Barbarians At The Gate Novels & Stories

"You are Patient Zero. You hold the uncorrupted Source in your blood. You have the power to break the Iron Lady’s leashes. You have the power to tear down the walls. The time for hiding is over, child. You must decide what kind of symbol you are going to be. Will you be the demon they fear, or the shield we need?" Before Baraka could formulate an answer, the heavy, rusted iron floodgate at the entrance of the Warren violently shuddered. The sound was deafening—a massive, concussive BOOM that shook dust from the ancient brick ceiling. The refugees screamed in panic, scattering away from the entrance. The floodgate buckled inward, a massive dent appearing in the center of the thick iron. "Musa

“Breathe, little one. Speak clearly.” But Elira wasn’t speaking anymore. She was channeling. “The Gate is not a door,” she said in a voice both child and not. “It’s a mouth. And it is hungry.” --- That evening, as the sky burned with unnatural hues, the Ashborn came. Silent. Dozens. Then hundreds. Clad in flame-etched leather, skin marked by fire and shadow, they marched into the basin below the ruins and waited. No battle cry. No siege.

Survival here would be written, not won. “Names,” he said softly. “They use them like contracts.” “Then we choose carefully,” Kaelira murmured. They took ten paces toward the gate before the snow moved. Figures unfolded from whiteness with the quiet of owls—sentinels in armor without seam or rivet, masks smooth as ice. Their spears were the color of moonlight on bone. No shouted challenge, no theatrics. The gate itself asked the question, runes flaring a single word along its lintel:

she replies, finally blinking up at me. “Should I be worried about how easy it was to get her to agree with me?” That's my last thought before we head towards the southern gate. The southern gate is a messy chaos when we arrive. The massive wooden barriers serving as protection for the lower entrance had been partially shattered by the rain. The ground is littered with bodies, mostly of my men.

The magic saw me, and it flinched. The barrier that should have held against a thousand armies parted like curtains drawn back by an invisible hand. The runes that covered every inch of the gate structure flared once burning so bright I had to shield my eyes and then went dark. Dead. Inert. As if they'd surrendered before the battle even began. Behind me, I heard Ael's sharp intake of breath.

But I ignore the pain, pushing it aside as I focus on the task at hand. One by one, I eliminate my adversaries, my resolve unbroken. My attention, once again, is then drawn to the horrifying squeal of the trembling gates. My heart pounds in my chest as I watch, my senses still on high alert, as the colossal steel barriers are now contorting under the relentless assault. With each agonizing groan, each tortured twist, it becomes painfully clear that the gates are on the verge of collapse any seconds from now. And as I scan the area, my gaze catches on another startling realization. No more enemies are pouring through the breach in the gates, no more scaling the walls. It’s as if the pack outs

CLANG! Alarm bells ring out across the cold morning air, their loud brass echoes bouncing off the mountainside. “Rogues!” a guard screams from the top of the wall. “Rogue war party at the northern gate! Draw your bows!” The sound of heavy crossbows clicking into place fills the air. Dozens of sharp iron arrows and steel-tipped spears point straight down at the approaching pack. Bane and Kael skitter to a sudden halt forty paces from the iron gate. The fifteen rogue wolves spread out behind them, lowering their heads and growling menacingly at the guards above.

And the third. Within three minutes, all four gates lay in ruins, their blackened remains coughing smoke into the sky. Sections of the wall buckled and collapsed as high-explosive shells punched through them, raining rubble on the screaming defenders. The Baron staggered back, eyes wide. “They— they cannot—” His voice broke as another tank volley tore a fifty-foot hole straight through the western wall. “This is witchcraft!” Bina’s voice was calm as ice. “Thirty minutes. The city will be ours.”

says Joe, looking at the gates. Their great hinges and iron bars are wrenched and bent; many of their timbers are cracked, and the mechanisms are bent. “The gates will not stand another bartering. They will give,” Max frets. “Send the sisters my way, and we may perhaps barricade and fix this mess with magic,” Joe tells us. The sky now is quickly clearing and the sinking moon is shining brightly. But the light brings little hope to the warriors atop the wall. The enemy before us seems to have grown rather than diminished, and still more are arriving in the clearing.

Silas passed through the outer walls of the kingdom and entered the inner gate. As he stepped forward, he was greeted with a magnificent sight. The inner gate was a towering structure made of stone, with intricate carvings of wolves and other beasts lining the walls. The gate was wide and sturdy, with iron bars and a wooden door that could easily repel any invaders.