End of Days: The Legend Of The Gate Keeper, #6

By Jeff Gunzel

The Gate Keeper has been named...
The prophesies have come true...
The world as we know it will never be the same...

End of Days is the exciting conclusion to "The Legend of the Gate Keeper" series. Join Eric and his friends as they make their final stand against the forces of evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Gunzel
• Release date: Jun 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201913113

Book preview

Prologue

Gray clouds of slowly thinning dust still hung in the air, lingering for hours long after the angry sky had nearly laid waste to the Mountain of Dreams. The furious storm had dissipated, leaving behind a calm desert sky.

Large chunks of rock lay scattered about the base of the mountain, still smoldering from the electrical onslaught. Pebbles and dust steamed lightly, as if a hidden river of lava flowed beneath. All was quiet now. Peaceful. The gods were content now that The Trials were over. The Gate Keeper had been named, and none alive could deny that.

A single stone wiggled back and forth, then rolled down the side of the hill made of pebbles and loose rock, one of many steaming piles scattered about the area. Another stone moved in a similar fashion, then rolled down the other side. A nearby black bird perched on a dead branch looked on with interest, its head tilted sideways, blinking curiously at the pile of stones.

A sudden disruption from beneath the pile sent the startled bird into flight. Rocks scattered about in a spray of debris as a hand burst upward. Covered with multiple lacerations, dust combined with dry blood caked the trembling hand in a crumbly shell.

It reached about desperately, scratching around at the loose stone. Morita’s mangled face popped through the gravel, gasping for air, cursing the gods...

I will crush her!

DIPPING HIS LEATHERY hands into the old chipped stone basin, the man splashed lukewarm water across his neck and chest. Sullied, a light brown resembling tea, the water trickled down his front, dampening his tattered brown pants. Dipping his cupped hands again, the old soldier splashed himself several more times. Tainted liquid dripped from his chin, trickling down over numerous scars across his chest and stomach.

Placing two fingers into a small jar of white paste, he gazed into the looking glass. Broken sharp edges with no frame, the warped glass had a single, jagged crack across its middle. A twisted, distorted image stared back at him. His forehead seemed to bulge, his chiseled jaw stretching down longer on one side, and his graying hair flared out wildly. But even through the deformed reflection, the dark eyes of a hawk stared back crisp and clear, as if they were the only feature unaffected by the misshapen glass.

Other men wandered around the dank, stone room. Many were no strangers to this place, having been forced to participate in the games various times before. After all, competing in the games was an easy way to win back your freedom, or even pay off a debt. Easy enough for some...as long as they didn’t fear death. Others sat quietly by themselves, alone, praying that they might live to see another day.

But no one bothered the grizzled soldier while he smeared the white paste across his face and chest. Despite living down here for so long, hidden away from civilized society, they knew who this soldier was, and were fully aware of what had recently transpired outside these walls. The betrayal of the crytons, the surrender of Taron, and the fate of their beloved queen. Word of her sacrifice had spread like wildfire, even finding the ears of these poor souls.

Some of these men were here because of Azek Lamanton. Many had bragged of what they would do if they ever had the chance to get their hands on him. Clearly, it was the hollow boasting of fools, for here he was, the legendary captain of the guard, standing only a few feet away. He had graying hair, was slight of frame, and well into his middle years, yet none dared approach the bladesmaster. Better to take their chances in the arena.

A door opened from across the room. As was customary, the men kept their eyes low while three large men in chainmail armor marched in. Avoiding eye contact made them feel like their chances of going into the arena were lessened somehow. Of course, this absurd thinking made no sense. Surely the combatants for the next event had already been decided on, but it still made them feel as if they had some control over the situation.

Armor clanging with each step, they marched up to a group of four men who still kept their eyes on the floor. The room was dimly lit; only a few lanterns hung about on thick black hooks. With the oil in each running out, their dull flames grew low and sickly. One of the soldiers lifted one from the wall and turned back to the four men.

Holding it high, the low light was enough to clearly show his face. He had deep-set blue eyes, and a thick greasy mustache that rode across his cheeks, joining up into his sideburns. Where is the newcomer? he bellowed. Heads sank even lower, while others turned away altogether. 

You know my name, Anglot, hissed Azek from the other side of the room. Is it my turn to satisfy the mob’s bloodlust?

He and the other three men moved towards the stone basin and stood beside the grizzled soldier. Anglot sighed, placing his hand on Azek’s shoulder. Azek, I’m sorry old friend, but you know why we are here. I have to follow her orders, just as I once followed yours. And please, don’t blame the people. They’re frightened and confused just like everyone else.

Azek slowly turned to face them. Stunned, Anglot pulled his hand away, nearly dropping the lantern. They each took a step backward, shaken by the eerie sight. White paint highlighted most of Azek’s face and much of his chest. Black paint circled his already dark eyes, making the sockets appear empty. Dark, looping lines around his grimacing mouth gave the appearance of an extra set of teeth. The soldiers found themselves staring into the eyes of a living skeleton. Then we must not keep her waiting, said the skeleton, giving them each a chilling stare.

Reluctantly, they led him away. The other combatants watched him go, knowing their time would come soon enough. More than a few raised their hands in awkward salutes, along with mumbles of sir and captain under their breath.

Once they were in the next area, Azek immediately recognized the circular stone room. This room in particular had only one way out, leading directly into the arena. There were exactly six identical rooms such as this one, each with a single iron door. Normally a group of men would share this space, anywhere from five to twenty, depending on what sort of gory event had been planned for that evening. But today, Azek was the only combatant here.

The air was thick and humid, filled with a dank, musty scent—evidence that other fighters had occupied this space not long ago. She wants to make an example out of you, Azek, said the tallest of the three soldiers. His bright red hair was long and curly, covering his ears and part of his thick neck. He placed a large hand with sausage-sized fingers on the lean warrior’s shoulder. As your friend, I’m warning you in advance, Filista is determined to see you fall in the first round. In her eyes, as well as the people’s, you are still a symbol of hope. The last remaining relic of the old regime. Once you fall in front of the eyes of thousands, the memory of Ilirra Marosia will die with you.

Azek couldn’t hide the pain that flashed across his face, pain that had nothing to do with the likelihood of his own demise, but of the agonizing memory of a woman who gave up everything in the name of her people. A woman he would never again hold in his arms. The skeleton bared his teeth in anger. That serpent defiles the throne with her every breath. I know she will have me killed sooner or later, Azek growled. But it’s not a quiet death she wishes for me. She wants it to be violent, memorable, and witnessed by all.

And that is to your advantage, said the redheaded soldier, sparing a smile for his longtime friend. The longer you survive, the more it will enrage her. Whatever she throws at you, you must always find a way to snatch victory away from the jaws of death. Promise us you will not go down so easily.

I don’t intend to die anytime soon, Azek replied. Especially not in front of thousands of men and women whose faith in this city hangs by a thread. If my demise in the arena is the only thing Filista needs to seal her position in the eyes of the people, then I plan to make her quite miserable.

There came a high-pitched, grinding sound as the iron gate rose. None of the soldiers even glanced at it, instead keeping their eyes locked on the former captain of the guard. For all they knew, this could be the last time they would ever see him. You always were a stubborn old goat, said Anglot, allowing himself a subtle grin. Sooner or later, she’s going to get what she wants. Tell me, old friend, just how long do plan to cheat death?

Azek smiled back. His grin looked odd with that chilling white and black face paint. I plan to live long enough see the true queen of Taron take her rightful place upon the throne. The men’s faces suddenly went pale. What was he talking about? The queen was dead. Had he gone mad? 

He galloped towards the open gate, grabbing an axe from a weapons rack as he ran by. Shouts from the packed seats began raining down the moment they saw him burst through the gate. The three soldiers just watched him go in stunned silence. What did he mean by the true queen?

The roar from the crowd was deafening. There were a few gasps mixed in due to his menacing face and body paint, but mostly they cheered for their hero, the famed captain of the guard—the people’s last remaining tie to their beloved queen. He gazed upward, spotting Filista high up on her raised podium. Surrounded by cryton soldiers holding spears, she was easy enough to find.

Wearing a long green gown and shiny golden hoops around her neck and wrists, her bright yellow eyes locked onto his. She appeared more irritated than usual, no doubt disgusted by the crowd’s thunderous ovation for the once renowned soldier.

Azek sneered up at her, his thin lips curling back to reveal his teeth. He lifted his heavy war axe and pointed it in her direction, prompting the already thunderous roaring from the crowd to intensify further. Not only had he become a symbol of hope, but represented a symbol of defiance as well. He did not fear Filista or the crytons that followed her on this quest to dominate the humans. That alone gave courage to the lowliest of commoners. It gave them hope, and she hated him for that...

But she would not be baited into killing him silently, although the constant temptation was very real. No, she thought. He must fall before the eyes of these lowly peasants. Once their will is broken, they will learn to obey without question.

That’s right, commander, she whispered, eyes still locked with his. I just need you to die like a good soldier. Is that really so much to ask? Keeping her glare fixed on him, Filista gently placed the golden crown on top of her head. Her wild white hair and large head kept it from sitting properly, but she wore it nonetheless.

Blinding rage filled the soldier. The sight of that thing wearing Her Majesty’s crown was almost more than he could take. His deep breaths came hard and heavy, snarl deepening. Still holding the axe up towards her, he released it, letting it fall harmlessly into the sand below. A shocked gasp rose up from the crowd. What was he doing? Filista’s smirk widened at the sight of the unarmed soldier. Fine then. It seems you’ve decided to grant me my wish, she said, clapping her hands twice. On cue, the cryton soldier to her left pointed to the iron gate on the opposite end of the arena.

The iron bars began to rise with a shrill rasping sound; metal wheels screeched while riding up their rusty tracks. Azek folded his arms across his bare chest and watched. His expression held the disinterested look of a man who was bored, not of one who was about to die. Thousands of people filled the arena seats, yet the occasional cough or clearing of a throat rang out clearly against the stunned silence. They, too, watched and wondered what nightmarish end Filista had planned for the soldier.

Two crytons came hobbling out from the dark tunnel. They moved as if they were drunk, stumbling back and forth, occasionally bumping into each other. But the reason for their choppy movements became clear once they stepped further into the sunlight. Each was gripping a thick black chain; tugging at something that was clearly pulling back. Two more crytons appeared from the darkness, each struggling with chains of their own. A mighty roar cascaded from the tunnel, causing the crytons to flinch. Azek looked on, weaponless, his emotionless face carved from stone. 

A moment later, the chained beast came into view. Tall and wiry with long white hair, the crendive thrashed about, pulling against its captors. The four black chains all led to a thick metal collar latched around the monster’s neck—a long, thick neck that added to its already substantial height. Its light-skinned body was eerily similar to a human’s, except that its arms were unusually long and disproportionate to its body. Despite its eight-foot stature, the beast’s knuckles nearly touched the ground.

It stopped thrashing once it noticed Azek standing off in the distance. Its small black eyes, similar to a spider’s, locked onto the soldier with a keen interest. Azek returned the distant gaze with little interest. No fear. No apprehension of what was to come. Emotionless. The crendive threw its head back, arms out to the side, and let out a chilling screech that echoed throughout the stadium. Like a snake with its jaw unhinged, the beast’s mouth opened impossibly wide, revealing thin needle-like teeth that were several inches long.

The four crytons gripped their chains tight while a fifth carefully approached the monster from behind. Holding a long pole with a hooked end, he timidly probed around the back of the crendive’s metal collar. Looking nervously at the others, he gave a nod, then pushed up at the latch. All five began running long before the chained collar ever hit the sand. 

The creature remained still, as if not yet realizing it was free. But no, surely it felt the chains drop away. It must have noticed its keepers running for their lives. Crendives were known for their savagery, not their smarts. Rarely did they display much in the way of thinking or emotions, yet this one did appear to be thinking. It glared at Azek with those dark, unblinking spider’s eyes.

Why is the cursed beast just standing there? Filista snarled in the ear of one of her advisers.

It’s...er...confused, the elder cryton replied, scratching his bald head. In the wild, all creatures fear the crendives. Most do anything they can to avoid them. Not all that difficult really, considering they mostly keep to themselves high up in the mountains. But the–uh–chosen combatant down there, isn’t showing the slightest trace of fear. Frankly, the beast finds that sort of unnatural behavior...alarming. Filista snorted at the explanation. Azek was just another feeble human, nothing more.

Finally, it began to stalk towards Azek. Slowly at first, still unsure of why its prey wasn’t running away. Growling, saliva dripping from its sharp teeth, it started to move faster. Heavy bare feet pounded along the loose sand. Bloodlust and savage instincts now taking over, the beast broke into a full charge. Enormous hands reaching out, powerful legs pumping, it roared a blood-curdling howl that echoed throughout the silent arena. Some in the audience rubbed their elbows nervously, while others covered their ears and closed their eyes. All held their breath.

Azek didn’t return the charge, nor did he flee. He stood his ground, fists clenched, the image of the charging beast reflecting off his dark eyes. At the last second, the warrior dropped down as two massive arms crushed the air above him with a thunderous clap.

The beast’s feet stopped cold, caught in between Azek’s strong legs as if suddenly wrapped in chains. Helpless against its own runaway momentum, the crendive toppled forward, crashing down into the sand. Still clutching the monster’s ankles between his own legs, the scrappy soldier rolled with the beast’s momentum, ending up on top of its back.

With power and explosiveness rare in men half his age, the grizzled soldier dropped five heavy elbows on the back of the beast’s head, dazing the massive creature, each hollow thump weakening it further. He pulled back on the stunned beast’s forehead, stretching it back while exposing the neck, then whipped his other hand around, driving his fingers deep into the soft flesh.

Gripping the monster’s trachea, he squeezed then ripped, tearing open the entire throat. Blood doused the sand in a spray of red mist. The creature convulsed, legs quivering in a final death rattle. Then it was over. Azek rolled from its back, throwing a wet combination of flesh and bone down into the sand. Not breathing hard, barely breaking a sweat, he looked up to the acting queen with eyes hard as stone.

One by one the crowd broke from their shocked trance, and slowly began to clap. They clapped cautiously, unsure, as if having trouble believing what they had just seen. It had all happened so fast, and he was not supposed to be the one still standing. Holding her outraged glare, he slashed a bloody hand across his own throat, spit, then turned back towards the tunnel from which he came. His defiant action brought the crowd to their feet, whistling and cheering for the legendary soldier.

Filista frowned at the back of his head, not sure what irritated her more—the fact that he was still alive, or that he had beaten her pet so soundly, so quickly. But she regained her composure and began to clap along with the audience. Taking the hint, her surrounding entourage began to clap as well. Wearing her phony smile, she rose from her seat and gestured towards the victor. Patience, she told herself as she watched him disappear into the dark tunnel, the iron door closing behind him. I might have underestimated you. Still, it’s only a matter of time. 

Chapter 1

Standing atop of the outer wall, the general waited patiently. With large square stones overlapping one another like the scales of a lizard, the blood-red wall was truly a marvel in engineering. Using no mortar for reinforcement, the ancients had somehow devised a wall that had protected the empire for generations. But with most of the ancient designs lost, the secrets of its strength could never be duplicated without disassembling it stone by stone. They weren’t even sure where the red stones came from. Incredibly dense they were, and far too heavy for one man to lift. Mysterious engineering now lost forever. 

Dingy yellowed skulls, weathered and worn, hung near the wall’s gate. A few were nothing more than old fragments of bone, a thin chain strung through an empty eye socket tapping lightly against the stone when the breeze picked up. The heads of enemy generals, they hung as a warning to what happens to enemies of the Crimson Empire. Of course, these yellowed skulls were centuries old, for that was how long it had been since any were foolish enough to attack these walls.

Look, over there, said the soldier to his right, an eye peering through his silver looking glass. It’s him, I’m sure of it. Many people were passing in and out of the city gate below them. Some were on horseback, others riding in carriages, but most traveled by foot. The ones they were looking for would certainly stand out amongst these commoners. 

Gazing out into the distance, the general held out his hand without saying a word. The looking glass was quickly passed over, then the stout man used it to survey the field. Sure enough, a horseman was riding towards the city at an urgent pace, leaving behind a rising trail of dust. The dirt road leading from the gate snaked up the hill in a winding fashion. But the rider ignored the borders of the path, streaking across the field and heading for the gate straight as a bird in flight. With an irritated snap, the general collapsed the looking glass, then handed it back to the soldier.

A single rider? This didn’t look good.

The general cast a sharp glance at the men, his unusual gray eyes boring into each in turn. You three come with me. The rest of you report back to the barracks. He gazed back over the wall’s edge thoughtfully. Whatever the news, I’ll deliver it to the empress myself. Dismissed.

Unable to hide their relief, the men turned eagerly and clanked down the stone stairway. They each wore a full set of bright red plate mail, thick and noisy, but nowhere near as heavy and cumbersome as it looked. It was forged from a special alloy, hard as steel but amazingly light. Four-inch spikes protruding from the chest and shoulder pieces gave them the appearance of startled blowfish. But the odd spines served a simple, yet primal purpose. A soldier must never be defenseless, even if he’s lost his weapon on the field of battle. An aggressive bear hug or shoulder charge wearing these suits could prove to be as effective as any sword.

After a moment of hesitation, the general marched down the same steps with the other three soldiers at his back, his long brown hair hopping off his shoulders with each step. People swiftly moved out of their way, allowing them to sift through the crowd and out the front gate.

The rider was coming up fast, his horse’s hooves pounding away across the hardened dirt. The general ran two fingers down his mustache, displaying an unusual amount of anxiety. He waved for the rider to veer away from the gate. A moment later they all met him near the wall, away from the crowd of onlookers.

The rider’s fine black stallion reared up on two legs, kicking the air and snorting defiantly. Large and well muscled, this beast had clearly come from excellent stock, bred for speed and power. The rider stroked its neck, calming the fiery animal before pulling back his brown hood. Before speaking, he reached into his cloak, but was stopped by the hiss of steel slipping from leather sheaths.

Slowly, the general warned, his blade along with three others suddenly inches from the rider’s neck. I wouldn’t be making any more sudden movements if I were you.

The rider flashed an amused smile, then kept digging through the inside of his cloak. I was sent here to give you a message. I’m afraid killing me before I’ve completed the task would not benefit either party. Agreed? There was air of confidence surrounding the man, bordering on sheer arrogance—the unmistakable poise of a professional who had done this many times before.

Alright then. Show us your mark, said the general, the grip on his blade already beginning to relax. After only a few words with this man, there was little doubt his claim was true. This was definitely the man they were waiting to speak with.

And if it is no trouble, may I request your name and rank, good sir? asked the rider. As you can imagine, my orders were rather specific. I’m not here to speak with just anyone.

General Hirao Kawamori, commander of the Crimson Empire military, said the general, sheathing his blade. The other men followed his lead, reluctantly housing their steel. And now that I’ve complied, I ask that you do the same.

Just know that I am the man who was paid a fair amount of gold to rush a message to you, said the rider, dipping his head respectfully. And as for my mark... He finally pulled his hand from inside his cloak, and tossed a fine gold chain at the general’s feet. One of the soldiers retrieved it and held it up. The engraved silver disk attached to the chain spun and twisted, sparkling in the sunlight. The engraved markings were unmistakable. Solid silver on one side, an intricate blue rose floating in a cloud of smoke on the other. Now, shall we end this little game?

Spare me the small details for now, the general pleaded. Just assure me the rumors aren’t true. Tell me the famed Tryads didn’t fail to kill a single ordinary man.

The rider slowly shook his head, tapping a finger against his lip. I don’t know that ‘failed’ is exactly the right word here, he replied thoughtfully. "Regardless, I’m afraid