The Seventh Gate

2

“According to Vasu, the last time he saw Alfred—the dragon Alfred—he was falling from the skies. Wounded, bleeding.” Marit turned the green scale over and over in her hand.

“There were lots of dragons fighting,” Hugh protested.

“But the Labyrinth dragons are red-scaled. Not green. No, this has to be Alfred.”

“Whatever you say, lady. I don’t believe it myself. A man changing himself into a dragon!” He snorted.

“The same man who brought you back from the dead,” Marit said crisply. “Let’s go.”

The trail of blood—pitiably easy to follow—led into the forest. Marit found glimmering drops on the grass and splattered on the leaves of the trees. Occasionally she and Hugh were forced to make a detour around some impassable tangle of bramble bushes or thick undergrowth, but they could always pick the trail up easily; too easily. The dragon had lost a lot of blood.

“If the dragon was Alfred, he was flying away from the city,” Hugh the Hand observed, crawling over a fallen log. “I wonder why? If he was hurt this badly, you’d think he would have come back to the city for help.”

“In the Labyrinth, a mother will often run away from safety to lure the enemy from her child. I think that’s what Alfred was doing. That’s why he didn’t fly toward the city. He was being pursued and so he deliberately led his enemy away from us. Careful. Don’t go near that!”

Marit caught hold of Hugh, stopped him from stepping into an innocent-looking tangle of green leaves. “That’s a choke vine. It’ll tighten around your ankle, cut right through the bone. You won’t have a foot left.”

“Nice place you’ve got here, lady,” Hugh muttered, falling back. “The damn weed is all over! There’s no way around it.”

“We’ll have to climb.” Marit pulled herself up into a tree, began crawling from branch to branch.

Hugh the Hand followed more clumsily and more slowly, his dangling feet barely clearing the choke vine. Its green leaves and tiny white blossoms stirred and rustled beneath him.

Marit pointed grimly to streaks of blood running down the tree trunk. Hugh grunted, said nothing.

Across the vine-patch, Marit slid back down to the ground. She scratched at her skin. The sigla had begun to itch and glow faintly, warning her of danger. Apparently, not all their enemies had rushed to do battle at the Final Gate. She pushed forward with greater urgency, greater caution.

Emerging from a dense thicket, she stepped suddenly and unexpectedly into a cleared space.

“Would you look at this!” Hugh the Hand gave a low whistle.

Marit stared, amazed.

A wide swath of destruction had been cut into the forest. Small trees lay broken on the ground. Their limbs, snapped and twisted, hung from scarred trunks. The undergrowth had been flattened into the mud. The ground was littered with twigs and leaves. Green and golden scales were scattered around, sparkling like jewels in the gray dawn.

Some enormous green-scaled body had fallen from the sky, crashed down among the trees. Alfred, without doubt.

Yet where was he now?

“Could something have carried—” Marit began.

“Hsst!” Hugh the Hand emphasized his warning with a crushing grip on her wrist, dragged her down into the underbrush.

Marit crouched, held perfectly still. She strained to hear whatever sound had caught the Hand’s attention.

The silence of the forest was broken now and again by the fall of a branch, but she heard nothing else. Quiet. Too damn quiet. She looked at Hugh questioningly.

“Voices!” He leaned over, whispered into her ear. “I swear I heard something that could have been a voice. It stopped talking when you spoke.”

Marit nodded. She hadn’t been talking all that loudly. Whatever it was must be close, with sharp hearing.

Patience. She counseled herself to keep still, wait for whatever was out there to reveal itself. Hardly breathing, she and Hugh waited and listened.

They heard the voice then. It spoke with a grating sound, horrible to hear, as if jagged edges of broken bones were grinding against each other. Marit shuddered and even Hugh the Hand blenched. His face twisted in revulsion.

“What the—”

“A dragon!” Marit whispered, cold with dread.

That was why Alfred hadn’t flown back to the city.

He was being pursued, probably attacked, by the most fearsome creature in the Labyrinth.

The runes on her body glowed. She fought the impulse to turn and flee.

One of the laws of the Labyrinth: never fight a red dragon unless it has you cornered and escape is impossible. Then you fight only to force the dragon to kill you swiftly.

“What’s it talking about?” Hugh asked. “Can you understand?”

Marit nodded, sickened.

The dragon was speaking the Patryn language. Marit translated for Hugh’s benefit.

“I don’t know what you are, man-wyrm,” the dragon was saying. “I’ve never seen anything like you. But I plan to find out. I must have leisure to study you. Take you apart.”

“Damn!” Hugh the Hand muttered. “The very sound of the thing makes me want to piss my pants. Is it talking to Alfred, do you think?”

Marit nodded. Her lips compressed to a thin line. She knew what she had to do; she only wanted the courage to do it. Rubbing her burning arm, the sigla flaring red and blue, she ignored their warning and began creeping forward toward the voice, using its rumbling as cover for her own movement through the brush. Hugh the Hand followed her.

They were downwind of the dragon. It shouldn’t be able to pick up their scent. Marit only wanted to get the creature in sight, to see if it had truly captured Alfred. If not—and she was hoping desperately it had not—then she could follow common sense and run.

No shame in running from such a powerful foe. Lord Xar was the only Patryn Marit had ever known who had fought a Labyrinth dragon and survived. And he never spoke of the battle; his face would darken whenever it was mentioned.

“The ancestors have mercy!” Hugh the Hand breathed.

Marit squeezed Hugh’s hand, cautioned him to keep quiet.

They could see the dragon easily now. Marit’s hope was dashed.

Standing propped up against the bole of a shattered tree was a tall and gangling man with a bald head—smeared with blood—dressed in the tattered remnants of what had once been breeches and a velvet frock coat. He had been in dragon form when they saw him during the battle. Certainly—by the destruction in the forest—he must have been in dragon form when he crashed headlong into the woods.

He was not in dragon form now. Either he was too weak to sustain the magical transformation or, perhaps, his enemy had used its own magic to reveal the Sartan’s true appearance.

Surprisingly, considering that his first reaction to any sort of danger was to faint dead away, Alfred was conscious. He was even managing to face this terrible foe with a certain amount of dignity, though this was rather impaired by the fact that he was nursing a broken arm and his face was gray and drawn with pain.

The dragon towered over its prey. Its head was huge, blunt-nosed and rounded, with rows of razorsharp teeth protruding from the lower jaw. The head was attached to a neck that seemed too thin to support it. The head swung back and forth—such constant oscillating motion could sometimes hypnotize hapless victims. Two small and cunning eyes, on either side of the head, moved independently of each other. The eyes could rotate in any direction, focus forward or backward as required, allowing the dragon to see everything around it.

Its two front legs were strong and powerful, with claw-like “hands,” which could lift and carry objects in flight. Enormous wings sprouted from the shoulders. The hind legs were muscular, used to push the dragon off the ground and into the air.

The tail was the deadliest part of the creature, however. The red dragon’s tail curled up and over the body. On the end was a bulbous stinger that injected venom into the victim, venom that could either kill or, in small doses, paralyze.

The tail flicked out near Alfred.

“This may burn a little,” the dragon said, “but it will keep you docile during our trip back to my cave.”

The tip of the stinger grazed Alfred on the cheek. He screamed; his body jerked. Marit clenched her hands tight, dug the nails into her flesh. Beside her, she could hear Hugh the Hand breathing hard, gulping for air.

“What do we do?” His face was covered with sweat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Marit looked at the dragon. A limp and unresisting Alfred dangled from the creature’s front claws. The dragon carried the man carelessly, as a small child might carry a rag doll.

Unfortunately, the wretched Sartan was still conscious, his eyes open and wide with fear. That was the worst part of the dragon’s venom. It kept the victim paralyzed but conscious; feeling, knowing everything.

“Nothing,” Marit answered quietly.

Hugh the Hand glowered. “But we have to do something! We can’t let it fly off—”

Marit put her hand over the man’s mouth. He hadn’t spoken above a whisper, yet the dragon’s huge head was shifting swiftly toward them, its roving eyes searching the forest.

The baleful gaze raked across them, passed on. The dragon continued its search a bit longer; then, losing interest perhaps, it began to move.

It was walking.

Marit’s hopes rose.

The dragon was walking, not flying. It had begun to lumber through the forest, carrying Alfred in its claws. And now that the creature had turned toward her. Marit could see that it was injured. Not critically, but enough to keep it grounded. The membrane of one wing was torn, a gaping hole sliced through it.

Score one for Alfred, Marit said silently, then sighed. That wound would only make the dragon all the more furious. It would keep Alfred alive for a long, long time.

And he wouldn’t like it much.

She stood unmoving, silent, until the dragon was well out of eyesight and earshot. Every time Hugh the Hand would have spoken, Marit frowned, shook her head. When she could no longer hear any sound of the dragon crashing through the forest, she turned to Hugh.

“The dragons have excellent hearing. Remember that. You nearly got us killed.”

“Why didn’t we attack it?” he demanded. “The damn thing is hurt! With your magic—” He waved his hand, too angry to finish.

“With my magic, I could have done exactly nothing,” Marit retorted. “These dragons have their own magic, far more powerful than mine. Which it probably wouldn’t have even bothered to use! You saw its tail. That stinger moves fast, strikes like lightning. One touch and you’re paralyzed, helpless, just like Alfred.”

“So that’s it.” Hugh eyed her grimly. “We give up?”

“No, we don’t,” Marit said.

She turned her back on him so that he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see how wonderful the words “give up” sounded. Resolutely, she began to make her way through the twisted trees, the flattened undergrowth.

“We’ll track it. The dragon said it was taking Alfred back to its cave. If we can find the dragon’s lair, we can rescue the Sartan.”

“What if it kills Alfred on the way?”

“It won’t,” Marit said. This was one thing she knew for a certainty. “Labyrinth dragons don’t kill their prey right off. They keep them for sport.”

The dragon’s trail was easy to follow. It mowed down everything in its path, never deviating from a straight route through the forest. Giant trees were uprooted with a blow from the massive tail. Scrub trees and brush were crushed beneath the large hind feet. Choke vines, trying to wrap their cutting tendrils around the dragon, realized too late what they had caught. The vines lay black and smoldering on the ground.

Hugh and Marit trudged along in the dragon’s devastating wake. The way had been made easier for them; the dragon cleared the path quite effectively. But they moved cautiously, at Marit’s insistence, although Hugh protested that with all the noise the dragon was making it wouldn’t be likely to hear them. And when the creature changed direction, began traveling upwind of them, Marit stopped to coat her body in foul-smelling mud from a bog. She forced Hugh to do the same.

“I saw a dragon destroy a Squatters’ village once,” Marit said, dabbing mud on her thighs, smearing it over her legs. “The beast was clever. It could have attacked the village, burned it, killed the inhabitants. But what sport is there in that? Instead, it captured two men alive—young men, strong. Then the dragon proceeded to torture them.

“We heard their screams—terrible screams. The screaming went on for two days. The headman decided to attack the dragon, rescue his people—or at least put them out of their misery. Haplo was with me,” she added softly. “We knew about the red dragons. We told the headman he was a fool, but he wouldn’t listen to us. Armed with weapons enhanced by magic, the warriors marched on the dragon’s lair.

“The dragon came out of its cave, carrying the still living bodies of its two victims—one in each clawed hand. The warriors fired rune-sped arrows at the dragon, arrows that cannot possibly miss their target. The dragon distorted the runes with its own magic. It didn’t stop the arrows; it simply slowed them down. The dragon caught the arrows—with the bodies of the two men.

“When they were dead, the dragon tossed the bodies back to their companions. By this time, a few of the arrows had found their mark. The dragon was wounded, beginning to get annoyed. It lashed out with its tail, moving so fast the warriors couldn’t escape. It would sting one, then another, then another, darting here and there among the ranks. Each time, the person screamed in horrible pain. His body convulsing, he fell helpless, writhing on the ground.

“The dragon plucked up his victims, tossed them into the cave. More sport. The dragon always chose the young and the strong. The headman was forced to pull his forces back. In trying to save two, he’d lost more than twenty. Haplo advised him to pack up, move his people away. But the headman was half insane by this time, vowed to rescue those the dragon had taken. Turn around,” Marit ordered abruptly. “I’ll coat your back.”

Hugh turned, allowed Marit to slather mud on his back and shoulders. “What happened then?” he asked gruffly.

Marit shrugged. “Haplo and I decided it was time to leave. Later, we came across one of the Squatters, one of the few to survive. He said the dragon kept up the game for a week—coming out of its cave to fight, snatching up new victims, spending the nights torturing them to death. At last, when there was no one left except those too sick or too young to provide any amusement, the dragon razed the village.

“There, now, do you understand?” Marit asked him. “An army of Patryn warriors could not defeat one of these dragons. Do you see what we are up against?”

Hugh did not immediately answer. He was slathering mud on his arms and hands. “What’s your plan, then?” he asked when he was finished.

“The dragon has to eat, which means it will have to go out and hunt—”

“Unless it decides to eat Alfred.”

Marit shook her head. “Red dragons don’t eat their victims. That would be a waste of good sport. Besides, this one is trying to figure out what Alfred is. The dragon’s never seen a Sartan before. No, it will keep Alfred alive, probably longer than he wants. When the dragon leaves the cave to feed, we’ll slip in and rescue Alfred.”

“If there’s anything left to rescue,” Hugh muttered.

Marit made no reply.

They pushed on, following the dragon’s trail. It led them through the forest, heading away from the city, in the direction of the next gate. The ground began to rise; they were in the foothills of the mountains. They had been traveling all day, pausing only to eat enough to keep up their strength, and to drink whenever they came across clear water.

The gray light of day was dwindling. Clouds filled the sky. Rain began to fall, which Hugh counted as a blessing. He was sick of the stench of the mud.

The rain was fortunate in another way. They had left the thick forest behind, and were climbing up a barren hillside dotted by rocks and boulders. They were out in the open; the rain provided cover.

The dragon’s trail was still relatively easy to track—so long as they had light enough to see by. Its feet tore up the ground, gouging out great chunks of dirt and rock. But night was coming.

Would the dragon hole up for the night, perhaps in some cave in the mountains? Or would it press on until it reached its lair? And should they press on, even after dark?

The two discussed it.

“If we stop and the dragon doesn’t, it’ll be a long way ahead of us by morning,” Hugh argued.

“I know.” Marit stood, irresolute, thinking.

Hugh the Hand waited for her to continue. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to, he shrugged, spoke.

“I’ve done my share of tracking. I’ve been in this situation before. Usually I rely on what I know of my mark, try to put myself in his place, figure out what he’d do. But I’m used to tracking men, not beasts. I leave this up to you, lady.”

“We’ll go,” she decided. “Track it by my rune-light.” The glow of the runes on her skin faintly illuminated the ground. “But we’ll have to move slowly. We have to be careful that we don’t accidentally stumble across its lair in the darkness. If the dragon hears us coming . . .” She shook her head. “I remember once, Haplo and I—”

Marit stopped. Why did she keep talking about Haplo? The pain was like a dragon’s claw in her heart.

Hugh settled down to rest and eat, chewing on strips of dried meat. Marit nibbled at hers without appetite. When she realized she couldn’t swallow the soggy, tasteless mass, she spat it out. She shouldn’t keep thinking about Haplo, shouldn’t speak his name. It was like speaking the runes; she conjured up his image, a distraction when she needed to concentrate all her faculties on the problem at hand.

Haplo had been dying when Xar took him away. Closing her eyes, Marit saw the lethal wound, the heart-rune ripped open. Xar could save him. Surely, Xar would save him! Xar would not let him die ...

Marit’s hand went to the torn sigil on her forehead. She knew what Xar would do. No use fooling herself. She remembered Haplo’s face, the astonishment, the pain when he had known she and Xar were joined. In that moment, he had given up. His wounds were too deep for him to survive. He’d left all he had—their people—in her care.

A hand closed over hers.

“Haplo will be all right, lady.” Hugh the Hand spoke awkwardly, not used to offering comfort. “He’s tough, that one.”

Marit blinked back her tears, angry that he’d caught her in this weakness.

The rain had stopped for the moment, but the lowering clouds, obliterating the tops of the mountains, meant that more was coming. A hard rain would wash out the dragon’s tracks completely.

Marit climbed onto a boulder, peered up the mountainside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dragon before darkness fell. Her attention was caught, shifted to the sullen red glow lighting the skyline on the horizon. She watched it in terrible fascination.

What was the glow? Was it a great conflagration, started by the dragon-snakes, meant to act as a beacon fire to lure all evil creatures to the battle? Was the city of the Nexus itself burning? Or was it, perhaps, some type of magical defense thrown up by the Patryns? A ring of fire to protect them from their enemies?

If the Gate fell, they’d be trapped. Trapped inside the Labyrinth with creatures worse than the red dragons, creatures whose evil power would grow stronger and stronger.

Haplo was dying, thinking she didn’t love him.

“Marit.”

Startled, she turned too swiftly, almost fell from the boulder.

Hugh the Hand steadied her. “Look!” He pointed upward.

She looked, couldn’t see anything.

“Wait. Let the clouds pass. There it is! See!”

The clouds lifted momentarily. Marit saw the dragon, moving across the mountainside, heading for a large dark opening in the cliff face.

And then the clouds dropped down again, obscuring the dragon from view. When they lifted, the creature was nowhere in sight.

They had found the dragon’s lair.