David Gemmell: The King Beyond the Gate

'There is a fire in my room. Along there on the right,' he said calmly. 'I will take him there.' Smoothly he lifted the old man and carried him to his quarters, laying him on the narrow bed. He removed the man's cloak and boots, and began to rub gently at his calves where the skin was blue and mottled. Turning he threw a blanket to the girl. 'Warm this by the fire,' he said, returning to his work. After a while he checked the man's breathing — it was deep and even.

'He is asleep?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'Will he live?'

'Who can say?' said Tenaka, rising and stretching his back.

'Thank you for helping him.'

'Thank you for not killing me,' he answered.

'What are you doing here?'

'Sitting by my fire and waiting for the storm to pass. Would you like some food?'

They sat together by the blaze, sharing his dried meat and hardcake biscuits and saying little. Tenaka was not an inquisitive man and Renya intuitively knew he had no wish to talk. Yet the silence was far from uncomfortable. She felt calm and at peace for the first time in weeks, and even the threat of the assassins seemed less real, as if the barracks were a haven protected by magic — unseen but infinitely powerful.

Tenaka leaned back in his chair, watching the girl as she in turn gazed into the flames. Her face was striking, oval-shaped with high cheekbones and wide eyes so dark that the pupils merged with the iris. Overall the impression he gained was one of strength, undermined by vulnerability, as if she held a secret fear or was tormented by a hidden weakness. At another time he would have been attracted by her. But when he reached inside himself he could find no emotions, no desire… No life, he realised with surprise.

'We are being hunted,' she said at last.

'I know.'

'How would you know?'

He shrugged and added fuel to the fire. 'You are on a road to nowhere, with no horses or provisions, yet your clothes are expensive and your manner cultured. Therefore you are running away from something or someone, and it follows that they are pursuing you.'

'Does it bother you?' she asked him.

'Why should it?'

'If you are caught with us, you will die too.'

'Then I shall not be caught with you,' he said.

'Shall I tell you why we are hunted?' she enquired.

'No. That is of your life. Our paths have crossed here, but we will both go on to separate destinies. There is no need for us to learn of one another.'

'Why? Do you fear it would make you care?'

He considered the question carefully, noting the anger in her eyes. 'Perhaps. But mainly I fear the weakness that follows caring. I have a task to do and I do not need other problems in my mind. No, that is not true — I do not want other problems in my mind.'

'Is that not selfish?'

'Of course it is. But it aids survival.'

'And is that so important?' she snapped.

'It must be, otherwise you would not be running.'

'It is important to him,' she said, pointing at the man in the bed. 'Not to me.'

'He cannot run from death,' said Tenaka, softly. 'Anyway there are mystics who maintain there is a paradise after death.'

'He believes it,' she said, smiling. 'That is what he fears.'

Tenaka shook his head slowly, then rubbed his eyes.

"That is a little too much for me,' he said, forcing a smile. 'I think I will sleep now.' Taking his blanket, he spread it on the floor and stretched himself out, his head resting on his pack.

'You are Dragon, aren't you?' said Renya.

'How did you know?' he asked, propping himself on one elbow.

'It was the way you said "my room".'

'Very perceptive.' He lay down and closed his eyes.

'I am Renya.'

'Goodnight, Renya.'

'Will you tell me your name?'

He thought of refusing, considering all the reasons why he should not tell her.

'Tenaka Khan,' he said. And slept.

Life is a farce, thought Scaler, as he hung by his fingertips forty feet above the stone courtyard. Below him a huge Joining sniffed the air, its shaggy head swinging ponderously from side to side, its taloned fingers curled around the hilt of the saw-edged sword. Snow swept in icy flurries, stinging Scaler's eyes.

'Thanks very much,' he whispered, transferring his gaze to the dark, pregnant storm-clouds above. Scaler was a religious man, who saw the gods as a group of seniles — eternals playing endless jokes on humanity with cosmic bad taste.

Below him the Joining sheathed its sword and ambled away into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, Scaler hauled himself over the window-sill and parted the heavy velvet curtains beyond. He was in a small study furnished with a desk, three chairs of oak, several chests and a row of bookshelves and manuscript holders. The study was tidy — obsessively so, thought Scaler, noting the three quill pens placed exactly parallel at the centre of the desk. He would have expected nothing less of Silius the Magister.

A long silvered mirror, framed in mahogany, was fixed to the far wall, opposite the desk. Scaler advanced towards it, drawing himself up to his full height and pulling back his shoulders. The black face-mask, dark tunic and leggings gave him a forbidding look. He drew his dagger and dropped into a warrior's crouch. The effect was chilling.

Perfect, he told his reflection. I wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley! Replacing the dagger, he moved to the study door and carefully lifted the iron latch, easing the door open.

Beyond was a narrow stone corridor and four doors — two on the left and two on the right. Scaler padded across to the furthest room on the left and slowly lifted the latch. The door opened without a sound and he moved inside, hugging the wall. The room was warm, though the log fire in the grate was burning low, a dull red glow illuminating the curtains around the large bed. Scaler moved forward to the bed, pausing to look down on fat Silius and his equally fat mistress. He lay on his stomach, she on her back; both were snoring.

Why am I creeping about? he asked himself. I could have come in here beating a drum. He stifled a chuckle, found the jewel box in its hidden niche below the window, opened it and poured the contents into a black canvas pouch tied to his belt. At full value they would keep him in luxury for five years. Sold, as they must be, to a shady dealer in the southern quarter, they would keep him for barely three months or six if he didn't gamble. He thought of not gambling but it was inconceivable. Three months, he decided.

Re-tying his pouch, he backed out into the corridor and turned. .

Only to come face to face with a servant, a tall, gaunt figure in a woollen nightshirt.

The man screamed and fled.

Scaler screamed and fled, hurtling down a circular stairway and cannoning into two sentries. Both men tumbled back, shouting as they fell. Scaler hit the floor in a tumbler's roll, came to his feet and sprinted left, the sentries close behind. Another set of steps appeared on his right and he took them three at a time, his long legs carrying him at a terrifying speed.

Twice he nearly lost his footing before reaching the next level. Before him was an iron gate — locked, but the key hung from a wooden peg. The stench from beyond the gate brought him to his senses and fear cut through his panic.

The Joinings' pit!

Behind him he could hear the sentries pounding down the stairs. He lifted the key, opened the gate and stepped inside, locking it behind him. Then he advanced into the darkness, praying to the Seniles to let him live for a few more of their jests.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the corridor he saw several openings on either side; within, sleeping on straw, were the Joinings of Silius.

He moved on towards the gate at the far end, pulling off his mask as he did so.