Gates of the Dead

by James A. Moore

  JAMES A MOORE

  Gates of the Dead

  Tides of War, Book III

  Social Robotics

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  This book is dedicated to Thomas Sneigoski and Steve Bissette, for the friendship.

  Chapter One

  Turbulent Tides

  Brogan McTyre

  To the south of the shoreline the sky was sunny and the sea was calm. In all other directions, clouds had devoured the daylight and waves chopped and foamed rabidly. Brogan McTyre stared at the end of the world and realized again that it was his doing.

  Well, his and the gods. That was why he meant to kill them.

  To be fair, the gods started it. Their servants came to his home while he was away and took his family to be sacrificed in their names. He did not reach his family in time to save them, but he made sure the gods knew of his anger by murdering great numbers of their servants and selling the rest as slaves.

  They’d demanded his family for sacrifice and he’d failed to stop them. He’d fouled up their attempts enough, however, that the gods in their miserable hiding places decided to end the world. They’d offered punishments in the past, but never one so extreme. They were unforgiving of his sins and he, in turn, was unforgiving of theirs. The only thing to do was to end their feud as conclusively as possible and he intended to do just that and walk away as the sole survivor of their personal war.

  “Will you stand there all day, you daft fool? Our ride is here.” Anna Harkness’s voice cut across his silent, angry thoughts and he looked her way.

  “I’ve just helped kill a god. I can have a few moments, can’t I?”

  “That was hours ago, Brogan. We’ve more to do if we’re going to finish this while there’s still a land to call home.” She smiled as she said it, but the smile barely reached her eyes. He understood. The land they’d been born and lived most of their lives in was in ruin. Most of the largest cities, and surely the smaller towns, were gone, destroyed by the storms looming so close to Torema, the southernmost city in the Five Kingdoms. What was left was looking more like a warren of drowned rats than a proper city.

  He snorted bitter laughter and shook his head. The ship waiting for them was a small boat ride away. The smaller vessel would surely be sunk in the rough seas, but the larger looked like it just might hold water long enough to get them to their destination, the warren of rats that was currently drowning.

  Torema was a very large city and even from a distance, and past the approaching storms, he could see the smoke rising in columns from the shoreline. The city was alive and probably holding every person who could find their way from any other eastern part of the continent. From the west would hardly matter. There was nothing the westerners could do to get to the closer side of the land. The mountains had been shattered, hadn’t they? Brogan knew and had watched the entire incident and quite possibly was responsible for that part, too.

  For one small stretch of time, he had been joined with the essence of a god. That was done now, but he was forever changed by it. He had sought and now had the ability to touch the gods.

  “Brogan!” Anna’s voice had taken on a waspish edge. He looked at the stunning woman and was glad for a moment that she was Desmond’s concern and not his. Desmond Harkness was a fine man, a deadly warrior and one of Brogan’s friends. He was also the husband of Anna, who had journeyed with Brogan to help him achieve his goals. She was a good woman, and lovely, but she was also a powerful distraction if he let her become one. He was doing his best to make sure that didn’t happen.

  When she was yelling at him like that, she made it easier.

  “Fine!” The clothes he wore were borrowed from Anna’s bag, the one that seemed to hold endless wonders. The colors for his tartan were wrong. The boots were slightly too tight and the vest smelled of Desmond. All of that was better than going into a battle situation naked, and that would have been his other option. When Walthanadurn, the dead god he’d connected with, rose from the mountains and fought his own murderous daughter, he’d been kind enough to send Brogan and his companions across the lands in an instant rather than let them die in the fight. Brogan’s clothes did not make the journey. Everyone else was just fine, but part of the ritual to summon a dead god had required painting Brogan’s naked form.

  Jahda, a very tall man he’d never met before; Faceless, a very large creature of unknown origin; and Roskell Turn, a substantially smaller Galean sorcerer, had all made the trip. Faceless even carried Brogan’s axe, but his clothes? Nowhere to be found. The same with his horse, which he hoped had somehow avoided the catastrophe. Anna had made the journey as well, which was good, as Desmond would surely kill him if she did not.

  Anna yelled a third time and, finally, Brogan nodded and gathered his few remaining weapons. If all went according to his wishes, the rest of his friends would be waiting with a ship in Torema. If not, they’d have to improvise, because reaching the gods in order to kill them would require some travel time.

  Brogan headed for the small boat and the group that was already climbing aboard. There was a lot of fighting to be done. There was a lot of killing to accomplish. The gods had to pay for all they’d done and Brogan had to be the one to make them do so.

  He climbed into the sturdy boat and settled himself, staring at the overcrowded bay of Torema as they started toward the ship waiting for them. Soon enough the gods would be held accountable for their actions. That was enough to know for the moment, but, oh, he longed to feel them dying at his hands.

  The ocean’s breeze was cleansing and cold against Brogan McTyre’s skin, and the sun was very nearly blinding. After his time entombed in a mountain he welcomed the sensations.

  The waters were rougher than he’d expected and colder, too. This far south the ocean was often warm to the touch, but now the waves felt rimed with frost.

  Across the waters he could see Torema coming closer. The city had been called many things over the years, complimentary and condemning alike, but he had always found it mildly repulsive. There were too many people for his liking. He preferred the small areas, like the town where he’d built his home so many years ago. The home that he doubted he would ever see again under any circumstances. Kinnett held nothing for him any longer. His wife, his children were gone, and they were the only reason he’d ever needed to return.

  Anna Harkness walked closer and he looked her way for a brief moment before staring back out at the waters. If he didn’t look for too long, she didn’t become distracting.

  In hindsight, starting a war with the gods might not have been the wisest choice, and yet he found he still did not feel guilt or shame over the matter. Brogan liked to think of himself as a good man, even if the facts often disagreed.

  Now the gods sought him and his companions as sacrifices. For all he knew the rest of his friends were already dead or captured. All he truly knew was that the world was suffering the price of his deeds and that he needed to make it right before the world ended.

  If that meant slaying all of the gods, then he intended to do just that.

  And now, thanks to the actions of his recent companions, he at least had a glimmer of a chance. He had journeyed to find a dead god, and with the help of Anna and the Galeans – a people who studied the secrets that the gods once revealed to a single woman, who dared to ask the right questions – he had spoken with that god and for one brief moment shared consciousness with them.

  Gods, it seemed, never quite died completely. He intended to rectify that situation if at all possible.

  Brogan half-listened to the conversation between Jahda a
nd the captain as he looked at the coastline coming their way.

  Torema was partially concealed under a miasma of smoke and filth. Too many people crowded into a vast area that was still too small for their needs. The captain of the barge taking them to the city was a squat man with bad skin, a balding and badly sun-burnt head, and a penchant for gossip. He’d made it clear that war was kissing the city. There was no way around it. Too many people fought for the same land, desperate to escape the inevitable.

  There was nowhere left to go. All any of them had to do was look at the land to the north of the city, and the towering storm front crushing that land, and they could understand the desperation.

  He was certain of it. There were things in those clouds. Be they gods or giants, something churned and moved those lightning-strewn forms and cast ruination down upon the lands.

  All this, he thought. All this is my doing. My anger caused this, justified or not. There was no guilt. There was no regret. One thing he knew was that if the same circumstances came again and he had a chance to save his family from the hunger of the gods, he would do it all again.

  It was too late for that. Now he had to make certain that the rest of the world survived his decisions.

  Or he had to die trying.

  The waves grew rougher and Brogan moved his body to keep his balance as the barge rose and fell with the shifting waters.

  Next to him Anna moved to get a better look at the city. Her husband, near as they knew, was still alive. He might even be waiting for them.

  He hoped so, for her sake. Desmond was a good man and Anna deserved a good man. She was a good woman.

  Still, he looked her way for a moment with thoughts that had nothing to do with Desmond and everything to do with his friend’s wife.

  Not far away a figure that seemed formed of wood stood on the deck and looked toward the city. Faceless was what he called the thing. The shape of the creature was changing slowly. It was taller than him, and it had been a nearly featureless doll of a shape when first seen, but the longer it stayed around him and the other humans, the more it began to resemble them. His rough feet had changed enough that it now had toes and a discernable heel. The hands were different as well, developing individual digits and even crudely formed fingernails. The face was mostly the same. There was a hint of a shape, smooth enough save where the two deep pits in that rudimentary skull were positioned where eyes should be. Now and then there was a glint of light from those pits, but mostly they were dark.

  If Faceless was bothered by the motion of the sea, he did not let it show.

  Stanna

  The air above Torema stank of smoke, desperation, disease, and death.

  Though no official word had been given there were already several funeral pyres burning and they would not get smaller as time went on. Throughout the vast, overrun city there were groups gathered who took the dead from the streets or from any who offered them up and dragged them to the great pyres. It was grim work, but there was little choice in the matter.

  The cemeteries in Torema had been inhabited by the living. There were camps, and lean-tos, and new communities gathering in the places of the dead. Headstones had become walls for makeshift homes, and actual tombs were now the foundations on which people placed their tents. There was no more room for corpses when the living demanded real estate.

  And so there were mountains of dead flesh burning in places where stones could be gathered to stop the worst of the flames from spreading. Stray dogs and cats lingered in those areas, possibly mourning their dead people, and just as likely waiting to see if anything edible might fall free of the conflagrations.

  Not far from the closest of the pyres, Hillar Darkraven walked with Stanna. Both women were dressed for trouble and sported armor and weapons. On most any day that was true, but currently Stanna looked deadlier than usual.

  “We’ve held back the worst flows, but people are still coming in. There is simply no way to stop them.” Stanna spoke calmly. She was not aggravated by the situation. You haul enough slaves for a decade or so and you develop a pragmatic way of looking at the world.

  Hillar nodded. “You can only do what you can do. My people tell me that there are worse problems coming.”

  “Worse? How so?”

  “The remaining armies of Giddenland are heading this way. They’ve gathered as many people as they can and it doesn’t matter if they are trained, the citizens of Giddenland are now soldiers.”

  Stanna looked toward where Edinrun once stood. “Then we will lose.”

  Hillar shook her head. “I have a few tricks. When those are used up it will be you and yours who have to defend.”

  “Yes, well, about that. I’ve heard tales that we have another threat and this one is just as bad.”

  “What other threat?”

  “Beron of Saramond.” Stanna frowned and pointed to the far west. “He’s already gathering an army of people to cut through Torema. They are willing to work with him because he promises them the city. All the people at the edges, too far out to push their way in alone. He’s recruiting them and offering them real estate. A place to call their own and food, besides.”

  “Really? Where will he get all of this?”

  Stanna looked at the shorter woman. In fairness Stanna had never met a woman who came close to her height or physical prowess. “Beron is a slaver. He has been called the slaver king more than once. His was the First House in Saramond. He was in charge of the entire trade and that includes all that I did. I answered to him.” She frowned. “At least, I was supposed to.”

  “Did you decide not to answer to him?”

  “When the Undying claimed his slave women as their own I let them have them.” Stanna shrugged and looked to the skies. They were dark with smoke, and clouds, and pregnant with the promise of a hard downpour. The city was not in good shape and that wasn’t going to change. The world was ending, after all, and that meant that even Torema was likely to fall.

  “I wouldn’t argue with the likes of the Undying myself,” Hillar agreed.

  “Thing is, I can kill the likes of Beron. I tried killing one of the Undying. Cut his head clean off. He came back.”

  “After you cut his head off?” Hillar seemed a little taken aback by the notion.

  “They are Undying.”

  “Well, yes, but I rather hoped that was all rumors and misdirection.”

  “Not this time. Took one of my friends with him the last time he showed up. I see him again, I’ll try to kill him again.”

  “You’re determined, aren’t you?”

  Stanna frowned. “I don’t intend to be killed the same way, is all.”

  “How did your friend die?”

  “Last anyone saw he was rising into the air and moving away faster than arrows can be fired.”

  “That fast?” Hillar looked around. She was not exactly afraid so much as suddenly very wary.

  “I’d suggest not offending the Undying.”

  “I’d rather avoid the idea, actually.”

  “In any event, Beron is coming and he’s gathering an army of riff raff to fight with him.”

  “Why should that be a problem?”

  Stanna looked around and then spit on the cobblestones. “The people he’s choosing have nothing. That means they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. The only saving grace we might have is that ex-slaves are likely to avoid walking by his side.”

  “There are a great number of ex-slaves in Torema. An even larger number of slaves.”

  “If it was me, I’d change that.”

  “Why?”

  Stanna stared at her benefactor for a moment and then gestured at the city around them. “Free the slaves and you’ll have loyal followers. They’ll be grateful. If Beron frees them, they’ll be loyal to him.” Stanna looked around again and squinted toward the north. “Slaves serve through fear. You offer them something better than fear and they’ll serve you well enough. Long enough to fight off the armies coming your way wi
th any luck.”

  “Two armies against us.”

  Stanna shook her head. “Three.”

  “Three?”

  “The people of Hollum are penned up in the western area. They don’t want to be. Sooner or later they’ll see an opportunity and they’ll attack.”

  “Gods! Attacks from three sides?”

  “Only safe place to be soon will be the docks. And believe me, others will see that, too.” Stanna looked toward the waters and the shifting island of ships and boats that dominated the area.

  “There aren’t enough ships to save everyone.”

  Stanna shook her head. “The only people anyone ever cares about saving are themselves.”

  “You think so?”

  “I promise you the people in Hollum paid dear for the privilege of riding in wagons. They either owned the wagons, or bought the right to be on them, and paid with most of what they could carry.”

  Hillar stared at her for a long time without speaking.

  Stanna continued, “You run this city. You own half of everything or more. You are paying me and mine to keep your city safe, because you can afford to. But if you had to leave Torema right now, this instant, what would you take with you?”

  “Everything I could carry and more besides.”

  Stanna nodded her head, and felt the growing wind run across the shaved portions of her scalp. “And where would you take it? Do you own any ships?”

  “At least a dozen of the ships in the harbor are mine.”

  She nodded again and ran her fingers through the thick red hair that remained across the top of her head. “And the people who run those ships? Think they’ll leave their families behind to let you carry your possessions?”

  The wind was picking up again and the clouds from the north held over them like a vast tidal wave suspended in time. Stanna shook her head and the increasing breeze threw aside the crimson hair that tried to block her view. “You’ve a dozen ships and papers to prove it. No one will care. Not a bloody soul. They’ll kill you and everything you own to get on one of those ships and head away from this.”