The Seventh Gate

16

Alfred blinked, stared. Marit clutched at him, nearly falling.

Xar ignored them both. He reached out his hand to grab the dog, which was standing stiff-legged, teeth bared, growling.

“Dragon!” said Haplo.

Dragon!

Alfred grasped at the possibility, at the spell. He sprang high into the air, his body twisting and dancing with the magic. And suddenly Alfred was no longer on the ship but flying high above it. Xar was not a threatening figure standing next to the Sartan, but a small insignificant one far below, staring up at him.

Marit clung groggily to Alfred’s back. She had been hanging on to his coat when the spell transformed him and apparently the magic had taken her with him. But the dog was still down on the deck, dashing back and forth, gazing up at Alfred and barking.

“Give up, Sartan!” Xar called. “You’re trapped. You cannot leave Abarrach.”

“You can leave, Alfred!” Haplo said to him. “You are stronger than he is! Attack him! Take back the ship!”

“But I might hurt the dog . . .” Alfred wavered.

Xar now had hold of the animal, hanging on to it by the scruff of its neck. “You might well be able to take back your ship from me, Sartan. But what will you do then? Leave without your friend? The dog cannot pass through Death’s Gate.”

The dog cannot pass through Death’s Gate.

“Is that true, Haplo?” Alfred demanded. He answered his own question, realizing that Haplo wouldn’t. “It is, isn’t it. I knew something about that suggestion of yours wasn’t right. The dog can’t go through Death’s Gate! Not without you!”

Haplo did not respond.

The dragon circled, unhappy, irresolute. Down below, the dog, caught in Xar’s grasp, watched them and whined.

“You won’t leave your friend here alone to die, Alfred,” Xar shouted. “You can’t. Love breaks the heart, doesn’t it, Sartan . . .”

The dragon wavered. Its wings dipped. Alfred prepared to surrender.

“No!” Haplo shouted.

The dog twisted in Xar’s grasp, snapped viciously at him. Its slashing teeth tore through the sleeve of the lord’s black robes. Xar let loose, backed up a step from the slavering animal.

The dog leapt from the deck, landed on the dock. It raced off, running as fast as it could run, heading for the abandoned town of Safe Harbor.

The dragon swooped down, flew protectively above the dog until it had disappeared into the shadows of the crumbling buildings. Creeping into an empty house, the dog waited, panting, to see if it was pursued.

It wasn’t.

The Lord of the Nexus could have stopped the dog.

He could have killed it with a single spoken sigil. But he let the animal go. He had accomplished his purpose. Alfred would never leave Abarrach now. And, sooner or later, he would lead Xar to the Seventh Gate.

Love breaks the heart.

Smiling, pleased with himself, Xar left the ship, returned to his library to consider what to do next. As he went, he rubbed the sigil on his forehead.

Barely conscious, clinging to the dragon’s back, Marit moaned.

The dragon circled above the abandoned town of Safe Harbor, waiting to see what Xar would do. Alfred was prepared for anything except the lord’s sudden departure.

When Xar disappeared, Alfred waited and watched, thinking it might be a trick. Or perhaps the lord had gone to fetch reinforcements.

Nothing happened. No one came.

“Alfred,” Marit said weakly. “You better land. I ... don’t think I can hang on much longer.”

“Take her to Salfag Caverns,” Haplo suggested. “They’re up ahead, not far. The dog knows the way.”

The dog emerged from hiding, dashed out into the middle of the empty street. Gazing up at Alfred, the animal barked once, then trotted off down the road.

The dragon flew after the dog, veering sharply over Safe Harbor, followed a road up the coastline of the Fire Sea until the road itself disappeared. The dog began to pick its way among gigantic boulders, jutting out from the shoreline. Recognizing the place as near the entrance to Salfag Caverns, the dragon spiraled downward, seeking a suitable landing site.

As he did so, as he flew closer to the ground, Alfred thought he detected movement—a shadow detaching itself from a jumble of rocks and dead trees and hurrying away, losing itself in more shadows. He stared hard at the site, could see nothing. Finding a clear spot among a jumble of boulders, the dragon settled to the ground.

Marit slid from the dragon’s back, slumped down among the rocks, and did not move. Alfred changed back to his usual form, bent over her anxiously.

Her healing powers had kept her from dying, but not much beyond. The poison still coursed through her veins. She was burning with fever and struggled to draw every breath. She seemed to be in pain. She lifted her hand to her forehead, pressed on it.

Alfred brushed back her hair. He saw the sigil—Xar’s sigil—glowing with an eerie light. Alfred understood, sighed deeply.

“No wonder Xar let us go,” he said. “Wherever we go, she’ll lead him right to us.”

“You’ve got to heal her,” Haplo said. “But not here. Inside the cavern. She’ll need to sleep.”

“Yes, of course.”

Alfred gently lifted Marit in his arms. The dog, knowing Alfred, regarded this maneuver dubiously. The animal obviously expected that at any moment it would have to save both of them from tumbling headlong into the Fire Sea.

Alfred began to hum to himself, singing the runes as he might have sung a lullaby to a child. Marit relaxed in his arms, ceased to cry out. She drew a deep and peaceful breath. Her head lolled on his shoulder. Smiling to himself, Alfred carried her easily, without slipping once, to the entrance to Salfag Caverns. He started to enter.

The dog refused to follow. It sniffed the air. Its legs went stiff, its hackles rose. It growled warningly.

“Something’s in there,” Haplo said. “Hiding in the shadows. To your right.”

Alfred blinked, unable to see in the dark after the lurid light of the Fire Sea. “It . . . It’s not the lazar . . .” His voice quavered nervously.

“No,” said Haplo.

The dog crept closer, growling softly.

“This person’s alive. I think . . .” Haplo paused. “Do you remember Balthazar? That Sartan necromancer we left behind when we fled Abarrach?”

“Balthazar!” Alfred couldn’t believe it. “But he must be dead. All the Sartan with him. The lazar must have destroyed them.”

“Apparently not. My guess is we’ve stumbled onto where Balthazar and his people have been hiding. Remember, this is where we came across them the first time.”

“Balthazar!” Alfred repeated in disbelief. He peered into the shadows, attempted to see. “Please, I need help,” he called, speaking Sartan. “I was here once before. Do you remember me? My name is—”

“Alfred,” said a dry, rasping voice from the shadows. A Sartan clad in ragged, threadbare black robes stepped out from the shadows. “Yes, I remember you.”

The dog stood protectively in front of Alfred, barked a warning that said Keep your distance.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you. I haven’t the strength to harm anyone,” Balthazar added, a bitter tinge to his voice.

The Sartan had been slightly built to begin with; suffering and deprivation had left him thin and wasted. His beard and hair, once shining black—unusual among Sartan—were now prematurely streaked with gray. Though movement obviously fatigued him, he managed to carry himself with dignity and pride. But the tattered black robes that marked a necromancer hung from bony shoulders, as if they covered a skeleton.

“Balthazar,” said Alfred in shocked recognition. “It is you. I ... wasn’t certain.”

The pity in his voice was all too apparent. Balthazar’s black eyes flashed in anger. He drew himself up, clasped his emaciated arms across his shrunken chest.

“Yes, Balthazar! Whose people you left to die on the docks of Safe Harbor!”

The dog, having recognized Balthazar, had been about to make advances in friendly fashion. The animal growled, backed up to stand near its charges.

“You know why we left you behind. I could not permit you to take necromancy into the other worlds,” Alfred said quietly. “Especially after I’d seen the harm done to this one.”

Balthazar sighed. His anger had been more reflexive than real, a flickering spark, all that was left of a fire that had long since died. His arms, clasped across his chest, slid apart, dropped wearily to his sides.

“I understand. I didn’t then, of course. And I can’t help my anger. You have no idea”—the black eyes were shadowed, filled with anguish and pain—“what we have suffered. But what you say is true. We brought this evil upon ourselves by our own rash actions. It is up to us to deal with it. What is wrong with the woman?”

Balthazar eyed Marit closely. “She must belong to the same race of people as that friend of yours—what was his name? Haplo. I recognize the rune-markings on the skin.”

“She was attacked by one of the lazar,” Alfred explained, gazing down at Marit. She was no longer in pain. She was unconscious.

Balthazar’s expression grew dark, grim. “Some of our people have met the same fate. There is nothing that can be done for her, I fear.”

“On the contrary.” Alfred flushed. “I can heal her. But she needs to be someplace quiet, where she can sleep undisturbed for many hours.”

Balthazar gazed at Alfred with unblinking eyes. “I forgot,” the necromancer said at last. “I forgot you possessed skills that we have lost ... or no longer have the strength to practice. Bring her inside. She will be safe here ... as safe as anywhere in this doomed world.”

The necromancer led the way deeper into the cave. As they went, they passed by another Sartan, a young woman. Balthazar nodded to her, made her a sign. She cast one curious glance at Alfred and his companions, then left, heading outside. Within a few moments, two other Sartan appeared.

“If you want, they will take the woman on ahead to our living area, make her comfortable,” Balthazar suggested.

Alfred hesitated. He wasn’t entirely certain he trusted these people ... his people.

“I will only keep you a few moments,” Balthazar said. “But I would like to talk with you.”

The black eyes penetrated, probed. Alfred had the uneasy feeling that they were seeing much more than he wanted them to see. And it was obvious the necromancer wasn’t going to permit Alfred to do anything for Marit until Balthazar’s curiosity—or whatever it was—was satisfied.

Reluctantly, Alfred relinquished Marit to the care of the Sartan. They treated her with tenderness and bore her carefully back to the interior of the cavern. He couldn’t help noting, however, that the two Sartan who had taken charge of Marit were almost as weak as the injured Patryn.

“You were warned of our coming,” Alfred said, thinking back to the person he’d seen moving among the rocks.

“We keep watch for the lazar,” Balthazar answered. “Please, let us sit a moment. Walking fatigues me.” He sank down, almost collapsing, upon a boulder.

“You’re not using the dead ... for scouts,” Alfred said slowly, remembering the last time he’d been on this world. “Or to fight for you?”

Balthazar cast him a sharp, shrewd glance. “No, we are not.” His gaze shifted to the shadows that had deepened around them as they moved farther into the cave. “We do not practice the necromancy anymore.”

“I am glad,” Alfred said emotionally. “So very glad. Your decision was the right one. The power of necromancy has already done great harm to our people.”

“The ability to bring the dead back to life is a strong temptation, arising as it does out of what we call love and compassion.” Balthazar sighed. “Unfortunately, it is really only the selfish desire to hold on to something we should let go. Shortsighted and arrogant, we imagine that this mortal state is the apex, the best we can achieve. We have learned that such is not the case.”

Alfred regarded him with astonishment. “You have learned? How?”

“My prince, my cherished Edmund, had the courage to show us. We honor his memory. The souls of our dead are free to depart now, their bodies laid to rest with respect.

“Unfortunately,” he added, the bitterness returning, “burying our dead is a task that has become all too common . . .”

Lowering his head into his hand, he sought vainly to hide his tears. The dog pattered forward, willing to forgive the earlier misunderstanding. It placed its paw on the necromancer’s knee, gazed up at him with sympathetic eyes.

“We fled inland to escape the lazar. But they caught up with us. We fought them, a losing battle, as we well knew. Then one of their number—a young nobleman known as Jonathon—stepped forward. He freed Prince Edmund, sent his spirit to rest, and proved to us that what we had feared all these centuries was not true. The soul does not fall into oblivion, but lives on. We had been wrong to chain that soul to its prison of flesh. Jonathon held off Kleitus and the other lazar, gave us time to escape to safety.

“We hid in the outback for as long as we could. But our food supplies were scarce, our magic weakening daily. Finally, driven by hunger, we came back to this abandoned town, scavenged what meagre supplies remained, and moved into this cave. Now our food is almost completely gone and we have no hope of obtaining more. What little we have left goes to feed the very young, the sick . . .”

Balthazar paused, shut his eyes. He seemed about to faint. Alfred put his arm around him, supported him until he was able to sit by himself.

“Thank you,” Balthazar said, with a wan smile. “I am better now. These dizzy spells are a weakness with me.”

“A weakness brought on by lack of sustenance. My guess is that you have been depriving yourself of food so that your people could eat. But you are their leader. What will happen to them if you fall ill?”

“The same thing that will happen to them whether I live or die,” Balthazar said grimly. “We have no hope. No means of escape. We wait only for death.” His voice softened. “And after seeing what peace my prince found, I must confess that I am looking forward to it.”

“Come, come,” Alfred said hastily, alarmed by such talk. “We’re wasting time. If you have any food left at all, I can use my magic to provide more.”

Balthazar smiled wanly. “That would be a great help. And undoubtedly you have large stores of food on your ship.”

“Well, yes, of course, I—” Alfred stopped. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Now you’ve done it,” Haplo muttered.

“So that ship we saw is yours!” Balthazar’s eyes burned with a fevered glow. He stretched forth a skeletal hand, clutched at Alfred’s faded velvet lapel. “At last we can escape! Leave this world of death!”

“I—I—I—” Alfred stammered. “That is ... you see . . .”

Alfred could see—could see exactly where all this had been leading. He rose, trembling, to his feet.

“We will discuss this later. I need to be with my friend. To heal her. Then I will do what I can to help your people.”

Balthazar also stood up. He leaned near Alfred. “We will escape!” he said softly. “No one will stop us this time.”

Alfred gulped, backed up a pace. He said nothing. Balthazar said nothing. The two walked on, moving deeper into the cavern. The necromancer walked slowly and weakly, but he politely refused any type of aid. Alfred, miserable and unhappy, could not control his wandering feet. If it hadn’t been for the dog, he would have tumbled down any number of crevices, fallen over any number of rocks.

A mensch saying came to Alfred’s mind.

“Out of the frying pan. Into the fire.”