The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [237]
Travis stepped onto the platform and moved to the tank. It was made of Plexiglas; clear fluid bubbled within. On top of the tank was a plastic vial with a cap. It looked as if the vial could be filled, then pushed down into the tank. He removed the cap from the vial.
It took a minute to get the blood flowing from his wound again, and another few minutes to fill the vial. He replaced the cap.
Another sound melded with the distant wail of the alarm—a metallic buzzing. Travis looked up. The crimson light flickering through the open doors was tinged with silver.
He fumbled in his pocket for the radio and pulled it out. “Deirdre, can you hear me?”
The only answer was static. “Deirdre, please, come in.”
The silver light was brighter. The metallic drone drowned out the blare of the siren. The wraithlings were coming, and the army of ironhearts with them. Vani and Beltan had used the gate artifact. Either that, or they were—
A burst of static phased into words. “Travis? I think it's you. I can hardly hear you, but. . . .”
More crackling. Travis clutched the radio. “Deirdre, talk to me. I have to know if everyone is out. Have all of the people gotten out of the cathedral?”
He counted five heartbeats, but all that came from the radio was a hiss. He was about to press the button when Deirdre's voice came again, clearer than before.
“. . . that the last people have just made it out. The cathedral is clear, though no one has seen Carson. And it's already begun. The story is on all of the national news channels. They're running the tape nonstop, and several senators are already calling for an investigation. Duratek is finished.”
Travis couldn't help smiling. “That's good, Deirdre. That's really good.”
A pause. Then, “Travis? Where are you—?”
He pushed the button. “Good-bye, Deirdre. And thank you. You've been a true friend.”
He switched off the radio and set it on top of the tank. At the same moment, brilliant light flooded through the open doors. Figures moved within, spindly arms reaching out for him.
“Come on,” Travis said, raising the Stones in his left hand. “Come get them if you can.”
He sensed them quicken, like a grove of trees in a wind. They surged toward him. Travis grinned, then pressed on the vial, slamming it into the tank. Blood spread through the clear plasma, tinting it crimson, flowing through the tubes.
A sheet of blue fire crackled into being inside the arc of dark metal. Duratek's scientists had done well; they had learned much from the sorcerer and from their research. The gate looked exactly like the one conjured by the artifact of Morindu.
No, not exactly. The gate wavered at the edges, and it seemed to flicker, growing dim then bright again.
They haven't perfected it, Travis. The gate isn't stable.
The flickering grew more erratic. There was no more time. The wraithlings reached the platform, encircling it. Men and women flooded into the chamber behind them, eyes dead and full of murder. Ironhearts. Hundreds of them. The wraithlings reached out slender, deadly hands.
Travis tightened his fingers around the two Stones and threw himself forward, into the blue fire of the gate. As he jumped, he shouted a single word.
“Reth!”
High-pitched cries sounded behind him, a chorus of rage, of hatred, of despair. Then the screams were drowned out by a sound like shattering glass. Shards of blue magic flew in all directions, slicing apart the darkness, then were gone, and nothing remained but the Void.
Travis's mind was already shrinking. The coldness of the Void froze him. All the same, he felt one faint, warm spark of satisfaction.
You did it, Travis. You've destroyed the gate. Mohg will never use it to get to—
The Void was no longer empty. A sound thrummed through it, far louder than the sound of the gate shattering. It was like the rending sound of an earthquake, only there was no land in this place, nothing to break apart.
Travis felt a deep wrenching sensation. At the same moment a crack appeared in the Void, a jagged line of gray