The King Beyond the Gate

  THE BLIND PROPHET

  The mystic’s head lifted, and he faced the two men. “I seek the Torchbearer,” he said, his voice a dry whisper. “I have a message.”

  Scaler moved forward to crouch at the man’s side. “I seek the truth,” he said. He dropped a coin into the mystic’s palm.

  “Of Bronze you sprang, haunted and hunted. Kin to shadow, never resting, never silent. You will stand when others flee. And yet the Torchbearer is not here …”

  “Give me the message, old man,” Tenaka interrupted. “I will pass it on.”

  “Dark Templars ride against the Prince of Shadows. He cannot hide, for the torch is bright. The beasts can fall, but only the King Beyond the Gate can bring them down.”

  “Is that all?” asked Tenaka.

  “You are the Torchbearer.”

  By David Gemmell

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  LION OF MACEDON

  DARK PRINCE

  ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG

  KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN

  MORNINGSTAR

  DARK MOON

  IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER

  THE HAWK ETERNAL

  THE DRENAI SAGA

  LEGEND

  THE KING BEYOND THE GATE

  QUEST FOR LOST HEROES

  WAYLANDER

  IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF

  THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND

  THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER

  WINTER WARRIORS

  HERO IN THE SHADOWS

  WHITE WOLF

  THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY

  THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE

  GHOST KING

  LAST SWORD OF POWER

  WOLF IN SHADOW

  THE LAST GUARDIAN

  BLOODSTONE

  THE RIGANTE

  SWORD IN THE STORM

  MIDNIGHT FALCON

  RAVENHEART

  STORMRIDER

  TROY

  LORD OF THE SILVER BOW

  SHIELD OF THUNDER

  FALL OF KINGS

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1985 by David A. Gemmell

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Originally published in Great Britain by Century, an imprint of Random House UK Ltd, in 1985.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79748-3

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated with love to my children, Kathryn and Luke, as a small return for the gift of their company.

  Acknowledgments

  WITHOUT THE HELP of friends there would be no joy in writing. Many thanks to Tom Taylor for his help with the story, Stella Graham for the proofreading, and Jean Maund for the copyediting. Thanks also to Gary, Russ, Barbara, Philip, George, John D., Jimmy, Angela, Jo, Lee, and Iona and all the staff of the Hastings Observer who created the good years.

  And to Ross Lempriere for storming the stairs.

  Prologue

  THE TREES WERE laced with snow, and the forest lay waiting below him like a reluctant bride. For some time he stood among the rocks and boulders, scanning the slopes. Snow gathered on his fur-lined cloak and on the crown of his wide-brimmed hat, but he ignored it, as he ignored the cold seeping through his flesh and numbing his bones. He could have been the last man alive on a dying planet.

  He half wished that he were.

  At last, satisfied that there were no patrols, he moved down from the mountainside, placing his feet carefully on the treacherous slopes. His movements were slow, and he knew the cold to be a growing danger. He needed a campsite and a fire.

  Behind him the Delnoch range reared under thickening clouds. Before him lay Skultik forest, an area of dark legend, failed dreams, and childhood memories.

  The forest was silent, save for the occasional crack of dry wood as thickening ice probed the branches or the silky rushing of snow falling from overburdened boughs.

  Tenaka turned to look at his footprints. Already the sharp edges of his tracks were blurring, and within minutes they would be gone. He pushed on, his thoughts sorrowful, his memories jagged.

  He made camp in a shallow cave away from the wind and lit a small fire. The flames gathered and grew, red shadow dancers swaying on the cave walls. Removing his woolen gloves, he rubbed his hands above the blaze; then he rubbed his face, pinching the flesh to force the blood to flow. He wanted to sleep, but the cave was not yet warm enough.

  The Dragon was dead. He shook his head, and closed his eyes. Ananais, Decado, Elias, Beltzer. All dead. Betrayed because they believed in honor and duty above all else. Dead because they believed that the Dragon was invincible and that good must ultimately triumph.

  Tenaka shook himself awake, adding thicker branches to the fire.

  “The Dragon is dead,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the cave. How strange, he thought. The words were true, yet he did not believe them.

  He gazed at the fire shadows, seeing again the marbled halls of his palace in Ventria. There was no fire there, only the gentle cool of the inner rooms, the cold stone keeping at bay the strength-sapping heat of the desert sun. Soft chairs and woven rugs; servants bearing jugs of iced wine, carrying buckets of precious water to feed his rose garden and ensure the beauty of his flowering trees.

  The messenger had been Beltzer. Loyal Beltzer, the finest bar-ranking warrior in the wing.

  “We are summoned home, sir,” he had said, standing ill at ease in the wide library, his clothes sand-covered and travel-stained. “The rebels have defeated one of Ceska’s regiments in the north, and Baris has issued the call personally.”

  “How do you know it was Baris?”

  “His seal, sir. His personal seal. And the message: ’The Dragon calls.” ’

  “Baris has not been seen for fifteen years.”

  “I know that, sir. But his seal …”

  “A lump of wax means nothing.”

  “It does to me, sir.”

  “So you will go back to Drenai?”

  “Yes, sir. And you?”

  “Back to what, Beltzer? The land is in ruins. The Joinings are undefeatable. And who knows what foul, sorcerous powers will be ranged against the rebels? Face it, man! The Dragon was disbanded fifteen years ago, and we are all older men. I was one of the younger officers, and I am now forty. You must be nearer fifty—if the Dragon still survived, you would be in your pension year.”

  “I know that,” Beltzer said, drawing himself stiffly to attention. “But honor calls. I have spent my life serving the Drenai, and now I cannot refuse the call.”

  “I can,” said Tenaka. “The cause is lost. Give Ceska time and he will destroy himself. He is mad. The whole system is falling apart.”

  “I am not good with words, sir. I have ridden two hundred miles to deliver the message. I came seeking the man I served, but he is not here. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Listen, Beltzer!” Tenaka said, as the warrior turned for the door. “If there was the smallest chance of success, I would go with you gladly. But the thing reeks of defeat.”

  “Do you not think I know that? That we all know it?” said Beltzer. And then he was gone.

  The wind changed and veered into the cave, gusting snow to the fire. Tenaka cursed softly. Drawing his sword, he went outside, cutting down two thick bushes and dragging them back to screen the entrance.

  As the months had passed, he had forgotten the Dragon. He had estates to minister, matters of
importance in the real world.

  Then Illae had fallen sick. He had been in the north, arranging cover patrols to guard the spice route, when word had reached him, and he had hurried home. The physicians said that she had a fever that would pass and that there was no cause for concern. But her condition worsened. Lung blight, they told him. Her flesh melted away until at last she lay in the wide bed, her breathing ragged, her once beautiful eyes shining with the image of death. Day after day he sat beside her, talking, praying, begging her not to die.

  And then she had rallied, and his heart leapt. She had been talking to him about her plans for a party and had stopped to consider whom to invite.

  “Go on,” he had said. But she was gone. Just like that. Ten years of shared memories, hopes, and joys vanished like water on the desert sand.

  He had lifted her from the bed, stopping to wrap her in a white woolen shawl. Then he had carried her into the rose garden, holding her to him.

  “I love you,” he kept saying, kissing her hair and cradling her like a child. The servants had gathered, saying nothing, until after an hour two of them had come forward and separated them, leading the weeping Tenaka to his room. There he found the sealed scroll that listed the current state of his business investments, and beside it a letter from Estas, his accountant. Those letters contained advice about areas of investment, with sharp political insights into places to ignore, exploit, or consider.

  Unthinkingly he had opened the letter, scanning the list of Vagrian settlements, Lentrian openings, and Drenai stupidities until he came to the last sentences:

  Ceska routed the rebels south of the Sentran Plain. It appears he has been bragging about his cunning again. He sent a message summoning old soldiers home; it seems he has feared the Dragon since he disbanded it fifteen years ago. Now his fears are behind him—they were destroyed to a man. The Joinings are terrifying. What sort of world are we living in?

  “Living?” Tenaka said. “No one is living—they are all dead.”

  He stood up and walked to the western wall, stopping before an oval mirror and gazing at the ruin of his life.

  His reflection stared back at him, the slanted violet eyes accusing, the tight-lipped mouth bitter and angry.

  “Go home,” said his reflection, “and kill Ceska.”

  1

  The barracks buildings stood shrouded in snow, the broken windows hanging open like old, unhealed wounds. The square once trodden flat by ten thousand men was now uneven as the grass pushed against the snow above it.

  The Dragon herself had been brutally treated: her stone wings smashed from her back, her fangs hammered to shards, and her face daubed with red dye. It seemed to Tenaka as he stood before her in silent homage that she was crying tears of blood.

  As Tenaka gazed at the square, memory flashed bright pictures to his mind: Ananais shouting commands to his men, contradictory orders that had them crashing into one another and tumbling to the ground.

  “You dung rats!” the blond giant bellowed. “Call yourselves soldiers?”

  The pictures faded against the ghostly white emptiness of reality, and Tenaka shivered. He moved to the well, where an old bucket lay, its handle still tied to a rotting rope. He dropped the bucket into the well and heard the ice break, then hauled it up and carried it to the Dragon.

  The dye was hard to shift, but he worked at it for almost an hour, scraping the last traces of red from the stone with his dagger.

  Then he jumped to the ground and looked at his handiwork.

  Even without the dye she looked pitiful, her pride broken. Tenaka thought once more of Ananais.

  “Maybe it is better you died rather than living to see this,” he said.

  It began to rain, icy needles that stung his face. Tenaka scooped his pack to his shoulder and ran for the deserted barracks. The door hung open, and he stepped inside the old officers’ quarters. A rat scurried into the dark as he passed, but Tenaka ignored it, pushing on to the wider rooms at the rear. He dumped his pack in his old room and then chuckled as he saw the fireplace: It was stacked with wood, the fire laid.

  On the last day, knowing that they were leaving, someone had come into his room and laid the fire.

  Decado, his aide?

  No. There was no romantic element in his makeup. He was a vicious killer, held in check only by the iron discipline of the Dragon and his own rigid sense of loyalty to the regiment.

  Who else?

  After a while he stopped scanning the faces his memory threw at him. He would never know.

  After fifteen years the wood should be dry enough to burn without smoke, he told himself, and placed fresh tinder below the logs. Soon the tongues of flame spread, and the blaze took hold.

  On a sudden impulse he moved to the paneled wall, seeking the hidden niche. Where once it had sprung open at the touch of a button, now it creaked on a rusted spring. Gently he prized open the paneling. Behind was a small recess created by the removal of a stone slab many years before the disbanding. On the back wall, in Nadir script, was written:

  Nadir we,

  Youth born,

  Bloodletters,

  Ax wielders,

  Victors still.

  Tenaka smiled for the first time in months, and some of the burden he carried was lifted from his soul. The years swept away, and he saw himself once more as a young man, fresh from the steppes, arriving to take up his commission with the Dragon, felt again the stares of his new brother officers and their scarcely veiled hostility.

  A Nadir prince in the Dragon? It was inconceivable; some even thought it obscene. But his was a special case.

  The Dragon had been formed by Magnus Woundweaver after the First Nadir War a century before, when the invincible warlord Ulric had led his hordes against the walls of Dros Delnoch, the most powerful fortress in the world, only to be turned back by the Earl of Bronze and his warriors.

  The Dragon was to be the Drenai weapon against future Nadir invasions.

  And then, like a nightmare come true—and while memories were still fresh of the Second Nadir War—a tribesman had been admitted to the regiment. Worse, he was a direct descendant of Ulric himself. And yet they had no choice but to allow him his saber.

  For he was Nadir only on his mother’s side.

  Through the line of his father he was the great-grandson of Regnak the Wanderer: the Earl of Bronze.

  It was a problem for those who yearned to hate him.

  How could they visit their hatred upon the descendant of the Drenai’s greatest hero? It was not easy for them, but they managed it.

  Goat’s blood was daubed on his pillow, scorpions hidden in his boots. Saddle straps were severed, and finally a viper was placed in his bed.

  It almost killed him as he rolled on it, its fangs sinking into his thigh. Snatching a dagger from his bedside table, he had killed the snake and then slashed a cross-cut by the fang marks, hoping the rush of blood would carry the venom clear. Then he lay very still, knowing any movement would accelerate the poison in his system. He heard footsteps in the corridor and knew it was Ananais, the officer of the guard, returning to his room after completing his shift.

  He did not want to call out, for he knew Ananais disliked him. But neither did he want to die! He called Ananais’ name, the door opened, and the blond giant stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  “I have been bitten by a viper,” said Tenaka.

  Ananais ducked under the doorway and approached the bed, pushing at the dead snake with his boot. Then he looked at the wound in Tenaka’s leg.

  “How long ago?” he asked.

  “Two, three minutes.”

  Ananais nodded. “The cuts aren’t deep enough.”

  Tenaka handed him the dagger.

  “No. If they were deep enough, you would sever the main muscles.”

  Leaning forward, Ananais put his mouth over the wound and sucked the poison clear. Then he applied a tourniquet and left to get the surgeon.

  Even with most of the poison f
lushed out, the young Nadir prince almost died. He sank into a coma that lasted four days, and when he awoke, Ananais was at his bedside.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t look it. Still, I am glad you’re alive.”

  “Thank you for saving me,” said Tenaka as the giant rose to leave.

  “It was a pleasure. But I still wouldn’t want you marrying my sister,” he said, grinning as he moved to the door. “By the way, three young officers were dismissed from the service yesterday. I think you can sleep soundly from now on.”

  “I shall never do that,” Tenaka said. “For the Nadir, that is the way of death.”

  “No wonder their eyes are slanted,” said Ananais.

  Renya helped the old man to his feet, then heaped snow on the small fire to kill the flames. The temperature plummeted as the storm clouds bunched above them, grim and threatening. The girl was frightened, for the old man had ceased shivering and now stood by the ruined tree, staring vacantly at the ground by his feet.

  “Come, Aulin,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist. “The old barracks are close by.”

  “No!” he wailed, pulling back. “They will find me there. I know they will.”

  “The cold will kill you,” she hissed. “Come on.”

  Meekly he allowed her to lead him through the snow. She was a tall girl and strong, but the going was tiring and she was breathing heavily as they pushed past the last screen of bushes before the Dragon Square.

  “Only a few more minutes,” she said. “Then you can rest.”

  The old man seemed to gain strength from the promise of shelter, and he shambled forward with greater speed. Twice he almost fell, but she caught him.

  She kicked open the door of the nearest building and helped him inside, removing her white woolen burnoose and running a hand through her sweat-streaked, close-cropped black hair.

  Away from the biting wind, she felt her skin burning as her body adjusted to the new conditions. She unbelted her white sheepskin cloak, pushing it back over her broad shoulders. Beneath it she wore a light blue woolen tunic and black leggings partially hidden by thigh-length boots, sheepskin-lined. At her side was a slender dagger.