Free The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) by Morgan Blayde Page A

will ever travel.  My father’s wards will see to that.”
    “Ha!  I think not.  I have found a weakness in Death’s defenses, which is your precious city itself.  It breaks the warding just by being.  Once I find the Key, I will destroy this place, and then the Courts of Death will fall!”
    The Gamesman drew closer, lured by the obsessive anger of the elf lord.  “You expect to fight your way past legions of reavers, alone?”
    “Who said I needed to fight?  The ancient magic serves me.  You are not the only one who knows how to bend the walls of time and space.”  The elf lifted a foot and brought it down sharply on a hand that was reaching for his ankle.  It was the Leech, seeking enough strength to crawl away, failing yet again.  Without looking at the wretched doctor, Amberyn strode to his mount and sprang, mounting. 
    He brought the unicorn over and handed me a flask from his saddlebags.  “Take this.”  I sensed that Amberyn spoke to me this time, and not Silver Wolf.  “It is water from my world.  It will sustain your life and grace your efforts.  I know not why my old friend allies himself with you, but it is enough that he has.  So long as you carry his mask, you carry my blessing.”
    He added unknown words that flickered in the air like fire, resonating in every corner of my mind.  I thought this to be Elvin, the language of pure magic.  His benediction complete, he reached down and touched my head.  Weakness and hunger left, and I felt a reserve of strength I had not known since stepping on the bridge.  He kicked his mount into motion, returning to the furious haste that stylized his passing.
    The mask I wore slipped loose and I lost the sense of another within my body.  I caught the mask before it clattered to the bricks.  I felt the urged to stare in wonder at the silver wolf face, but forced away the desire—there were more pressing needs.  I held the flask under my chin while gingerly slipping the mask into my pouch.  The flask followed.
    Next, a flick of my wrist shook blood off the fouled whip, letting it snake out as I advanced on the Gamesman, ignoring the Leech.  The Thief of Souls had far more to answer for than the doctor.  I shouted at Abaddon, “How dare you speak of this game as having sanctity, you cheat!  You have set forth a puzzle with no solution.  Your only purpose is to destroy hearts by offering false hope.”
    My arm lifted to deliver a blow with the whip, but I hesitated as the Gamesman lifted hands to purchase a moment.  “Wait!” he cried.  “What you say touches upon my honor.  I assure you, the riddle of the gates can be solved —most easily in fact—though putting the solution into practice will be infinitely harder.”
    “Why should I believe you?” I demanded.
    He shrugged.  “It does not matter if you do or not.  My champion is here.” 
    Before I could look around, my wrist was seized in an iron grip.  I gasped from the pain, then came a sharper cry as the bones threatened to break.  A dark presence lifted me off my feet.  I swung against a black-armored giant that —if sundered—would have made three normal men.  A visor hid his face.  Through tears of pain, I saw that the Black-Heart Knight had approached without sound.  I could not understand how anyone so big, in full armor, could be so silent. 
    His other hand caught my chin, holding my face toward the Gamesman, forcing me to give him my undivided attention.  I was getting exceedingly tired of helplessness being thrust upon me.  The Gamesman crossed to stand immediately before me.  Did my vulnerability excite him?  It was hard to tell since his features were hooded and shadowed. 
    Thankfully, it seemed to be the day for heroic intervention.  Beyond the Gamesman, I saw Azrael.  He had returned.  His eyes were bright, stabbing from the darkness of his hood with a glare that hazed the air between us.  Extending from his cloak, his hands were clenched.