The Seventh Gate

18

“I wish we were stronger!” Balthazar was saying, as Alfred hesitantly approached the necromancer and the guard. The dog, tail wagging, pattered over to greet Alfred.

“Our numbers greater! But ... it will have to suffice.” The necromancer glanced around. “How many of us are physically capable . . .”

“Um . . . what’s going on?” Alfred remembered just in time to pretend that he didn’t know.

“The lazar, Kleitus, is attempting to steal your ship,” Balthazar reported, with a calm that astonished Alfred. “Of course, the fiend must be stopped.”

So that you can take it yourself, Alfred added, but he added it silently. “The ... um ... that is ... Patryn rune-magic guards the ship. I don’t think it can be broken . . .”

Balthazar smiled, thin-lipped, grim. “As you recall, I once saw a demonstration of ‘Patryn’ magic. The rune-structures are visible, they glow with light when they are activated. Isn’t that true?”

Alfred, wary, nodded.

“Half the sigla on your ship are now dark,” Balthazar reported. “Kleitus is unraveling it.”

“That’s impossible!” Alfred protested in disbelief. “How could the lazar have learned such a skill—”

“From Xar,” Haplo said. “Kleitus has been watching my lord and the rest of my people. The lazar has discovered the secret of the rune-magic.”

“The lazar are capable of learning,” Balthazar was saying at the same time, “because of the soul’s proximity to the body. And they have long wanted to leave Abarrach. They can find no living flesh here on which to feed. I do not need to tell you what terrible tragedies will befall in the other worlds if the lazar succeed in entering Death’s Gate.”

He was right. He had no need to tell Alfred, who could envision such horror all too clearly. Kleitus had to be stopped, but—once the lazar was stopped, it was—who was going to stop Balthazar?

Alfred sank down on a rock ledge, stared unseeing into the darkness. “Will it never end? Will we go on forever perpetuating the misery and the sorrow?”

The dog flopped down, whined a little in sympathy. Balthazar stood near, black eyes probing, plodding. Alfred flinched, as if the sharp gaze had drawn blood. He had the distinct feeling he knew what Balthazar was going to say next.

Balthazar placed his gaunt, wasted hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

Leaning over him, the necromancer spoke in low tones. “Once I might have been able to cast such spells as are required. But not now. You, on the other hand . . .”

Alfred blenched, shrank away from the man’s touch. “I ... couldn’t! I wouldn’t know how . . .”

“I do,” Balthazar said smoothly. “I have been thinking long on the matter, as you might guess. The lazar are dangerous because—unlike the ordinary dead—the living soul remains attached to the dead. If that attachment were to be severed, the soul wrenched from the body, I believe the lazar would be destroyed.”

“You ‘believe’?” Alfred retorted. “You don’t know for certain.”

“As I said, I have not been strong enough to conduct such an experiment myself.”

“I couldn’t,” Alfred said flatly. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Yet he’s right,” said Haplo. “Kleitus must be stopped. Balthazar’s too weak to do it.”

Alfred groaned again. What do I do about Balthazar? he asked silently, conscious of the necromancer hovering at his elbow. How do I stop him?

“Worry about one thing at a time,” Haplo returned.

Alfred shook his head dismally.

“Look at these Sartan,” Haplo told him. “They can barely walk. The ship is a Patryn ship, covered with Patryn runes—inside and out. Even if Kleitus destroys all the runes, new ones will have to be crafted to enable the ship to fly. Balthazar won’t be leaving anytime soon. Plus I don’t think Lord Xar will be too pleased with the idea of letting these Sartan escape him.”

Alfred did not find this cheering. “But that will mean more fighting, more killing . . .”

“One problem at a time, Sartan,” Haplo said, with an inexplicable calm. “One problem at a time. Can you work this magic the necromancer proposes?”

“Yes,” said Alfred softly, subdued. He sighed. “Yes, I believe I can.”

“You can work the magic?” The voice was Balthazar’s. “Is that what you are talking about?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, flushing.

Balthazar’s black eyes narrowed. “With what—or with whom—do you commune, Brother?”

The dog, not liking the man’s tone, raised its head and growled.

Alfred smiled, reached out to pat it. “Myself,” he said quietly.

Balthazar insisted on taking all of his people with them.

“We will seize control of the ship, begin to work on it immediately,” he told Alfred. “The strongest among us will stand guard for any attack. Barring interruptions, we should be able to leave Abarrach in a relatively short time.”

There will be interruptions, Alfred said silently. Lord Xar will not let you go. And I cannot go. I can’t leave Haplo behind. Yet I can’t stay. Xar is hunting me, to lead him to the Seventh Gate. What do I do? What do I do?

“What you must,” Haplo answered calmly, quietly.

And it was then Alfred realized Haplo had a plan.

Alfred’s heart quivered with hope. “You have an idea . . .”

“I beg your pardon?” Balthazar turned to him. “What were you saying?”

“Shut up, Alfred!” Haplo ordered. “Don’t say a word. It’s nothing firm yet. And circumstances may not work out. But, just in case, be ready. Now, go wake up Marit”

Alfred started to protest, felt the heat of Haplo’s irritation wash over him—an uncomfortable and uncanny experience.

“She’ll be weak, but you’re going to need help and she’s the only one who can provide it.”

Alfred nodded, did as he was told. The Sartan were gathering together their few belongings, preparing to move out. Word had spread among them rapidly: a ship, escape, hope. They spoke in awed tones of fleeing this dread land, of finding new lives in beautiful new worlds. It was all Alfred could do to keep from shrieking in frustration.

He knelt down beside Marit. She slept so peacefully, so deeply, it seemed criminal to wake her. Looking at her, untroubled as she was by dreams or memories, he was suddenly and shockingly reminded of another—Hugh the Hand—free of the burdens and pain of life, finding a haven and a sanctuary in death . . . until wrenched back . . .

Alfred’s throat constricted. He choked, attempted to clear his throat—and at the strange sound, Marit woke up.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” Patryns are accustomed to waking instantly, mindful always—even in slumber—of the danger that surrounds them in the Labyrinth. Marit sat up, her hand fumbling for her weapon, almost before Alfred could comprehend that she was awake and moving.

“It’s . . . it’s all right.” He hastened to reassure her.

She blinked, brushed back her hair. Alfred saw, again, the sigil on her forehead. His heart sank. He’d forgotten. Xar would know . . . every move . . . Perhaps he should tell her.

“Don’t say a word,” Haplo counseled him swiftly. “Yes, Xar knows, through her, what is happening. But that may work to our advantage. Don’t let him know you know.”

“What is it?” Marit demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You . . . look . . . much better,” Alfred managed.

“Thanks to you,” she said, smiling, relaxing. When she did, he saw that she was still ill, still weak. She glanced around, was immediately aware of the sudden activity.

“What’s going on?”

“Kleitus is attempting to steal the ship,” Alfred explained.

“My ship!” Marit stood up swiftly; too swiftly. She almost fell.

“I’m going to try to stop him,” Alfred said, rising awkwardly himself.

“And who’s going to stop them?” Marit demanded, with an impatient, sweeping gesture that encompassed all the Sartan in the cave. “They’re packing up! Moving out! In my ship!”

Alfred didn’t know what to say; Haplo gave him no help. Alfred blinked at her like a baffled owl and stammered something unintelligible.

Marit strapped her sword around her waist. “I understand,” she said to him, calm, grim. “I forgot. They’re your people. Of course you’ll be glad to help them escape.”

“Keep quiet . . .” Haplo cautioned.

Alfred clamped his lips shut tightly, to avoid temptation. If he opened his mouth at all, even to breathe, he was afraid the words would come spewing out. Not that he could actually tell Marit anything constructive. He didn’t know what Haplo was plotting.

Alfred had the strange impression of Haplo’s mind racing down a track, like the flash rafts of the Kicksey-winsey, the great iron carriages that scuttled along on iron rails, powered by the lightning of the ’lectric zingers. Alfred was being carried along with it and he feared he was going to be in for an unnerving jolt whenever Haplo arrived at the end of the line. Meanwhile, the Sartan had no choice but to bumble on and hope that somehow, somewhere, he managed to do his part right.

Balthazar’s people had joined together to form a tiny army that looked more dead than the dead they were going out to face. Their thin, wan faces hardened by determination, they moved slowly, but with resolve. Alfred admired them. He could have wept for them.

Yet, looking at them, he saw the beginning of evil, not an end to it.

The Sartan left Salfag Caverns, traveling along the broken road that led to the town of Safe Harbor. With characteristic logic, Balthazar had seen to it that the younger Sartan, who served to guard their people, had been given food enough to keep up their strength. These Sartan were in relatively good condition, though their numbers were few. They moved out in front, acting as advance guards and scouts.

But for the most part, it was a ragged, shabby, and pitifully weak group of people who trudged along the shore of the burning sea, intending to make a stand against the dead, which could not be harmed, which could not die.

Alfred and Marit accompanied them. Alfred’s mind was in such turmoil over the spell he would have to cast—a spell he had never ever even considered casting—that he paid no attention to where he was going or how he got there. He lurched into boulders, fell over the feet of his companions, if they were available; tumbled over his own feet if not.

The dog was kept busy hauling Alfred out of one potential disaster after another and, within a short time, even that faithful animal begin to evince signs of irritation with the man. A snap and a snarl warned Alfred away from a bubbling mud pit, when before a gentle nudge would have taken him clear.

Marit marched silently, her hand on her sword hilt. She, too, was plotting something, but obviously had no intention of sharing her strategy. Alfred had become—once again—one of the enemy.

The thought made him miserable, but he couldn’t blame her. He didn’t dare trust her either; not with Xar’s mark on her.

Evil beginning again . . . without end. Without end.

At Balthazar’s command, the Sartan left the road before they came near the town, moving into the dark shadows created by the lurid light glowing from the Fire Sea. The Sartan herded the children and those too weak to keep going into abandoned buildings. The younger Sartan went with their leader to view—from hidden vantage points—the dock and the Patryn ship.

Kleitus was alone; none of the other lazar were working with him, which Alfred found inexplicable at first. Then it occurred to him that these lazar probably didn’t trust each other. Kleitus would jealously guard the secrets he had learned from Xar. Crouched in the shadows, the Sartan watched the lazar slowly, patiently, unravel the complex Patryn rune-structure.

“It is well we came when we did,” Balthazar whispered, before moving off to issue commands to his people.

Alfred was too harried and flurried to reply. Marit also had no comment. She was staring, amazed and aghast, at her ship. Almost two-thirds of the runes protecting the ship were destroyed, their magical power broken. Perhaps she hadn’t believed the Sartan. Now she knew they were telling the truth.

“Do you suppose Xar put Kleitus up to this?” Alfred was, in truth, asking Haplo, but Marit apparently thought he was talking to her.

Her eyes flashed. “My lord would never have permitted the lazar to learn the rune-magic! Besides, what purpose would this serve?”

Alfred flushed, stung by her anger. “You must admit, this is a convenient way to rid himself of the lazar ... and keep us trapped here on Abarrach.”

Marit shook her head, refusing to consider the idea. She lifted her hand to her forehead, to rub the sigil put there by Xar. Catching Alfred watching her, she snatched her hand away, wrapped her fingers tightly about her sword hilt.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked coldly. “Are you going to change into the dragon?”

“No.” Alfred spoke reluctantly, not wanting to think about what he was going to do, what he was going to have to do. “It will take all my energy to perform the spell to free this tormented soul.” His sad-eyed gaze was on the lazar. “I couldn’t do that and be the dragon, too.”

He added softly, first checking to make certain Balthazar was nowhere near, “Marit, I’m not going to let the Sartan have the ship.”

She regarded him silently, thoughtfully, taking his measure. Finally she nodded, once, abruptly.

“How are you going to stop them?”

“Marit . . .” Alfred licked dry lips. “What if I were to destroy the ship?”

She was thoughtful, did not protest.

“We’d be trapped in Abarrach. There would be no other way out for us,” he said to her, wanting to make certain she understood.

“Yes, there is,” Marit replied. “The Seventh Gate.”