CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

As the minutes counted down to the closing of the gate, Gantalla huddled against the side of the rock, her heart thundering in her chest. How much longer? The sun seemed to be directly overhead, the great towering rock above her casting almost no shade.

Around her, the milling people shoved and shouted, each one desperate to make the crossing before it was too late, and equally terrified of doing so. A band of deelees made the charge, then a handful of hadathmet fell in behind them. Three fire-dogs rushed through the gate, then one of them immediately dashed back again, eyes wide in terror. By the gods, what horrors must be waiting on the other side?

The gate itself was huge, five metres wide and just as high. The top curved in a wide arch, and the entire gate was surrounded by a thick stone frame. The opening swirled with a curtain of iridescent light, and it was impossible to see what was on the other side. No one knew when or how the gate had been built. Some even said that it hadn’t been ‘built’ at all, but had simply appeared one day, centuries ago, by some mystical art. But Gantalla didn’t care how it had come into existence. Only that it represented her only opportunity to escape her dying world.

She fingered the necklace around her throat, praying that the magic would work on the other side. The human world was different, after all, and perhaps magic worked differently over there?

Suddenly, one of the unicorns seemed to gather its courage. It broke away from the scant shade at the side of the wide chasm, immediately catching on fire. The poor creatures excreted oil from their skin, which was unfortunately highly flammable. Their natural habitat was a temperate forest, covered in snow all winter, and they were perhaps the least well equipped to deal with the desert heat of all the peoples here. Fortunately, their skin and hair seemed impervious to the flames – much like the fire-dogs, who literally ate hot coals for nourishment – which made the flames mightily uncomfortable for them, but not actually harmful. The unicorn charged through the gate, and a handful of rodolans followed it, no doubt aiming to take advantage of the distraction provided by half a ton of flaming equine.

And still Gantalla waited. To distract herself, she counted to ten. Then to ten again.

But just as she was about to count for the third time, a great, rumbling groan shook the earth, and Gantalla braced herself, feeling like she was about to vomit. A huge slab of stone appeared at the side of the gateway, rolling sideways across the swirling gap.

The gate was closing. It was now or never.

Unfortunately, a dozen other people had all realised the same thing. A swarm of them rushed for the gate, salases and rodolans and deelees, all pushing and shoving to make it through the rapidly narrowing gap. Gantalla hadn’t been raised on a battlefield, or even on a domestic farm. She’d been born as the daughter of the king of the hadathmet; a princess, provided with every luxury and with her every whim catered for, from the time she’d been old enough to walk.

But her royal roots were not going to help her now. With as much force as she could muster, she shoved her way to the front, elbowing a deelee out of the way, pushing a rodolan to the side, then punching another hadathmet in the face when he grabbed her hood and tried to yank her back away from the gate. Pain shot through her fist as it connected with the man’s face, but she pressed on.

There was no time to think about it now, no time to brace herself for what she’d find on the other side. With the gate three quarters of the way closed, she simply hurled herself through, unable to even breathe as her throat closed up in terror.

Her feet stumbled on rocky ground, a sudden and unexpected change from the smooth sand of the desert. She lurched to the side as a salas slammed into her from the right, then again as a fire-dog tripped her left leg. Instinctively, she tried to right herself… and then remembered the witch’s instructions. Fall to the ground and play dead. She tumbled down onto the rocks, landing with her face on the bloody buttocks of a fenrig – a large man with purple skin. She considered moving, disgust warring with good sense, but managed to get herself to stay still for another moment. The groaning of the gate closing faded out behind her, and she felt a sudden stab of fear. The gate was closed. There was no way back home.

Not that she wanted to go back there, but knowing she couldn’t was nonetheless a terrifying idea. She lay rigid and still, and as luck would have it, she’d fallen with her back to the gate, her face towards the army of human warriors. If nothing else, she’d be able to see what was going on. She closed her eyes until they were just slits, watching surreptitiously as the chaos raged all around her.

The last handful of deelees who’d crossed the gate clashed with a group of human soldiers. It didn’t take long for them all to be slain, the last one dying with a gurgle as his throat was cut. Further to the right, a huge salas was making a brave stand, but he was outnumbered ten to one, and even as ferocious as the salas warriors were, he stood no chance against so many.

After he fell, there was silence for a moment or two, the rustle of the wind the only sound across the bloody battlefield. Then a great cheer rang out, the humans waving their swords in the air, slapping each other on the back, congratulating each other over a job well done.

They were cheering? Cheering over the deaths of so many of her brethren? Such barbarism was deplorable.

A short way in front of her, a rodolan lay on the ground, but he wasn’t quite dead. He rolled over and groaned, clutching at a bloody wound in his belly. One of the humans caught his movement and wandered over. “Hey there, pig scum,” the human said. “You picked the wrong day for a fight.” He casually stabbed the rodolan in the chest, black blood spurting out as he died. Then, to Gantalla’s horror, he looked slowly over the battlefield. “Any more of you bastards still alive?”

His gaze fell on her, and she froze, holding herself perfectly still, not even daring to breathe lest she give herself away. But her heart was pounding like she’d been running for hours, and instinct urged her to run, to scramble to her feet and get as far away from these monsters as possible.

By sheer force of will, she made herself stay still. One single move and she was dead. The seconds ticked by, and then finally, the human turned away, going back to his group of soldiers. Thank the gods.

But Gantalla was far from safe.

The afternoon dragged on. The humans collected their weapons and looted a number of decent swords from those they’d killed. One man, a tall, muscular human wearing a shiny helmet, seemed to be the leader, as he was barking orders and rounding up groups of the soldiers to send them away. They trickled off across the battlefield, disappearing down a winding road that led into the nearby forest.

A part of Gantalla’s mind managed to feel a sense of relief at the sight of those towering trees. Centuries ago, it was said that such forests had existed in Chalandros as well, bountiful places with plentiful game, wild mushrooms growing on rotting logs, beautiful lizards and rodents scurrying about in the undergrowth. But the forests were long gone now, even the dead trees turned to ash as wildfires had ripped across the landscape. To have even seen such a sight was a great gift, even if she made it no further than her makeshift bed on blood-stained rocks and dead bodies. It was more than many of her people would ever get to see.

No, Gantalla told herself firmly. She would not die here. She had to be patient, to wait a few hours more, until the last of the humans left, and then she could sneak away into the forest and be free.

But even that faint hope was suddenly cut short, as she saw a new group of humans arrive from out of the forest road. These were smaller than the warriors, dressed in cotton and linen, rather than leather and armour. And they were wheeling flat carts behind them. As she watched, they began loading the bodies onto the carts, starting with the ones closest to the forest. Of course. The witch had said they sent humans to clear away the dead. She just hadn’t realised they would start quite so soon. She glanced at the shadows, trying to calculate how much of the day remained. The humans had started at the far side of the battlefield, and she prayed they worked slowly. If they made it all the way to her before nightfall, she was in a world of trouble.

“They did a good job this time,” she heard one of the women say. “Hundreds of the bloody creatures.”

“Makes more work for us, though,” another woman complained. “We’ll be here for a whole week with the mess they’ve made.”

“Oh, stop your groaning,” a third woman said. “They can hardly just let the demons run free across the country. And I’d much rather spend a week carting them off to the graves than have them attacking the city. May the gods bless all those brave soldiers for keeping us safe.”

Safe? They thought the warriors were keeping them safe from the people of Chalandros? They thought they were demons? Gantalla felt a frown crease her face at the idea, then the moment she realised it, she deliberately smoothed her features again. Even so small a gesture could be noticed by observant eyes, and then she was as good as dead.

But… her people were just trying to escape the heat and the famine. How had the humans got the idea they were a threat? The only reason they had to fight was because the humans kept trying to kill them.

The group of women kept up their work, loading the bodies onto the carts and wheeling them away. But it soon became clear they were almost as interested in gossiping amongst themselves as actually working, and Gantalla felt a wave of gratitude at the realisation. It would take them far more than the afternoon to reach where she was lying. But would they stop for the night? Or would she have to somehow find a moment in the darkness when she could slip away unnoticed?

The sun continued its slow arc across the sky, and as the afternoon faded to evening, Gantalla was surprised to find she was actually feeling a little cold. The breeze was unexpectedly cool. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt a wind that didn’t scorch her skin. But her right arm was growing numb from lying in the same position for so long. Her neck was itching, and she thought she felt something crawling across her right leg.

Let a thousand bugs crawl across her, she thought fatalistically. She was not going to move. Her right calf started cramping, and so she adjusted her foot painstakingly slowly to stretch the muscle just a little, keeping an eye on the women to make sure they didn’t notice. An insect landed on her face, crawling up and down over her lips. She pressed her mouth closed, but endured the annoyance. She’d made it this far. She could make it the next step, too.

Night began to fall, and as the light turned to dim grey, the women finally packed up and left, though they left their wooden carts at the edge of the field, no doubt ready to start work again tomorrow. Thirst clawed at Gantalla’s throat, but she forced herself to lie still for another hour. It wasn’t fully dark yet. What if more humans came back? What if they were watching from the forest and saw her move?

But then, as night closed in, new fears lit in her mind. She knew nothing about this land, but if it was anything like the old forests of Chalandros, there would be predators roaming amongst the trees. She had no idea what wild beasts might exist in this world, but there were likely a few of them that could be a threat to her. At least she still had her knife…

Finally, darkness fell entirely. But even then, Gantalla waited, fear clawing at her. She had only one chance at this, and if she got it wrong… She didn’t dare to think what would happen then. The silence was thick, the wind dying down, and she became aware of the smell of hundreds of dead bodies. By tomorrow, insects would have arrived to feast on the remains, and scavengers too, most likely.

It was time to go.

Steeling herself, she moved slowly, rising cautiously to her hands and knees. Nothing moved, not on the battlefield, not at the edge of the distant forest.

She rose to her feet, stepping cautiously over the body she’d been lying against. She headed east, along the edge of the rock, towards the forest, but not in the direction of the road. The road headed south, and that was the last place she wanted to go.

Odd, she realised, all of a sudden. In Chalandros, the gate faced east, but here, it faced to the south. She’d somehow assumed it would face west.

But that was an unimportant detail. Focus, she schooled herself. Pay attention.

But in the dark, with her steps hampered by dozens of dead bodies, stealth and silence were a hard ask. She stumbled, her feet slipping on loose rocks, and she winced as a handful of stones skittered away down the slope. She froze, listening carefully… but the silence continued. She pushed herself to her feet again, picking her way across the battlefield, until finally, long minutes later, she cleared the last of the bodies. The forest was only a few dozen metres away, and suddenly fear caught up to her. In a desperate burst of speed, she raced for the tree line. Low branches whipped at her face and ferns grabbed at her legs, but she kept going. She wove between trees, twisting and turning to find a path to follow, almost blind in the darkness. But she had to keep going. She had to get away.

After about five minutes, she finally drew to a stop, breathing hard. She looked back the way she’d come, somewhat amazed to see that no one was chasing her. Had she made it? Was she safe?

But no, not just yet. There was one last thing to do. She pressed her shaking hand over the obsidian gem at her neck and muttered the spell the witch had taught her. She felt the change come over her, a tingling sensation all over her skin, and she looked down at her hands. Once again, her long, black claws had vanished, replaced by those useless human nails. Her hands were ugly now, brown and stubby, and she felt odd without her tail to aid her balance. But she looked human. That was the important thing.

She kept going, walking more slowly now, until an odd sound reached her ears. It was low and soothing, almost like wind, but more solid, somehow, and she followed the sound until she reached…

Oh, praise the gods! She rushed forward, falling to her knees beside the stream, the water babbling gently over rocks. She cupped her hands, drinking in great gulps of the clear water, assuaging her thirst. Water! Great gods, this world still had enough of it to form whole rivers of the stuff!

It was only after she’d drunk her fill that it finally occurred to her how filthy she was. Her clothes were covered in dust from the desert. Her shoes were now caked in mud, and she had blood on her hands – and likely on her face too, though she had no mirror with which to check. Gods only knew what the humans would think of her if she showed up looking like this.

Carefully, making sure to keep her knife at the ready, she stripped off her clothes. Her trousers were still the ones she’d worn in her father’s palace, with beautiful patterns embroidered into the cotton. Her shirt was a plain one, cream coloured, though the cuffs of the sleeves were stained with dirt. She shook out her cloak, getting rid of the worst of the dust, then knelt down in the water, washing away days of dirt and grime. For her feet, in particular, the water felt heavenly. She had blisters on her soles from the heat of the desert, and she soaked her feet in the cold water, sighing in relief. She splashed water on her face, then used the edge of her shirt to scrub her skin, before doing her best to wash the stains out of the sleeves.

Finally clean – though a fair bit colder than she would have liked – she dressed again, ignoring the dampness of her sleeves, and looked around for a likely spot to spend the night. Hunger clawed at her belly, but there was little chance of finding anything to eat. A nearby bolder looked like as good a spot as any, a thick bed of leaves gathered at the base, so she sat down, bunching up her cloak as a makeshift pillow. Then she rested her knife on her thigh, keeping her fingers wrapped around the hilt, ready to fend off any unexpected threat. Tomorrow, she would have a whole new set of challenges; finding food, figuring out which way to travel, and avoiding any humans, as much as possible. But she’d made it this far. Not bad for a spoiled princess. And a damn fine achievement for a so-called demon wandering about in the human world. Perhaps this adventure wasn’t going to be so bad, after all…