The Gatekeeper (The Gatekeeper Trilogy Book 1)

By Scott Ferrell

Fifteen-year-old Gaige Porter is special. He just doesn't know it yet.

When a strange girl shows up in his class after he dreamed of her, he doesn’t know what to make of it. He had never met her before. Things only get weirder from there.

He is lured into a gateway to another world much like Earth, but very different. Along with Seanna Bryant and Aoife Connolly, he must face danger, friendship, and betrayal while he tries to figure out what it means to be a hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Ferrell
• Release date: Oct 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370345243

Scott Ferrell

Once, not so long ago, there was a mundane boy who had aspirations of creating stories that would captivate the world... or at least one or two people. These are his stories.DUN-DUN!Make sure to check out my blog about writing and over things. The link is down below.

Book preview

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to two special kids who put up with Daddy disappearing behind a keyboard and a pair of headphones.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

Map of Alisundi

Prologue

Part One

1 Hero

2 Outbursts

3 Aoife Connelly

4 Dream Girl

5 The Gateway

6 Cold Confusion

7 The Jo-Shar

8 The Elder

9 Answers?

10 Flight

11 Empathy

Part Two

12 Journey’s Beginning

13 The Plunge

14 Behind Every Hero

15 The Ashlings

16 Into The Trees

17 Meet the Parents

18 Power Awakening

19 Taken

20 In Pursuit

Part Three

21 Musical Montages

22 Sholto

23 Through the Swamp

24 Balataur Attack

25 A Savior

26 Minotaur

27 A Promise

28 Into Delicia

29 Fear, Pain, and Desperation

30 Finding Seanna

31 Circle of Atlas

32 A Climb to Doom

33 Daresh

34 Betrayal

35 In The End

Note from the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Map of Alisundi

Prologue

The first flip sent a spider web of cracks streaking across the windshield. The second crunched in the SUV’s roof. The vehicle’s structure weakened and crumpled. The third spin sent the ruined windshield flying into the darkness as one sheet of ruined glass. Tiny leftover flecks of it tumbled around inside the vehicle with Grace Porter, along with random car parts that had rattled loose. She blacked out on the fourth rotation.

***

An unknown liquid dripped somewhere near her, quiet plops like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip, drip. Each one cut through the haze in her head like little drops of consciousness. It called on her to wake up. Drip, drip, drip. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to open them. She didn’t want to face the outside world. All she wanted was to slip back into the darkness away from the pain.

She felt something warm slide up her forehead into her hair. It contrasted with the cool breeze that chilled the sweat on her brow, sending a tiny shiver down her stiff body. She wanted to run a hand over her forehead, but her arms felt like bricks hanging over her head.

Grace couldn’t get her bearings. It felt like the vehicle was still rolling and rolling inside her head. Her stomach lurched and churned. She thought she might throw up. She swallowed down the sensation and steeled herself. What was she going to do? Sit and wait for somebody to rescue them? She couldn’t do that. They didn’t have the time to wait for somebody to come along and trust they would notice a vehicle had slid off the road and tumbled down the side of a mountain.

She forced open her stinging eyes. Her vision blurred and twisted. She felt bile slide into her esophagus. She swallowed hard and squeezed them shut. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face the situation no matter how much she knew she had to do something. She was too weak.

Her breath came in quick, short gasps that violently ripped themselves out of her lungs. Her heart hammered out of control. Her chest felt ready to explode.

Richard? she gasped, her voice raw from the bile that had burned her throat. No answer came. At least, she didn’t think there was an answer. Her ears rang and throbbed. It caused the world to go mute like she was underwater. Even her voice sounded distant and not like her own. Richard, are you okay?

Still no answer.

Grace swallowed and wrestled her eyes open again. The SUV rested upside down, rocking with a creak and groan. All she could see was the ground around her and darkness out beyond the vehicle. The seat belt strained and dug into her shoulder, holding her suspended in the passenger seat. She tried to relieve the pressure by pushing herself up by the crumpled roof, but her weakened arms shook with the effort.

The world started to spin again. She squeezed her burning eyes closed and tried to steady her breathing. She tried to take deep breaths, but her lungs contracted on their own. The world went on tumbling inside her head.

Richard?

She reached to her left hip but couldn’t gather the strength in her trembling fingers to push the red button that would release her from the seatbelt. She had to get herself under control. She clenched her fingers into a fist and forced a long, ragged breath into her lungs. She would get control of herself.

But memories slid across her eyelids. They squeezed their way into her thoughts, forcing her to relive them. She saw her husband, Richard, with one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. She saw her own hand bridge the gap between them to run fingers through his hair. It was black but already peppered with gray, even though he was only in his mid-thirties. A small smile appeared on his lips at her touch. She loved the way his soft hair felt in her hand.

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, but instead of sliding down her cheeks, they crawled up her forehead. Grace tried to push the thoughts away. They were barely minutes old, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe they were older memories. How long had she been unconscious? Were they memories from another time? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t tell.

She loved to watch him drive. She could tell there were things going on inside his mind, but knew if she asked what he was thinking, she’d get the same answer: Driving. She had left the question unasked and turned back to the road in front of them just in time to see a shadow dart across the headlights. Just a flash of darkness, gone in half a moment, but Richard had reacted. He jerked the wheel and slammed on the breaks. Grace felt the car slide toward the edge of the mountain road, felt its momentum slow as it neared the dark drop-off. She felt relief as she thought they weren’t going over the side. She felt the car pick up speed. She felt it tumble off the road.

Grace clenched her aching jaw and shook the memories from her mind. She had to steel herself for what she’d find in the driver seat. At best, she’d find her husband unconscious. At worst…well, she didn’t want to think about that. She knew the possibilities of what she might find. It wasn’t something she was willing to consider at that point. It wasn’t something she ever wanted to consider. He would be there.

Richard always carried a small knife in his right pocket. If she could get it, she would be able to cut herself free and go for help. She tried to focus on that. Get the knife, she told herself. Cut yourself loose. Get help.

With her mind tumbling, her breathing uneven, and her heart pounding against her ribcage, she opened her eyes. She turned her stiff neck to the left to find the driver seat empty, the crumpled door wide open and hanging on one hinge. A half-moon hung in the sky somewhere out of her line of sight. It illuminated the empty driver’s seat like a spotlight. She stared at the seat where her husband should have been.

Richard. The word caught in her throat. More tears forced their way into the corners of her eyes. Richard! Her raw voice cracked.

She let go of the roof and yanked at the seatbelt with increasing violence. Panic set into her pounding heart until it hurt worse than any other injury she had yet to realize she had suffered.

Richard!

She fumbled at the button, but the restraint refused to let her go so she could find her husband. She turned to the left as far as her neck would let her, looking for him. Two young, twin pine trees had stopped their tumble down the mountain. She stared at them until her eyes blurred. How could such small things have stopped their SUV? As if to add validity to the question, the saplings creaked and the vehicle slid a fraction of an inch.

The movement cleared her mind and vision. She twisted further, careful to not shift too much or risk sending the vehicle farther down the side of the mountain. Out in the darkness beyond the SUV, her husband was nowhere in sight. In that moment, she knew the worst had happened to him.

With that realization, she gave up. Whatever determination she had to find him fled almost as quickly as it had settled into her. She went limp, hanging from the seatbelt. A sob crawled up her throat, along with the bile she had been fighting. She turned her head just in time to throw up on the SUV roof. She retched until her gut was empty and knotted. She drew a shaky hand across her mouth and wiped a bit of vomit off her cheek once the heaves had subsided.

A whisper drifted down to her from the darkness. Grace went still. She strained against the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her ears to hear the voice again. Her ears felt stuffy and her head throbbed, but she was certain she had heard something. Was it Richard?

The thought breathed new life into her. She reached for the seatbelt release button again but stilled as the sound floated to her again. Louder this time, clearer. In a flash of understanding, she knew it wasn’t her husband. She knew it wasn’t even human. She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her heavy breathing and a whimper that worked its way up her ragged throat. The voice faded away.

The unknown liquid continued to drip from the engine, pattering on the ground. It reminded her of fairies landing heavily on leaves while they danced and played around her and Richard.

She stared out the gaps in the car where the windows used to be. She saw nothing but ground and darkness. The car’s headlights no longer worked, smashed in the first few moments the vehicle had started to tumble down the mountainside.

She renewed her efforts to get out of the car. She pushed at the button, but the locking mechanism wouldn’t release her.

The voice came back. It was closer, now, speaking in an unearthly language. A lilting cadence of grunts and hisses.

She knew what was out there. She didn’t understand the language, but she had heard it before in what felt like another lifetime. A time she didn’t want to remember. She jabbed at the seat belt release over and over. If she could get out of the car, maybe there was a chance she could escape or hide. She needed to get to Gaige to protect him. She knew they would be after him next.

The voice outside faded and a figure appeared in front of the car, wearing a cloak blacker than the night. It slid out of the dark toward her on the sloped ground. Her eyes widened and she doubled her efforts on the seat belt. Every yank was more desperate than the last.

She abandoned the efforts when the cloaked figure stood outside her window. Her breathing was nothing more than gasps. The fabric, stitched with runes she recognized, swayed gently in the soft breeze gliding along the mountainside. She flung her hand out at the figure in desperation, but nothing happened. She stared at her trembling fingers. Why wasn’t anything happening? She tried again. The night remained dark and still.

Grace Porter, you live still? came a voice in heavily accented English, thick and dark. To finish you, I could kill but maybe you prove useful. An oversized boot appeared from underneath the cloak to push aside a piece of the SUV with the toe.

The figure knelt beside her busted window and reached in toward her. In the scant light the stars and half-moon provided, Grace saw the hand, gray, rough, and cracked. Three fingers extended toward her. One thought flashed through her mind before everything went black. What will happen to Gaige? Who will protect my son?

Part One

The Gateway

1 Hero

I pushed myself off the ground again and flicked my arm. Pins and needles crawled up and down it like tiny unseen bugs. I turned and glared at my teammates, seething so hard my head hurt. I needed a target to vent my anger. James Mitchum stood, puffing hard with hands on his hips. Target sighted. I stalked over to him, grabbed the large boy’s face mask, and yanked it close to mine. Are you going to do your job or what? I’m getting tired of being plastered to the field before I get a chance to throw the stupid ball!

James growled and narrowed his beady eyes. The effect pinched his face into something that resembled a wilting jack-o’-lantern.

Jonathan Miller grabbed my wrist. Come on, Gaige. We’re all doing the best we can.

I turned my glare on him, suppressing the urge to remind him a running back was supposed to have the ball in his hand when he ran. His three fumbles showed an obvious lack of understanding that simple concept. Are we really? I let go of James’s face mask and waved at the scoreboard at the other end of the field. 45–0? What a joke! Is that the best we can do?

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, but his mouthpiece fell out. He tried to catch it. The chunk of plastic wiggled in his hand like it had a mind of its own and wanted nothing more than to escape. It fell to the ground. He stooped to snatch it up, dropped it, and picked it up again. He straightened and wiped the river of drool that rolled out of his mouth with a hand. He rubbed the mouthpiece on his dirty pants and shoved the hunk of maroon plastic between his teeth.

Huddle up! I barked before he could recover enough from the mishap to say whatever he was going to say. I turned away from my teammates, adjusted my shoulder pads, and looked to the sidelines for the next play.

Our offensive coordinator looked over the play sheet a moment. The aging man had a slightly bewildered look on his pinched face. He shrugged and waved a play in with a series of half-hearted hand gestures.

What? Again? I ground my teeth in frustration. He had called the same pass play three times already in that game. It had worked exactly zero out of three times. "Does he know anything about football?" I mumbled under my breath.

I turned and looked into the faces of my teammates. I felt my blood pressure rise and throb in my temples at what I saw. They had already given up. There was no chance we could catch up, of course, but seeing the quit in their eyes downright pissed me off.

I jabbed fingers in between my face mask and helmet, pushing at my stinging eyes. Sweat ran over my eyebrows. It was unusually hot and humid, which only added a sliver of irritation to my emotional state. A sliver the size of a six-foot two-by-four. I thought about changing the play. There had to be something better than that same, stupid play, but I couldn’t think of one to call in its place.

Split right, pro, seven, two, ten. On two. I spat out the play, resigned.

My team didn’t even bother breaking the huddle properly as they took their positions without much enthusiasm. They wanted nothing more than for the game to be over. I didn’t blame them, but I wasn’t about to give up with time on the clock.

I bent over James and called hut. There was a moment of hesitation before the ball slapped my hands. Apparently, I had forgotten the snap count. Something I never did. I guess my brain was filled to the max with being too pissed off to remember something like the snap count.

I stumbled, recovered, dropped back three steps, and faked a throw to a receiver, Martin Olsson, coming from the right on a slant route. I had thrown that pass three times before. The first time, a defender batted the ball away from the receiver’s outstretched hands. The second time, I wound up on the turf, sacked before I had a chance to even think about throwing it. The third time, the ball hit Martin between the eight and two on his chest and bounced to the ground.

I had no intentions of throwing it a fourth time. Instead, I pulled the ball down, tucked it under my arm, and squirted through a hole in the mass of padded bodies along the line of scrimmage. A defender managed to get a hand on my jersey, but I pulled out of his grasp. I stepped to the left. The linebacker waiting to tackle me took the bait and stumbled toward the fake. I cut to the right and darted around him. Imagine my amazement when I saw nothing but daylight in front of me. A safety on the far side of the field angled to catch me, but I poured on the speed. I sprinted along the sidelines. The opposing team’s coaches and players standing there blurred past, looking like a smudge of humanity. They were screaming for somebody to tackle me.

I lost myself as I ran. I didn’t have to think. All I had to do was pump my tired legs as fast as I could manage. Sweet, blessed silence inside my head.

It ended too soon. Eighty yards later, I crossed the goal line, scoring the Gate City JV Vikings’ first and only points of the game.

My team ran down to celebrate like we had won the freaking Super Bowl. Anger rushed back in to fill the empty spaces in my head. I pushed my way out of the knot of pads and sweaty teens. I saw nothing to celebrate. I stalked to the sidelines, passing Coach Graham without a word. I ignored the pulsing vein in his neck.

We got the ball back with five minutes left in the game. Mercifully, the other team hadn’t scored again thanks to the fact they were now playing third and fourth stringers. So, it was time for the JV Vikings to make a game of it. Time to score some points. Make it respectable at least, right? Not so much. We couldn’t even manage that. Three straight sacks and a dropped pass later, I yelled at my offensive line for not protecting me and then yelled at Martin for dropping the ball as we headed back to the sidelines. My blood pumped so hard coherent thoughts eluded me.

One thing did cut through my anger, however. The other team’s defense laughed as they strolled off the field. The loudest being number ninety-nine, the latest to flatten me with a bone-crunching sack the play before. I felt my left eye twitch as I hurried up behind him. I grabbed the back of his jersey and yanked him around.

Something funny? I growled.

The large boy sneered. Yeah. You losers. That’s what.

How ‘bout I wipe that smile off your face? I planted both hands hard into his chest pads.

I caught him off balance and he stumbled back a few steps.

A shrill whistle sounded as a nearby ref rushed toward us.

The defensive lineman returned the shove in kind before the ref could make it between us. I stumbled more than a few steps and found myself surrounded by his teammates. I was assaulted from all sides. I had no time to regain my balance before I was shoved again. I tried to push my way out of the knot, but I was clearly outnumbered and hemmed in. I reached out and grabbed the closest face mask. I yanked on it as hard as I could.

More whistles screeched from somewhere outside the crowd around me.

Anger boiled. Blood thumped in my ears. My vision narrowed to a tunnel and all I saw was the acne-covered face behind the mask I gripped. Hard green eyes stared back at me. Violence crept up in them and I knew the kid was close to swinging.

Somebody yanked me by the back of my shoulder pads, but I kept a grip on the face mask. I wanted him to swing. Take the punch. Take it.

A different face appeared between us. It was older with a slightly panicky look on it. I found myself focusing on a blotchy, purple birthmark on the left side of his chin. It moved up and down while the man yelled something at me.

Let it go! His voice cut through the blood pumping in my ears.

My fingers flexed open. I was immediately yanked backward. I stumbled out of the knot of people and fell to the field. Coach Graham loomed over me.

Get up and get to the sidelines! he yelled, his face a brilliant shade of red.

I pushed myself up and stalked toward a sideline. It was the numerous obscenities yelled at me that made me realize I was heading towards the wrong sideline. I turned the other direction while the ref called a personal foul penalty on me. Once on the right side of the field, I ripped off my helmet, turned, and flung it into the bench. Wrong move. Before I knew it, Coach was in my face, yelling. To say he yelled a few choice words would be a mistake. His words were anything but choice. He yelled at me for disrespecting the team by throwing my helmet. He yelled at me for not being a team leader. He yelled at me for my poor play. And when he was done, several very embarrassing minutes later, he sat me on the bench and sent my backup in to finish the last few minutes of the game.

I sat hunched, my head hung. Nobody approached me. There was a halo of empty space around me that didn’t escape my notice, and a thought struck me. None of my teammates had rushed to back me up out on the field.

***

A blanket of sullenness hung over the locker room like a dark cloud waiting to rain on us. My team changed out of their uniforms with only a few murmured words. Getting over the complete dismantling would take a while. Then again, what are teenage boys if not forgetful?

While the others moved in the slow motion of defeat, I hurried to change. I had to get out of there. The weight of the depressing locker room pushed on me like a giant’s thumb. I knew I’d catch hell for skipping the coach’s postgame speech, but at that point I could honestly say I really didn’t care. My blood hadn’t stopped boiling and listening to Coach Graham talk about the valiant effort we had made out on the field just might have made me snap like a dried twig.

Tough game. Jonathan bumped a fist on my shoulder while I bent over to tie my shoes. You sure know how to get Coach riled up.

I stood and looked down at the short running back. That wasn’t my fault.

No? A flash of annoyance crossed his face. Whose was it, then?

At least a couple dozen things ran through my mind. Oh, maybe the offensive line I doubt could block a stampede of raging dust bunnies. Maybe the defense for putting up as much of a defense as a bunch of napping babies. Maybe it was the wide receivers who had more drops than a dubstep tune. Oh, and maybe it was you who couldn’t hold onto the ball. Those three fumbles didn’t help anything.

That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I shrugged. Like you said, tough game, I guess.

I turned my back on Jonathan and fiddled with things in my locker until I heard him leave, bumping into a bench in the process. I crooked my head slightly to watch him walk away from the corner of my eyes. Once he was gone, I spun, quietly shut my locker, and hurried away. I slipped past Coach Graham’s office and out the door, making a beeline for my scooter across the parking lot.

If that’s how your games go, I might come more often, a voice came from behind me. I think your coach invented some new swear words in that little tirade.

I stopped and turned to find Brian Wallner leaning against the wall by the door. Not now, Brian. I headed off again.

He caught up to me. Aw, come on, Gaige. It’s just a game, right? That’s what you always tell me. When he didn’t get a reply, he went on in his odd, lilting accent. There’s always next week. Keep your chin up. Turn the other cheek. There’s going to be brighter days. Once you hit bottom, the only way is up. The grass is always greener on the other side. Wait. That one doesn’t really apply in this situation, does it?

Is this really supposed to be helping?

Hey, you know me. Always there for my buddy. He punched my shoulder. You look like hell, by the way.

I struggled with the urge to punch him back. Harder. In the face. I stopped to look up at him. I just want to be left alone right now, okay? I’ll be fine. I need to cool off a bit.

Brian stared at my neck.

What? I asked.

That vein in your neck pulses just like your coach’s.

I stared at him for a moment, grinding my teeth and imaging all the different ways I could inflict bodily harm. He looked back at me, his brown eyes twinkling with humor. I couldn’t say how much that pushed my anger to a new level. I turned and walked away without a word.

Oh, come on, Gaige. Where’s your sense of humor? It’s just a stupid game!

I climbed on my scooter. I could have told him it was more than just a stupid game for me. Ever since my parents’ accident, it’s all I had. Life started kicking me in the head after the accident and hadn’t let up since. But I couldn’t tell Brian that. It was none of his business.

***

Time slowed to a crawl like a snail hitching a ride on a turtle’s back.

Rain poured in streams down Gaige Porter’s silver helmet, dripping from his face mask. He peered into the dark depths of his teammate’s helmets as they stood in a huddle on the twenty-five-yard line, the muddy football field clinging to their cleats. Shadows gathered inside their helmets, hiding their faces from view.

Gaige felt alone, though twenty-one other players sloshed on the field with him. He remembered a time when he had felt that alone. A hazy time not that long ago when he clutched a pillow, ignoring the hollow hand resting on his shoulder trying to console him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he turned. James turned to face him.

Good job, Porter, he sneered. Two narrow eyes with yellow pupils slit like a snake’s stared at Gaige.

He wanted to respond but couldn’t find the words. He thought he knew his teammate by the number sixty-two stretched across the jersey, but when he looked into the large kid’s helmet all he could make out were those eyes. Hate and resentment flowed from them.

Why do you hate me? Gaige asked. He took a step back.

Gaige turned and looked over the other team’s defense. The Brightfield Wildcats. He laughed. They had yet to stop his offense. His own defense hadn’t held up their end of the deal, letting their enemies pull ahead 46–42, but he wasn’t worried. All he needed to win the Colorado State Football Championship were the few seconds left on the clock. All he needed was one play, a fade pass to the corner of the end zone. The play was a staple in the Gate City Vikings offense, one he could execute with his eyes closed. His coach bragged that Gaige could lob a football into a five-gallon bucket from fifty yards out. Gaige believed him.

He glanced at the scoreboard. Seven seconds left in the game. Plenty of time. Time enough for one pass that would make him the hero of the school. Of the whole town! Just one pass, one he had made dozens of times in practice and games. A fade pass to the left corner at the back of the end zone. Six points and the win.

Gaige stepped to the line of scrimmage and scanned the defense just yards away before bending over the center, James. Blue twenty-two! he barked with another glance at the scoreboard. Twelve seconds to win it all. Blue! Hut. Hut!

The football slapped his hands and he dropped back.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Stop. Set feet. Look right to draw the defense. Slide forward to avoid the rush from the outside. Look left. Twelve seconds? That’s not right. He let go a tight spiral to the corner of the end zone, dropping the ball over the receiver’s shoulder into waiting arms. Touchdown.

No.

The ball sailed past the receiver’s outstretched hands, landing harmlessly out of bounds. Time expired. Nobody moved.

Time slowed to a crawl like a snail hitching a ride on a turtle’s back.

Rain poured in streams down Gaige Porter’s silver helmet, dripping from his face mask. He peered into the dark depths of his teammates’ helmets. Shadows gathered inside their helmets, hiding their faces from view. Gaige felt alone. He remembered a time when he had felt that alone. A hazy time not that long ago.

A hand fell on his shoulder. James faced him. Good job, Porter. Two narrow eyes with yellow pupils slit like a snake’s stared at Gaige.

Gaige growled and felt something warm and wet splash on his hands. He looked down to find them covered in too red blood. James clutched his midsection, blood seeping between his fingers. Gaige looked back up to his teammate. The yellow faded from the bigger boy’s eyes until they were their normal brown again. The large boy blinked once and collapsed at Gaige’s feet. Gaige looked from the motionless boy to his bloodied hands and then to his other teammates. They stared back with yellow, slit eyes.

A yell came down from high up in the bleachers. You stink!

That one crack in the silence brought a flood of noise. One voice, one insult, became dozens and then hundreds until the deafening silence became a roar of boos. It rolled down on him like an avalanche.

Gaige looked around helplessly. Anger rushed in on him. He’d had a great game! He’d had a great year! He’d had a great career! The team