The Seventh Gate

33

The serpents flew toward Death’s Gate. The opening was clearly visible now, a black patch in the gray, smoke-filled sky above the Labyrinth. Below, the Final Gate remained open, but the Sartan were massing their forces along it; the Patryns were doing the same on the opposite side.

Alfred tried to contain his despair, but he could not hope to hold the Gate against the enormous power of the enemy. Frightful sounds from the Chamber behind him unnerved him, distracted his attention when he needed to concentrate on his magic. Frantically, he searched through the possibilities, trying to find one that would come to his aid, but it seemed he was seeking to do the impossible.

Whatever spell he cast, the serpents had the ability to rip it asunder. He had never realized before how truly powerful the creatures were—either that or they were gaining strength and power from the war below. Sick at heart, the green and golden dragon kept guard before Death’s Gate and waited for the end.

A shape loomed into view, swooping at him from the side.

Bracing himself, Alfred swerved to fight.

He faced an old man seated on a dragon’s back. The old man was dressed in mouse-colored robes, his white hair flew out wildly behind.

“Red Leader to Red One!” the old man howled. “Come in, Red One!”

The serpents were spreading out, sending some to deal with Alfred. The rest were massing to enter Death’s Gate.

“Break off the attack, Red One,” the old man shouted and waved a hand. “Go rescue the princess! My squadron’ll take over!”

Behind the old man, legions of dragons of Pryan flew out of the smoke of the burning Nexus.

“How do you like my ship?” The old man patted the dragon’s neck. “Made the Kessel run in six parsecs!”

The dragon dropped suddenly from the skies, diving for one of the serpents. The old man gave Alfred a salute before he disappeared from view. The other Pryan dragons followed, soaring into the battle against their enemies.

Alfred no longer had to deal with his enemies alone. He could return to the Chamber of the Damned. He flew inside Death’s Gate. Once there, he altered his form, was again the tall and gangling, balding, velvet-coated Sartan. He stood for a moment watching the fight.

Confronted by a courageous, determined foe, most of the serpents were fleeing.

“Good-bye, Zifnab,” Alfred said quietly.

Sighing, he turned back to face the chaos reverberating throughout the hall behind him.

And, as he did so, he heard a faint cry.

“The name’s . . . Luke . . .”

Inside the Chamber of the Damned, the serpent crushed Xar in its toothless mouth, then flung the broken and bloodied body into the softly glowing walls of the Chamber of the Damned.

The lord’s body hit with a bone-crushing thud, slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the white marble. Xar lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom. The serpent shrieked in triumph.

“My Lord!” Haplo was on his feet, dizzy and weak, but no longer disoriented.

“There is nothing you can do,” said the serpent. “The Lord of the Nexus is dead.”

The serpent’s red eyes turned on Haplo.

Through the four doors behind him, Haplo could see the four worlds. The storms on Arianus were beginning to abate. The seas of Chelestra were once more calm. Pryan’s suns shone with blinding brilliance. Abarrach’s crust shuddered and was still. The crumpled body of his lord lay in a pool of blood.

Seated at the white table, Jonathon intoned, “Do no violence.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Haplo said grimly.

The serpent loomed over him, its huge head weaving hypnotically back and forth, red eyes staring down at him.

Haplo’s only weapon was the snake-shaped dagger. He was surprised to feel how well it fit his hand, the hilt seeming to adapt itself to his touch. But the short blade would be less than an insect bite on the thick and magical skin of the serpent.

Haplo gripped the weapon, eyed the monster, waited for the attack. The sigla on his skin flared brightly.

The serpent began to shift form, dwindling in size until, within the span of an eyeblink, an elf lord

Giving Haplo an ingratiating smile, Sang-drax began to sidle closer.

“Far enough,” said Haplo, raising the knife.

Sang-drax halted. Slender, delicate hands raised, palms facing outward, in a gesture of surrender and conciliation. He looked hurt, disappointed.

“Is this how you thank me, Haplo?” Sang-drax made a graceful gesture toward Xar. “But for my intervention, he would have taken your life.”

Haplo cast Xar’s body a glance, quickly brought his attention back to Sang-drax, who—in the intervening time—had once again attempted to draw near the Patryn.

“You killed my liege lord,” said Haplo quietly.

Sang-drax laughed in disbelief. “Liege lord! I killed the lord who ordered Bane to have you assassinated. The lord who seduced the woman you love, then convinced her to murder you. The lord who was going to chain you to a life of torment among the undead! That’s your liege lord for you.”

“If my lord required my death as payment for my life, then that was his right,” Haplo returned, holding the dagger high and steady. “You are wasting my time. Whatever it is you mean to do to me, get on with it.”

He wondered where Alfred was, could only assume the Sartan was dead.

Sang-drax was perplexed. “My dear Haplo, I have no weapons. I am not a threat to you. No, I want to serve you. My people want to serve you. Once I bowed down to you and called you ‘Master.’ I do so again.”

The serpent in elf form made a low and servile bow, red eyes lowered, hooded. Crouching like a toad, he made another attempt to creep up on Haplo, halted at the flash of the snake-shaped blade.

“The Sartan have arrived in the Nexus,” Sang-drax continued, voice sibilant. “Do you know that, Haplo? Ramu plans to seal shut the Final Gate. I can stop them. My people and I can destroy them. You have only to say the word, and your enemy’s blood will be sweet wine for you to savor. We ask one small favor in return.”

“And that is—?” Haplo asked.

Sang-drax looked toward the four doors; the red eyes glinted eagerly, hungrily. “Cast the spell, the one your lord was weaving. You can do it, Haplo. You are as powerful as Xar. And I will be glad to offer my poor help—”

Haplo smiled grimly, shook his head.

“Surely you don’t refuse?” Sang-drax was pained, sadly astonished.

Haplo didn’t answer. Instead, he began walking backward, toward the first door—Arianus.

Sang-drax watched, red eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, Haplo, my friend?”

“Shutting the door, Sang-drax, my friend,” Haplo returned. “Shutting all the doors.”

“A mistake, Haplo.” The serpent hissed softly. “A terrible mistake.”

Haplo looked down onto Arianus, world of air. The storm clouds were being blown apart; Solarus was shining. He could see the continent of Drevlin, the metal parts of the great Kicksey-winsey flashing in the intermittent sunlight. He could picture Limbeck the dwarf, peering nearsightedly through his thick lenses, giving a speech to which no one was listening, except Jarre. And perhaps, someday, a host of small Limbecks who would change a world with their “whys.”

Haplo smiled, said good-bye, and slammed shut the door.

Sang-drax hissed again in displeasure.

Haplo didn’t look at the serpent; he could tell by the fact that the light was growing dark in the Chamber that the creature was once more altering its shape.

The next door, Pryan, world of fire. Blinding sunlight, a contrast to the growing shadows gathering around him. Tiny silver stars were glittering jewels set in a green velvet jungle. The citadels, come to life, beamed their light and energy out into the universe. Paithan and Rega, Aleatha and Roland and the dwarf Drugar—mankind, elfkind, dwarfkind—loving, fighting, living, dying. According to Xar, they had learned the secret of the tytans. They were operating the citadels. Haplo would never know their fate. But he was confident that—resilient, strong in their many weaknesses, with an indomitable spirit—the mensch would thrive when the gods who had brought them to this world were gone and forgotten.

Haplo said good-bye and slammed shut the door.

“You have doomed yourself, Patryn,” warned a sibilant voice. “You will meet the same end as your lord.”

Haplo didn’t look. He could hear the serpent’s huge body scraping against the stone floor, could smell the foul odor of death and decay, could almost feel the slime on his skin.

He took a quick look at Abarrach, a dead world, populated by the dead. Jonathon had wanted to free them, free himself. That would not happen, apparently.

I have failed them, too, Haplo said to himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he closed the door, and he smiled ruefully. He sounded very much like Alfred.

He reached the fourth door, Chelestra, world of water. On this world he had, at last, come to know himself.

He heard the serpent hiss behind him, but steadfastly ignored the sound. The dwarf maid Grundle had probably married her Hartmut by now. The wedding would have been quite a party: the elves, dwarves, and humans gathering together to celebrate. Haplo wondered how Grundle had done in the ax-throwing contest.

He whispered good-bye and good luck to her and to her husband, and shut the door softly, with a momentary pang of regret. Then he turned to face Sang-drax.

The snake-shaped dagger in Haplo’s hand changed to a sword, made of fine steel, gleaming, heavy. His magic had not altered it. The serpent must have.

The gigantic gray body towered over him, its very presence crushing. The serpent could have struck him from behind at any time, but it didn’t want him to die without a struggle, without a fight, without pain and fear . . .

Haplo raised the sword, braced himself for the attack.

“Don’t, Haplo! Put the weapon down!”

Alfred tumbled out of Death’s Gate. He would have gone sprawling on the floor, but he saved himself by grabbing hold of the white table. Clinging to it, he gasped, “Don’t fight!”

“Yes, Haplo,” the serpent mocked, “put the sword down! Your dying will be so much faster that way.”

There was blood on Haplo’s shirt. The wound over his heart had broken open, was bleeding again. Oddly, the dagger wound he’d taken on his forehead didn’t pain him at all.

“Use nothing.” Alfred sucked in a gulping breath, struggling to remain calm. “Refuse to fight. It’s the fight the creature wants!” The Sartan pointed to the body of Lord Xar. “ ‘Those who bring violence in this place will find it turned against them.’ ”

Haplo hesitated. All his life, he had fought to survive. Now he was being asked to cast away his weapon, refuse to fight, meekly await torture, torment, death . . . Worse, endure the knowledge that his enemy would live to destroy others.

“You’re asking too much, Alfred,” he said harshly. “Next, I suppose you’ll want me to faint!”

Alfred stretched forth his hands. “Haplo, I beg—”

The serpent’s huge tail slashed around, struck the Sartan a blow across his back that doubled him over the white table.

Sang-drax reared up. The serpent’s head hung poised over Alfred. The red eyes focused on Haplo. “The next blow will break his spine. And the one after that will crush his body. Fight, Haplo, or the Sartan dies.”

Alfred managed to lift his head. His nose was broken, his lip split. Blood smeared his face. “Don’t listen, Haplo! If you fight, you are doomed!”

The serpent waited, smug, knowing it had won.

Burning with anger and the strong need to kill this loathsome being, Haplo cast a bitter, frustrated glance at Alfred. “Do you expect me to stand here and die?”

“Trust me, Haplo!” Alfred pleaded. “It’s all I’ve ever asked of you! Trust me!”

“Trust a Sartan!” Sang-drax laughed horribly. “Trust your mortal enemy! Trust those who sent you to the Labyrinth, who are responsible for the deaths of how many thousands of your people? Your parents, Haplo. Do you remember how they died? Your mother’s screams. She screamed a long, long time, didn’t she, before they finally left her to die of her wounds. And you saw it. You saw what they did to her. This man—responsible. And he begs you to trust him . . .”

Haplo closed his eyes. His head had begun to hurt; he felt blood sticky on his hands. He was that child again, cowering in the bushes, stunned and dazed from the blow inflicted by his father. The blow had been intended to knock him out, to keep him silent and safe while his parents drew their attackers away from their child. But his parents had not been able to run far. Haplo had regained consciousness.

His own wail of fear and terror was choked off by his horror. And hate. Hate for those who had done this, who were responsible . . .

Haplo gripped the sword tightly, waited for the blood-red tinge to fade from his eyes so that he could see his prey . . . and nearly dropped the weapon when he felt the quick swipe of a wet tongue.

There came a reassuring whine, a paw on his knee.

Haplo reached down his hand, stroked the silky ears. The dog’s head pressed against his knee. He felt the hard bone, the warmth, the soft fur. And yet he wasn’t surprised to find, when he opened his eyes, that no dog stood beside him.

Haplo threw down his sword.

Sang-drax laughed in derision. The serpent reared up. It would smash the helpless Patryn, crush him. But in its eager rage, the serpent miscalculated. It grew too big, soared upward too far. The gigantic head crashed through the marble ceiling of the Chamber of the Damned.

The runes traced on the ceiling crackled and flared; arcs of blue and red flame surged through the serpent’s body. Sang-drax shrieked in agony, writhed and twisted, attempting to escape the jolting flashes. But the serpent couldn’t pull itself out from the wreckage of the ceiling. It was trapped. It flailed wildly, furiously to free itself. Cracks in the ceiling started to expand, splitting the walls.

The Chamber of the Damned—the Seventh Gate—was crumbling. And there was only one way out—Death’s Gate.

Haplo took a step. The serpent’s tail thrashed out. Even in its agony, it was intent on killing him.

Haplo twisted to one side, but could not avoid the blow. It caught him on his left shoulder, already aching from the reopening of the wound over the heart-rune. He gasped with the pain, fought the blackness of unconsciousness stealing over him.

Slowly, he raised himself to his feet. His hand had, inexplicably, closed over the hilt of his sword.

“Fight me!” the serpent urged. “Fight me . . .”

Haplo lifted the sword, sent it crashing down upon the white stone table. The blade broke in two. Haplo raised the hilt for the serpent to see, then tossed it away.

The serpent tried desperately to free itself, but the magic of the Seventh Gate held it enthralled. Arcs of blue flame danced over the slime-covered body. It lashed out once again.

Haplo made a dive for Alfred, who lay bleeding and dazed on top of the white table. The serpent’s tail smacked into the table, cracked it. But the serpent was in its death throes. Blind, in terrible pain, it could no longer see its prey. In a last desperate attempt to free itself, the serpent lunged against the forces of magic that bound it in place. The ceiling began to break apart under the strain. A large chunk of marble fell down, missing Alfred by only inches. Another block landed on the serpent’s now feebly twitching tail. A wooden beam crashed down, smashing the white table into two complete and separate halves.

Stumbling through the raining debris, choking on the dust, Haplo managed to reach Alfred. He grabbed hold of the first part of the Sartan that came to hand—the back of Alfred’s velvet coat—and pulled him up on his feet.

Alfred flopped and staggered, limp as a maltreated doll. Haplo peered through the dust and ruin. “Jonathon!” he shouted.

He thought he could see the lazar, still sitting calmly at one half of the broken table, oblivious to the destruction that was soon going to encompass it.

“Jonathon!” Hap to called. No answer. And then he couldn’t see the lazar at all. An enormous slab of marble smashed down between them.

Alfred slumped to the floor.

Haplo hooked his hand firmly in the Sartan’s coat collar, began dragging him through the tumult. The runes tattooed on the Patryn’s skin burned red and blue, protecting him from the falling debris. He expanded the aura of his magic to include Alfred. A glowing shell of runes encompassed them. Blocks of stone hit and bounced off. But each time something struck the shell, a sigil weakened. Soon one would give. And the unraveling would begin.

Haplo counted fifteen, maybe twenty steps to reach Death’s Gate.

He didn’t say to himself to reach the safety of Death’s Gate, because for all he knew, once inside, they faced worse odds. But death was a possibility there, here a certainty. Already, he could see one sigil in the shell start to go dark . . .

He hauled Alfred across the floor, heading for the doorway, when suddenly the floor that had been in front of him wasn’t anymore.

A gaping hole opened into endless nothing. Chunks of marble and splintered white wood slid into the crack and disappeared. Death’s Gate glimmered on the other side.

The crack wasn’t wide. Haplo could have jumped across it easily. But he couldn’t jump across it and carry Alfred with him. He dragged Alfred to his feet. The Sartan’s knees turned inward; his body sagged.

“Damn it!” Haplo shook the Sartan, hauled him to his feet again.

Alfred was conscious, but he was staring around him with the befuddled expression of one whose wits are wandering.

“So what else is new,” Haplo muttered. “Alfred!” He smacked the Sartan across the face.

Alfred gasped, gargled. His eyes focused. He stared around him in horror. “What—”

Haplo didn’t let him finish. He didn’t dare give Alfred time to think about what he was going to have to do.

“When I say ‘jump,’ you jump.”

Haplo spun Alfred around, positioned the muddled Sartan on the very edge of the gaping crack in the floor. “Jump!”

Not fully cognizant of what was happening, numb with terror and astonishment, Alfred did as he was told. He gave a convulsive leap, legs jerking like a galvanized spider, and flung himself across the crack.

His toes hooked the opposite edge. He landed flat on his stomach, the breath knocked from his body. Haplo cast a swift glance down into the abysmal darkness beneath him; then he jumped.

Landing easily on the other side, Haplo caught hold of Alfred. Together, the two stumbled out of the Chamber of the Damned and into the opening of Death’s Gate.

Haplo, looking back, saw the Seventh Gate collapse in on itself.

And with the sickening sensation of sliding down a chute, Haplo felt himself falling into the chaos.