David Farland - Beyond the Gate

Orick smelled of damp fur and the woods, with the metallic tang of blood. The bedroom door was open, and embers smoldered in the fire in the living room, enough so that Gallen could see dimly.

“What is it?” Gallen cried, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head. He’d been up half the night, and it was not yet dawn.

“There’s an army of sheriffs and their deputies coming!” Orick panted. “Some northern bishop served a warrant. And they’ve brought the Lord Inquisitor. Some ruffians swear you prayed to the devil,” he panted, “that killed Father Heany. They’re coming, and they’re not far behind me!”

Blood matted the fur of Orick’s right shoulder. “Are you all right?” Gallen asked.

“I’ll not die from this scratch. Run, man!” Gallen leapt from bed, hair prickling on the back of his neck. He pulled on his tunic and britches.

A heavy pounding came at the door, and someone shouted, “Gallen 0’Day, rouse yourself-in the name of the law!”

“By God, they’re here!” Orick cried. “Run!”

Gallen sighed, knowing it was too late to run. “Don’t excite yourself, Orick. You never run from the law. If those sheriffs have got their bows strung, they could shoot me in the back, and they’d be in the right.”

“Come out, now!” a sheriff roared. “Or we’ll break the door in!”

“Coming!” Gallen called. He felt awake now, awake enough to know he was in mortal danger, sleepy enough to be unsure what to do.

If I was the fastest talker in the world, he wondered, what would I say to these sheriffs right now? He closed his eyes a moment, wondering.

Gallen’s mother had gotten out of bed. She went to the fireplace in her nightcap and robe. She called in a frightened voice, “Gallen? What is it?”

“Open the door, Mother,” Gallen said. “Tell them I’m dressing.” He pulled on his soft leather boots.

“Coming,” Gallen’s mother shouted. The front door crashed open, and a scar-faced sheriff rushed in, shoved Gallen’s mother to the floor. She cried out, and the sheriff stood over her, backed by two rough-looking men with drawn swords. Behind them, in the shadows, stood a tall man with a narrow face, wearing the crimson robes with the white cross of the Lord Inquisitor. Gallen’s mother put her hand up to protect her face, lest the sheriff beat her.

“Come out here!” Scarface ordered.

Gallen slowly strapped his knives over the outside of his tunic, and the sheriff simply raised one dark eyebrow and watched him, licked his lips, and studied Orick.

“You have a warrant?” Gallen asked.

“I do.” Scarface answered just a bit too slowly. “You’re to be taken north to Battlefield, where you’ll be tried for witchcraft.” Gallen looked into the man’s dark eyes, and saw that he was frightened. “If you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said, “let me see it.” The sheriff hesitated. “You’ll have time enough to study it on the road north.”

“I’ll study it now,” Gallen said. “And we’ll have a talk with the local sheriffs. You had better show just cause for breaking down my mother’s door, and you’ve no right to hit an old woman in any case,” Gallen said. “I’m going to make you pay dear for that!” Gallen tried to keep the deadly tone from his voice. He’d never killed a sheriff, but just at this moment, anger blossomed in him, and he was fighting the urge. Scarface studied Gallen. “Are you threatening me?”

Gallen looked up at the Inquisitor standing behind Scarface. The churchman had glittering, calculating blue eyes. He was waiting for Gallen to give him the slightest pretext for an arrest. “I wouldn’t think of threatening you,” Gallen said calmly. “But I’ll swear out a complaint on you for battering my mother-now, show me your warrant.”

‘‘Just come peaceful,” Scarface said, “and we’ll take it easy on you.” He stood straighter, widened his stance, and put one hand on his own short sword.

“You know who I am,” Gallen said softly. “I’m a lawman, just like you-a licensed guard with my oath-bond posted at Baille Sean. You’re fifty miles out of your jurisdiction. Now, the law says you can arrest me if you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said softly. “But if you don’t have it, I can defend myself from wrongful arrest, if need be .”

Scarface signaled to a man behind him, and the fellow produced a wooden scroll case, painted in thick lacquer.

“Here it is.” The Inquisitor spoke from behind Scarface, taking the tube in his own hand. Gallen was surprised at the softness of his voice. He sounded like some gentle monastic brother who tended lambs, not the fearsome torturer he was reputed to be.

“There should be no need for all of this posing, for hiding behind legal technicalities,” the Inquisitor told Gallen softly. “Sir, you have grievous charges leveled against you. A priest has died, and this is a matter of deep concern to the clergy. I should think that you would welcome the opportunity to clear your name. After all, if it were commonly believed that you were guilty of witchcraft, your family’s reputation would be stained.…” He looked meaningfully to Gallen’s mother. Gallen was not fooled by such soft words. This man was hinting at retribution against Gallen’s whole family.

“If there are charges against me,” Gallen said, “then they’re leveled by false witnesses, and I’ll fight those charges as best I can. I’ll have a look at your warrant.” Gallen stepped forward and took it from the torturer’s hand, carried the paper over to the wan firelight. His mother got up and looked over his shoulder with Orick. The Inquisitor and his men shifted uneasily.

“This paper isn’t legal,” Gallen realized. “You can’t take me north without the signature from the Lord Sheriff at Baille Sean.”

Scarface said forcefully, “We were on our way to Baille Sean for the signature when we met that bear friend of yours! He came to warn you. We couldn’t just let you go running off into the night!”

Gallen shrugged, handed the paper to Scarface. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Baille Sean and talk to Lord Sheriff Carnaghan. And say hello to him for me. He’s a good friend. I once saved his son from some highwaymen.”

Scarface shook his head angrily, growling from the back of his throat. “Damned southerners! How am I supposed to execute a warrant against you?”

“Legally-” Gallen said, “or not at all.” He rested his hands on his knives. If the man was going to attack, now would be the time.

Scarface studied Gallen, eyeing the knives that he wore. Gallen almost hoped that he’d make his move. But the Lord Inquisitor backed up a step, told the men, “Surround the house. I’ll go to Baille Sean and speak with Lord Sheriff Carnaghan personally.”

He backed out slowly, and Scarface closed the ruined door. Gallen let them go. Gallen’s mother shoved the door tight, bolted it. “That sheriff is a blackguard, sure,” she said. “The nerve, breaking into an old woman’s house and knocking her off her feet!” She looked at Gallen disapprovingly, as if he should have come to her rescue.

Orick hurried to Gallen’s side. “Gallen, you’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?”

Gallen looked from his mother to Orick. There was little that he could do. A moment later, Thomas Flynn pushed his way through the door, followed by Gallen’s cousin, Father Brian from An Cochan. The sheriffs were so thick around the house-tree that the two men could hardly get through. Thomas Flynn seemed unperturbed by the whole affair, but Father Brian looked about with wide eyes. The young priest had obviously rushed to get out the door at his own house. He had on his black frock, but without the white collar. His face was red from the night air.