Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2)

by David Farland

  Orick whined, then sniffed the air ahead toward a row of dark hills. He was nine miles from An Cochan, twelve miles from Clere. Normally it would be a casual day-long ride for the sheriffs, but they could make it in hours under a forced march.

  He licked at his wound, and pain lanced through him. He got on all fours, then hobbled along as fast as he could. He’d have to reach Gallen soon.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Orick shouted, “Man, get your legs into your pants—or it’s your life!” Orick shoved his snout into Gallen’s ribs, and Gallen roused himself enough to sit up in bed.

  Orick smelled of damp fur and the woods, with the metallic tang of blood. The bedroom door was open, and embers smoldered in the fire in the living room, enough so that Gallen could see dimly.

  “What is it?” Gallen cried, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head. He’d been up half the night, and it was not yet dawn.

  “There’s an army of sheriffs and their deputies coming!” Orick panted. “Some northern bishop served a warrant. And they’ve brought the Lord Inquisitor. Some ruffians swear you prayed to the devil,” he panted, “that killed Father Heany. They’re coming, and they’re not far behind me!”

  Blood matted the fur of Orick’s right shoulder. “Are you all right?” Gallen asked.

  “I’ll not die from this scratch. Run, man!” Gallen leapt from bed, hair prickling on the back of his neck. He pulled on his tunic and britches.

  A heavy pounding came at the door, and someone shouted, “Gallen 0’Day, rouse yourself—in the name of the law!”

  “By God, they’re here!” Orick cried. “Run!”

  Gallen sighed, knowing it was too late to run. “Don’t excite yourself, Orick. You never run from the law. If those sheriffs have got their bows strung, they could shoot me in the back, and they’d be in the right.”

  “Come out, now!” a sheriff roared. “Or we’ll break the door in!”

  “Coming!” Gallen called. He felt awake now, awake enough to know he was in mortal danger, sleepy enough to be unsure what to do.

  If I was the fastest talker in the world, he wondered, what would I say to these sheriffs right now? He closed his eyes a moment, wondering.

  Gallen’s mother had gotten out of bed. She went to the fireplace in her nightcap and robe. She called in a frightened voice, “Gallen? What is it?”

  “Open the door, Mother,” Gallen said. “Tell them I’m dressing.” He pulled on his soft leather boots.

  “Coming,” Gallen’s mother shouted. The front door crashed open, and a scar-faced sheriff rushed in, shoved Gallen’s mother to the floor. She cried out, and the sheriff stood over her, backed by two rough-looking men with drawn swords. Behind them, in the shadows, stood a tall man with a narrow face, wearing the crimson robes with the white cross of the Lord Inquisitor. Gallen’s mother put her hand up to protect her face, lest the sheriff beat her.

  “Come out here!” Scarface ordered.

  Gallen slowly strapped his knives over the outside of his tunic, and the sheriff simply raised one dark eyebrow and watched him, licked his lips, and studied Orick.

  “You have a warrant?” Gallen asked.

  “I do.” Scarface answered just a bit too slowly. “You’re to be taken north to Battlefield, where you’ll be tried for witchcraft.” Gallen looked into the man’s dark eyes, and saw that he was frightened. “If you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said, “let me see it.” The sheriff hesitated. “You’ll have time enough to study it on the road north.”

  “I’ll study it now,” Gallen said. “And we’ll have a talk with the local sheriffs. You had better show just cause for breaking down my mother’s door, and you’ve no right to hit an old woman in any case,” Gallen said. “I’m going to make you pay dear for that!” Gallen tried to keep the deadly tone from his voice. He’d never killed a sheriff, but just at this moment, anger blossomed in him, and he was fighting the urge. Scarface studied Gallen. “Are you threatening me?”

  Gallen looked up at the Inquisitor standing behind Scarface. The churchman had glittering, calculating blue eyes. He was waiting for Gallen to give him the slightest pretext for an arrest. “I wouldn’t think of threatening you,” Gallen said calmly. “But I’ll swear out a complaint on you for battering my mother—now, show me your warrant.”

  ‘‘Just come peaceful,” Scarface said, “and we’ll take it easy on you.” He stood straighter, widened his stance, and put one hand on his own short sword.

  “You know who I am,” Gallen said softly. “I’m a lawman, just like you—a licensed guard with my oath-bond posted at Baille Sean. You’re fifty miles out of your jurisdiction. Now, the law says you can arrest me if you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said softly. “But if you don’t have it, I can defend myself from wrongful arrest, if need be.”

  Scarface signaled to a man behind him, and the fellow produced a wooden scroll case, painted in thick lacquer.

  “Here it is.” The Inquisitor spoke from behind Scarface, taking the tube in his own hand. Gallen was surprised at the softness of his voice. He sounded like some gentle monastic brother who tended lambs, not the fearsome torturer he was reputed to be.

  “There should be no need for all of this posing, for hiding behind legal technicalities,” the Inquisitor told Gallen softly. “Sir, you have grievous charges leveled against you. A priest has died, and this is a matter of deep concern to the clergy. I should think that you would welcome the opportunity to clear your name. After all, if it were commonly believed that you were guilty of witchcraft, your family’s reputation would be stained.…” He looked meaningfully to Gallen’s mother. Gallen was not fooled by such soft words. This man was hinting at retribution against Gallen’s whole family.

  “If there are charges against me,” Gallen said, “then they’re leveled by false witnesses, and I’ll fight those charges as best I can. I’ll have a look at your warrant.” Gallen stepped forward and took it from the torturer’s hand, carried the paper over to the wan firelight. His mother got up and looked over his shoulder with Orick. The Inquisitor and his men shifted uneasily.

  “This paper isn’t legal,” Gallen realized. “You can’t take me north without the signature from the Lord Sheriff at Baille Sean.”

  Scarface said forcefully, “We were on our way to Baille Sean for the signature when we met that bear friend of yours! He came to warn you. We couldn’t just let you go running off into the night!”

  Gallen shrugged, handed the paper to Scarface. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Baille Sean and talk to Lord Sheriff Carnaghan. And say hello to him for me. He’s a good friend. I once saved his son from some highwaymen.”

  Scarface shook his head angrily, growling from the back of his throat. “Damned southerners! How am I supposed to execute a warrant against you?”

  “Legally—” Gallen said, “or not at all.” He rested his hands on his knives. If the man was going to attack, now would be the time.

  Scarface studied Gallen, eyeing the knives that he wore. Gallen almost hoped that he’d make his move. But the Lord Inquisitor backed up a step, told the men, “Surround the house. I’ll go to Baille Sean and speak with Lord Sheriff Carnaghan personally.”

  He backed out slowly, and Scarface closed the ruined door. Gallen let them go. Gallen’s mother shoved the door tight, bolted it. “That sheriff is a blackguard, sure,” she said. “The nerve, breaking into an old woman’s house and knocking her off her feet!” She looked at Gallen disapprovingly, as if he should have come to her rescue.

  Orick hurried to Gallen’s side. “Gallen, you’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?”

  Gallen looked from his mother to Orick. There was little that he could do. A moment later, Thomas Flynn pushed his way through the door, followed by Gallen’s cousin, Father Brian from An Cochan. The sheriffs were so thick around the house-tree that the two men could hardly get through. Thomas Flynn seemed unperturbed by the whole affair, but Father Brian looked about with
wide eyes. The young priest had obviously rushed to get out the door at his own house. He had on his black frock, but without the white collar. His face was red from the night air.

  “They’ve got Maggie,” Thomas said to Gallen. “They say they’re taking her north as a witness against you. They’re already filling out a subpoena.”

  “Those … rascals!” Father Brian said. “They’re low, dirty rascals, that’s all I can say of them! The thought of it—holding the girl hostage!”

  “They only took her to keep Gallen from running,” Thomas said. “And she gave one of them a bloody nose for it. I like that.”

  Gallen clenched his fists, looked about. There was nothing he could do to stop them from taking Maggie. They couldn’t arrest Gallen without a warrant signed by the Lord Sheriff, but they could subpoena a witness, and they could hold her in prison for questioning for weeks.

  “It’s that damned Patrick O’Connor,” Father Brian said. “He’s been telling everyone false tales about you! I should have had you kill him!”

  “Patrick O’Connor?” Thomas asked.

  Gallen was deep in thought, so Father Brian offered, “He’s the son of a sheep farmer, Seamus O’Connor, from An Cochan. Two weeks ago, Seamus hired Gallen to escort him home, and they were set upon by robbers. Gallen fought them, but the robbers had him down and would have slit his throat, when the Angel of Death came and rescued Gallen and Seamus, too. The next day, Gallen and I caught that blackguard Patrick with soot on his face and blood on his shoes. We discovered that the boy had set the robbers on his own father, hoping for a cut of the money! I thought to have Gallen kill the boy, but Gallen is a merciful sort, so we outlawed him from County Morgan. But now Patrick is mucking about the countryside, telling stories on Gallen, causing trouble!”

  “It wasn’t just Patrick who caused the trouble,” Gallen said, grateful that the priest was willing to bolster Gallen’s good name by claiming that it was his idea to show some mercy to the lad. In truth, neither of them had thought of killing the boy. “He’s down south telling his tales. But some other robbers from up north escaped. They must have heard of Patrick’s efforts to smear my name. Now Orick says that they’ve put a story together and plan to testify against me.”

  “Like as not,” Orick grumbled, “some of those sheriffs out there are relatives to the robbers!”

  “Granted, I’ll give you that,” Father Brian said. “Some of those northerners are an inbred lot, but a man can’t choose his kin.” He thought a moment, pacing nervously, and said, “I could raise the town in your behalf, Gallen! Most everyone is awake already, circling the house. We’ll show these northern sheriffs!”

  “If you do,” Gallen said, “there will be bloodshed. We don’t want that. I can’t think of a man in town who I want to see dead. Besides, even if you won, you’d find yourself on trial.”

  Gallen’s mother sat heavily on the sofa before the fireplace. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. Gallen wondered at how small she’d become in the past few years. When he was young, she’d seemed beautiful and tall and strong. But over the past few months, since the death of Gallen’s father, she’d gone into decline in a terrible way. Now she was a mere potato, a lumpy, frail woman with graying hair.

  Her jaw trembled. “You’d better get out of here, son,” she said, as if the words were bitter on her tongue. “You can fight your way past these sheriffs, I’ll wager.”

  “I won’t do that,” Gallen said, wondering. His prowess with weapons seemed to be growing to legendary heights if even his own mother thought he could fight his way past dozens of well-armed opponents. The really frightening thing was, Gallen was tempted to give it a try. “I won’t play the outlaw. I couldn’t make a run for it without a fight first, and I’d have to kill some of them. And even if I won through, Maggie would still end up in their prison, and there’s no telling what the Inquisitor might do.”

  “If the girl loves you, nothing would make her happier than to help you, whatever way she can,” Gallen’s mother protested. “No,” Gallen said. “I won’t play their game. We have to fight them legally.”

  He looked up, saw that Maggie’s uncle was watching him, measuring him with his eyes, and he wore a look of respect. Thomas was an odd one, in Gallen’s book. He’d been around the world, probably been in his share of scrapes. He’d come to lord it over his niece, stop her from marrying in order to line his own pockets, and that showed a bit of larceny in his heart. And he had a commanding way about him. While others here were all floundering about for solutions, Thomas seemed unperturbed, as if he knew how Gallen could get out of this spot, but just wasn’t saying. Gallen decided to ask him bluntly.

  “You’ve been around, Thomas. Have you got any ideas?”

  “If you let them take you north, you’re a dead man, sure,” Thomas grumbled. He went over to the rocking chair by the fireplace, pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began tamping it full of tobacco. “They don’t like southerners much, and they’re a close-knit lot. Inbred, some of them. You’ve killed their kin, and even if you got off with a whipping, some of them are likely to lie in wait for you and slit your throat on the road home. You need to stay here, fight them on your own ground. Take this thing to trial here. That’s your legal right. And make sure your friends and cousins are all sitting in the jury.”

  “That’s correct, a man has a right to be tried in his own town!” Father Brian said.

  “Not in his own town, but in the jurisdiction where the crime was committed,” Thomas corrected. “Which is one and the same, in this case. But to tell you straight, I’m worried that these sheriffs will go carting Gallen and Maggie off, in spite of the law. There’s not much here to stop them.”

  Father Brian frowned. “Then there’s only one thing to do. I’ll go to Baille Sean and talk to Lord Sheriff Carnaghan. I’ll raise an army of sheriffs and deputies to make sure that Gallen gets an open trial here in town. That way, these damned northerners won’t be able to torment him in secret, and they won’t table a jury stacked with his enemies.”

  Thomas nodded, and Father Brian got up, went outside into the darkness, shoving past the sheriffs and grumbling, “Out of my way! Get out—or I’ll excommunicate the lot of you!” Outside the door, the sky had lightened a crack. Dawn was approaching.

  Moments later, Gallen heard a horse race by on the road south, and Gallen was surprised that Father Brian would ride with such daring in so little light.

  Silently, Gallen prayed that Father Brian’s horse would race surefooted over the mountains. Orick nuzzled up to Gallen, putting his face against Gallen’s ribs, and Gallen stroked his nose absently. He could see no easy way out of this.

  His mother got up from the couch. “It’s going to be a long day, what with everyone running off to see the Lord Sheriff. At least we don’t have to wait on an empty stomach.”

  “Aye, what a day,” Thomas said. “Between the trial and my oddities, the inn will be bustling. We might as well put a tent over the whole town. Why, all we lack for a circus is a few dancing horses and a singing dog—the clowns and ringmasters are already in attendance.”

  In the kitchen, Gallen’s mother began mixing dough and banging pots. Orick lay at Gallen’s feet. The bloody wound to his shoulder was all scabbed over, and the poor bear lay for a bit, licking himself.

  When Thomas was sure that Gallen’s mother was occupied, Thomas leaned forward. “Lad,” he said, “I’m afraid that this trial might go bad for you. It’s said that the angels have come to your aid before. Is there a chance that they’ll come now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Gallen said.

  Thomas licked his lips. “Then they’re gone now, to whatever world they hail from?”

  Thomas looked into Gallen’s eyes quizzically, and Gallen wondered how much he knew—or had guessed. “Yes, they’re gone, and I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  Thomas leaned forward conspiratorially, and whispered, “You’ve talked to an angel? Wha—what did the creatu
re say, man?”

  Gallen found his heart hammering. He was tom between the desire to speak the truth, and the desire to keep his secrets. “There are many worlds beyond Geata na Chruinne,” Gallen said, “and people there are not so different than they are here. Some of them are far more beautiful than anything you dream. Some of them are wise. Some of them live forever. In many ways, life is easier there than it is here, but there are also greater perils.”

  Thomas sat back, stunned, his face a mask of hope and confusion. “Well, I’ll be … I wonder … I wish I could see … I wish I could have talked to an angel.”

  Gallen could see Thomas’s secret desire written plain on his face. The man wanted to see what lay beyond Geata na Chruinne, and Gallen had promised Maggie that he’d talk to Thomas about a quick date for the wedding. He wondered if he told Thomas the truth, if Thomas could understand how important it was for Maggie to marry soon.

  “Maggie and I have both been beyond the gate with the folk that you call angels,” Gallen said. “And now that Maggie’s been there, she won’t rest easy until she washes the dust of this world from off her feet once and for all.”

  Orick had quit licking his wounds, and now he looked up. “Well, if you’re going to say that much, you might as well tell him the whole truth, Gallen.” Orick turned to Thomas. “Gallen and Maggie are people of some import out there now. They have to return. The fate of ten thousand worlds rests on their shoulders.”

  Thomas sat back, as if expecting Gallen to sprout horns from his head or wings from his back. It was an utterly fantastic tale that Gallen was telling, yet the dead “demon” and “angel” in Thomas’s shed gave some proof of it. Thomas must have believed him, for the old minstrel began to weep. “People there can live forever?” Thomas asked. “And all you have to do is walk through Geata na Chruinne?”

  “You need a key to the gate,” Orick said.