Gates of the Dead

by James A. Moore

  “I never meant to fail you, Ariah. You have offered so much.” And it was true. Money was not all that mattered. The demon had shown faith in Beron when no one else would, had offered mercy and a chance at redemption when his world was torn apart.

  “You have failed me, but you have always been faithful.” The demon frowned in contemplation. “Still, I am tempted to offer you one final chance at redemption.”

  “All I am is yours, Ariah.”

  “At the moment, that is not very much.” The demon lord leaned down. “You are little more than a seed, Beron. However, I have always been good with seeds.”

  Beron tried to shake his head. He didn’t understand completely, but when Ariah reached down and lifted him in both hands he achieved comprehension.

  There was no body to move. There were no hands to feel, or shoulders to shrug.

  “What shall we make of you, Beron of Saramond?”

  There was no body to shake with rage, but there was anger just the same, clear and hot and useless for the moment.

  “Make me an instrument of your fury, Ariah. Let me kill them all in your name.”

  “Kill who, exactly?”

  “Whoever you want killed.”

  Ariah nodded and smiled. “That is the best possible answer. I have given you weapons before. This time I shall make of you exactly what you suggested. You will be my weapon, and my shield.”

  Beron felt his gratitude rise like the tides.

  “I am afraid this will be painful, my champion, but no weapon is complete until it has been forged in flames and purified.”

  The hands of the demon lord held tightly to Beron’s skull and then the fingers of his master dug through flesh and meat alike, caressing bone and beginning the process of reshaping the first of the slavers into something new and deadlier than ever.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Gods Make Demands

  Myridia

  The gods had their ways and Myridia was grateful for them. She had dropped into the sacrificial pit because the He-Kisshi told her to. That was enough. That was all she needed. Still, as she stepped off the precipice there was that small voice that warned it might be the last thing she ever did.

  The sacrificial pits had only ever served one purpose in her lifetime. They offered the sanctified to the gods. If the gods demanded her life, the lives of her sisters, then they could have them at any time, but Myridia believed they offered something more than an expedient death and she was right.

  The skies above her were as black as the night had ever been, but when she rose to the surface she knew where she was immediately. This was home, or rather all that was left of it. Her home was gone. The cliffs had fallen into the waters and shattered the stone teeth she had known for as long as she had existed. Her people were gone, taken by Brogan McTyre, but even if they had remained it would not have mattered. The gods were unforgiving and they had taken her home away, destroyed it.

  Lyraal and a score more of her sisters rose from the depths and looked around. There were no looks of celebration, only caution and, in a few cases, dismay.

  Not far away the Gateway stood in the stormy seas, unaffected by the waves or the clouds. Lightning flickered in lizard tongues along the surface and from time to time that electricity snapped a finger into the skies and stirred the heavens. Looking at the vast opening within the stone arch she could see light, pure and blue, spilling out and painting the turbulent waves.

  The home of the gods was on the other side.

  The lightning stopped, replaced by darkness and silence.

  Atop the Lum-Hunnipih’ar a shape rested, cloak-like wings fluttering in the harsh winds. When it spoke the voice was exactly as she expected. The He-Kisshi had come with them, or another of its kind waited; she could not be certain.

  “Brogan McTyre comes here, riding in a ship that is strong enough to reach the home of the gods. If you would serve your gods, be ready for him. Know that he must not enter their realm.”

  Myridia nodded her head.

  Lyraal spoke. “You have the gift of the elements, do you not? Offered by the gods?”

  The He-Kisshi looked her way and nodded.

  “Can you…” She frowned. “We have seen it in the past. But not for a long time. Can you freeze the oceans? Make them solid?”

  “Yes.”

  “If we are to delay the arrival of Brogan McTyre and his helpers, perhaps you can freeze their ship in place.”

  “I will consider this and discuss it with the gods.” The hood turned a bit, revealing nothing but shadows. “They may not agree. Then again, they may.”

  Lyraal shook her head and ducked down into the waters, the expression on her face making clear that she was not happy with the answer given. Myridia did not go after her second. The He-Kisshi had not yet dismissed her.

  “Can you say how far away they are?”

  “They are days away. But before them they have sent an army of your sisters, corrupted and made anew by the demon Ariah. You must prepare for them first.”

  “What?”

  The He-Kisshi spoke, and despite the wind and the crashing waves its words were clear. “The demon Ariah has perverted your sisters, changed them into different creatures, things that would see the gods thwarted. They would protect Brogan McTyre and his companions. You must stop them.”

  “How many?”

  “Well over a hundred.”

  The odds were still in their favor, but without knowing what sort of changes had been made, or how strong the perverted demon-followers were, she could not safely guess whether or not they would be ready for the coming battle.

  “I must prepare.” She spoke only to herself, but the Undying nodded its head.

  “That is wise.”

  The arms of the creature spread out and the wings unfurled and caught the harsh winds. A moment later the He-Kisshi was riding into the air and the lightning began lashing out at the skies again. None of the energies came near the waters or the Grakhul. The gods were merciful.

  With that simple fact in mind Myridia stepped onto the islands of stone that held the arch above the waves. Within moments the rest of her people followed.

  The gods made demands. They would obey.

  And they would either win the war for their gods, or they would die for their gods.

  For now, for a short time, they had an advantage and she intended to make the most of it.

  Lyraal stared up at the skies, into the dark heaving clouds where the He-Kisshi had vanished, and frowned. Myridia said nothing. She understood already what was going through her friend’s mind. The gods made demands and now the question was whether or not they would make the challenges before the Grakhul easier to handle.

  Interlude: Daivem Murdrow

  The ships, it seemed, all wanted to go in the wrong direction. Two had gone north, but most, piloted by people wise enough to look at the weather, seemed determined to go to the Kaer-ru and beyond. The islands certainly had an appeal to them, but Daivem had different plans in mind. She needed to go north, at least if she wanted to silence the screaming dead around her. And she definitely wanted them silenced. After a few hours of their wailing her head began to hurt.

  In the end she only had one choice, really. She followed the soldiers who rode to the north. The rains were not as bad along the path, and her clothes were enough to keep her warm.

  She called through the Shimmer as she walked, and hoped that her message would make it through. Her brother was the one who’d taught her the ways of the Inquisitors and she sought his guidance now. He would likely tease her about it, but she’d find ways to return the favor when the time came. In the meanwhile she needed his advice if he could offer it.

  The dead wanted to be at peace. They could not achieve that goal under the current circumstances and she understood why. The messengers of the gods had, near as she could understand it, driven an entire city mad and then left those poor wretches to die. It was true that some of them still lived, sh
unted off into another realm of existence, but most died and they could find no solace so long as the insanity continued.

  “Tell me Darsken, how does one calm the dead when they are insane?”

  She spoke to her walking stick as if it might suddenly have answers. It offered none, but the dead she held with it were angry enough that if she listened she might even hear them without trying to.

  The winds roared and the rain slashed down at the ground, and the trees around her shook and groaned as they fought to stay standing. Water cut at the soil and the plants, and bit by bit the foliage lost its battles, lifting into the current and dancing away downstream to where Torema used to be. The city was dead. There was no way around that. Some few foolish people continued to stay, hoped that, somehow, the world would be made right, but from what Daivem had seen, the gods felt no reason to relent in their assault.

  Daivem walked between the worlds, sliding through the edge of the Shimmer as she trod the land. Each step she took was more like a score of long strides and in that way she made up for her dawdling in the dead city as the rains grew worse still.

  She had been in Kaer-ru when the gods made their final judgment on Torema and had seen the spears of lightning crash down and shatter the hills and the buildings and the people of the city. She had wandered the blasted landscape and done what she and hers always did. She had gathered the spirits of the dead that crawled, broken and dazed, among the ruins.

  And now she moved on again, as was her lot. The message to her brother would find its way or it would not. He would respond or he would not. In any event she did not intend to wait on the possibility of an answer. Opar headed north and so she would join him, whether or not he was aware of the extra traveler.

  She stepped back into the world proper as she rested for a moment, winded by the distance she’d traveled. The Shimmer was powerful and it allowed speedy transportation, but she also needed to see the world she traveled to know where she was walking.

  Where are we going? The words were not spoken, but felt. They were a thought from a dead man and though words did not take place she understood the thought almost as if it were her own.

  The words came from Niall Leraby, whose shattered corpse she’d found frozen in the wastes. Of all the spirits she had ever encountered his rage was the brightest. His anger had called her from hundreds of miles away and so she now found herself on a quest to find justice for him.

  All he could show her was the image of a nightmare made flesh. One of the Undying. The creature was loathsome indeed, and she thought it possibly the most unpleasant image she had ever encountered. She had not yet seen one in real life and if she never did, she was fine with that notion.

  “We go north. We seek to find the man who caused all of your suffering.”

  I would see him dead!

  “He fights against the creatures that killed you.”

  I–

  “Yes. It’s not always easy to choose, is it?”

  Why does he fight them?

  “I do not know. I only know the gods demand his death and the Undying want the same.”

  Niall Leraby’s spirit brooded and Daivem let it be. She had other matters to consider, including what to do with Niall and the other spirits. They were angry at the Undying and those creatures served the gods themselves. Therefore the dead were angry with the gods. She had never faced off against a god before and that was considered a wise choice.

  Not far away from her, one of the vast evergreens let out a groan and then a louder one as the mud beneath it gave way. The great tree shuddered and crashed to the ground only a dozen feet behind her.

  Daivem moved faster, the winds whipping her cloak around and threatening to pull down her hood.

  When she realized that someone walked next to her she got a better grip on her walking stick. The hard wood made for a wonderful weapon and she would be fine with employing it if the need arose.

  The footsteps were heavy and the shadow of the figure moved with a lumbering gait that she recognized.

  “Darsken! I did not expect you to travel here.” Was there joy in her voice? Yes, there was. She did not see her brother often enough.

  He looked her way in the perpetual darkness of the storm’s cold cover and smiled brightly. “I am asked for help by my little sister, I come as quickly as I can.”

  He moved closer and without saying a word raised one arm and swept back his cloak. As she had many times before, Daivem moved towards him and felt his burly arm pull her closer still until she was nestled at his side. The cloak fell against her and drew her into a nest of warmth that smelled of home.

  “I have missed you, Daivem.”

  Her arms wrapped around his solid waist and she squeezed hard enough to make him grunt. “Oh, I’ve missed you, too.”

  He looked around the area and back at the fallen tree. “We should leave here and move faster. I feel this will worsen.”

  Not far away another tree groaned loudly and swayed to one side.

  Daivem nodded and they stepped away from the world, into the Shimmer. There they stayed as they walked on, and Daivem told her brother what had happened in this reality.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Cold

  Brogan McTyre

  The He-Kisshi came, soaring through the dark clouds, spots that danced and drifted on the horizon until, suddenly, they were closer.

  Harper called out a warning and the rest of the men came above decks, Faceless among them, towering over even the tallest.

  Brogan took one look at the situation and shook his head. “And why don’t the bastards close in?”

  “At least one of them will, if only to demand we surrender you.” Jahda bellowed to be heard over the waves and the wind. The ship was still moving steadily enough but the waters were choppy and the sails creaked through the build up of ice. Several times the remaining sailors had climbed the masts with heavy wooden sticks and risked their lives to beat the sails until the ice broke away and scattered over the deck.

  Brogan had only been on a few ships in his life and never in this sort of weather. He was fascinated by the risks they took, and heard second-hand that under most circumstances the ship would have turned back. Apparently, the crew was terrified of suffering the same fate as their crewmates. He was satisfied with that answer. They had to get to the realm of the gods and to his knowledge there was only the one way.

  “Let them come,” he said. “When they do, we kill them.”

  “They are Undying.” Jahda stared at him. “You have been granted a gift. Do not use it foolishly. Gifts such as yours are not known for lasting forever.”

  “Then we hurt them very badly.”

  Jahda nodded.

  Harper pointed rather than spoke and they watched as one of the shapes drew near. Instead of landing on the deck, the thing settled itself close to the top of the tallest mast, hovering just inches above the wood.

  It waved a hand and the winds died away. There was no mistaking the correlation of the action and the resulting calm. In seconds the waves slowed down and then stilled. The ship was adrift on a placid sea.

  Brogan held his hand near his axe, but did nothing else.

  The He-Kisshi stayed where it was and slowly turned its head, as if seeking one shape in particular. Finally it settled on Brogan. From this range it was only a cloaked shape. There was no sign of what lay hidden in the cowl.

  “Brogan McTyre. The gods demand your death.”

  “Come get me.” His hand found the haft of the axe.

  “I do not come for you. I am here to let you know that you will die. I do not need to touch you to kill you. I merely need to let you know you will never reach your destination, Godkiller.”

  Brogan’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “Godkiller. I rather like the sound of that.”

  Harper snorted, even as he slipped an arrow from his quiver and prepared it. He did not say anything, but Brogan heard his amused condemnation just the same.

>   To his right Faceless stared at the Undying.

  The creature did not bother with Faceless, but continued to focus on Brogan. It shifted then finally settled on the wooden perch and Brogan could see the thick, clawed toes of the thing as they sank into the wood. The entire boat shifted with the change in weight.

  “You will not reach your destination, Brogan McTyre. You and everyone on this ship will die before then.” As the thing spoke it finally stopped looking his way and turned its hooded face to the skies. Above it, far above it, several forms now hovered over the ship, drifting like carrion birds, in a slow and steady circle.

  The clawed hand of the thing touched the wooden mast for a moment and then let go. Where the pads of its hand had pressed to the wood, the color changed. The brown of the seasoned oak became first gray and then white, and that stain began to spread. The air was already bitingly cold but it became colder. The stain continued to grow and what looked like steam came from it. No. Not steam. The very opposite, in fact. The wood groaned and sighed as frost bit deep into it and spread faster. In mere seconds the whole of the mast was frozen solid and the vapors continued to rise even as the stain spread faster still. The wood screeched and swelled. The Undying dropped from its perch and spread its wings, rising on a burst of air so sudden that it staggered everyone but Faceless. Harper had been prepared to loose an arrow but never had a chance as he was too busy recovering.

  Seconds, that was all it took, and the ship’s mast let out another deep groan as the frost thickened and covered even the areas where ice had made itself at home.

  The frost raced down and touched the deck and then went further still. From below decks the sounds of voices crying out drifted their way, Laram’s chief among them. A moment later the horses let loose with their own noises.

  Harper aimed a second time and loosed.

  The He-Kisshi rose higher and then let out a scream as Harper’s arrow drove into its throat. One clawed hand grasped at it, and the thing slipped in the sky, dropping toward the ship. Harper hit it with two more arrows as it struggled to remove the first from its thick neck.