The Seventh Gate

12

I’m not asking you to kill! The realization struck Alfred. Incapacitate. Of course. That’s what she’d said. Incapacitate.

What had he been thinking? A shudder, starting inside the marrow of his bones, shook Alfred’s body. All he’d been able to think of was killing.

And he’d actually considered it!

It’s this world, he decided, horrified at himself. This world of death where nothing is permitted to die. That and the battle in the Labyrinth. And his anxiety, his soul-wrenching anxiety over Haplo. Alfred was so close to finding his friend, and these—his enemies—were blocking his way. Fear, anger . . .

“Make all the excuses you want,” Alfred accused himself. “But the truth of the matter is this—for one single instant, I was looking forward to it! When Marit told me to cast a spell, I saw the bodies of those Patryns lying at my feet and I was glad they were dead!”

He sighed. “ ‘You created us,’ the dragon-snakes said. And now I see how . . .”

Marit’s elbow dug into his ribs. Alfred came back to himself with a start that must have been perceptible, for the Patryns were looking at him oddly.

“I—I recognize this place,” he said for the sake of saying something.

And he did, much to his regret. They had walked through the Patryns’ magical tunnel, created by the possibility that they were here and not there. Now they stood in Necropolis.

A city of tunnels and corridors, burrowing far beneath the world’s stone surface, Necropolis had been a desolate, depressing place when Alfred last stood on its winding streets. But then, at least, it had been filled with people—his people, remnants of a race of demigods who had discovered, too late, that they weren’t.

Now the streets were empty, empty and blood-spattered. For it was here in these streets, in these houses, in the palace itself, where the dead Sartan had taken out their fury on the living. The dead roamed the hallways now. The terrifying lazar watched him from the shadows with their evershifting eyes—hating, despairing, vengeful.

The Patryns guided their prisoners down the empty, echoing streets, heading for the palace. One of the lazar joined them, trailed after, its shuffling footfalls scraping behind, its cold voice, with its eerie double, telling of what it would like to do to them.

Alfred shivered all over, and even the steel-nerved Patryns appeared shaken. Their faces tightened; the tattoos on their arms flared in defensive response. Marit had gone extremely pale; her jaw was clenched. She did not look at the thing, but walked forward, grimly resolute.

She’s thinking of Haplo, Alfred realized, and he himself was sick with horror. What if Haplo . . . what if he is now one of them? . . .

Alfred broke out in a chill sweat; his stomach wrenched. He felt faint—truly faint, sick and dizzy.

He came to a halt, forced to lean against a wall to support himself.

The Patryns stopped, turned. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s a Sartan,” Marit answered, her tone scornful. “He’s weak. What do you expect? I’ll deal with him.”

She turned toward him and Alfred saw—in her eyes—eagerness, expectation.

Blessed Sartan! She thinks this is an act! That I’m shamming, preparing to ... to cast the spell!

No! Alfred wanted to cry. No, you’ve got it all wrong. Not now ... I wasn’t thinking ... I can’t think . . .

But he knew he had to go through with it. The Patryns weren’t suspicious at the moment, but in about another half a second—as he stood staring and stammering—they would be.

What can I do? he wondered frantically. He had never fought a Patryn, never fought someone with magic that worked the same—only opposite—as his own. To make matters worse, the Patryns’ magical defenses were already raised, protecting them from the lazar. Possibilities whirled through Alfred’s mind, dazzling, confusing, terrifying.

I’ll make the cavern roof collapse.

(No, that would kill us all!)

I’ll bring a fire dragon up through the floor.

(No, same outcome!)

A flower garden will suddenly appear out of nowhere.

(What good will that do?!)

The lazar will attack.

(Someone might get hurt . . . )

The floor will open and swallow me up ...

(Yes! That’s it!)

“Hang on!” Alfred grabbed hold of Marit.

He began to do a dance, hopping from one foot to the other, faster and faster.

Marit clung to him. Alfred’s dance grew more frantic, his feet pounding on the rock floor.

The Patryns, who had at first assumed Alfred had gone mad, suddenly became suspicious. They made a lunge for him.

The magic sparked, the possibility occurred. The floor beneath Alfred’s feet crumbled. A hole gaped in the rock. He jumped into it, pulled Marit in with him. The two tumbled down through rock and choking dust, plunging into darkness.

The fall was a short one. As Alfred knew from his last visit, Necropolis was a warren of tunnels stacked up one on top of the other. He had assumed (or at least desperately hoped) that another corridor would be running under the one in which they were standing. It didn’t occur to him until after he’d cast the spell that there were also immense pools of lava beneath the city . . .

Fortunately, they landed in a dark tunnel. Above them, light poured through a hole in the ceiling. The Patryn guards had surrounded the hole, were peering down at them, talking together in urgent tones.

“Close it!” Marit cried, shaking Alfred. “They’re going to come after us!”

Imagining how he might have dropped them into a pool of lava, Alfred had momentarily gone blank. Now, realizing their danger, he belatedly summoned the possibility that the hole had never existed.

The hole disappeared. Darkness—thick and heavy—closed over them. It was soon lit by the glimmer of the sigla tattooed on Marit’s body.

“Are ... are you all right?” Alfred quavered.

Instead of answering, Marit shoved him. “Run!”

“Which way?” he gasped.

“It doesn’t matter!” She pointed up at the ceiling. “They can use the magic too, remember?”

The glow of Marit’s runes increased, giving them light enough to see by. They ran down the corridor, not knowing where they were going, not caring, hoping only to shake off pursuit.

At length, they came to a halt, paused to listen.

“I think we lost them,” Alfred ventured a guess.

“By losing ourselves. You know, though, I don’t believe they even tried to pursue us.” Marit frowned. “That’s strange.”

“Maybe they went to report to Lord Xar.”

“Possibly.” She looked up and down the dark tunnel. “We have to figure out where we are. I don’t have any idea. Do you?”

“No,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “But I know how to find out.”

He knelt down, touched the bottom of the corridor, sang softly beneath his breath. A sigil glimmered to life beneath his fingers. Its glow spread to another sigil, and another, until a line of runes burned with a soft, soothing light along the bottom of the wall.

Marit breathed a sigh. “The Sartan runes. I forgot they were here. Where will they lead us?”

“Wherever we want to go,” Alfred said simply.

“To Haplo,” she said.

Alfred heard the hope in her voice. He had no hope himself. He dreaded what they would find.

“Where would Xar have taken Haplo? Not ... not to the lord’s own chambers?”

“To the dungeons,” Marit said. “It was where he took Samah and . . . and the others he . . .” Her voice trailed off. She turned away. “We better hurry. It won’t take them long to figure out where we’ve gone. Then they’ll come after us.”

“Why didn’t they come after us before?” Alfred asked.

Marit didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Alfred knew well enough anyway.

Because Xar already knows where we’re going!

They were walking into a trap. They had been—all along, Alfred realized unhappily. The Patryn guards had not only let him and Marit escape, they had actually provided the opportunity.

Their magic could have taken us directly to Xar. Planted us on his very doorstep, as it were, Alfred thought. But no. The Patryns take us into Necropolis, into empty streets. They let us go and don’t even bother to pursue us.

And just when all seemed most dark, Alfred was startled to notice a tiny bit of hope flickering to life inside him.

If Haplo was dead, and Lord Xar had used the necromancy on him, then the lord would already be in the Seventh Gate. He wouldn’t need us.

Something’s gone wrong ... or right.

The sigla flared on the wall, burning with the speed of a brushfire. In some places, where cracks on the wall had broken the sigla, the runes remained dark. The Sartan living on Abarrach had forgotten how to restore their magic. But the breaks never completely stopped the flow. The magical light would leap over a broken sigil, catch the next one, and so on. All he had to do was keep the image of the dungeons on his mind and the sigla would guide them to them.

To what? Alfred wondered fearfully.

He formed a resolve, there and then. If I am wrong and Xar has turned Haplo into one of the wretched undead, I will end such a terrible existence for him. I will grant him peace. No matter what anyone says or does to try to stop me.

The sigla led them steadily downward. Alfred had been in the dungeons before, knew they were going in the right direction. So did Marit. She led the way, walking rapidly, eagerly. Both kept watch, but saw nothing. Not even the dead roamed these corridors.

They walked for so long, seeing nothing except the Sartan runes on the wall and the glimmer of the Patryn nines on Marit’s body, that Alfred fell into a sort of waking horrific dream.

When Marit stopped suddenly, Alfred—walking trancelike—ran right into her.

She shoved him back against the wall with a hissing shush.

“I see light ahead,” she said in a low voice. “Torchlight. And now I know where we are. Ahead of us are the cells. Haplo’s probably being held in one of them.”

“It seems very quiet down here,” Alfred whispered. “Very quiet.”

Ignoring him, Marit started down the corridor, heading for the torchlight.

It did not take Alfred long to find the right cell. The sigla on the walls no longer guided him; in the dungeons, most of the Sartan runes had been either broken or deliberately obliterated. But he moved toward the right place unerringly, as if invisible runes, brought into being by his heart, flared before his eyes.

Alfred looked into the cell first, for which he was grateful. Haplo lay on a stone bier. His eyes were closed, his hands folded over his chest. He did not move, did not draw breath.

Marit was following behind, keeping watch. Alfred had a moment to deal with his own emotions before Marit, seeing the Sartan come to a halt, guessed instantly what he had found.

He tried to catch hold of her, but she broke free, ran past him. Hastily, Alfred removed the cell bars with a spoken word of magic or Marit would have torn right through them.

She stood a moment over the stone bier, then—with a sob—she sank onto her knees. Lifting Haplo’s cold and lifeless hand, she started to chafe it, as if she could warm it. The runes tattooed on his body glimmered faintly, but there was no life in the chill flesh.

“Marit,” Alfred began awkwardly, softly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Burning tears stung his eyes, tears of grief and bitter sorrow, yet tears of relief as well. Haplo was dead, yes. But he was dead! No terrible magical life burned inside him, like a candle inside a skull. His body lay composed on the bier. His eyes were closed, his face smooth, free of pain.

“He’s at peace now,” Alfred murmured.

He entered the cell slowly, came to stand beside his enemy, his friend.

Marit had replaced the flaccid hand on Haplo’s chest, over the heart-rune. Now she sat hunched on the floor, grieving alone in fierce, aching silence.

Alfred knew he should say something, pay tribute, homage. But words were inadequate. What did you say to a man who had looked inside you and seen—not what you were—but what you could be? What did you say to a man who had wrenched that other, better person hiding inside of you outside? What did you say to a man who had taught you how to live, when you would much rather have died?

Haplo had done all this. And now Haplo was dead. He gave his life for me, for the mensch, for his people. Each of us drew on his strength and perhaps, unknowingly, each of us ended up draining a little of his life away.

“My dear friend,” Alfred whispered, his voice choked. He bent down, rested his hand on Haplo’s, over the heart-rune. “I promise you. I will continue the fight. I will do what I can, take up where you left off. You rest. Don’t worry about it anymore. Farewell, my friend. Fare—”

At that moment, Alfred was interrupted by a whuff.