David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“What other choices do we have?” Ceravanne asked.

“Beyond Marbee, fifty kilometers, lies the Old King’s Road,” Fenorah said. “It is a winding road among the hills, built to connect old fortresses, many of which no longer exist. But there is many a farmstead along it, and a few villages.”

“And some places along the road often flood,” Ceravanne said.

“In the spring, this is true, but the roads should be clear this time of year,” one of Fenorah’s men protested. “But once again, it meets Marbee Road in two hundred and forty kilometers, at High Home. Beyond that, the next best trail would be the ancient highway at the foot of the Telgood Mountains. Only a few wild people live in those mountains-Derrits and the like. The road is mostly unused and has gone to grass. Some would claim that it is no longer safe, but I have hunted along its trails, and a sturdy wagon should make it through.”

“I know that way well,” Ceravanne said. “In younger days it was called the Emerald Way. The caravanserais would come out of Indallian, and at night when you camped in the valleys you would see the lights of their fires burning like winding rivers of stars along the hills.”

“That could not have happened within the past three hundred years,” Fenorah mused, a faraway look in his eyes, “though my grandfather recalled those days-the glory and the wars.”

“Indeed, it was the richness of this land that destroyed it,” Ceravanne said.

“If Derrits along road, road not good,” Tallea said. “Troublesome people.”

“What are Derrits?” Orick asked.

“They … are solitary giants,” Ceravanne said, “built for life on a sterile world. They are very strong, and very cunning.”

“They’re cowards and killers,” Fenorah said, glaring, grasping the hilt of his sword as if he wanted to cut one down.

“Eat other people,” Tallea said. “Build traps.”

“They can eat just about anything-from carrion to raw soil,” Ceravanne said, “and they will eat you, if you’re alone and fall into one of their pits.”

“We can’t use that road,” Maggie said, “not with a quick-running animal.”

“I agree that it is a dangerous choice,” Ceravanne said thoughtfully. “But beyond that old highway, there are no roads south until you cross the Telgoods. They’re a high mountain range, and we couldn’t cross easily.”

“Six hundred kilometers,” Fenorah said, “just to cross the mountains, and that land is so distant, I do not know the roads there.”

“I have been there,” one of Fenorah’s men said. “The roads south are good, better than any we have here, for the Lords of Telgood keep them. But the mountains also veer west, and if you go to Moree, then you will be spending much time in the high passes. The wingmen live there, and it is not safe to travel in parties as small as yours-especially without bows.”

“More importantly,” Ceravanne said, “we would be traveling hundreds of kilometers out of our way. And we need to hurry.”

“So,” Gallen said, “it sounds to me that perhaps our best choice is the Old King’s Road. It gives us a chance to race against the Inhuman, and it sounds safer than the far roads, more civilized.”

“But therein lies another danger,” Ceravanne said. “If we pass through hamlets and villages, undoubtedly we will meet more servants of the Inhuman. Do you suppose that they pose no threat?”

“All roads may lead astray,” Orick said, “and the longer we sit here, the more dangerous they become. I think Gallen is right in his choice.”

Ceravanne looked to Fenorah, as if the giant held the final word. “The choice is yours, dear lady,” he said. “No one should make it for you.”

“Then I will follow Gallen,” Ceravanne whispered. “Still,” she said more loudly, “there is another matter we must consider. And that is the question, who of us shall go? We know that the servants of the Inhuman are rushing ahead of us, we know that they will be prepared. If any choose to come, they will be risking great danger. So, I have spoken with Fenorah, and he has agreed to let any who desire return to Battic.” Her eyes rested on Maggie.

“None of us will return to Battic, I wager,” Maggie said. “None of us are cowards.”

“Yet there is good reason to consider the offer,” Gallen said loudly, and he stood, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “For one among us has already been infected by the Inhuman’s Word, and all who travel are imperiled by it!”

Orick looked around the camp. One of the Im giants leapt to his feet as if ready to attack the traitor, and Ceravanne looked from Gallen to Maggie, her face a mask of fear.

“Who?” Orick cried.

“ I am infected, my friend,” Gallen said, and there was a sadness in his eyes. “Forgive me. The Word burrowed into my skull while we were aboard ship, and the Inhuman has been sending messages to me for the past two nights.”

“And what kind of messages does it send?” Fenorah asked, scratching his thick beard.

“It sends memories of lives spent and wasted. It tells me that the world is unfair, and that the peoples of Babel have been treated shabbily. The Inhuman cries out for justice, and reparation, and equality. But the humans of Northland will hear none of it.” Gallen paused and closed his eyes, looking inward. “The Inhuman teaches me to be ashamed of my own species, and to mistrust them and the Tharrin who lead them.” There was a long moment of silence.

Tallea, who had been leaning weakly against a tree, pulled herself forward, fixed her eyes on Gallen with desperation. Until now, she had always spoken crisply, breaking off her words and her sentences. But now, as if to emphasize their import, she spoke as others on Tremonthin did, in her harsh voice. “You can fight those voices, Gallen,” she said. “I know those who fought and won. At first, when you hear those voices, see their memories, it is like falling into a great darkness, and your own small voice is a tiny light-”

“No,” Gallen growled. “It is like falling into a vast and yawning light, and my voice is the small darkness!”

“Why did you keep this infection hidden from me?” Ceravanne demanded.

“Because I hoped that my mantle could defeat it. Because I believed that it could jam the frequencies that the Inhuman sent its signal on.”

“And your mantle fails you?” Ceravanne asked.

Gallen looked away to the north. “The Inhuman is switching frequencies, sending messages in short bursts. I have … memories flowing into me, like water gushing through a swollen dike. In the past few hours, I have recalled five lifetimes.”

“No, Gallen!” Maggie cried. “It can’t have!”

“But it has,” Gallen said.

“I don’t understand,” Maggie said. “The Word shouldn’t be sophisticated enough to do what you’re saying.”

Gallen shook his head, and there were tears glistening in his eyes. “Apparently we have underestimated the Inhuman once again. The Word is sending signals in coded bursts. My mantle tries to block them, but when it does, the Inhuman then begins sending on a different frequency. My mantle doesn’t have enough power to block both signals.”

Maggie frowned in concentration. “This is worse than anything I feared.” She took his hand and looked up into his face steadily, searching his features. “We can stop this! We can stop it! We could-take you underground.”

“Aw, and what use would it be, my love?” Gallen shook his head. “You can’t just hide me away from it. I’m fighting. My mantle is fighting, but it cannot stave off the attack. I must warn you: you go to battle the Inhuman, but by the time we get to Moree I may be Inhuman.”