Gatekeeper

a speculative story

ancient gate with vines

The gate was old and huge and quite likely rusted shut. Thick, twisting vines climbed its height, wrapping burly bark around every inch of exposed iron. A layer of moss clung beneath the vines, and a dusting of leaves—green and brown and orange—brought a touch of color to a scene otherwise painted in grays and browns and silence.

“We’re here,” the mage said. She clung to her staff, a weapon more than a walking stick. It glowed, a hint of purple giving away the magic within. Her eyes reflected that purple hue, hidden though they were beneath her deep hood.

“Aye.” The scholar held up his map, a yellowing, brittle thing, and squinted at the faded swirls of ink. “Any chance lies ahead.” The man shifted the pack on his shoulder, turned. “Sire?”

The soldier-king stepped forward, studying the engineering marvel in front of him. He stared up and up, one hand cupped over his eyes as he tried not to stare directly into the sun. “Any chance?”

“Aye.”

The soldier-king risked a glance behind him, caught sight of the people—his people. A sorry bunch. Haggard and worn, limping legs and open wounds. There were no old folks left—they’d be lost in the suddenness of the flight, the demands of the march—but there were still children.

And even they had run out of tears.  

“Beyond this gate,” the mage said, her voice an insistent whisper, “lies the Wilderness. We open this gate and the barrier crumbles.” She paused, blinked. “It’s a place of wild magic. They won’t dare follow.” Another pause. “But we can go on as far as we like. As far as we need to.”

The soldier-king pulled at his chin, felt the stubble, dropped his hand. He’d always been clean-shaven before. But now…

He thought of his father and the assassin’s blade. A cruel weapon, dripping with dark sorcery. Hidden until it was too late, until it was in plain sight: Buried in the old king’s chest.

His father’s wild-eyed, final gasp would haunt the soldier-king forever—or, until he met a similar fate. But to run into even wilder magic, into a place even less known and trusted? Was he brave enough to risk it?

Was he the kind of leader who could?

He glanced at the mage, his father’s own sorcerer. He wondered what it had cost her to flee, what weight dangled about her neck having failed her vows so thoroughly.

He wondered if he could trust her.

“It’s not a gateway,” the scholar spoke up. His eyes still danced upon the map. “It’s a keep. The history is clear: This is the great Keep of Algathora. If we’re looking for a place to hide, we’ll find none better.” The man glanced up at the gate, pushed a handful of sandy hair from his eyes. “None better.”

“So, it’s a prison?” The soldier-king shook his head. “I’ll not lead my people into a—” He trailed off. “Too many have already been slaughtered like animals.”

“Your history is wrong,” the mage countered. “Look at those symbols. They speak of the Wilderness.”

“It’s not my history,” the scholar said. “And it’s not my fault you don’t know it.”

“The knowledge I command reaches generations beyond what you—”

“And what good it did,” the scholar cut in, “for our king as his blood—”

“Enough.” The soldier-king spoke softly. There were so few of them left. He didn’t want them spooked. He didn’t want to add to his people’s fears. “We will set up camp.”

“Sire, surely they’re pursuing—”

“And I will consider our options.”

“But shouldn’t we at least open the gate? All ways lead—”

“I will consider our options.” And the soldier-king stalked away, leaving what remained of his father’s counsel in shocked silence.

Beyond the gate or within it. Which would be better? Which was worth the risk? Endless opportunity, or a place to wait and watch? Flee to a new land, or prepare to take back the old one?

The soldier-king weighed the options, imagined the different futures. He wanted to be prepared when the gate was opened. He wanted to know how to talk to his people, to inspire in them commitment to whatever path lay ahead.

His father’s eyes watched him, haunted him, pleaded with him. And he walked deeper into the stillness of the forest, carrying with him only the weight of the few lives left to him to lead. Beneath his boots twigs snapped and leaves crunched and time slipped away.

Night fell, and from the shadows of the tree line he saw the campfires of his people come to life and he heard the laughter and the stories and the slow settling into sleep.

And he thought and he walked and he remembered the long peace of his father’s reign and how much he missed his mother. He smelled the smoke of the fires, how mundane the smell and comforting.

How could he seize the mundane and the comforting back for his people? How could he restore the peace of his father’s time?

And his father’s eyes watched him still as he stared up at the great gate, wondering, lost in thought and a future that had not yet revealed itself.

And then a sudden, short scream. He felt the panic more than he saw it. The winds of chaos rustling around him. A burst of purple magic to his right and halfhearted clanging of swords to his left.

And then it was all still again, all of it, even his own breathing, his own heart. The same blade in the same place—and the line of succession ended.

Slowly, the stillness of the forest devoured the bodies of the fallen. The gate remained shut, its secrets remained kept.

And the long era of peace was washed away, revealed to have been nothing more than a façade of indecision.    

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this short story!