Chapter 16: The Eastern Gates

Aran and Elaina followed Burin through the bowels of Dun’Arghol. Over the course of hours, they passed through winding passages, cavernous halls and descended several sets of wide stone steps, many of which were without railing or balustrade and promised a long fall into darkness for any foolish enough to slip.

A small retinue accompanied them, led by captain Finya and several of the Dwarves Aran recognised as being with Finya when he’d first met her. Finya led the way, followed by Burin, whom Aran and Elaina trailed. Half a dozen soldiers brought up the rear, the creaking and clinking of their armour reverberating throughout the seemingly infinite expanses of these mountain chambers.

As a precaution, Aran had stopped by his rooms to retrieve Oroth, and Elaina had done the same with Shatter. No one spoke as they moved ever deeper into the mountain, and the further they went, the fewer Dwarves they encountered along the way.

Aran used the time to think. There was something he’d felt while raising his vala earlier, something other than the Noroth. Or rather, it was something he had not felt, like an empty hole where there was supposed to be ... Well, something other than emptiness. He hadn’t mentioned it to Elaina, and she hadn’t brought it up, so he assumed she had not sensed it. Whatever it was, Aran was sure it wasn’t good. His vala-memories had not been any help, either.

“Some of these halls are all but forgotten,” Burin said at one point as they passed through a spacious room lined with wide, square stone columns as thick as two men and reaching up to a ceiling that had to be a hundred feet high. Arrays of stone tables were set throughout the room, neatly placed to make clean lines facing the front of the hall where a low platform stood. “This was a school, not so long ago,” Burin continued. “But the tremors have chased many of my people closer to the surface. It’s safer up there. It is a sad day for a Dwarf when he fears being deep beneath the ground.”

Aran nodded in understanding, and he felt a pulse of sympathy through the melda from Elaina as she eyed Burin’s back. “Vasuda will be brought down, one way or another,” Elaina said firmly as they passed through the long hall. “He cannot be allowed to terrorise the world.”

Burin chuckled. “If you are as strong as you are beautiful, Elaina arohim, then I fear for the Stonelord’s future.” After a moment, he added, “Though how such a thing can be done, I do not understand. The Stonelord is a Titan, a Guardian of the World. Surely, we are but ants beneath his boots.”

“The Utok’lakapa were once benevolent,” Aran responded. “But Maharad’s whispers seduced them. The War ended before they could be put to full use under Morgeth, but now they awaken once again, one by one. If something is not done soon, then the samana will happen once again, and Maloth will be able to remake the world as he sees fit.”

“Your words comfort me not, Paladin,” Burin said wryly as he walked through an archway that led to a smaller passage. Smaller, but still wide enough for them all to walk abreast and tall enough for a Noroth to pass through without stooping. “Things are dire enough without adding talk of events which we cannot stop.”

“I believe they can be stopped,” Aran countered. “If their link to Maharad can be severed, then I think the Titans will resume their former natures.” What Burin thought about that, Aran was left wondering, for the Dwarven king said nothing further until Finya stopped at what appeared to be a dead end to the passage.

Placing her gauntleted hands at specific points on the smooth, polished stone, Finya called one of her soldiers. A well-muscled Dwarf moved up beside the captain – Lombi, Aran thought his name was – and put his own hands on the wall. There was a grinding sound, then the wall began to slide to the side.

As soon as the barest crack in the stone became apparent, fresh, cold air gusted in, rippling cloaks and tugging at hair and beards. A steady rain was falling outside, and the wind was strong enough to blow it into the passage, peppering Aran with frigid drops.

“This is where I leave you,” Burin said, raising his voice over the grinding of the door and the keening of the wind. He pointed to where the wall was still sliding open. “This is the only passage between the mountains south of the Heartlake. Follow it and you will come to the Gates. Tell the Oron’noroth I sent you.”

Burin had not mentioned earlier that he would not be accompanying them right to the Gates, but Aran was not surprised. Burin’s spirit was torn, at present, and his mind uncertain. Not an easy thing for one in charge of hundreds of thousands of lives.

“And what of you, Burin Konungr?” Aran asked, using the Dwarven tongue to address Burin as king. “Vili ru bifask norori? Hafa mir, minn Konungr. Bu heimr purfa bu Dvergr.” Will you march north? Believe me, my King. The world needs the Dwarves.

Burin studied Aran for long moments. Aran was tempted to use his vala to align with him, but restrained himself yet again. You can sit here and weep for your sister, or you can put that pain and anger to use and get her back. He aimed the thought at Burin as if he could will the man to see sense.

“I will decide on the morrow,” the king replied finally. “I must consider what is best for my kingdom. The door will be closed as soon as you are through. Good luck with your journey, arohim.” At that, Burin rounded Aran and started back the way they’d come. All the guards trailed him bar Finya, who remained by the open wall.

Elaina shook her head as she watched Burin retreat. “I still don’t know why you won’t let me align with him,” she muttered, barely audible over the wind. “Or even slip into his bed. One night with me and he’ll bloody well decide.”

Aran chuckled. “No doubt. But we must be careful with him. As uncertain as he is, he is still strong. I made a mistake by aligning with the whole city earlier. I thought it would impress him, move him to action, but it only caused him to dig in his heels. I fear that if we push him further, he may rebel. The choice must be his and his alone.”

He touched Elaina’s face and her eyes came up to meet his. “I need you to stay, my love, and keep an eye on things here while I’m gone.” He half expected Elaina to erupt, then, and tell him in no uncertain terms that she would accompany him whether he wished it or not, but she merely nodded, and the melda reflected only a streak of sadness.

“I had a feeling it would be this way,” she said. Rain had plastered a few strands of her fair hair to her cheek, and Aran gently brushed them back before kissing her. A sudden tug pulled at his middle, then, a familiar sensation he hadn’t felt for some time; his vala was pulling him east. Away from Elaina.

“I’ll see you on the Plane,” she breathed against his lips. Her eyes were closed. “And when you return.” After a moment, she added, “Don’t make me wait too long.”

Aran grinned and kissed her again. “I am sometimes a fool, my love, but not that much of a fool.” Forcing himself to stop kissing her, he gently stepped away and turned for the opening. Finya bowed respectfully as Aran approached, then jumped when he leaned in and kissed her briefly on the lips.

“Thank you, for everything, Captain,” he said warmly. “I hope we see each other again soon.”

Finya barked a laugh. “Can’t say I’m happy to see you go, Aran Sunblade, but I’ll enjoy watching you leave.” When Aran looked at her curiously, she laughed again, louder this time.

With a final look back at Elaina, who waved to him with an expression equal parts sad and loving, Aran stepped out into the chill wind and rain. His cloak and clothes became soaked immediately, and he raised his vala a little to keep his body warm. The grinding of stone behind him said the opening was sliding closed. He didn’t look back again; he could still sense Elaina, just on the other side of the wall. Already he missed her, but their bond was total, and he took solace in being able to sense her no matter how distant they were apart.

Shrugging uncomfortably in his wet garments, he moved off into the mountain passage. No wider than three men abreast, the narrow corridor was sided by sheer slabs of rock and granite. No daylight was visible from above; either it was night, or he was so far down into the mountains that light could not reach him.

His thoughts turned over in his mind as he walked the rocky, uneven path that wound through the Amarion Peaks, snaking its way left and right, up and down where necessary. Occasionally the path widened a little, sometimes enough for a wagon and team, or narrowed to a space he had to squeeze through sideways. Always, though, the way remained clear.

Aran had wished so badly to grant Elaina’s wish and align with Burin, but each time a gut feeling had stopped him. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he somehow knew that the consequences of that choice would have been catastrophic. Burin was the key to taking back the southwest from the Heralds. The Elves and Humans alone were not enough. With this matter in the balance, Aran could only imagine why his vala was pulling him away from Dun’Arghol, but he had learned long ago to trust in Aros.

The lands to the east were largely unexplored, and little trade passed through from the other side of the Amarions. Aran had his suspicions about what things lay on the other half of Ekistair, but they were yet to be confirmed. With luck, the Oron’noroth would have the knowledge he needed.

Hours later, Aran emerged from the passage into a vast, open cavern. With the boundaries of the space lost to his vision, he opened his vala to read his surroundings. A quarter-mile across and two-hundred feet high, the cavern was huge. At the other end he could sense a massive structure made of stone and metal, a hundred feet across and stretching all the way to the ceiling. The Eastern Gates, no doubt.

Two massive Giants stood at the gates, their towering figures standing at fifty or sixty feet. They were unclothed, and their skin was as smooth, polished stone. Aran couldn’t tell the colour; the vala could not do so. Naked as they were, it was obvious that one figure was male and the other female, and both were impressive specimens of their sex.

The male was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Long hair and a beard seemingly made of fine threads of metal graced his face, giving him a godly appearance. The female was no less remarkable. Full-breasted and round-hipped, her long hair fell down around her face and flowed down her body almost to her waist.

Both Oron’noroth were stiff as statues, unmoving, though Aran could feel their heartbeats thumping in their chests like huge, slow drums. It was into those hearts that Aran searched, feeling for their intentions. Unfortunately, these near-mythical beings were so far different from Human or Elf or Dwarf that Aran could not distinguish their natures. It was like trying to draw parallels between a horse and a tree.Distinguishing a line between good and evil was not always so simple. Something tickled the back of Aran’s mind at that thought, but it vanished before he could grasp it.

There did not appear to be any other life in the cavern apart from a few insects and grubs and several bats flapping about up near the ceiling. The air was certainly less musty, with the cave opening to clear sky on the other side of the gates.

“It has been long,” the male’s voice rumbled suddenly. The bass tones reverberated throughout the cavern and vibrated the rock until Aran thought the roof might fall in. “Since we have felt the touch of an arohim.”

“Very long,” the female added, her voice lighter but no less powerful. “And never one so strong. Approach, young one, so that we may see you.”

Aran did as asked. There was an ancient air about the Giants, and he wanted to show them respect. He walked forward quickly, and in a few minutes, he was standing before them, his head no higher than their ankles. Through the man-thick iron bars of the monstrous gate behind them, stars glittered in the night sky outside and a crescent moon shone, only partially obscured by puffy clouds, small and fast-moving.

In the moonlight, Aran could discern their complexion. Her skin seemed made of smooth, creamy marble, while his was darker and mottled, like granite. Her hair was like fine strands of onyx, but shifted and moved like ordinary hair, impossible as it seemed. The man’s beard and hair were like silver, shining softly in the faint light from behind him.

Two sets of eyes came open to stare down at Aran like four silver orbs, glowing softly in the darkness. “You are indeed young,” the female remarked, her full lips curving in a smile. “For such wisdom.”

“Yes,” the male agreed. “You must be him. The Anarion.”

Aran inclined his head. “I am he, great ones.”

“Long have we waited,” the female replied. “Many have come, but none were granted passage but for one.”

“Who did you allow passage?” Aran asked, curious.

“It matters not,” the male answered. “And that time has long since passed.”

Long moments stretched on in silence, until Aran decided to speak again. “With respect, noble guardians,” he began, bowing deeply. “I seek passage to the eastern lands. I am driven by great need.”

“The gates are shut,” the male said.

“The gates are shut,” the female echoed.

Aran frowned. “King Burin sent me. Can the way not be opened?”

“Burin does not command the gates, nor us,” the male boomed. “Only we decide who is allowed passage.”

“And only those of worth are allowed,” the female finished.

“But is Burin not the Keeper of the Gates?” Aran asked. He felt like he was missing something.

“Once, he was,” the male answered. “But no longer.”

“Night falls on the land,” the female added. “And the shadows lengthen.”

“That is why I must pass!” Aran persisted. “I am fighting the coming of the Mor’ion!”

“Your efforts are futile, Anarion,” the female rumbled. “The samana is beginning. Vasuda has revealed himself, as has Rava. The end of this world is nigh.” A shadow seemed to fall over the massive creatures, then, an ominous darkening. Was it just Aran’s imagination?

A sudden flash of anger flared in him. “And what will you do? Stand here and await its coming? The Oron’noroth are worth a thousand soldiers each! Surely you will not abandon the world?”

“We will prevail!” The male roared, shaking the cavern with his voice. “As we have always!” His massive fist clenched at his side with a sound like two boulders being ground against one another. “Do not presume to comprehend our thinking, Paladin. We have walked this world for millennia, and your Order has been but a flicker in time, a bare handful of centuries.”

The Giant was sounding alarmingly like Vasuda. Just then, Aran felt the barest whisper of another presence in the cavern. Intangible, but immense. He stared up at the Noroth and felt his expression harden. Yes, it made sense, now. “You have allowed Maharad to grasp your hearts,” he said as he drew Oroth. “Reject him, or I will have no choice but to end you both.” How long had they been under Maharad’s sway? And how many other Giants were, too?

“You are foolish beyond measure, Anarion,” the female grated, her beautiful face drawing into a menacing frown. “He is beyond time, beyond space! He is chaos unleashed! Even the Titans are nothing before His power! Submit while you can, Paladin, and perhaps He will spare you an eternity of suffering.”

Oroth blazed to life in Aran’s fist, illuminating the darkness around him. “That is where you are wrong,” he said softly. “He would have you think he is more powerful than you can imagine, but in reality, he only has what power you give him. If you cannot see that, then perhaps the time of the Giants is at an end.”

The female shook her head almost sadly. “No, young one,” she said in a softer tone. “It is the time of the arohim that is at an end. Your father was right to embrace chaos, for it is a thing that cannot be ruled.”

That remark would have caused Aran to falter, not so long ago, to doubt himself. “Love before hate,” he whispered to himself, smiling as he remembered his mother’s last words to him what felt like a lifetime ago. Two more words floated into his mind, then, coming to him through the vala.

Immellanle and Mandaralorn; the names of the female and male Oron’noroth before him. “Do you not remember the grand halls of the Temple at Caer’maralonnia, Immellanle?” Aran asked suddenly. “Or Edellein Sura, the wisest and kindest of the arohim, coming to the mountains to help build the kingdom of Dun’Arghol?” The words were not Aran’s; they were being spoken through him, coursing down through the infinite vala.

Immelanle frowned slightly, and her glowing eyes narrowed a little. She brought a hand up to her head as if confused.

“And you, Mandaralorn?” Aran went on. “You fought on many battlefields under the banner of the Hammer of Light. Your wrath was legendary the world over. They say Morgeth herself feared your presence on the field, even with the Titans at her back.”

“Those names,” Mandaralorn murmured, closing his eyes as if remembering something he thought he’d forgotten. Aran sensed Maharad’s presence again, this time more forceful, urgent even. Was it possible he didn’t yet have a strong hold over the gatekeepers?

“Too long have you been tasked with keeping these gates,” Aran said loudly. “Too long have you been down here in the shadows while the world passes by above. Maharad sensed your discontent and took advantage of your isolation. Look into your hearts and you will see the truth.”

Suddenly, Mandaralorn groaned and fell to one knee with a colossal crash. Aran had to jump back nimbly to avoid being crushed by a huge hand. He kept Oroth ready, though the blade had cooled and returned to the colour of ordinary steel.

Immelanle knelt next to Mandaralorn, concerned, but then she uttered her own moan of pain and clutched at her head. A scream followed, and Aran winced as the cavern trembled and his eardrums threatened to burst. Thinking quickly, he enveloped the Giants in his vala to protect them from Maharad’s attack. Mandaralorn began to howl in agony alongside Immelanle.

“Leave them, Maharad!” Aran bellowed, his voice swallowed by the deafening screams of the Giants. “You cannot have them!” Through the din, he could hear sinister laughter. The cavern grew darker, then, as the faint, silvery light of the moon and stars was veiled by a blanket of cloud.

“IT MATTERS NOT,” a booming voice spoke, rattling Aran’s mind with its force. It reminded him of when Aros had spoken with him; a power of a magnitude he could not comprehend, let alone withstand, but this time dark and terrifying instead of warm and comforting. “THE FATE OF THIS WORLD IS ALREADY DECIDED. YOUR DEATH COMES, SUNBLADE.”

There was a terrible roar, followed by a strange feeling as if all the air was being sucked out of the cavern, and then there was silence, broken only by the deep breaths of the Giants as they recovered, and the thumping of Aran’s heartbeat in his ears.

Sheathing Oroth, Aran stepped forward to Immelanle, who had fallen back onto her bottom, her back against the gate. Her immense bosom heaved as she gulped air. Strange, that her skin looked so like stone yet seemed to move like ordinary skin. The closest part of her was her foot – nearly as long as Aran was tall – and he placed hand gently against the inner arch. “Are you well, Immelanle?” The foreboding presence of Maharad was gone, but Aran remained ready for anything.

After a few moments, the beautiful Giantess nodded and opened her eyes. “I believe so,” she answered, though her voice sounded strained. She glanced at Mandaralorn, who was still in the same position as before, on one knee with one hand braced on the ground. His massive chest expanded and contracted as he breathed.

“Thank you, Anarion,” Mandaralorn grunted as he shifted himself until he was sitting back next to Immelanle. The massive gate creaked threateningly as his weight rested against it, but it did not move. “You have done us a great service indeed, and we are in your debt. We were foolish to allow ourselves to be used so.” Immelanle placed a comforting hand on his thigh, and he spared her a sad smile.

“Maharad is cunning,” Aran said gently. “You are not the first, nor will you be the last to succumb to his whispers.”

“What do you ask of us, young Paladin?” Immelanle asked. She crossed her legs, straightened her back and folded her hands at her waist, looking down at him expectantly. The moon appeared again, its light shining through the bars of the gate and illuminating her beige skin, glinting in places as if caught by tiny crystals. Her hair glinted, too, as it swayed with her movements.

“Young,” Mandaralorn repeated with a grunt as he studied Aran. “But with such memories, far beyond his own time. You are indeed a fascinating creature, Anarion. So different to the other one.”

“Other one?” Aran asked. “You mentioned someone before, to whom you had granted passage. And why would I be different to him? Was he arohim?”

Immelanle frowned, and that confused look crossed her face again. “There was a man, but my memory is clouded of late.” She touched her head, then shook it slightly. “I am sorry, Anarion. I cannot remember.”

Mandaralorn shook his head also. “I, too, am at a loss, Paladin.” He sighed. “Perhaps in time, our memories will return. What I can recall is that it was a man, and he was here perhaps a dozen moons ago.”

Aran smiled. “It is of no consequence, I am sure, great ones.”

“Perhaps not so great as we believed,” Mandaralorn rumbled sadly. “Immelanle and I have much to ponder.”

“Yes, husband,” Immelanle agreed, turning to Mandaralorn. “But first we must see young Aran through the gates, and then we must visit our people.”

Aran stepped back as Immelanle stood up. Mandaralorn followed suit. Aran felt a moment of surprise as Immelanle bent and scooped him up in her hand. “We have many miles to cover, my small friend,” she said kindly. “Will you ride on my shoulder?”

“Aye,” Aran replied with a grin. A moment later he was seated comfortably beside her ear. Curious, he fingered a few strands of her hair, which felt like a strange blend of rock and silk. She turned her head briefly to eye him, but there was a smile on her pretty face.

“Apologies, Giantess,” Aran offered sincerely. “I was merely curious. I hope I did not offend.”

“You did not,” she said as she firmly grasped two of the iron bars on one side of the gate. Mandaralorn moved to the other, and together they began to push. “I am curious about you, too,” she confessed as the metal grated on rock loudly enough to make Aran wince. “Were you but twenty or thirty feet taller I would have done much more than simply play with your hair.”

Mandaralorn boomed a short laugh at his wife’s words. “Be careful, Paladin,” he warned lightly. His massive arms bulged as the gate shifted outward. “She will attempt to keep you if you let your guard down.”

“I am sure there are worse things in the world,” Aran said softly into Immelanle’s ear, unable to stop himself from a little harmless teasing. She was still a woman, after all, no matter how tall. He was pleased to sense a small tremor of excitement run through her.

“I think you are a very dangerous man, Anarion,” she replied as the gate came to a stop in the open position. The two Giants walked through, out into the night. Mandaralorn held out a hand to Immelanle, and she took it before they began striding east, into the foothills of the Amarion Peaks.

“Aren’t we going to close it?” Aran asked, looking back at the open gate.

“No,” Mandaralorn said firmly. “The task has been fulfilled. The gates were guarded until the sun came in the night and banished the shadows, as the prophecy foretold.”

Aran had heard of no such prophecy. “How do you know it has come to pass?” He asked.

“Because you came,” Immelanle told him. “You are the son of the Sunblade. And Maharad laid shadows upon our souls, which you banished.”

“You guarded the gates knowing you would be corrupted?” Aran asked, alarmed.

“No,” Mandaralorn replied. “We did not know the meaning of ‘shadows,’ but we stood guard despite the dangers. Prophecies are often ambiguous, are they not?”

“No doubt,” Aran muttered as he looked out over the land from his vantage point upon the shoulder of the Giantess. Rocky slopes littered the landscape, slanting downward west to east, but the rock and stone was gradually giving way to stands of stunted trees and some shrubs. He could sense life, too. Foxes and rabbits and birds, and even the odd mountain lion looking for an early morning meal.

“I sensed your home, and your people, when I was in Dun’Arghol,” Aran began. “I knew them for Giants, but I could not tell much else, other than that they were alive. Do you think Maharad has infected them?”

Mandaralorn’s face turned grim. “I hope he has not, but we will see soon enough.”

“It’s strange,” Aran mused aloud. “I could not sense his presence in you, yet I have felt him in other humans easily. I worry I almost failed you both.”

“You know the hearts of Men,” Immelanle said calmly. “But do you know the hearts of the Noroth? We are old, Aran, and have seen much. I suppose we seem very different, to you, even from the Elves and Dwarves.”

Her words reminded Aran of a time when Master Bendin back in Korrin had culled a whole herd of long-haired cattle – animals which he had never kept before – he’d bought from a farm up north because they’d started shedding their hair. He’d assumed they were sick, but later discovered that this particular breed of cattle often moulted when accustoming to a new climate. Master Bendin had certainly learned an expensive lesson.

When working with something new, reserve judgment until you know what you are doing.

Aran remained silent for a time, but kept his vala opened out to a few miles’ distance. He didn’t know if he was imagining it, but the air felt different on this side of the range; heavier and wetter, especially as they moved further down out of the mountains. Many of the vegetation was foreign to him, too, like the fifty-foot tall trees with bare, ghostly trunks, their thick branches sprawling high off the ground. Strange nuts littered the ground beneath them, brown and shaped a little like a wine cup, complete with a hole in one end, as if for the wine.

Another was shorter yet quite bushy, with clusters of narrow leaves and strange yellow flowers, long and with tendrils protruding from their length. They were soft and pliant to the touch and gave off a pleasant, sweet aroma. Flocks of small, brilliantly coloured birds – mostly green, but with blue heads and red breasts and red beaks that lay flat to their faces – crawled around on those trees, apparently seeking the nectar in the flowers. They squawked and cried incessantly to each other as they dined. Aran thought they sounded happy.

After an hour or so, the Giants turned south and entered a series of craggy ravines, some only just wide enough to squeeze through. The smell of cooking meat suddenly reached his nose, and his stomach rumbled expectantly.

Immelanle giggled. It was a surprisingly girlish sound coming from the ancient Giantess. “I remember the arohim always had famous appetites,” she said fondly. “I trust that has not changed?”

“Not one whit,” Aran replied firmly as he studied the place they were approaching through the vala. In another mile or so, the cracks all met in one enormous opening in the rock. A large village was nestled there, with great houses a hundred feet high built into the very stone of the mountain. He had felt it briefly, back in Dun’Arghol, but had not taken the time to sense its detail.

The village stretched along the mountainside and occupied maybe a square mile of land, from Aran’s guess. The largest buildings were at the top, and the smallest at the base. A broad stream, almost a river, tumbled from a recess in the mountainside, splitting the village in two before reaching level ground on the eastern side and curling away to the south, where the rocky terrain again gave way to wide open land. Crops grew there, and Aran could sense sheep and cattle and pigs, too.

Aran thought it looked a beautiful place to live. Many Noroth moved about the village, hauling water or chopping wood or preparing food. Surprisingly, many of them were not as large as Mandaralorn or Immelanle. In fact, some were small indeed, only a few feet taller than Aran.

Before he could ask his companions about it, his vala passed on some more memories. Mountain Giants began life at a much smaller size than Aran’s new friends, and as they aged, they slowly grew larger. From what Aran could sense of the villagers, only a small handful were more than thirty feet tall.

“Your village is young,” Aran remarked without thinking. “You two are the oldest by a long way.” Up above, the narrow patch of sky visible was turning grey as dawn approached.

“It is why we were chosen to guard the gates,” Mandaralorn rumbled as he threaded his way through the crevasses just ahead of Aran. “We left the village in good hands, however.” After a moment the big Giant asked tentatively, “How many do you sense, Anarion?”