Land of Shadows (The Legend of the Gate Keeper Book 1) (3 page)

The Dronin just smiled as Morcel sprinted towards the pile of weapons as if he might get stuck without one. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as almost all remained untouched. He picked up a large, rusty axe and banged it loudly against the stone floor several times to make sure it would not crack in half the first time it hit anything solid.
Well, it’s better than a tree branch, I suppose.

The Dronin calmly walked up and grabbed two rusty short swords out of the pile. He then tossed them up in the air and caught them on the backs of his wrists. There he balanced them for a while, seemingly to decide whether or not the balance was any good, or at least to decide how to compensate for the imbalance.

“When that gate opens, we cut through whatever is in our path until we can take the center of the arena. Then we go back to back. On your word you must parry all blows coming from your side, and I swear to do the same. We cannot dodge any or we will risk injury to the other. Agreed?”

The Dronin just smiled and bowed his head. “Whatever be getting me back to me family. I swear on both our lives, as they now be joined.”

Then, all of a sudden, a loud, grinding sound could be heard from the large metal door just beside the wooden one. What started as a crack of light at the base grew into a blinding flash of sunlight as the door began to rise. Everyone squinted at the brightness, trying to get their eyes adjusted as daylight came flooding through. Flower petals of all different colors could be seen fluttering down across the doorway. Reds and blues fluttered down like a rainbow of butterflies. The crowd roared in response to the open door. This is what they had all come to see.

“This is it. Let’s go!” Morcel boomed in his deep voice. He was the first to run through the open gate. Sprinting through the shower of petals, he could feel his new friend just behind him, and to his surprise, a few others just a few short steps behind them, screaming battle cries of their own. It seemed others wanted to live as well.

The crowd roared like a raging waterfall, and Morcel found himself caught up in the energy of the mob. Twirling his axe over his head, he could not help but think,
I will not die this day!

Chapter 2

The rain came down in sheets, battering the rooftops and pounding against the large wooden fence that surrounded the town of Denark. The gusting winds drove the rain sideways for brief moments before dying down, only to pummel the area with hail mixed with the already heavy rain.

The guards manning the main gate paced back and forth across the top of the fence on a platform just large enough for two men to pass side by side.

This time of night there were only two guards on duty. Each of them was wearing gray leather armor adorned with a red eagle on the chest piece. The various flags displayed around the fence also bore the red eagle that was synonymous with the town of Denark.

Both men wore matching gray hooded cloaks to protect them from the storm. Being completely soaked, the cloaks did little to provide warmth, but did help shield from the stinging raindrops that felt like gravel being thrown every time the wind picked up. Each carried torches that came with metal shielding around the flame to help deal with weather conditions such as these. Even with the shielding, one or the other torch seemed to keep going out in the hurricane-like conditions, while the man with the remaining lit torch would use his to light the other. So far, keeping the torches lit had been the biggest peril they had faced this evening. No travelers seemed to be on the roads this night. Not that many would be out at this hour anyway, but with the current weather conditions, they expected the night to be uneventful.

“How much longer are they going to leave us out here?” asked Oben through his thick blond beard and mustache as he pulled the hood over his face as far as he could.

The other man just grunted as they passed each other for what seemed to be the thousandth time tonight. Grend was a tall man with a thick black beard and long black hair tied back into a ponytail. A veteran guard, he had seen much worse conditions than this, and was not about to complain just to complain.

Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating everything in a blinding flash. For a brief second, the rows of trees close to the main gate bent unnaturally in the swirling winds.

Oben seemed to be really struggling to keep his torch lit, constantly trying to shield the sickly flame by covering it with his hood, bringing his face very close to it while at the same time trying to keep his back to the wind. If the flame were to suddenly gain strength, he would surely lose an eyebrow. But the possibility of that seemed quite slim, given the extreme elements.

Grend was now leaning on the edge of the rail with his torch held low so as not to get it slammed by the incoming combination of rain and hail. Another flash of lightning split the sky, and Grend almost jumped out of his skin. Right in front of the main gate, where he just so happened to be staring into the dark, appeared a dark, hooded figure. It only became visible during the flash and then was swallowed up by the blackness once more. He waved frantically to Oben, not really wanting to call out. It seemed that his friend was still losing a mighty battle with his torch, and not paying attention to much else.

Thunder boomed a split second later and it gave Grend the courage he needed to call to his companion. “Oben. Oben,” came the forced whisper as he waved a hand frantically in his companion’s direction.

“What is it?” came the annoyed reply as the struggling man’s eyes remained fixed on his torch. Protecting the precious flame was clearly the only thing on his mind.

“Come here,” said Grend, whispering as loud as a whisper could be and still be called a whisper.

Now he had Oben’s attention. The guard trotted over to him, still protecting his precious torch from nature’s onslaught as best as he could. Following Grend’s gaze, he glanced down at the road down below, squinting hard in the dark to try to see what his friend was looking at.

As if right on cue, several flashes of lightning lit up the sky one after another, revealing the cloaked figure waiting patiently in front of the gate. There was no horse to be seen, which was rather unusual, considering that the nearest smaller towns were still miles away, and even more unusual given the weather. No face could be seen, as the black, drooping hood covered the figure’s head completely, and the long, flowing black robe covered his whole body down to the ground, making it so that not even his feet could be seen. The only obvious clothing other than the black robe was a belt that housed daggers in plain sight on each hip. The cloaked man stood with his arms crossed in a nonthreatening manner.

Oben was speechless. He just stared at the dark figure as his hand wandered instinctively towards his sword opposite the hand holding the torch.

Grend had seen many things in his years of service, and decided not to be so fast to pass judgment. This man’s business had to be urgent, to come out in this storm. “Who goes there? State your business,” he called in a shaky voice.

A few seconds passed before the dark figure slowly reached a hand deep into his robe.

Now Grend found himself unconsciously fingering his sword handle at the unnerving movement.

Just as slowly as the figure reached into his robe, he withdrew a small bag that appeared to be a coin purse. He slowly held it up towards the two soldiers. Another few seconds went by before the dark figure began to shake the bag back and forth, seemingly to verify its contents and dispel the guards’ doubts with the familiar jingling sound of coin.

Lightning crackled across the sky again, followed almost immediately by booming thunder. The rain began to drive sideways again, which made both soldiers squint as tiny, stinging drops hit them in the face.

Grend was the first to compose himself. He shook off the onslaught, only to look down and see the figure was no longer holding the coin purse, just standing patiently, his arms folded once again in that same nonthreatening manner. “Bah...let the freak in,” grumbled Grend as he regained his nerve and walked over to one of the wooden wheels on the north side of the passage. He quickly gestured to Oben to man the one on the other side.

Oben, who was still a bit shaken, walked as fast as possible without actually running to the other wheel. The metal gate was not heavy, but did require two men to turn two separate wheels at once to open it.

The flimsy metal gate was more fit for keeping livestock out than for actual protection of the city. It was only closed at night anyway, which always made Grend wonder why, since their instructions were to let folk come and go as they please
. I
suppose having to turn these bloody wheels a couple times a night justifies our
compensation
. With the gate now open, the dark figure drifted through as the two soldiers looked down at him from the other side of the narrow walkway.

Oben shivered, looking at the unnatural grace with which the cloaked stranger moved. The head, which was perfectly level and did no bobbing at all while he moved, combined with the long robe that did not display any legs or feet, gave the appearance of a specter floating along the street. The dark figure did not appear to be particularly tall, but it was hard to tell from this height. The guard shivered again and grumbled something about the cold as both guards took positions at their wheels and closed the gate.

The stranger walked down the main street where most of the trade shops were. Made of a combination of clay and sand, it was packed down tight from decades of use by wagon wheels, horses, and literally thousands of merchants throughout the years. This was partly the reason why there were deep puddles everywhere. The rainwater did not easily seep into the rock-hard dirt road. The cloaked figure continued right down the middle of the street, not even avoiding the larger puddles, just walking in a line straight as an arrow with his head down and arms crossed. He passed a local armory, the bakery, and the weaponsmith’s shop, all which were closed for the night. However, none of these establishments drew the interest of the stranger. He continued to walk through the driving rain, seeming oblivious to the lightning that flashed again and again and was followed by earsplitting thunder. He only encountered one person, who ran off without paying the cloaked figure much attention.

The only places still open this time of night were the few taverns and whorehouses in Denark. One was hardly distinguishable from the other. It was more a preference of name rather than services rendered, as any place that served liquor had its share of whores as well, and vice versa.

One such establishment was known as “The Bleeding Duck.” It
was unusually slow tonight due to the weather. Topless waitresses walked around serving drinks to the usual rough lot that graced that establishment almost every night. The patrons would show up in the middle of an earthquake if necessary; a little rain meant nothing. It would take a lot more than that to stop this group from getting their poison.

The room was brightly lit with the many lanterns hung around the room. Yellow and white stripes running down the wallpaper gave the place an innocent feel. Five small, round, wooden tables complete with four plain wooden chairs apiece were the extent of the furniture. A worn-out staircase led up to the second level, where rooms could be rented for the night or by the hour if so wished. The heads of different game animals were spread around the room high on the walls, with wooden plaques holding up the trophies. A bear’s head was the most obvious, with a few strange creatures mixed in. One looked like a deer head but had three small horns and unusually large eyes.

Vega, a large, bald, heavyset man, stood behind the bar, pretending to clean off glass mugs with his apron as he stood under the bear’s head. Considering how filthy his apron was, it was a good thing he was only half-heartedly going through the motions while his attention remained where it always was: Looking out for his girls as they paraded around in next to nothing, and in other cases nothing.

Most of the girls carried a dagger somewhere on them, whether tied to the sides of their thongs or in leather sheaths tied to their lower legs. There were not many places to conceal such a thing, but that wasn’t really the point. Having a weapon in plain view made each of them seem like less of a target for some of the vile men they were forced to deal with. And maybe, more importantly, it made Vega feel better.

As he continued pretending to be busy, he watched his girls getting pinched and groped by the group of leathers in the far corner, who were the only customers remaining this time of night. He had learned long ago when to act or just let things be. For one, his girls could take care of themselves, and knew how to defuse any situation that got out of hand. One thing that was a little harder for him to accept was the simple fact that many of his girls liked the attention, and really had no limits at all when it came to making coin. He wasn’t jealous exactly, it was just that he had a daughter of his own and simply could not imagine her working in a place like this or being treated like a sexual toy. Most of his girls came from broken homes and had nowhere else to go. Some were severely abused, and he took them under his wing and cared for them like his own daughters, but at the end of the day they had to make their own choices, and all he could do was offer employment and protection.

When he opened The Bleeding Duck
oh so many years ago, he had been young and brash. Sure, he had sampled many of the girls he’d hired, but as Vega got older, he regretted a lot of the choices he had made.
No sense living in the past
.

The group of four leathers had one of the girls bent over the table. She was being cheered on by the others to the sound of clapping and whistling. Her trained moans made the leather who was using her services feel like a king, but all the while her smile was quite genuine, thinking of the coin her performance would earn her.

In between cheers for their friend, the three who were not as occupied were telling their same stories again: of the time they raided the town of Brinton and slaughtered every family that held residence. Of course, their version of the tale had them meeting stiff resistance, with them prevailing from insurmountable odds as wave after wave of trained solders were sent to the afterlife by their blades.

The girls stood around the table and listened intently, as though they had not heard the story a hundred times already. Ignoring the hands rubbing all over them as they oohed and aahed at just the right moments, they raised their hands to their faces in feigned excitement so as to seem completely spellbound by the thrilling tale.

Then one of the girls let out a short-breathed gasp, one that had nothing to do with her being penetrated harshly by the storyteller’s finger as she sat on his lap. There was another figure in the room, which nobody had seen or even heard come in. The dark-robed man was sitting at a table opposite the group, with his arms crossed and his black hood worn low over his face. The whole group eyed the stranger anxiously while remaining silent as mice. The cloaked figure did not move a muscle or even seem to breathe.

The leather who had been doing most of the talking was a large man with a thick, red beard. He leaned forward on the table, being the first to break the silence. “Hey there, stranger, can’t you see we’re closed?” he said a little more timidly than he had intended, which took some of the bite out of his attempt to appear tough.

The dark figure didn’t say a word or even move a muscle as the tension became so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Clearing his throat after his awkward attempt for humor, the leather looked to his friends for some sort of support. “Whatever happened to Will? He was supposed to meet us here over an hour ago,” he said when the silence became unbearable. Not that he cared why his friend didn’t show up. He might have gone home with one of the whores for all anyone knew. He was just trying to get some conversation going to help distract from the hooded figure he was suddenly sorry to have ever spoken to.