The Seventh Gate

21

Alfred had been leaning over the ship’s rail, staring at nothing, wondering despairingly what to do. On the one hand, it seemed vitally important that he travel to the Labyrinth with Ramu.

I have to continue to try to make the Councillor understand the true situation. Make him understand that the serpents are the true enemy, that the Patryns and Sartan must join forces against this evil or it will end up devouring us.

“Not only ourselves,” Alfred said to himself, “but the mensch. We brought them to these worlds, they’re our responsibility.”

Yes, in this his duty was clear, although just how he was going to convince Ramu of the danger was rather foggy in Alfred’s mind at this moment.

But, on the other hand, there was Haplo.

“I can’t leave you,” Alfred argued, and waited in some trepidation for Haplo to argue back. But his friend’s voice had been strangely silent lately, ever since he had ordered the dog to stop Marit. This silence was ominous, made Alfred uneasy. He wondered if it was Haplo’s way of forcing them to leave him. Haplo would sacrifice himself in a minute if he thought that by doing so he could help his people . . .

All this was what Alfred had been thinking when Marit sprang to her feet with a startled cry.

“Alfred!” She clutched at his arm, nearly sent him backward over the rail. “Alfred! Look!”

“Blessed Sartan!” Alfred whispered in shock.

He had forgotten about Hugh the Hand, had forgotten that the assassin was on board the ship. And now Hugh had hold of Ramu, had the Cursed Blade pointed at the Sartan’s throat.

Alfred understood all too clearly what must have happened.

Hidden in the cabin, Hugh had witnessed the arrival of the Sartan. He had watched them take Marit and Alfred captive. His one thought—as their friend and companion and self-appointed bodyguard—would be to secure their freedom. His only weapon—the Sartan blade.

But he could not realize that these were the very Sartan who had forged that blade.

“Don’t any of you move,” Hugh the Hand warned, his gaze taking in all on board the ship. He clenched Ramu tighter, nearly bending the man over backward. The Hand exhibited enough of the knife to the horrified watchers to let them know he was in earnest. “Or your leader will find six inches of steel in his neck. Alfred, Marit, come over and stand by me.”

Alfred didn’t move. He couldn’t.

How will the magical blade react? he wondered frantically. Its first loyalty was to its wielder, Hugh the Hand. The knife might well stab Ramu—especially if he attempted to use magic against it—before it knew its mistake.

And if Ramu died, there would be an end to all hope of bringing the Patryns and Sartan together.

As it was, the other Sartan were staring at the two in amazement, not quite realizing what was going on. Ramu himself appeared stunned. Probably never in his life had such an outrage been perpetrated against him. He didn’t know how to react. But he was quick-thinking. He soon would . . .

“Councillor!” Alfred cried desperately. “The weapon that man holds is a magic one. Don’t use magic against it! That will only make things worse!”

“Well done!” Marit said to him softly. “Keep him busy.”

Alfred was horrified. She’d completely misread his intentions. “No, Marit. I didn’t mean that . . . Marit, don’t . . .”

She wasn’t listening. Her sword lay on the deck, guarded by Sartan. Sartan who were staring in stunned disbelief at their leader. Marit grabbed her sword easily, ran across the deck toward Hugh. Alfred tried to stop her, but he wasn’t watching where he was going and fell headlong over the dog. The animal, yelping painfully, bristled and barked at everyone on general principle.

The Sartan, confused, looked to Ramu for orders.

“Please! Stay calm. Don’t anybody do anything!” Alfred was pleading, but no one heard him over the dog’s frantic barks, and it would probably have made no difference if they had.

At that moment, Ramu cast a paralyzing jolt of electricity through Hugh’s body.

Hugh collapsed, writhing in agony. But the jolt did more than fell the assassin. The shock galvanized the Cursed Blade. It recognized the magic—Sartan magic—recognized the fact that Hugh, the one who wielded the blade, was in peril. The blade sensed Marit, approaching at a run, as the enemy.

The Cursed Blade reacted. As it had been trained to do, it summoned the strongest force available in the vicinity to fight its foe.

Kleitus the lazar appeared on the deck of the ship. Within the space of a heartbeat, the dead of Abarrach were crawling up and over the ship’s rails.

“Control the magic!” Alfred cried. “Ramu—you have to regain control of the magic!”

The blade had merely summoned the dead to its aid; it had no control over them. Control was not the blade’s purpose. Having fulfilled its creator’s intent, it changed back to its original form, fell to the deck beside a groaning Hugh the Hand.

Kleitus lunged for Marit, his wasted hands grasping for her throat. Marit struck him with her sword—a blow that sliced open one of the bony arms. No blood flowed; the dead flesh hung in tatters. Kleitus never felt the wound.

Marit could strike the lazar as often as she liked, without the least effect. Its nails scraped across her skin, and she gasped in pain. She was weakening rapidly. She could not last long against the formidable lazar.

The dog jumped at Kleitus. A savage kick sent the animal rolling. Now there was no one to help Marit, even if they could have. The Sartan on board ship were battling for their own lives.

Summoned by the blade, the dead smelted the warm blood of the living, a smell they craved and hated. Ramu watched, helpless and appalled, as the lazar attacked his people.

Alfred bumbled his way through the melee, disrupting magic, tripping up the shambling corpses, leaving confusion and chaos in his wake. But he managed to reach Ramu.

“These dead ... are ours!” Ramu whispered, awed. “This horror . . . our people . . .”

Alfred ignored him. “The blade! Where’s the blade?”

He had seen it fall near Hugh the Hand. He knelt by the assassin’s side, searched frantically for the knife. He couldn’t find it. The blade was gone. Tramping feet had kicked it aside, perhaps.

Marit was nearly finished. The sigla on her skin no longer glowed. She had dropped the useless sword, was fighting Kleitus with her bare hands. The lazar was slowly choking the life out of her.

“Here!” Hugh the Hand rolled over, shoved something at Alfred. It was the knife. He’d been lying on it, his body hiding it.

Alfred hesitated, but only an instant. If this was what it took to save Marit ... He picked up the blade, felt it squirm in his hand. He was about to launch an attack at Kleitus when a black-robed form stopped him.

“Our creation,” said Balthazar grimly. “Our responsibility.”

The necromancer advanced on Kleitus. Intent on its kill, the lazar was unaware of Balthazar’s approach.

The necromancer reached out, took hold of one of Kleitus’s arms, and began to speak the words of a spell.

Balthazar had hold of Kleitus’s soul.

Feeling the dread touch, realizing his doom, Kleitus released Marit. With a fearful shriek, the lazar turned on Balthazar, attempted to destroy the necromancer’s soul.

The battle was a strange and terrifying one, for it appeared to those watching that the two were locked in an embrace, an embrace which might have been—but for the hideous contortion of the faces—a loving one.

Balthazar was nearly as pale as a corpse himself, but he held firm. A slight gasp escaped him. Kleitus’s dead eyes widened. The phantasm flitted in and out of the lazar’s body, a prisoner longing for freedom yet fearful of venturing into the unknown.

Balthazar forced Kleitus to his knees. The lazar’s screams and curses were frightful to hear, echoed mournfully by the man’s own soul.

And then Balthazar’s grim expression relaxed. His hands, which had been exerting deadly force, eased their grip, though they held the lazar firmly.

“Let go,” he said. “The torment is ended.”

Kleitus made a final, desperate effort, but the necromancer’s spell had strengthened the phantasm, weakened the decaying body. The phantasm wrenched itself free. The body crumpled, collapsed onto the deck. The phantasm hovered over it, regretfully; then it drifted off, as if blown away by the breath of a whispered prayer.

Alfred’s shaking hand closed tightly over the blade’s hilt. “Stop!” He gave the magical command to the blade in a quivering voice.

The battle ended abruptly. The lazar, either frightened by the loss of-their leader or commanded by the magic of the blade, broke off the attack. The dead disappeared.

Balthazar, weak almost to the point of falling, turned slowly.

“Still want to learn necromancy?” Balthazar asked Ramu with a strained and bitter smile.

Ramu looked down at the ghastly remains of the Sartan who had once been the Dynast of Abarrach. The Councillor made no reply.

Balthazar shrugged. He knelt down beside Marit, began to do what he could to aid her.

Alfred started to go to Marit, discovered Ramu blocking his way.

Before Alfred quite knew what was happening, Ramu had taken hold of the Cursed Blade, wrenched it from Alfred’s grasp. The Councillor examined the knife curiously at first, and then with dawning recognition.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember weapons like this.”

“Heinous weapons,” Alfred said in a low voice. “Designed to help the mensch kill. And be killed in their turn. For us—their protectors, their defenders. Their gods.”

Ramu flushed in swift anger. But he could not deny the truth of the words, or deny the ugly thing he held in his hand. The blade quivered with life. Ramu grimaced; his hand flinched. He seemed loath to touch it, but he could not very well relinquish it.

“Let me have it,” said Alfred.

Ramu thrust it into the belt of his robes.

“No, Brother. As Balthazar said, it is our responsibility. You may leave it in my care. Safely,” he added, his gaze meeting Alfred’s.

“Let him have it,” said Hugh the Hand. “I’ll be glad to be rid of the damn thing.”

“Councillor,” Alfred begged, “you’ve seen what terrible forces our power can unleash. You’ve seen the evil we’ve brought on ourselves and others. Don’t perpetuate it . . .”

Ramu snorted. “What happened here the Patryn brought on herself. She and her kind will continue to cause disruption unless they are finally halted. We sail for the Labyrinth, as planned. You had best prepare for departure.”

He walked off.

Alfred sighed. Well, at least when they reached the Labyrinth he would see to it that . . .

At any rate he would . . .

Or then he might . . .

Confused, miserable, he tried once again to go to Marit.

This time, the dog blocked his way.

Alfred attempted to circle around the animal.

The dog thwarted him, dodging to its left when Alfred went to his right, jumped to its right when Alfred veered to his left. Becoming hopelessly entangled in his own feet, Alfred halted. He regarded the animal with perplexity.

“What are you doing? Why are you keeping me away from Marit?”

The dog barked loudly.

Alfred attempted to shoo it aside.

The dog would not be shooed and, in fact, took offense at the suggestion. It growled and bared its teeth at him.

Startled, Alfred stumbled several steps backward.

The dog, pleased, trotted forward.

“But . . . Marit! She needs me,” Alfred said and made a clumsy attempt to outflank the dog.

Quick off the mark, as if it were herding sheep, the dog swerved in. Nipping at Alfred’s ankles, the animal continued to drive him backward across the deck.

Balthazar raised his head; the black eyes pierced Alfred.

“She will be well cared for, I promise you, Brother. Go do what you must without fear for her. As to the people of the Labyrinth, I have heard what you said. I will make my own judgments, based on the hard lessons I have learned. Farewell, Alfred.” Balthazar added, with a smile, “Or whatever your name might be.”

“But I’m not going anywhere—” Alfred protested.

The dog leapt, hit Alfred squarely in the chest, and knocked him over the ship’s rail, into the Fire Sea.