David Farland - Beyond the Gate

But now it was fall, cool but not unpleasantly so, though the three fine inns in town were fairly deserted, as were the streets. In the summer, the streets would have been filled with merchants out to sell their wares, but now there were only a few shops open, their doors thrown wide in invitation to potential customers.

Zell’a Cree asked around until he found a bootmaker who was willing to throw together something cheap and durable.

In the bootmaker’s shop, Zell’a Cree put his foot on the thick leather for the soles and let the old man scratch his cutting marks, then they chose something more supple for the uppers. In moments the old man had cut the leather and begun sewing, when Zell’a Cree heard the rumble of hooves and the clattering of wheels.

He glanced out the window of the shop toward the wide avenue, and his heart skipped a beat.

Sure enough, Gallen’s wagon rolled into town, the huge travel beast frothing at the mouth from its exertions, one lone giant in the lead, the chest and armpits of his tunic stained with sweat.

The suns were setting, and the Tharrin’s company cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The white stone buildings gleamed intensely in the sunlight, and Zell’a Cree ducked behind the doorpost and listened.

“The travelbeast needs grain and rest,” the giant told the others, walking up to set the wagon’s brakes. “He’s nearly done in for the night, and won’t be able to carry you much farther along these mountain roads. We might as well eat here-the inns are highly renowned.”

“Thank you,” the Tharrin said, as the giant took her gently by the waist and set her down from the wagon. “I don’t know how we can repay your generosity.”

“Your safety is repayment enough,” the giant said, and Zell’a Cree nearly laughed. The others were climbing down from the wagon now, and Gallen O’Day stretched sinuously, reaching for the sky.

Zell’a Cree put his back to the doorpost, so that none in the company would have even the slimmest chance of spotting his silhouette in the doorway. Darkness, a lonely town, and Gallen unaware. And in my pouch, two copies of the Word. Zell’a Cree could not quite believe his good fortune.

And yet, and yet he was worried. He felt alone with his troubles. New converts often rejoiced at the sense of fullness that communion with the Inhuman gave them, the sense of boundless knowledge, the feeling of buoyancy, as if they were children who had been lifted up and were looking at the world from the height of tall shoulders. But in time, that sensation wore thin. After years of not hearing from the Inhuman, one sometimes felt lost, cast adrift. It was said that some great leaders were in constant communion-the Harvester, certainly, and the commanders of the armies and navies to a lesser extent. But not Zell’a Cree. Not once over the long years since his conversion had he heard the sweet voice of the Inhuman. And at this moment, he wished that he could be certain of the correct course-to let these people proceed to Moree, where the Inhuman could arrange a more appropriate reception, or to kill Gallen now and seek to convert the others.

He stood for several long minutes, pondering his choices, then peeked out again. The company had gone inside, with the exception of the giant, who was busy unharnessing the travel beast.

Zell’a Cree crept back to the bootmaker’s bench. “Just sew up the right boot for now,” he said softly. “I’m in a hurry.” The bootmaker glanced up at him in surprise and grunted, “Don’t think I can have it done by dark, and I close soon.”

“In the morning, then,” Zell’a Cree said. He checked out the door. The giant was leading the travelbeast away to the stables down behind the inn. The suns were falling rapidly, and in the cool evening air, some crickets had begun chirping. A few people scurried along the streets, heading home. Even here, the Inhuman’s agents were known to hunt at night.

Zell’a Cree pulled up the hood of his cloak, covering his face, and hurried across the shadowed avenue to the wall of the inn. From its shade, he could see the wooden stables in back, down a small hill. The giant had reached the stables, and he opened the broad doors, took the beast inside.

Zell’a Cree knew that he had to get Gallen alone, had to strip Ceravanne of her protectors. The giant himself was a formidable adversary. The Toskens were smaller in stature than the Im giants, and were not so strong, though they could endure greater hardships. And as a Tosken, Zell’a Cree knew no fear.

He ran down to the stable, slipped into the door. His eyes did not need to adjust to the dark. He saw the giant plainly enough, stooping over a feed bin, dumping in a bag of grain. The travelbeast was already stabled, nuzzling the feed.

The Im heard Zell’a Cree’s approach, turned his head partway. “May I help you with your beast, sir?” Zell’a Cree asked, taking the role of stable-hand, hoping that the giant would not recognize him. “Does it need water, or a comb?”

“Aye, it will take a couple of water buckets,” the giant said, not bothering to look back, dumping the whole sack of grain into the bin.

“Good enough, sir,” Zell’a Cree said, only a step behind.

Zell’a Cree grasped the haft of his sword, pulled it free, and plunged the blade deep into the giant’s back, just beneath his rib cage. He’d hoped to hit a kidney, send the giant into deadly shock, but the Im shouted and spun, hitting Zell’a Cree in the head with the bucket.

There was a moment of pain, and horses began neighing in fright, kicking at the doors to their stalls, and Zell’a Cree found himself struggling up from the stable floor to his knees. The giant had taken a step to the middle of the room, and he pulled the sword from his back, stood gazing stupidly at the blade.

Zell’a Cree jumped up, rushed at him, but the giant bellowed loudly and took a step back. Zell’a Cree tried to pull the sword from the giant’s hand, and for one brief moment they struggled together, both of them fighting for the blade.

The short sword twisted from Zell’a Cree’s grip, and the giant made a weak stab. Zell’a Cree leapt backward as the sword slashed at his midriff.

The giant stood, panting as if from long exertion, holding the sword. He sagged to his knees after a minute, dropped the blade, then fell facedown into the straw.

The horses were all neighing frantically now at the smell of blood, and Zell’a Cree knew that the noise would draw attention. He had hoped to commit a nice quiet murder.

Instead, he grabbed the short sword, stabbed the giant in the back of the neck to sever his spinal cord, then rushed to the rear door of the stables and stood panting, trying to get some air.

He wondered whether anyone had heard the giant’s bellowing. He did not know if he should run now or set a trap for Gallen and the others.

Gallen had settled into his seat at the inn and ordered dinner. The place had few patrons, and they were all sitting up in front of a little puppeteer’s theater, where marvelously decorated puppets were used to play a tale about a greedy king who was being robbed by some highwaymen. Gallen could not hear all of the dialogue, but two of the highwaymen were speaking aside to one another, and it sounded as if they were the king’s own wife and daughter, robbing the man in the hopes of curing him of his greed.

Gallen had just asked his mantle to amplify the sounds of the room, hoping to hear the puppeteers, when he heard Fenorah cry out.

He jumped from his seat, seeing the surprised faces of Maggie and the others. He had been trying so hard for the past few days to seem normal that he did not want to cause them alarm. “Trouble!” Gallen said, then he went tearing out a back door, where two cooks stood looking toward the stable.