David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“Well,” Orick said, “you’ve pulled us out for the day, but what about tonight?” He only hoped that Gallen had some kind of plan.

“That is a tough one,” Gallen admitted.

“Farra Kuur?” Ceravanne asked, tossing Orick an apple core.

“Yes,” Gallen said, “that is what I was hoping.”

“It’s a long stretch of road before us,” Ceravanne considered. “We’ll be hard-pressed to make it.”

“Farra what?” Maggie asked.

“Farra Kuur,” Gallen said. “A few kilometers south of here, the canyons narrow again, and down the road fifty or sixty kilometers, there was a fortress called Farra Kuur, virtually impenetrable. If we can make it there, and if the bridge is down after all these years, we should be able to hold the Derrits off for another night.”

“If the bridge is down?” Orick said.

“Drawbridges,” Gallen said. “Farra Kuur is burrowed into the spur of a mountain between two very steep chasms. Drawbridges were carved from great sheets of stone to span the gap, and the Makers created giant gears to raise and lower them.”

“Certainly the bridges aren’t in working order,” Ceravanne said.

“They were three hundred years ago,” Gallen said hopefully. “And the gears and chains were all well oiled back then. The Makers build for permanence. But even if the bridges aren’t working now, so long as the bridges are down, we should make it into Farra Kuur. And once we’re there … well, we’ll see what I can do.”

Orick didn’t want to talk about the battle that would inevitably come tonight even if they made it to Farra Kuur, so he said, “Making it to this fortress of yours sounds like a fine idea, but it won’t do us much good if we starve. You wouldn’t happen to know where we might find some food around here?”

“Keep watch for mushrooms, berries, nuts,” Gallen told him, “pick anything you find. We’ll be running through the forest all day, and if we’re lucky, maybe a young deer will impale itself on my sword,” he joked.

“Are you sure that’s wise, eating these strange berries?” Orick asked. He’d seen some small red berries the day before, but he’d been afraid to harvest any, not knowing if they were poisonous. And he didn’t even want to chance the mushrooms he’d seen, for none were of varieties familiar to him.

“All mushrooms, berries, and fruits that you will find here on Tremonthin are edible-” Ceravanne said, “but one. The deathfruit grows on a bush low to the ground, and is dark purple, darker than a plum. It is to be eaten only by those who are sick or horribly injured, those who seek death.”

Orick considered this good news, and they took off, climbing up the narrow gorge till they hit the road once again, and for most of the day, Orick foraged as he ran, eating a snail here, swallowing a few acorns there, nibbling a mushroom.

That day they ran among rounded hills beside where the river flowed, and once they stopped by the riverbank where the soil had a blue tinge so that Ceravanne could harvest some of the Healing Earth. They took off again, but shortly after that they lost the road altogether, for lush grasses and woods now covered the ancient road as if it had never been.

Still, Gallen kept a straight course, and on some high hills they would find themselves climbing over the remnants of a stone road that was worn and cracked, until well before noon they came to an ancient fortress that lay nearly all in ruins. One of its walls stood intact, rose to an incredible height of perhaps two hundred feet.

“Druin’s Tower,” Gallen called it, and he stood on the hill and studied the landmark wistfully, as did Ceravanne.

“Who was Druin?” Maggie asked.

Ceravanne answered. “Druin was a kindly scholar who united many people. He built this tower to study the stars, and he delved in forbidden technologies, hoping to carry the peoples of this land away with him to other worlds. But then he became old, and bitter, and turned away from peace, manufacturing weapons of war.”

“I did not manufacture weapons,” Gallen growled, gazing hard at Ceravanne, and it was as if another person spoke from his mouth. The memories the Inhuman had given Gallen were so strong, that for one moment, Druin spoke. “The Fengari workers turned against me, making cannons without my knowledge.”

Ceravanne studied Gallen a moment. “The Immortals studied your memories most carefully, Druin. You were not guiltless in this affair.”

“I was guiltless!” Gallen spat, and then he seemed to struggle for control and said heavily, in his own voice, “But that was long ago.”

“The memories of the dead can be easily edited,” Ceravanne said softly. “Druin’s memories are in the archives at the City of Life. Someday you may see for yourself and learn the truth of it. Druin was a great man, a man of peace for most of his days, but his goodness died before he did.”

“And if you read those memories and find that you have wronged him?” Gallen asked.

“We can review the records, and if he deserves a new life, then he will be granted one. But you must understand, Gallen, that he violated our strictest laws. Certain technologies are forbidden on this world, yet Druin sought them out. He may have been a well-meaning criminal, but he was a criminal nonetheless.”

Gallen turned away from her, as if to lay the matter aside. The icy-gray river they’d been following flowed down below them through a green valley, where it joined an even broader muddy flow that came in from the north. For a moment, they sat and rested. There were no roads, no signs of homes or settlements. All of that was long gone. Gallen spotted some distant wingmen circling closer toward them, so they headed out for the shelter of the trees.

Orick could smell the garlicky scent of Derrits throughout most of the morning along the road, so he knew that they had gone ahead during the night. But an hour before noon they were climbing back up a long hill when the group passed an old mining tunnel carved into the stone cliff face alongside the road. There the odor of Derrits became so strong that even Maggie and Ceravanne could smell it.

The suns were shining bright and full, hidden only by the thinnest gauze of high clouds. Everyone crept quietly past the mine, and when they were well past, Gallen stopped and looked back toward it longingly.

“Give me the glow globe,” Gallen said to Ceravanne.

“You aren’t going in there?” Maggie hissed, grabbing Gallen’s arm.

Gallen’s face was pale, wooden. “They’ve got too much of a lead on us,” he said. “I don’t want them so close.”

“What kind of plan do you have rolling around in that head of yours?” Maggie asked.

“I was thinking,” Gallen answered, “that it would be interesting to see if they’ve posted a guard. Derrits normally don’t and I’m thinking I could kill two or three before any of them wake.”

“No!” Maggie said. “It’s not worth the risk!”

Gallen licked his lips. “The Derrits are not above eating their own kind. If I kill a couple, it leaves that much more food for the others to eat.”

Ceravanne had fished the glow globe out of her pack, and she handed it to Gallen. “He’s right,” she said. “A well-fed Derrit is not as ferocious as a hungry one.”

“Go ahead on up the road,” Gallen said to Orick. “Derrits don’t like the sun, but if they’re angered, they might come out after us, and there’s no sense being within arm’s length if you don’t have to.”

“I’ll come with you,” Orick whispered.

“No, thank you.” Gallen sighed. “With my cloak covering my scent, they won’t smell me coming, and with my mantle, I can fight in the dark, so I won’t alert them that way. I’d prefer to keep those advantages.”