The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) (5 page)

“The Dragon was the instrument of his death
, but the Gamesman was behind it.  Some pilgrims fight the city, some serve her, and some go their own way.  The Red Dragon is the Gamesman’s lackey.”

I felt the urgency of my son’s need and was not willing to hear more of this convoluted conversation.  I gave a curt nod of farewell to the gentlemen.
  “It has been a pleasure, but I must go.  I have a promise to keep.”  I headed for the door, but spun quickly as Gray’s steps followed me.  “Where are you going?” I demanded

“With you.”

I sharpened my voice and added a steely glare, “No!”

“No?  Are you certain?”

My hand went to my sword.  “Stay here.  For all I know, you are the Gamesman himself.  I will not have you at my back when my attention is needed elsewhere.”

Gray
grinned with approval.  “Good.  You are learning.”

I backed up several steps then turned and strode briskly to the door.  I looked back once more. 
Gray was nowhere in sight.  He p
robably went to find the serving girl’s bed
,
I decided.

I opened the door and passed through to a street that quickly emptied as a rumbling gathered strength.  I felt vibrations through the soles of my boots.  An old woman with matted hair stumbled by with eyes unfocused, singing softly, “The gears … the gears … are windin’ away.  Nothin’ standin’ ever stays…”

“What’s happening?” I asked.

She ignored me, tottering on, repeating her silly song.  A shudder went through the ground as a clacking sound gathered strength.  A humming swelled in the air and a crystal tone mixed in.  I staggered as the sound increased.  My back slammed into the door I had just closed.

An earthquake,
or i
s the abyss swallowing this cursed city at last
?

The far curb of the street began to slide away, revealing a darkness thinned by a cloud of white steam.  The city section I was on stayed still, but others moved, creating a new maze.  The broken seams bordering the streets resealed themselves.  Distant sections of the city rose to higher points while others dropped from view. 

I remembered the game board at the tavern, the square pieces that shifted, displacing players.  This was the reality that the game reflected, happening before my eyes.  Despair threatened to crush my spirit as I realized that all the distances to the gates had changed, and would keep doing so throughout the game.  The puzzle could not be solved!  It was all a black joke at my expense!  My heart nearly hammered out of my chest, as my hopes vanished.  Breathing became a battle as I sank to my knees, huddled in my cloak.

I have come for nothing!  Nothing!  Oh, my poor Phillippe
!

I knew in that moment that I would either break, or find my soul’s true temper.  I could wail in anguish and writhe in disappointment—or give myself over to incandescent fury!  I heard ruthless laughter across the street, directed at me.  It made my decision for me.

I lifted my head and saw a knight in crimson armor, his helm crested by a miniature dragon, its ruby eyes aglitter with scorn.  I knew who it had to be, having seen his image on the board game not long before.  His two-handed broadsword was drawn off his back, planted point first between his feet.  He leaned on the massive thing, staring at me over its glowing garnet pommel.

My lips drew back and a scream rose from my knotted guts.  The power of it lifted me.  Even before landing on my feet, my sword scraped free of its scabbard.  I ran at him as across the city, monstrous cathedral bells voiced a full-throated clangor.

His deep voice rumbled like thunder.  “I admire your courage, if not your sense.”

H
e stepped back as I closed in and flicked his point up, kindly offering to let me impale myself.  But I had sensed his intention and unveiled my true speed at the end; vaulting over the blade, planting my feet on his chest as I grabbed hold of his over-ornamented helm.  It was not a move inspired by sanity, but it worked.  Before he could shake me off, I smashed my swept-brass hand-guard into his face.  I gave him a second blow as I slid down his armor to his feet.  Surprised more than hurt, he reeled backed a step, then another, letting his sword reach zenith.

I had played my opponent’s game, one of aggression and domination, and knew it was stupid—turning my back on everything my father had taught me.  I should have concentrated on the Dance of Death—on completing my partner's
 movements, his shadow.  My father once told me:
You do not beat your opponent in a duel, you survive, and whichever heart is most estranged from the dance will be lost.
 

With searing arms, the cold fury I had taken as a lover, held me to this course, while the Red Dragon’s blade slashed toward my face.  I waited long enough to be sure he’d committed to the strike, then skipped to the side, driving my point up into the gap of an armpit.  His protective armor left me with few other options since his face was protected by his descending sword.

His battle cry became a ragged bleat of pain.  His sword struck the spot I had recently abandoned, falling from his hands to clatter onto the street.  I ripped my blade free, kicking him in the side, knocking him over.  He lay in a heap, cursing as I planted my sword’s tip under his chin.

“Yield!” I demanded.

He told me what I could do with myself in the crudest of terms.  In a way, it was good that he despised mercy—I had lost the capacity in the fires that ravaged my soul.

I cut open his throat so he could drink his own blood.  He gurgled awhile before growing still.  I had eliminated him as a player, but not a threat.  Before he could resurrect, I removed his gauntlets and used his own sword to chop off his hands.  Insanely, my concern rested only in preserving my own weapon’s edge. 

The Red Dragon stirred, then thrashed in agony.  He bayed like an animal as my foot pinned him down.  My sword tip hovered near his wide, staring eyes.

“If I have to chop you into ten-thousand undead pieces and toss them into the abyss one by one, I will,” I said.  “Give me your oath that you yield, now and forever!  I will not have a dead man on my trail.”

He assented with a hiss and a nod, but I had won n
othing.  I let him go, holding my composure by the smallest of margins until he vanished from sight.  My stomach clenched in fierce rebellion to the butchery I’d undertaken, heaving its contents onto the street.  When I could stand again, I did so, wiping my mouth, grimacing at the vile taste that lingered.

I couldn’t delay any longer; I had to make the Gamesman answer for his grim amusements
.  I knew where to find him; the center of the city, the eye of the storm.  I ran through the streets as they filled again.  I do not know what emotions possessed my face, but other gazes flinched from mine.  Dangerous men—big, tough, with the look of brawlers—blanched and stumbled over their feet, retreating as I passed.  They looked as if they would rather see some hell-spawn come scampering their way.

My darkening soul screamed at what I was becoming—

Death’s Bride, the White Rose, trailing blood from my thorns—but now was not the time to listen.

3.
SECOND SHADOW

U
nfailing twilight hovered over the damp buildings.  The city around me had changed its face, but still I held a general sense of direction.  Beyond that, I would have to trust Fate to guide my sword.  I hurried.  My boots made lonely echoes on the cobbles.  A dim green haze softened the structures in the distance before swallowing them.  Along the streets, pole-mounted lanterns burned continuously without adding warmth.  Like Will-O-the-Wisps, they only thinned the shadows immediately around them.

Black as despair, a hooded figure awaited my approach.  A thrill of fear went through me.  The Gamesman’s champion?  It seemed too soon
—I was nowhere near the center of the city.  Surely, the Gamesman would keep his defender much closer, unless both were lurking about… 

R
apier in hand, but not raised to guard, I stopped beyond sword-reach of the apparition.  His hood lifted but no face resided within, only luminous eyes floating in black mist.  His robes whispered on the street as he took a step toward me, inviting attack with a courage I had to respect.

“The White Rose!”   He identified me with certainty, bowing low in greeting.  “I saw what you did to the Red Dragon.  That was grisly work.”
  There was both awe and disquiet in his soft voice.

My checks warmed.
  How dare this hooded darkness pass judgment on me?  Though I agreed with his evaluation, I defended my actions.  “I only do what I must!”

He nodded.  “We all do.”

“Perhaps you have a name…?”

“Azrael, the Winding Blade…”

The title caught my interest.  I arched an eyebrow in inquiry.

“…Because I never hit my target,” he explained.

“Constrained by mercy?”
…as I used to be?
  

“No.  I am a reaver.  We are sorely lacking in the gentler traits.”

Ah, an angel of Death!  “Have men stopped dying then, that you have nothing to do?” 

“Avalon has.  Once under my wings, she has slipped away, leaving me crushed with boredom.”

That explained it.  When the elves learned to keep Death’s bridge from landing on their world, they put this dark smudge of contention out of work.  His plight failed to move me.  “Have you ever thought of securing honest employment, soul-taker?”

“Making candles perhaps, or sweeping chimneys?  I know!  I can become a butcher!  You can teach me the craft.”

Ah!  Fire at last.  I had stung him.  “What use have I for a second shadow?  Find your entertainment elsewhere.”

“I play no game and have no wish to hinder you.  Can you not use a friend with nothing to gain from betrayal?”

“How do I know what you may or may not gain?  Be off with you!”

“Or what?” he asked.  “Can your sword make a shadow bleed?”

“If you want a friend, you should act like one, and not make a pest of yourself.”

He sighed
, “Very well.  If you change your mind, knock upon any patch of shadow and call my name.  I will hear.”  He backed to a darkened wall, turned, and stepped into it, leaving nothing of himself behind. 

Wherever I went, people tried to attach themselves to me.  Was there some sign on my back saying:
take care of this hapless kitten?
  No matter, I had death to dispense.  That need still rode me, putting spring in my step and fire in my heart.  I passed the wall that had claimed the dark angel.

Hopefully, I would find my way quickly through the torturous streets.  Refusing one able to guide me might not have been the best course, but second thoughts on the matter might have broken my resolve. 

I came to a lively area.  The crowd I approached saw the wet blood on my blade.  They parted for me.  A few of the more dangerous looking denizens tossed appraising glances that caught on my ring.

My returning stare dismissed them with cold, aristocratic contempt.  I only hoped I could set aside this persona once Vengeance slaked its thirst.  I did not want to become consumed by the role
I was reduced to playing.

My wandering attention rushed back, riveting upon a crescendo of clopping hooves. 
A mounted rider burst from an alleyway.

I stood transfixed with astonishment.  The stallion blazed like white fire.  A golden spiral horn thrust from his forehead.  Atop the unicorn, clutching a green shield with silver oak crest, rode an elf lord.  He was beautiful enough to wring the heart and leave an undying ache.  His face, expressionless and closed, seemed barely out of childhood’s shadow, but his eyes were darkened by an ancient soul.  Wonder made me gape
as I drank him in.

His
hand glinted with what might have been a pilgrim ring. He never slowed the unicorn, or gave heed to the weapon in my fist.  Focused as he was on some unseen goal, I was not sure he even saw me in his way.  I threw myself aside, my arm and side smacking the cobbles.  I rolled clear of sharp hooves, my thoughts whirling.  I had heard of elves in my Grandmama’s tales, but had never encountered one in the flesh.  I could have done without the proud reality.

I picked myself up, rubbing my forearm.  I would soon have a new bruise from the tumble.  I considered my options: if the elf was on the same errand, pursuing vengeance, I might want to journey the same path
was taking, for he seemed to know where he was going.  But I was afoot.  And it might be better to find my own way, and not chance a misstep or a trap
.