The Seventh Gate

7

The blue-green dragon of Pryan rose high above the treetops. Alfred glanced down at the ground once, shuddered, and resolved to look anywhere except that direction. Somehow, flying had been different when he’d been the one with the wings. He gripped the dragon’s scales more tightly. Trying to take his mind off the fact that he was perched precariously and unsteadily on the back of a dragon, soaring far, far above solid ground, Alfred searched for the source of the wondrous sunlight. He knew it shone from the citadels, but those were located on Pryan. How was the light shining into the Labyrinth? Turning slowly and carefully, he risked peering back tentatively over his shoulder.

“The light shines from the Vortex,” Vasu shouted. The headman was flying on another dragon. “Look, look toward the ruined mountain.”

Sitting up as tall as he dared, clinging nervously to the dragon, Alfred stared in the direction indicated. He gasped in awe.

It was as if a sun burned deep within the mountain’s heart. Shafts of brilliant light beamed from every crack, every crevice, illuminated the sky, poured over the land. The light touched Abri’s gray walls, causing them to glisten silver. The trees that had lived so long in the gray day of the Labyrinth seemed to lift their twisted limbs to this new dawn, as an aged man reaches aching fingers to a warm fire.

But, Alfred saw sadly, the light did not penetrate far into the Labyrinth. It was a tiny candle flame in the vast darkness; nothing more. And soon the darkness consumed it.

Alfred watched for as long as he could, until the light was blotted out by mountains, rising jagged and sharp, like bony hands thrust into his face to prohibit hope. He sighed, turned away, and saw the fiery red glow on the horizon ahead.

“What is that?” he called. “Do you know?”

Vasu shook his head. “It began the night after the attack on Abri. In that direction lies the Final Gate.”

“I saw the elves burn a walled city on the Volkaran Islands,” Hugh the Hand said, dark eyes squinting to see. “Flames leapt from house to house. The heat was so intense, some buildings exploded before the fire even reached them. At night, the blaze fit up the sky. It looked very much like that.”

“It is undoubtedly magical fire, created by my lord to drive off the dragon-snakes,” Marit said coolly.

Alfred sighed. How could she continue to have faith in Lord Xar? Her hair was gummed together with her own blood, drawn by Xar when he obliterated the sigil which had joined them together. Perhaps that was the reason. She and Xar had been in communication. She was the one who had betrayed them to Xar, had told him their location. Perhaps, somehow, Xar continued to exert his influence over her.

“I should have stopped her at the very beginning,” he said to himself. “I saw that sigil when I brought her into the Vortex. I knew what it meant. I should have warned Haplo she would betray him.”

And then, as usual, Alfred began to argue with himself. “But Marit saved Haplo’s life in Chelestra. It was obvious she loved him. And he loved her. They brought love into a prison house of hate. How could I slam shut the door against it? Yet maybe if I had told him, he could have protected himself ... I don’t know.” Alfred sighed bleakly. “I don’t know ... I did what I thought was best . . . And who can say? Perhaps her faith in her lord will be justified.”

The blue-green dragons of Pryan flew on through the Labyrinth, circling around the tall mountains, diving through the passes. As they drew nearer the Final Gate, they dipped low, barely skimming the treetops, hiding as best they could from watchful eyes. The darkness grew deeper, an unnatural darkness, for nightfall was some hours distant. This darkness affected not only the eyes, but the heart and the mind as well. An evil, magical darkness, cast by the dragon-snakes, it brought with it the ages-old fear of night we first know as children. It spoke of unknown, hideous things lurking just beyond sight, ready to leap out and drag us off.

Marit’s face, bathed in the light of her own warning rune-glow, was pale and strained. The blood on her forehead looked black by contrast. Hugh the Hand constantly turned to stare around.

“We’re being watched,” he warned.

Alfred cringed at the words, which seemed to bounce back from the darkness in laughing, mocking echoes. Crouching, trying to hide behind the dragon’s neck, Alfred grew faint—his preferred form of defense. He knew the signs, and he fought against them: lightheaded, his stomach crawling, his forehead beaded with sweat. He pressed his face against the dragon’s cool scales and closed his eyes.

But being blind was worse than seeing, because suddenly Alfred had the vivid memory of falling from the air, spiraling downward, too weak and wounded to stop his descent. The ground spun crazily, soared up to meet him . . .

A hand shook him.

Alfred gasped, jerked upright.

“You damn near fell off,” Hugh the Hand told him. “You aren’t planning to faint, are you?”

“No-no,” Alfred murmured.

“Good thing,” the Hand said. “Take a look ahead.”

Alfred sat up, wiped the chill sweat from his face. It took a moment for the fog of dizziness to clear from his eyes, and at first he had no idea what it was he was seeing. The darkness was so intense, and now it was mingled with a choking smoke . . .

Smoke. Alfred stared, ail things coming into terrible focus.

The city of the Nexus, the beautiful city built by the Sartan for their enemies, was ablaze.

The dragons of Pryan were not affected by the dragon-snakes’ magical darkness. They flew through it unerringly, keeping to their destination, whatever that might be. Alfred had no idea where he was being taken, nor did he much care. It would be horrible, wherever it was. Sick at heart, terrified, he longed to turn around, flee back to the bright light shining from the mountain.

“It is a good thing I am riding on the back of this dragon,” Vasu said somberly, his voice coming out of the darkness. The runes on his skin glimmered brightly, red and blue. “Otherwise, I would not have had the courage to come this far.”

“It shames me to say it, Headman,” Marit said in a low voice, “but I feel the same.”

“No shame,” said the dragon. “The fear grows from seeds planted within you by the serpents. Fear’s roots seek out every dark part of you, every memory, every nightmare, and, once found, the roots sink into those dark parts and drink deep. Fear’s evil plant flourishes.”

“How can I destroy it?” Alfred quavered.

“You cannot,” said the dragon. “Fear is a part of you. The serpents know this and that is why they use it. Don’t let fear overwhelm you. Don’t become afraid of the fear.”

“Just what I’ve been all my life!” Alfred said miserably.

“Not all your life,” the dragon said—and it might have been Alfred’s imagination, but he thought he could see the dragon smile.

Marit gazed down at the buildings of the Nexus, their walls and pillars, towers and spires now black skeletons, lit from within by the devouring flames. The buildings were made of stone, but the support beams and floors and walls within were wood. The stone was protected by runes, wrought by the Sartan, strengthened by the Patryns. Marit wondered at first how the city could have fallen; then she remembered the walls of Abri. They, too, had been protected by the rune-magic. The serpents had thrown themselves bodily against the walls, causing small cracks to form, cracks that widened and spread until they broke apart the runes, tore apart the magic.

The Nexus. Marit had never considered the city beautiful. She had always thought of it in terms of practicality, as did most Patryns. Its walls were thick and sound, its streets well laid and smooth, its buildings strong and solid and sturdy. Now, by the light of the fire that was destroying it, she noticed its beauty, the grace and delicacy of its tall spires, the harmonious simplicity of its design. Even as she watched, one of the spires toppled and fell, sending up a shower of sparks and a cloud of smoke.

Marit despaired. Her lord could not have let this happen. He could not be here. Or if he was, he must now be dead. All her people must now be dead.

“Look!” Vasu cried suddenly. “The Final Gate! It’s still open! We’re holding it!”

Marit dragged her gaze from the burning city, stared through the smoke and darkness, trying to see. The dragons tipped their wings, turned, started to descend from the sky in large spirals.

Patryns on the ground below lifted their faces upward. Marit was too far away to see their expressions, but she guessed by their actions what thoughts were running through their minds. The arrival of a vast army of winged beasts could only mean one thing—defeat. The death blow.

Understanding their fear, Vasu began to sing; his voice—using Sartan rune-language—carried clearly through the smoke and the flame-lit darkness.

Marit couldn’t understand the words; she had the feeling they weren’t meant to be understood. But they lifted her heart. The horrible terror that had almost suffocated her in its choking grasp shriveled and lost some of its strength.

The Patryns on the ground below stared up in wonder. Vasu’s song was echoed by Patryn voices, shouting encouragement and war chants. The dragons flew low, allowing their passengers to jump off. Then the dragons returned to the skies, some circling, keeping watch, others departing, scouring the area for the enemy or flying back to the interior of the Labyrinth, to bring more Patryns to the battlefield.

Between the Labyrinth and the Nexus stood a wall covered with Sartan runes—runes strong enough to kill anything that touched them. The wall was immense, stretching from one mountain range to another in an irregular gigantic semicircle. Barren plains extended from the wall on both sides. The city of the Nexus offered life on one side; the dark forests of the Labyrinth offered death on the other.

Those in the Labyrinth who came within sight of the Final Gate faced their most terrible challenge in trying to reach it. The plains were a no-man’s-land, bare of any cover, providing an enemy a clear view of anyone attempting to cross. Here was the Labyrinth’s last chance to hang on to its victims. Here, on this plain, Marit had nearly died. Here her lord had rescued her.

Flying over the ground that had been churned up and blasted by magic and battle, Marit searched the crowd of weary, bloodied Patryns, looking for Xar. He must be here. He must! The wall stood, the Gate held. Only her lord could have performed such powerful magic.

But if he was in the crowd, she couldn’t find him.

The dragon settled to the ground, the Patryns giving it a wide berth, regarding it with dark looks, wary suspicion. The dragon carrying Vasu also landed, both dragons remaining, while the rest returned to the skies and their duties.

The howls of wolfen reverberated from the forests, punctuated by the unnerving clicking sounds made by the chaodyn before a fight. Numerous red dragons flew through the smoke, their scales reflected in the flames of the burning city, but they didn’t attack. To her astonishment, Marit saw no sign of the serpents.

But she knew they were near; the sigla on her skin flared almost as brightly as the fire.

The Abri Patryns banded together, waited silently for orders from their headman. Vasu had gone to make himself known to the Patryns at the Gate. Marit accompanied him, still searching for Lord Xar, They passed by Alfred, who was gazing sadly at the wall, wringing his hands.

“We built this monstrous prison,” he was lamenting softly. “We built this!” He shook his head. “We have much for which to answer. Much.”

“Yes, but not now!” Marit chided him. “I don’t want to have to explain to my people what a Sartan is doing here. Not that my people would likely give me much chance to explain before they ripped you apart. You and Hugh keep out of sight, as much as possible.”

“I understand,” Alfred said unhappily.

“Hugh, keep an eye on him,” Marit ordered. “And for all our sakes, keep control of that cursed knife!”

The Hand nodded in silence. His gaze was taking in everything about his surroundings, revealing nothing of his thoughts. He put his hand over the Cursed Blade, as if endeavoring to restrain it.

Vasu strode across the burned and blasted plains, his people remaining silently behind him, showing him respect and support. A woman left the group of Patryns guarding the Gate, walked to meet him.

Marit’s heart lurched. She knew this woman! They had lived near each other in the Nexus. Marit was tempted to rush forward, demand to know where Xar was, demand to know where he had taken the wounded Haplo.

She choked back her need. To speak to the woman before Vasu would be a serious discourtesy. The woman, rightly, would rebuff Marit, would refuse to answer her questions. Containing herself, Marit kept as close to Vasu as possible. She glanced back worriedly at Alfred, fearful he would give himself away. He remained on the fringes of the crowd, Hugh the Hand beside him. Nearby, alone, stood the gentleman dressed in black. The blue-green dragon of Pryan had disappeared.

“I am Headman Vasu of the village of Abri.” Vasu touched his heart-rune. “A village several gates from here. These are my people.”

“You and your people are welcome, Headman Vasu, though you come here only to die,” said the woman.

“We will die in good company,” Vasu responded politely.

“I am Usha,” the woman said, touching her heart-rune. “Our headman is dead. More than one are dead,” she added, her voice grim, her gaze going to the Gate. “The people have turned to me to lead them."[5]

Usha had many gates, as the saying went. Her hair was streaked with gray, her skin wrinkled. But she was strong, in far better physical condition than Vasu. She was, in fact, regarding him with drawn brows and a doubtful look.

“What beasts are these you have brought with you?” she demanded, her gaze going to the dragons wheeling in the sky above them. “I have never seen their like in the Labyrinth before.”

“You have obviously never been to our part of the Labyrinth before, Usha,” Vasu said.

She frowned, recognizing the answer as evasive. Marit had been wondering how Vasu was going to explain the dragons. One Patryn could not lie outright to another, but certain truths could be kept concealed. It would take a long time to explain the presence of the dragons of Pryan, even if he could.

“You are saying that these creatures come from your part of the Labyrinth, Headman?”

“They do now,” Vasu answered gravely. “You need not worry about them, Usha. They are under our control. They are immensely powerful and will aid us in our battle. In fact, these dragons may very well save us.”

Usha crossed her arms over her chest. She did not appear convinced, but to argue further would be to challenge Vasu’s authority, perhaps might be taken as a challenge to his right to rule. With several hundred Patryns backing him, obviously supporting him loyally, to do such a thing during this time of turmoil would be foolish.

Her stern expression relaxed. “I say again, you are welcome, Headman Vasu. You and your people and—” She hesitated, then said with a grudging smile, “these you call your dragons. As for saving us . . .” Her smile vanished. She sighed, glanced back at the fire raging in the Nexus. “I do not think there is much hope of that.”

“What is your situation?” Vasu asked.

The two leaders withdrew to talk. At this point, the tribes were free to mingle with each other. The Patryns of Abri advanced. They had brought with them weapons, food, water, and other supplies. They offered their own healing strength, to renew those in need.

Marit cast another worried glance at Alfred. He was, fortunately, keeping to himself and out of trouble. She noticed that Hugh had a firm grip on the Sartan’s arm. The gentleman in black was no longer anywhere in sight. Her mind at ease about Alfred, Marit trailed after Usha and Vasu, anxious to hear what they said.

“. . . serpents attacked us at dawn,” Usha was saying. “Their numbers were immense. They struck the city of the Nexus first. Their intent was to trap us in the city, destroy us there, then, when we were dead, they would seal shut the Final Gate. They made no secret of their plans, but told us, laughing, what they plotted. How they would trap our people in the Labyrinth, how the evil would grow . . .” Usha shuddered. “Their threats were terrible to hear.”

“They want your fear,” said Vasu. “It feeds them, makes them strong. What happened after that?”

“We fought them. The battle was hopeless. Our magical weapons are useless against such a powerful foe. The serpents hurled themselves bodily at the city walls, broke the runes, swarmed inside.” Usha glanced back at the burning buildings. “They could have destroyed us then, every one of us. But they didn’t. They let most of us live. At first, we couldn’t understand why. Why didn’t they kill us, when they had the chance?”

“They wanted you inside the Labyrinth,” Vasu guessed.

Usha nodded, her face grim. “We fled the city. The serpents drove us in this direction, murdering any who tried to elude them. We were caught between the terror of the Labyrinth and the terror of the serpents. Some of the people were half mad with fear. The serpents laughed and ringed us around, driving us closer and closer to the Gate. They picked off victims at random, increasing the terror and chaos.

“We entered the Gate. What choice did we have? Most of the people found the courage. Those who did not . . .” Usha fell silent. Lowering her head, she blinked her eyes rapidly, swallowed before she could speak again. “We heard them screaming for a long time.”

Vasu was slow to reply, his own anger and pity choking his voice. Marit could remain silent no longer.

“Usha,” she said desperately. “What of Lord Xar? He is here, isn’t he?”

“He was here,” replied Usha.

“Where has he gone? Was . . . was anyone with him?” Marit faltered, her skin flushing.

Usha eyed her, her expression dark. “As to where he has gone, I neither know nor care. He left us! Left us to die!” She spat on the ground. “That for Lord Xar!”

“No!” Marit murmured. “It’s not possible.”

“Was anyone with him? I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.” Usha’s lip curled. “Lord Xar was riding on a ship, a ship that flew in the air. And it was covered with those markings.” She cast a scathing glance at the wall, the Gate. “The runes of our enemy!”

“Sartan runes?” Marit said, in sudden realization. “Then it couldn’t have been Lord Xar you saw! It must have been a trick of the serpents! He would never fly a ship with Sartan runes. This proves it couldn’t have been Xar!”

“On the contrary,” said a voice. “I am afraid it proves it was Lord Xar.”

Angry, Marit turned to face this new accusation. She was somewhat daunted to find the gentleman in black standing near her. He was regarding her with deep sorrow.

“Lord Xar left Pryan on just such a ship. It was of Sartan make and design—a vessel formed in the likeness of a dragon, with sails for wings?” The gentleman glanced questioningly at Usha.

She confirmed his description with an abrupt nod.

“It can’t be!” Marit cried angrily. “My lord couldn’t have gone off and left his people! Not when he saw what was happening! Not when he saw that the serpents had betrayed him! Did he say anything?”

“He said he would be back!” Usha snapped the words off bitterly. “And that our deaths would be avenged!”

Her eyes flashed; she glared distrustfully at Marit.

“This may help explain, Usha,” said Vasu. Brushing Marit’s tangled, blood-encrusted hair from her face, Vasu revealed the torn mark on her forehead.

Usha gazed at it; her expression softened.

“I see,” she said. “I am sorry for you.”

Turning away from Marit, Usha continued her conversation with Vasu.

“At my suggestion, our people—now caught inside the Labyrinth again—have concentrated their magic on defending the Final Gate. We are attempting to keep it open. If it shuts—” She shook her head grimly.

“That will be the end for us,” Vasu agreed.

“The Sartan death-runes on the walls—so long a curse—now prove to be a blessing. After they drove us in here, the serpents discovered that they could not come through the Final Gate or even get near it. They attacked the wall, but the runes were one magic they could not destroy. Whenever they touch the runes, blue light crackles around them. They bellow in pain and back off. It does not kill them, but it seems to weaken them.

“Seeing this, we wove the same blue fire across the Final Gate. We cannot get out, but neither can the serpents seal shut the Gate. Frustrated, the serpents roamed for a while outside the walls. Then, suddenly, they mysteriously departed.

“And now the scouts report that other enemies—all the creatures of the Labyrinth—are massing in the forest behind us. Thousands of them.”

“They’ll attack from both directions, then,” Vasu said. “Pin us against the wall.”

“Crush us,” said Usha.

“Perhaps not,” said Vasu. “What if we . . .”

The two continued talking strategy, defense. Marit ceased to listen, wandered away. What did it all matter anyway? She had been so certain of Xar, so sure . . .

“What is happening?” Alfred asked worriedly. He had waited until she was alone to come talk to her. “What’s going on? Where’s Lord Xar?”

Marit said nothing. Instead, the gentleman in black answered. “Lord Xar has gone to Abarrach, as he said he would.”

“And Haplo is with him?” Alfred’s voice quivered.

“Yes, Haplo is with him,” replied the gentleman softly.

“My lord has taken Haplo to Abarrach to heal him!” Marit glared at them, daring them to refute her.

Alfred was silent a moment; then he said quietly, “My way is clear. I will go to Abarrach. Perhaps I can . . .” He glanced at Marit. “Perhaps I can help,” he finished lamely.

Marit knew all too well what he was thinking. She, too, saw the living corpses of Abarrach. Dead bodies transformed into mindless slaves. She remembered the torment in the unseeing eyes, the trapped soul peering out through its prison of rotting flesh . . . She saw Haplo . . .

She couldn’t breathe. A yellow-tinged blackness blinded her. Gentle arms caught hold of her, steadied her. She gave in to their support, so long as the darkness lasted. When it began to recede, she pushed Alfred away from her.

“Leave me alone. I’m all right now,” she muttered, ashamed of her weakness. “And if you’re going to Abarrach, so am I.”

She turned to the gentleman. “How do we travel there? We don’t have a ship.”

“You will find a vessel near Lord Xar’s dwelling place,” said the gentleman. “Or rather—his former dwelling place. The serpents burned it.”

“But they left a ship intact?” Marit was suspicious. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps it does—to them,” the gentleman replied. “If you are resolved, you must leave quickly, before the serpents return. If they discover the Serpent Mage, and catch him out in the open, they will not hesitate to attack him.”

“Where are the dragon-snakes?” Alfred asked nervously.

“They are leading the Patryn’s enemies: wolfen, snogs, chaodyn, dragons. The armies of the Labyrinth are massing for a final assault.”

“There aren’t that many of us left to fight them.” Marit wavered in her decision to leave, looking at her people, thinking of the vast numbers of the enemy.

“Reinforcements are already on the way,” the gentleman said, with a reassuring smile. “And our serpent cousins won’t be expecting to find us here. We will come as a nasty surprise to them. Between us, we can hold them off for a long time. As long as it takes,” he added with a peculiar look at Alfred.

“What does that mean?” Alfred asked.

The gentleman rested his hand on Alfred’s wrist, gazed at him intently. The dragon’s eyes were blue-green as Pryan sky, as Chelestra’s magic-ending water. “Remember, Coren, hope’s light now shines into the Labyrinth. And it will continue to shine, though the Gate is shut.”

“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you? Riddles, prophecies! I’m not good at this!” Alfred was sweating. “Why don’t you just come out and say it? Tell me what I’m supposed to do!”

“So few people follow instructions these days,” the gentleman said, shaking his head gloomily. “Even simple ones.”

He patted Alfred’s hand. “Still, we do what we can with what we have. Trust to your instincts.”

“My instinct is usually to faint!” Alfred protested. “You expect me to do something grand and heroic. But I’m not the type. I’m only going to Abarrach to help a friend.”

“Of course you are,” said the gentleman softly, and he sighed and turned away.

Marit heard the sigh echo inside her, reminding her of the echo of the trapped souls of Abarrach’s living dead.