Because there would be no turning back from the death and glory that lay ahead.
Chapter 29: Gile
Gile Noman followed his silent guide with a degree of apprehension and mounting unease. Sweat dampened his fur-trimmed leathers under the battered, mismatched armor he wore. It was winter, and he should have been cold even with the bulky clothes and heavy cloak. But the lands defied winter's touch, remaining a sweltering, marshy nightmare.
The path was a twisted, tangled route through a mist-enshrouded forest of blackened corpses that had once been trees. Even in the dead of winter they appeared unnatural; frozen and contorted as if in agony. The sap that hardened in their crevices looked like dried blood.
Obscure creatures with pale eyes and hissing breath slunk in the shadows of the undergrowth, though Gile paid them no heed. He had worse to fear. When he looked up, the view of the night sky was concealed by swirling, striated clouds that massed continuously, occasionally illuminated by flickering lightning.
His inhuman guide trudged stiffly on silent feet in a relentless, unperturbed manner. Its appearance was as if someone had hewn a figure out of petrified wood but not bothered with the details. The face was barely discernable and completely expressionless under the tattered hood of its ragged cloak.
Gile had encountered the golem soon after he entered the fog-covered Barrens. It gestured for him to follow, which was all the interaction they had. Gile was impressed. It spoke of wisdom to use mindless servants. What could anyone learn from something that could not speak, or was not even self-aware?
And that was the problem, ultimately. Gile had learned long ago to rely on his wits rather than just his blade; a talent that had allowed him to make the best of any situation, and ultimately get over on anyone he served. But that was when he dealt with humans. He no longer toiled in the world of men. He was no longer a man himself.
The High Lady Masiki was certainly difficult to decipher. It was as if she wove an entire tapestry, yet allowed Gile to see only a single thread at a time. Betraying Marcellus Admorran to the Bruallians had been remarkably easy, but he could not see why Masiki wanted to ignite a war. Nor did he understand why she had him follow Marcellus' trail only to allow the man to enter Kaerleon untouched.
Gile fingered the scars on his face, remembering how Marcellus had nearly taken his eye with the practice sword just before going into the arena. He had been careless, gloating instead of paying attention to the murder on Marcellus' face. He vowed to be smarter. After all, he had only one good eye left.
Masiki had not bothered to explain her reasons, and Gile knew better than to ask. He was a tool, and a tool did not ask questions. Not even when Masiki sent him on his current mission with no assurance he'd emerge alive.
Yet even that was better than before. Gile recalled when he was like the others. Pitiful and broken. Human. A man of particular violence with a mind bent on rape, pillage, and murder. His days of pit fighting and living by his sword had cost him his eye and nearly his life. He laid in his own blood and piss, cursing the day his whore mother birthed him into the world.
Then High Lady Masiki approached him with an impossible proposal. She offered him the Gift, the power to become so much more than what he was. He accepted immediately and without reservation. No one could say that Gile Noman shrank at the moment. He became more than a man, knowing that his cunning combined with his newfound abilities would take him places he formerly could only imagine in his most drunken stupors.
His thoughts focused when the darkened grove abruptly ended. One second he stumbled through the tangled thicket, the next he practically pitched headlong over a steep embankment overlooking a bowl-shaped valley. When he regained his balance, his heart nearly stopped. What he saw was impossible.
The colossal palace in the center of the valley was large enough to dwarf the ones in Kaerleon or Epanos, and was far grander than either. It looked as if sculpted from foamy white marble topped by gleaming spires and turrets of gold. In the center of the seamless masterpiece of architecture was a glittering tower that rose so high it disappeared into the clouds. Even from such distance, Gile realized that the masonry was unfeasible. The structure seemed to be cut of a single piece, as though the forces of wind and weather had taken sentience and fashioned the palace for its inhabitants. It looked as if it had grown there instead of constructed.
Groves of lush trees, flowers, gardens, and meadows bloomed in the surrounding grounds. The valley was in direct contrast to the dark and gloomy surroundings, like stumbling from a nightmare into a most beautiful dream. He had wandered across many lands and seen many sights, but nothing so staggering until then.
The golem trudged on as if unimpressed. The moment it stepped on the grass, it exploded into dust that swept away in the rolling wind. The empty cloak whipped past Gile into the gloom behind; a reminder of what powers were behind the magnificence he witnessed. Sobered by that thought, he descended the embankment.
The grass sprang lightly back up, undisturbed from his footsteps. As in the marshlands, winter did not touch the place but the air was lighter, making Gile a little more comfortable in his leather and furs. The breeze changed from foul and sulfuric to fragrant and breezy. His weariness vanished a bit more with each step, so that it took no time at all to cross the meadow to stand before the towering bluish-white wall.
There were no visible gates, but two towers fifty spans across centered the front. Two massive marble creatures fortified the front of the towers. One was a manticore, with the face of a man, the body of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and bat-like wings. The other was a massive, bipedal reptilian creature with rows of teeth in its long snout. A Fandredd, another creature from legend.
The top of the wall was barely visible. It looked like an enormous frothy wave about to crash down. Gile shook his head to dispel the sensation of dizziness. How do I get inside the bloody place? Knocking was laughable. Who would hear?
Movement interrupted Gile's thoughts. He gave a start as the manticore looked directly at him with glowing eyes. A golden Glyph shimmered from its forehead.
It spoke in a rumbling growl. "State your business."
Another golem. Whoever cast it could use it from behind the wall, making posted guards unnecessary. The glyph on its head would be matched by its user, allowing the unseen person to see through the golem's eyes and control its movements. The creation required an intricate blending of the Crafts, both mental and elemental.
Despite being cast from stone, it had all the sinuous movement of a living being. As it scowled, its scorpion tail lashed with impatience. Gile eyed the gleaming stinger. It was long enough to fully impale him if the master of the creature so chose.
Gile mentally filtered through the different guises he wore to deceive those he dealt with. The lowly, ignorant demeanor had great success upon many, including Marcellus Admorran. He dropped his head and slumped his shoulders, barely peering at the marble beast. "I've come because of the Gathering. I have a message for m'lord Alaric Aelfvalder."
"You arrive alone? Where are the representatives of your Sect? Who is your Speaker?"
"I don't belong to no Sect."
The manticore's eyes narrowed to golden slits. "Aberran."
Gile shifted his feet uncomfortably. Aberran was the word used by the Sects to describe rebels, abandoned wards, or those who were given the Gift unknowingly or against their will. They were left to their own devices, not being privileged to become a Tyro, a learned one. No one would instruct them about their new nature, or the ability to focus the Crafts. No matter how the circumstances came about, the result was the same. Aberran meant the Lost. They were outcasts; shunned by the Sects, exiled to a solitary existence.