David Farland - Beyond the Gate

Maggie stood beside him, picked up the vibro-blade from the dead woman’s hand, pulled out its power pack. The dead woman had a bag at her side, and Maggie pulled it open. Inside were rations, a couple of Black Fog grenades, a microwave bomb, a light globe that flashed blindingly when she squeezed it.

Gallen stuffed the items into his pockets, then pulled some weapons from the green Vanquisher’s munitions belt. Once he’d secreted anything that might prove dangerous, Gallen stood for a moment, then took Maggie’s hand, let out an uneasy breath. “I have to go to Tremonthin soon. A week or two at the longest. I’ll try to finish the job quickly. But Maggie, darling, I think you should stay here.”

“I won’t have you leave me behind,” Maggie said. “You could get hurt or killed or lose your key to the Gate of the World, and I’d never see you again.” She didn’t speak her greatest fear: that the dronon were hunting them, and without Gallen, Maggie would have no protection from the creatures.

“But if you come away with me, you’ll be exposing yourself to more danger,” Gallen said. “I’d rather have you safe, here, planning our wedding.”

Maggie folded her arms, looked down at the ground, thinking. Gallen wanted her to stay. It might well be that he had her best interests at heart, but she couldn’t bear the thought of remaining here in Clere. What if he lost his key to the Gate of the World and never came back? She could never be happy on a backward planet like Tihrglas, not when there were worlds with starships and immortals out there. And she couldn’t be happy without Gallen near.

And suddenly she knew why Gallen was so distant. “You’re not ready to leave Clere yet, are you?”

“Sure, I’m not happy to be going. I came home imagining how I’d snatch some rest, thinking about going fishing one last time. But we’ve been home two weeks, and I’ve thought of nothing but the dronon-how I’ll handle them when next we meet.

“One day of rest-that’s all I want,” Gallen said. “I’ll go fishing tomorrow, and we can pretend that nothing horrible ever happened to us. Come with me, okay? We can make a picnic.”

Maggie squinted, wondering what Thomas would say about her leaving a hundred guests unfed at the inn. But it was her inn, and she could walk away from it if she wanted to.

“I’m coming with you, Gallen,” Maggie said, taking both of his hands in hers, looking into his face. “I won’t feel safer without you, and I certainly couldn’t be happy without you. I’ll go anywhere you want to go-fishing tomorrow, if you want-Tremonthin the day after. I’ll be your wife. You know that I’d jump into pits of hell with you on a moment’s notice.”

“Oh, that’s what I’m worried about,” Gallen said solemnly. Now that that was settled, he looked around, talking as he thought. “I’ll need to hire someone to watch my mother while I’m gone. I’ll tell her I’ve got work on a merchant ship sailing to Greenland. With the wild rumors flying around about me, she’ll think I’m just leaving till the furor dies. And we’ll have to send word to Orick, discover if he wants to come with us.”

Maggie found herself trembling with anticipation at the thought of getting back on the road. “He’ll come.” There were a million things to take care of, Maggie knew. They’d have to leave town-escape Thomas-without drawing undue attention. Gallen kissed her one last time for the night. Then he took her hand and they slipped out of the stable.

* * *

Night came with darkening clouds at Mack’s Landing, and Orick sat with Grits and the sheriffs on the strand under the shade of the oaks, warming by the campfire.

He’d finished his third bowl of wine and sixth bowl of stew, and he felt more than a bit dizzy. When he’d first come into camp, Orick had been tense as a reed. But the warm wine had performed miracles. He felt drowsy, ready to sleep.

It was late, and the sheriffs had gone to telling unlikely stories. One boy told of the village of Droichead Bo far in the north, where a young witch named Cara Bullinger learned the banshee’s song and sang it upon a hill, slaying every person, horse, cat, and cockroach within the sound of her voice. He said that after they took care of Gallen O’Day, they should go after this Bullinger woman. Another man agreed, saying that he too had heard of strange deaths up there-livestock and whatnot-and most likely it was this woman causing trouble.

While some younger sheriffs looked about the campfire with frightened, pasty faces, Orick just guffawed and said, “Why, where’d you ever hear such a concoction?”

“I have a cousin who swears it’s true,” the boy sheriff said. “He heard her singing the banshee’s song.”

“He can’t have heard any such thing! If he had, he’d be dead, too!” Orick grumbled, not wanting to listen to such foolishness. He’d given them a real tale about how Gallen had gotten involved with otherworldly beings. Not some lie.

Across the fire, the scar-faced sheriff, who’d given his name as Sully, poured another bottle of wine into a bowl for Orick, and handed it to him. “Ah, don’t get angry at the lad, Orick. He’s just trying to keep the men entertained. No harm in that.”

“But it’s a flawed tale-” Orick began to say, and Sheriff Sully looked up at him with glistening, malevolent eyes, and suddenly Orick remembered that he’d been going under the name Boaz, and he hadn’t wanted these lawmen to know his real name, for they planned to kill Gallen O’Day.

Sheriff Sully grabbed for his sword, growling, “I’ll have a few words with you. I’d like to discover your part in this whole affair!”

Orick spun away from the campfire, but a young man had come up behind him, sword drawn. Orick was trapped between the two. Grits grumbled into his ear, “You told him your real name! Is there anything else you want to tell them?”

More sheriffs leapt up and pulled their swords, surrounding them.

Orick couldn’t think straight, his head was spinning so badly. He worried about blades slicing his pelt, but remembered Lady Everynne’s gift. The nanodocs flowing through his veins were marvelous at healing wounds.

Orick spun and lunged, pushing past one young sheriff. The sheriff’s sword whipped through the air, slicing deeply into Orick’s shoulder.

Orick roared at the pain, but continued running on three legs past a tree where the horses were tethered to a line. He roared again, spooking the horses so that their lines snapped as they reared and kicked. A couple of hounds rushed out from under a tree, yelping and snapping. Orick slashed one with his paw, knocking it into the ground, and the other yelped and leapt back, then Orick was running beside the lake under heavy cloud cover.

Orick could run faster than any human over short distances, so he sped out over the mud, turned toward the mountains and the highway beyond, and kept running until he was out of bowshot. Then he turned and stood. He was bleeding profusely, and he looked back toward the sheriffs. Their camp was in an uproar. Men were rushing for their horses, breaking camp. Grits stood beside the campfire on all fours, her back arched, growling as sheriffs ringed her about with swords.

Orick whined, then sniffed the air ahead toward a row of dark hills. He was nine miles from An Cochan, twelve miles from Clere. Normally it would be a casual day-long ride for the sheriffs, but they could make it in hours under a forced march.

He licked at his wound, and pain lanced through him. He got on all fours, then hobbled along as fast as he could. He’d have to reach Gallen soon.

* * *

Orick shouted, “Man, get your legs into your pants-or it’s your life!” Orick shoved his snout into Gallen’s ribs, and Gallen roused himself enough to sit up in bed.