Robert Newcomb: The Gates of Dawn

But whenever Tristan thought of Celeste, as he so often did, he felt strangely conflicted. He was very drawn to her. Everyone living there knew it, including Wigg. But even though he sensed she cared for him, she also showed reticence in becoming closer. Further complicating things was the fact that she was the only daughter of his lifelong mentor and friend. In truth, Wigg knew her little better than Tristan did. Sometimes the prince felt he should try to shelve his feelings in order to allow the father and daughter to first come to grips with their new, blossoming relationship, and only then try to enter her heart more deeply. If indeed he ever did.

Wrenching his thoughts away from Celeste, he turned around in his saddle to check on the object he was bringing into the woods. It was his sole reason for coming up here today alone. For the first time in what seemed forever, there was no bodyguard of Minion warriors or clutch of helpful but quarrelsome gnomes to trample on his sense of peace. For what he intended to do was strictly a private affair.

He was going to scatter to the four winds the ashes of his only child, Nicholas, at the grave site of his family.

Finally approaching the little glade, he slowed his horse, then jumped down and tied Pilgrim to a nearby tree. The stallion affectionately rubbed his long face against Tristan’s shoulder as the prince untied the flap of the saddlebag to carefully remove a small urn sealed with wax.

Tristan stood at the edge of the clearing for some time, the memories of the people buried there swirling in his heart and mind. So too came back to him the thoughts of that amazing night he had saved Celeste from throwing herself off the cliff, when he was convinced that he would never see her again. He shook his head slowly.

Life has an interesting way of surprising one sometimes, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the center of the glade, where he had dug the graves containing his family and the Directorate of Wizards.

He went to his knees in the snow and gently placed the vase down next to him. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head, the only sounds the swirling of the wind through the surrounding pines and the occasional songs of the birds.

Had he been completely well, he might have heard the steps that came so quietly through the snow behind him. Or had his eyes been open, he might have seen the lengthening shadow as it slid silently across the ground.

But he did not.

He had barely a moment to register the pain of the blow to his head. And then everything went black.

The smell of smoke awakened him. Pine needles again, this time mixed with maple. Sooty and acrid, it was coming from a fire that burned and snapped too close to his head.

As he opened his eyes, his vision swam sickeningly. Slowly, it came into better focus, revealing white clouds sailing against the background of a bright blue sky. He was lying on his back. As he tried to sit up, his head hammered like an anvil. And then a sudden, sickening realization went through him.

His weapons had been taken.

“Welcome back, Chosen One,” came a voice from behind him. “So glad to see you are finally up and about.”

Tristan froze. Even without looking, he knew who spoke. But his mind refused to believe what his ears were telling him. Slowly he stood, and turned around.

The angular, almost emaciated face; decaying teeth; and dirty, wispy hair were just as Tristan remembered them. A campfire burned in the snow between them, a small stack of freshly cut wood sitting next to it. Scrounge sat rather imperiously on the gathered logs, keeping himself out of the snow. A Eutracian broadsword lay at his right hip, a dagger sheathed in a golden scabbard at his left. Tristan immediately recognized the knife as Wigg’s centuries-old ceremonial dagger, the same one Ragnar had used to place the poison into the helpless wizard’s eyes.

Then the prince’s gaze went to Scrounge’s right forearm. The sleeve of his fur coat was rolled back, revealing the miniature crossbow still strapped there, containing its five arrows. The string cocked tightly, it was clearly ready to fire. Scrounge raised it slightly, more perfectly aligning it with the prince’s heart. Tristan looked closely, and his nerves jangled in his skin.

The tip of each of the arrows was still stained in yellow.

Trying to calm himself, he looked beyond the assassin for a moment. Some distance away, Scrounge’s horse was tied to a tree. Hung on the pommel of the saddle were Tristan’s dreggan and his quiver full of dirks. To reach them, Tristan realized he would have to go straight through Scrounge, something that now seemed impossible. Lying on the ground behind the assassin’s horse was a crude litter.

Tristan looked back into the face he so hated, a flood of anger coursing through his blood. “You’re supposed to be dead, you bastard!” he snarled. His head was still swimming from the blow, his footing unsteady. He tried desperately to concentrate. “Which of my Minions failed me, allowing the likes of you to live? Apparently, I am going to have to finish the job myself.”

Scrounge smiled. “A great many of your warriors failed, I’m afraid. When I saw you at the bottom of the canyon, I immediately knew it could be a trap. But when I saw the nets descending, I realized that my hatchlings were surely about to be destroyed. Very cleverly done, I might add. When you suddenly soared up, I turned my bird around and flew back the opposite way, down the length of the canyon. As I did, I stopped every hundred meters or so, urging the remaining hatchlings ever forward, giving them the impression I was still actively commanding them. They were all going to die anyway. So I used them to save myself. They’re actually quite stupid, you know. And in truth, I much prefer a horse.” A sick laugh came from him before he continued.

“Anyway, after covering what I thought to be a sufficient distance behind my troops, I headed up and out. Two of your warriors did see me, attacking me from above.” Pausing, he pursed his lips sarcastically. “But things ended badly for them.” He glanced down to his crossbow, and his meaning was not lost on the prince.

“The vast majority of your flying monkeys and scrubby-looking gnomes were so enthralled with what they had captured in their nets, they forgot to look for what they might not have captured. Even your wizards did not see me,” he went on.

“Not particularly honorable of you,” Tristan said quietly, “running away like that. But then again, you’re not the honorable type, are you?”

“Honor?” Scrounge laughed. “And perhaps the good and honorable Prince Tristan of the House of Galland will kindly tell me what one can do with honor! Can you eat it, good prince? No! Can you spend it? No! Will it buy you either the comfort of a jug of wine, or a hot meal? Or purchase for you the warmth of a willing young whore, to stave off the coldness of a night of the Season of Crystal? Decidedly not! Honor, indeed!”

Scrounge spat into the fire; the saliva hissed its way down, dying in the flames. Raising one foot on the pile of logs, he lowered the forearm with the crossbow to his knee. It still pointed directly at Tristan’s chest.

“But what would you know of such things, eh?” he continued. “Has the good prince ever been alone and crying, orphaned on the streets of Tammerland? Or slept in a cold alleyway, wondering if he will eat tomorrow? Or fearing what he must do to ensure that he can? Honor, he tells me! I was never in it for the honor, you fool—only for whatever Ragnar and Nicholas would give me! Crumbs from their table, to be sure, but oh, what crumbs they were! I am an assassin, the best there is, and my services go to the highest bidder. The only problem with that is that you have now managed to kill both my employers! Now that Nicholas and Ragnar are gone, and the Gates destroyed, you are the only remaining solution to my problems.” He smiled strangely. “Do you not see that, my prince?”