The Seventh Gate

20

Across the Fire Sea, Xar, Lord of the Nexus, saw his carefully conceived plans sucked down into chaos, like chunks of broken rock caught in the maelstrom.

The Sartan ship had appeared out of nowhere, materializing above the Fire Sea in a shimmering blaze of blue sigla. An enormous construction, long and sleek, with a swanlike shape, it hovered over the magma river as if loath to touch it. Those people aboard it dropped ladders of magic from the sides, rune-constructs that carried them down to the docks below.

Xar heard Ramu’s words through Marit’s ears, heard them as clearly as if he had been standing beside her. We will close the Final Gate. We will make certain—once and for all—that our enemy never again escapes.

The Sartan ship was visible to the Patryns waiting on board their own iron dragon ship, floating above the molten lava in the bay below. A group of them were now scaling the rocks, hastening to join their lord.

Xar remained standing, silent, unmoving.

Several Patryns, arriving on the promontory, prepared for action, came up against the high, chill wall of Xar’s silence. He paid no attention to them, to their arrival. They glanced at each other, uncertain. Eventually, one of them—the eldest—moved forward.

“Sartan, My Lord!” he ventured.

Xar did not reply aloud. He nodded grimly, thought, We are outnumbered almost four to one.

“We will fight, Lord,” said the Patryn eagerly. “Give us the word . . .”

Fight! Battle! Revenge at last on the ancient enemy. The anticipation, the desire clenched Xar’s stomach, burned the breath from his lungs, nearly burst his heart. It was like being young again and waiting to meet a lover.

The fire was doused swiftly by the icy waters of logic.

“Ramu is lying,” Xar said to himself. “This talk of going to the Labyrinth is a ruse, a diversion. He’s hoping we’ll abandon Abarrach. He wants this world for his own. He came here to find the Seventh Gate.”

“My Lord!” cried the Patryn, peering across the Fire Sea. “They have captured Marit! They’re taking her prisoner!”

“What is your command, Lord?” His people clamored for, yearned for blood.

Outnumbered four to one. Yet my people are strong. If I was with them . . .

“No.” Xar spoke harshly. “Keep watch on the Sartan. See what they do, where they go. They claim they are bound for the Labyrinth.”

“The Labyrinth, Lord!” His people must have heard rumors of the fighting there.

“They plan to finish us for good this time,” one said.

“Over my dead body,” said another.

Over many, many dead bodies, Xar thought. “I don’t trust them,” he said aloud. “I don’t believe they really plan to go to the Labyrinth. However, it is well to be prepared. Don’t interfere with them here. Make ready to sail. If they actually enter Death’s Gate, follow them.”

“Do we take all our people, Lord?”

Xar pondered a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. If Ramu was sending his forces into the Labyrinth, the Patryns would need all the manpower they could muster. “Yes, take everyone. I put you in charge, Sadet. In my absence.”

“But, My Lord—” The Patryn started to protest, to question. Xar’s flashing glare halted the words on the man’s lips. “Yes, My Lord.”

Xar waited to see his orders being carried out. The Patryns left the Anvil, slid down the rocks back to their iron ship below. Once they were gone and he was alone, the Lord of the Nexus began tracing a circle of fiery runes in the air. When the circle was complete, he stepped through it and vanished.

The Patryns left behind saw the sigla flare on top of the Anvil. They watched until the rune-circle had flickered and died. Then, slowly, cautiously, they eased their iron dragon ship out of the bay, moved into position to keep watch on their enemy, made ready to sail into Death’s Gate.

“Fool Sartan, you have this all wrong!” Surrounded by a shell of protective blue and red light, her own runes acting to defend her, Marit faced Ramu defiantly. In her hand she held her sigla-covered sword. “Ask one of your own, if you don’t believe me. Ask Alfred. He has been in the Labyrinth! He has seen what is happening!”

“She is telling the truth,” Alfred said earnestly. “The serpents—those you know as dragon-snakes—are the ones attempting to shut the Final Gate. The Patryns are defending themselves against this terrible evil. I know! I’ve been there!”

“Yes, you’ve been there.” Ramu sneered. “And that is why I do not believe you. As my father said, you are more Patryn than Sartan.”

“You can see the truth in my words—“[18]

Ramu rounded on him. “I see Patryns massing around the Final Gate. I see the city we built for them in flames. I see hordes of evil creatures, coming to their aid, including the dragon-snakes ... Do you deny any of this?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, trying desperately to keep everyone calm, to keep the situation from deteriorating. “You see, Ramu, but you are not seeing!”

Marit could have told Alfred he was wasting his time.

Ramu could have told him he was wasting his time.

Alfred included them both in a despairing, pleading glance.

Marit ignored him.

Ramu turned away in disgust. “Some of you—disarm her.” He gestured to Marit. “Take her prisoner, bring her on board her own ship. We will use that ship to transport our Abarrach brethren.”

The Sartan moved to surround Marit. She paid no heed to them. Her gaze was fixed, intent on Ramu.

“Several of you come with me,” he continued. “We will finish breaking down the rune-structure.”

The odds were impossibly against Marit. She was weak from the effects of the poison, not completely healed. Yet she had determined to fight Ramu, to overwhelm and destroy him. Her fury at the sight of this sleek, complacent Sartan, talking so coolly of sentencing her people to further torment, when they were now fighting for their very lives, drove her to madness.

She would kill him, though killing him would cost her own life, for the other Sartan would be swift to retaliate.

That doesn’t matter now anyway, she said to herself. I have lost Haplo. We will never find the Seventh Gate. I will never see him alive again. But I will see to it that his final wishes are carried out, that our people are safe. I will see to it that this Sartan does not make it to the Labyrinth.

The spell Marit was going to cast was powerful, deadly, and would take Ramu completely by surprise.

The fool had turned his back on her.

Having never before fought a Patryn, Ramu knew them only by repute, could have never conceived that Marit would be willing to sacrifice her own life to end his.

But Alfred knew, knew even before Haplo’s voice warned him of what Marit was planning.

“I’ll stop her,” Haplo told him. “You deal with Ramu.”

Still shaking from his terrible encounter with the lazar, Alfred prepared to work his magic. He peered dazedly into the possibilities—and discovered them so jumbled up and confused that he couldn’t sort one from the other. Panic took hold of him. Marit was going to die. She was already speaking the runes; he could, see her lips moving, though no sound came out. Ramu was walking off—but he would never, could never walk far enough. The dog was gathering itself together for a great leap . . .

And that gave Alfred an idea. He gathered himself together for a great leap.

The dog jumped at Marit.

Alfred jumped—arms and legs flailing wildly—straight at Ramu.

The dog hurled itself onto Marit’s protective rune-shell. Sigla crackled and flared. The animal yelped in pain and fell, lifeless, to the wooden dock.

Marit cried out in dismay. The spell, her concentration, her will were shattered. She sank down beside the animal, gathered its limp head into her arms and bowed over it.

Alfred jumped on Ramu’s back, knocked him flat.

For an instant, all was confusion.

The Councillor landed face first with a bone-breaking thud. The air left his lungs and, for a terrifying moment, he couldn’t breathe. Flares burst in his vision; a heavy weight crushed him down, prevented him from drawing a breath.

And then the weight was suddenly removed. Hands helped him stand. Ramu rounded on his assailant, more furious than he’d ever been in hts life.

Alfred jabbered incoherently, trying vainly to explain.

Ramu wasn’t interested. “Traitor! Imprison him along with his Patryn friend!”

“No, Councillor,” cried several Sartan. “The brother saved your life.”

Ramu stared at them wordlessly, not believing, not wanting to believe.

They pointed to Marit.

She sat on the dock, the dog cradled in her arms. The sigla glimmered only faintly on her skin.

“She was going to attack you,” one of the Sartan explained. “The brother threw himself on top of you, shielded you with his own body. If she had cast her spell, she would have killed him, Councillor, not you.”

Ramu stared hard, intently at Alfred, who had suddenly ceased talking. He didn’t look guilty or innocent, only extremely foolish and considerably confused. Ramu suspected the Sartan of some devious ulterior motive, though what that might be he couldn’t begin to conceive. All would be made plain, no doubt.

The Patryn runes surrounding the Patryn ship were almost all destroyed. His people had worked swiftly and well. Ramu gave the orders to have both Marit and Alfred taken on board. The Patryn female, as one might have expected, seemed determined to resist, though she was so weak she could barely walk. She refused to leave the dog.

It was Alfred who finally convinced her to come.

He put his arm around her, whispered something to her—probably another plot. She suffered herself to be taken aboard, though she continued to look behind her at the dog.

Ramu thought the animal was dead, discovered his mistake when he walked up to it.

Snapping jaws missed his ankles by inches.

“Dog! Here, dog!” A scandalized Alfred whistled for the beast.

Ramu would have liked to have pitched it into the Fire Sea, but he would look ridiculous—venting his spleen on a dumb animal. He coldly ignored it, went on with his business.

The dog rose groggily to its feet, shook itself, and staggered—listing slightly to one side—after the Sartan and Marit.

Ramu left the docks, entered the main street of the abandoned town. He had arranged a meeting with the leader of the Abarrach Sartan, found the man—a necromancer, by report. Ramu was shocked at the sight of the man, who was pale, wasted, and weak. Recalling what he knew of the Sartan who lived on Abarrach (knowledge gained from Alfred), Ramu regarded this brother with pity and curiosity.

“My name is Balthazar,” said the Sartan in the black robes. He smiled faintly. “Welcome to Abarrach, World of Stone, Brother.”

Ramu didn’t like that smile, didn’t like the man’s dark and piercing gaze. The black eyes jabbed—knife-like—through Ramu’s head.

“Your greeting seems less than cordial, Brother,” Ramu observed.

“Forgive me, Brother.” Balthazar bowed stiffly. “We have been waiting over a thousand years to give it.”

Ramu frowned.

Balthazar fixed his brother with the dagger-gaze. “We’ve been dying to see you.”

Ramu’s frown deepened. Angry words came to his lips, but at that moment, Balthazar shifted his gaze to his people, huddled, ragged, starving, and then to . Ramu’s people, well fed, well dressed, in excellent health. Ramu swallowed his anger, actually felt moved enough to be gracious.

“I am sorry for your plight, Brother. Truly sorry. We heard of it some time back from the one who calls himself Alfred. We would have come to your aid, but circumstances . . .”

Ramu’s voice trailed off. Sartan cannot lie to each other and what he had been going to say was a lie. Samah had come to Abarrach, but not to help his desperate brethren. He had come to learn the necromancy. Ramu had the grace to feel and took ashamed.

“We have had our troubles, too, though, I admit, not as dire as yours. If we had known . . . but I could not believe that false Sartan.”

Ramu’s grim gaze turned in the direction of Alfred, who was assisting a faltering Marit to board her own ship. Balthazar followed Ramu’s glance, looked back at the Councillor.

“The one of whom you speak so disparagingly has been the only one of our people to help us,” Balthazar returned. “Even though he was shocked and appalled—rightly so—by what we had done to ourselves, to this world, he did what he could to save lives.”

“Yes, I believe he did,” Balthazar replied. “Pity, mercy, compassion. And why have you come to us now?” he asked coolly, catching Ramu by surprise.

The Councillor was not accustomed to being confronted in this insolent manner, nor did he like this Sartan. The words he spoke were Sartan words, but—as Alfred had discovered when he had first visited Abarrach—they conjured up images of death and suffering, images that Ramu found quite distasteful. He was forced, however, into admitting the truth. He hadn’t come to give aid, but to beg for it.

Briefly, he explained what was happening in the Labyrinth, how the Patryns were attempting to break out of their prison, how they would—undoubtedly—seek to rule the four worlds.

“Whereas we alone should be allowed to rule,” Balthazar said. “As we have ruled here. Look around you. See what a magnificent job we’ve done.”

Ramu was outraged, but he took care not to let his anger show. He sensed in this black-robed Sartan a latent power, a power perhaps as great as Ramu’s own.

Looking ahead into the future, a future where the Sartan would rule the four worlds, the Councillor saw a potential rival. One who knew the necromancy. It would never do to reveal weakness.

“Take your people on board our ships,” Ramu said. “We will give them aid and succor. I presume you want to leave this world?” he added, with his own measure of sarcasm.

Balthazar paled; the dark eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said quietly, “we want to leave. We are grateful to you, Brother, for making this possible. Grateful for any aid you can give us.”

“And, in turn, I will be grateful for any aid you can give me,” Ramu replied.

He guessed they understood each other, though what the necromancer might be thinking was as murky as the poisonous air in this hellish cavern.

Ramu bowed and left. He saw no point in continuing the conversation. Time was running out; every moment that passed was a moment the Patryns were nearer to breaking free.

Once Balthazar was healed and fed and rested, once he was inside the Nexus and came face to face with the savage Patryns, he would understand. He would fight. Of that, Ramu was confident. Balthazar would use every means at his disposal to win the battle. Including the necromancy. And he’d be happy to teach it to others. Ramu would see to that.

He returned to the docks to make preparations for the Sartan of Abarrach to be transported onto the former Patryn ship. Boarding, he made a quick inspection, began working out his strategy.

The journey to the Nexus, through Death’s Gate, would ordinarily be a quick one. But now he’d have to allow time for these Abarrach Sartan to heal, if they were going to make an effective fighting force.

Considering this, trying to figure how long the healing would take, Ramu came across Alfred. The Sartan leaned dolefully against the ship’s rail. The dog crouched, tense and nervous, at his side. The Patryn female sat huddled dejectedly on the deck. Sartan stood guard at her side.

Ramu frowned. The Patryn female was taking all this much too calmly. She’d surrendered too easily. So had Alfred. They must be plotting something . . .

A strong arm grabbed Ramu from behind, encircled his throat. A sharp object prodded him in the ribs.

“I don’t know who you are, you bastard, or why you’re here,” grated a harsh voice—a mensch voice—in Ramu’s ear. “I don’t much care. But if you so much as twitch I’ll drive this knife into your heart. Let Marit and Alfred go.”