The Seventh Gate

19

“My Lord!” A Patryn entered Xar’s library. “A group of what appear to be Sartan have arrived in Safe Harbor. The scouts believe they are going to attempt to seize the ship.”

Xar knew, of course, what was transpiring. He had been with Marit mentally, following events through her ears and eyes, although she had no idea she was being used for such a purpose. He made no mention of this fact, however, but looked up with interest at the Patryn making the report.

“Indeed. Sartan—native to Abarrach. I heard rumor of this before our arrival, but the lazar led me to believe all the Sartan were dead.”

“They might as well be, Lord. They are a ragged, wretched-looking lot. Half starved.”

“How many of them?”

“Perhaps fifty or so, My Lord. Including children.”

“Children . . .” Xar was nonplussed. Marit had made no mention of children. He hadn’t figured them into his calculations.

Still, he reminded himself coldly, they are Sartan children.

“What is Kleitus doing?”

“Attempting to destroy the rune-magic protecting the ship, My Lord. He appears to be oblivious to all else.”

Xar made an impatient gesture. “Of course he is. He, too, is half starved—for fresh blood.”

“What are your orders, My Lord?”

What indeed? Xar had been pondering this ever since he had known, from Marit’s whispered conversation with Alfred, what was being planned. Alfred was going to attempt to wrench the soul from the lazar’s body. Xar had a great deal of respect for the Serpent Mage—more respect for Alfred than Alfred had for himself. He might very well be capable of ending the lazar’s tormented existence.

Xar didn’t care a rune-bone what happened to the lazar. If they all turned to dust, if they fled Abarrach—it was all the same to him. He would be happy to be rid of them. But once Kleitus was destroyed, Alfred would be free to take over the ship. True, he had told Marit he intended to destroy it. But Xar didn’t trust the Sartan.

The Lord of the Nexus made his decision. He rose to his feet.

“I will come,” he said. “Send all our people to the Anvil. Have my ship there, ready to sail. We must be prepared to move . . . and move swiftly.”

Out beyond the New Provinces, directly across from Safe Harbor, stood a promontory of jagged rock known—for its black color and distinctive shape—as the Anvil. The Anvil guarded the mouth of a bay created eons ago when a tremor had caused part of the rock peak to crack and break off. It had slid into the sea, creating an opening in the cliff that permitted the magma to flow into a lowlying section of land.

This created a bay, which was named Firepool. The lava, fed continually by the Fire Sea and surrounded by sheer rock walls on all sides, formed a slow-moving, sluggish maelstrom.

Around and around flowed the viscous magma, carrying chunks of black rock on its glowing surface. A person standing on the Anvil could pick out a particular rock and watch it being carried inexorably to its doom. Watch it enter the Firepool, watch it revolve around the outer surface, watch it drift nearer and nearer the Fire-pool’s heart, watch it vanish, dragged down into the sucking maw of the fiery maelstrom.

Xar often came to the Anvil, often stood and stared into the mesmerizing swirl of fiery lava. When he was in a fatalistic mood, he compared the Firepool to life. No matter what a man did, how much he struggled and fought to avoid his fate, the end was always the same. But Xar was not indulging in such morbid thoughts this day. He looked down on the maelstrom and saw—not rocks, but one of the iron, steam—and magic-driven ships built by the Sartan to sail the Fire Sea. The iron ship floated in the bay, hidden from the eyes of the dead and the living.

Perched on the Anvil, Xar gazed across the Fire Sea at the abandoned town of Safe Harbor, at the dock, at Marit’s ship and the lazar Kleitus. Xar had no fear of being observed. He was too far away, a black-robed figure against black rocks. The iron ship was out of sight behind the promontory. Besides, he doubted that anyone over there—lazar or Sartan—would bother to look for him. They had more urgent matters at hand.

All Patryns remaining on Abarrach, with the sole exception of Haplo, lying in the dungeons below Necropolis, were on board the ship. They awaited the signal of their lord to sail out of the bay, surge across the Fire Sea. They were prepared to intercept Alfred should he attempt to leave Abarrach.

The Patryns were also—and this Xar considered an incredible thing, but one he was driven to by necessity—prepared to save Alfred should anything go wrong.

Xar used the rune-magic to enhance his vision. He had a clear view of the docks of Safe Harbor, of Kleitus working to unravel Marit’s spells. Xar could even see, through a porthole in the ship, what appeared to be a mensch—the human assassin, Hugh the Hand—moving from one side of the ship to the other, nervously watching the lazar at work.

The mensch—another walking corpse, Xar thought, somewhat bitterly. It irritated him that Alfred had been able to work the necromancy by giving life back to the mensch, whereas Xar had been able to do nothing with necromancy except provide a dog a soul.

Xar could see, but he could not hear, for which he was grateful. He had no need to hear what was going on, and the echo of Kleitus’s soul, trapped in the dead body, had been getting on his nerves lately. It was bad enough watching the corpse shuffling and shambling about the dock, the imprisoned phantasm struggling constantly to break tree. The chained soul undulating around the body gave the lazar a fuzzy look, as if Xar were watching it through a flawed crystal. He found himself constantly blinking, trying to bring the watery image into focus.

And then came a figure, stepping out onto the docks, a figure that was sharp and clear, if somewhat stoop-shouldered and faltering. Two figures walked beside it—one clad in the black robes of a necromancer, the other one a woman, a Patryn.

Xar’s eyes narrowed. He smiled.

“Make ready,” he said to the Patryn standing beside him, who gave a signal to the ship, waiting below. “I think it will be much better if I go on ahead alone,” Alfred said to a disapproving Balthazar and a skeptical Marit. “If Kleitus sees an army approaching, he will feel threatened and immediately attack. But if he just sees me—”

“—he’ll laugh?” Balthazar suggested.

“Perhaps,” Alfred replied gravely. “At least he might not pay me much heed. And that will give me time to cast the spell.”

“How long will this take?” Marit demanded, dubious, her gaze on the lazar, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Alfred flushed, embarrassed.

“You don’t know.”

Alfred shook his head.

Balthazar looked back at his people, huddled in the shadows of the buildings, the weak who could walk supporting those weaker who couldn’t. Children—faces pinched, eyes huge and staring—clung to their parents or, in those cases where the parents were dead, to those who now held their responsibility. After all, what help could his people give?

The necromancer sighed. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “Do this your way. We will come to your aid if need be.”

“At least let me go with you, Alfred,” Marit urged.

He again shook his head, cast a swift, oblique glance at Balthazar.

Marit saw the look, understood, made no further argument. She was to watch the necromancer, prevent him from trying to seize control of the ship, which he might do while Alfred was busy with the lazar.

“We will wait for you here,” Marit said, giving the word emphasis to indicate she understood.

Alfred nodded, rather dismally. Now that he had achieved his aim, he was extremely sorry he’d done so. What if his spell failed? Kleitus would attempt to murder him, make him one of the lazar. Alfred looked at the corpse, scarred with the marks of its own violent death. He looked at the hapless phantasm, struggling to escape, and at the waxen hands, longing to end life—his life. He remembered Kleitus’s attack on Marit, the poison . . . Even now, she was not free of it. Her cheeks had an unnatural flush; her eyes were too bright. The slashes on her throat were inflamed, painful.

Alfred went hot and then extremely cold. The words to the spell slipped out of his mind, fluttering like the butterfly souls of the elves of Arianus, flapping off in a thousand different directions.

“You think too damn much,” came Haplo’s voice. “Just go out there and do what you have to do!”

Do what you have to do. Yes, Alfred told himself. I will do what I have to do.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the shadows and headed for the docks.

The dog, knowing Alfred and foreseeing a hundred obstacles in his path, trotted along watchfully at his side.

The runes surrounding the ship were now more than three-quarters dark. From her vantage point in the shadows of a ruined building, Marit could see Hugh the Hand, moving about restlessly on board, keeping watch on the ghastly being walking about the ship. She wondered suddenly how the Cursed Blade would react to Kleitus. He was Sartan, or had been. Most likely, the blade would fight for the lazar. She hoped Hugh had sense enough not to intervene, wished she had thought to warn Alfred of this additional danger.

Too late, though. Her duty was here. She cast a sidelong glance at Balthazar. His gaze slid across hers like a fencer’s sword, testing, seeking out his opponent’s weakness.

Marit caught herself just before she laughed aloud. Weakness! Both of us so damn weak neither one could likely melt butter. What a fight that would be. What an inglorious battle. Yet we would fight. Until both dropped down dead.

Tears filled her eyes. Angry, she blinked them away.

She was beginning, at last, to understand Alfred.

Kleitus was systematically unraveling the magic. The blood-mottled, waxen hand made plucking motions in the air, as if he were ripping apart a woven rug. The glimmering rune-structure surrounding the ship was fading, flickering, dying. Kleitus was watching Alfred. Or rather, the trapped phantasm was watching Alfred. The shambling corpse of the Dynast paid the approaching Sartan scant attention, preferring to concentrate instead on the destruction of the ship’s protective magic.

Alfred crept closer, the dog pressed against his leg, offering both its support and—if the truth be known—urging the reluctant Sartan along.

Alfred was terribly, horribly frightened, more frightened of this than he’d ever been of anything, even the red dragon in the Labyrinth. He looked at Kleitus and he saw himself. Saw—with awful fascination—the blood on the decomposing hands, saw the hunger for blood in the dead, living eyes. A hunger that might well become his own. He saw, in the brief flicker of the imprisoned phantasm, peering out of the moldering body, the suffering, the torment of a trapped soul. He saw . . .

Suffering.

Alfred stopped walking so suddenly that the dog pattered on ahead a few steps before realizing it was alone. Turning, the animal fixed Alfred with a stern look, suspecting he was about to cut and run.

This is a person suffering. This is a being in torment.

I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I’m not going to kill this man. I’m going to give him rest, ease.

Keep thinking that, Alfred told himself, resuming his advance, somewhat stronger now. Keep thinking about that. Don’t think about the fact that, in order to cast this spell, you must grasp the lazar’s dead hands . . .

Kleitus ceased his work, turned to face Alfred. The phantasm flicked in and out of the eyes.

“Come to share immortal life?” the lazar asked.

“. . . life . . .” moaned the phantasm.

“I ... don’t want immortality,” Alfred managed to gasp from a throat closing with fear.

Somewhere on board the ship, Hugh the Hand watched and listened. Perhaps he was exultant. Now you understand!

Now I understand . . .

The lazar’s bluish lips drew back in a smiling grimace.

The dog growled low in its chest.

“Stay behind,” Alfred said softly, with a brief touch on the animal’s head. “You can’t do anything for me now.”

The dog eyed him dubiously, then—hearing another word of command—fell back meekly, to watch and to wait.

“You are responsible!” Kleitus accused. The dead eyes were cold and empty, the living eyes filled with hatred . . . and pleading. “You brought this on us!”

“... us ...” hissed the echo.

“You brought it on yourselves,” Alfred said sadly. He had to take hold of the dead hand. He stared at it, and his own flesh crawled. He saw again the long nails digging savagely into Marit’s flesh. He felt them closing over his own throat.

Alfred tried to drive himself to do what he had to do ... and then he had no choice.

Kleitus sprang at him. The hands of the lazar grappled for Alfred’s neck, seeking to choke the life from him.

Acting on instinct, in self-defense, Alfred grabbed hold of the lazar’s wrists. But instead of trying to break Kleitus’s hold, Alfred clasped the lazar’s hands even tighter, closed his eyes to blot out the horror of the murdered corpse’s twisted, anguished face so near his own.

Alfred began to extend the circle of his being. He let his own soul flow into that of Kleitus. He sought to draw the tormented soul into his own.

“No!” the lazar said softly, “Yours will be mine!”

To his horror and astonishment, Alfred was suddenly aware of brutal hands reaching inside him. Kleitus had grasped hold of Alfred’s soul and was attempting to wrench it from his body.

Alfred shrank back in panic, released his hold on Kleitus to defend himself. The battle was an unequal one, Alfred realized in despair. He could not win, because he had too much to lose. Kleitus had nothing, feared nothing.

Alfred heard shouts behind him. He was vaguely aware of the dog leaping and snarling, of Marit attempting to drive Kleitus away from his victim, of Balthazar frantically summoning weak magic.

But they could not save Alfred. The fight had been joined on an immortal plane. These others were like insects buzzing far, far away, Kleitus’s dead hands were tearing apart Alfred’s being as surely as they were ripping apart his flesh.

Alfred struggled, fought, and knew he was losing.

And then a powerful explosion of rune-magic dazzled his eyes. The starlit blast burst between him and his enemy. Kleitus reeled back, dead mouth open and screaming. The lazar’s hands released Alfred’s soul and he fell amid a shower of glittering runes, landing heavily on the dock.

Lying on his back, Alfred looked up, with fast-beating heart, to see a white-robed Sartan, standing above him.

“Samah . . .” Alfred murmured, his failing senses catching only the vague outline of the man’s features.

“I am not Samah. I am Samah’s son, Ramu,” the Sartan corrected, his voice cold and flaring as the starbursts of his magic. “You are Alfred Montbank. What horror was that thing?”

Alfred, dazzled, dazed, clutched his soul to him and struggled to sit up. Fearful, he gazed around, bleary-eyed. Kleitus was nowhere to be seen. The lazar had vanished.

Destroyed? Alfred didn’t think it likely.

Driven off, escaped. To wait. Bide its time. There would be other ships. Death’s Gate would always be open . . .

Alfred shuddered. Marit knelt beside him, put her arm around him. The dog—which entertained bad memories of Ramu—stood over them both protectively.

Other white-robed Sartan were proceeding down the dock. Above them floated an enormous vessel, its blue protective Sartan runes flaring brightly in Abarrach’s sullen, red-tinged darkness.

“Who is this Sartan? What does he want?” Marit demanded, suspicious.

Ramu’s gaze was on her, on the sigla that flared defensively on her skin.

“I see we come in good time. The warning we received was well founded.”

Alfred looked up, dazed. “What warning? Why have you come? Why did you leave Chelestra?”

Ramu was cold, grim. “We were warned that the Patryns had broken out of their prison, that they had launched an assault on the Final Gate. We are sailing to the Labyrinth. We intend to return the prisoners to their cells, keep them trapped there. We will close the Final Gate. We will make certain—once and for all—that our enemy never again escapes.”