CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Gantalla cursed as the heat from the desert sand seeped through her thin leather shoes. The soles of her feet were being scalded with every step, and she wished she’d thought to barter for a sturdier pair of boots before coming this way. Hindsight was a bloody wonderful thing… though to be fair, she’d probably made a wiser decision in trading her embroidered tunic for a long cotton cloak instead. The heat beating down on her from the furious sun was worse than the heat from the sand, and the cloak, with its deep hood, was keeping her skin from burning. It was too bad about the boots, but she didn’t have much in the way of other possessions, and short of trading her knife, there wouldn’t have been much she could do. And her knife was too valuable to part with. Stories abounded about the brutality of the human warriors who guarded the far side of the gate. It would be pure foolishness to attempt to fight one with nothing more than a short hunting knife, but at the same time, Gantalla couldn’t bring herself to attempt the crossing completely unarmed.

That was if she ever made it as far as the gate in the first place.

Doing her best to ignore the burning in her feet, she trudged onwards, up the next sand dune, then a sliding trot down the other side, then up the next one. Despite the endless dunes, it wasn’t hard to make sure she was going in the right direction. The Gate of Chalandros sat in the side of a huge tor that towered above the surrounding landscape, and at the top of each dune, she got a good glimpse of the top of the tor. It looked significantly closer now than it had from the last dune, and she quickened her pace – not just in the hope of finally getting out of this infernal heat, but also because she wasn’t sure quite how much time had passed. The gate was due to close today, and she dreaded the thought of missing it. Thighs aching, her throat tight in the dry and dusty air, she pressed onwards.

Centuries ago, this land had been a fertile plain, home to great wandering herds of redios beasts – bulky, lumbering creatures with hairy hides and splayed hooves. The grasses had bloomed twice a year, coating the land with colourful flowers, and rivers had flowed eastwards, meandering across the plateau until they fell in spectacular waterfalls down the cliffs towards Iddishmeil – which had once been a large and bustling city, but was now a series of slums, with the great palace tower of the Stone King the only remnant of its former glory.

Now, the land was a barren waste, home to nothing more than a few small lizards and the hand-sized scorpions who scavenged for food from the carcasses of people who had failed to make the journey to the gate. Chalandros was a dying world, and even the most powerful mages had proven unable to restore the balance.

Which was why, for twenty-three out of every forty-six days, great hoards of people dared to attempt to cross the desert, making their tired way to the gate that opened into the human world. And it was why they continued their desperate attempts to pass through the gate, even though every single one of them knew that right on the other side stood an army of human warriors, waiting with malicious rage to slaughter every last one of them. Being killed by the sword was a bad way to go, but the alternative, for those who stayed behind, was either a slow death by starvation, or to be murdered by one of the roving bands, all too eager to slit a throat if it gained them a flask of water or a few strips of dried lizard meat.

Climbing to the top of the next dune, Gantalla felt her heart sing. Finally. She’d made it. She could see the base of the tor now, and spread out in a messy camp around it were hundreds of people. Some had constructed makeshift shelters, tying sheets to wooden beams or making lean-tos on the sand. Others were crowded right up against the gate, which was set into a flat wall of rock on the side of the tor. Not much further now…

She kept going, down the sandy slope, up the next one… one more to go…

Finally, panting and sweating, she arrived at the edge of the crowd. But crossing the desert was only the first in a multitude of challenges. She cast her eyes over the throng lingering nearer the gate. There were dozens of species; the black salas warriors with their impressive horns; the red skinned deelees, slight and slender; the blue rodolans, who hailed from a lake-filled coastal region and who hated the heat even more than the rest of them. A few vreki sat near the salases. Some people called them dragons, but they were too small to really fit the description. They were large, lizard-type creatures with giant, leathery wings, commonly trained by the salases to carry a rider. There were a handful of fire-dogs – or hellhounds, as the humans called them – canny eyes watching for a likely moment to make a run through the gate, and even a couple of unicorns. They were doing their best to keep in the shade, and someone had kindly thrown a blanket over one of them, preventing it from bursting into flames in the searing heat. There were a few hadathmet as well, Gantalla’s own people, though she didn’t recognise the ones here.

“You’re cutting it close, young lass,” a voice said from beside her, and Gantalla looked around to see an ageing witch peering up at her from the shade of her rickety awning.

Gantalla checked the sun. Not quite midday. She had maybe half an hour to spare. “How’s it been?” she asked the witch. The woman’s skin was brown – an unusual colour for the peoples of Chalandros. Her eyes were beautiful, though, shimmering with a golden light. Her hair was long and a pale turquoise colour, and her fingers had claws at the end, though they were far shorter and blunter than the claws on Gantalla’s hands.

“The usual,” the witch said. “A lot of posturing and boasting. A few fights between the deelees and the rodolans. And every now and then, a bunch of people decide to make a run through the gate. Only the gods know if any of them make it across. They’re getting antsy now, though. Only half an hour to go before the gate closes, and then we all have to trek back to the city until it opens again.”

“What are our chances on the other side?” Gantalla had heard plenty of rumours. That was why she’d delayed as long as possible before making the trek herself. According to the rumours, only one in a hundred managed to survive the battle with the humans.

“A snowball’s chance in a volcano,” the witch said. “For the average person, at least. Brute force alone will never get you across. What you need is strategy.”

Did the witch actually know anything about the human world? Or was she just spouting the same old rumours as everyone else? Still, there was no harm in hearing what she had to say. Gantalla had come this far, after all. “So what about me? What strategy will get a princess of the hadathmet across?” It wasn’t likely her status would earn her any favours here, but it didn’t hurt to try.

But if the witch was surprised by her identity, it didn’t show. She merely raised an eyebrow as she looked Gantalla up and down. “Well, let’s have a look at you. Come on, take your hood off.” Gantalla did, ducking underneath the awning to avoid the worst of the heat. The witch squinted at her. “Hmm… Green skin. Black claws. Long black tail. Sweetheart, you’re going to be dead in thirty seconds flat. The humans have a marked aversion to anyone whose skin isn’t some shade of brown. Ugly creatures, but no doubt they think the same about us. But it just so happens,” the woman went on, “that I have something that could help you.”

Of course she did. Because what camp would be complete without some charlatan waiting to prey on the desperate and needy? “Thanks,” Gantalla said, “but I think I’ll take my chances on my own.” She had nothing to trade with anyway, so there was no point wasting any more time.

“You’ll never survive without it,” the witch said, before she lost Gantalla’s attention entirely. She pulled out a leather necklace with a black jewel attached to the middle, dangling it in front of her.

Gantalla’s eyes opened wide. “Is that… obsidian?” She whispered the last word, scarcely able to believe what she was seeing. The jet-black stones were devilishly rare, and back before their world started collapsing, people would have spent a year’s pay on a stone the size of the witch’s – about half the size of her thumb. Now, though, they were absolutely priceless.

But it wasn’t just the gem’s rarity that made them so valuable. The stones could be imbued with magical properties, which made them a favourite of witches, but also useful for all manner of charms and minor spells for those peoples less adept at wielding magic.

“It is indeed,” the witch said. “But your tail could be a problem. Let me just make a few adjustments…” She muttered a phrase under her breath, and Gantalla saw a swirl of magic rise from her fingers to engulf the stone. The light was sucked into the stone, making it shimmer for a moment, before fading to black. “There you go. Try it on.”

“I have nothing to trade with,” Gantalla said, not making any move towards the stone.

“I didn’t ask for payment,” the woman snapped. “Do you want to die on the pointy end of a sword, or do you want to do something useful with your life?”

“But I don’t… Okay, fine,” Gantalla said, taking the gem despite her better judgement. She fastened the clasp around her neck, anticipating the need to hand it back again in a moment when the witch decided she did need payment after all. Or when the necklace failed to do anything useful.

“Put your hand over the gem and press it to your heart,” the witch instructed her. “Then repeat after me. Take my form and hide me deep. Sunlight, moonlight, shadows keep. In human world, my self will sleep.”

Feeling ridiculous, Gantalla repeated the words… and then she let out a startled cry. By the gods themselves…

She gaped down at her own body, holding her hands out in front of her, turning them this way and that as she stared at them in wonder. She looked… human. Her hands were a pale brown, her claws completely gone, replaced with short, blunt nails that looked entirely useless. A quick check behind her confirmed that her tail had vanished as well. She pulled the neck of her shirt outwards, peering down at her chest, amazed – and faintly disgusted – to realise that the skin over her entire body was now the same pale brown. “I’m… human!”

“It’s a basic glamour spell,” the witch said, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. “To reverse it, all you have to do is take the necklace off.”

Gantalla undid the clasp, relieved to see her skin return to its usual green colour.

“It will let you blend in with the humans on the other side.”

The gift was indeed priceless. But… “Don’t you need this for yourself?” she asked. Surely the witch had brought it for her own attempt to cross the gate.

“I have two more,” the witch said. “One for me and one for my son. I had hoped he’d make it in time for this cycle, but it looks like I’ll have to wait for the next one.” She gave Gantalla a watery smile, and Gantalla felt a rush of sympathy. Crossing the desert once was hard enough. To have to do so three times, and at the woman’s age, would be brutal.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked. There had to be some sort of payment owing. If not in wealth, then perhaps a favour the witch would expect her to do?

The witch looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “I had a daughter once. She would have been a little bit younger than you. But she’s dead now. She never had the chance to make the trek across the desert. I suppose this is my attempt at bargaining with the gods.” The woman’s lip trembled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “If I help you across, then… then I hope that they’ll at least let me keep my son.”

Gantalla nodded, feeling tears prick at her eyes. “Thank you.” What else could she say?

“This by itself won’t get you across,” the witch said. “Don’t cross the gate yet. Wait until it’s closing. Go across at the very last moment, then the instant you’re on the other side, fall to the ground and pretend you’re dead. Stay there until nightfall. The human warriors will leave once the gate is closed. As soon as it’s dark, you’ll need to move, but be careful. They have other humans who come and clear away the dead bodies. If they find you still alive, they’ll kill you. Sneak away in the dark, activate the obsidian, and then no one will look at you twice. They’ll just think you’re another human.”

“Wait… you want me to lie in the sun all afternoon?”

“The sun on their side isn’t nearly so fierce as ours,” the witch said. “It might be a bit warm, but if you made it across the desert, you won’t find it too bad.”

Gantalla shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around everything. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

“There are those who’ve made it across. They send messages back, when they’re able. My sister lives in the human city. Her name’s Kit. If you’re lucky, you might find her there, but don’t count on it. She’ll be disguised as a human.”

“Thank you,” Gantalla said again, then turned to go… but turned back again a moment later. “Wait… What’s your name?”

“Mintesh,” the witch said.

“I’m Gantalla.”

Mintesh nodded. “Godspeed, Gantalla,” she said simply. “I hope you make it.”