The Gates of Winter (59 page)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M
ARK
A
NTHONY
learned to love both books and mountains during childhood summers spent in a Colorado ghost town. Later he was trained as a paleoanthropologist but along the way grew interested in a different sort of human evolution—the symbolic progress reflected in myth and the literature of the fantastic. He undertook this project to explore the idea that reason and wonder need not exist in conflict. Mark Anthony lives and writes in Colorado, where he is currently at work on the next book of
The Last Rune
. Fans of
The Last Rune
can visit the website at
http://www.thelastrune.com
.

ALSO BY MARK ANTHONY

Beyond the Pale

The Keep of Fire

The Dark Remains

Blood of Mystery

PERILOUS DESTINY

“I have to go north to Gravenfist Keep,” Grace said. “I'm supposed to stop the Pale King from riding forth when the Rune Gate opens. But I don't know how I'm possibly going to do that. All I have is an old sword and five hundred men. And this.” She drew out the rune of hope.

Mirda studied the rune but did not touch it. “It seems you have much to me. Remember that you do not need to defeat the Pale King, but only to hold him back until the Runebreaker can fulfill his destiny.”

A shiver coursed through Grace. “Until he breaks the world, you mean.”

“Or saves it,” Mirda said, meeting her gaze.

How could it be both? Grace still didn't understand that. But there was one thing she did know—there was no person on any world kinder or truer than Travis Wilder. He would not harm Eldh; she would not believe that he could.

“He's gone, you know.” Grace leaned her head against the back of the musty chair.

“He will return,” Mirda said.

“But how can you know that?”

“Because prophecy demands it. The Runebreaker will be there at the end.”

“But what if it's not Travis? What if it's the other Runebreaker who's there at the end?”

“Then,” Mirda said, her words as hard as stones, “all the world is doomed.”

On Earth, Duratek Corporation has been shattered, while on Eldh the Pale King and his wicked master Mohg are no more. Evil has been defeated on two worlds. For both Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder, it is a time of peace and simple joys. Until . . .

The sands of ancient Amún stir, and knowledge long buried comes to light once more: Morindu the Dark, lost city of sorcerers, has been found. At the same time, dread news flies on a dragon's wings: a dark rift has appeared in the heavens, a ravenous void that threatens not only Earth and Eldh but the very fabric of existence itself.

Now final perihelion approaches. Two worlds draw near. Together, Travis and Grace must embark on one last perilous quest: to reach the lost city of Morindu before forces of darkness can seize it, and to discover once and for all the ultimate secret of the connection between Earth and Eldh. In the final reckoning, all of existence will be saved . . . or nothingness will rule forever.

So be sure not to miss

THE FIRST STONE

the explosive conclusion to

MARK ANTHONY'S

epic saga

The Last Rune

Coming in summer 2004 from

Bantam Spectra

Here's a special preview:

The dervish stepped from a swirl of sand, appearing on the edge of the village like a mirage taking form.

A boy herding goats was the first to see him. The boy clucked his tongue, using a yew switch to prod the animals back to their pens. All at once the goats began to bleat, their eyes rolling as if they had caught the scent of a lion. Usually a lion would not prowl so near the dwellings of men, but the springs that scattered the desert—which had never gone dry in living memory—were failing, and creatures of all kinds were on the move in search of water and food. It was said that in one village not far away, a lion had crept into a hut and had stolen a baby right from the arms of its sleeping mother.

The boy turned around, and the switch fell from his fingers. It was not a lion before him, but a man covered from head to toe in a black
serafi.
Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the garment, dark and smoldering like coals. The man raised his right hand; its palm was tattooed with red lines. Tales told by the village's elders came back to the boy—tales about men who ventured into the deepest desert in search of forbidden magics.

Obey your father and your mother,
the old ones used to tell him when he was small,
or else a dervish will fly into your house on a night zephyr and steal your blood for his craft. For they require the blood of wicked children to work their darkest spells.

“I need . . .” the dervish said, his voice harsh with a strange accent.

The boy let out a wordless cry, then turned and ran toward a cluster of hovels, leaving the goats behind.

“. . . water,” the dervish croaked, but the boy was already gone.

The dervish staggered, then caught himself. How long had he been in the Morgolthi? He did not know. Day after day the sun of the Thirsting Land had beaten down on him, burning away thought and memory, leaving him as dry as a scattering of bones. He should be dead. But something had propelled him on. What was it? There was no use trying to remember now. He needed water. Of the last two oases he had passed, one had been dry and the other had been poisoned, the bloated corpse of an antelope floating in its stagnant pool. But he would find water here; the spirits had told him so.

He moved through the herd of goats. The animals bleated until the dervish touched them, then they fell silent. He ran his hands over their hides and could feel the blood surging beneath, quickened by their fear. One swift flash of a knife, and hot blood would flow, thicker and sweeter than water. He could slake his thirst, and when he was finished he would let the blood spill on the ground as an offering, and with it he would call spirits to him. They would be only lesser spirits, to be sure, enticed by the blood of an animal—no more than enough to work petty magics. All the same, it would be satisfying. . . .

But no, that was not why he was here. He remembered now; he needed water, then to send word, to tell them he was here. He staggered toward the circle of huts. Behind him, the goats began bleating again, lost without the boy to herd them.

This place was called Hadassa, and though the people who dwelled here had now forgotten, it had once been a prosperous trading center, built around a verdant oasis and situated at a crossroads where merchants from the north coast of Al-Amún met with traders of the nomadic peoples who lived to the south, on the edge of the great desert of the Morgolthi.

However, Hadassa was not immune to the plague that affected this land, and over the decades the flow of its springs had dwindled to a trickle. The merchants and traders had left long ago and not returned; the city's grand buildings were swallowed by the encroaching sand. Now all that remained was this mean collection of huts.

When he reached the center of the village, the dervish stopped. The oasis, once a place of sparkling pools and shaded grottoes, was now a salt flat baked by the sun and crazed with cracks. Dead trees, scoured of leaf and branch, jutted up like skeletal fingers. In their midst was a patch of mud, churned into a mire by men and goats. Oily water oozed up through the sludge, gathering in the hoofprints. The dervish knelt, his throat aching to drink.

“You are not welcome here,” said a coarse voice.

The dervish looked up. The water he had cupped dribbled through his fingers. A sigh escaped his blistered lips, and with effort he stood again.

A man stood at the other edge of the mud. His yellowed beard spilled down his chest, and he wore the white robe of a village elder. Behind him stood a pair of younger men. They were thin and stunted from lack of food, but their eyes were hard, and they gripped curved swords. Next to the man was a woman of middle years. In youth she had likely been beautiful, but the dry air had parched her cheeks, cracking them like the soil of the oasis. She gazed forward with milky eyes.

“The cards spoke truly, Sai'el Yarish,” the woman said in a hissing voice, pawing at the elder man's robe. “Evil flies into Hadassa on dark wings.”

“I cannot fly,” the dervish said.

“Then you must walk from this place,” the bearded man said. “And you must not come back.”

The dervish started to hold out his hands in a gesture of supplication, then stopped, awkwardly pressing his palms against his
serafi.
“I come only in search of water.”

One of the young men brandished his sword. “We have no water to spare for the likes of you.”

“It is so,” the old man said. “A change has come over the land. One by one, the springs of the desert have gone dry. Now ours is failing as well. You will not find what you seek here.”

The dervish laughed, and the queer sound of it made the others take a step back.

“You are wrong,” he said. “There is water to be found in this place.”

From the folds of his
serafi
he drew out a curved knife. It flashed in the sun.

“Do not let him draw blood!” the blind woman shrieked.

The young men started forward, but the mud sucked at their sandals, slowing them. The dervish held out his left arm. The knife flicked, quick as a serpent. Red blood welled from a gash just above his wrist.

“Drink,” he whispered, shutting his eyes, sending out the call. “Drink, and do my bidding.”

He felt them come a moment later; distance meant nothing. They buzzed through the village like a swarm of hornets or a vortex of sand, accompanied by a sound just beyond hearing. The men looked around with fearful eyes. The blind woman gnashed her teeth and swatted at the air. The dervish lowered his arm, letting blood drip from his wound.

The fluid vanished before it struck the ground.

He clenched his jaw. The flow of his blood quickened as if the hot air gobbled it.

“Water,” the dervish murmured. “Show me the water you said was here.”

A moment ago they had been furious in their hunger. Now they were sated by blood, their will easy to bend to his own. He sensed them plunge downward, deep into the ground. Soil, rock—these were as air to them. He felt it seconds later: a tremor beneath his boots. There was a gurgling noise, then a jet of water shot up from the center of the mud patch. The fountain glittered in the sun, spinning off drops as clear and precious as diamonds.

The village elder gaped, while the young men dashed forward, letting the water spill into their hands, drinking greedily.

“It is cool and sweet,” one of them said, laughing.

“It is a trick!” the blind woman cried. “You must not drink, lest it cast you under his spell.”

However, the young men ignored her. They continued to drink, and the man in the white robe joined them. Others appeared now, stealing from the huts, moving tentatively toward the spring, the fear on the sun-darkened faces giving way to wonder.

The blind woman stamped her feet. “It is a deception, I tell you! If you drink, he will poison us all!”

The village folk pushed past her and she fell into the mud, her robe tangling around her so that she could not get up. The people held out their hands toward the splashing water.

Quickly the dervish bound his wound with a rag, stanching the flow of blood lest the bodiless ones come to partake of more.
Morndari,
the spirits were called. Those Who Hunger. They had no form, no substance, but their thirst for blood was unquenchable. Once, he had come upon a young sorcerer who had thought too highly of his own power, and who had called many of the
morndari
to him. His body had been no more than a dry husk, a look of horror on his mummified face.

The flow of the fountain continued. Water pooled at the dervish's feet. He bent to drink, but he was weak from hunger and thirst, and from loss of blood. The sky reeled above him, and he fell.

Strong hands caught him: the young swordsmen's.

“Take him into my hut,” said a voice he recognized as the village elder's.

Were they going to murder him then? He should call the
morndari
again, only he could not reach his knife, and he was already too weak. The spirits would drain his body dry of blood, just like the ill-fated young sorcerer he had once found.

The hands bore him to a dim, cool space, protected from the sun by thick mud walls. He was laid upon cushions, and a wooden cup pressed to his lips. Water spilled into his mouth, clean and wholesome. He coughed, then drank deeply, draining the cup. Leaning back, he opened his eyes and saw the bearded man above him.

“How long will it flow?” the old man asked.

The dervish licked blistered lips. “For many lives of men, the spirits say. I do not doubt them.”

The old man nodded. “All the tales I know tell that a dervish brings only evil and suffering. Yet you have saved us all.”

The dervish laughed, a chilling sound. “Would that were so. But I fear your seeress was right. Evil does come, on dark wings. To Hadassa, and to all of Moringarth.”

The other made a warding sign with his hand. “Gods help us. What must we do?”

“You must send word that I am here. You must send a message to the Mournish. Do you know where they can be found?”

The old man stroked his beard. “I know some who know. Word can be sent to the Wandering Folk. But surely you cannot mean what you say. Your kind is abomination to them. If they find you, your life is forfeit. The working of blood sorcery is forbidden.”

“No, it isn't,” the dervish said. He looked down at his hands, marked by lines tattooed in red and fine white scars. “Not anymore.”

It was the quiet that woke Sareth.

Over the last three years he had grown used to the sound of her heartbeat and the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Together they made a music that lulled him to sleep each night and bestowed blissful dreams. Then, six months ago, another heart—tiny and swift—had added its own note. But now the wagon was silent.

Sareth sat up. Gray light crept through a moon-shaped window into the cramped interior of the wagon. She had not been able to make it any larger, but by her touch it had become cozier. Bunches of dried herbs hung in the corners, filling the wagon with a sweet, dusty scent. Beaded curtains dangled before the windows. Cushions embroidered with leaves and flowers covered the benches on either side of the wagon. The tops of the benches could be lifted to reveal bins beneath, or lowered along with a table to turn the wagon into a place where eight could sit and dine or play
An'hot
with a deck of
T'hot
cards. Now the table was folded up against the wall, making room for the pallet they unrolled each night.

The pallet was empty, save for himself. He pulled on a pair of loose-fitting trousers, then opened the door of the wagon. Moist air, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers, rushed in, cool against his bare chest. He breathed, clearing the fog of sleep from his mind, then climbed down the wagon's wooden steps. The grass was damp with dew beneath his bare feet—his two bare feet.

Though it had been three years, every day he marveled at the magic that had restored the leg he had lost to the demon beneath Tarras. He would never really understand how Lady Aryn's spell had healed him, but it didn't matter. Since he met Lirith, he had grown accustomed to wonders.

He found her beneath a slender
ithaya
tree on the edge of the grove where the Mournish had made camp. A tincture of coral colored the horizon; dawn was coming, but not yet. She turned when she heard him approach, her smile glowing in the dimness.

“Beshala,”
he said softly. “What are you doing out here so early?”

“Taneth was fussing. I didn't want him to wake you.” She cradled the baby in her arms. He was sound asleep, wrapped snugly in a blanket sewn with moons and stars.

Sareth laid a hand on the baby's head. His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes, when they were open, were the same dark copper as Sareth's. But everything else about him—his fine features, his rich ebony skin—was Lirith's.

The baby sighed in his sleep, and Sareth smiled. Here was another wonder before him. Lirith had believed herself incapable of bearing a child. When she was a girl, she was sold into servitude in the Free City of Corantha, in the house of Gulthas. There she had been forced to dance for men who paid their gold—and do more than simply dance. Countless times a spark of life had kindled in her womb, only to go dark when she consumed the potions Gulthas forced on all the women in his house. Then, in time, no more sparks had kindled.