David Farland - Beyond the Gate

And Maggie looked into the face of Gallen, the Inhuman, and one by one, the others said yes, until at last Tallea said, “For now.”

* * *

Late that night after a brief and belated dinner at the inn at High Home, Ceravanne made arrangements with the innkeeper for Fenorah’s body to be conveyed back to Battic, then Gallen loaded the group into the wagon and led the travel beast downhill, under the blanketing fog.

Though it had good night vision, the. beast could not see in such total darkness, so Gallen led it by hand. At dawn, he left the main road heading west by way of what appeared to be an old hay trail through some fields, but the deserted track held, and for many hours the wagon rolled through the lonely woods, passing only a few shacks that belonged to woodsmen.

And all through the morning, Maggie watched Gallen in horror, studying him for signs of change. They were everywhere-in the stealthy way that he walked, almost unnaturally quiet; in the way he sometimes tilted his head to catch a sound; the new way that he spoke. Twice, when they passed small clear pools, Gallen stopped to wash his hands, and he would sit and inspect them long afterward. He’d always been tidy, but never like this.

Maggie complained about it once under her breath, whispering, “What is he doing?”

And Ceravanne whispered in her ear, “The Faylan people have olfactory nerves on their hands. They wash themselves so. I think it is a habit from another life. He will forget about it, in time.”

Because Gallen and Tallea feared Derrits in these woods, they made poor time, going little faster than a horse could pull, but the travelbeast was able to work all day at this pace. Twice they bogged down in lonely places and had to get off the wagon and push, and once they had to float the wagon across a broad river, but in the early afternoon they began climbing out of the wetlands to an ancient fortress on a small hill.

When they reached the hilltop, Gallen had them turn the wagon on its bottom and he removed a wheel so that it looked as if the wagon had been abandoned. “The scouts will be searching for us tonight,” he said. “We don’t want them to see anything suspicious.” And Maggie saw by this ruse that this new Gallen was craftier than the old.

The fortress was small-a simple watchtower that looked out over the moors and woods, several crumbling outbuildings beside the walls. Gallen let the travelbeast graze for a bit, then took it to an underground root cellar away from the main tower and penned it in for the night.

Maggie climbed the tower at dusk, and stood for a moment watching out, wishing that Gallen would come to be with her, come to put his arms around her. Doves had flown up to the tower’s tiled roof, and were fluttering about the broken window. Maggie could not see the distant mountains, where High Home sat on the slopes, and she found it difficult to believe that any scouts would come so far in a single night to search for them. But Gallen seemed certain.

When Maggie went downstairs, Gallen and the others were milling about the courtyard. Tallea had found the dungeon, and she brought up a huge turd as long as her arm, poked on a stick, and held it out for Gallen to see. “Much Derrit poop,” she said, “in dungeon.”

Goose bumps rose on the back of Maggie’s arms at the mention of Derrits, for even the Im giants had feared them, but Gallen seemed little concerned. “Fine, fine,” he said. “We’ll wet it down so that it looks and smells fresh, and put it in the tower and upper halls. The scouts will not be eager to search this place if they find it marked with Derrit spoor.”

So Gallen set himself the task of carrying the loathsome stuff upstairs while the others went below and ate a cold dinner. Maggie could find no place where the odious, garlicky scent of the Derrits did not permeate. It was terribly dark in the dungeon, the only light coming from the open door leading upstairs, and so before they closed the doors, she rushed outside and picked a great armload of straw to use as bedding.

When Gallen finished his task of moving the Derrit poop, he came below, and sealed them in for the night, barring the door from the inside with a rusty iron pole.

They sat for a long time. The only light in the room came from Gallen’s mask, a shimmering piece of starlight. Maggie did not find it comforting, for Gallen sat away from her, as if they were strangers.

Maggie found herself getting nervous, till Gallen began singing softly, song after song from their home on Tihrglas, until her heart nearly broke at the sweet memory. Everything here was getting out of control. Everything here was not as she’d imagined. And so she dreamed of the clean mountain rivers rushing under the lowering pines, the sky so blue that she could not quite hold it in her memory.

When the others had fallen asleep, Maggie crept to Gallen’s side, held his hand, and looked up into his face.

“Gallen,” she whispered. “I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he said, not turning to look at her.

“I’ve, I’ve been thinking hard on it-and I’m pretty sure that I could have stopped the Inhuman from downloading its memories to you. “

“How?” Gallen asked. “If I’d cut the antenna sooner, yesterday morning perhaps, the Inhuman would not have known how to contact you. It never would have received a signal from the Word.”

“Why didn’t you do that, then?” Gallen said, his voice hard. He didn’t turn to look at her.

“I-wasn’t certain that I could get to the transmitter. I was hoping our mantles would block the Inhuman’s transmissions. I didn’t want to have to lay into you with that knife!”

“You wanted to spare me pain?” Gallen asked.

“Yes!” Maggie said, and she squeezed his hand.

Gallen smiled at her, barely turned in her direction. “Then you are apologizing for having a good heart?”

“I’m apologizing for being wrong,” Maggie said. “For being weak.”

“Apology accepted.” Gallen turned to her then, and Maggie hoped that he would take her in his arms, but instead he held himself aloof, as if he were a stranger. “And your mistake may yet cause the downfall of the Inhuman,” Gallen said. “Because I know its thoughts, its ways, we have a greater hope of defeating it. Now, go to sleep, and I will keep watch.”

He reached out and patted her hand, as if she were a child. Maggie curled up on the straw and tried to sleep, disturbed by a steady drip, drip, drip of water falling into a corner from the sweaty walls.

Until at long last, she fell asleep for a while, then woke to a scratching noise. At first she thought it only a rodent gnawing on some old wood upstairs. But it came steadily, and she looked around. She could see little enough by the light of Gallen’s mask, but soon she realized that while rolling around in her sleep, she had misjudged where the door was. What she had taken to be a far corner of the building was in fact the bolted door directly above them.

Maggie got up warily, wondered what to do. The insistent scratching was from something large. She went to Gallen, and pushed him gently in his sleep, praying that he would not waken with a shout.

To her relief, Gallen merely opened his eyes, took one look at Maggie, and sat listening for a moment.

Suddenly Gallen snarled, letting a low rumble escape his throat. It was a sound distinctly nonhuman, like some savage animal, and the noise frightened her. Then in a harsh voice he shouted, “Ghisna, ghisna-siisum,” and leapt up the stairs and began fumbling with the bolt.

Something shrieked behind the door. There was the sound of scurrying feet and flapping wings … followed by silence. Ceravanne woke up, as did Orick and Tallea. “What’s wrong?” Ceravanne asked.