Read Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Online
Authors: David Farland
In the late afternoon, the road became cobblestone and wound down out of the hills to the sea, leading to an oddly shaped granite bluff, where the road led into a vast cave.
There were a few buildings perched next to the bluff—a sizable stable, some shops, but no houses—and people were going into the cave with wagons filled with wood and produce. Maggie realized with a start that the inhabitants of this city all lived within that monolithic rock.
She studied the place a bit—some rounded pillars had been carved into the rock, and they thrust up high, carrying a bit of smoke. In other places, holes had been gouged into the roof, giving light and air. In some holes, she could see through to whitened walls.
As with the temple she’d first noticed back in Northland, this place was built by someone who had no concept of symmetry. Each of the chimneys was a different height, and the windows were each shaped in their own ways. And yet there was a gracefulness, a peaceful organic feel to the structure, that was both comforting and inviting.
Cormorants and gulls wheeled out over the gray ocean, and the skies were getting dark, promising rain. Maggie and Gallen went down to the city.
Under the arching entrance, they could see the city before them—a vast cavern filled with people and noise and the smells of smoke and sweat and fish. The rock had been carved away so that long stone staircases led away under great arches. The walls were not only painted white, but crystals had been set in them, casting light back like stars.
Between the skylights and the guttering lamps on wrought-iron posts placed strategically beside the roads, the caverns sparkled with light.
Maggie looked up, and along the roads going up the hill were side corridors, where people of a dozen races lived. Children screamed and played in the corridors, and clothing was left along stone walls to dry.
There was the smell of seawater in the air, and off to the right, a path led to the ocean. There, on broad stones at the sea’s edge, sea people swam through an underwater channel, bringing up fresh fish and crabs. Maggie saw a gaggle of hooded merchants who were bartering loudly for the fish, offering brass bracelets and sacks made of fine cloth.
Directly ahead, just above sea level, a central pillar, like an enormous stalagmite, filled the middle of the complex, and carved at the column’s center were several shops and a large pub where a dozen burly giants guzzled mugs of beer at wooden tables. The delicious scent of fish and sausages filled the air.
As Maggie and Gallen headed toward the pub, a grizzled giant approached. He wore a green tunic over black leather pants, and had a rope tied around his waist. His dark brown hair was tied back, and he wore beads of aqua and cardinal woven into it. His enormous beard spilled down his chest, thinning into a ragged wisp at his belly. It wasn’t until he was nearly on them that Maggie realized how truly large he was—eight feet tall, with broad shoulders. He wore a short sword on his hip, but he handled himself like a man who wouldn’t need weapons.
“My name’s Fenorah,” he grumbled, studying Gallen’s sword. “Welcome to Battic, where land kisses the sea.”
“Thank you,” Gallen said, lifting his chin high to stare the man in the eye.
“We’re a peaceful town,” Fenorah’ said, scratching his nose. “I’ll be straight with you. You carry a sword, and from the way you wear it, I’d say you know how to do more than split kindling with it. And there’s blood on your boots—and I’d rather not know how it got there. But these are my folks, my town. There’s peace here.”
He looked deep into Gallen’s eyes, as if trying to gauge what lay beneath their cool blue surface. “I appreciate an honest man,” Gallen said. “And I admire one who seeks peace. As long as I’m given it, I shall give it in return.”
The giant laughed, slapped him on the back. “You look hungry from the road. I saw how you eyed the pub. May I buy you dinner? We’ve the finest flounder you’ll taste on the coast.” Gallen hesitated, but Maggie could sense something in this giant, a lack of guile, that she found refreshing.
“We would be honored,” Maggie said, and the giant took her arm, led them into the pub, where they dined on sea bass roasted in rosemary and a fruity wine. Other giants like Fenorah lumbered around.
Fenorah talked long and boisterously, asking Gallen’s business. When Gallen said that he wanted to purchase a wagon and draft animals, Fenorah called a serving boy and ordered them, as if he’d been ordering dinner, and the boy rushed to fetch them.
Then, Fenorah took them down to the “docks,” the stones where the sea people rose from the dark waters, their tails flashing silver, and there Fenorah talked to Gallen of the city’s trade agreements.
He showed Maggie and Gallen a great cavern where the annual fairs were held, where images of the city’s founders were carved in three giant stalactites, so that their beards were hanging shards of stone. Fenorah then took them to the upper chambers above the city, where small swarthy men and women of the Ntak race still carved, singing in high voices as their picks and hammers rang, with each blow extending the city back deeper and deeper into the bones of the earth.
The giant seemed to Maggie to be enormously proud of his city. He was obviously a man of wealth, a man of worries. And at last when they were in the far upper recesses of a cave, looking back down over a vast stairway of a thousand feet, and the ringing of hammers and picks below them rose like some strange music, Fenorah motioned for Gallen and Maggie to sit on a rock. Then, with a grunt, he knelt down beside them, and stared down into the distance.
“Gallen, my friend,” the giant whispered, his voice a mere grumble, hard to be heard over the ringing hammers, the piping music. “There was a ship that burned last night, a ship not far off the beach. Its sails lit up like a bonfire, and we could see it sailing as if it would fall off the edge of the world.”
“Aye?” Gallen asked, curiously.
“Aye,” the giant grunted. “The sea folk went to investigate, and they brought back some survivors.” The giant sighed, measured his words. “They told … stories, about a swordsman with two beautiful women. They hinted that he was a great warrior, and that they would pay well for his capture. Too well.”
“And what did you tell them?” Gallen said.
“I sent them away, though I’ve thought better of it since. They had broken none of our laws, and yet.…”
“And yet what?”
“And yet I found it hard to spare them their lives.” Fenorah dug his hand into the stone at his feet, broke off a small boulder. Maggie had not seen any sign of a chink in the stone, and even Gallen caught his breath at witnessing the giant’s tremendous strength. “The thing is, Battic is small for a sea town, and distant from other cities. We don’t even have a port. And we’ve been careful to watch one another, protect each other. Perhaps for this reason, we have escaped the Inhuman’s scrutiny. We have been … beneath notice. But I fear that now the Inhuman will turn its face our way, if it is searching for you. It’s a small fear, perhaps unfounded.”
Maggie took all of this in. If the agents of Inhuman had been turned loose from town, then perhaps they would be out in the countryside, hunting even now. She suddenly feared for Ceravanne, who had only Orick to protect her. More importantly, she understood that Fenorah, despite his great strength, was asking them to make a hasty retreat.
“I suspect,” Gallen said, “that such fears
are
unfounded. Did you see which way they went?”
“Four of the Inhuman’s servants went to the south, toward the wilderness of Moree,” the giant whispered. “Five to the woods to the east.”
Maggie caught her breath. Despite their best efforts, the Inhuman’s agents were still searching for them in greater force than she’d imagined. It would be easy for a few servants of the Inhuman to find others like themselves, raise the countryside against them.
Fenorah studied them from the corner of his eyes. “I … have to admit that I am not above spying on a stranger. When the nine were alone in the medic’s chamber, I listened to them from the hole above. They spoke of a Lord Protector who should not be allowed to reach Moree.”
Gallen did not answer for a moment. “Even if it is true that you have escaped the Inhuman’s scrutiny so far,” he said, “it will not remain so forever. Unless the Inhuman is destroyed, you and your people will be found.”
“And what can one man do against it?” Fenorah grumbled. “I fear that the Inhuman is more powerful than you know.”
Gallen said, “There is more than one warrior here, unless I miss my guess. Perhaps you and some of your kind would join me.” Maggie held her breath, for she wished that this strong man would come with them. An army of them would be formidable.
“I am of the Im people,” Fenorah said. “I could not travel inland with you, away from the sea. Me and my brothers cannot drink your fresh water. We would die after a few days’ march.”
Maggie’s heart fell, and she wondered what Gallen would do without the giants’ help. Somehow, though she had not admitted it to herself, to go into that wilderness alone seemed … unthinkable.
“Then let me have a wagon,” Gallen asked, “and tell no one that I came this way.”
“Done.” The giant nodded. He looked at Gallen from the corner of his eye once again. “And more. I’ll come with you, and bring my brothers, so long as your road leads by the sea. The Inhuman will have to show some restraint, with us at hand.”
“I accept your offer, gratefully,” Gallen said.
“Good.” The giant slapped his knee and he got up, took Maggie’s hand and helped her to her feet.
“One thing more,” Maggie said. “Among the survivors, did you find a pale woman?”
“The Champlianne?” the giant said. “Aye, she’s safe.”
“She’s not Inhuman, I don’t think,” Maggie said.
“Neither do I. She’s well, resting in my own house,” Fenorah assured her. “My wife is caring for her.”
Maggie found herself suddenly teary-eyed with relief. As far as the others on the ship went, she had trusted none of them, but she hated the thought that this innocent woman might have died in the skirmish. Gallen put his arm over Maggie’s shoulders, hugged her for a moment.
Then Fenorah led them back down the long stairs, to the mouth of the city, where the serving boy had readied a fine wagon carved of cherrywood, with ornate scrollwork and bas-reliefs of trees and dancing rabbits on every panel. Gallen slapped the wagon, commenting on its fine Maker build, and Maggie wondered at his knowledge of it.
To pull the wagon, Fenorah had provided a beast that Maggie had never seen before, nor ever imagined. It stood tall as a horse, but was built more like a cow. It had a great hump at its shoulders, and while most of it was a creamy golden brown in color, shaggy black hair covered its head. Its small horns curved like those of a ram, and it glared about with small red eyes. It was both a fearsome creature, and powerfully built.
“What is this thing called?” Maggie asked.
“A travelbeast,” Fenorah answered, obviously surprised that she did not know. “His kind are greatly prized. He has greater endurance than a bull, and greater speed than a horse. He sees in the dark, and is smart enough to understand a few small words.” He hissed a little lower. “And he will trample anyone who gets in his way.”
Maggie climbed up into the seat of the wagon, saw that it was lightly loaded with baskets of fruit, a barrel of salted fish, and plenty of blankets. On impulse she grabbed the giant, hugged him tight. “Thank you,” she whispered fiercely, and found herself fighting back tears once again.
“It is my pleasure,” Fenorah said, and he went to find some men. In half an hour, six of the giants had gathered. Three ran out ahead of the wagon, while three others followed close behind.
Then Gallen nodded and slapped the travelbeast with the reins, and they lurched off, out the door of the tunnel. The twin suns were already down outside, and the moons had not yet risen. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the stars. In the darkness, she could barely see the broad backs of the giants, rushing ahead into the shadows.
Gallen hunched at the reins, his face an unreadable mask in the darkness, and she felt distant from him. She could sense a change in him, a new uncertainty that he dared not voice.
As the wagon rattled over the cobblestones up toward the woods, Maggie had a sense of foreboding. It was dark under the trees, so dark that she could hardly see her hand in front of her face, and somehow she sensed that she was crossing into a darker realm than she could have ever imagined.
* * *
Chapter 19
As night fell, Zell’a Cree ambled along the rutted roads east of Battic. His Amen had been following the road since just after dawn, sniffing for the scent of Gallen O’Day and his party. They’d crossed forty kilometers of mountain, hugging the coast, and never caught a whiff of him.
Forty kilometers seemed too far. Zell’a Cree knew that the currents and the wind had carried the little lifeboat east along the coast, and for a good time, he’d kept them in sight as he swam.
Still, they should have landed somewhere closer to Battic. But Zell’a Cree’s nose didn’t lie: they hadn’t set foot on the road.
They’re learning
, Zell’a Cree realized.
They must have known that if they walked on the road, I would catch their scent.
And the coastline here was so rocky in places, that Zell’a Cree could not easily hunt them by following the beach.
He wondered idly how it would be to be a human—living in a world where the senses were so limited, where sight and smell and hearing were so dull. Humans must feel terribly vulnerable, terribly open to attack, and they would have to be wary at all times. No wonder they had developed fear as a basic component of their emotional makeup.
Yet Zell’a Cree could hear a twig snap a mile away, and at night, even in a deep fog, the heat of living things blazed like torches. Zell’a Cree did not need to suffer from mankind’s irrational fears. He was better than that.
At dusk, he stopped, weary to the bone, and said to the three other men, “It may be that we have passed the Tharrin’s trail. I for one believe that we should go back.”
“Bransoon told us to head east. He’s first mate,” a sailor grumbled, a small red-skinned man with yellow eyes.
“But we’ve been walking all day, and still have no sign of them,” Zell’a Cree said. “Don’t you think it likely that we passed them already?”
“Maybe,” the sailor said, scratching his ear with a long knife. “But what if you’re wrong? What if they’re a kilometer down the road, or five kilometers? The wind and current are strong. Maybe they decided to follow the coast by boat. If they’re ahead of us, and we turn back now, we could lose them. But if they’re behind us, most likely they’ll just come down the road right into our arms.”
Zell’a Cree studied the men. It seemed just as likely to him that Gallen and the others would run off into the woods and never be found again. There were hundreds of small hamlets scattered throughout these mountains, with roads going everywhere. It would be easy to lose them on back roads.
The three sailors seemed nervous, and they kept looking east, as if in a hurry to be off. “I’m not sure that you men want to find Gallen,” Zell’a Cree said. “I think you’re afraid of him.”
One sailor licked his lips. “It’s not healthy to tangle with him, that’s for sure. What can four of us do against him?”
And Zell’a Cree had to admit that tangling with the Lord Protector had proven to be an unhealthy pastime.
“Aye,” the others agreed. “We’re heading east, and when we find the next town, we’ll notify someone in authority that Gallen may be coming. Then I for one will sit and have a long beer, and thank my ancestors to be quit of this mess.”
Zell’a Cree saw his mistake. He couldn’t trust these men to hunt Gallen properly. In all likelihood, the first mate and his men would just as soon never meet Gallen again, either. But there was a reason why Zell’a Cree had been given his own hunting pack to lead. He had to trust his own wits, his own instinct. “I’m going back,” Zell’a Cree said, “to check the road again.”
And he turned back, heading west. It was cool under the trees at night. Even for a Tosken it had been a long day. He felt worn through, but he picked up his pace and began jogging along the road.
At a farmhouse, he suddenly caught the scent. Gallen, Maggie, Orick, and some others had come out of the road here, just minutes ago. And the smell of Im giants was heavy all around. In the dark, he could see warm glowing footprints where someone had stood by the road for a bit—a giant—waiting for the others to come.
But at the roadside, the scent suddenly became very weak. Gallen and the others were not walking, they were riding.
And Zell’a Cree detected the heavy, malodorous fur of a travelbeast. Since the creature had not passed him, it must have gone west toward Battic.
Zell’a Cree redoubled his efforts, running over the hills, pumping his legs with a fury. If Gallen had fallen in with Im giants, and if he had a travelbeast, then any creature afoot would be hard-pressed to catch them.
So he ran as if to outrace the wind; Zell’a Cree stretched his legs, letting them pump in steady rhythm, the sweat pouring down his face. “I am Tosken, I am Tosken,” he repeated over and over as he pounded the dirt roads, racing under trees past farmhouses where dogs rushed out barking and snapping and then finally fell back in defeat when they tired. Zell’a Cree’s mind retreated from thought until there was only the race.
He heaved great, gasping breaths. He’d been made for great strength and great endurance, but he had not been formed to breathe such thin air as this planet offered. Most times, it did not bother him, but running, the constant pumping of legs, wore him down.
In an hour, he reached Battic, and dared not take the tunnel into the city—not if Gallen was with the Im giants. At Battic one road branched south, and the first mate and his men were to have followed that road. A second road went west.
Zell’a Cree scrambled over the hills, until he found the exit heading south, and there he did not find Gallen’s scent. Which meant that Gallen had anticipated an ambush, and he was circling around it.
Zell’a Cree raced through the woods till he reached a hillside above the west road. There the woods had burned away in ages past, and only low brush survived on the stark, windswept hillsides. He could see parts of the road for six kilometers, and there, at the edge of his vision, burned the forms of the racing giants as they sprinted down the road, protecting their wagon.
Suddenly, the wagon stopped. The giants waited for a moment, glancing about anxiously.
A man climbed up in the back of the wagon and stood looking toward Zell’a Cree. He wore a dark robe, and wore a sword at his back. Gallen O’Day.
To most peoples, even the Im giants, Zell’a Cree would be invisible at this time of night, at such a distance. But Zell’a Cree had been running, and he imagined that the heat of his own body must be radiating like a torch. Yet of all those below, only Gallen O’Day could see him.
The tricky little man could see in infrared. Zell’a Cree had had no idea that the Lord Protector possessed such talents.
They stood for a moment, gazing at one another across the distance, and Gallen raised an arm, as if to wave, then suddenly clenched his fist, drawing it downward—one of the secret hand gestures of the Inhuman—a beckoning call. Then the wagon lurched forward, the travel beast rushing over a hill, and was gone.
For one moment, hope flickered in Zell’a Cree. If Gallen knew the hand signal, then he had been infected by the Inhuman. The Word had indeed entered him.
Yet something was wrong. If Gallen was Inhuman now, then why did he run? Why did he not bring the others so that they too could be converted? The only answer seemed to be that Gallen had been strong enough to resist the Word. Had Gallen beckoned him in mockery?
Zell’a Cree licked his lips, angry. Sweat poured down his face, and he gulped for air. He’d been two days without sleep, and he’d just run twenty kilometers. He could go no farther tonight. He let himself collapse into a sitting position.
So Gallen O’Day was not as blind and helpless as other men. He had more resources to draw upon … and he had resisted the Word.
Zell’a Cree considered his own resources. He imagined the roads south, drew a map in his mind. The Inhuman, had given him a great gift—the memories of a hundred lives lived and wasted. Over six thousand years of memories. Twelve of those lives had been spent in cities and villages between Battic and Moree. He recalled childhoods spent playing on obscure tracks, the life of a tinker working between towns, the days of a Thoranian guard who traveled with a tax collector. Zell’a Cree concentrated, recalling each road, each main track.
Gallen might go far west to avoid detection, but he was in a hurry. If he went too far, he’d have to cross the Telgood Mountains, and that would cost him many days. At the most, Gallen could go four hundred kilometers out of his way, but then he’d have to go south, closer to the hosts of the Inhuman.
Sooner or later he’d turn up on the road to Moree. Zell’a Cree had no choice but to race south now, checking for Gallen’s trail, hoping to enlist other servants of the Inhuman in his quest.
Perhaps I’ve been too naive,
Zell’a Cree considered.
I’d hoped to take Gallen alive, but he really isn’t as essential as Maggie and the Tharrin. The practical thing would be to kill him.
Once the decision was made, Zell’a Cree felt an enormous calm.
* * *