Robert Newcomb - The Gates of Dawn

“And I wanted to see the look in your eyes, you privileged royal bastard, at the precise moment you realized you were losing it all.” With that, Scrounge lunged, covering the distance between them in a flash.

Scrounge slashed wickedly at Tristan’s arm. His reflexes still slow, Tristan managed to pull back only at the last second, narrowly avoiding the swirling yellow blade.

If only I had a weapon! Tristan thought. Already breathing heavily, he watched as Scrounge readied himself for his next strike.

But there might be a way, he realized. If only I can last long enough to lure him into the right position. But if it fails, there will be no second chance.

Again and again Scrounge slashed at Tristan, the prince barely able to avoid the oncoming blade. Each time it came it seemed to reach a bit farther, the already-tiring prince reacting a fraction slower. At last the point of Scrounge’s blade actually tore its way through the front of Tristan’s fur jacket, narrowly missing his skin. The prince’s last reserves of strength were ebbing away with each passing second; he knew he would not be able to take much more of this.

Lunging forward again, Scrounge raised the dagger high with one hand, simultaneously trying to grab the flapping tatters of Tristan’s coat with the other. Concentrating on the descending blade of the knife, Tristan managed to grasp the assassin’s wrist with both hands, barely keeping the yellow blade of the knife from his throat.

Sensing his chance, Scrounge yanked down on Tristan’s jacket, pulling him off balance. Then the assassin placed one of his long legs directly behind one of the prince’s and pushed him.

Tristan went down hard onto his back, Scrounge on top of him. Still holding the dagger, Scrounge used both hands to push it forward, slowly closing the distance between the point of the yellow blade and Tristan’s throat. Tristan groaned, his entire body trembling as he tried to keep the poisoned blade from reaching his skin.

Now! he realized. I must do it now!

He raised his right knee and dragged his right foot back in the snow, then, concentrating all his strength into his left arm, he took his right hand away from Scrounge’s wrist. The yellow blade of the knife was almost touching his skin.

Any moment now, he would be cut.

Reaching into his boot, he prayed that it would still be there. And then the smooth, pearl handle came into his hand, and he withdrew it.

The brain hook.

Tristan thrust the hooked end of the stiletto into Scrounge’s ear canal. Just as the assassin screamed, the prince pointed the blade down and back, pulling forward on the handle. He felt a moist, tearing sensation through the handle of the knife, and Scrounge’s eyes rolled back into his head.

Dying instantly, the assassin collapsed atop the prince just as Tristan pushed the dagger’s blade away. With a last bit of strength he didn’t know he had, he heaved Scrounge’s dead body off him, into the snow. Scrounge’s bright red blood seemed to be everywhere.

Tristan lay there for some time, gulping in the sweet mountain air, before daring to touch his fingers to his throat. Finally looking at his fingertips, he took another breath, and closed his eyes in relief.

There was no azure blood.

He stood, his chest heaving, his legs trembling beneath him. Finally looking around, he saw the black urn lying in the snow near the edge of the cliff.

He walked to it slowly and broke the wax seal, removing the top. He stood there for another long moment, thinking of all that had happened. Then he cast the fine, gray ashes into the air. As if it had somehow known his wishes, the wind picked them up and hauntingly carried them away.

Tristan collapsed as much as sat in the snow at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the Eutracian landscape he so loved.

Nicholas II, of the House of Galland, his heart called out softly. You will not be forgotten.

He cast his dark eyes north in the direction of the destroyed Gates of Dawn, and his mind turned to the many problems still lingering, wondering how they would ever be overcome.

And then the same never-ending fear that had resonated through his mind ever since he had regained consciousness in the Redoubt came to him.

What will become of us now?

Standing slowly, he began the walk to collect his weapons.

The tall, lean wizard floated quietly above the shattered ruins of the Gates of Dawn. Through his use of the craft, a woman hovered silently by his side. The man’s long, white hair moved casually in the swirling wind, as did the hem of his odd, two-colored robe.

Closing his eyes, he searched the rubble for the presence of other endowed blood. Sensing none, he opened his eyes and explored the scene.

Gigantic blocks of black-and-azure marble lay strewn everywhere, as if tossed there casually by giants. But nothing he saw here brought joy to his heart, because for him this was a scene of failure, rather than triumph.

Looking further, he saw both the black, broken shells of the dead carrion scarabs and the larger, partially decomposed bodies of the consuls. The remnants of their tattered, dark blue robes flapped quietly in the wind.

“Nicholas has failed,” the woman said softly. “At the hand of the Chosen Ones and their wizards.”

“But I shall not,” the man answered. “Part of Nicholas’ vision can still be completed. In fact, some of it goes forward as we speak. But to succeed completely, I must have the scrolls. And then the other.”

“The other?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “The one of endowed blood that even the Chosen Ones and the wizard of Shadowood know nothing of. Only I and Wigg understand this one’s ultimate potential. But first we must have the scrolls.” He paused for a moment, watching the smoke as it continued to rise, vanishing into the nothingness of the sky. “In the end, both the lead wizard and the cripple in the chair escaped the master’s grasp, but they will not elude mine,” he added softly.

“And where are these scrolls?” she asked.

“Entombed within one of the legs of the Gates,” he answered, his eyes still scanning the scene intently. “Yet another of the master’s reasons for ordering the scarabs to surround this place. He told me that he would mark the section with an enchantment, forestalled to enact only should the Confluence fail, or he somehow perish.” Unsatisfied with what he saw here, he turned to her. “We must search further,” he ordered.

Finally, he saw it. Incredibly, a segment of one of the Gates still stood upright, reaching twenty meters into the air, and its azure glow was unmistakable. He headed for it as if it were some kind of beacon. But as they approached, his worst possible fears were realized.

The secret door in the side wall of the massive block had already been breached.

Pointing one of his hands at the partially open entryway, he widened the gap and maneuvered himself and the woman inside. As he reached up to touch the radiance stones his master had embedded in the ceiling, the room quickly became awash in a combination of sage and azure light. Lowering himself and his companion to the floor, he quickly took in the scene.

A huge marble table, hewn from the floor of living rock, stood in the center of the room. Something lay upon it. He immediately ran to it, hoping against hope that he would find what he had been promised, should the worst have befallen them. But to his horror, only one of the two scrolls was lying there.

“How can this be!” he railed, fists in the air. His chest heaving, he again glanced frantically about the room. But there was absolutely nothing else to see.