The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  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.

  He began to understand, though not completely. In that moment he realized how far beyond him all of this was. Yet he probed where he could, asking what questions he dared of the agents of Duratek. He would color the words of the Big Voice he was to relay to them, or even speak small falsehoods to see how they reacted. That was how he came to know he was right; the world the Big Voice spoke of was not this world. It was another world, a world from which the Voice came. A world to which Duratek intended to go.

  When at last he learned this, it occurred to Carson to flee back over the dusty plains to Kansas. Except that was impossible. He couldn’t give up what he had wrought here; no matter how it had come to him, he loved his cathedral and his followers. Besides, if they sensed his doubt, it would all be over. They would discard him and find someone new, another prophet to raise in his place.

  Or they would find a way to make him obey.

  It had begun not long after he started preaching in the Steel Cathedral. Your flock has grown great in number, the Big Voice told him. It is time for you to offer up a lamb on the altar to the one who brought your followers to you.

  At first it was just one or two at a time. Carson culled them from his congregation with care. He chose those least likely to be missed: the homeless, the lonely, or the elderly who had been abandoned by their families. The Angels of Light came and led them away.

  He was terrified the first time the Angels appeared, but the Big Voice told him not to fear them. Still, he did. They were tall and beautiful to behold, thin as wisps inside the halos of silvery light that followed them. Their eyes were like large jewels, and they had no mouths. Nor did they have wings. Weren’t angels supposed to have wings?

  What was done to the people after the Angels of Light took them away, Carson didn’t know, at least not at first, but when he saw them again they were . . . different. Their faces were smoother, calmer. Harder. A fervent light shone in their eyes.

  Their hearts are strong now, the Big Voice told Carson when he asked what had been done to them. Their doubts have been taken away.

  As time passed, Carson began to think it was something else that had been taken from them, something warm and human. Then, one night, he grew bold enough to follow the Angels of Light. He watched what they did with an old homeless man in a chamber deep beneath the cathedral, and he learned the truth. Iron. They were given hearts of iron.

  He had fled, and had not said anything about it. He didn’t dare, not if he didn’t want his own doubts, his own heart, to be taken by the Angels of Light. Soon it was not one or two at a time, but three or four or five. Every day, the Big Voice asked for more, and every day it grew harder to find people in the congregation who would not be missed.

  Finally, over the course of the last week, Carson had grown desperate. The homeless people of Denver had grown wary; there were no longer enough who could be lured to the cathedral with the promise of charity. Carson no longer cared if those he selected had husbands and wives, sons and daughters. Any who seemed weak and lost enough, who could be persuaded that something better than this life awaited them, were led to the Angels of Light. The reports of the missing were all over the news.

  “Speak to me,” Carson whispered, gazing at the mirror.

  The man gazing back had an ageless, slightly plastic quality, as if the thick makeup he had worn all these years had been bonded to his face by the hot stage lights.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

  Silence. He stared at the mirror. There—Mary had missed a lock of hair. It stood out. He picked up the brush, but his hand trembled. More hairs strayed from formation, falling out of line. He would have to call Mary back.

  More, spoke the Voice in his mind. I want more.

  The brush slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

  “I can’t,” he mur
mured. “The police are getting suspicious. I received a phone call from an officer yesterday. A Sergeant Otero.”

  The men of Duratek will deal with this Sergeant Otero. The end of all things comes soon. You have nothing to fear, as long as you are faithful to me.

  Carson clenched the arms of the chair. “I have always been faithful to you.”

  Yes, so do not fail me now, when my time is close at hand. A great battle comes, the likes of which this world has never seen. Soon my servants will open the way for me, and when they do, I must have an army to march at my side.

  There was a pause, a blessed silence. Then, The Angels of Light come. Have more people for them to take. Do not make them take you instead.

  A roaring sound filled his ears, and he leaned over in the chair. Nausea clenched his gut, and his head spun, as it always did when the Big Voice was done talking with him.

  When the dizziness had mostly passed, he sat up and turned the chair toward a closed-circuit television in the wall. It displayed a camera shot of the half-full auditorium; his flock was already gathering. He fumbled for a remote control and pressed a button.

  The scene on the TV changed, showing another view of the auditorium: smiling people, their faces expectant, hopeful. No, they looked as though they were loved, as if they would be missed. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t risk more interest from the police, no matter what the Big Voice said. Carson pushed the button again, and again.

  He stopped. Now the TV showed a pair of unshaven men in mismatched clothes sitting near the back of the auditorium: a small, pudgy, bald fellow whose face was wrought into a permanent glare, and a gaunt man, perhaps Native American, his face placid, his big hands folded in his lap.

  Carson set down the remote control. Relief washed through him, and he shut his eyes. Those two fellows, he spoke to the darkness inside his mind as he pictured the two homeless men. Take those two.

  His eyes opened. That was it. Ones with hearts of iron would approach the two in the audience, would tell them they had been chosen for a special meeting, and would lead them away. They wouldn’t resist; no one ever did. After all, who wouldn’t want to meet an angel?

  Carson lifted a fluttering hand, trying to smooth his mussed hair back into place, but he only made things worse. Sweat beaded his makeup; it was beginning to run. Mary would have to powder it. Yes, he had to call for Mary.

  Carson reached out, but instead of picking up the phone, he opened a drawer. Inside was a large envelope. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of film. He held it up to the lights that surrounded the mirror.

  It was an X ray. He could see his spine, his ribs, his heart, and the pale outlines of his lungs like the wings of an angel. Only one of the wings was marred by a dark blot.

  The doctors had first detected it a year ago. They told him they had to do a biopsy, that the rate at which it was growing suggested it was malignant. He had told them no, that it was up to God to heal him. However, each time he went to the doctors, the blot was larger—a shadow reaching out to replace his own heart. God had not healed him. Soon, God would call him home.

  Or would God cast him down into the fiery pits of Hell for what he had done?

  Forgive me, he prayed. Not to the Big Voice, but to something purer, more distant. Please forgive me. Show me how I can redeem myself before you take me.

  No answer came to him, but the silence was as sweet as a benediction. Man’s mortal ears were not fit for the voice of God. He knew that now, if he knew anything at all.

  Another knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Mr. Carson.”

  He bent down and picked up the hairbrush, clenching his fingers around the handle until they no longer trembled. Then Sage Carson brushed his hair.

  47.

  The streets of Denver slipped past the windows of the car; the tinted glass cast the world into premature night.

  Travis sighed. Was that what the world—both worlds—would be like if Mohg stepped through the gate to Eldh? He was the Lord of Nightfall. If he ruled, would the sun ever rise again? Or would all things be forever shrouded in gloom?

  “What is it, Travis?” Vani sat beside him on the backseat of the car, Beltan next to her. She hesitated, then touched his hand. “Are you afraid of what we do?”

  He turned from the window and grinned despite the churning of his stomach. “How could I be afraid of anything when you and Beltan are here?”

  “Hey,” Anders said in a wounded tone, turning around in the front seat. “What are Deirdre and I—chopped liver?”

  Travis laughed. This was completely absurd. It was five of them against a fortress of steel. Then again, he couldn’t think of five other people in the world—in any world—who would have a better chance of getting in there than they did. That was, if they had any chance at all.

  Outside the windows, sharp towers jutted into the dusky sky. The car came to a halt.

  “Do you have the videotape?” Deirdre said to Anders.

  He slapped the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Got it right here, safe and sound.”

  Deirdre switched off the ignition. “All right, everyone, put on your most pious faces. Remember, we’re just a group of audience members. We love Sage Carson’s show, and we can’t wait to speak a few prayers.”

  Beltan gave an enthusiastic nod. “I’ll speak my prayers to Vathris.”

  Anders cleared his throat. “Wrong god, mate.”

  “Nonsense,” Beltan said. “Vathris is the god of warriors. What other god would I speak my prayers to?”

  “Well, the thing is, according to these folks, there’s only one god.”

  Beltan scowled. “That hardly gives a person much of a choice.”

  “I think that’s sort of the point,” Deirdre said. “Entire nations have gone to war to prove not just that their god is the right one, but the only one.”

  The blond knight let out a breath of exasperation. “I’ve never heard of such foolishness. Why shouldn’t people be able to follow the god that best suits them? I’m beginning to think this is a very silly world.”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” Anders said, and got out of the car.

  They joined the crowds of people hurrying across the gigantic parking lot, huddled inside their coats. It was too cold to talk, but there was no need; they had spent all day back at the hotel going over the plan. Such as it was.

  “I was right,” Anna Ferraro had said after she showed up at their suite last night. After he told her what they wanted to do. “You really are a complete nut, aren’t you?”

  Travis had laughed. “You still came.”

  Some of her annoyance changed into astonishment. She nodded, and he closed the door behind her.

  For the next several hours, he and the others had watched while Ferraro spoke with Dr. Larsen. At first the reporter was skeptical; investigative journalists had been trying to pin all sorts of misdoings on Duratek for years, only to no avail. Then Larsen popped the disk into Deirdre’s computer, and all of them watched the evidence flicker across the screen—the memos, the reports, the results of the tests performed on human subjects. Doubt wasn’t an option; not only had Duratek created Electria, they were behind the entire trade in the illegal drug.

  Ferraro pulled a small digital video camera out of a bag, a glint in her eyes. “Let’s get to work, Doctor. We’ve got a multinational corporation to bring down.”

  They had done the interview there in the suite. Ferraro had wanted to bring Kevin, the photojournalist she had worked with at the television station, but Travis had told her to come alone, so she set up the shot herself. She interviewed Larsen on the couch for over an hour. They had printed out some of the most damning pieces of evidence, and Larsen held them up for the camera as she spoke in precise sentences.

  Once they were done, Deirdre downloaded the video to her computer, and Larsen cut the piece together, muttering an almost constant stream of profanities.

  “I’m a reporter, not an editor,” she growled and lit another cigarette.


  She kept working, and by midnight it was done. They exported two copies out to tape. One for Ferraro, and one for the rest of them. In addition, Deirdre duplicated the disk. After they were done, Travis looked at Ferraro.

  “So, do you think this will save your career?”

  The reporter picked up one of the tapes. “Screw my career. This will save lives.” She slipped it into her camera bag.

  “I’m sorry in advance for bringing it up,” Anders said, “but what’s going to happen to the doc here?” He glanced at Larsen, who sat motionless on the couch. “After all, she took part in some illicit activities herself at Duratek.”

  “Immunity,” Ferraro said, turning toward Larsen. “The government will give you immunity in a heartbeat if you promise to testify for them. You’d be wise to take it.”

  Larsen’s eyes were frightened; she nodded.

  The weekday edition of Carson’s show, Hour of Salvation, aired in the afternoon. However, tomorrow’s show was the Saturday edition, which was broadcast in the evening. Ferraro made a phone call—she was jobless, but she still had friends in the business—and scored five tickets to the production.

  “Thank you,” Travis told her before she left, not knowing what else to say.

  She hesitated at the door. “Air that tape. Tell the truth about those bastards. That’s all the thanks I need.”

  Then the door shut, and she was gone. Ferraro had taken Dr. Larsen with her. The two women were going to hole up in Ferraro’s apartment, then they were heading straight to the police once the story broke. If the story broke.

  The five of them reached the doors of the Steel Cathedral. Spires of glass and metal soared overhead, like claws raking the darkening sky. They waited their turn in line, held out their tickets, and passed through.

  As they entered the cathedral, Travis kept waiting for an alarm to sound, for a voice to blare over the loudspeaker. Alert! Unbelievers! Infidels! Alert!