Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

Haplo did not hesitate. “No, My Lord.”

Xar was furious, frustrated. He saw that the chaos inside Death’s Gate was ending. A door, at the far end of a long corridor, stood open. Alfred was reaching out his hand to shut it ...

The Lord of the Nexus had no choice.

“You have thwarted my wishes for the last time, my son!” Xar stretched forth his hand, began to chant the runes.

Jonathon’s voice rose. “Do no violence!” The phantasm repeated the warning, but its voice could no longer be heard.

Alfred had forgotten the terror of journeying through Death’s Gate, which compresses and combines, sorts out and divides all possibilities at precisely the same moment in time.

Thus he found himself entering an immense, cavernous corridor that was a small aperture growing smaller all the time. The walls and floors and ceiling rushed away from him, expanding ever outward, as the corridor collapsed in on him, crushing him with emptiness.

“I have to ignore this, or I’ll go mad!” he realized frantically. “I have to focus on something ... on the Gate. On shutting the Gate. Where . . . where is it?”

He looked and instantly the possibility that he had found the Gate caused it to appear, even as the possibility that he would never find it made it vanish. He refused to admit the second possibility, held on fast to the first, and he saw—at the far end of the corridor, in front of him, to his rear, moving rapidly toward him, continually receding, growing ever more distant the closer he came—a door.

It was marked with a sigil, the same sigil as the door he’d entered. In between the two doors was the corridor known as Death’s Gate. Shut both doors, and he would shut off that corridor forever.

But in order to shut that far door, he had to walk down the corridor.

Chaos danced and shifted around him, the possibilities happening simultaneously, no two at the same time. He was shivering with cold because he was too hot. He had eaten so much he was starving to death. His voice was too loud; he couldn’t hear it. He moved extremely fast and never left the place where he was floating, standing, hopping, running, on his head, on his feet, sideways.

“Control,” Alfred said to himself desperately. “Control the chaos.”

He focused, concentrated, grappled with the possibilities, and finally the corridor was a corridor and it remained a corridor and the ceiling was up and the floor was down and all things were where they should be. The door was at the end of the corridor. It was open. He had only to shut it.

Alfred started forward.

The door moved backward.

He stopped. It kept going.

It stopped. He kept going. Away from it.

“Let go,” Jonathon’s voice echoed. “And take hold.”

“Of course!” Alfred cried. “That is my mistake! That was Samah’s mistake. That has always been our mistake, all through the centuries! We seek to control the uncontrollable. Let go ... let go.”

But letting go was not an easy thing to do. It meant giving himself up completely to the chaos.

Alfred tried. He opened his hands. The corridor began to shift; the walls closed in, flew outward. Alfred clenched his fists tight over nothing and held on for dear life.

“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he said miserably. “Perhaps I wasn’t meant to let go completely. Surely it won’t hurt if I hold on to just a tiny piece . . ,”

A joyful whuff sounded at the far end of the corridor. Alfred whirled about, standing stock-still, and saw a dog—mouth open in a wide grin, tongue lolling—bounding down the corridor, heading straight for him.

“No!” Alfred shouted, raising his hands to ward off the animal. “No! There’s a good boy. Don’t come any closer! Nice dog! Good dog! No!”

The dog leapt, struck Alfred squarely in the chest. The Sartan tumbled head over feet backward. Pieces of the magic flew everywhere. He was falling up, soaring down . . .

And there was the door, right in front of him.

Alfred slammed to a halt. And he remained halted.

Thankfully, he mopped his sweating head with his shirt sleeve. It was all so easy, really.

In front of him—an ordinary wooden door with a silver handle. Not very prepossessing, almost a disappointment. Alfred looked through the door, saw the four worlds, saw the Nexus, the Labyrinth, the shattered Vortex.

The Labyrinth. Patryns and Sartan stood drawn up in battle formation on either side of a charred and blackened wall. High above the armies flew the good dragons of Pryan, but few could see them through the smoke and darkness. Everyone could see the Labyrinth’s creatures, terrible monsters that lurked in the forests, waiting to fall on the victor. If there could ever be a victor in this hopeless battle.

Other than the serpents.

Bloated, fat with the hatred and the fear, the serpents slithered along on either side of the wall, aiding both armies, whispering, urging, exhorting, lying, fanning the flames of war.

Horrified, sickened, Alfred reached out to slam shut the door.

One of the serpents caught sight of sudden movement, reared its head. It looked up, through the chaos, and saw Alfred.

Death’s Gate stood wide open, visible to anyone who knew where to find it.

The snake’s red eyes flared in alarm. It saw the danger: forever trapped in the Labyrinth. The way to the lush mensch worlds closed off.

Shrieking a warning, the serpent uncoiled its huge body. Red eyes caught Alfred in their lurid gaze. The serpent screeched hideous threats, conjured up terrifying images of pain-racked torment. Toothless maw gaping wide, the dragon-snake surged toward the open door, moving with the speed and force of a cyclone.

Alfred’s hand closed over the silver handle. Shutting out the serpent’s hideous voice, the Sartan fought to pull the door shut.

And then, from far, far behind him, he heard a distant voice—Lord Xar’s voice.

“You have thwarted my wishes for the last time, my son!”

And Jonathon’s voice, “Do no violence!”

Haplo’s voice, a cry of pain and anguish . . . and a shouted warning to Alfred.

Too late.

A sigil, red and flaming, shot down the corridor. It burst, like a lightning blast, on Alfred’s chest.

Blinded, consumed by fire, he lost his grip on the door handle.

The door swung wide open.

The serpent roared inside.

The serpent burst through the door and into Death’s Gate at the precise moment that Xar’s sigil struck Alfred.

Chaos broke free of Alfred’s fragile grasp and began to feed off the serpent, which, in turn, fed off chaos. The serpent cast one glance at the Sartan, saw him horribly injured, probably dying. Satisfied that Alfred posed no threat, the serpent slithered through the corridor, heading for the chamber.

Alfred could not stop it. Xar’s deadly magic seared his skin like molten iron. Falling to his knees, Alfred clutched his chest in agony. Sartan of ancient times would have known how to defend themselves. Alfred had never fought a Patryn. He had never been trained in warfare. The burning pain robbed him of his senses; he couldn’t think. He only wanted to die and end the torment. But then he heard Haplo’s hoarse shout.

Fear for his friend penetrated the blazing wall of agony. Hardly knowing what he was doing, acting out of instinct, Alfred began to do what Ramu would have known to do immediately. Alfred started to unravel Xar’s lethal magic.

The moment he broke the first rune-structure, the pain eased. Breaking down the rest of the sigla was simple after that, similar to ripping out a seam once the first thread has been pulled. But though he was no longer dying, he had let the magical attack go on too long. It had hurt him, wounded him.