The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Other things could not wait, and as they walked Grace finally told them about Durge, though Aryn had to help her, and when one was too overwhelmed by grief the other would speak for a time. However, neither Grace nor Aryn mentioned what Durge had revealed to them: how he had loved Aryn. It was a private thing. The young baroness had married Teravian out of duty, and she had not resisted. However, the knowledge that Durge had wanted her not for her position, but simply for herself, was like a secret jewel she could treasure in lonely times to come.

  Then Grace saw the way Teravian’s hand brushed against Aryn’s, and despite her sorrow she smiled. Perhaps there would not be so many lonely times in Aryn’s future after all.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Beltan said as they drew near the secret passage. It was lit with torches against the night, and guards stood at the entrance.

  “What is it?” Grace asked him.

  The blond man scratched his chin. “Well, Travis broke the First Rune, just as prophecy said he would. But prophecy also said the Warriors of Vathris were destined to lose the Final Battle.”

  “We did,” Sir Tarus said. “The army of the Pale King had us trapped in front of the keep’s wall. They were about to crush us. Victory was theirs.”

  “We could not have defeated them,” Teravian agreed.

  Aryn glanced at Travis. “Only then the Pale King died, and without Mohg to help them, so did his slaves.”

  Grace thought about this. “That doesn’t change the fact that we lost.” She sighed, gazing at Aryn, Teravian, and Tarus. “It was Travis who saved the world. I suppose, in the end, we didn’t really matter.”

  “That’s not true,” Travis said, his gray eyes intent upon her. “You did matter. You all did. If you hadn’t held Gravenfist Keep, the forces of the Pale King would have had time to overrun Eldh. They would have killed thousands upon thousands of people. The Dominions would have been laid waste.” He gripped her hand. “Without you, Grace, there wouldn’t have been a world for me to save, a world for me to choose.”

  Tarus grinned at her. “It looks like we did good after all, Your Majesty.”

  Grace lifted a hand, touching the bandage on her right shoulder. “Durge did good,” she said firmly.

  Together they stepped into the passage, leaving night to rule over the world. For a time.

  61.

  It was after midnight.

  Deirdre Falling Hawk sat at the dinette table in her South Kensington flat, gazing at the screen of her computer. She had spent the last three hours performing search after search in the Seekers’ databases using her Echelon 7 clearance, but she had turned up nothing more relating to the Thomas Atwater case. She lifted a glass to her lips, but it was empty, and so was the nearby bottle of scotch.

  Deirdre set down the glass, then leaned back from the table and rubbed her aching neck. An image shone in the center of the screen: the keystone taken from the location that had housed the tavern Thomas Atwater had been forbidden by the Seekers to return to. The same location that centuries later would house Surrender Dorothy, along with Glinda and its other half-fairy patrons. But what did it mean? Who was Atwater really? And what was the true purpose of the keystone?

  Maybe it didn’t matter now. She pushed aside the computer and picked up the copy of today’s London Times, which lay on the table. Anders had brought it to the office that day, and she had stolen it before heading home. DURATEK INVESTIGATION CONTINUES, the headline read, NEW ATROCITIES UNCOVERED. Another headline caught Deirdre’s eye, in smaller type near the bottom of the page: MORE DURATEK EXECUTIVES FOUND DEAD. The first sentences of the article described the mystery around the deaths. It seemed, when they were found, all of the executives had been missing their hearts.

  A sharp smile cut across Deirdre’s lips. “I hope you’re seeing this Hadrian, wherever you are.”

  She wondered where in the world he was just then. If he was even still in this world. Would she ever see him again? She didn’t know, but she hoped so. Just as she hoped one day she would see Travis Wilder and Grace Beckett again. She gripped the yellowed bear claw that hung around her neck. That was the funny thing about hope. It kept you going, even when the odds seemed impossible.

  Her computer let out a chime, and her gaze snapped back to the screen. The picture of the keystone was gone, and crimson words pulsed in its place.

  > Open your door.

  Deirdre leaped up, moved to the door, and jerked it open. The hallway outside her flat was empty. On the doormat lay a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She looked both ways, then picked up the parcel, closed the door, and sat at the table. Fingers trembling, she unwrapped the package.

  It was a sleek wireless phone. She hesitated, then opened it up and held it to her ear.

  “I’m glad to see you’re taking a break,” a man’s voice said. “Are you enjoying the newspaper?”

  She sucked in a breath and stood, looking out the window. The street below was dark and empty, but he was out there somewhere, watching her.

  “What do you want?” she said, snatching the curtains shut.

  Soft laughter emanated from the phone. “Don’t worry, Miss Falling Hawk. This is merely a social call. I wish only to see how you are faring after your trip to the United States. Tell me, did you enjoy today’s headline?”

  She glanced again at the newspaper. “Our plan worked,” she said, amazement lowering her voice. “It’s over.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Miss Falling Hawk. A great darkness has been averted, yet other shadows remain. Duratek is finished. They will never reach the world called Eldh. But there are others who would go there. And some from that world who would come to this one.”

  She sank again into the chair at the table. “But that’s impossible. Travis Wilder destroyed the gate. There’s no way to cross between the worlds now.”

  “I hate to appear rude, but once again you’re wrong. You see, Earth and Eldh draw closer to each other every day. One day, sooner than you think, perihelion will come. And with it will come great peril as well.”

  Her head throbbed, and the scotch burned in her stomach. “What do you mean? What sort of peril?”

  The computer let out another chime, and an image appeared on the screen. Deirdre’s eyes locked on it. The image was dark and grainy. It showed two figures in black prowling down a narrow urban street, moving toward the camera.

  “This photograph was taken three days ago,” came the smooth voice through the phone.

  Deirdre touched the screen. “What is it?”

  “Allow me to magnify it for you.”

  The image expanded to take up the entire screen. Deirdre saw them clearer now. The two figures wore black robes that fluttered behind them like shadows. The final pixels rearranged themselves, and Deirdre clutched the phone.

  Instead of faces, masks were nestled within the cowls of their robes. The masks were made of gold, like those stolen from a sarcophagus in a mummy’s tomb, gazing forward with serene, deathless expressions.

  “He’s dead,” she said into the phone, voice hoarse. “The sorcerer. I saw the gorleths tear him apart. He’s dead.”

  “And now more have come to take his place.”

  “But what do they want?”

  A faint hiss emanated from the phone. For a terrified moment she thought he was gone, then his voice spoke again.

  “I am not yet certain what it is they want. However, it has something to do with the approaching perihelion. They are waiting for something, planning, though for what I cannot say. Only one thing is certain: This is all far from over.”

  Deirdre could sense it—he was going to hang up. “Please,” she gasped. “Tell me more.”

  “Not just now. I am at great peril telling you what I already have.”

  “Why are you in peril?”

  A pause. Then, “There are those who would not be pleased if they knew I was aiding you. You must be wary of them. They could have agents anywhere.”

  Deirdre sto
od again, running her free hand through her hair. “Who do you mean? Please, help me.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Falling Hawk,” came his polite, accentless voice through the phone. “It may be some time until we speak again. But when the time comes, I’ll be in touch.”

  There was a click as the phone went dead in her hands. At the same moment the image of the figures in black robes and gold masks vanished from the computer screen, replaced by the picture of the keystone. Deirdre set down the phone with a shaking hand, then moved to the window and pulled back the curtains. She gazed into the night, but all she saw was darkness and her own ghostly reflection staring back at her.

  Here ends The Gates of Winter, Book Five of The Last Rune. The ultimate secret of the connection between Eldh and Earth will be revealed in Book Six, The First Stone.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARK ANTHONY learned to love both books and mountains during childhood summers spent in a Colorado ghost town. Later he was trained as a paleoanthropologist but along the way grew interested in a different sort of human evolution—the symbolic progress reflected in myth and the literature of the fantastic. He undertook this project to explore the idea that reason and wonder need not exist in conflict. Mark Anthony lives and writes in Colorado, where he is currently at work on the next book of The Last Rune. Fans of The Last Rune can visit the website at http://www.thelastrune.com.

  ALSO BY MARK ANTHONY

  Beyond the Pale

  The Keep of Fire

  The Dark Remains

  Blood of Mystery

  On Earth, Duratek Corporation has been shattered, while on Eldh the Pale King and his wicked master Mohg are no more. Evil has been defeated on two worlds. For both Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder, it is a time of peace and simple joys. Until . . .

  The sands of ancient Amún stir, and knowledge long buried comes to light once more: Morindu the Dark, lost city of sorcerers, has been found. At the same time, dread news flies on a dragon’s wings: a dark rift has appeared in the heavens, a ravenous void that threatens not only Earth and Eldh but the very fabric of existence itself.

  Now final perihelion approaches. Two worlds draw near. Together, Travis and Grace must embark on one last perilous quest: to reach the lost city of Morindu before forces of darkness can seize it, and to discover once and for all the ultimate secret of the connection between Earth and Eldh. In the final reckoning, all of existence will be saved . . . or nothingness will rule forever.

  So be sure not to miss

  THE FIRST STONE

  the explosive conclusion to

  MARK ANTHONY’S

  epic saga

  The Last Rune

  Coming in summer 2004 from

  Bantam Spectra

  Here’s a special preview:

  The dervish stepped from a swirl of sand, appearing on the edge of the village like a mirage taking form.

  A boy herding goats was the first to see him. The boy clucked his tongue, using a yew switch to prod the animals back to their pens. All at once the goats began to bleat, their eyes rolling as if they had caught the scent of a lion. Usually a lion would not prowl so near the dwellings of men, but the springs that scattered the desert—which had never gone dry in living memory—were failing, and creatures of all kinds were on the move in search of water and food. It was said that in one village not far away, a lion had crept into a hut and had stolen a baby right from the arms of its sleeping mother.

  The boy turned around, and the switch fell from his fingers. It was not a lion before him, but a man covered from head to toe in a black serafi. Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the garment, dark and smoldering like coals. The man raised his right hand; its palm was tattooed with red lines. Tales told by the village’s elders came back to the boy—tales about men who ventured into the deepest desert in search of forbidden magics.

  Obey your father and your mother, the old ones used to tell him when he was small, or else a dervish will fly into your house on a night zephyr and steal your blood for his craft. For they require the blood of wicked children to work their darkest spells.

  “I need . . .” the dervish said, his voice harsh with a strange accent.

  The boy let out a wordless cry, then turned and ran toward a cluster of hovels, leaving the goats behind.

  “. . . water,” the dervish croaked, but the boy was already gone.

  The dervish staggered, then caught himself. How long had he been in the Morgolthi? He did not know. Day after day the sun of the Thirsting Land had beaten down on him, burning away thought and memory, leaving him as dry as a scattering of bones. He should be dead. But something had propelled him on. What was it? There was no use trying to remember now. He needed water. Of the last two oases he had passed, one had been dry and the other had been poisoned, the bloated corpse of an antelope floating in its stagnant pool. But he would find water here; the spirits had told him so.

  He moved through the herd of goats. The animals bleated until the dervish touched them, then they fell silent. He ran his hands over their hides and could feel the blood surging beneath, quickened by their fear. One swift flash of a knife, and hot blood would flow, thicker and sweeter than water. He could slake his thirst, and when he was finished he would let the blood spill on the ground as an offering, and with it he would call spirits to him. They would be only lesser spirits, to be sure, enticed by the blood of an animal—no more than enough to work petty magics. All the same, it would be satisfying. . . .

  But no, that was not why he was here. He remembered now; he needed water, then to send word, to tell them he was here. He staggered toward the circle of huts. Behind him, the goats began bleating again, lost without the boy to herd them.

  This place was called Hadassa, and though the people who dwelled here had now forgotten, it had once been a prosperous trading center, built around a verdant oasis and situated at a crossroads where merchants from the north coast of Al-Amún met with traders of the nomadic peoples who lived to the south, on the edge of the great desert of the Morgolthi.

  However, Hadassa was not immune to the plague that affected this land, and over the decades the flow of its springs had dwindled to a trickle. The merchants and traders had left long ago and not returned; the city’s grand buildings were swallowed by the encroaching sand. Now all that remained was this mean collection of huts.

  When he reached the center of the village, the dervish stopped. The oasis, once a place of sparkling pools and shaded grottoes, was now a salt flat baked by the sun and crazed with cracks. Dead trees, scoured of leaf and branch, jutted up like skeletal fingers. In their midst was a patch of mud, churned into a mire by men and goats. Oily water oozed up through the sludge, gathering in the hoofprints. The dervish knelt, his throat aching to drink.

  “You are not welcome here,” said a coarse voice.

  The dervish looked up. The water he had cupped dribbled through his fingers. A sigh escaped his blistered lips, and with effort he stood again.

  A man stood at the other edge of the mud. His yellowed beard spilled down his chest, and he wore the white robe of a village elder. Behind him stood a pair of younger men. They were thin and stunted from lack of food, but their eyes were hard, and they gripped curved swords. Next to the man was a woman of middle years. In youth she had likely been beautiful, but the dry air had parched her cheeks, cracking them like the soil of the oasis. She gazed forward with milky eyes.

  “The cards spoke truly, Sai’el Yarish,” the woman said in a hissing voice, pawing at the elder man’s robe. “Evil flies into Hadassa on dark wings.”

  “I cannot fly,” the dervish said.

  “Then you must walk from this place,” the bearded man said. “And you must not come back.”

  The dervish started to hold out his hands in a gesture of supplication, then stopped, awkwardly pressing his palms against his serafi. “I come only in search of water.”

  One of the young men brandished his sword. “We have no water to spare for the likes of you
.”

  “It is so,” the old man said. “A change has come over the land. One by one, the springs of the desert have gone dry. Now ours is failing as well. You will not find what you seek here.”

  The dervish laughed, and the queer sound of it made the others take a step back.

  “You are wrong,” he said. “There is water to be found in this place.”

  From the folds of his serafi he drew out a curved knife. It flashed in the sun.

  “Do not let him draw blood!” the blind woman shrieked.

  The young men started forward, but the mud sucked at their sandals, slowing them. The dervish held out his left arm. The knife flicked, quick as a serpent. Red blood welled from a gash just above his wrist.

  “Drink,” he whispered, shutting his eyes, sending out the call. “Drink, and do my bidding.”

  He felt them come a moment later; distance meant nothing. They buzzed through the village like a swarm of hornets or a vortex of sand, accompanied by a sound just beyond hearing. The men looked around with fearful eyes. The blind woman gnashed her teeth and swatted at the air. The dervish lowered his arm, letting blood drip from his wound.

  The fluid vanished before it struck the ground.

  He clenched his jaw. The flow of his blood quickened as if the hot air gobbled it.

  “Water,” the dervish murmured. “Show me the water you said was here.”

  A moment ago they had been furious in their hunger. Now they were sated by blood, their will easy to bend to his own. He sensed them plunge downward, deep into the ground. Soil, rock—these were as air to them. He felt it seconds later: a tremor beneath his boots. There was a gurgling noise, then a jet of water shot up from the center of the mud patch. The fountain glittered in the sun, spinning off drops as clear and precious as diamonds.

  The village elder gaped, while the young men dashed forward, letting the water spill into their hands, drinking greedily.