Mythborn (55 page)

The Gate’s Toll

Legends never die. They become greater with each telling,

Until the true person is lost to history.

-
          
Rai’kesh, The Lens of Leadership

T
he climb back up the Giant’s Step had been arduous, but not because of any physical need on Bernal’s part. Explaining to Yevaine what had happened to Niall was both difficult and cathartic. Hearing himself talk about the events since the coming of Arek shocked him, but also made him realize Niall had not been himself when he followed their prisoner through the gate. If Yetteje had been correct, his son had been under some sort of mental fugue, ensorcelled perhaps by the demon-queen who called herself Arek’s mother. Bernal’s only consuming thought now was trying not to blame himself for letting Niall out of his sight. Some of that must have gotten through to his wife, for when they finally summited the Step, she turned to him.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly, “you can’t watch over him always. He dreams of adventure and making you proud. How could chores and duty compete with a prisoner claiming he hails from a magical isle? We’ll find him,” She drew a shaking breath, then added, “but if you lose him again…”

Bernal smiled. “I know, I’ll pay the Lady’s price.”

A sharp smack on his shoulder startled him as Sparrow met both their eyes furiously, “Silence! You give her power over you even now. Do not be so obtuse.”

Queen Yevaine replied with icy calm, “Hold your hand, Scout. You strike a Galadine at your own peril.” Her eyes did not waver, and to the king’s surprise it was Sparrow who looked away first, meeting Malak’s eyes in some unspoken exchange.

“I beg pardon, milady,” she finally replied.

“Your Grace,” Yevaine corrected, holding the scout in place with her will.

“No discourtesy was meant. I only sought to warn.”

Yevaine sighed, then put a hand on Sparrow’s narrow shoulder and said, “And your warning is welcome, but if we are to help each other you’re going to have to be more patient with our ignorance.”

The king watched as the young scout seemed to take this in, but her reply was not what he expected.

Sparrow shrugged. “Death does not judge between ignorance and stupidity.” She bowed to them and then made her way out of the torchlight, pulling a few scouts with her.

Malak sighed then said, “She’s still young.”

Bernal looked after her, hoping this did not preface conflict between his headstrong queen and the firstmark’s second-in-command. When he looked back, though, it seemed Yevaine had dismissed the encounter.

She smiled at him, but her eyes broke into tears. “I worry for him, Bern. Can you tell me all will be well?”

The king knew she meant Niall, but Malak chose then to intercede and said, “He’s safe with the highlord. Find us the gate and a way for him to come home.”

Bernal glanced at Yevaine, then nodded. “Follow me. We go up from here to that landing at the split. Then we investigate the other room at the far end.”

Malak arched an eyebrow. “Does something preternatural guide you, O King?”

Bernal had to think about that for a moment. He felt certain about the route, as if his entire body was drawn in only one direction. Did those fish who swam upstream to the lake surrounding EvenSea feel the same way? Perhaps, he conceded, there was something instinctual guiding him.

He looked back at the firstmark and said, “I know the way. Let’s get going.”

By now Yevaine and her crew had fully recovered. Bernal could tell by the way she moved that her hip bothered her no longer. Even Kalindor moved without clenching his teeth in pain, as if he’d recovered from that nasty stomach wound completely. He called Malak and asked for a report.

“We haven’t lost anyone, and gained six more,” Malak reported. “Her Grace has a weapon that will hurt the Aeris—” he nodded pointedly at the blade Falken—“but the rest of your men need to be equipped.” He nodded to Sparrow and the scouts, who began handing out sheathed blades to Kalindor and the queen’s men, followed by shields made out of some kind of light wood engraved on the front with a phoenix, its wings outstretched.

Sparrow said, “These come from our men, who have given up their secondary weapons and shields for you. Do not waste their magnanimity by dying.”

“I suspect there will be plenty of weapons to go around soon,” said Yevaine.

Sparrow shook her head. “Do not sell us so cheaply. We were picked for a reason.”

“When we find the gate we must move swiftly,” Malak told the king. “Our only hope lies in securing the opening while Sparrow completes the ritual to realign the gate to Avalyon. Once she does so, she will go through and bring back reinforcements.”

“And Niall,” the king said, meeting Malak’s gaze.

“Of course, but realize that the highlord is standing ready to assault these Aeris. It is doubtful he’ll send your son through without first securing this side.”

Yevaine raised her hand and asked, “Won’t you be opening Avalyon to attack by the Aeris here?”

Malak glanced at Sparrow before answering, “We are using blood magic to realign the gate. Only elves may use a blood gate until the highlord aligns the other end, a necessary protection for Avalyon. Once that’s done, any living thing may travel through.”

Something in the firstmark’s voice caught the king’s ear. He looked at Yevaine, who seemed to have heard it too, then asked, “What aren’t you telling us, Firstmark?”

Again that look between Malak and Sparrow, as if they shared a secret none of the others knew. When the firstmark turned back, it was with grim determination. He sighed and said, “I told you the highlord sent us here at great personal loss. All blood magic requires sacrifice that has meaning.” He paused, then said, “I am the highlord’s most beloved, his first creation. I stood with him when he was alone in Arcadia.”

The king realized where this was going. He grabbed the man’s forearm with his own in a strong warrior’s grip. “You cannot—”

“Don’t,” warned the firstmark in a strange imitation of the king himself. “The gate cannot be aligned without great sacrifice and I am that for my people.” His eyes were hard when he said this, but they flicked down and he pursed his lips in contemplation. He squeezed the king’s forearm and said, “Find the gate. We must succeed or none of those we love will survive.”

Malak stood then and issued orders, leaving a stunned king still standing with his wife. Bernal turned to Yevaine and shook his head. “He can’t do this.”

“Niall can’t return unless he does,” she said flatly.

Bernal had to remind himself that she’d not had the time to judge Malak’s character, but even if she had, he knew nothing would even the scales with Niall’s fate hanging in the balance. He let out an explosive breath, drawing his blade and fixing his shield in place on his arm. Then he have her a short nod, and made his way to where the firstmark stood.

“Let’s go,” he said simply, not trusting himself to meet the commander’s eyes. Sparrow and the scouts moved ahead and the squad reformed with the king just behind, followed by Malak and the rest of the men. He caught a glimpse of Yevaine two thirds of the way back, surrounded by her men, but Kalindor had come up and stationed himself to the king’s left. The captain looked at the firstmark and gave him a short nod of acknowledgement, somehow conveying his respect and his support in that brief gesture.

They made their way quickly back to the split, and then proceeded carefully forward. The dull roar of the waterfall and the cool mist reminded the king of just how deep they were below Bara’cor. Their passageway widened a bit, then opened after a series of turns onto a landing.

A rectangular opening stood before them with blue-white light spilling out. Shapes moved in the light and Malak whispered orders. How the rest of the elves could hear was a mystery to the king, yet they reacted as if the man had barked out the commands on the field of battle.

They formed a wedge with the tip pointing at the door. The king and his party lay secure in the center with the queen’s men forming a small protective circle. Then the group charged through the opening like a spear thrown at a target.

Elven blades flashed in the blue light as they entered a cavernous chamber. In the distance, about an arrow’s flight away, stood the steps of a four-sided pyramid. The blue-white light came from a circular portal scintillating at the top. Arrayed all along this area where hundreds, perhaps thousands of mist-like figures, clawing and weaving in and around each other.

The clash of the leading elves against these mistfrights could be heard, animal-like screams and grunts followed by the sounds of blades biting into flesh. As the Aeris pushed inward the elven forces compressed, going from an elongated spear to something resembling more of a triangle. Blades swung and long spears stabbed as the outer line of elves held their shield wall firm.

The king tripped, going down hard on one knee. He looked down and saw the body of an elf, his eyes wide open in death. Before he could move, Kalindor grabbed the spear in the dead elf’s hand and began using it in earnest, stabbing over the heads of the elven forces to skewer black shapes rising from the mist.

A sudden explosion of yellow light—a blinding flash erupting from the gate itself—and out strode a warrior wreathed head to foot in fire the color of the sun. He surveyed the scene, then dipped forward a blade that gleamed yellow and gold. From the portal poured forth hundreds of armed and armored winged Aeris. The mistfrights pulled back as this new threat descended the steps.

“You cannot win,” declared the figure in a guttural voice that sounded familiar to the king. “Even if we fall, thousands more stand ready.”

“Hold!” cried the firstmark. “By the Old Laws, I would know who we face.”

The figure raised a hand and his forces stopped. He reached up and pulled off his helm, looking down at them with disdain.

“Hemendra,” whispered the king, “the leader of the nomads.”

Mithras seemed to have heard the king. He nodded and said, “More than that, King. Hemendra gave himself so that I may rise again as Mithras, the Morningstar of the Lady, and Bara’cor will be mine.”

“This is the man who killed Jeb?” asked the queen, her eyes never leaving the hulking figure on the pyramid steps.

“Maybe,” the king’s voice was now filled with doubt. “Or maybe it’s something inside that man’s body, possessing him.”

Mithras pointed with his blade at the king and said, “Your man did no deed making him legend and will never return. Each of you will either serve the Lady or join him and fade from history.” At that, the forces of Mithras swept forward, howling with bloodlust and fury.

But they had not counted on the firstmark and the discipline of the elves selected for the mission. None broke rank. Instead, they contracted their shield wall into a circle to absorb the charge, spears and blades ready to counter. When the mistfrights and Aeris warriors hit, their own numbers got in their way as only so many could engage the elves.

At the firstmark’s command, the elves then pushed forward one step and stabbed, killing dozens. Because the Aeris that died dissipated into black smoke, they did not hamper the elves’ forward movement. They began a rhythm of step-cover-stab, the turtle-like formation moving inexorably for the base of the pyramid and Mithras himself.

A mistfright managed to pull an elf out by his legs, but the shield wall contracted to cover that spot as a new elf moved into place. Now that they had seen that vulnerability, the men crouched to better protect themselves.

To Bernal’s amazement it looked as if they were already halfway to the pyramid and had lost only two elves. Firstmark Malak led with calm efficiency, bolstering weak spots by cycling out those who lagged with fresh men. More than one of the Aeris warriors died on spear tips thrust out from in between the shields, forcing the entire contingent of Aeris to slowly trail the small elven force as they neared the base of the pyramid.

When Bernal’s foot hit a step, it took him by surprise and for the second time he stumbled forward, catching himself a heartbeat from another fall. He realize they were ascending, with the flame-wreathed Mithras ahead and hundreds of Aeris behind. If Mithras fought like Baalor, he could endanger this group by quickly scattering it.

The king turned to Malak and said, “You rush the top, let me and my men take Mithras.”

“We stay together,” Malak hissed, appraising at the scene with an expert eye.

“He’ll wade in and separate us. We need a distraction,” the king replied, hoping this man’s strategic mind would parse out the truth in his assessment. He had to remind himself that when it came to fighting Aeris, Malak had more experience than he did.

Even as he thought this, Mithras leapt, smashing his blade down into the group just as the king had warned. The group scattered but left behind three men killed on the steps. Mithras’s blade sang out horizontally in a sweep of fire. One unlucky elf was cut in half.

The golden warrior paused, as if hearing something, then rumbled, “His blood will taste good on your blade, beloved.”

The group scrambled to rejoin but Malak yelled, “To the top! Reform at the gate!”

Every man sprinted up the steps, running for their lives. Those positioned lower did not make if far, pulled back down by the mistfrights that flowed up the steps like black, oily snakes. The king looked at Kalindor and Yevaine, then dashed for Mithras.