Demon of the Black Gate

Three battlements were clustered on the north canyon wall, fashioned much like the heavy granite shoulders that held back the mountains. The towering fortifications nested with the jagged pillars that buttressed the great fang of rock, shaped and regally sculpted to stand sentry over the gate. Only a few stubborn pines and grasses were able to anchor in its stone. The chisled face of the northern guardian gazed benignly and eternally out to the plains of the East. His crown successfully disguised another battlement. A sword was held at the hilt, point thrust down, imbedded in a crest of jagged rock at the stone regent’s feet.

The trade route snaked along a low bench that hugged the river’s shore, a remnant of the old river bed, the rocks and silts cast ashore by the waters before coursing through the gap. The passage through the canyon was adequate for two, even three wagons abreast, and though the cliff walls reared close, the way was lined with grasses and waxy shrubs, torn at frequently by the beasts and herds of caravans that passed. At the gate, at the feet of the guardian king, the way narrowed around the towering stone that hugged the very edge of the river. Only two could ride abreast and the way was often wet from the spray of the surging river as it constricted through the jaws of the Gate. A single wagon or burdened camel would take the width. At the throat of the narrow passage, a great iron gate stood open. As a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a road is only as wide as its narrowest part. In some parts of the trade season, the traffic at the gate would back up in both directions.

The passage of caravans was arranged often with a great deal of negotiation by the agent of customs and lieutenant of the guard. In some ports, all of the offerings or downright bribes would have ended up in the hands of the customs official. However, at the Gate, the offerings and bribes were pooled or paid to more patient caravansai, who could afford to wait. Insurances and incentives were paid. The customs merely paid itself commissions and the system worked well. Many of the caravaners used the negotiations as part of their trip planning and profit. The plains outside the pass contained a permanent village of temporary tents as traders and caravaners waited their turn through the pass.

Rovinkar had seen the narrow defile in his journey to the Highlands, but not with this intent. The destruction of the Monument and subsequent militarism had made things tense at the Gate. Security was heightened and the passages of caravans slowed as the customs and troops took greater care with their assessments. There had been many caravans leaving from the Stands. Most were worried that the rumours of gathering imperial armies were true and wanted to be well along their routes before there was a clash. The customs had allowed passage out all day to clear the pastures and camps which lie nearly three leagues away near the other side of the canyon. When the Gate was open to pass in, Rovinkar let himself be hired as one of the porters in a small caravan also including mixed horse and camel. The lumbering pace of the camels gave him plenty of time to look about and explore his next move. Once the gate was passed, the journey continued along the deep canyon to the camp nestled in a oxbow pasture near the far end of the cut. Once past the Gate, fortifications dotted the route, enough so to be within sight of each other. He reasoned correctly that the installations were more designed to transmit messages than to reinforce the pass.

Rovinkar got papers for his return, as many porters did if they had none to hire their services leaving the Stands. The center of his efforts would be the Guardian, and he would have to be careful in making the marks he needed to begin his sorcery. It took many trips to finish the task. Each time he dared not make more than one or two marks lest he attract the attention of the troops stationed about. He placed marks as high as he could, sending his encoded pebbles aloft in the cliffs with a sling. The spell would be more haphazard that the one that brought down the Royal Shaft, but in view of that destruction, Rovinkar reasoned it was close enough.

On his last trip, Rovinkar bore the obsidian rock, swaddled in cloth and nestled among some goods on a pony’s back. Slipping the enchantment of the demon from the obsidian to the web of magic he had woven about the stone would be the trickiest part of his errand. Security was heightened as tension developed among the defenders of the Stands. He had waited to be the last of a few late travelers entering the Gate, and immediately held himself up. Just around the sharp narrow bend, the guard house could not be seen, and pressed to the steep walls, the bastions above would have little hope to spot him clearly. But he would not have long. He checked the feet of the pony for a moment should one of the party he had entered with turn with curiosity. Eyeing about carefully, there were no laggards or soldiers to be seen. Rovinkar quickly lifted the satchel containing the obsidian from the pack and laid it on the ground, flipping away its lashings careful not to touch the black stone. The air around it seemed slightly darker, an aura of shadow. A last furtive glance in each direction and he began his chants. Exposure now could be catastrophic as he intoned his spell. The markings took a glow and faded, one by one. The shadow surrounding the stone wavered, seeping away. The chant continued until the last mark, laid at his feet glimmered briefly then remained aglow, like an agate shot with gold. The demon was in place, set into a new stone. The last mark was the trigger, and pointed the direction to where Rovinkar would be waiting to recall the demon once the gate had fallen. His nerves were pent. The demon was loose of its cage again. Nothing must disturb its sleep.

He gathered up the rock and satchel swiftly. The stones weight and balance were different, but he didn’t dwell on it for he felt that any moment some sentry might peer around the corner or a change of guard suddenly advance upon him. With the obsidian safely stowed, Rovinkar reversed his steps with the pony, rounded the sharp bend and advanced on the open gate. His nerves tight, he expected to be stopped at any moment as he passed the gate; but the sentries and their officers were busy discussing the impending siege that was sure to be mere days away.

His work was complete, he waited in the camp. News was now circulating widely about an approaching army. The caravans at the east side of the gate were shaking out their tents and heading in their respective directions before the army held the ground. All their wares would be confiscated in the name of the imperial armies if they stayed. The west-bound caravans gathered the quickest, for they wanted to get to the Chain Lakes road before the army reached that point.

The Emerald River was crossed some five leagues distant, where the river made its turn to the Sultan Sea. There large bars of gravel broke up the channel, allowing pilings raised and the river bridged in three arches, the fabled Moon Bridge. The imperial army was advancing from the east, a longer but better managed route. They could avoid the Assai desert and the supply wagons were at less strain on the better roads. The Emperor had chosen the Emerald Road because it was shorter, and though the route crossed the Assai Desert, the legendary Vale of the Houri lay in the center of the route.

As expected, a force from the Plateau arrived to further reinforce the battlements. The iron gate had not been closed in decades, though its hinges and latches were attended to with oils and greases. It was just days before the army arrived that that last caravan and final train of porters loaded their burdens and left the camp for the interior of the Stands. For the first time in memory, the caravan camp lay vacant. Not a pole or scrap of paper remained. A small town had disappeared, save Rovinkar’s tent. The tan cloth of its wall merged with the sandy ground. It looked small and insignificant, but a new tent city would soon grow around it: the quarters of infantry and archers, calvary and charioteers, as well as the pens for the steeds of war.

The great wall of dust rising in the east heralded the arrival of the army. The Generals and their charioteers led, with the Commanders of the Horse in a line that snaked into the haze of their passing. The foot soldiers and sappers followed in the dust, trudging in step to the drums.

Chenli rode at the head of the column, surrounded by the Black Guard. He stopped at the lone tent, and the guard and commanders split ranks like the seas for a prophet and fanned out to assemble and prepare to dismount at the order. The march continued as the charioteers and ranks of foot soldiers entered and turned, entered and turned in martial parade. The drums beat in regular tempo as the assemblage formed, all coming to stand facing the Black Gate. When the last soldier was in position the drums stopped, the final percussion a great shout from the host.

The trumpets of the generals blared their commands and released from their attention, the camps began to form on the flats and river shore that stretched from the Gate.

Rovinkar watched the orderly encampment from a cushion situated at the tent door. He smoked a pipe, partly from the tediousness of the display, and some from the nerves he was feeling about the task at hand.

His nerves were not eased when at last he was called to the Chancellor’s tent. Chenli was pouring a glass of wine from a flagon when the Black Guard escort pulled the tent flap back to allow Rovinkar’s entry.

“You had better get this right.” Chenli growled without preamble. Rovinkar did not expect the usual pleasantries from the Chancellor, so he ignored the abrasion. Instead, he picked up the flagon from which the Chancellor had just filled his glass and poured his own without asking leave.

“Without the gate constricted and the battlements gone, the army shall have no problems securing the passage. The Stands are all but yours, excellency.”

“Yes. So you say. The emperor will be here … should be here already, for he took the Emerald Road. I’ll wager my chains …” Chenli referred to his symbol of office, “... he dallied at the Vale, trimming his wick. However his advance party is just reported at the bridge.”

“It will be an honor to have the Emperor here.” said Rovinkar noncommittally.

“The idiot wants see the great moment and lead his army through the gate after the destruction. If he can find his army, that is. All the more reason why this stunt of yours had better work. He has an army of scribes to record his every concerned look and pithy remark.”

“Please, rest assured, by this time tomorrow, the gate will be destroyed, and the carved king standing guard will be as granulated as the Royal Shaft.”

“I am assured by nothing except results.” growled Chenli.

“Have the trebuchet captains been apprised of their duties?”

“It is arranged. What is in the oil you specified that is so special?”

“Nothing special, but it burns with a spectacle and is hard to get. Rarity adds intrigue. I marked the barrels with the most dangerous of signs and added some salts to add brilliance and color to the fires upon impact. The missiles coated with these oils shall make a brilliant display. The destruction of the snag of rock that blocks the passage will be attributed to their new ‘secret’ weapon. Our demon need never be revealed. By the time the dust settles, the Emperor can make his bold proclamations at the head of his army and march into the Stands.

“And where will you be in all of this?”

“A safe distance away where I can see without interference. The demon must be led away and caged.”

Rovinkar had chosen a prominent outcrop at the jutting edge of the Camelbacks. The coming of dawn would herald a new age for the empire. Rovinkar bade his leave, their signals agreed upon.

Rovinkar rode from camp, heading downriver to the Moon Bridge. He had long ago scouted the approaches to the outcrop near the southern edge of the Gate and forged his way up the thin paths that crossed the screes at the base of the cliffs. The same layer of basalt that forced the outcrop ran jagged in a slope. He would have to backtrack some but then the way up was well enough for a horse. It was near sunset before he was able to ride out onto the clear stone of the outcrop. It was nearly as high as the sharp fang of cliff that supported the northern Guardian.

The southern Guardian loomed close by, cutting his view upriver.It was not as close as he would have liked, for the outcropping was just slightly aback from the crest of basalt cliffs. But the promontory thrust him out far enough that the northern Guardian was well seen, and the demon could easily be summoned to return. The scope of the scene empowered him, as he looked down below, the armies assembled off his right hand, the graven image of a forgotten king rising grandly to his left. The setting sun cast a long glow as the moon rose, full and orange on the eastern horizon. Rovinkar would have the full moon at his back as he made his preparations. He traced his patterns and signs in the rock about him. The signs were both for his protection as well as the irresistible lure that would draw the demon back to his cage.

#

Dawn broke, first light striking atop the highest battlement where an adjutant from the supply corps handed the captain of the watch a list. Or tried to. A vagary of wind, a sudden puff of breeze pulled the paper from the exchange and it lofted from the tower, carried by the capricious wind.

“What was that?” demanded the captain.

The adjutant stood unworried, gazing out at the army spread out below on the plain.

“Nothing I cannot replace.” he said. “An inventory of foodstuffs for this company, sir. Your signature is needed, but I can get another from the stores.”

“Well, if it blows down into the Empire’s camp, they can see how well we eat.” the captain said with a dash of sarcasm. “This whole thing is such a crock of dung.” he groused. “War … over what? There isn’t one person in all of the Stands that believes that horse rot about flying dragons or rocs. The monasteries? What are they feeding those people in Abbysin?

“I don’t know sir. But I’ll get a new list so’s you know what we’re feeding us.”

The captain turned to his archermaster. “Ready their arms. I see activity at the trebuchets. Rocks are no match for these cliffs, but it may be cover for a rush. Who knows. Fools.”

#

The trebuchets were indeed becoming active. The were in as close as they dared. The range of the Stand Archers was legendary. None of the crews were convinced that their missiles would make much difference in this confrontation, but they dutifully coated the surfaces of both stone and mortar with the oil provided at the request of the Chancellor himself. In some, a mortar of forged iron filled with niter was placed in slings. Others received debris and shards. All were oiled, and the fires for their fuses lit and waiting.

Chenli stood, looking at the Black Gate as the shadow light of dawn slid down the exposed face of the cliffs. He cocked his head to one side, not taking his eyes off the creeping shade, and spoke to his general. “Get ready to fire.”

“My lord, forgive me, the Emperor is not yet arrived. He’ll be here … “

“He will be here soon enough. Soon enough to ride to the front of the line when the dirty work is done and say ‘follow me.’” Chenli sneered. “This will not wait.”

“He very much wanted to see the big attack. He …”

“He’s not here.” snarled Chenli. “He will be appeased with a new medal. Now … have your men ready! On my command!”

“Chancellor.” the general snapped a salute and turned to the flag bearers, their semaphores ready.

#

Rovinkar stood near the brink of the outcropping, the circle of his protection extended. The obsidian stone was nearby, with the sigils of his magics emblazoned in the raw rock surface on which it lay. When the shade cast by the rising sun reached the base of the cliffs the war engines would unleash their loads. He began his chanting, the droning intonements that would release the name. He felt centered in his shields and the drone began intensifying and adjoining into one mantra. All he needed to be aware of was the release of the war engines far below. It would take the sound a moment to carry the distance, so his invocation was upon that trigger in his mind. The demon’s rousal would be at the instant of his calling, and the arrival of the missiles to their marks should be close to simultaneous.

The engines recoiled and slung their missiles across the long expanse to the chiseled cliffs.

Rovinkar’s chants were evolving into synchronicity. As the sound of the war engines reached his ears, he invoked the name.

He unleashed the word just before the fiery arcs of the missles hit the towering walls. All of his protections had been laid out to keep him from bad intent. But a piece of paper, with no life and no intent other than to list victuals, easily passed by those protections. Either a fickle drift of wind, or nature taking a hand in the affairs of men caused the paper to veer and it plastered itself against Rovinkar’s face as he uttered his final oath. He cried out at the interruption and yelled “Get. AWAY!” brushing at the sheet, sending it fluttering on. Even as he cried out his displeasure he realized what he had done as a violent wrench shook his body. He brazened a command, but the damage had been done.

#

The black was consuming. Empty. A germ of thought broke through the coma of darkness. The core, the bones of its being, felt laden and cold. The awareness was slow in developing. The void did not allow the spark of an idea. Yet now one formed and began to float, finding the extremeties of its essence. The numbness remained. The void would return. Instead, the black doom began to hum, as though the numbness of being found a note. The hum became a drone, an almost palpable aura penetrating the wastes of nothing. And centered in that nimbus of sound like a beacon was the vibration of a word, and its growing brightness made him stir. The rending light struck the consciousness and the name called the being awake.

The demon shook violently, rising up from the cliffs in a fiery bloom, just as the mortars and ammunitions struck the walls. And in the moment when it should have combusted with the intent of Rovinkar’s majics, it felt a sudden jolt of release and flooding consciousness. The cliffs of the Black Gate burned and writhed, majestic monoliths of stone ground together, as they coalesced in vaguely human form. The cliffs buckled as large segments were wrested free. The Guardian of the Gate itself seemed to gain life for a moment as it slid forward at the beginning of its topple.

The demon felt his movements unfettered, the surge of the elements in his being. Earths and airs lubricated the grinding stones, and the fires coursed through him with their energies. He twist and tore at his being, casting his gaze about at the tableau surrounding it, a shade of some memory. A land of some other time. The demon rose up even as the carved remains of the Guardian shattered at the base of the cliff. The demon sought to free himself of the remaining bonds, the rock face where he had been chained by Rovinkar’s sorcery. The demon shook itself clear. Two of the battlements caved and broke apart in the quake, stone and guards tumbling to the depths below.

The demon sought the freedom of the air, spinning as it took in the scene of army and fire that appeared about it. As the pinnacles and cliffs collapsed into the pass, the demon collected the fires and airs and steams from the water, seeking escape and oblivion from the stage of confusion that had appeared before it. The clouds of the collapse funneled like a djinn, the winds howling with pain. Lightnings shattered as the demon found the skies. It released more of the earth-sense of its existence. The world spun with its effort, but one light fired into its consciousness. The demon found a memory. A sign. A name he could not hear, that called it nonetheless. And a creature. A face that found purchase in its thought. Recognition. Hatred.

The demon turned his gaze to Rovinkar, fiery coals as the djinn of his movements whipped and formed the airs with the very image of fearsome spirit. The sorceror was already trying to chant away his error, but once the gaze bore into him, he couldn’t finish. Anything. And in the face of that baleful stare, just keeping his protections against fear took all of his strength.

Fortunately he didn’t need it for long, for the demon gathered himself in a whirlwind of fire and air. The storm of the demon rolled up the canyon into the Stands, a boiling cloud trailing fire and dust.

The army stood frozen. No other machines were loaded, nor arms drawn. Their weapons had indeed unleashed a great cataclysm. But instead of the dust of an easy passage, now tons of debris and rock choked the entrance. The Guardian, as broken as the great pinnacle that once held it, still held the gate.