The gate: regal and red, waist deep in the lake with its thick pillars and stately arch. Way off, across the bay, little fire pricks could been seen in the dark, where workmen, slaves, laboured even at this late hour.

Here on the shore nearest the gate the ritual was about to begin. Three rows of painted women, with masks and horse hair crests, dancing a savage rhythm beat by the masked men clad in red and white. One two one. One two one they beat. It was ostentation. It did not matter. The gate was open. It had always been open. This the rote satisfaction of old precepts. An attempt at reconciling tradition with the changing world. It was ceremony Aki could do without.

He stroked his sparse forked beard. He waited. Soon the women, in their red skirts, would go still, would double in on themselves and they would fade back beyond the light of the bonfires. The drummers would beat twice, thrice more. Strong, solid strokes. And then a fading staccato, bending themselves, until they were kneeling, and they would fold their sticks beneath their knees, head downcast. And the arrow would be sent through, a single whistling shot through the gate itself, no tip to this, but whistles, bells. That was the only process necessary. It would signal to the men on the other side to begin marching through, laden as they were with whatever harvest this recent expedition managed to accrue. Crates upon crates of Red Stone, no doubt – other artifacts beside, if the captain had been audacious, and lucky.

Here it was, the dancers fading into the dark, their skirts dampening on the lake, and they would shiver there in the dark until the long column finished returning to this side. There the second to last stroke of the drum, and splashing. An inordinate amount of splashing. Aki scowled. If the ceremony had to be performed, at least it could be performed well. To make him wait through all this just for one of the girls to trip on a pebble and take a line of dancers along with her. That's what it sounded like, or, no. Heavy steps. And screaming. More splashing. Aki's hand went to the short sword tucked into his belt. His eyes narrowed at the gate. It was difficult to see, the fires on shore barely licked it. Shapes began to form, and they were no orderly ranks, but men in ones and twos running. Each tripping and fumbling and helping each other aright, all looking back, through the gate that showed nothing but the shadow of the distant shore. Some carried arms, spears, swords, and others held nothing, looked to be missing bits of armour.

Now Aki was ready to draw true, one hand on the hilt, his other holding down the scabbard. He looked to his right and left along the pebbled shore, to the ranks of honour guard, a dozen in total. To the smattering of functionaries, men of the court. Whatever was about to happen, they would not be enough.

The dancers tripped over themselves, the drummers flung their sticks into the lake and ran, streaming onto shore and uphill, into and out of the pools of light cast by the bonfires. The honour guard anxiously, tentatively, began to array themselves for battle, shouldering up, pointing their spears down at the lake. The first of the men through the gate reached the shore, they were bloodied one and all, wild-eyed.

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And then They were through.

The first of the others.

Shapes maddening to the human eye, no limbs but a seeming wild flailing mass. Pouring through the gate.

“Up, up, bring everyone!” Aki snarled at the nearest functionary, he gripped the mans robes and all but tossed him uphill. “Spears, to me!”

The other officials had already turned to run, as did a number of the guard. He would be facing the entire might of the Other-side with perhaps a dozen men, maybe more if some of the soldiers from the expedition rallied. So be it. He would die knowing he was right. The Gates needed guard, a whole regiment apiece, not this. Priestess' and musicians. Fanatics. Posturing bureaucrats. Let them see the real work of a man.

“On me, damn you!” He cried, and his blade was barred, and he was thundering down the beach, into the water, at those maddening shapes – this one before him, long sinewy muscle in the dark skewering one of the fleeing men from the expedition. It arced high, the mans body gone limp in the moon light. He drove at it, first a thrust that went in hilt deep, coating his hand in foul ichor. He withdrew, began to hack at the thrashing muscle as thick as his torso and many spans longer than he was tall, he could not make it more than a quarter through before his blade stuck. It whipped, a thunderous cutting of the air, hitting him in the stomach, and launching him several feet. His palm fused with his hilt, pulling it free. He went below the water now dyed bloody, the sounds of screaming suddenly dulled, the stars shimmering somewhere so far away. The heavens arrayed indifferent.

He smiled.

Dug his hand into wet sand and pushed. He was upright now, and tasting the copper of his own blood, trickling from a cut on his brow.

The water came up to his waist, his robes heavy and sopping. Nearer the gate he saw a group of spear men skewer one of the things as a unit, but it kept thrashing, frantic, throwing two of their number clear onto the darkness of the beach. The sounds of bone breaking, the screams of men dying. He sloshed towards the gate. A rallying cry issuing from his broad chest.

Again: more advice of his ignored. There should be a pathway, solid footing, a road straight through the gate. There should be light too, great brazers ever burning, so that he might actually see what it was he was fighting, instead of the silhouettes of the chaotic slaughter ahead.

But it was terribly exciting.

Enough to engulf his irritation.

He was grinning, the pain in his chest wouldn't catch up to him for many hours yet. It had been so long since he had had a chance to fight. And what better opponent than these things from the Other-side?

He brought his sword up to chest level, pointed the tip at the nearest thing and charged awkward through the water. He was knocked back. He charged again. By the time the garrison reached the shore he was a bloody ruin, his jaw broken, lopsided. He would fall unconscious on the beach, and have to be carried back to the palace. He would never walk again without a cane.

It had been the third most fortuitous night of his career.