The Seventh Gate

14

The sigil struck the lazar in the chest, exploded.

Kleitus cried out in rage; the corpse felt no pain. It fell to the floor, the dead limbs jerking and twitching spasmodically.

But Kleitus fought against the magic. The corpse seemed about to win, was struggling to regain its feet.

Xar spoke sharply. The single rune expanded. Its arms became tentacles, surrounding, subduing the writhing corpse.

At length, the lazar shuddered, then lay still.

Lord Xar regarded it suspiciously, thinking it was shamming. He had not killed it. He couldn’t kill something that was already dead. But he had rendered it harmless, for the moment. The sigil, burning feebly, flickered and died out. The spell ended. The lazar did not move.

Satisfied, Xar turned to Alfred.

“Well met, Serpent Mage,” said the Lord of the Nexus. “At last.”

The Sartan’s eyes were bulging out of his balding head. His jaw worked; no sound came out. Xar thought he had never seen such a pitiful, wretched-looking specimen. But he wasn’t fooled by outward appearances.

This Sartan was powerful, extraordinarily powerful. The weak and foolish act of his was just that—an act.

“Although I must say that I am disappointed in you, Alfred,” Xar continued. No harm in letting the Sartan think he was succeeding in his foolery. Xar prodded the unmoving lazar with his toe. “You could have done this yourself, or so I presume.”

The lord bent over Marit. “You are not hurt badly, are you, Daughter?”

Weak and shaken, Marit shrank back from him, but there was nowhere for her to go. She had come up against the stone bier.

Xar took hold of her. She cringed, but he was gentle. He helped her to her feet. She swayed, unsteady, and he supported her.

“The wounds burn where he touched you. Yes, I know, Daughter. I, too, have felt the lazar’s foul touch. Some type of poison, I would guess. But I can give you ease.”

He placed his hand on her forehead. Brushing aside her hair, his fingers lightly, delicately retraced the sigil mark that had been there, the mark he had slashed in the Labyrinth. At his touch, the rune closed, healed completely.

Marit did not notice. She was burning with fever, dizzy and disoriented. Xar alleviated her pain somewhat, but not entirely.

“Soon you will feel better. Sit here”—Xar guided Marit to the edge of Haplo’s stone bier—“and rest. I have certain matters to discuss with the Sartan.”

“My Lord!” Marit grasped hold of Xar’s hand, clung to him. “My Lord! The Labyrinth! Our people are fighting for their lives.”

Xar’s face hardened. “I am aware of this, Daughter. I plan to return. They will be able to hold out until—”

“Lord! You don’t understand! The dragon-snakes have set fire to the Nexus. The city is in flames! Our people . . . dying . . .”

Xar was aghast. He could not believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t possible. “The Nexus, burning?”

He thought at first she was lying. But they were now joined again and he saw the truth in her mind. He saw the Nexus, beautiful, white-spired city; his city. Never mind the fact that his enemy had built it. He had first set foot in it. He had first claimed it. He had won it with blood and unceasing toil. He had brought his people to it. His people had made that city their home.

Now, in Marit’s eyes, he saw the Nexus red with flame, black with smoke and death.

“All I worked for ... gone . . . ,” he murmured. His grip on her loosened.

“Lord, if you went back . . .” Marit held fast to his hand. “If you returned to them, the people would have hope. Go to them, Lord. They need you!”

Xar hesitated. Remembered. . . .

... He did not walk through the Final Gate. He crawled, dragged himself between its rune-covered stone supports on his belly. He left a trail of blood behind him, a trail that marked his path through the Labyrinth itself. Some of the blood was his; more of it belonged to his enemies.

Pulling himself across the border, he collapsed onto the soft grass. He rolled over onto his back, stared up into a twilight sky, a sky of blush reds and hazy purples, banded with gold and orange. He should heal himself, sleep. And he would, in time. But for a moment, he wanted to feel everything, including the pain. This was his moment of triumph, and when he remembered it, he wanted to remember the pain with it.

The pain, the suffering. The hatred.

When he knew he must soon heal himself or die, he raised up on one elbow and looked around for shelter.

And he saw, for the first time, the city his enemies had named the Nexus.

It was beautiful—white stone shimmering with the colors of perpetual sunset. Xar saw the beauty, but he also saw something more.

He saw people; his people, living and working in peace and safety. No longer afraid of the wolfen, the snog, the dragon.

He had survived the Labyrinth. He had beaten it. He had escaped. He was the first. The very first. And he would not be alone. He would go back. Tomorrow, when he was completely healed and rested, he would go back through the Gate and would bring out someone else.

The next day, he would return again. And the day after that. He would go back into that dread prison and he would lead his people to freedom. He would bring them to this city, this sanctuary.

Tears blinded him. Tears wrung from him by pain and weariness and—for the first time in his dark life—hope.

Later, much later, Xar would look at that city with clear, cold eyes and he would see armies.

But not then. Then he saw, through his tears, children playing . . .

And now the twilight skies were black with smoke. The bodies of the children lay charred and twisted in the streets.

Xar’s hand stole to his heart-rune, tattooed long, long ago on his chest. His name, then . . . What had been his name? The name of the man who had dragged himself through the Final Gate? Xar couldn’t remember. He had obliterated it, written it over with runes of strength and power.

Just as he had written over his vision.

If only he could think of his name . . .

“I will return to the Nexus.” Xar spoke into the awe-tinged silence that emanated from him. A silence that had, for a moment, bound them all together in hope. Bound even his enemy to him. “I

Xar’s gaze fixed on the Sartan. Alfred, he called himself. Not his real name either. “And you will take me there.”

The dog barked loudly, almost a command. But it might have spared itself the trouble.

“No,” Alfred said, his voice mild, sad. “I won’t.”

Xar looked at Haplo, at the body lying on the cold stone bier. “He still lives. You are right about that. But he might as well be dead. What do you intend to do about it?”

Alfred’s face was exceedingly pale. He licked dry lips. “Nothing,” he said, swallowing. “There is nothing I can do.”

“Isn’t there?” Lord Xar asked, pleasantly. “The necromancy spell I cast preserves his flesh. His essence—or soul, as you call it—is trapped inside the dog. Inside the body of a dumb animal.”

“Some might say we are all trapped that way,” Alfred said, but he spoke in a low voice and no one, except the dog, heard him.

“You can change all that,” Xar was saying. “You can bring Haplo back to life.”

The Sartan shuddered. “No, I can’t.”

“A Sartan—lying!” Xar smiled. “I wouldn’t have said it was possible.”

“I’m not lying,” Alfred returned, drawing himself up. “You cast the necromancy spell using Patryn magic. I can’t undo it or change it—”

“Ah, but you could,” Xar interrupted. “Inside the Seventh Gate.”

Alfred raised his hands as if to ward off an attack, though no one had made a move toward him. He backed into a corner, staring around the prison cell, perhaps seeing it—for the first time—as a prison. “You can’t ask that of me!”

“But we do, don’t we, Daughter?” Xar said, turning to Marit.

She was shivering, feverish. Reaching out her shaking hand, she touched Haplo’s chill flesh.

“Alfred . . .”

“No!” Alfred shrank back against the wall. “Don’t ask me! Xar doesn’t care about Haplo, Marit. Your lord plans to destroy the world!”

“I plan to undo what you Sartan did!” Xar snarled, losing patience. “To return the four worlds to one—”

“Which you would rule! Only you wouldn’t. Any more than Samah was able to rule the worlds he created. What he did was wrong. But he has answered for his crimes. Over time, the wrong has been made right. The mensch have built new lives on these worlds. If you commit this act, millions of innocents will die—”

“The survivors will be better off,” Xar returned. “Isn’t that what Samah said?”

“And what of your people, caught inside the Labyrinth?” Alfred demanded.

“They will be free! I will free them!”

“You will doom them. They may escape the Labyrinth. But they will never escape the new prison you will build for them. A prison of fear. I know,” he added sadly, softly. “I have lived in one like it almost all my life.”

Xar was silent. He was not pondering Alfred’s words; he had ceased paying attention to the sniveling Sartan. Xar was trying to figure out how to coerce the wretch into doing his will. The lord recognized Alfred’s power, probably more than Alfred did himself. Xar had no doubt he could win a battle, should one take place between the two of them. But he would not come out unscathed and the Sartan would likely be dead. Considering Xar’s luck with necromancy so far, such an outcome was not advisable.

There was one possibility . . .

“I think you had better move to a safe place, Daughter.” Xar took firm hold of Marit, drew her away from the stone bier on which lay Haplo’s body.

The Lord of the Nexus traced a series of runes on the base of the bier, spoke the command.

The stone burst into flame.

“What . . . what are you doing?” Marit cried.

“I could not succeed in raising Haplo’s body,” Xar said offhandedly. “The Sartan will not use his power to restore him. The corpse is, therefore, of no use to me. This will be Haplo’s funeral pyre.”

“You can’t!” Marit hurled herself at Xar. She clutched at his robes, pleading. “You can’t, Lord! Please! This . . . this will destroy him!”

The sigla spread slowly around the bottom of the stone bier, forming a fiery circle. Flames licked upward, devouring the magic, since they had no other fuel.

Until they reached the body.

Marit sank to her knees, too weak and ill from the effects of the poison to stand. “Lord, please!”

Xar reached down, stroked back her hair. “You plead with the wrong person. Daughter. The Sartan has it in his power to save Haplo. Beg him!”

The flames were growing stronger, rising higher. The heat was increasing.

“I—” Alfred opened his mouth.

“Don’t!” Haplo commanded.

The dog regarded Alfred sternly, growled warningly.

“But”—Alfred stared at the flames—“if your body is burned—”

“Let it! If Xar opens the Seventh Gate, then what? You said yourself what would happen.”

Alfred gulped, gasped for air. “I can’t stand here and watch—”

“Then faint, damn it!” Haplo said irritably. “This would be the one time in your life when passing out might be of some use!”

“I won’t,” Alfred said, recovering himself. He even managed to smile bleakly. “I am afraid I must put you in my prison for a while, my friend.”

The Sartan began to dance, moving solemnly to music he hummed beneath his breath.

Xar watched with suspicion, wondering what the Serpent Mage was up to. Surely not an offensive spell. That would be too dangerous in the small cell.

“Dog, go to Marit!” Alfred murmured, doing a graceful slide-step around the animal. “Now!”

The animal ran to Marit’s side, stood protectively near her. At the same instant, two crystal coffins sprang into being. One covered Haplo’s body. The other surrounded Lord Xar.

Inside Haplo’s coffin, the flames dwindled, died.

Inside the other coffin, Xar fought to free himself, fumed in impotent rage.

Alfred took hold of Marit, helped her escape the cell. They ran into the dark corridor. The dog dashed along behind.

“Out!” Alfred gasped for the benefit of the magic. “We want out!”

Blue sigla flashed along the base of the wall. Supporting Marit, Alfred followed the sigla’s lead, stumbling blindly through the rune-lit darkness, with no idea where he was or which way he was going. But it seemed to Alfred that they were going down, descending deeper into Abarrach . . .

And then the terrifying thought came to him that the runes might be guiding him right to the Seventh Gate! After all, the runes would take him to wherever it was he wanted to go and the Seventh Gate had certainly been on his mind.

“Well, put the thought out of your mind!” Haplo ordered. “Think about Death’s Gate! Concentrate on that!”

“Yes,” Alfred panted. “Death’s Gate . . .”

The sigla suddenly flashed, went out, leaving them in fearful, mind-numbing darkness.