Gates of the Dead

by James A. Moore

  When the meal was finished Beron moved away from the table and watched as it dropped slowly into the ground, consumed by the plants that carpeted the area.

  “I will not fail you, Lord Ariah.”

  Ariah smiled. “Go. Move from this place and know that I am watching over you.” Once again the demon lord offered him sword and spear and shield though none had been brought back with him that he knew of.

  Beron bowed once, formally, and then moved. As he walked, he heard the sounds of his army rising from the ground. He looked back only once and was horrified by what he saw. That was good. That was excellent, really, because if they scared him they would terrify his enemies.

  The Sessanoh

  The male Grakhul prepared the sacrificial pits. Not far away two of the He-Kisshi watched, but said nothing. That was enough of a warning. The preparations were methodical and precise, lest the gods take offense.

  After three days, the Undying rose into the air and rode the winds toward the north and east.

  The Grakhul relaxed, but only a little; the gods always watched and would know if they failed in their efforts. Urhoun sneered at the skies and contemplated what must still be done. There would be sacrifices required. Currently a hundred of the Grakhul children remained among them, working and cleaning the entire area. They would be sacrificed within the next few days, their sanctified blood used to honor the gods and prove the loyalty of the Grakhul. The gods were merciful. The gods were good.

  Urwaquo, a man who was not known for his skittishness, came close and pointed to the top of the mountains above them.

  “There are horsemen up there.”

  Urhoun frowned and scanned the hilltops. “Where?”

  “South and east. They are riding single file.” He pointed. “There.” And so it was. He saw the horsemen this time and scowled. “Do we not have guards posted?”

  “We do, but they have made no sounds.” He nodded. If the men were still alive, they would be punished for their failures.

  “To arms, but quietly. If we have new enemies here, let them learn of us as our blades carve them apart.”

  Urhoun found his own curved blade and strapped it to his arm, locking the chain in place. No one disarmed the Grakhul without removing an arm.

  The chain was held in his hand to stop it rattling and he moved, climbing up the side of the hill surrounding the Sessanoh with his companions as the word was spread. It did not take long for them to prepare. None of the Grakhul were without their weapons nearby and all of them longed for battle after being denied for so long.

  The gods had frozen them in place, but never truly left them asleep. For centuries the Grakhul had wandered the world in their dreams, often more aware than those that had been left awake. They had seen Pressya and Lomorride, the lands to the south where still more people followed the will of the gods. They had seen other lands too, further south still, where the gods were unknown as yet. The people in those places would be taught their place when the gods willed it. Until then they remained ignorant and lived as animals.

  When he crested the hill Urhoun rested on his belly and looked into the valley below as best he could.

  There were so very many of them. He did not know who they were, only that they moved into formation and waited. Many of them bore strange markings on their flesh and he squinted as he saw them.

  The skies were not darkened by clouds here and he could see them clearly enough to know that there were easily three to every member of the Grakhul.

  There were more of them coming still, moving single file over the mountains along several paths that led to the valley where his men were supposed to be watching and waiting. Urhoun did not see his guards and doubted that they were alive.

  Torpuah, one of his longtime friends, asked, “What will we do?”

  “There is no choice in this. The gods want the Sessanoh sanctified and protected. We fight.”

  “When?”

  “When a few more of us have gathered. They have advantages in numbers. We have advantages from position. They must climb the side of the mountain or follow the narrow trails.”

  Even as he spoke, however, the first of the men below began moving up the three trails leading to the Sessanoh. None of the paths were particularly wide, but they were wide enough for a horseman to maneuver with ease.

  Urhoun cursed under his breath and then spoke louder. “Call to arms!”

  The three men closest to him called out and even those who had not yet been alerted reached for weapons and moved toward Urhoun. They were warriors. They would fight.

  The horsemen came much faster than he’d anticipated. Much, much faster. They rode hard up the winding paths and even as his men gathered their weapons they broke over the crest of the hill and started down the other side, each of them ready with a weapon and moving quickly out of the way of the ones following behind.

  The first of his men to reach the attackers died with a battle cry on his lips and a sword through his skull and eye. The men closest to him were warriors, true, but they hesitated as the blood flowed.

  Urhoun let out a war cry of his own and charged toward the closest trail. The riders there could not slow down, did not dare if they wanted to avoid delaying the whole of their army, and so he attacked as quickly and savagely as he could, hoping to block the flow of riders coming into the Sessanoh.

  It was his misfortune, though he was unaware of that fact, to choose King Parrish as his first target.

  Parrish dropped from his horse even as he deflected the blow, and caught Urhoun’s long hair in his free hand. Urhoun tried to pull back and his enemy ripped brutally at his hair, twisting his head to the side and using the pommel of his short sword to strike Urhoun in the temple.

  Urhoun swept the chain at the end of his sword and slapped it across the man’s leg. The man let out a hiss of pain and let go of his hair. Urhoun staggered back and dared a grin at the respite. The next second he was backing away again as the swordsman came for him, the weapon in his hands moving in a series of short, brutal strikes that Urhoun was hard pressed to fend off. While he focused on the sword, his attacker kicked out and caught his leg at the knee. The joint bent the wrong way and agony ripped through Urhoun. He stumbled and felt the blade cut across his free arm. Blood ran warm in the cold air and Urhoun let out his own hiss of pain.

  It was a game, really, a dance of sorts, and though he was out of practice and had slept frozen in ice, Urhoun still knew the rules of that dance. He stepped in hard and fast, taking advantage of the close proximity to leave his enemy’s sword out of the equation.

  The stranger smiled at him, a baring of teeth worthy of a hunting wolf, and moved in closer himself, shoving back against Urhoun with surprising strength. In his experience humans were not overly strong, but this one, despite being lean, was hard with muscle and savage in his demeanor. The man pushed harder still and Urhoun pushed back and–

  One moment he fought against a powerful opponent and the next he was sailing through the air, trying to understand what had just happened. When Urhoun hit the ground it was at a bad angle and he felt his left shoulder soar into agonies the likes of which he’d never experienced in his life.

  His enemy did not bother with finishing him off, but instead called out to his horse. The beast moved aside and let more of the riders through.

  Urhoun tried to rise and let out a yelp of pain. His arm refused to move, but the effort to try making it follow his orders was enough to leave his vision gray and his ears ringing.

  The horsemen kept coming. Urhoun looked around as he tried to recover, and saw more and more of the riders charging through the opening, their steeds plowing past anything that got in their way, including his men.

  The man he’d fought climbed back on his animal, making the task look easy, and then called out in their strange language, gesturing with an arm. The riders moved, heading toward the Sessanoh, sweeping their weapons at anyone in their way. They had spears,
they had swords, and they had other weapons that he could not clearly see. Wherever the riders went, his people fell, bloodied, damaged, or dead. They did not die alone. Most fought hard and died with honor, but they died just the same.

  Urhoun rolled over and whimpered as he slowly climbed to his feet. The world faded to gray twice more but he finally stood. Around him the battle moved on; the riders continued pouring into the area and hacking down his people as if they were wheat before a farmer.

  Without lifting his sword, Urhoun closed his eyes and called out to the gods, begging assistance from the He-Kisshi or any other available source.

  When he opened his eyes the man who had ruined his arm stood before him. His face was painted with drops of blood and his body glistened with sweat.

  Not a hundred yards away he saw the man still fighting, still killing, but he stood before him as well.

  “I am not King Parrish. I am the god Parrish serves. I am Theragyn, the Master of the Cauldron. Speak to your people and they could be spared this. They will die now, serving gods who do not care about you, or you and yours can pledge yourselves to me and be tested within the cauldron. Prove worthy and you will reap great rewards.”

  “The gods cannot be defied.”

  “They can. They are. Join me and you will know glories the likes of which you did not know existed.”

  “The gods are the gods.” He shook his head. “They are unforgiving.”

  Theragyn smiled sadly even as the man who looked like him drove his blade deep into Urwaquo. The blade punched completely through the man’s chest.

  Theragyn said, “You can still save them.”

  “The gods cannot be denied.”

  “So you keep saying.” Theragyn reached out and touched Urhoun’s hand gently.

  The pain was immediate. The pale white skin where Theragyn had touched turned black and withered. As Urhoun watched, horror growing in his heart, the blackened flesh continued to grow, the small patches reaching toward each other and spreading.

  He gasped and screamed. The pain was so massive that he forgot all about his dislocated shoulder for the moment and tried to move again. Where the flesh had blackened, the skin ruptured, releasing gray, decayed meat and blood that was already coagulating.

  Urhoun tried to scream again, but failed as his lungs rotted within his torso. He stood for a moment longer as the agonies of living through his death worked their way through him.

  In moments he was dead and he saw nothing more.

  His people did not last much longer.

  Parrish

  There were casualties, yes, but that was to be expected. Men died and were injured. Horses were wounded and a few were struck lame enough that killing them was a mercy. The bodies of the fallen were burned in fire, cleansed of their sins in this life by purification. The corpses of the enemy were hauled to the great holes in the ground, and per Theragyn’s demands, they were gutted, bled and then cast down into the pits.

  Parrish smiled. He was exhausted. He felt wonderful.

  All around him the Marked Men and the soldiers worked hard to finish the tasks before them.

  Not far away he saw Theragyn waiting, looking exactly like him, a smile on his face.

  Parrish stepped closer and crossed his arms over his chest as he bowed. “All you would ask of me, I will gladly do, my lord.”

  “You serve me well, Parrish.”

  “What would you have us do now, my lord?” He knew that there was more. There had to be. The gods themselves were getting involved in the conflicts.

  “Rest for the night. In the morning I will move you to another place. The war grows, Parrish, and we will rule all if we are wise.”

  “Then let us be wise, Lord Theragyn.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Paths to War

  Opar

  The trail was still obvious, but at least the fires had faded away. The charred remains of woods and towns and prairies all showed the continuous path to the north.

  Opar rode on, mostly spending time in his wagon, but occasionally riding a horse to stop himself from being alone with his thoughts.

  The gods had decreed that he would serve them and there was nothing he could do about that except choose to die. That was not a choice he wanted to make and so he did not.

  The Undying said that the enemies would follow this path, or that they would meet those enemies by following this path, but the cold was almost crippling. The sun had not shown itself in days, the winds cut harshly across the landscape and the rain that fell froze on contact with, well, everything.

  Edinrun could still be returned to him, that was what the Undying claimed. Still, he had seen the bodies, mountains of corpses burned into smaller mountains of ashes and bones. The buildings alone would do him little good without his citizens.

  And yet here he was, riding for the northlands, and through the ruins of what had once been neighboring kingdoms. The course shifted away from where he knew Saramond had been, because the place where the city used to be was no longer there. The seas had swallowed the land, wiping it away with ease.

  The trees around them creaked with the weight of building ice, and from time to time they could hear a powerful crack as something broke under the weight.

  Not surprisingly, the soldiers were grumbling. None of them wanted to be there. They might have even run away, but the fear of the gods kept them loyal where the promise of gold failed. Gold only bought things. Gods could make or break whatever they chose.

  Rithman coughed into his hand. Opar looked his way, annoyed but doing his best to hide it. “I’m not trying to aggravate you, cousin, but we’re running low on supplies.”

  “Of course we are.” He hadn’t even considered the need for supplies. There were others who usually handled those affairs for him, but there were no stores to take from, no merchants from whom they could make purchases. “Nothing to hunt around these parts, is there?”

  “Everything is dead or dying.” Rithman shook his head. “We’ve no equipment for fishing, though that would be our only choice I think.”

  “So tell the cooks to work something out. Make nets, or harpoons, or whatever they need. Catch fish. The gods say we move this way. They do not care if we are fed. We have to take care of that ourselves.”

  Rithman nodded. “What we saw was real, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. I would rather you remember that, too. Forgetting is only going to cause us troubles.”

  Before Rithman could respond, a horn shattered the relative silence. The guards had horns for a reason. Opar did not expect an attack, but it was always best to be prepared.

  The area around them was dark. They had torches to light their way but they did not illuminate the nearby woods.

  Another horn blasted a warning and then a third.

  Rithman moved away from the entrance to the wagon and strode across the frozen ground, calling orders.

  Opar could hardly do less. He hastily pulled on his boots and grabbed his cloak. The sword and scabbard came along as well.

  The winds outside the wagon were worse than he’d expected. His skin fairly let out a yelp of its own. Still, he had to do this. The king needed to lead his armies and the gods were making demands.

  So be it.

  There was chaos outside the wagon, but it was the chaos of order being forced upon an army. The men lined up with their squads and battalions in short order. The horsemen were quick, the footmen were quicker. They were not completely silent, but no one called out who was not supposed to, and so they heard the sounds soon enough.

  There was the sound of the wind, the sound of the rain pattering down and beneath those sounds came the odd rustling of things moving that were simply not human.

  The noises were too low, for one, and they scratched and hissed and moved slowly, where a boot would have sounded like a drumbeat.

  Opar’s skin shivered at the notion. There was nothing to see in the darkness.
r />   “What has been seen?” he asked Rithman as he moved closer to the man.

  “Nothing that makes sense, my king. There are no soldiers but the forest moves.”

  “The forest?”

  “The trees have been shifting with more than the wind.”

  “You’ve summoned the whole of my army to fight the trees?”

  “No, my liege.” Rithman’s voice had an edge. “We’ve called the army to prepare in case the trees are merely a sign of something different.”

  It wasn’t the time to chastise his general in front of the troops, but if there proved to be no reason for the congregation of forces, he intended to let Rithman feel his anger properly.

  Not a hundred yards away, at the edge of the great swath cut across the area, something cracked and one of the trees let out a long moan before it came crashing down.

  Most of the soldiers standing in the path of the falling monolith cleared out of its way before they could become fatalities. A few did not. They let out cries of pain in some cases and were far too silent in others.

  Rithman called for four squads to move the tree aside. It was a large thing, to be sure, but the men began the task and soon had the thing rolled most of the way off the actual path.

  And while they were so engaged, the enemy attacked.

  The sight made no sense. Near as Opar could tell the attackers were wrapped in vines and leaves. He squinted to see better in the darkness, but to no avail.

  The soldiers let out battle cries and screams and drew weapons as the attackers clubbed them with blunt tools or pierced them with what looked like sharpened sticks.

  The lightning danced through the clouds and gave brief moments of better illumination. What they showed were the sort of images that led to madness.

  The attackers were not wreathed in vines, but seemed made of them. Muscles and sinews of green were wrapped around faded, yellowed ivory. Skulls and bones showed through the leaves, though there was no sign of actual flesh. Each of the things was an impossibility, and no two were quite the same. Several of them carried thick bones as weapons. Most were blunt, but a few were broken off into sharp edges.