The Inner Circle: The Gates of Hae'Evun

by Cael McIntosh

  A cotton doll lay in a pool of blood. The girl Seteal presumed to be its owner was face-down a stride away, her hand reaching out toward the doll--small comfort in her dying moments. Seteal exhaled and moved on. A howl like that of a wolf sounded in the distance, but it was far too deep and continued on far too long for the animal to have been unaffected. She headed in the opposite direction.

  Seteal was about to pass a fallen soldier, when she noticed a pistol in his belt and had to put Parrowun's coffin down to gingerly unbuckle the holster. One could never be too careful. She balanced the weapon atop the crate and continued along a silent street, which was home to an elaborate church cradled among other ancient buildings.

  The church loomed ominously with its arching doorways and colourfully glassed windows, depicting pivotal scenes from the Holy Tome. Seteal hated the building. Her heart beat faster as her anger grew. She looked back at all the death and destruction she'd seen in the square. There was no Maker here. Seteal entered the church and moved carefully so as not to draw attention in a building so prone to echo.

  On the far wall was a painted depiction of the original Devil. His flesh was red and his breath was fire. A crown similar to the one Ilgrin had been toting around the last time she'd seen him adorned the beast's head. His hand was held at eye level and a comparatively small black stone was pinched between two fingers. Seteal pondered over the stone for a moment. Something about its black sheen was distantly familiar. Unable to place the memory, she decided that it must've been something her father had told her back when he'd still been living beneath the delusion that he could convince her to return to the faith. In the clouds above the Devil--presumably in Hae'Evun--noble-looking men with feathered wings stared down at him in disgust.

  Seteal shook her head at the idiocy of the conception that silts in Hae'Evun would look like humans with giant bird wings.

  The wall beside her was decorated by an image of men with white pupils, dressed in old-fashioned clothing standing all in a row. They made ridiculous, grandiose gestures and stood knee-deep in a lake. A white owl hovered atop their heads, anointing them. Seteal moved to the back of the church where the likeness of Maker stood with open arms behind the podium. The graven image depicted an old man with a thick, curly beard. Maker had an owl perched on his right hand, but in his left was nothing. Seteal frowned at the statue. The way its hand was positioned made her suspect there'd once been something pinched between the finger and thumb.

  'Beautiful, isn't it?' A voice enquired. Seteal snatched up the pistol and dropped the wooden crate. She spun on her heals and levelled the weapon in the face of an elderly man. 'Not in Maker's Holy Church,' the old man hissed incredulously. 'I mean you no harm.' He put up his hands and backed away.

  'I'm sorry,' Seteal said without much conviction, turning to readjust the lid on the crate. She kept the pistol in her hand but lowered it to her side. 'I thought everybody was dead.'

  'Most are, but blessed Maker in all His wisdom has kept me safe in our humble church.' The old man looked Seteal up and down. 'I'm Father Marcel.'

  'Yeah, right.' Seteal snorted at his idea of humble. 'Why are his fingers like that?' She nodded at the statue.

  'There used to be an onyx set between them.' Father Marcel sighed. 'It served as a depiction of the Stone of the Devil.'

  'The Stone of the Devil?' Seteal raised her eyebrows, unable to recall having heard of it.

  'It's only mentioned a few times in the Scriptures, but it's a very important part of our faith,' Marcel reprimanded her.

  'Your faith,' Seteal corrected.

  'I see.' Marcel frowned disappointedly. 'The stone has great power and is the only key to the gates of Hae'Evun. In the book of Genesis, Sa'Tan used it to open the gates before leading through a rebellion of wicked demons into our world. That key could reopen the gates and all this violence would come to an end.'

  'Then why doesn't somebody use it?' Seteal challenged.

  'Nobody knows where it is,' the Father replied regretfully. 'Great men have lived and died searching for it, but their time was spent in vain. The Holy Tome tells us in Matt-hew 16, verse 19 that, "if the key thou shalt lose on the Earth, it shall be lost forever."'

  'So it's impossible to find?' Seteal enquired. Although a small part of her wondered why she was still talking to the man, another part of her knew the answer. Talking nonsense with the Father was the only thing stopping her from thinking about the contents of the wooden crate at her feet.

  'If it's truly lost, then I'm afraid so.' Father Marcel put his hands together thoughtfully. 'I suppose we must all hope that someone somewhere out there knows where it is. Trust in the Lord, my daughter, and all the desires of your heart will be granted.' The old man put his hand on Seteal's shoulder.

  'No!' Seteal slapped it away and raised her pistol, her thoughts overwhelmed by memories of Fasil.

  'I'm sorry, my child,' the Father gasped.

  'I'm not your child,' Seteal spat. 'I was kidnapped and raped. I've been tormented by demons, tortured, and cut. I was infested by whisps and forced to murder my own son. So don't you dare tell me to trust in the Lord!' She pressed her pistol against the old man's face until he quivered with fear. 'The Lord doesn't live here anymore.'

  Seteal felt the trigger beginning to move beneath her finger. She liked the way it felt. 'Not . . . no,' Seeol rattled out from the depths of her pocket. 'You don't have to kill him. Dead people is everywhere.'

  'You're right.' Seteal released the trigger, marched over to the crate and lifted it beneath her arm. 'Don't move,' she snapped at Father Marcel while backing toward the entrance. 'And I'm taking your Tome.' She snatched up the thick book from one of the pews and waved it above her head. Uncertain as to why she'd done so, she threw it down atop the crate and strutted out the door.

  She made her way across the street where there was a white horse and carriage. The animal seemed a little skittish, which didn't come as a surprise, considering what it had witnessed the day before. 'Easy girl.' Seteal reached out to the animal, but her gaze shifted when from the periphery of her vision she noticed a woman sitting in the black-polished carriage.

  'Hello?' Seteal swallowed nervously as she peered into the dark interior. 'Oh, Maker!' She gagged and opened the door , thereby receiving an answer to her suspicions. The woman was dead with half of her head's contents sprayed against the back window. Seteal frowned. Still, at least she hadn't suffered. A bullet to the head usually negated a drawn out death. 'Um . . . ' Seteal scratched uncomfortably at the back of her head. 'Sorry,' she offered awkwardly, took the woman's cold arm and yanked her sideways so that she toppled onto the road.

  The body hit the pavement with a splattering crunch. A fat brown cockroach leapt out of her dress and scurried away. Seteal left the wooden crate on the seat, hurried after the roach and squished it. She immediately regretted having discarded her only shoe and quickly found a patch of grass to clean her foot. After she'd gotten rid of as much insect juice as was possible, Seteal made her way back over to the cockroach and picked it up tentatively by the antenna.

  Sliding her free hand cautiously into her pocket, Seteal's fingers met soft brown feathers. She scooped up Seeol and put him on the seat beside Parrowun's makeshift coffin. 'I got you something to eat.' She put the roach in front of the bird, but he failed to acknowledge the gesture. His eyelids were halfway shut and his head dipped toward the leather beneath him. 'You have to eat something,' Seteal reprimanded the little bird, pretending he was being stubborn rather than the alternative. Seeol rested his beak on the seat and closed his eyes.

  'Please don't do this.' Seteal rested her knees on the step into the carriage. 'Don't die, Seeol. Don't die. I don't think I could stand to lose you, too.' Seeol's eyes remained closed. 'Damn it, Seeol.' Seteal looked sharply to her left and stared at the church across the road. She stared for a long time, her hand hovering protectively over the little bird. 'No,' she snapped. 'To torrid with you! You'll eat it or I'll make you eat it.' She snapped
off one of the roach's legs and forced it against Seeol's beak. 'Eat,' she sobbed. 'Please, just eat it.'

  'Yes,' Seeol said faintly, his eyes fluttering. 'Is delicious one,' he murmured, his eyes locking on the half-squished roach. He opened his beak and took a lethargic hold of the offering.

  'Thank Maker.' Seteal exhaled slowly, again staring off across the road. Then she vanished. Monsters. Mutants. They were coming; hundreds of them and they were hungry for living flesh. 'All right.' Seteal put a hand against her face and stepped back, the knowing having left her feeling dizzy. 'You eat that.' Seteal left the roach and closed the door. 'I'll just . . .' She trailed off at the sound of distant growls, barks, hoots and shrieks.

  'Marcel,' Seteal called through the church doors.

  'Please don't shoot me,' the Father cried.

  'I'm not going to shoot you,' she barked. 'I don't even have my gun,' she insisted, feeling altogether very vulnerable. 'Look, if you want to live, we've got to get out of here right now.'

  'Why?' Marcel's chin quivered.

  'Because Maker cannot protect you from what's coming,' Seteal replied. If Marcel didn't follow, it was his own problem. He'd been warned. Turning her attention down the street, Seteal saw a mass of creatures come pouring around the corner. No two were alike, all having been altered through whisp pollution. Among them were creatures that'd once been human and silt. Some were mixtures of the two. Others had wounds and afflictions with which no naturally living creature could've continued to live. Beside them snarled strange dogs and wolves, some with horns and standing thrice the height they should have. But, of course, for most of the creatures it was impossible to identify what they'd once been.

  'Hurry!' Seteal shouted over her shoulder after spotting Father Marcel racing across the road in his flowing church gown. 'Get in the back, but watch out for the bird.'

  'There's blood in there,' Marcel gasped.

  'I'm so sorry,' Seteal snapped back sarcastically. 'I'm yet to find the time to have the upholstery cleaned.'

  'What is it with that bird?' Marcel muttered as he clambered into the wagon.

  'Nothing,' Seteal said a little too hastily. 'He's only an elf owl,' she replied, struggling into the driver's seat up top. She turned to take one last look at the strange concoction of monsters bearing down on them and was all too aware of the probable reason for their arrival. Apparently Seeol was getting better after all.

  Matt-hew 16

  19. And I will give unto thee the key to the Kingdom of Hae'Evun in the palm of thy hands. And the gate thou shalt open on the Earth, shall be opened in Hae'Evun, but if the key thou shalt loose on Earth, it shall be loosed forever.

  20. For I will give unto thee the key even in the lock, for thee but to turn it.

  Scriptures of the Holy Tome

  CHAPTER Two

  not out of the woods yet

  'Look.' Ilgrin pointed south where the familiar site of dark silhouettes with beating wings stole his attention.

  'Reinforcements,' El-i-miir replied. 'Already?'

  'They're determined not to lose Beldin.' Ilgrin frowned. 'It makes sense doesn't it? It's a large city, protected from the back by Middle Sea and from the front by impenetrable walls.'

  'It's ironic.' El-i-miir sighed. 'The walls we built to protect ourselves have turned out to be a hindrance more than a help.'

  'And, of course, the walls are useless against my kind,' Ilgrin said little above a whisper as he led El-i-miir through a patch of forest south of the city. 'We all grew so complacent. I've heard that many people in the northern countries didn't even believe silts existed until recently. Nobody thought the day would come when they'd attempt an invasion.'

  'Attempt?' El-i-miir raised her eyebrows. 'Ilgrin, they're succeeding with ease.'

  'I suppose you're right,' he said, peering distractedly through the trees.

  'How much further is it anyway?'

  'We agreed that if we got split up we'd follow the river to the nearest waterfall and wait,' Ilgrin replied. 'Can't you feel her on the Ways?'

  'Angels are difficult to track. It's like they don't quite belong in the same Way as we do.'

  'Look.' Ilgrin pointed at a dilapidated shed that'd been left to rot in the middle of the woods. 'Come on, let's check it out.'

  'Oh, Ilgrin, I don't know.' El-i-miir resisted him, but to a silt her strength was comparable to that of a three-year-old child.

  'We'll only be a minute.' He dragged her into the shed behind him.

  Inside it was dark, musty, and El-i-miir felt the need to cover her nose. The sound of Ilgrin's breath came closer and soon his body was pressed up against hers.

  'No,' El-i-miir gasped at the realisation of his intention. 'Ilgrin!' She threw open the door and hurried outside.

  'Sorry,' the silt replied sullenly as he followed her and did up his belt.

  'I'm not yours to have any time you want you know?' El-i-miir grumbled. 'Especially not after recent events.'

  'What do you mean?' Ilgrin mumbled, embarrassed, with downcast eyes.

  'You know perfectly well what I mean,' El-i-miir replied shortly. 'We need to spend time together talking. Not doing that.' She pointed an accusing finger at the shed. 'When you became the Devil, you said and did things . . . awful things.'

  'I didn't want anyone to die,' Ilgrin said defensively.

  'Well, people are dying,' El-i-miir snapped.

  'And what was I supposed to do?' Ilgrin gritted his teeth. 'Was I supposed to let the Elglair murder us? Why? Why is that, El-i-miir? Why would you think it's okay for humans to defend themselves, but when silts are attacked, we're expected to just lay down and die? Oh, wait, I know, it's because you see human life as more valuable, right?'

  'That's not true.' El-i-miir covered her mouth, but couldn't help but wonder if Ilgrin had a point. Had silts attacked mankind first, she'd have agreed that they should fight back, but she found herself wanting when the situation was reversed. 'Look, maybe a little bit,' El-i-miir said in defeat. 'I don't mean anything by it. I can't help it. I'm human, so humans matter more to me.'

  'Well, I care about humans and silts equally.' Ilgrin narrowed his eyes.

  'Of course you do.' El-i-miir shrugged. 'Your parents were human. You lived a human life. You wore human clothing. You practically are human. It's different for me. I grew up thinking silts were evil monsters. My childhood bedtime stories likened silts to ugly trolls living in sludge beneath a bridge. That's a lot to overcome.'

  'Trolls?'

  'Yes,' El-i-miir said emphatically. 'I love you, but not other silts. It's just not in me.'

  'Ah, there she is.' Ilgrin threw out his hands and laughed humourlessly. 'There's the inner Elglair coming right out of your mouth.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Here's what you do to me, El-i-miir.' Ilgrin scratched his chin sarcastically, as though he were in deep thought. 'You're the sweetest, kindest, most considerate and warm-hearted person I've ever met. You make my heart want to explode with love, but when it's just seconds away from bursting, you say something so hideous and painful that I'm utterly deflated. The love I felt moments before is all but eliminated. The cycle repeats again and again and again and again! That's why I didn't want to talk about it, because the truth is, when we talk, it only ever ends in disappointment. The only time we love each other is when we're on the verge of losing our lives or having sex. Conversation . . . it's just not working so well.'

  'Ilgrin,' El-i-miir gasped. 'I don't understand where this is coming from.'

  'That's the problem.' He jabbed a finger through the air. 'You're so Elglair that you can't even see what you're doing.' The silt turned and slammed his fist hard into a tree. The trunk cracked.

  'I can't fix it if I don't know what the problem is.' El-i-miir felt her lip quivering. 'You have to talk to me.'

  'Fine.' Ilgrin turned around rubbing his knuckles. 'I'll break it down for you. I'm as much a silt as any one of my kin. And they are my kin, you hear me? I'm not some
human dressed in a silt skin, and I'm really, really tired of you having to pretend that I am just so you'll be able to abstain from gagging long enough to look at me. If silts are trolls hiding beneath a bridge, then so am I,' Ilgrin snarled, looming over her. 'I'm every bit the demon you Elglair are so afraid of. And we're not the pathetic, inferior creatures my parents made us out to be. Humans are.' The silt gritted his teeth and lowered his face toward El-i-miir's. 'So if you were hoping that I'd weep bitter tears and tell you how much I regret the decisions I made in Hel, then I'm afraid you're going to be very disappointed.'

  'Ilgrin,' El-i-miir choked out, her fingertips tingling as she felt the Ways shifting irritably. 'Run,' she whispered, turning to hurry in the opposite direction.

  'What're we running from?'

  'That,' El-i-miir replied, at the distant eruption of hunting dogs barking.

  'We have to split up,' Ilgrin panted.

  'Why?'

  'Because it's my scent that they'll be tracking.' He gave El-i-miir a penetrating stare. 'Hunting dogs don't chase down humans.'

  'What about you?' El-i-miir cried fearfully.

  'As soon as I've led them away, I'll take to the skies and they'll lose my scent. I'll come back for you. I promise.'

  'Please do.' El-i-miir stopped running in harmony with Ilgrin. 'That back there. That wasn't us. That wasn't real. I love you.'

  'They're getting closer,' Ilgrin said urgently, picking up on the sound of men shouting. 'Quickly.' He pushed her away. 'You go that way,' Ilgrin told her before bolting through the leaf litter and disappearing among the trees.

  'Right,' El-i-miir whispered. She turned to run. The wind whipped her hair over her face as it danced about her shoulders like a black veil, which suddenly seemed very appropriate. The popping sound was so distant and playful. It was hardly a force for evil. El-i-miir's foot hit the ground, countless muscles contracted, sending her other foot flying forward in preparation to catch her weight when it hit the earth. And there was that popping sound.