The Seventh Gate

3

They spent the night climbing the hillside, listening to Alfred scream.

The screaming was not constant. The dragon apparently allowed its victim time to rest, recuperate. During such lulls, the dragon’s voice could be heard, rumbling from the cave, its words only partially discernible. It was describing to its victim, in lurid detail, exactly what torment it planned to inflict on him next. Worse still, it was destroying hope, robbing him of his will to survive.

“Abri . . . rubble,” was some of what the red dragon was saying. “Its people . . . slaughtered . . . wolfen, tiger-men overrun . . .”

“No,” Marit said softly. “No, it’s not true, Alfred. Don’t believe the creature. Hold on ... hold on.”

At one point, Alfred’s silence lasted longer than usual. The dragon sounded irritated, as might someone attempting to wake a sound sleeper.

“He’s dead,” Hugh the Hand whispered.

Marit said nothing. She continued climbing. Just when Alfred’s silence had lasted long enough to almost convince her that Hugh was right, she heard a low and pleading moan—the victim begging for mercy—that rose to a high-pitched cry of torment, a cry punctuated by the cruel, triumphant voice of the dragon. Listening again to Alfred’s screams, the two pushed on.

A narrow path wound along the hillside, leading up toward the cave, which had undoubtedly been used for shelter by a great many of the Labyrinth’s population over the years—until the dragon moved in. The path was not difficult to climb, even in the steadily pouring rain, and Marit need not have worried about losing the dragon’s trail in the darkness. In its eagerness to reach its lair, the injured dragon dislodged trees and boulders. The beast’s gigantic feet dug deep gouges into the soil, forming crude steps.

Marit didn’t particularly like all this “help.” She had the distinct impression that the dragon knew it was being followed and was quite pleased to do what it could to lure new victims to torment.

She had no choice but to go on. And if ever once she despaired, thought of giving up and turning back, the red glow on the horizon reflected off the storm clouds, drove her forward.

At about midnight, she called a halt. The two were as near the lair as Marit deemed safe. Finding a shallow depression in the rock that would at least offer them some shelter from the rain, she crawled into it, motioned Hugh to follow her.

He did not. He remained crouched on the narrow ledge that led up the hill to the gaping darkness of the dragon’s lair. Marit could see, by her rune-light, the mensch’s face twisted with hatred and ferocity. One of those terrible, ominous silences had just fallen, after a particularly long session of torture.

“Hugh, we can’t go on!” Marit warned him. “It’s too dangerous. We have to wait until the dragon leaves!”

A fine plan, except that Alfred’s cries were weakening.

Hugh didn’t hear her. He stared with narrowed eyes up the cliff face. “I’d live this wretched existence forever,” he whispered passionately, reverently, “if I could just, this once, have the power to kill!”

Hatred. Marit knew the feeling well, and she knew how dangerous it could be. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of the man and dragged him bodily inside.

“Listen to me, mensch!” she said, arguing as much with herself as with him. “You’re feeling exactly what the dragon wants you to feel! Don’t you remember anything of what I told you? The dragon’s doing this on purpose, torturing us as well as Alfred. It wants us to rush in and attack mindlessly. And that’s why we won’t. We’re going to sit right here until it leaves or we think of something else.”

Hugh glowered at her and for a moment Marit thought he was going to defy her. She could stop him, of course. He was a strong man, but he was a mensch, without magic and therefore weak, compared to her. She didn’t want to have to fight him, however. A magical battle would alert the dragon to their presence—if it didn’t already know—and then again there was that cursed Sartan knife Hugh carried . . .

Marit sucked in a breath. Her hold on Hugh the Hand eased.

Hugh wedged his body into the narrow space beside her. “What? You’ve thought of something?”

“I might just let you rush in mindlessly, after all. That Cursed Blade. Do you still have it?”

“Yes, I’ve got the damn thing. It’s like this cursed life of mine—I can’t seem to get rid of either . . .” Hugh paused, the same idea occurring to him. “The blade would save Alfred!”

“Maybe.” Marit gnawed her lip. “It’s a powerful weapon, but I’m not sure even such a magical object could stand up against a red dragon. Still, the Cursed Blade could at least buy us time, provide a diversion.”

“The blade has to believe that Alfred’s in danger. No, belay that,” Hugh said, thinking swiftly. “It only has to believe that I’m in danger.”

“You charge in. The dragon will attack you. The Cursed Blade will attack the dragon. I’ll find Alfred, use my magic to cure him enough to get him on his feet, and we’ll leave.”

“Just one problem, lady. The blade could go for you, too.”

Marit shrugged. “You’ve heard Alfred’s cries. He’s growing weaker. Maybe the dragon’s tiring of its sport or maybe, since Alfred’s a Sartan, the dragon doesn’t know how to keep him alive. Whatever . . . Alfred’s dying. If we wait any longer, it may be too late.”

Perhaps now was too late. The words hung between them, unspoken. They had heard nothing from Alfred, not even a moan, in all the moments they’d been crouched in the narrow cave. The dragon, too, was strangely silent.

Hugh the Hand fumbled about in his belt, produced the crude, ugly Sartan knife—the Cursed Blade, as he had named it. He eyed it narrowly, held it gingerly.

“Ugh,” he grunted, grimacing in disgust. “The damn thing wriggles in my hand like a snake. Let’s get on with this. I’d as soon face that dragon as hold on to this knife much longer.”

Grafted by the Sartan, the Cursed Blade was intended to be used by mensch to defend their “superiors”—the Sartan—in battle. The blade was sentient; would, of its own accord, assume a form necessary to defeat its foe. It needed Hugh, or any mensch, merely as a means of transport. It did not need his direction to fight. The blade would defend him as its carrier. It would defend any Sartan in danger. Unfortunately, as Hugh had pointed out, the blade had been designed to battle the Sartan’s ancient enemy—the Patryns. The blade was just as likely (perhaps more likely) to attack Marit as it was to attack the dragon.

“At least now I know how to control the damn thing,” he told her. “If it goes for you, I can—”

“—rescue Alfred.” Marit cut him off. “Take him back to Abri, to the healers. Don’t stop to try to help me, Hugh,” she added, as he opened his mouth to protest. “At least the blade will kill me quickly.”

He regarded her intently, not meaning to argue with her, but taking her measure, trying to decide if she was ail talk or if she had the courage to back her words.

Marit gazed back at him, unblinking.

Nodding once, Hugh slid out of the rock depression. Marit crawled after him. As luck—or the Labyrinth—would have it, the rain that had concealed their movement now stopped. A gentle breeze stirred the trees, producing miniature rainstorms when the water fell from the leaves. The two stood on the ledge, hardly daring to breathe.

Not a whimper, not a moan . . . and the cave’s entrance was only a hundred steps away. Both could see it clearly, a gaping black hole against the white glimmer of the rock. In the distance, the red glow in the sky seemed to burn brighter.

“Perhaps the dragon’s asleep!” Hugh the Hand hissed into her ear.

Marit conceded the possibility with a nod and a shrug. She found little comfort in the idea. The dragon would wake soon enough when it smelled fresh sport.

Hugh the Hand took the lead. He trod softly, testing each step, padding along the path with a skill and ease Marit deemed impressive. She crept after him, making no noise at all. Yet Marit had the uneasy feeling that the dragon could hear them coming, that it was lying in wait.

They reached the cavern’s entrance. Hugh flattened himself back against the rock wall, wormed his way along the cliff face, hoping to be able to peer inside, see without being seen. Marit waited at a distance, hiding behind a bush, keeping the entrance to the cave in plain sight.

Still no sound. Not an indrawn breath, nor the grating noise of a large body rubbing against stone, nor the rustle of a damaged wing scraping along a rock floor. The rain had washed the mud from her body, and now the runes on Marit’s skin glowed brilliantly. The dragon had only to glance outside to know it had company. The light would make her a tempting target when she entered the cave, but it would also give her the chance to find Alfred in the darkness, and so she did not attempt to conceal the glow.

Hugh twisted his body, peered around the rock wall, tried to see inside the cavern. He stared for long moments, head cocked, listening as much as looking. With a wave of his hand, he motioned Marit to join him. Keeping her eye on the cave entrance, she darted across the path, flattened herself next to him.

He leaned over, spoke in her ear. “Dark as an elf’s heart in there. Can’t see a damn thing. But I thought I heard a gasping breath coming from your right, as you face the cave. It could be Alfred.”

Which meant he was still alive. A tiny surge of relief warmed Marit; hope added fuel to her courage.

“Any sign of the dragon?”

“Other than the stench?” he asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “No, I didn’t see anything of the beast.”

The smell was horrible—decayed, rotting flesh.

Marit didn’t like to think of what they’d find in there. If Vasu had been missing any of his people lately—the shepherd picked off while guarding the flocks, the child who had wandered too far from his mother, the scout who had never come home—the remains were probably in this cave.

Marit hadn’t seen the dragon leave. And surely she could have heard it if it were still inside. Perhaps the cavern extended far beneath the hills. Perhaps the dragon had a back way out. Perhaps it didn’t know they were here. Perhaps the dragon’s injury was worse than Marit had thought. Perhaps the wounded creature had crawled far back in its lair to sleep. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Few events in Marit’s life had ever worked to her advantage. She always made the wrong decision, ended up in the wrong place, did or said the wrong thing. She had made the mistake of staying with Haplo; then she had made the mistake of leaving him. She had made the mistake of abandoning their child. She had made the mistake of trusting Xar. Finding Haplo again, she had made the mistake of loving him again, only to lose him again.

Surely, now, something in her life must go right! Surely, she was owed this much!

For the dragon to be asleep.

She asked only for the dragon to be asleep.

The two slipped, wary and silent, inside the cave.

Marit’s runes illuminated the cavern. The entrance was not very wide or high—the dragon must have a tight fit to squeeze inside, as was evidenced by a crust-like coating of glittering red scales lining the top and sides of the rock.

The entry tunnel opened, expanding upward and outward to form a large, roughly circular room. Marit’s bluish-red rune-light reflected off damp walls, lit most of the chamber except the top—which disappeared into darkness—and an opening in the very back. She drew Hugh’s attention to that opening. It was big enough for the dragon to use. And apparently, that was what it had done, because the chamber in which they stood was empty.

Empty, except for the dragon’s gruesome trophies.

Corpses in various states of decomposition hung from chains on the walls. Men and women and children—all having obviously died in pain and torment. Hugh the Hand, who had lived with death, seen it in all its forms during his life, was sickened. He doubled over and retched.

The sheer brutality, the wanton cruelty overwhelmed even Marit. The horror of it and the attendant rage at the creature that could so callously commit such heinous acts combined to nearly rob her of her senses. The cavern began to swim in her sight. She was lightheaded, dizzy.

Afraid she was about to pass out, she lurched forward, hoping movement would stir her blood.

“Alfred!” Hugh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed.

Marit peered through the rune-lit darkness, found Alfred. She concentrated on him, banished everything else from her mind, and felt better. He was alive, though just barely, by the looks of him.

“Go to him,” Hugh said, his voice harsh from vomiting. “Ill keep watch.” He held the Cursed Blade, drawn and ready. It had begun to glow with an ugly, greenish light.

Marit hurried to Alfred’s side.

Like the countless other victims, the Sartan hung from chains. His wrists were manacled to the wall above his head. His feet dangled near the floor, the toes barely touching. His head was bowed down. He might have been dead but for the sound of rasping breath which Hugh had heard outside the cavern. His gasping breaths were much louder in here.

Marit touched him as gently as she could, hoping to rouse him without frightening him. But at the brush of her fingers against his cheek, Alfred moaned, his body convulsed, his heels clattered against the rock wall.

Marit clapped her hand over his mouth, forced his head up, made him look at her. She dared not say anything aloud, and a whisper would probably mean little to him in his state.

He stared at her with wild, bulging eyes in which there was no recognition, only fear and pain. He struggled instinctively against her, but he was far too weak to break free. His clothes were soaked with blood. Blood spread in pools beneath his feet, yet his flesh—as far as Marit could tell—was whole and undamaged.

The dragon had slashed and torn his flesh, then healed him back up. Probably many times. Even the broken arm had been healed. But the true damage was in the mind. Alfred was very far gone.

“Hugh!” Marit had to risk calling, and though it was no more than a loud whisper, the name echoed eerily through the cavern. She flinched, did not dare repeat it.

Hugh edged his way toward her, never taking his eyes from the back of the cave. “I thought I heard something move inside there. Better make this quick.”

Just exactly what she couldn’t do!

“If I don’t heal him,” she said softly, “he’ll never make it out of the cave alive. He doesn’t even recognize me.”

Hugh glanced at Alfred, then at Marit. Hugh had seen the Patryn healers at work; he knew what it entailed. Marit would have to concentrate all her magical power on Alfred. She would have to draw his injuries into herself, release her life-giving energy to him. For long moments, she would be as incapacitated as he was. When the healing process was concluded, both of them would be weak.

Hugh gave a brief nod to show he understood; then he returned to his post.

Marit reached up, touched the manacles that held Alfred, softly spoke the runes. Blue fire twined from her arm; the manacles released. Alfred sagged to the cavern floor, lay sprawled in his own blood. He had lost consciousness.

Swiftly, Marit knelt beside him. Clasping his hands in hers—right in left, left in right—she joined the circle of their beings, called on the magic to heal him.

A series of fantastic, beautiful, wonderful, and frightening images flooded Marit’s mind. She was above Abri, far above Abri—not just on the city walls, but as if she stood on the top of a mountain, looking down on the city below. And then she leapt from the mountain and fell—but she was not falling. She was soaring in the sky, gliding on unseen currents as she might have glided on water. She was flying.

The experience was terrifying until she grew accustomed to it. And then it was thrilling. She had enormous, powerful wings, taloned front claws, a long and graceful neck, tearing teeth. She was huge and awe-inspiring, and when she swooped down upon her enemies, they fled in shrieking terror. She was Alfred, the Serpent Mage.

She hovered protectively over Abri, scattered its enemies, threw down those bold enough to fight. She saw Lord Xar and Haplo—small and insignificant creatures—and she felt Alfred’s fear for his friends, his determination to help . . .

And then a shadow glimpsed from the corner of the eye ... a desperate swerve in midair . . . too late. Something struck her side, sent her rolling, out of control. She was tumbling, spiraling downward. Frantically, she beat her wings, clawed her way back up. She could see her enemy now, a red dragon.

Taloned feet extended, the dragon plunged through the sky, aiming for her . . .

Confused images of falling, crashing to the ground. Marit shuddered in pain, bit her lip to keep from crying out. Part of her was Alfred, part of her was flowing into Alfred, but part of her was still in the dragon’s cavern, still very much aware of the danger.

And she could see Hugh, tense and alert, staring into the blackness in the back of the cavern, his face gone rigid. He turned toward her, gesturing, mouthing something. She couldn’t hear, but then she didn’t need to hear.

The dragon was coming.

“Alfred!” Marit pleaded, clasping the man’s wrists more tightly. “Alfred, come back!”

He stirred and groaned. His eyelids fluttered. He caught hold of her, held on to her.

Horrid images slammed into Marit—a bulbous tail inflicting searing, paralyzing, numbing pain; swirling hot darkness; waking to torment and agony. Marit could no longer hold back the screams.

The dragon slid into the cavern.