Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  105.

  Travis trudged through the unbroken snow of Shadowsdeep, toward the knife-edged mountains that loomed in the night before him.

  The vale was still and frozen. There was no wind, and the air was crystal, sharp in his nose and lungs. The only sound was the crunch of his battered cowboy boots breaking the hard crust of the snow. The bitter cold sliced through his mistcloak and crept into his chest as if it wished to still his heart. Even the moon and stars seemed bound by ice in the dark sky above.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. Awhile, judging by the numbness of his hands and the ice that clung to his beard. Then again, he had a feeling time didn’t really matter, not now, not in this place. This moment would last as long as it needed to. That sounded like something Brother Cy would have told him, but he knew it was true. The vale waited, and watched.

  The mountains cut higher into the sky, excising more stars from the onyx firmament. However far he had come, he was closer now. Much closer. The Rune Gate lay directly ahead of him: a massive plane of iron as black as the peaks into which it was set. With every step the gate took up more of his vision, blotting out all else.

  Neck stiff, Travis looked back over his shoulder. He traced the line of his footprints across the moonlit snow. It was hard to be sure, but he thought he saw a small rectangle of gray at the place where his trail vanished into the night. The door back to the castle? Perhaps. However, even as he gazed at it, the faint patch of light vanished. If it had been the door, then it was gone now. Not that it mattered. There was only one door left for Travis to face, and that lay ahead of him.

  Not that he knew what he would do when he reached it.

  The Rune Gate is about to open. Only you can shut it, Runelord.

  Except he had no idea how he was supposed to keep the gate from opening, and the hag had not offered him any clues.

  Go then, and make your choice. Life or death.

  But it wasn’t up to him, was it? How could he choose if it wasn’t his choice?

  Travis didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to go there, to the gate. For good or ill, all his wandering in life, all his drifting, had led him here, to this moonlit vale in another world. If he wanted to go beyond, he had to go through. It was the only way.

  Travis started to turn back toward the mountains, and toward his destination, then halted. There—in the still desolation of the vale—something moved. The figure drew nearer, and Travis drew in a breath of wonder. He took a step through the snow toward the approaching knight.

  Beltan’s movements were stiff, as if the cold—or perhaps something else—hampered him. Long legs thrashed through the snow, and the knight covered the last of the distance between them. He came to a halt, broad chest heaving, his breath summoning frosty ghosts.

  Travis gazed at the blond man. “Beltan, what are you doing here?”

  The knight struggled to find words between breaths. “I’m coming with you.”

  Travis started to shake his head. This was his task—his peril to face—he couldn’t ask another to stand with him. Then he hesitated. How else would Beltan have found him if it wasn’t supposed to be this way, if she hadn’t meant it to happen? Besides, he was grateful to see his friend in this lonely place. Despite the dread that filled him at what he was supposed to do, Travis smiled.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Beltan.”

  “I told you I would protect you, Travis.”

  The two men embraced, and for a moment there was warmth in the frozen waste. Then Travis pushed his friend away. Beltan gazed around and shuddered.

  “What is this place, Travis?”

  “Shadowsdeep,” he whispered.

  With that he started through the unbroken snow, and Beltan followed after.

  Minutes passed as they walked, or hours—or perhaps less than a shard of a moment—and they were there. The two men came to a halt before a jagged wall of black stone. The Fal Threndur: the Ironfang Mountains. Travis had glimpsed them his first day in the world of Eldh. He could not have known it then, but even as he had traveled away from the mountains he had journeyed toward them. Maybe it made sense that things came to an end here.

  Set into the cliff face was a gigantic slab of iron. The Rune Gate. The very door of Imbrifale.

  The gate’s surface was rough, pitted by wind and time, but unmarked save for three circular impressions in the metal, each as large as a splayed hand. Travis knew what the impressions had once contained: the three seals forged by the Runelords a thousand years ago. Except Krond and Gelth had been broken, and now Travis glanced down at the ground before the gate and saw, fallen in the snow, another disk of stone. He knelt and picked it up, but before he even touched its smooth surface he knew what it would be. It was Sinfath, the third and final seal from the Rune Gate, and it too was broken.

  “Travis, look into the shadows.”

  Beltan’s words were low and soft with danger. Travis stood and glanced into the gloom. All around them spindly shapes moved in the darkness.

  Beltan drew his sword and eyed the shadows. “Whatever you came here to do, Travis, you might want to think about doing it. Now.”

  Travis took a step toward the gate. He reached out a hand to touch the rough surface—then drew it back. What am I supposed to do? But he didn’t know, and Grisla had not told him. A fear colder than snow froze Travis, paralyzing him.

  The things in the shadows were closer now. Yellow eyes flickered like flames without warmth. Moonlight glinted off gray fur and curved fangs.

  Beltan’s back brushed against Travis’s. “Keep behind me,” the knight said.

  Travis opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The Rune Gate was an abyss of blackness before him, and he stood on the edge. What do I do? But he couldn’t do anything. One step and he would fall forever.

  The darkness all around undulated, then the feydrim scuttled into the moonlight before the gate.

  It was hard to be sure how many there were—they slunk in and out of the shadows, making it impossible to count—but it didn’t matter. One thing was certain enough: There were far more than two men could fight.

  The feydrim pressed closer.

  Beltan lashed out with his sword as one of the creatures leaped forward. It scuttled back, away from the blade and into the gloom, eyes winking with hate. Another lunged from the opposite direction—they were testing the knight, measuring him—and Beltan twisted to engage it. He brought his sword around, but the movement was stiff, clumsy. The feydrim scrambled back to avoid his blade, but not before it had reached out with a claw. Beltan sucked in a breath of pain. Now a dark line scored his cheek, and a guttural sound, almost like purring, emanated from the shadows: They liked the scent of blood.

  “Travis?” Beltan’s voice was tight now. “Travis, I’m not sure how long I can hold them back.”

  Travis wanted to answer, wanted to reach down for the stiletto at his belt and help the knight. The gem set into the knife’s hilt blazed crimson. However, Travis was a statue. He could not decide what to do.

  A gray form sprang from the shadows beside the gate and stretched its talons toward Travis’s throat.

  “Get away from him!”

  The knight’s shout sundered the frozen air. He leaped before Travis and thrust with his sword. The feydrim fell squealing to the snow. It writhed with Beltan’s blade stuck in its gut, then twitched and fell still. The feydrim was dead, but now Beltan was weaponless. He started to reach forward to retrieve the sword, but two more feydrim snarled and crawled over the corpse. They glared at the knight with yellow eyes, then as one they leaped onto him.

  Beltan grunted and staggered back under the weight of the creatures. They bit and tore at him with fang and claw, shredding cloth and skin alike, but he did not go down. The knight let out a bellow of rage and agony, then dug his thumbs into the eyes of one of the creatures. The yellow lights dimmed, colorless ichor oozed out, and the feydrim screeched. Beltan heaved the carcass off him, then w
rapped his fingers around the other’s throat. Even as it raked his side with its hind claws Beltan crushed the feydrim’s throat with bare hands. The snap of its neck echoed on the air like the sound of ice cracking, then Beltan cast its limp body aside.

  The feydrim circled around the two men, wary now but not retreating. Travis stared at the knight, horrified. Beltan staggered, his shoulders hunched in. With one arm he clutched his side, while the other hung limp from his shoulder. Blood smeared his face, his hands, his clothes. Not all of it was his, but most of it was.

  Beltan looked up at Travis and grinned.

  “I beat them, Travis,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I beat them.”

  Then the knight’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell backward into the snow. A stain spread out from his body, black in the moonlight like ink on parchment: one final rune.

  No! Travis cried in his mind, although no sound escaped his lips. Beltan!

  He wanted to rush to the knight, but his limbs might as well have been carved of ice. The feydrim stalked around him and the fallen man, and the circle tightened with every revolution. In moments they would tear his throat out, would rend him limb from limb. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Beltan was dead, and he had done nothing.

  The circle was complete. The feydrim stretched their spindly arms toward Travis. He almost welcomed them.

  Crack!

  It was a sound like thunder, a sound like doom, a sound like a giant’s bones breaking. Travis wondered if it was the sound of the feydrim snapping his neck, but he blinked and saw that the creatures had fallen back. Now they trembled on the ground, snouts down, whining and pawing the snow like dogs at once terrified and overjoyed to see their master coming.

  Their master coming …

  Travis’s eyes flickered to the Rune Gate, and his heart ceased to beat, utterly frozen. A line had appeared in the Gate—a thin crack that ran top to bottom in the center of the iron slab. Pale light welled through the slit, cutting the night in half, then the crack widened, spilling the illumination into the vale of Shadowsdeep.

  After a thousand years, the Rune Gate opened.

  Travis raised a hand to shade his eyes against the terrible glare, but it was no use. The light pierced his flesh, his skull, his mind. This was the end.

  Another sound drifted on the air. It was soft—so soft he nearly didn’t hear it. His eyes moved downward to the knight who lay at his feet. The sound came again: a low moan from Beltan’s lips. In the glare Travis could see the knight’s chest rise and fall. The breath was weak and shallow, but there was no mistaking it. Beltan was alive!

  But not for long, son.

  It was not Jack’s voice that spoke in his mind. Instead the voice was dry as a rasp, sweet as honey, and fierce as lightning. He stiffened at the sound.

  Even now the good knight’s lifeblood does seep into the cold ground. And he will be cold himself soon enough. Unless you do something, that is.

  Travis shook his head. But I can’t do anything.

  You have to, son.

  No, I can’t. I only break things.

  The voice was hard and merciless, an accusation. Is that your choice then?

  The cold in Travis gave way to rage. It blazed up inside of him. No more. He could take this no more.

  You don’t understand! He shouted the words at the voice, at himself. It was me! Don’t you see? It was me who killed her! Alice!

  He did not wait for a reply from the voice. Now the words spilled out of the darkness of his mind, as if from his own long-sealed gate that had finally opened.

  My parents left me to take care of her when they went to Champaign. She was sick. She was always so sick. So I read the instructions on the bottle of pills, but I mixed them up, like I mix everything up. Don’t you see? Don’t you see what happened? I got the numbers on the bottle wrong. I think she knew. I think she knew it was wrong, but she was so tired. She was so small and tired. So I gave them to her, and she took them, and she said she loved me. And she never woke up. The despair was so great he thought it would crush him.

  There was a pause. Then, And what if you had not given her the medicine at all? Would she not have perished then?

  Travis wailed the words inside himself. No, that’s not it!

  Yes it is, son. That’s exactly it. Right or wrong, life or death. We all have to choose.

  But what if I choose the wrong thing?

  What if you choose the right thing?

  Then the voice was gone.

  The brilliant glare washed over Travis. Tears froze against his cheeks. It hurt—it hurt so much—but after all his drifting, after all his running, here in the end, in this place, he saw the truth. There was only one thing worse than choosing wrong, and that was not choosing at all.

  I love you, Travis.

  I love you, too, Alice.

  Travis gazed into the light and made his choice.

  For a frozen instant he saw through the gap into the icy Dominion of Imbrifale. Beyond the Gate was a vast host of shadows. They roiled against the light, baring fangs, stretching talons, tossing curved horns in hate and suffering. In the midst of the host, on a gigantic onyx beast that snorted fire and struck sparks with cloven hooves, was a terrible figure. He was tall, and pale, and crowned by ice. Against his snowy breast rested a necklace forged of iron, and in it was set a stone as white as his skin. His eyes flickered up and met Travis’s. In them was an endless world of hatred.

  Travis could have let those eyes freeze his heart. Instead he reached into his pocket, drew out the Stone, and touched it to the Gate.

  Be whole!

  There was light, then thunder, and a cry of perfect fury that splintered Travis’s bones, cracked his teeth, and turned his brain to jelly.

  Then came darkness and sweet silence.

  Travis blinked. Shadowsdeep was dim once again, but now a wind ruffled his hair, and while it was cold it was no longer so bitter. The stars wheeled slowly above, and the moon soared above the dark peaks.

  The Rune Gate was shut now, a smooth slab of iron with no trace of a crack. Travis gazed at the three impressions set into the Gate. Now one of them was no longer empty. Set into it was a disk of creamy stone: Sinfath, the third seal, whole once more.

  Travis held his breath. It was only a single seal where before there had been three, but he had to believe it would be enough.

  A groan drew him away from the Gate.

  Travis tucked Sinfathisar back into his pocket and knelt in the snow beside Beltan. The wounded knight’s face was gray beneath the mask of drying blood, and his breathing was labored. There wasn’t much time.

  Slender forms drifted from the shadows where once the feydrim had skulked. They gathered around, clad all in gossamer, and a gentle radiance bathed the knight. His eyes were shut, almost as if he were sleeping. Travis smoothed Beltan’s pale hair back from his bloody brow. Then the fairies reached out with shining hands and lifted the fallen knight from the snow.

  106.

  Logren’s empty corpse toppled off the edge of the dais and fell in a heap to the floor below.

  Grace could not prevent her lips from turning upward in a scalpel-sharp smile. So much for the prognosis of living forever, my lord.

  A cry of pain echoed off the rafters. Grace jerked her head up. Logren was dead, but this was not over.

  Below the dais, the blue nimbus that emanated from Melia flickered like a dying candle. The small lady staggered, a hand clutched to her brow, and Falken reached for her. The feydrim hissed in glee, then scrambled onto the edges of the overturned tables, ready to spring upon their prey. The men-at-arms fell back, eyes afraid.

  Grace reached out a hand, but there was nothing she could do to help them. Besides, the feydrim would have her and the others that stood on the dais soon enough. Despite this realization, the exultation inside Grace did not fade. Maybe they hadn’t won, maybe they hadn’t defeated evil, not completely, but at least they had stood against it, had made it hurt, and had not gi
ven themselves up to it without a struggle. She wasn’t certain that meant something. She hoped it did.

  Melia’s azure nimbus went dark, and she slumped into Falken’s arms. Fangs bared, the feydrim leaped forward—

  —then shrieked in agony and fell to the floor.

  Grace stared at the feydrim. They whined like frightened dogs, writhed on the floor, and bit and clawed at themselves. Something had happened, something that terrified them. But what?

  The men-at-arms did not waste their chance waiting for an answer. They stepped forward and—those who still gripped them—plunged knives into the feydrim who had made it over the barricade. Around the great hall, the revelers held each other as they stared at the cowering creatures.

  Grace felt a tingling and looked up. Across the hall she saw a white oval: Aryn’s face, round with fear and amazement. Next to the baroness, in the hollow center of the artifact of Malachor, was suspended the iron heart that moments ago had rested within Logren’s chest. Grace felt the words, faint but clear, vibrating over a thread of the Weirding.

  How did you know?

  Later, Aryn. I’ll explain later.

  With the threat of the feydrim gone, new dread cut through Grace, and she moved away from the edge of the dais. There was another who needed her attention now. The rulers and counselors cast looks of amazement in her direction, but she ignored them. She moved to a smoke-gray form that slumped against the wall at the back of the dais.

  “Durge,” she whispered as she knelt beside him.

  The knight’s head bowed forward, and his brown hair and mustaches were crusted with blood. Through countless rips in his clothes she could see the gashes in his flesh. His hand lay still—terribly still—on the hilt of his greatsword.

  Grace reached out to examine him, then froze. What should she do? An aching filled her throat, and her eyes stung, so that it was hard to see him.

  What do I do?

  She didn’t understand. Always she treated the wounded and broken with cool efficiency. Now her hand was frozen, her mind blank.