Legend Valley

By Holland Phillips

Book Two of the Gatemaster series. What began as a week long exploration of his own Vermont property has led Tasarian to this. His farmhouse has become the Gatemaster Inn, and guests arrive weekly so that Tas and the others can identify the three legends that will become his champions. At the same time Tas is determined to avert the conflict that seems inevitable. He finds his three champions, but things go wrong almost as soon as he gets them together. And all of his best efforts cannot seem to get him any closer to his ultimate goal - figuring out how to close the last gate, thereby avoiding the battle that is heading toward him and his friends like a summer storm that rolls across the valley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 3 Octave Publishing
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301091409

Holland Phillips

Holland Phillips’ childhood passion for the sublime and the irrational evolved into an appreciation of the possibility of alternate realities. His most recent book, Tasarian, Gatemaster, is a culmination of marrying legends of this world with the possibility of doorways to another.Holland is also a successful musician and producer with a number of contemporary instrumental albums to his credit. When he's not in the studio he spends his time writing novels, or wandering the woods of the Midwest looking for trace evidence of gateways.Holland has completed a second book in the Gatemaster series, Legend Valley. Currently, he is working on his third book, Chameleon, about a naïve fifteen year old growing up in the late sixties, whose experiences will determine the course of his adult life.

Book preview

Legend Valley

Book Two of the Gatemaster Chronicles

by

Holland Phillips

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are completely the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, businesses or locales is entirely coincidental.

Legend Valley

Published by 3 Octave Publishing

Smashwords edition.

This book is also available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2013 Holland Phillips.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by copying or any other means, without express written permission. Making or disseminating electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information, contact:

3 Octave Publishing

5228 West 48th St.

Cleveland, OH 44134

ISBN: 9781301091409

Index

One The Gatemaster Inn

Two Rachel

Three Legends

Four Tasarian

Five Through the Gate

Six Arendell

Seven Poser

Eight Gathering

Nine Preparations

Ten Sightings

Eleven Complications

Twelve Kelly

Thirteen At War’s Doorstep

Fourteen Kelly

Fifteen Parley

Sixteen Battle in the Valley

Seventeen Meeting

Eighteen Aftermath

Nineteen Epilogue

Prologue

In the second stage of the second age

the door in between will be found.

look ye all for the Gatemaster

for it is in his hands that tomorrow or not will be bound.

Out and in no number or spell

but in only three will pass through

the choice is not where, but who will and when

the Gatemaster chooses; choose ye well.

One pure brain to build the base

one pure heart to end disgrace.

One pure spell combines the three

and eldest born will set them free.

The master chosen end the reign

of terror borne from Arabain.

Chapter One

The Gatemaster Inn

Kelly Hansen let the rented Impala motor slowly forward so that she could peer into the darkness beyond the headlights. It was pitch black on this too thin road, and the blacktop surfacing did little more than absorb the light emanating from her headlamps. Thick, interlaced pines threatened the edges of the road and leaned dangerously overhead. Occasionally a breeze would stir the branches and a shaft of moonlight would brush the hood of the car, but it was thin and tentative and soon gone.

Why had she agreed to this silly assignment in the first place? Maybe it was some morbid desire to punish herself, accepting last minute jobs like this. Not to mention the fact that she was in danger of spoiling Lizak, a mistake that was sure to eventually come back and haunt her. But the man was an amazingly good editor; he had an uncanny sixth sense about potentially good investigative stories, and an even better sense of timing. She only hoped those talents weren't failing him this time.

Admittedly, the concept was intriguing - a small Inn tucked away in the Vermont wilderness, a place booked solid more than two years in advance that no one would talk about once they'd visited except to rave that it was the best experience of their lives. Vague rumors of it being a place where magical, supernatural things were likely to happen had surfaced on the streets of Manhattan, and it was becoming the place to have stayed, a vacationer's hot spot. But why it was so special and unique remained an unanswered question. No one related the standard vacation stories of horseback riding, gorgeous views, great culinary pleasures or any of the other amenities that usually set a place apart. In fact, the people she'd interviewed either couldn't or wouldn't describe one single event of their stay, no matter how she’d tried to entice them. And it wasn’t just a rich man’s getaway; her research so far had uncovered a wide range of guests, from working couples to businessmen to the very poor. Apparently there was some sort of vetting process that occurred when you called to make a reservation, and there was no telling what would get you in, or what would evoke a ‘sorry but we’re full for some time’ response.

Somehow Lizak had found a way to get his hands on a reservation, and that came with a history – apparently she was an overworked executive, desperately seeking a place to relax and unwind on the advice of her doctor. It was a weak story, she thought, but it had obviously worked well enough to buy the reservation. And for all she knew it was true - Lizak had probably paid the woman she was replacing pretty handsomely - what was that name again? She flicked on the overhead light and glanced down at the papers that were spread out on the seat beside her. Oh yes, Mickey - Mickey Dawson.

Fortunately, she looked like the executive type. Twenty seven, shoulder length auburn hair that held just the slightest bit of curl, sharp, unreadable green eyes, and a personality that was friendly but never too familiar. Her five-foot-two frame was sleek, unencumbered by any extra pounds and curved in all the right places, a result of grueling hours in the gym three times every week, rain, snow or assignment not withstanding. She'd exchanged her contacts for glasses, which helped bring the whole look together, if not making her appear a bit too stuffy. But that was perfect because it helped balance the rest of her look. Overly sexy would have every wife sliding her angry glances and every man drooling, and to get what she wanted she'd have to fit in with all of the guests and staff, old or young, married or not.

A small hand painted sign alerted her that she'd arrived, and she turned slowly down the small dirt road. It dove under the pines and she followed it, cursing as branches brushed the hood of the car. If she had to pay damages when she turned it back in she'd blame the Inn. Why didn't they make the damn driveway more passable?

A small parking area appeared a hundred feet in, just a small gravel rectangle area cut out under the trees. There were four other cars there, and off to the left a tall stone wall winding off into the forest, broken by a metal gate indicating the entrance to the estate. She turned so that the headlights illuminated the gate. Beyond it she could see a dirt path wandering deeper into the woods. Obviously the Inn lay somewhere down that path, even deeper into this cursed wilderness.

She parked and unloaded her suitcase, then grabbed a flashlight and shined it on each one of the cars, methodically recording its state of origin, make, model and license number in a small notebook. She'd have them checked later, after this week was over, by her friend at Motor Vehicle. It might help nail down a lead or confirm one of the current guests' stories. She'd gotten lucky more than once with similar, seemingly meaningless pieces of information - it was one of the traits that Lizak liked, and had helped position her for the better, juicier assignments.

Once completed, she pocketed the notebook and hauled her suitcase over to the gate. It was one of those black wrought iron jobs, eight or more feet in height and securely latched and locked, with bars just far enough apart to peer through into the woods beyond. Beside it, on the face of the brick was a button with a small sign above it that read: 'Push here'. She chuckled, pushed it, then recorded that too in her notebook. When nothing happened she pushed it again, holding it depressed for several seconds.

Soon an indistinct noise interrupted the silence - the clatter of horse's hooves, and another, slightly familiar rumble - a wagon, perhaps? She laughed - whoever owned this place certainly went all out to make it appear old fashioned; it was a cute beginning, if a bit too obvious and transparent. She hoped there was more than just a few parlor tricks to all this mystery, and a conspiracy worth her considerable deductive skills.

A light bobbed toward her out of the darkness, eventually illuminating a horse pulling an ornate carriage, a reproduction of the ones used in old England in the eighteen hundreds. Atop in the drivers seat, lit in the light of the swinging lantern sat a stocky, bearded midget.

‘Little person’, she reminded herself. In this day and age, you had to make sure you used the politically correct name for anyone who was different, or face censure. But in this case, there was little doubt that he was supposed to be a dwarf. He wore brown pants and shirt, and a leather jerkin over that. His face was browned, weathered and distinctly dwarven, with a very long nose that pointed slightly down at the end. Thick auburn hair curled about his head and ears, thinning and balding on the top but stretching downward into a ragged beard that covered his cheeks and jaw. She guessed that he was in his late forties, but moved as if he were much younger, swaying easily to the bumps and jostling of the carriage.

The ‘dwarf’ pulled the carriage to a halt, grabbed the lantern and leaped off, and as he did he clanked and jingled, and she could see now that he wore a thick belt that held an assortment of metal tools and hand-worked weapons. His eyes sparkled as he gazed up at her from behind the gate.

Welcome and well met, human, he said in a deep, rich voice. He bowed with a flourish. You would be Mickey Dawson, our last arrival. Welcome to the Gatemaster Inn!

She laughed in spite of herself. Thank you! And you are?

I am Hattakar.

It's nice to meet you, Hattakar. I must say, this is an interesting way to greet your guests.

He shrugged. No motorized carts are allowed near the Inn. Come. I will load your belongings. Would you care to ride in the carriage, or with me up top?

I'd enjoy riding with you. The fresh air might do me some good.

You’re perrogative, he said pleasantly. He unlocked the gate and helped her board, and after loading her suitcase he too climbed up and shook the reins. The horse turned obediently and started back up the dirt path.

I've been waiting a long time for this, she said, trying to strike up a conversation.

There are many people waiting to spend time here, Hattakar agreed.

Why is that? I've heard wonderful things, of course, but never anything very specific. Everyone just says it’s the perfect place.

You shall see. It is a wondrous place indeed, but difficult to describe in words.

If it's half as wondrous as you, then I'm sure I'll be suitably impressed.

Hattakar laughed. Very tactful, Miss Dawson. Most people just come right out and ask me, and do not attempt to shroud their curiosity within a compliment.

I admit, I am curious. Okay, why are you dressed like that?

He cast her a sidelong glance. I dress this way because I am a dwarf, and this is the way dwarves dress. I am Hattakar, of the Black Hill Dwarves.

Kelly winced. This was almost too good to be true, and unexpected. She would’ve set her pocket recorder to on if she’d known it would be this easy. Aloud she said, How many new arrivals believe you?

He stared at her, then threw back his head and howled with laughter. We shall enjoy your visit here very much, I think. The horse, he believes me, but of course he is not a new arrival. And the wind and the stars, they believe as well. Do you not?

I'm not sure yet. But I'm willing to.

He chuckled. How very human of you. Well, I will be sure to do as many 'dwarven' things as I can while you are here. But ask the horse, for he knows the truth!

The horse snorted, as if in response to the midget's statement.

Do you own the Inn?

Oh no. I am merely one of many helping the Master. It is he who has all the responsibility and the stewardship.

Will I meet him, this 'Master'? A bit of sarcasm slipped out, and the dwarf noticed it.

You do not like the word?

It implies servitude.

He nodded. "Perhaps. But we all serve one master or another, do we not? For some it is bitterness, for others self indulgence or greed or power. Our master is none of these things, and greater than all of them. And no one here serves him, as you say; we help him because he serves a cause that is just, and he needs us. But you will see for yourself, if you meet him."

"What do you mean if I meet him?"

He... travels a great deal, sometimes for years at a time, Hattakar answered. One never really knows when he will return. But we may be in luck, for we have been expecting his arrival for some weeks now.

I bet, she answered. When’s the last time you saw him?

The dwarf frowned. Some months ago, four or five I think. But that is not very long in… well, some respects.

As long as I get my rest, he could be the King Of Siam for all I care, she said finally.

I do not know this 'Siam' you speak of, but Prince Tasarian would not want to be King of that either. But to answer you, if rest is what you need, then you will find it. Here all guests find what they need.

She glanced sharply over at him. He’s a Prince?

He is.

Of what? Or where, exactly?

Neither, actually, the midget replied, glancing over at her. The proper question would be of ‘who’. But perhaps we should speak of something else. I would not want to aggravate your condition any further.

She leaned back, silently swearing at herself. There was no value in arguing with the midget; she was supposed to be here for peace and quiet, not a battle of wills or words. Somehow, though, she suspected he was goading her on purpose.

She considered what she'd learned so far. There definitely was a story here after all, juicy and full of possibilities. This 'master' sounded somewhat like a cult leader; there might be brainwashing involved with the guests. And the story line - a ‘small person’ dressed like a dwarf, of all things! They'd done an incredible make-up job on him, maybe even surgery, and if they were willing to go to those lengths, what else were they capable of doing? How would the others be made up, like goblins and sorcerers?

There might be a Pulitzer in this if she could put all the pieces together and expose the scam. It would be an exclusive, on all the front pages, and then afterwards a book perhaps. But no - she was getting ahead of herself. First she had to figure out what the angle was, and how they pulled it off. How could they make money on so few guests? Did they pull in the wealthy and convince them to sign over their fortunes? Was there a 'mark' in her group? Were some of the other guests planted there, hired for a particular purpose?

Lizak's sixth sense had been right again, she realized. There was some kind of massive scam going on here, either religious or money motivated. It was always one or the other. She'd have to find out which it was, get the details, and then entice them to offer her a part in it. That way she could follow its course, find out how the whole scam worked, then expose them for what they were.

Ah, here we are, Hattakar said suddenly, interrupting her reverie.

They had entered a large well-lit clearing, and Kelly gasped in spite of herself. The whole area glowed from the light of lanterns placed strategically about the yard. Branches from huge trees interlaced together a hundred feet above, forming a natural canopy over the entire area, and the leaves glowed from the lamplight. A large white mansion with wide front steps spread across the back of the clearing. A myriad of southern styled columns rose along the whitewashed porch, upon which a number of chairs and rockers and swinging benches sat invitingly. Attached to the right side of the main house was an enclosed walkway or porch, and attached to that another building, added fairly recently by the looks of it. To the building’s left were two other separate structures, a large white barn and a bunkhouse, or storage building perhaps. Hitching posts sat in front of each of the buildings, and although no horses were tethered to them now she had no doubt there were some tethered there during the days, if only to follow through on this medieval theme. The whole scene was accentuated by a fair sized pond in the center of the yard, with a concrete pedestal that shot plumes of water at varying heights at its center.

Hattakar drove around the fountain and stopped in front of the main steps, then helped Kelly climb down from her seat. Through the front doors you will find Christy. She will check you in while I attend to your luggage and the horses.

Thank you, Hattakar. She climbed the stairs and entered through the wide double doors. She stood now in a large foyer, with natural wood floors and expensive looking paintings adorning the walls. Beyond her sat a long counter behind which were a dozen or more key slots, a large map of the grounds and a cheerful looking blond haired girl.

Hi! the girl chirped. You must be Mickey Dawson. I’m Christy. You’ll be in room Four, up the stairs to the left.

Hi Christy. This is a beautiful Inn you have here.

It is, isn’t it? I think you’ll find it quite relaxing while you’re here. And if there’s anything you want just ask, and we’ll find a way to satisfy your desire. No matter what, or when.

Anything?

Any desire.

What if I wanted to take a ride in a helicopter?

She would ask you why you desire such a thing, a new voice said softly. And then we would find a way to produce one.

Kelly turned and found herself standing face to face with a tall, thin man with pointed ears and tannish-green skin. His face was startling – extremely thin, with dark piercing eyes that held her steadily in their grasp. He wore the same kinds of tan and brown clothes as Hattakar, along with a pair of soft, moccasin-like shoes that actually turned up a bit at the toes.

She stared at his face. There weren’t any lines or wrinkles, yet he appeared to be quite old; she looked again and decided that she must’ve been mistaken – he was really quite young. His skin color was smooth, the color even and natural yet distinctly alien. It was either his true complexion or the best make-up job she’d ever laid eyes on.

Falan was, obviously, supposed to be an elf. A really tall one.

I…uh…don’t really want one, she stumbled. She was certain he hadn’t been standing there a second ago.

If you should, let any one of us know, he said softly. Meanwhile, I would ask you once more to agree to the condition of your stay. She glanced past him; it was a long way down that corridor to any place he could’ve hidden.

The condition?

That you not tell of this place once you leave.

Kelly frowned. The elf leaned forward, closer. As you agreed when we accepted your reservation.

Oh. Oh yes. I agree, of course.

What do you agree to?

I agree not to tell of this place once I leave, she repeated.

The elf nodded once, still staring intently. He raised an arm and made a quick design with one finger, and it flashed momentarily before her and was gone.

Done, he whispered. He bowed then, slightly, and turned and passed back down the hallway, his steps making no noise on the wood floor.

She exhaled, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. Who was that?

That was Falan, our bartender, Christy explained. He cares for everyone that enters these grounds, and runs the Pub in the evenings. You should go there if you're not too tired. It's our gathering place and our restaurant, and you'll have a chance to meet the other guests.

He's..um...he's...

An elf, of course, she answered brightly. The only one left on this planet, we think.

Yes, of course, Kelly repeated. He's a bit, well, disturbing, wouldn't you say?

He always has that affect on people when they first meet him. But you'll come to like him very much. Everyone does, once they get to know him. I mean, how often does anyone get to meet a real live elf anymore?

When indeed? Kelly agreed.

When she arrived in her room her bag was already there, laid neatly on the bed. After settling herself and changing clothes she tested her tape recorder, set it on record and pocketed it, then headed downstairs to the Pub. Something was terribly wrong here - a feeling she couldn't quite describe. What was it?

There were three problems, she realized. The first was how willing they were to talk about themselves. She’d been here less than an hour, and already she’d met a dwarf and an elf, and they’d freely admitted that that’s what they were. She chuckled, and corrected herself – that’s what they’d told her, anyway. But the problem went much deeper than that. If they were this open about their information, why hadn’t she been able to get any of the past patrons