Gedain and five riders pressed on in haste for the High Gate, climbing the old mountain trail as it coiled upwards into the foothills of the Norzcarpe. On the third morn the sky dimmed beneath a veil of gray haze, and ere midday a wet spring snow began to fall, heavy and clinging. Still, they urged their mounts onward, upward, the path softening to mire beneath their iron shoes. The horses labored, sides heaving, nostrils flaring with mist.

  When at last they rose above the shelter of the forest, the winds descended upon them in howls and gusts, as though the mountain itself bid to scour them from its shoulder. One mare slipped, hooves scraping stone, nearly tumbling down the cliff with her rider.

  “We must turn back,” shouted one above the wail, clutching reins.

  “Onward, you cowards!” Gedain cursed, shielding his eyes from the pelting ice. “Would a little snow undo you?”

  Clods of ice and snow crusted their brows and beards. Their cloaks snapped like torn banners in the gale. Blinded, they placed their trust wholly upon the instincts of their panting, groaning steeds. All that day they climbed onward, upward upon the treacherous road, oblivion falling away to their left unseen, marching until the skies dimmed and daytime ended.

  Then, without warning, as if by divine command, the wind ceased with the sound of a ghastly shriek. The storm fog lifted, and the frozen mist dissolved, revealing the narrow trail before them. There, in the gray of twilight, rose the High Gate, its ancient bars anchored within the jagged granite cleft. Above it, set in the clearing heavens, burned the Light-Bearer— Vê, brilliant as a diamond set into the firmament just beyond grasp.

  “What is that?” a rider asked, his voice unsteady.

  “The Gate, you fool,” Gedain answered.

  “No my lord, there!” the rider cried, pointing. “On the cliff!”

  They turned as one to the shadows along the rock face.

  “There it is! Do you see it?”

  “Aye. What manner of beast is that?”

  “A goat?”

  “Yes, a goat,” Gedain answered curtly. “Nevermind it. To the gate.”

  Yet even as he spoke, the creature moved, leaping nimbly from stone to stone, skirting ledges where no horse might tread, drawing ever nearer.

  “Look! It stands on two legs like man!”

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  The creature had indeed stood, and this struck terror into the hearts of the riders, for none had ever seen such a creature in all their lives, save for the ones placed into their minds by their cruel grandmothers, that they be made to fear the forest.

  “It is a faun,” cried one. “Kill it!”

  Two riders spurred forward, drawing their crossbows. Bolts flew and shattered harmlessly upon the rocks. They spanned again and shot, missing once more. On the third attempt, one rider fumbled in haste; his horse stumbling, and only by fortune did he not tumble screaming into the abyss. The creature laughed with a low, mirthful sound, and drifted nearer, almost floating among the stones. The riders wheeled their mounts into a tight ring upon the narrow road, swords drawn, knuckles white upon the hilts.

  Another bolt flew wide. The creature laughed again, amused. Then it spoke.

  “Fear me not,” it said, spreading its empty hands. Its eyes were human, bright with mischief and knowing, set in the face of a bearded man but with ram’s horns. “As thou seest, I bear no weapon.”

  “It is Azarius,” cried a rider. “The Prophet foretold.”

  The faun laughed mockingly. “I am not He. He weareth only the likeness of a man.”

  “Begone then, devil!”

  “Devil, thou callest me,” the creature replied. “Yet I am called Veorn. And I know of whom you hunt. He is called Menek. Follow me and I will take you to him…”

  The faun pranced between the rocks along the cliff toward the gate, as light as a maiden dancer. Gedain followed, and the others after him, fear-bound yet unwilling to be left behind.

  Gedain dismounted thereupon, yet with his sword in hand, he approached the gate’s iron bars, thick with rust and years. He shook and pried as the faun watched and laughed from the rocks.

  “It is locked,” Gedain remarked. “Tell me who unlocked it for Menek?”

  “There is but one key, Gedain of Welf.”

  Gedain stiffened. “How knowest thou my name?”

  Veorn tilted his horned head. “Oh, thou art known. And long expected, my prince.”

  “It is a snare,” urged a rider. “We should not linger.”

  “Hast thou the key?” Gedain demanded.

  “I do not, my prince,” Veorn answered. “Yet the gate was opened for him who passed before thee. And it will be opened for thee as well.”

  Gedain pondered, then his eyes hardened upon the faun. “For what price?”

  The wind stirred above, shrieking through the jagged spires.

  “Thine honor,” Veorn answered, grinning.

  “How mayest though open it without the key? Gedain pressed.”

  “Try again,” Veorn urged. “It is old. Rust binds more than iron.”

  Gedain hesitated but a moment. Then he sheathed his blade, set both hands upon the bars, and heaved with all his might. With a groan of rusted metal, the ancient gate tore free and swung outward upon its hinges.

  “Once passed, there is no turning back,” Veorn offered.

  Undaunted, Gedain mounted his steed and spurred him through. Behind him, the others passed as well, one whispering a prayer while Veorn tittered.