The Shattered Gates Read online

  The Shattered Gates

  Book One of The Rifter

  Ginn Hale

  Blind Eye Books

  Bellingham, WA

  The Shattered Gates

  Book One of the Rifter

  By Ginn Hale

  Published by:

  Blind Eye Books

  1141 Grant Street

  Bellingham, WA 98225

  blindeyebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Nicole Kimberling

  Cover art, maps and all illustrations by Dawn Kimberling

  Proofreading by Jemma Everyhope

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and situations depicted are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are coincidental.

  First edition March 2011

  Copyright © 2011 Ginn Hale

  ISBN 978-1-935560-01-2

  Arc One: The Palace of the Day in the Kingdom of the Night

  Chapter One

  The letter wasn’t addressed to John. The return address, however, was his. Not that he had sent the letter. He would never have mailed anything off without a zip code, and he certainly wouldn’t have wasted postage attempting to contact “The Palace of the Day in the Kingdom of the Night.”

  But his roommate Kyle would have.

  John frowned at the yellowed parchment envelope and the gothic letters scrawled across it. A blood-red droplet of sealing wax clung to the back of the letter like a wad of chewing gum on the underside of a school desk. As John turned the letter back over, he noticed faint watermarks on the envelope. Crescent moons.

  John could almost see the mailman rolling his eyes as he tossed the letter into the mailbox along with a heap of bills, sale flyers, pizza coupons, and a glossy new underwear catalog.

  He wandered back to the kitchen sink, pulled the trashcan out, and dropped the flyers and coupons into the mire of orange peels and coffee grounds. He paused a moment to consider the catalog.

  Tanned men in an assortment of absurdly small briefs grinned up at John from the pages. What little clothing the models displayed was tawdry and over-priced. Still, he lingered on a spread of muscular bodies until their waxed chests and fixed gazes reminded him too much of store mannequins. Then he dropped the underwear catalog into the recycling bin and returned to the mysterious letter.

  He turned the envelope over, feeling the uneven mass of the enclosed contents. It felt small and heavy, like a key. John traced the hard outline, almost embossing the shape into the sealed envelope. It was definitely a key. A house key. Probably the key to this very house.

  He hadn’t seen his roommate for two weeks, not since the awkward night that they had recognized each other through the crowd of half-dressed men roving the Steamworks bathhouse. John could still remember Kyle’s expression, how it had shifted from something like appreciation to horror when he seemed to realize that John was staring back at him. Then Kyle had disappeared. Just vanished, as if he’d only been a trick of the dim light, and John hadn’t seen him since.

  Which was fine, John supposed. He was a private man himself, and he could understand the desire to keep one’s personal life secret, but rent was due tomorrow.

  John gazed at the envelope, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It would have been like his socially awkward roommate to work out some weird way to return the house key without actually having to tell John face to face.

  With an absent push from his foot, John shoved the trashcan back beneath the sink.

  Assuming this was Kyle’s house key, Kyle’s half of the rent was going to be hard to scrape together. And if it wasn’t Kyle’s key? John shook the envelope and considered how he would explain opening his roommate’s mail.

  Kyle obviously hated any kind of intrusion into his privacy. When he had first moved into the house, he fitted his bedroom door with a heavy iron padlock that looked like a prop from a pirate movie. Nothing of Kyle’s decorated the living room, kitchen, or hall. No books, photos, posters, CDs, or tapes. In the bathroom, the only hint of his presence was a red travel toothbrush and a bar of soap. Oddly, the soap was still in its paper wrapper and had been from the first day that he moved in. He kept his dishes and food in a locked cupboard, protected from the bad influence of John’s packages of instant noodles and peanut butter.

  Sometimes John would look at Kyle and simply could not understand how he functioned.

  Returning to the letter, John studied the wax seal. He supposed he could use a heated razor blade to slice through and then stick the seal back down with glue. Immediately, John imagined Kyle holding the letter few inches below his sharp nose and taking in a strong, suspicious whiff. It was the kind of thing Kyle would do.

  Freezing the letter might weaken the seal. Or John could try cutting the top of the envelope itself and then gluing it back up. He would have to carefully line up the edges—and there was still the problem of the lingering smell of most adhesives.

  “Screw it.” John ripped the letter open and dropped the key out into the palm of his hand.

  It was not the house key.

  It looked like the key to Kyle’s room: gold and decorated with moons and etched with some faint script.

  John stared at it for a few moments, trying to figure out why Kyle would send anyone the key to his room. He supposed that he might as well read the enclosed letter since he had already opened the envelope. Maybe it would offer him an insight into Kyle’s strange appearance and odd behavior.

  For a moment, he wondered if he really wanted to know more. There was a certain ease to simply not knowing what Kyle was thinking while watching him slink up the stairs, dressed in a heavy black leather coat, carrying lethal-looking knives and a bundle of cloth as long as a human arm. John wasn’t sure if he was prepared for a deeper insight into Kyle’s inner workings.

  But he was so puzzling that John couldn’t help being fascinated by him.

  He wasn’t bad looking. He stood nearly as tall as John but with a leaner musculature. His dark eyes and full mouth softened his otherwise sharp, angular features. He would have been handsome if weren’t for the scar that sliced out from either side of his mouth, back almost to his ears. How did a guy get a scar like that? And that scar was only one of several that cut across Kyle’s body like red interstate lines on a road atlas. Then there was his long, black hair and the tiny black symbols tattooed across the backs of his hands and his eyelids.

  Who, in his right mind, got his eyelids tattooed? How did he ever get a job with tattooed eyelids? For that matter, what did he do for a living?

  He claimed to be a milkman, but John didn’t believe him.

  And what about the two black-bladed knives he always carried? What about the sword?

  John decided that the weapons alone might justify reading this one letter. He pulled it out and unfolded it. The entire page of parchment was blank except for a single word.

  It said: “Don’t.”

  Chapter Two

  The night wind slashed through the black branches of the trees, ripping off spring blossoms and young leaves. It swept over Kahlil, tugging at his braided hair and whipping through the folds of his coat. He drew in a deep breath. The bristling energy of the rising storm filled his lungs. Heavy violet clouds churned overhead.

  A low reverberation cracked across the sky. It could have been thunder, but Kahlil knew it wasn’t. The smell of gunpowder suddenly hit the air. If they were lucky up in the convent, the rain would break before the fires could spread. Not that he had the luxury to worry about the nuns. He was still a long way from safety himself.

  Kahlil bolted from the cover o
f the trees. He leapt across an irrigation channel and sprinted for the apple grove. His pack rocked against his back, settling uncomfortably against his scabbard. Behind him siege mortars roared again, and he heard a crash as the timbers of the temple gate exploded. The smell of burning wood rushed over him on a warm wind. With it came the quick cracks of line after line of artillerymen opening fire.

  “It’s not them guns that kills ya,” a soft voice whispered from his pack, “an’ it ain’t they bullets neither.”

  “It’s the holes that kill you more than either.” Kahlil only mouthed the words, not needing to give them voice when speaking to the bones.

  Nestled safely inside his pack, the bones gave out a silent laugh.

  Kahlil picked his way between the black trees. The overhanging branches of the apple orchard blocked the distant light of the burning convent. Above him, the first soft patters of rain began to fall. Soon the wet ground would make it hard to keep up his pace and his footing.

  “Runnin’ dead, down a hill,” the bones whispered, “smokin’ temple at you back.”

  “Little ghost caught a chill, rode it out inside a sack,” Kahlil answered silently.

  Again he felt the tiny shaking motions of mirth. Skeletal fingers petted him through the heavy leather of his pack and coat. The icy sensation pierced down to his bare flesh.

  At the edge of the grove, an open expanse of road wound up toward the convent. A few yards further on, Kahlil saw a match flare briefly as one soldier offered another a light for his cigarette. They stood close, protecting the flame from the rain.

  For a moment their faces were illuminated, expressions soft and relaxed. The chinstraps of their helmets hung loose. Their rifle barrels pointed over their shoulders, still strapped to their backs. Their coats looked crisp, probably still staining the shirts below with new red dye. Probably neither of them had seen action yet.

  “Two only,” the bones whispered. “Cut they throats and share they smokes with me.”

  Kahlil shook his head.

  “Idiot,” came the response. He felt the weak impact at his back as a bony little fist swatted him. “They shoot yous up against a wall someday.”

  “They could call every red ant in their army down on us,” Kahlil mouthed.

  “Look out. There’s one behind yous.”

  Kahlil turned slowly, keeping his body close to the trunk of a tree. The sky glowed dimly behind the tangled black silhouettes of branches and trunks. The soldier paced in and out of the trees’ cover. He didn’t bother to hide his patrol. None of the Fai’daum forces were expecting trouble this far down the hill.

  Their siege mortars, godhammers, and experienced soldiers were all deployed against the convent walls. Down here fresh recruits were only catching first impressions of war: distant screams, faint enough to mistake for insect sounds, and the thick scent of smoke. From here the vast walls of the Umbhra’ibaye were just black silhouettes, outlined in yellow flames.

  As the patrolling soldier tromped forward, Kahlil noticed the pale dog that followed him. The big yellow animal kept low in the shadows and moved cautiously, catching scents and pausing to listen. Its eyes glinted in the dimness of the surrounding grove. The dog stopped and bent its head down, drawing in a deep breath of the moist ground.

  “I smell bones,” the dog growled.

  Tiny finger bones clutched at Kahlil’s shoulder blades.

  The soldier turned back.

  “Bones?” the soldier asked.

  Kahlil’s hands dropped to the hilts of his knives.

  “Oracle bones.” The dog lifted its head and drew in a deep breath.

  “Are you sure?” The soldier stared down at the patch of earth as if he expected to see some sign of the scent.

  “Kills it now!” the bones whispered.

  He closed his eyes, concentrating on the cold, deadly space that ran beneath the warm, living world. With a flick of his wrist, he opened a seam and slipped into the Gray Space. From the distant gunfire to the tiny buzz of night insects, every sound went dead. Absolute silence enfolded him. Kahlil opened his eyes, and the shadows and rambling, wild branches of the surrounding trees returned to him. But now they were only pale gray forms. The ground and sky alike assumed the colorless flatness of mist.

  Kahlil slid his knives from their sheaths. The blades were black as chasms cut from a starless sky. Then he threw himself forward. The misty forms of overhanging branches split and scattered as he plunged through them. Trees blew aside in wisps.

  The soldier turned, frowning slightly, scanning the darkness. Perhaps he felt a chill move over him. Perhaps his eyes focused momentarily on Kahlil as he dropped out of the Gray Space and drove his knife into the soldier’s throat.

  Kahlil released the hilt immediately, and let his black curse-blade corrode the soldier’s flesh.

  He lunged for the dog. It sprang to his right and then leapt for his throat. He twisted aside but not fast enough. The dog slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Searing teeth sank into his shoulder, jerked back, tore through his arm. His shoulder screamed as skin and muscle ripped.

  The dog’s eyes glowed brilliantly, and Kahlil felt the slithering sickness of a witch’s curse wriggling from her lips into his torn flesh. He drove his second knife into the dog’s neck. A hot gush of blood poured over his hand as he forced the blade across the animal’s throat. The dog’s jaw clenched down into his shoulder, as the animal choked on blood and half-formed curses. Then it went silent and suddenly collapsed on top of him.

  He dragged in a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain of his bloody shoulder and then shoved the limp weight of the dog off his body. He lay still, listening for the sound of more soldiers approaching. But he heard no one.

  The sharp jab in his back reminded him of the bones. He rolled onto his side. The pack wriggled. Then the bones slithered free, crawling along the ground on intricately carved forearms and narrow ribs. Countless incantations had long ago been etched into every bone, binding a soul and its power to the ivory remains. Gilded holy symbols and sacred spells crowned the child-sized skull. It lolled slightly to the side, hanging on the copper wires that held the small skeleton together.

  The bones spread their tiny fingers and gripped the dog’s corpse. Carefully, they felt their way through the thick fur up to the open gash of the throat. Then the bones dug into the wound, climbing into the dead body.

  The damp ground and soft patter of falling rain soothed Kahlil’s skin. He curled his hand over his bloodied shoulder and waited while the bones put on their new animal body. At least he wouldn’t have to carry them anymore. That was good. He tried not to think of anything else.

  “Layin’ on a ground, sleepin’ in a stable, wake up an’ run while yous is able.” The words rolled over him with a strong animal smell.

  Kahlil looked over. The dog bared its teeth in a feral smile. The wounds in its throat knit closed as he watched, leaving only a stain of blood behind. The dog stretched and yawned.

  “Sleepin’ in an oven,” the dog whispered, “sleepin’ in a pan.”

  “Sleep through a war,” Kahlil replied silently, “wake up a dead man.”

  The dog snorted at the response. “Yous gotta move, or them ants’ll eat yous live.”

  “I know, I know.” Kahlil forced himself up to his knees and then struggled to his feet. Moving slowly and deliberately, he retrieved his knives, then took the dead soldier’s coat. Deep burning pain flooded from his shoulder down through his right arm. The witch hadn’t completed her curse, but the remnants of her profane words still twitched in his open wound. He didn’t bother to slide his injured arm into the coat but just pulled it over his shoulders. The wet wool felt like something dead draped over him. It smelled worse.

  When he and the dog strode across the road, the two soldiers on patrol farther up just waved, mistaking him and the bones for the dead bodies they had left behind. Kahlil returned the gesture with his left arm. Then the two other men returned to their con
versation. Kahlil walked carefully, mimicking the dead soldier’s disinterested, ambling pace. He continued down the road a few yards and then crossed into the uncultivated woods on the other side.

  He continued walking slowly, pacing himself, holding off his exhaustion and pain with a steady focus. He concentrated on each step. When his legs weakened and he stumbled, the muscular body of the dog pressed against him. He steadied and kept walking.

  The woods thickened, and the sky slowly grew lighter. At some point Kahlil noticed that the soldier’s coat had slipped off. He didn’t bother to look for it. Suddenly, the dog stopped. Kahlil stumbled forward a few steps in a daze; then, his hand brushed against a smooth stone surface. Relief washed through him.

  A ring of huge marble stones rose up from the forest floor like yellowed teeth. They reached to the treetops. At their center was a pool. The dog padded between the two closest stones, and Kahlil followed it into the water.

  The inner faces of the stones shone as if they had been polished. Clear reflections rolled and broke across the water’s surface as Kahlil waded to the deep center where the dog waited. The water lapped around his waist. Beside him, the dog paddled, holding its head above the surface. Sluggish ribbons of blood floated out from its fur.

  “Hurrys up, or yous gonna have a drown puppy whens yous gets there.”

  Finally, he drew his sword. It was heavy and plain. Only the single black image of an eye marked the pommel. Kahlil threw his weight onto his left arm and drove the blade down through the water and into the earth below him.

  “Here is your son, holding his key. Open these doors before me.” He turned the sword in a half circle, twisting it like a key in a lock. The weight of water and silt flowed against it. Then, suddenly, it sank straight down into the waters.

  Kahlil clenched his eyes shut. The Prayerscars over his eyes seared white-hot lines into his darkness. He pushed the air out of his lungs and dived down into the waters after the sword.