It seemed most unlikely, even assuming she could decipher the instructions and obtain all the ingredients, but if she failed it was unlikely humanity would survive. Even so, why had Tallia, Malien and Commander Janck put their faith in her? They must be desperate.

  She settled on Essence of Ague, one of the mild dark potions she had read about back home in Casyme. It caused fits of shivering and shaking that rendered the recipient unable to speak or stand up, and was accompanied by profuse sweating and very unpleasant body odour. The grimoire noted, wryly, that victims had to be isolated until the effects of the scent potion wore off, though they normally made a full recovery.

  She could blend Essence of Ague from half a dozen of the phials in her scent belt, plus the aromas she could extract from common garden herbs, and three mild stenches easily found in Sith. Aviel reread the method until she knew it by heart, then hid the grimoire. No one must ever know that she had used it on her master.

  Not long ago she had been an innocent girl who worked hard, was polite to everyone and never made a fuss. Now look at her. Aviel itemised her crimes since beginning the study of scent potions less than two months ago: stealing the grimoire; sneaking into Magsie Murg’s tannery and knocking the wicked old woman into a muck-filled de-hairing pit; robbing a grave of a skull bone and burning it; failing to inform on a known traitor; collaborating with that traitor; and now planning to attack her legitimate master.

  You don’t have to worry about succumbing to the dark side, she thought hysterically. You already have!

  Suddenly the workshop felt airless and confining. She hid the grimoire and the papers on nivol and went out, locking the door behind her. It was after midnight and the halls of the vast old mansion were empty. Though Sith was said to be a safe place, she feared to go out onto the streets at this time of night, however the mansion occupied a whole city block and had a rectangular courtyard in the middle. She went up to the top level, where a series of large semi-circular balconies served as viewing areas and watch posts.

  A couple sat on a bench on the first balcony, their bodies entwined. She continued to the second, which was empty and faced east. Aviel sat on the bench, looking over the low stone rail at the great River Garr. It enclosed Sith in its two protecting arms then wound away east to Vilikshathûr and the coast of the Sea of Thurkad like a fat silver snake in the moonlight.

  It was windy here, and chilly, and Aviel pulled her coat around herself and scrunched up on the seat. Her bruised face was hot and ached down to the cheekbones. Could she do this wicked thing to her master? And if she did, would it be one step too far down the dark path?

  A heavy tread made the balcony quiver. A huge shape was pacing along, limping a little. Just a guard. She resumed her mournful contemplation of the dark city, the shining river and her sadly stained little soul.

  The footsteps stopped, then came towards her. “Aviel?”

  She jumped and spun round, crying out, “W-who are you?”

  “Didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said, stopping several yards away. “I’m Osseion. We met yesterday.”

  Relief flooded her, then her troubles overwhelmed her and, to her mortification, she began to cry. Osseion sat beside her, the bench creaking under his weight, and put an arm around her shoulders. For such a huge man he was remarkably gentle. He said nothing until she had finished and wiped her eyes.

  “What happened to your face?”

  She did not want to say. “I was taught not to tell tales.”

  “I’ve kept Mendark’s secrets, even ten years after his death,” said Osseion. “I can keep yours.”

  “Grand Master Tule beat me,” she said in a low voice. “He hates me because I make scent potions. And because I’m a girl.”

  “Tule hates everyone because he’s been a failure for the past fifty years.”

  “He says he can do whatever he wants to me. He … he held my head under the hot washing water; I thought he was going to drown me. I … I think I broke his nose.”

  Osseion gave her a squeeze. “You’re entitled to defend yourself.”

  “But he won’t teach me anything about alchemy,” she wailed. “He just tells me to wash the equipment, over and over. And my work—” Not a hint to your friends. Not even a whisper.

  “Don’t tell me about it,” Osseion said quietly. “It’s urgent, and our survival relies on it; that’s all I need to know.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “You have to find the quickest way to get it done. Nothing else matters—not the law, nor friendship, nor loyalty. Just your work.”

  He rose and paced off. Aviel remained there, thinking hard. Everyone was telling her the same thing. It’s the most important job in
the world right now, and the most urgent, Nadiril had said. You have to find a way to learn everything you need to know from Tule … and prevent him from hindering you. Even Shand had told her to deal with her master.

  She would make Essence of Ague right away, even if it took all night. And in the morning, unless Grand Master Torsion Tule had miraculously become reasonable, she would use it on him.

  At ten past nine in the morning the workshop door was thrust open, and Tule stood in the entrance, swaying. The right side of his body had a slight tremor, his nose was red and swollen, and the rage in his eyes topped even that which she had seen the previous day.

  After studying her bruised face, his mouth twisted into a malicious rictus. His gaze swept the bench, the glassware and equipment, which was all where it had been when he left yesterday.

  “You haven’t done a thing!” he cried, stalking towards her. “Wash … everything … again … now!” He raised a trembling fist and swung.

  Aviel ducked but not quickly enough. His knuckles caught her left ear, where he had hit her yesterday, and she felt the swollen flesh tear. She scrambled backwards, her bad ankle twisted under her and she fell on her back. Tule, his face twisted in maniacal rage, raised a foot as if to stamp on her face. She rolled across the floor, but he came lurching after her.

  Do it, now!

  She felt in her pocket for the phial of Essence of Ague, levered the wooden stopper out with her thumbnail and, as he raised his foot again, flicked the scent potion up into his face, all ten drops of it.

  Tule froze, staring at her. The drops were spattered across his chin and upper lip and she caught the dominant scents—mouldy, rotting lemons and a very old, desiccated mouse corpse.

  “What … you … done?” choked Tule. “Dare … attack … your master?”

  The scent potion did not seem to be working. Had she made a mistake? If he was unaffected, she was doomed. She came to her feet, staring at him, the warm blood from her torn ear trickling down the left side of her neck.