Heaven's Gate

by Toby Bennett

  “I’d fucking love to!” Lillian spits back, trying to pinpoint the exact position of the mocking voice.

  “Language! Language! My dear, you wouldn’t want to come over as poorly bred would you? I suppose you should know that at this very moment I am recording every word we say. There is no doubting the master’s genius in making the device; such a simple thing really but you would not believe how useful it is to replay the results of an interrogation where one has become… over excited. It really does make sure that nothing gets missed.”

  “I don’t want to marry Leedon or be part of your mad quest and not you or a hundred of your thugs will make me change my mind.”

  “You have no wish to be part of what quest, exactly?” The Pardoner asks, chuckling “and here we thought you such an innocent. It seems strange to me, however, that you should return here of all places, if all you were trying to do was run away from an unwanted marriage. Did you forget something, perhaps?”

  Lillian responds with stony silence, desperately blinking her eyes in an attempt to clear her vision. For just a moment she is rewarded by a blurry but stable image of the man sitting on the bed, she squeezes off another round but the Pardoner hardly flinches as the bullet tears the fabric of his loose fitting habit.

  He continues to speak almost immediately, unfazed by the shot or her anger.

  “Of course, whether you will even be offered the chance to marry the General now has yet to be decided; after all your current attitude hardly speaks well for the future of such an alliance….” Nathaniel breaks off.

  “My lady, unless my ears deceived me you already fired a shot on the hallway, so your pistol should now be empty, there is no need to constantly brandish it wildly. Frankly I think it stops you from listening to me.”

  Lillian realizes the truth of this and reluctantly returns her weapon to its holster.

  “Well, what have you got to say that’s worth listening to? Or am I going to have to listen to your smug self-congratulation until I wish I were deaf as well as blind?”

  “I could arrange both!” The Inquisitor snaps, before calming himself to continue where he had left off. “As I was saying, your attitude may force us to change our plans but as has already been amply demonstrated, you are too valuable to be left to wander around free.”

  “Valuable? I’m not an old piece of jewelry or a thoroughbred horse you know.”

  “And yet you seem to have much in common with both. You have already been stolen once and I’m sure whoever you have downstairs helping you was not persuaded by your smile, pretty as it is. You know as well as I that you are a commodity in your own right, a baron’s daughter and the only daughter of Baron Carter. But, really, Lillian do we need to fence with each other any more? When the match was first suggested it was believed that you were ignorant of the part we expected you to play; my master placed you with your foster father to ensure this, so that not even your own thoughts could betray you.”

  “My foster father? Are you saying that I am not a Carter?”

  “No, just not Jesop’s daughter, but you must know all this? Yorick must have explained when he found you.”

  “Yorick? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Come. Come. Enough of this,” the Chief Pardoner purrs, “it will go better if you simply admit it.”

  “I swear I don’t know what you are talking about.” Lillian protests.

  “That would be so easy to believe if you hadn’t stolen the book and brought it here for Yorick. Did you think we would not have a way to recover such a valuable artifact?”

  “I took the book, it’s true but only because … I wasn’t… I still won’t let you use me.” No point in denying the obvious, Lillian thinks to herself if they’ve found it here than there’s nothing to be gained but Nathaniel clearly thinks that I know more than I do. All this talk of a ‘master’ and Yorick might prove to be interesting ammunition if they did drag her back to Leedon. She was willing to bet the General would be interested to hear that his Chief Pardoner served another master.

  “So you just walked into a hidden and heavily secured room, bypassed all the locks and took the book, the one at the centre of our whole search, by accident?”

  “No, not by accident, I overheard the two of you talking about it. The General kept going to the tower rather than paying any attention to me and it wasn’t hard to follow him. As for the locks they were open when I got there. I took it because..” a thought bubbles unlooked for into Lillian’s mind. Why had she gone there? Now that she thought about it, why was the book so important? The answer seems to elude her, like a quick fish darting back into he depths of a dark pool, leaving her to stammer lamely, “becau.. because, I thought it was what he deserved for trying to use me.”

  “You expect me to believe that?” Nathaniel asks incredulously. “That you are just a vindictive girl, who heard too much and then just stumbled upon something so important, over-riding all the precautions we have taken?”

  “I never said I stumbled and I knew my name was in it because I heard you say so. As for vindictive, it was what he deserved.” Lillian insists, thrusting all thought that there might have been any other reason but revenge from her mind, as if even thinking about it in the Inquisitor’s company could be dangerous.

  “So you just brought the book here and left it for Yorick to take.”

  So they don’t have the book, Lillian reasons breathing a small sigh of relief, not even allowing herself to wonder why it really matters to her, to even go down that line of thought seems somehow wrong. Yorick, whoever he was, had obviously beaten them to the book; something else was puzzling her though.

  “Of course I didn’t leave the book for Yorick, whoever he may be. Why did you even bother to wait for me if you knew the book was gone and you really believed that I had left the book here to be picked up by someone else? Why would you expect me to come back?”

  “Perhaps you would like me to read you the note Yorick left for you under the floor boards in the corner. We know the book was there because we found it next to this.” Nathaniel holds up a small gem, which Lillian would have recognized as having as strong resemblance to General Leedon’s betrothal necklace, had her eyes not still been recovering from their trauma. As it is, she can just about make out the flickering red glow and the square shape of an unfolded and yellowed piece of paper in the Pardoner’s other hand. The fact that she can notice that much detail makes her think of reloading her gun but she knows that there is no way to do that without Nathaniel noticing and so rejects the idea almost as soon as she has it.

  “Alas, Lillian, your detour has been for nothing. Tell the Pilgrim to follow his first impulse and I will meet you in the ruins of Silversnow. Make sure Aden makes it if you can. I apologise for the theft but better me than Kalip! The Tinker has no intention but mischief.”

  Nathaniel reads the short note out for her benefit.

  “I should warn you, my master would not take well to having his work called mere tinkering. Still, content aside, do you still deny knowing Yorick?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know anyone called Aden for that mater!”

  “I was afraid of this. It seems we will need to take you somewhere more conducive to obtaining truthful answers…. You may come now,” the Pardoner calls out into the hall behind her, triggering the tell tale groan of many doors.

  Lillian takes a great gulp of air, there is no more point in playing for time; her eyes can make out shapes, if not details and that will have to be good enough. A sudden lunge sends her flying across the small room towards the Chief Inquisitor, who braces himself to fend off the ineffectual attack of a frustrated girl. His master had been clear that no significant harm should come to the baron’s daughter, which had made using the flash bulb a risk but there was little risk in slapping the girl about a bit; his master would understand that, she is too full of herself for her own good. A few blows ought to soften her up for later questioning, in fact the Chief Pardoner is now regretting
calling his men from hiding, had he known the wretched girl wasn’t going to try to make a break into the corridor he might have kept his men in reserve and had more enjoyment himself.

  These thoughts evaporate suddenly, as Nathaniel registers the flash of steel in Lillian’s hand. With the speed of a startled cat Lillian ducks under the blurry shape of the Pardoner’s hand as it tries to ward her off and slides into position behind him, with the knife at his throat, just in time to face the Inquisitors suddenly bursting through the doorway across from her.

  “Back!” She shouts, squinting to see the men hovering indecisively in the doorway. “Where do you think you can go now?” Nathaniel asks, regardless of the thin, cold line crossing his Adam’s apple. Lillian ignores the question and instead backs up to the window dragging her captive with her.

  “I hope you are not planning to do anything foolish, my lady,” the Chief Pardoner warns, “at the moment I can promise that you will not be harmed, however, my men are under no such instructions, if something were to happen to me, they might do something regrettable.” Once again Lillian refuses to be drawn. Instead she uses her free hand to open the window and call a single word into the street.

  Sam has only just succeeded in pulling the wounded mutant into the protection of the alleyway, when he hears his name called from one of the windows on the upper story of the inn. The call was not entirely unexpected, even with the large numbers of Inquisitors in town it was too much to hope that so many watching this particular inn could be a coincidence. He was almost grateful to the man in his arms for having precipitated the fight rather than having it sprung on him when the Inquisitors were good and ready. Many of the men who had been camped in the opposite building were now dead and only the very bravest dared to peek above the window sill, in the hope of getting another shot at the mutant or the ex-Crusader.

  “Can you still fire a gun?” Sam asks the mutant, thrusting the rifle into his seven fingered hand.

  “Yes and the name’s Aden.”

  “Mine’s Sam. Aden I need you to keep the windows covered, keep them pinned down and don’t let anyone cross the street.”

  “What are you going to do?” The three-eyed gunman asks, heaving his body into a firing position, ignoring the pain from the bullet wound in his side.

  “There’s a friend of mine inside and it sounds like she’s run into trouble. I have to go and get her.”

  “Go, then. I don’t know how long I can keep their attention so be quick.” His words are punctuated by a shot from the rifle and a screech of pain from across the road.

  On cue, the Inquisitor’s gunmen send anther volley of bullets into the corner of the inn but the mutant quickly rolls back into the shelter of the alleyway, cursing at the pain blossoming from his wound. Sam does not bother to see if Aden makes it back to his position. Instead he is already running, bent double, towards the back of the inn and the unlocked pantry door. He plunges through into the kitchen, ignoring the startled cries from the chefs huddling below the counters and runs through into the common room. Here and there men look up from their hiding places but none dare challenge him as he sprints through the room.

  Blake sees the first Inquisitor as he steps over the body of the innkeeper at the foot of the stairs. Before the man can bring his gun to bear or yell a warning, a heavy knife twirls through the air and finds his eye. The Inquisitor stiffens as the steel laces into his brain then falls forward already pale and dying. Blake has ascended the stairs before the rest even know he is upon them; within seconds two more men are dead, cleft by his darting blade then the first shots ring out as mortal reactions try to keep pace with the blurred movements and unholy determination of this wild eyed killer. The Inquisitors left in the room with Lillian and her hostage freeze, unable to decide whether to stay with their lord or join their fellows in the hallway beyond. They have only a few brutal moments to wait, before a figure, holding a dripping sabre and drenched in the blood of their fellows, is framed in the doorway. The foremost Inquisitor raises his pistol but before his finger can even squeeze the trigger, the razor edged blade flicks out again and a severed hand rolls into the corner, leaving a slick trail on the carpet. The other men fall back before the onslaught, each one confronted by a secret terror that leaves him no option but to cower before the gruesome butcher.

  Blake pays no attention to the men fleeing past him. Instead he steps forward to stand in front of Lillian and her captive, raising his dripping sword to replace the knife at the Chief Pardoner’s neck and allowing Lillian to step away from the still grinning man.

  “Captain Blake! It is good to see you unchanged since Golifany,” Nathaniel says mockingly, “I should have known that you would not be idle at a time like this. What have Yorick and the girl promised you? I am sure that I can match whatever offer they have made.”

  Recognition creases Sam’s brow and he steps back, his sword still leveled.

  “Yes, you were at Golifany,” he says studying the other man’s features, “you are the leader here, now?” It is more a statement than a question.

  “Indeed, though I thought you would know more of me. Have they kept you so in the dark?”

  “I have spent most of my time in the western desert, I have not bothered with politics…” Suddenly, the weariness hits Sam. Without the support of his Berserker’s rage and the necessity of saving Lillian, he feels his fatigue pulling down on him, like heavy chains rooted in the earth a storey below him. It has been too long since he last fed and if Rydal’s blood had not been so potent, he might already be feeling the hunger of his stolen years creeping over him, slowing the muscles, stretching the skin, bringing a year’s worth of degeneration in less than an hour. The memory of how it had happened the first time fills him with an all consuming dread; he had lost his youth in a single day and had thought he would lose everything, until the scent of his first victim had drawn him away from the Church, where he had first looked for salvation and then into the desert. It was what had first made him realize how close his damnation was. The sight of his face virtually melting in the glass of the Church windows as the years crept upon him was something that had driven him from one end of the desert to the other; always swearing he would find redemption but always prepared to do whatever it took to stave off the day of that judgement. In spite of all his bitter orisons, he would rather suck that slow flowing black blood until he could taste the marrow than feel those cold years creeping over him or face the uncertain mercy of an undeniable god.

  Somewhere, beyond the demands of his hunger, he can hear the Pardoner droning on but he cannot listen properly. Yorick? He knows the name and he knows that it has significance but there is something more immediate that he must attend to. The scent rising from the Pardoner’s mouth holds the Pilgrim’s attention far more than the Pardoner’s promises and attempts at persuasion. It pours dark and rich into the room, the sent of vital death borne on the breath of the Inquisitor and Blake knows that this man, a man who had ridden on the plains of Golifany against the evil that slept there, had known the overripe, almost rotten taste of undead blood. This man was a servant, as he had been, and therefore contained within his veins some small measure of his master’s gift.

  “I am sure you would be allowed access to the Gate, once my own master has made use of it…” Nathaniel rattles off his list of promises but he breaks off as he notices the deadly need in Blake’s tired eyes. Too late he tries to avoid the Pilgrim’s wild lunge but there is no resisting that animal hunger and Blake’s teeth close on his neck. Not sharp or elegant like his master but blunt, brutal, tearing their way to the vein and drawing in mouthfuls of pumping arterial blood.

  Lillian chokes on a scream at the sight of blood erupting from the side of Blake’s mouth; but Blake keeps tearing at the throat, oblivious to anything but the elusive strength woven into the servant’s blood by his master. It is some indication of the potency of that blood that Blake is able to release the Chief Pardoner while his heart is still beating.

&
nbsp; “We must go,” he says, his voice thick with the blood still trailing from his mouth. Without waiting for Lillian’s response, he thrusts out a gory hand and drags her from the room.

  Spreadeagled on the carpet behind them, Nathaniel Tenichi struggles to control his ragged breathing and the wretched pounding of his heart. As his master has taught him, he draws on his own reserves and the power that the Elder had given him, from what few shreds the Pilgrim has left. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the blood at his throat begins to scar and the veins bind themselves back together. Nathaniel has garnered strength from the Stregoi blood for less than five years but even that short a time is more than a body should bear in a few moments, especially a body so close to the brink of death. The pain he feels is more exquisite than any he has ever doled out and for all his reserve, he cannot help but whimper; his pitiful sobs leave small bubbles of spit and blood on the surface of the damp stain covering the carpet. Before he blacks out, Nathaniel promises himself that the Pilgrim will know a similar pain over many years, growing older and older in fits and starts until even crawling is beyond him and at the moment when his Lord opens the Gate, he will leave the Pilgrim, only meters away from his salvation, unable to do more than bake and shrivel in the sun. This is the thought with which the Pardoner sooths himself, as he is dragged down by the shuddering coils of pain and weakness, that, when he is done, Samuel Blake’s ghost will be the most tortured soul to ride the wind between the sun burned desert sands and the frozen stars.

  Aden starts, causing himself to yelp in pain, as he registers the two people hurrying up behind him. The few muted shots and screams he had heard from the building in the short time since his benefactor left, could not prepare him for the blood drenched figure that greeted his eyes now. How many could the man have killed for Christ’s sake? The look on the face of the youth behind him told him some of that story but he suddenly hoped he wasn’t getting himself into more trouble by keeping company with this man. As if that were possible, he thinks, bitterly, trying to suppress the lingering nausea leeching from the wound in his side. What choice do I have?