The Seventh Gate

27

Traveling through Death’s Gate, the two Sartan ships arrived in the Nexus. The ships landed near what had once been Lord Xar’s house, now a mass of charred wood. On landing, the Sartan stared out the portholes, shocked into stunned silence at the sight of the destruction.

“You see the magnitude of the hatred these Patryns bear us,” Ramu could be heard saying. “They wreak destruction upon the city and land we made for them, although it means they will be the ones who suffer. There is no reasoning with such savagery. These people will never be fit to live among civilized men.”

Marit could have told him the truth—that it was the serpents who had destroyed the Nexus—but she knew he would never believe her and she refused to let him provoke her into a meaningless argument. She maintained a haughty, dignified silence, kept her face averted so that they would not see her tears.

Ordering the majority of the Sartan to remain safely on board ship, where the runes could protect them, Ramu sent out scouting parties.

While the scouts were abroad, the Sartan of Chelestra came to tend to the needs of their Abarrach brethren. They were gentle, patient, and kind, giving of their own strength unstintingly. Several Sartan, passing by Marit, even paused to ask if they could do anything to aid her. She refused their help, of course, but—astonished and touched by the offers—she managed to be gracious about it.

The only Sartan she came close to trusting (and not all that close, either) was Balthazar. She couldn’t quite explain why. Perhaps it was because he and his people also knew what it was to watch their children die. Or perhaps it was because he had taken the time to talk to her on their journey through Death’s Gate, to ask her what was happening in the Labyrinth.

Marit waited impatiently for the return of the Sartan scouts, who went immediately to Ramu. Marit would have given several gates to have heard their report. She could do nothing but wait, however.

At last Ramu left his cabin. He motioned—grudgingly, Marit thought—to Balthazar. The Councillor obviously didn’t like sharing his position of authority, but he had little choice. The Abarrach Sartan had made it clear during the journey that they would follow no leader but their own.

“I don’t like what I am hearing,” Ramu said in a low voice. “The scouts’ reports are conflicting. They tell me—”

Marit could not hear what the scouts reported, but she could guess. The scouts would see whatever it was the serpents wanted the scouts to see.

Balthazar listened, then halted Ramu with a polite gesture. The necromancer looked over to Marit, motioned to her to join them.

Ramu frowned. “Do you think that wise? She is a prisoner. I do not like giving away our plans to the enemy.”

“As you say, she is a prisoner and would find it difficult—if not impossible—to escape. I would like to hear what she has to say.”

“If you are interested in lies, then, by all means, Brother, let us hear her,” Ramu said bitingly.

Marit came up, stood silently between the two.

“Please continue, Councillor,” said Balthazar.

Ramu remained silent for a moment, displeased and angry, forced to rethink what and how much he was going to reveal. “I was going to say that I plan to go to the Final Gate. I want to see for myself what is transpiring.”

“Excellent idea,” Balthazar agreed. “I will accompany you.”

Ramu did not appear pleased. “I would think, Brother, that you would prefer to remain on board. You are still very weak.”

Balthazar shrugged this off. “I am the representative of my people. Their ruler, if you will. You cannot, by Sartan law, refuse my request, Councillor.”

Ramu bowed. “I was thinking only of your health.”

“Of course you were,” Balthazar said smiling, smooth. “And I will take Marit along to act as my adviser.”

Caught completely by surprise, she stared at him in astonishment.

“Absolutely not.” Ramu refused to consider the matter. “She is far too dangerous. She will stay here, under guard.”

“Be sensible, Councillor,” Balthazar returned coolly. “This woman has lived both in the Nexus and in the Labyrinth itself. She is familiar with the surroundings, with the inhabitants. She knows what is transpiring—something that, in my mind, your scouts do not.”

Ramu flushed in outrage. He was not accustomed to having his authority challenged. The other Council members, overhearing, looked uncomfortable, exchanged uneasy glances.

Balthazar remained polite, politic. Ramu had no choice but to acquiesce. He needed the help of the Abarrach Sartan and this was neither the time nor the place for the Councillor to challenge Balthazar’s authority.

“Very well,” Ramu said unpleasantly. “She may accompany you, but she is to be kept under strict watch. If anything happens—”

“I take full responsibility for her upon myself,” Balthazar said humbly.

Ramu, with a dark glance at Marit, turned on his heel and left.

Outright confrontation had been avoided. But every Sartan who witnessed the clash of these two strong wills knew that war had been declared. Two suns do not travel in the same orbit, as the saying goes.

“I want to thank you, Balthazar,” Marit began awkwardly.

“Do not thank me,” he said coldly, cutting her words off. Placing his thin, wasted hand on her arm, he drew her over to one of the portholes. “Look out here a moment. I want you to explain something to me.”

The bony fingers dug into Marit’s arm with such force that the sigla beneath them began to glow, defending her. She didn’t like his touch, started to pull away. His grip tightened.

“Watch for your chance,” he said softly, urgently, before she could speak. “When it comes, take it. I will do what I can for you.”

Escape! Marit knew instantly what he had meant. But why? She held back, suspicious.

He glanced over his shoulder. A few Sartan were watching them, but they were his people, whom he could trust. The other Sartan had either left with Ramu or were occupied with helping their brethren.

Balthazar turned back to Marit, spoke in a low voice. “Ramu does not know this, but I sent out my own scouts. They report that vast armies of terrible creatures—red dragons, wolves who walk like men, gigantic insects—are massed around the Final Gate. You might be interested to know that Ramu’s scouts captured one of your people, interrogated him, forced him to talk.”

“A Patryn?” Marit was bewildered. “But there are no Patryns left in the Nexus. I told you—the serpents drove all my people back through the Final Gate.”

“There was something odd about this Patryn,” Balthazar went on, studying her intently. “He had very strange eyes.”

“Let me guess. The eyes glowed red. That wasn’t one of my people! It was one of the serpents. They can take any form—”

“Yes. From what little you said, I gathered this might be something like that. The Patryn admitted that his people are in league with the serpents, fighting to open the Final Gate.”

“That part is true!” Marit cried, feeling helpless. “We have to! If the Final Gate closes, my people will be trapped inside forever . . .”

Fear and despair choked her. For a moment she could not go on. Desperately, she fought to maintain control, speak calmly. “But we are not in league with the serpents. We know them for what they are. We would remain locked inside the Labyrinth forever before we would side with them! How can that fool Ramu believe such a thing!”

“He believes what he wants to believe, Marit. What serves his purpose. Or perhaps he is blind to their evil.” The necromancer smiled, thin-lipped, rueful. “We are not. We have looked inside that dark mirror. We recognize the reflection.”

Balthazar sighed; his face had gone exceedingly pale. He was, as Ramu had pointed out, still weak. But he refused Marit’s suggestion that he return to his quarters, lie down.

“You need to get word to your people, Marit. Tell them we are here. We must ally together to fight these creatures, or all of us will be destroyed. If only there was some one of your people who could talk to Ramu, convince him—”

“But there is!” Marit gasped, clutched at Balthazar. “Headman Vasu! He is part Sartan himself! I will try to reach him. I can use my magic to go to him. But Ramu will see what I’m doing and try to stop me.”

“How long do you need?”

“Long enough to draw the runes. A count of thirty heartbeats, no more.”

Balthazar smiled. “Wait and watch.”

Marit stood huddled beside a wall surrounding the burned-cut shells of what had once been the beautiful buildings of the Nexus. The city that had shone like the first star of the evening, gleaming bright against the twi-lit sky, was a mass of blackened stone. Its windows were dark and empty as the eyes of its dead. Smoke from still smoldering beams of wood clouded the sky, brought a dirty and ugly night—lit by patches of orange—to the land.

Two Sartan were supposed to be keeping watch on her, but they only glanced at her occasionally, more interested in what was transpiring beyond the Gate than in one subdued and seemingly harmless Patryn prisoner.

What she saw beyond the Gate weakened Marit far more than any Sartan magic.

“The reports were correct,” Ramu was saying grimly. “Armies of darkness massing for an assault against the Final Gate. We have arrived here just in time, it seems.”

“You fool!” Marit told him bitterly. “Those armies are massing for an assault against us.”

“Don’t believe her, Sartan,” hissed a sibilant voice from behind the walls. “It is a trick. She lies. Their armies will break through the Final Gate and, from there, advance into the four worlds.”

A huge, snakelike head reared up from behind the wall, loomed over them, swaying slowly back and forth. Its eyes glinted red; its tongue flicked in and out of toothless jaws. Its skin was old and wrinkled and hung loose on its sinuous body. It stank of death and corruption and burned-out ruins.

Balthazar recoiled in horror. “What ghastly creature is this?”

“Don’t you know?” The red eyes glinted in what might have been laughter. “You created us . . .”

The two Sartan guards were pale and shaking. This was Marit’s chance to flee, but the serpent’s terrible gaze was on her, or so it seemed, and she could not move or think or do anything except watch in dread fascination.

Only Ramu was proof against its dire spell. “And so you are here, in league with your friends, the Patryns. One of their own people told me as much.”

The snake’s head sank. Its eyes were hooded, the red glint fading. “You wrong us, Councillor. We are here to help you. As you surmised, the Patryns are attempting to break out of their prison. They have summoned hordes of dragons to fight at their behest. Even now, their armies approach the Final Gate.”

The head slid over the wall, followed by part of the enormous, foul-smelling body. Ramu could not help himself. He fell back before it, but only a step or two. Then he held his ground.

“Your kind are with them.”

The snake’s head oscillated. “We serve our creators. Give the command, and we will destroy the Patryns and seal shut the Final Gate forever!”

The serpent rested its head on the ground in front of Ramu. Its red eyes closed in servile submission.

“And when they have destroyed us, they will turn against you, Ramu!” Marit warned. “You will find yourself inside the Labyrinth! Or worse!”

The serpent ignored her. And so did Ramu.

“Why should we trust you? You attacked us on Chelestra—”

The giant reptile lifted its head. Its red eyes flared in hurt indignation. “It was the wicked mensch who attacked you, Councillor. Not us. There is proof. When your city was flooded with the magic-nullifying seawater, when you were bereft of your power, weak and helpless, did we harm you? We could have.”

The red eyes glinted for an instant; then—again—the hooded lids shadowed them. “But we did not. Your esteemed father—honor to his memory—opened Death’s Gate for us. We were only too happy to flee our mensch persecutors. And a good thing we did. Otherwise, you would now face this threat from your most terrible enemies alone.”

“You do face it alone, Ramu. In the end, we will all face it alone,” Marit said softly.

“This from one who helped murder your father!” the serpent hissed. “She listened to his screams and she laughed!”

Ramu went deathly pale. He turned to look at Marit.

“I didn’t laugh,” she said through trembling lips. She remembered Samah’s screams. Burning tears stung her eyelids. “I didn’t laugh.”

Ramu’s fist clenched.

“Kill her . . .” whispered the dragon-snake. “Kill her now . . . Take your just revenge.”

Ramu reached into his robes, drew forth the Sartan knife, the Cursed Blade. He stared at it, looked back at her.

Marit came forward, apparently eager, ready to fight.

Balthazar stepped in between the two.

“Are you mad, Ramu? Look what this foul snake has driven you to do! Don’t trust it! I know it. I recognize it! I’ve seen it before.”

Ramu seemed ready to shove Balthazar aside. “Get out of my way. Or by my father’s memory, I will kill you, too!”

The serpent watched, grew fatter, sleeker.

The two Sartan guards looked on in horror, not certain what to do.

The Cursed Blade in Ramu’s hand was wriggling, starting to come to life. Marit drew a magical circle of blue and red sigla. Its fire shone brightly. Speaking the name “Vasu,” she stepped through the rune-circle and was gone.

Ramu thrust the Cursed Blade back into its sheath. Cold with anger, he turned on the necromancer.

“You helped her escape. An act of treason! When this is ended, you will be brought up on charges before the Council!”

“Don’t be a fool, Ramu!” Balthazar returned.

“Marit was right. Look at that foul serpent! Don’t you know it? Haven’t you seen it before? Take a good look—inside yourself!”

Ramu regarded Balthazar grimly, then turned back to face the serpent. The creature was bloated, surfeited. The red eyes smiled and winked.

“I will ally myself with you. Attack the Patryns,” Ramu ordered. “Kill them. Kill them all.”

“Yes, Master!” The serpent bowed low.