Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) (34 page)

He inched back, held up three fingers. Three wingmen now. Tallea looked up at Maggie’s hand. Fresh blood was dripping from the deep wound in her palm. Tallea gestured at her, pointed to her nose and mouthed the words, “Smell your blood. They smell blood.”

Maggie’s face paled, and she clenched her other hand over the wound. Ceravanne brought out a small piece of white cloth from her pack, gave it to Maggie to use as a bandage.

In a moment, they were on their knees again, scurrying ever faster along the road. They made it past the bend in the road, almost five kilometers, when Gallen suddenly stopped. A lone wingman rose, riding the thermal updrafts from the valley below.

Tallea and the others froze, crouched against the stone wall, and the wingman rose on up. Like many animals, the wingman looked mostly for signs of movement, and at the moment, the creature was in full sunlight, while they were in shadows.

Tallea’s heart pounded, and she tried to still her breathing, tried to stop the pounding, as the wingman flew along the ridge, then swept up over the mountain, sniffing loudly for the scent of blood.

Then Gallen was on his feet, motioning to them. “Run!” Orick raced ahead of Gallen, running toward the door faster than any human could, while Maggie and Ceravanne hurried forward.

Tallea jumped up so quickly that one of her mending muscles must have ripped, for she felt a searing pain in her side. Still, she managed to run forward for nearly two minutes.

Suddenly Gallen shouted, turned toward Tallea and fired near her head. A searing ball of flame shot three meters over her, hotter than any oven, and a croaking scream sounded. She turned to see a wingman, mouth open, swooping toward her, the white flames from Gallen’s rifle billowing in its mouth. The wingman crashed into the road not five meters behind her, bounced, and flopped over the cliff.

They were nearly to the door. Tallea lurched forward, and saw more wingmen rising up from the valley floor, searching for the cause of the commotion. Five of them.

Gallen leapt over a smattering of fallen rocks, but Ceravanne tripped on one, fell onto others. Maggie grabbed her arm and nearly carried her, and Ceravanne was weeping from the pain.

Orick reached the iron door and stood looking at it.

Tallea felt a shadow, ducked and pulled her sword, swinging. A wingman was diving straight down from the precipice above, swooping over her, and it had extended the long red claw on its wing tip, hoping to snag her and sweep her off the road, over the bluff.

She twisted her sword inward, hoping to strike through flesh and bone instead of just claw. Her sword tip struck the scaly leather of its wing, and she was surprised at the fierce jolt, for it cut the beast but also tore the sword from her hand.

The wingman screamed in pain and swept past her, careening onto the road. Her sword clattered over the cliff, and Tallea drew her dagger, leapt past the wingman as it tried to get up.

She looked back, and the wingman screamed in anger, a roar that seemed to shake the very stone, and then it was after her, loping on clumsy feet, dragging its shattered wing.

Ahead of her, Gallen and Orick were at the iron door. They both pulled at its enormous handles to no avail. And then Maggie was with them, and Ceravanne, and they all stood in a tight knot.

A wingman swooped up from the valley in front of Tallea, trying to cut her off from the rest of the group, but she ducked under it, and suddenly all of them stood together outside the iron door.

Gallen held his incendiary rifle, looked back down the road. The wounded wingman was eight meters away, and when Gallen confronted it with his weapon, the wingman hissed and stopped.

“You don’t want to die,” Gallen shouted at the creature, aiming his weapon at it. The wingman shrieked, raising its long neck into the air, teeth flashing. It watched Gallen with intelligent eyes, bright red, gleaming like rubies.

“Leave now, or die!” Gallen shouted.

The wingman watched him a second, its eyes filled with rage, then leapt over the side of the road, flapping clumsily toward the valley below.

“Who says you can’t reason with a wingman?” Gallen asked, smiling toward Ceravanne. Then a huge stone fell and shattered at his feet.

Tallea looked up. A wingman was in the air, two hundred meters above them, and another swept over the ridge and dropped a large stone.

“Get under cover!” Gallen cried. And Tallea went to the door, pulled at it.

“It’s locked!” Ceravanne said. “We need the key.”

“But who would have locked it?” Maggie asked.

Tallea looked at the door. The lock was a mess of rust. Above the door was fancy scrollwork all along the lintel, images of twin suns rising above fields of wheat. At one time, gems might have adorned the centerpiece of each sun, but the gems had long ago been pried free.

Gallen studied the door for half a second. “Everyone grab the handles and pull,” he said. “This lock can’t hold us.”

But despite their efforts, the door would not open.

“Watch out!” Ceravanne called, and she pushed Tallea backward. Tallea looked up, saw a wingman swooping toward them, a rock tumbling in the air, and she marveled to see such a deadly rain fall from such beautiful blue skies.

She dodged, and the stone hit the lintel of the door with a clang, then split and bounced to the ground. Rust drifted off the door in a thin sheet.

“Hey,” Orick grumbled. “I’m not handy at pulling doors open, but I’m pretty good at knocking them down!”

The bear ran back to the ledge, then charged the door, slamming all of his weight against it.

The door creaked, and there was a snapping, and when Orick dizzily backed away from it, the door had cracked open a finger’s width.

Three wingmen slid overhead, dropping stones in rapid succession, and Gallen stared up at them, raised his weapon as if trying to decide whether to use the last of his ammunition. Orick backed up and roared as he charged the door again.

The lock snapped, and one half of the door buckled under his weight. The bear climbed up onto all fours groggily and shook himself.

And then a wingman swept over the cliff top and shrieked, a long wail of alarm. Tallea was not certain, but she could almost distinguish words in that scream. Out above the valley, all of the remaining wingmen veered toward them and flapped their wings, gaining speed. They knew that this would be their last chance.

“Inside!” Gallen shouted, and several people ran for the door. But Gallen went to the edge of the road, his rifle in hand.

Tallea rushed up beside him. “Take my sword,” he yelled, and she drew the weapon from his sheath. She felt it quivering in her hand, as if it were alive, and it emitted a soft and eager humming.

Tallea glanced back. Ceravanne and Maggie were already inside the iron door, but Orick was trying to squeeze his own bulk through the narrow passage, shoving mightily with his back feet, leaving claw marks in the stone.

Gallen fired at the four wingmen who flew forward in a loose formation, and it seemed that the sun blazed from his weapon. A fierce wall of heat struck Tallea’s face, and the light burst out over the canyon sky, catching the foremost of the wingmen so that he tumbled downward in flames.

Two of them veered off, to avoid colliding with their dying kin, but the third came on.

Gallen fired once more, and the wingman tried to drop beneath his shot. The flames surged past the creature, but they had come too close. Even in passing, the heat was so great that it left a huge black smoking blemish on the creature’s back.

The wingman screamed out in pain, diving toward the ribbon of blue river that shone in the forest far below.

Tallea looked back to the door. Orick was still trying to push through. Gallen shouted, “Get in!”

He raced to the door and charged into Orick, hitting him at full speed. Gallen bounced back, but Orick slid through the opening. Two more wingmen were sweeping from the ridge above, and Tallea ran to Gallen’s side, leapt through the opening.

A huge stone hit the door and shattered, then Gallen leapt through.

The group sat inside the door for a moment, panting, looking at one another. Maggie’s hand was bleeding, and Orick had lost a tuft of hair. Ceravanne may have suffered a sprained ankle, but Immortals healed so quickly that it would cause her no grief. A rock chip bad struck Gallen in the chin, and he was bleeding.

Outside, the wingmen screamed in frustration, hurling rocks against the doors, but none dared land for the hunt.

Gallen sat panting for a moment, and Ceravanne held aloft the light globe. “Welcome to the city of Indallian,” she said, and her voice was tight with emotion. “It has been long since I’ve given such a greeting.”

Tallea looked up. The room flashed and reflected Ceravanne’s light. They were in an incredibly large chamber, where gracefully carved stone rose high. In the distant past, the room had been painted cream or ivory, and stonework floral patterns had been painted in their own bright hues. High up, three magnificent silver chandeliers graced the ceiling, each with hundreds of sconces. Bright crystals at their base reflected back the light, throwing prismatic colors sparkling across the walls.

Beneath each chandelier was a high, arching passage that led deeper into the mountain.

The place smelled of dust and earth, and for once Tallea almost rejoiced at the cold, in spite of the tearing pain in her side, for at least they had escaped the wingmen. Yet there was more here than barren passages. Unlike the tunnels they had wandered before, this place still carried the faint scent of people, of ancient sweat and food, of tapestries moldering in distant halls.

“Hey,” Orick said. “Are you certain that no one lives here?”

“Great is the lure of the city of Indallian,” Ceravanne whispered. “I suppose that many people may live here yet. Miners may have ventured here in hopes of finding riches … other beings.”

“That lock was rusted,” Orick said, “but the door hasn’t been closed for hundreds of years. Thirty or fifty maybe.”

“Then whoever closed the city is surely dead and gone,” Maggie said hopefully.

“Do not be so certain,” Ceravanne said. “Many peoples are fashioned to live long. Even a Derrit, with its thick hide, is likely to live three or four centuries.”

“But would a Derrit be smart enough to lock a door?” Maggie asked.

“Don’t be deceived,” Ceravanne whispered. “Derrits are not dumb animals. They are foul, and live in their own filth, and they may eat you. But they are also clever and cunning. They were made to be workers on a brutal world, where conditions are harsh.”

“But why would you make them that way?” Orick asked.

“I cannot speak for their makers, for the Derrits were formed long before I was born,” Ceravanne said. “But I believe that it was not the creator’s intent to form such foul beings. Often, peoples who have been created fail as a species. Their love for one another is too fragile. Their passions too untamable. Such peoples usually die out. But while the Derrits are a failure as a species, either unwilling or unable to lift their own kind by sharing their culture, they are successful as individuals.”

“More than successful, I would say,” Gallen put in. “For thousands of years, other peoples here in Babel have hunted them, trying to get rid of their kind. But it has proven damned near impossible to rid this world of them.”

“So they’re forced to live here in these lonely mountains?” Maggie asked.

“In the winter, when the snow comes on, they often move to lower valleys,” Gallen said. “Where they sneak into barns and throttle sheep, or steal children from their beds.”

“Let us speak no more about them,” Ceravanne whispered.

“Yes,” Gallen whispered. “They are unpleasant to think about.”

Ceravanne raised the light toward the middle hallway, and began limping toward it. “Are you all right?” Gallen asked, taking her arm tenderly.

“Bloody, but unbowed,” Ceravanne said, smiling. And Tallea followed them down into the darkness, holding her own aching gut. The pain was bad, but tolerable for a Caldurian.

Long they journeyed into the heart of the ancient city of Indallian, until Tallea felt certain that darkness must have fallen outside, but Ceravanne led them on. Several times they found corridors that were blocked by falling rubble, and once the floor had caved in beneath them to a deep shaft where great caverns had been excavated.

Ceravanne kept having to turn aside into new hallways, and once she stopped and threw her hands up, crying, “This isn’t the way.” They had been traveling down a well-made corridor, but suddenly it turned into a crude cave, chiseled by rough hands. Ceravanne walked back a hundred meters, found a side passage that none of them had noticed, for it was purposely concealed behind a large stone slab. It took them in a new direction, and Ceravanne seemed less and less certain of this new path with each footstep.

Finally, she called a halt.

Tallea put down her pack, and the group sat wearily. They began eating a small dinner of apples and jerky. Their provisions were failing. In two or three more days, Tallea figured they would be down to scraps.

Ceravanne looked around the corridor worriedly, and Gallen whispered into her ear, “Perhaps we should scout ahead, while the others rest.”

Ceravanne bit her lower lip, looked ahead down the passage. “Perhaps we should.”

Maggie took two candles from her pack, lit them, and in moments Gallen and Ceravanne departed. Orick grumbled about the small dinner, and lay in a comer. Tallea went to him. “You can have my apple core,” she offered.

“Ah, I’ve plenty of winter fat to eat,” he muttered, but when she put the apple core under his nose, he gingerly took it in his teeth, gulped it down.

Tallea lay down beside him. She was falling asleep when Orick began muttering his nightly prayers. Cold from the stone seemed to be seeping into her wound, and Tallea lay wondering why the hosts of the Inhuman would remember this as a place of terror.

Tallea’s muscles had been strengthening daily, and she stretched her arms in spite of her fresh wound, hoping that she would soon be ready to begin exercise. She considered sparring with Gallen, wished that her ribs would stand for it, but she was still too weak. Perhaps in a couple of days she would be ready.