The Seventh Gate

11

The Patryn ship, designed and built by Lord Xar for his journeys through Death’s Gate, hovered over the Fire Sea—a river of molten lava that winds through Abarrach. The ship’s runes protected it from the searing heat, which would have set an ordinary wooden ship ablaze. Alfred had brought the ship down near a dock running out into the Fire Sea, a dock belonging to an abandoned town known as Safe Harbor.

He stood near the porthole, gazing out on the churning river of flame, and recalled with vivid and terrifying clarity the last time he’d been in this dread world.

He could see it all so clearly. He and Haplo had barely reached their ship alive, fleeing the murderous lazar, led by the former Dynast, Kleitus. The lazar had only one goal—to destroy all the living and, when they were dead, grant them a terrible form of tormented, eternal life. Safely on board ship, Alfred watched in shock as the young Sartan nobleman, Jonathon, gave himself—a willing victim—into the bloodstained hands of his own murdered wife.

What had Jonathon seen, in the so-called Chamber of the Damned, that led him to commit that tragic act?

Or had he truly seen anything? Alfred wondered sadly. Perhaps Jonathon had gone mad, driven insane by his grief, the horror.

Alfred knew, he understood . . .

. . . The ship moves beneath my feet, nearly throwing me off balance. I look back at Haplo. The Patryn has his hands on the steering stone. The sigla glow a bright, intense blue. Sails shiver, ropes tighten. The dragon ship spreads its wings, prepares to fly. On the pier, the dead begin to clamor and clash their weapons together. The lazar lift their horrible visages, move as a group toward the ship.

Apart from them, at the far end of the dock, Jonathon rises to his feet. He is a lazar; he has become one of the dead who is not dead, one of the living who is not living. He begins walking toward the ship.

“Stay! Stop!” I cry to Haplo. I press my face against the glass, trying to see more clearly. “Can’t we wait a minute longer?”

Haplo shrugs. “You can go back if you want to, Sartan. You’ve served your purpose. I don’t need you any longer. Go on, get out!”

The ship begins to move. Haplo’s magical energies flow through it ...

I should go. Jonathon had faith enough. He was willing to die for what he believed. I should be able to do the same.

I start toward the ladder. Outside the ship, I can hear the chill voices of the dead, shouting in fury, enraged to see their prey escaping. I can hear Kleitus and the other lazar raise their voices in a chant. They are attempting to break down our ship’s fragile protective rune-structure.

The ship lurches, begins to sink.

A spell comes, unbidden, to my mind. I can enhance Haplo’s failing energy.

The lazar that was Jonathon stands apart from the other lazar. The eyes of his soul—not quite torn from the body—gaze up at the ship, gaze through the runes, through the wood, through the glass, through flesh and bone into my heart . . .

“Sartan! Alfred!”

Alfred turned fearfully, fell back against the bulkheads. “I’m not! I can’t! . . .” He blinked. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Of course it’s me. Why did you bring us to this forsaken place?” Marit demanded. “Necropolis is over there, on the other side. How are we going to get across the Fire Sea?”

Alfred looked helpless. “You said that Xar would have Death’s Gate watched—”

“Yes, but if you’d done what I told you to do and flown the ship straight to Necropolis, we could be safely hidden in the tunnels by now.”

“It’s just that I—Well, that I ...” Alfred lifted his head, glanced around. “It sounds foolish, I know, but . . . but ... I was hoping to meet someone here.”

“Meet someone!” Marit repeated grimly. “The only people we’re likely to meet are my lord’s guards.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Alfred looked out at the empty dock and sighed. “What should we do now?” he asked meekly. “Fly the ship to Necropolis?”

“No, it’s too late for that. We’ve been seen. They’re probably already coming for us. We’ll have to bluff our way out of this.”

“Marit,” Alfred said hesitantly, “if you are so certain of your lord, why are you afraid to meet him?”

“I wouldn’t be, if I were by myself. But I’m not. I’m traveling with a mensch and a Sartan. Come on,” she said abruptly, turning away. “We better disembark. I need to strengthen the runes protecting the ship.”

The ship, similar in build and design to the dragon ships of Arianus, floated only a few feet above the dock. Marit jumped easily from the foredeck, landed lightly on her feet. Alfred, after a few false starts, launched himself overboard, caught his foot in one of the ropes, and ended by dangling upside down above the molten lava. Marit, her face grim, managed to free him, get him standing more or less upright on the dock.

Hugh the Hand had been staring in awe and disbelief at the new and terrifying world into which they’d flown. He leapt off the ship, landed on the dock. But almost immediately he stumbled to his knees. His hand clutched his throat. He began to choke, gasp for air.

“Thus did the mensch on this world die, so many long years ago,” came a voice.

Alfred turned fearfully.

A figure emerged from the sulfurous haze that hung over the Fire Sea.

“One of the lazar,” Marit said in disgust. Her hand closed over the hilt of her sword. “Begone!” she shouted.

“No, wait!” Alfred cried, staring hard at the shambling corpse. “I know . . . Jonathon!”

“I am here, Alfred. I’ve been here, all this time.”

“. . . all this time . . .”

Hugh the Hand lifted his head, gazed in disbelief at the terrifying apparition, at its waxen visage, the death-marks upon its throat, the eyes that were sometimes empty and dead, sometimes bright with life. Hugh tried to speak, but each breath he drew carried poisonous fumes into his lungs. He coughed until he gagged.

“He can’t survive here,” Alfred said, hovering over Hugh anxiously. “Not without magic to protect him.”

“We’d best get him back on board the ship, then,” Marit said, with a distrustful glance at the lazar, which stood silently watching them. “The runes will maintain an atmosphere he can breathe.”

Hugh the Hand shook his head. Reaching out his hand, he caught hold of Alfred. “You promised . . . you could help me!” He managed to gasp. “I’m . . . going with . . . you!”

“I never promised!” Alfred protested, stooping over the choking man. “I never did!”

“Whether he did or he didn’t, Hugh, you better get back on board. You—”

At that moment, Hugh pitched forward onto the dock, writhing in agony, his hands clutching at his throat.

“I’ll take him,” Alfred offered.

“You better hurry,” Marit said, eyeing the mensch. “He’s about finished.”

Alfred began to sing the runes, performed a graceful and solemn dance around Hugh. Sigla sparkled in the brimstone air, twinkling around the Hand like a thousand fireflies. He disappeared.

“He’s back on board,” Alfred said, ceasing his dance. He glanced at the ship nervously. “But what if he tries to leave again—”

“I’ll fix that.” Marit drew a sigil in the air. It burst into flame, soared upward, hit a sigil burned into the ship’s outer hull. The fire flared, spread from rune to rune more swiftly than the eyes could follow. “There. He cannot leave. And nothing can get inside.”

“Poor man. He is like me, isn’t he?” Jonathon asked.

“. . . like me . . .” came the sad echo.

“No!” Alfred spoke sharply, so sharply that Marit stared at him in amazement. “No, he is not . . . like you!”

“I do not mean a lazar. His death was noble. He died sacrificing himself for one he loved. And he was brought back, not by hatred, but out of love and compassion. Still,” Jonathon added softly, “he is like me.”

Alfred’s face was red, mottled with white. He stared down at his shoes. “I ... I never meant this to happen.”

“None of this was meant to happen,” Jonathon replied. “The Sartan did not mean to lose control of their new creation. The mensch were not meant to die. We were not meant to practice necromancy. But all this did happen, and now we must take the responsibility. You must take it. Hugh is right. You can save him. Inside the Seventh Gate.”

“. . . Seventh Gate . . .”

“The one place I dare not go,” Alfred murmured.

“True. Lord Xar searches for it. So does Kleitus.”

Alfred gazed across the Fire Sea at the city of Necropolis, a towering structure of black rock, its walls reflecting the red glow of the lava river.

“I won’t go back,” said Alfred. “I’m not certain I could find the way.”

“It would find you,” said Jonathon.

“. . . find you . . .”

Alfred paled. “I’m here to look for my friend. Haplo. You remember him? Have you seen him? Is he safe? Could you take us to him?” In his anxiety, he stretched out his hand to the lazar.

Jonathon backed up, away from the warm flesh reaching toward it. Its voice was stern. “My help is not for the living. It is for the living to help each other.”

“But if you could just tell us? . . .”

Jonathon had turned around and was walking, with the undead’s halting gait, down the dock, toward the abandoned town.

“Let the thing go,” Marit said. “We’ve got other problems.”

Turning, Alfred saw Patryn runes light the air. The next moment, three Patryns stepped out of the fiery circle of magic and stood on the dock in front of them.

Marit wasn’t surprised. She’d been expecting this.

“Play along with me,” she said softly, beneath her breath. “No matter what I do or say.”

Alfred gulped, nodded.

Taking hold of his arm, Marit gave the Sartan a rough tug that nearly jerked him off his feet. She advanced to meet the Patryns, dragging the stumbling Alfred along with her.

“I must see Lord Xar,” Marit called. She thrust Alfred forward. “I’ve brought a prisoner.”

Fortunately, Alfred generally always managed to appear as wretched as if he’d just been taken captive by someone. He didn’t need to act to look forlorn and desperately unhappy. He only had to stand on the dock, his head bowed, his expression guilty, his feet shuffling.

Does he trust me? Marit wondered. Or does he think I’ve betrayed him? Not that it matters what he thinks. This is our only hope.

She had decided on this plan of action before they had even left the Labyrinth. Knowing that the Patryns would be watching Death’s Gate, Marit guessed that she and Alfred would be accosted. If they tried to flee or fight, they would be captured and imprisoned, possibly killed. But if she were transporting a Sartan prisoner to Lord Xar . . .

Marit brushed back the hair on her forehead. She had washed away the blood. The sigil of joining between herself and Xar was broken by a slashing weal. But his mark on her was still plainly visible.

“I must speak to Xar immediately. As you see,” Marit added proudly, “I bear our lord’s authority.”

“You are wounded,” said the Patryn, studying the mark.

“A terrible battle is being fought in the Labyrinth,” Marit returned. “An evil force is attempting to seal shut the Final Gate.”

“The Sartan?” asked the Patryn, with a baleful glance at Alfred.

“No,” Marit replied. “Not the Sartan. That is why I must see Lord Xar. The situation is dire. Unless help arrives, I fear . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I fear we are lost.”

The Patryn was troubled. The bond between Patryns as a race is strong; he knew Marit wasn’t lying. He was alarmed, shocked by the news.

Perhaps this man has a wife, children, left behind in the Nexus. Perhaps the woman with him has a husband, parents, still caught in the Labyrinth.

“If the Final Gate shuts,” Marit continued, “our people will be trapped inside that terrible place forever. ’ Hasn’t our lord told you any of this?” she asked, almost wistfully.

“No, he has not,” said the woman.

“But I am certain Lord Xar had good reason,” the man added coldly. He paused, thinking, then said, “I will take you to Lord Xar.”

The other guard started to argue. “But our orders—”

“I know my orders!” the man said.

“Then you know that we are supposed—”

The guards drew off to one side of the dock, began to talk in undertones, an edge of tension audible in the conversation.

Marit sighed. All was going as she had hoped. She remained standing where she was, arms crossed over her chest, in seeming unconcern. But her heart was heavy. Xar hadn’t told his people about the struggle in the Labyrinth. Perhaps he is trying to spare them pain, she argued. But something whispered back: perhaps he feared they might rebel against him.

As Haplo had rebelled . . .

Marit put her hand to her forehead, rubbed the sigil, which burned and itched. What was she doing? Wasting time. She needed to talk to Alfred. The guards were still debating, keeping only casual watch on their prisoners.

They know we’re not going anywhere, Marit said to herself bitterly. Moving slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, she sidled closer to the Sartan.

“Alfred!” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.

He jumped, startled.

“Oh! What—”

“Shut up and listen!” she hissed. “When we arrive in Necropolis, I want you to cast a spell on these three.”

Alfred’s eyes bulged. He went nearly as white as a lazar and began shaking his head emphatically. “No! I couldn’t! I wouldn’t know—”

Marit was keeping an eye on her fellow Patryns, who seemed to be near reaching some consensus. “Your people once fought mine!” she said coldly. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone! Surely there’s some type of spell you can use that will incapacitate these guards long enough for us to—”

She was forced to break off, move away. The Patryns had ended their discussion and were returning.

“We will take you to Lord Xar,” said the guard.

“About time!” Marit returned irritably.

Fortunately, her irritation could be mistaken as eagerness to see her lord, not eagerness to shake Alfred until his teeth rattled.

He was silently pleading with her, begging her not to force this on him. He looked truly pathetic, pitiful.

And suddenly Marit realized why. He had never, in his entire life, cast a magical spell in anger on a fellow being, Patryn or mensch. He had gone to great lengths to avoid it, in fact—fainting, leaving himself defenseless, accepting the possibility that he might be killed rather than use his immense power to kill others.

The three guards, working together, began to redraw the sigla in the air. Concentrating on their magic, they were not paying close attention to their prisoners. Marit took firm hold of Alfred’s arm, as she might well have done if he were really her prisoner.

Digging her nails through the velvet fabric of his coat, she whispered urgently, “This is for Haplo. It’s our only chance.”

Alfred made a whimpering sound. She could feel him trembling in her grasp.

Marit only dug her nails in more deeply.

The Patryn leader motioned to them. The other two Patryns came to lead them forward. The sigil burned in the air, a flaring circle of flame.

Alfred pulled back. “No, don’t make me!” he said to Marit.

One of the Patryn guards laughed grimly. “He knows what lies ahead of him.”

“Yes, he does,” said Marit, staring hard at Alfred, granting him no reprieve, no hope of reprieve.

Taking firm hold of him, she pulled him into the fiery ring of magic.