The Third Gate: Book One in the Gates Trilogy

By Kris White

Maybe you have heard the stories of Christ. But what if Earth was not the only planet the Creator ever visited? Troubled times have come to Panterra, a nation set apart by the Creator since the dawn of time on the planet Oberon. The treacherous Shadow King and his Dark Army are on the move to conquer and destroy what the Creator has established. Ancient prophecies point to the Heir as the one to restore balance and peace. Read the record of the Witness, drawn to Oberon from across the stars. This is the journey of the Heir, who seeks the keys to the Third Gate. At stake are the souls of those held captive by the Shadow King and the eternal fate of the planet itself. The Third Gate is the first book in the Gates Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644624548

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The Third Gate

Book One in the Gates Trilogy

Kris White

Copyright © 2019 Kris White

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64462-453-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64462-454-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

For Pike and Jude, my world jumpers, who inspired me in the first place,

and for PK who makes it all worthwhile

Prologue

It was a few hours away from the dawn of another day in the valley of fire and ice, and the small desert town of Sagev seemed to sleep peacefully under a moonless sky. The four corner watchtowers that lined the parameter each cradled two huge burning torches, which threw an orange glow toward the darkness of the heavens. On each outlook stoop, a pair of guards struggled silently against the deepening of the hour and the cold.

Within the stone walls, row upon row of houses and businesses long closed after a busy day lined the vacant streets with their dark windows. Inside, their occupants each wrestled with various dreams and manifestations of the waking hours. Here and there, a hungry infant sent up a cry for its mother’s milk, which was quickly answered by a sleep-deprived female Being. Elsewhere, a lone older child roused itself from the clutches of dreamland to get a drink of cold water or to use the bathroom facilities, only to scamper back beneath the warm bedcovers. Even work animals hunkered deep in their straw berths in the courtyards and barn stalls. The only sounds breaking the stillness were the even, and occasionally ragged, breaths of the townsfolk.

Only in the center of town did a single light break the dark blanket. High up in a corner window of the town temple, one candle defied the night as did its solitary occupant, Father Celek, who stood puzzling over several open scrolls and manuscripts on his humble desk. He looked carefully between parchment papers and mumbled to himself under his breath, grabbing one scroll only to glance over it and quickly discard it in search of something that eluded him. Every once in a while, he would read something, push his wire-rim glasses up on his bulbous nose, and stride hastily toward the window where he looked at the heavens for several seconds before retreating back to his desk and beginning the sifting process all over again. He bent down and was reaching for a partially unrolled scroll on the floor when a sharp knock on his chamber door startled him. He instantly straightened up and banged his head on the underside of his desk.

Wha-ouch! he cried, his hand flying to the sight of the injury. Who is it? he asked cautiously.

The other side of the thick wooden door softly replied, It’s Yermo, sir.

Yermo! Come in! Come in! the priest called quietly as he hurried to unlock the door. Sure enough, upon releasing the latch, the door revealed a slight robed figure holding a small torch on the stairwell.

Douse the light, son! We can’t have others seeing you up and about at this hour, scolded Celek as he hauled the page inside and locked the door behind him. Yermo complied and threw the extinguished branch in the corner with the rest of the stockpile used to light the night.

Have you found it, Father? the young page said breathlessly as both his hands pulled the hood down around his shoulders.

Not yet, son, not yet, Celek answered. But I am certain I am close! Come, come here. The priest motioned toward the desk. I have been reviewing the ancient scripts which call for the Heir to be born, and I believe I have found a clue you should see. Here. He picked up a partially unrolled scroll that looked particularly brittle and, after squinting at the faded text, pointed to a spot near the bottom. Look.

Yermo took the scroll and allowed his eyes to fall on the spot where Celek’s finger had rested, and he silently read. As he did so, his eyes grew large with excitement. Sir? He looked at the aging priest and smiled.

Celek smiled back. Ah, he said, turning toward the window. You see it too. Yermo nodded. Then you know what I know, the priest said. The time is almost upon us! We must act quickly, or the moment will be lost.

Again, Yermo nodded.

You know what you must do, said the priest, turning back to face the page. And you now know where you are headed. Go! Ride tonight to tell our brethren what the scrolls have revealed. Time is short.

Yermo nodded one final time and quickly pressed his flattened palm against the opposite shoulder in a gesture of salute before grabbing both sides of his hood and hoisting it back into place over his head. As he headed toward the wooden door, he whispered in excited tones over his shoulder, These are exciting times, Father! Exciting times! and then he was gone, back down into the darkness of the winding staircase.

Indeed, said the old priest as he locked the door. Exciting times, indeed.

The near-sleep guards barely stirred at their post as the lone, tiny figure on horseback sped past. Had there not been a need to raise and then lower the gate, it is doubtful anyone would have noticed at all.

Yermo crouched low on the back of the huge beast as he pressed the working animal to its peak. For the longest time, dull hoofbeats thumped lightly over the ground with little other sound to disturb the night. On they fled, over the low hills that led away from Sagev and into the high desert of the Inland Empire. It was fortunate that no other souls journeyed on the same road at this time of the now-early morning, or else the young page would have had trouble explaining his mysterious mission. The darkness was overwhelming, and the page had to trust the experience of the horse to stay on the winding road.

When they reached the Bone Yards, Yermo turned his steed toward the steep slopes of the Lone Mountains and continued racing along at breakneck speed. At this point, a tiny blue moon appeared in the eastern horizon and followed them as if to light their way. Hours passed.

Finally, just as the first pink rays of Juno peaked above the horizon, Yermo noticed a large column of thick, black smoke rising also. He quickly reined in the working animal, who by now was quite lathered and breathing heavily. The horse gratefully came to a stop, and as Yermo took in the meaning of what he was witnessing, panic pricked his gut and slowly took over his body in a paralyzing manner. It only took seconds, but it felt like minutes had been lost before Yermo stood in his stirrups then bent over the neck of his tired animal and shouted in its ear, Ha! The horse mindlessly sprang to life and moved as fast as its ever-tiring legs would carry him and his passenger toward the smoke, which grew larger and darker the closer they came to it.

About half a mile out from his destination, Yermo again reined in his animal and sat down in the saddle. This time, his jaw fell open in disbelief as he surveyed LeVoy, a once-thriving prairie town now in utter ruin.

No, no, no, no, no, no, he whispered against the vision. Even at that short distance, he could easily tell everything and probably everyone within its limits had been destroyed. A carefully dug in heel to the ribs urged his mount into a slow walk, as if such an approach would erase even a part of the nightmare unfolding before him. But such was not to be the case.

Yermo walked his horse among the smoldering rubble. Not one stone lay on top of another. And beneath the rubble was the charred remains of bodies that once belonged to Beings. Various other artifacts were scattered among and mixed in with each gruesome discovery. A bent pot here, a child’s doll there. Evidence that a bustling town had once existed. Evidence that once life had lived within its borders.

At one point, he came upon an overturned bassinet on top of what appeared to be an infant’s body. Overcome with grief, Yermo dismounted and fell to his knees. He pushed over the blackened basket and saw the naked male child lying silently faceup in the dirt. Part of his umbilical cord was still attached. He could hardly be more than an hour or two old. Then Yermo let out a sob, followed quickly by several more until his young body rocked back and forth, cradling the lifeless infant in a broken kind of rhythm. There was no hope now. None at all.

Eighteen years later…

Introduction

In the eighteenth year of my existence, I fell into a most troubling and confusing yet wonderful dream.

However, dream may be too broad a word to use as a descriptor. Perhaps experience better fits the situation that appeared to incorporate my entire Being and all my senses, my memories, and my hopes. I would swear upon all that is good that I had truly been present physically, as well as emotionally and cognitively. Most, if not all, of this experience seems too incredibly good to be true. What fantastic dimension I entered; I still cannot fully grasp. It eludes me as if comprised of a mist that dissipates in the morning sun, now being fully awake.

Therefore, I conclude it must have been a dream into which I awoke and found myself in a strange land of savage beauty, among incredible creatures both terrifying and stunning. Here is the tale as best as I can remember, as fast as my writing hand can capture its form.

There’s something in the way she moves

Or looks my way, or calls my name

That seems to leave this troubled world behind

If I’m feeling down and blue

Or troubled by some foolish game

She always seems to make me change my mind

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now

She’s around me now

Almost all the time

And if I’m well, you can tell she’s been with me now

She’s been with me now quite a long, long time

And I feel fine

—James Taylor,

Something in the Way She Moves, 1968

Chapter One

I came to my senses underwater while being tossed about by what my mind quickly understood to be waves and what my taste buds recognized as salty seawater. Before I could react further, my torso made contact with what I later learned was the shoreline. I felt something grab my ankle, and suddenly, I was being steadily dragged. I sought to fight