David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“What if Gallen and I don’t follow your rules?” Maggie said. “What if we marry, and run away?”

“Think about what you would be giving up, woman: your young beau has won himself a reputation as the finest bodyguard in seven counties. Rumor says that he’s killed as many as forty highwaymen. It’s a grand reputation, a romantic reputation.

“And as if his reputation as a fighter weren’t enough, now folks are saying that angels-the Angel of Death himself, by God-have come down from heaven to help Gallen O’Day drive Satan from the village of Clere.

“Why, with such talk, Gallen could find himself sitting in the seat of the Lord Sheriff of Tihrglas in a year, and in five years he might be Lord Mayor of the whole land.

“But on the bad side, Gallen has also been accused of consorting with devils, and for that he could be hanged.

“Now, I doubt both stories. But, as they say in the south, ‘You could spin the wool from a whole flock of sheep and never come up with such a marvelous yarn.’”

Thomas sat up, leaned closer. “In any case, the wedding must be canceled for now. If things go ill for Gallen, then your good name won’t be besmirched. There’s not a man or woman alive who didn’t fall in love at your age, and they’ll forgive you for your wrongheadedness. On the other hand, if things go well, then Gallen will need to wait to marry you, if only to enhance his political career, and in another year you can marry the man you love, and someday you’ll find yourself living in one of the finest houses in the land! Oh, oh, oh, wouldn’t that be grand?”

Thomas smiled and shook his head. “Och, I think you’ve got a future, darlin’. I can hardly wait to meet this Gallen O’Day.”

* * *

That afternoon in a forest glen high above Clere, Gallen O’Day practiced fighting alone with his knives. He wore some attire he’d earned while fighting off-world to save the Lady Everynne: a robe woven of thread that held small nanotech machines that could change colors to fit with any background, and others that could mask his scent; tall black boots and gloves that had a selenium matrix worked into various parts of the toe, heel, palm, and fingers so that his blows carried more punch. And most importantly, he wore his mantle, a personal intelligence made of small black metallic rings, strung with silver knowledge disks.

As Gallen practiced, the mantle fed him images that he could distinguish from reality only because the mantle fed him no audio: five swordsmen with sabers and small shields swirled around him in a fevered dance. They wore white robes that swished silently as they leapt over the forest floor, kicking up humus, grimacing and sweating with every slash and thrust.

Gallen leapt and ducked, weaving between them, seeking to block or avoid their blows as much as possible, slice them with his own daggers. When he scored a hit, his blade would mark them with blood, so that after hours of practice, the swordsmen now appeared as gory apparitions.

Yet they were extraordinary swordsmen, each man fighting in a different style, using his own tactics. One was a whirling madman whose sword blurred in continuous motion; another stood back and studied Gallen, seeking to strike only at the most opportune moment, then jab with deadly precision. Another used the cutting edge of his shield as much as he did his sword, while the other two seemed to change fighting styles to suit their needs.

Gallen was struggling for air, sweat pouring from his body. Yet his enemies showed no sign of slowing due to fatigue. Gallen had wanted to stop for nearly an hour, but he was trying to build his endurance, so he kept up the gory battle. Time and again, his foes stabbed him, and each time, the mantle sent him a searing phantom pain at the point of impact.

When Gallen’s arms were impossibly heavy from fatigue, his mantle suddenly dispersed the image of the fighters, and Gallen stood panting. “Why did you stop?” he whispered.

“You have an incoming message from the Lady Everynne,” the mantle whispered. “Are you ready to receive it?”

Finally she sends word , Gallen thought, after two weeks . “Yes,” he answered, and Gallen sat down in the shade on a rock encrusted with yellow lichens. He closed his eyes, stilled his breathing, waited for Everynne’s image to appear.

Instead, the sky darkened, as if it were covered with a curtain, and he heard the rumbling of thunder in the distance. His heart pounded in terror, and he found himself in a strange city on a cobbled street, leaning against a stone wall in an alley.

What’s this? he wondered, willing his head to turn and look about. But the view did not change. Instead, he only saw the view as if he were staring ahead, and Gallen realized that this vision of another world must be a part of Everynne’s message.

He looked about, watching the narrow streets to his right, the smooth stone buildings with enormous doors and huge windows set high off the ground. He was in a business district of a large city, and all the shops were closed for the night. The black cobblestones gleamed wetly. Through the thick storm clouds, he could make out the muted light of three separate moons, and dim lights shone from a few windows down the street. But the alley behind him was dark and sheltering. He looked farther down the street to his left, hoping for more darkness, but there was a tavern there with a lantern burning from a hook outside its doors. He couldn’t run that way. The light would show him up.

Not again, not again! he thought, and his lips emitted a high whimper. Yet Gallen knew it was not his own thoughts or words, but the words of someone else. The fingers that clutched the edge of the stone wall were slender, on pale feminine hands, and Gallen felt the unfamiliar weight of a woman’s breasts on his body, and wondered at it.

“I am feeding you the memories of a dead woman. This is Everynne’s message to you,” his mantle whispered.

Off in the near hills, light flashed in the clouds, then thunder snarled and echoed, washing away all sound. He waited breathlessly, listening for sounds beneath that booming echo. Down the stone street, around a corner, he heard booted feet thudding against stone, saw three men rush into the square. Their sabers were drawn, and they silently moved into the shadows, scanning ahead.

Gallen-or the woman whose memories Gallen was reliving-moved farther back into the alley, suddenly looking about for safety. There were no windows, and the lip of the roof was ten feet above her head. Her only hope lay behind a heavy oak door.

She went to it, tested it. The door was securely locked from the inside. Its brass handle was too heavy for her to break. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder boomed. She rattled the door as loudly as she could under the cover of that noise, not knowing even what type of business this was, hoping desperately that the shopkeeper slept at the back of the shop, that he would hear her and come to her rescue.

She thought she heard the heavy thump of a foot on wood floors behind the door. “Is someone in there…?” she whispered fiercely.

No answer.

She couldn’t wait again. “Help me!” she whimpered, hoping that the person behind the door was human, that he would taste the pheromones of her Tharrin body and be forced to respond to her plea. “Please, open the door,” she begged. “The Inhuman is coming!”

She rattled the door again, this time without the covering echo of thunder. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she wiped it away just as a thin drizzle began falling. From behind the door, a woman’s voice whispered. “Go away! I have children in here to care for. Don’t bring trouble down on this house!”