Gates of the Dead

by James A. Moore

  Roskell spoke again. “Brogan, the Books of Galea were written because the gods chose to answer questions from one of their most faithful servants. They told the truth to one person and she, in turn, wrote those truths down. They told Galea how to manipulate the world, how to bend the will of the world to their bidding, but it is not an easy task. It is not easy because the gods are not generous by nature. They make demands, they insist on sacrifices.” He raised his hands and shook his head. “Not that I need to tell you, of all people, about that. What I mean is the gods did these things to prepare Galea and her followers for the world that will come around. The world has always worked the same way. The gods are born, they grow in power and they replace those who came before them. This does not happen often. It does not happen without change. The mountains were built when the last gods fell and they have been shattered with the death of a god. This is not a small thing.”

  Brogan frowned. “I know this.”

  “I don’t think you do. You have been given the power to touch the gods by Walthanadurn. He blessed you with this ability. That does not mean you will easily kill the gods. You had a hand in the death of the god of the seas. But that still leaves four deities left. Even if you manage to kill them, and that is a task that I do not think you fully understand, the demons will come along and have their say in this. They will rise to take the place of the previous gods because that is their nature. Your nature is to fight against any who would hurt you. Their nature is to seize the power they have sought for so very long.”

  “I don’t care. I will stop them if I can.”

  Roskell stared at him, his mouth working to find the right words.

  Despite his injury, Jahda chuckled.

  Brogan spoke slowly. He needed to make his point. “We have had gods for too long. They do nothing but make demands. If they cared, if they did anything at all that aided us, I could see their purpose, but they do not. They make demands. They take. They take some more and then they do it again. I have been given a chance to change that and if I can, I will. I might fail. I very likely will fail, but I will try just the same.”

  He looked at the two men and squatted.

  “I do not understand all that the dead god did, but I can feel the differences in me. It is more than the ability to touch the gods, though that is enough, I suspect. I feel the world differently. I see and taste and hear things that were never there before.” He frowned, and shook his head. “It would be easier to show you than to tell you, and I have no way to show you.” He shrugged. “The dead god did something to me. I know that. I know that there is more that must happen before I fight the gods and I believe that the weapons I need are close by, but I have to find them and possibly even shape them. They will be strong enough to kill the gods. I will be strong enough. What makes you think I can’t kill these demons you speak of? They are younger, weaker gods and I am doing their work for them. What makes you think I can’t finish this task the way I see fit?”

  “Brogan, the gods are not only about strength, they are about fighting with actions and with thoughts, they are about strategies as generals are about strategies in wars. To them we are parts of the game.”

  Roskell Turn shook his head and pointed with one finger, tapping Brogan’s broad chest. “You are a fighter. But you are also a part of the game. One or more of these gods and demons likely set you as a player without you ever knowing. Your family was chosen for sacrifice? All of them, yes?”

  Brogan nodded. His stomach tightened again at the thought.

  “It is likely that god or demon, one of them or more than one, chose you and used your family to involve you in this conflict.”

  Brogan nodded. He leaned in closer to Roskell and spoke very carefully. “I have reasoned that out myself.”

  “You have?” The Galean seemed surprised.

  “Oh. Yes. That is why I will kill all of them before this is done. I do not know which of them decided to involve me or kill my family to make it happen, but if any of them are to blame I will kill them all to have my satisfaction. Better no gods at all than gods that would do that to my family.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Way to Redemption

  Myridia

  The fish were plentiful and the Grakhul ate while they waited, guarding the Gateway between the worlds.

  Myridia felt stronger than she had in many, many weeks. It wasn’t only the food or the waters of home, she believed. It was also the radiance from the Gateway that bathed them constantly.

  There was no time for savoring the feeling, however. There was a war coming and they would be prepared. The times when they might have rested were filled with practice and drills.

  One of the He-Kisshi had also returned and watched over them, perching high on the Gateway and often staring into the distant, dark seas or into the ocean. The lightning that ripped away from the Gateway never had any impact on the creature, but instead actively avoided it.

  When the hooded shape drifted down to the area where Myridia swam in the cold waters she turned her attention to it immediately.

  “I am Dowru-Thist.”

  She lowered her head in acknowledgment and then waited for a response.

  “You are honored, this day. The gods are entrusting you to release their devoted followers from their slumber.”

  Myridia frowned. “Which followers? Where do they sleep?”

  “The Hahluritiedes. It was they who reshaped this world into the image the gods desired. They have followed the gods since the creation of this world and they have slept since the fall of Walthanadurn.”

  “Where do they…?”

  “They rest far below the Gateway. You must swim to find them. You will know them when you see them.”

  Myridia felt a nervous ball form in her guts. There was nothing said that should have caused it, but everything that was spoken made that unsettled energy grow.

  Without another word she sank under the waves, beckoning with her hands for the others to follow. Most listened, a few remained behind, unaware at first that she had gestured. She did not correct them. Mostly she wanted Lyraal. The woman was there, as always, at her side.

  They swam downward for a few moments before she slowed and drew Lyraal to her. “We are to awaken creatures I have never heard of.”

  “We can hardly know the will of the gods, unless they inform us,” Lyraal shrugged.

  “There is more to this. I feel it in my innards. I fear there is something we are not being told.”

  Lyraal stared at her for a long while without speaking and then moved her hands in a flurry of gestures. “The gods command us and we follow. That is the way it has always been, Myridia, but you have changed those rules several times now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You kept us with your humans. You made us travel with your troupe in the hopes that you would be closer to Garien. You have acted within your desires, not the desires of the gods, on several occasions. Do not question them now. It is not the time. The world as we know it is ending and you would continue to question the gods.”

  Lyraal was angry, she could sense that. The quick, nearly stuttering movements of her hands as she signed her words, that, too was an indicator.

  Her own frustration came through as she responded. “If you feel that I have done poorly as a leader, then why do you follow me?”

  “I follow you because you are wiser than me, but you are not listening to the voice of the gods. You are questioning what is supposed to be, as if there is a choice.”

  She stopped for a moment to consider, and then finally replied.

  “We traveled half a continent to find out that we were not supposed to be the guardians of the Sessanoh. I am partly to blame for that, yes, because I listened to Unwynn when she said we should go to the Mirrored Lake and prepare the way for more sacrifices, yes, but the Undying told us similar and never mentioned that others would be sent to do the same thing. We were given a choice: b
ecome mates to the Grakhul who were sent along, or come here and fight the enemies. Did I make the wrong decision?”

  It was Lyraal’s turn to look confused as she considered. Around them the majority of the Grakhul swam in a circular pattern, slowly descending but taking their time while the women who led them debated.

  “I do not know.”

  “I do. I chose not to be a servant to men who think they can make our decisions for us. I am not a broodmare. I am a warrior, and a priestess.”

  Lyraal nodded.

  Myridia continued. “Either you trust me as your leader or you do not. If you do not, then ignore me. But if you do trust me, then you need to help me. I fear we are betrayed again. I fear we are asked to do something that will cause us harm. I have no reason to believe this except that my guts say it.”

  Far below them the ground swelled in several places. Silt and dirt that were not touched by the raging seas in the distance remained as a cover for the monolithic shapes resting in the shadows of the Gateway.

  From this height they were little more than forms half-hidden in shadow.

  Still, those uneven shapes filled Myridia with dread.

  Lyraal looked upon them and seemed unimpressed.

  “I was uncomfortable with the Grakhul who came from the west. I am more uncomfortable with these shapes. I do not trust that waking these Hahluritiedes is a thing we should do.”

  “It is the gods who tell us this. How can we deny the gods without being damned to a death beyond the worst pain we have ever experienced? It is the gods who have ruled us and shaped us, Myridia. How can we defy them?”

  And there was the crux of the problem. She could not defy the gods. She had never defied the gods. Throughout her life she had been driven by the desire to please the beings that had created them all and given them purpose.

  And yet…

  The idea of following this order sent shivers through her entire being. She knew it was wrong. She knew it would cause disaster. She knew she could not defy the gods.

  Without any more thought she swam down, heading for the closest of the vast shapes. They were larger than she had expected, several hundred feet in height each. In the scope of the world they were tiny but so, too, the Grakhul.

  Her hands touched the silt and pushed it clear and as she did so the others followed suit, brushing away centuries of accumulated sand and covering. It was not hard; the substances had not sealed the shapes, merely hidden them from sight.

  Clouds of debris washed away from the forms, revealing them slowly. They were not humanoid. They were other things, other shapes. Some had limbs and others had fins. Some were serpentine and others could not easily be defined.

  That they were of the gods was clear. They bore the essence of the gods and, like the radiating energies from the Gateway, they seemed made of the divine.

  She could not understand her fear. Surely these were creatures designed by the gods to serve a holy purpose.

  Lyraal looked upon the shapes with awe. She did not touch them so much as she stroked and caressed. All around her the Grakhul followed Lyraal’s example, crooning softly to the glory of the hidden shapes as they were revealed. Truly, these were a power to be revered.

  And yet, Myridia still felt the dread, the tightening of her innards. Even as she looked upon the forms that the gods had left here, signs of their power and potence, even as she allowed her webbed fingers to caress the unmoving forms, she knew that something horrible would happen if they continued.

  Lyraal and several others began to sing. Their voices carried through the waters, echoed across the ground and the shapes slumbering beneath the Gateway. Myridia did not sing, she did not dare. Fear ran through her entire body and she moved back from the forms as they started to awaken.

  The first of them shifted, the second breathed and slowly, oh, with agonizing slowness, they all began the task of waking up from their endless slumbers.

  Myridia shook her head and if she had been capable of crying tears in the water she surely would have, for even as she started ascending she understood what was causing her fear.

  They had been asleep for endless ages. Surely when they awoke they would be hungry.

  A few of her followers looked her way and signed their confusion, but Myridia did not respond. The gods had made their decree. The Hahluritiedes were needed and she and hers were to awaken them. She could not tell her people to flee, but she could not stay herself. Her love of the gods was surely flawed. She had denied the need to mate with the Grakhul of the west and now this.

  Myridia swam upward, moving away from the Gateway and heading south. Lyraal’s song carried on for a very long while. It only ended when her friend began to scream.

  Behind her, far away now, the creatures that the gods had used to shape the world woke up and feasted, as the gods had planned.

  Was she to be condemned by the gods? Possibly, but she could not turn back. She dared not. The gods had surely gone mad and were punishing the devoted.

  The gods had demanded she die for her sins, whatever they might be, and she had defied them. There was no place left for her in this world and yet, she refused to leave.

  Myridia defied them and swam away, her heart breaking with every move she made and every wail of pain and fear she heard from her beloved sisters.

  Interlude: Daivem Murdrow

  The dead were everywhere and they were lost, tormented and suffering. War did that. The gods sometimes claimed the dead, but in this case they either could not or simply chose not to. That was the trouble with traveling between worlds. Her brother, Darsken, had warned her that traveling the worlds could cause confusion and he was not wrong. He seldom was, much as that notion annoyed her.

  The darkness did not bother her, and the bodies of the dead were merely debris in her eyes. The spirits of the dead were the parts that mattered, though from time to time they tried to cling to their corpses as if the rotting flesh held answers they had not yet realized.

  The soldiers she had been following were dead. The king she had met was no longer among the living. Not all of their spirits lingered but those that did she gathered and added to her collection.

  For generations on end the Louron who were trained to do so had done exactly what she was doing. The Inquisitors sought the people who killed without reason and tried to help the dead along the way. Most, like her brother, were wiser than she was and only aided one at a time. Some, like Darsken, gathered the souls of the murdered, took a small payment from them and solved their deaths when they could. Daivem was not satisfied with that. She never had been and she suspected she would not live much longer if she continued to gather all the spirits she found and store them away.

  The wooden walking stick was designed to aid her in holding the energies of the dead but there were limits and she was rapidly pushing beyond what could be stored. A water jug will only hold so much before it overflows, but this was not the same thing. She could continue to push the dead into the carefully crafted receptacle and they would not spill out. They would stay, but if she continued to push them into the staff, it would be more like a skin than a vase. The wood would eventually fracture and release all that she had gathered.

  The problem was the same as before. She had no idea what to do with them. They were dead. They were restless and if they were left where they were, the possibilities of them tainting the land were strong. Many lands had haunted places where the dead had been left too long in pain, and had festered like a rotting wound. That was what she hoped to avoid.

  “I don’t know why I am trying.” She reached out and beckoned to a soldier’s spirit. He had died badly and was afraid. “I have no place to keep you.”

  She said the words but they were a lie. She knew why. Watching the dead suffer was not something she could do.

  The shape that drifted down from the skies was not a complete surprise to her, but she was not comfortable with meeting one of the Undying.

  Th
e wings of the thing fluttered for a moment and then it pulled them close until it looked like nothing more than a man in a hooded robe. She was not deceived.

  “What is it that you do?” The voice was soft.

  “What I must to offer peace to the dead.”

  “Why do the dead need peace?”

  “Why do any of us need peace?” She looked toward the creature as it shuffled slowly closer.

  The feet of the thing touched the frozen earth and seemed unaffected. “How can you stand the cold?” she asked.

  “I am Undying. Cold. Heat. They are minor inconveniences.” It tilted that odd head and studied her intently for a moment. “Where do you come from? You are not of this world.”

  “I have followed the Shimmering Path to where I am called. I am from Louron.”

  “Louron.” It seemed to taste the word. “You are among the untouched.”

  And there it was. The tone she had been waiting for. The gods had never spoken to her or her people in this world that she knew of. They had never attempted to force themselves on the Louron, or if they had, they had found them unpalatable.

  “I follow the Shimmering Path.”

  “This path of yours, can it truly take you to other worlds?”

  She nodded and pulled another spirit closer until she could wrap it into the energies held within her walking stick. “I am from another world. I travel here because the dead call to me.”

  “The dead belong to the gods.”

  She looked toward the thing and sighed. “If the gods would take them, then they should take them now, before they rot like fruit and ruin the ground where they walk.”

  “They cannot simply take the dead. The dead must be sacrificed.”

  “These dead have not been sacrificed. They have been killed.”

  “These dead were following the orders of the gods. They have been taken by demons.”

  Daivem nodded her head. “They speak of the plants and the bones.” She pointed to the closest lump of frozen vegetation. “They speak of dying for a cause they did not understand.”