Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

The magic was a blazing inferno in front of the Lord of the Nexus. His back was unprotected.

Sang-drax raised the dagger. The serpent’s red eyes focused on the base of the lord’s skull, the place where the protective runes ended.

Silently, the serpent glided toward its victim. But in order to reach Xar, Sang-drax would have to go around Haplo.

If my lord dies, the spell he is casting will be disrupted. The worlds will be safe. I should let Xar die. As he let me die.

I should do nothing. Let my lord die ...

I must ...

“My Lord!” Haplo shouted as he sprang to his feet. “Behind you!”

Alfred stared in horror through Death’s Gate. Other serpents had left the battle in the Labyrinth, were speeding toward the open door. One, in the vanguard, was almost there.

“Haplo!” Alfred started to call for help and at that moment heard Haplo’s warning shout to Lord Xar.

Glancing back over his shoulder, down the chaotic corridor, Alfred could see the Patryn springing to attack the serpent.

Alfred choked back his own cry. He turned helplessly to the open doorway, to the serpent—red eyes gleaming—lunging for it. If that serpent succeeded in entering, it would join its fellow, and Haplo would be fighting two of them. His chances against one were slim; against two the odds would be insurmountable, particularly if Xar turned against him, as seemed very likely.

“I have to stop this one myself!” Alfred said, groping around within himself for the courage, for the other Alfred, for the Alfred whose name was truly Coren—The Chosen.

And suddenly the possibility was enacted that Alfred was back inside the mausoleum of Arianus.

He couldn’t believe it. He stared around, confused, yet immeasurably relieved, thankful, as if he’d wakened in his bed to find that the preceding had all been nothing but a terrible nightmare.

The tomb was peaceful, silent. He was secure, safe. The coffins of his friends, sleeping in tranquillity, surrounded him. And as he gazed around in thankful bewilderment, wondering what all this meant, Alfred saw the door of his own coffin open.

He had only to crawl inside, lie down, close his eyes.

Gratefully, he took a step toward it ... and fell over the dog.

He tumbled to the cold marble floor of the mausoleum, entangled in a confused flurry of paws and plumy tail. The animal yelped in pain. Alfred had landed squarely on top of it.

Crawling out from underneath the spread-eagled Sartan, the animal shook itself indignantly, regarded him with reproachful eyes.

“I’m sorry . . .” Alfred stammered.

His apology echoed through the chamber like the voice of a phantasm. The dog barked irritably.

“You’re right,” Alfred said, flushing, smiling faintly. “There I go—apologizing. I won’t let it happen again.”

The door to the coffin slammed shut.

He was back in Death’s Gate, inside the corridor, and the serpent was in the doorway.

Alfred let go ... and seized hold.

A green-scaled and golden-winged dragon, its burnished crest shining like a sun, shattered the corridor of chaos, burst out of Death’s Gate, and attacked the serpent.

The dragon’s powerful back claws slammed into the serpent’s body, slid through the gray-scaled skin, dug deep into flesh.

The serpent, impaled on the dragon’s claws, writhed and twisted in an attempt to free itself, but the movement only drove the claws deeper into its body. In terrible pain, the serpent fought back, its toothless, powerful jaws attempting to close around the dragon’s slender neck, crack and break it.

The dragon’s fangs closed over the snake’s snapping jaws, sank into the head, between the red, hatefilled eyes. Blood spurted, raining down on the Labyrinth. The serpent shrieked in its death throes, and its cries reached its fellows.

They began to close ranks around the dragon, preparing to rush in for the kill.

Alfred loosed his claws from the dead serpent, let it fall to the ground. He longed to return to the Chamber, to come to Haplo’s aid, but Alfred dared not leave the door unguarded.

The green and golden dragon flew before Death’s Gate, awaited the onslaught.

Haplo’s cry jolted Xar from his magic. He had no need to look around to know what was happening. The serpent had betrayed him. Xar had barely time enough to reestablish his body’s own magical defenses when he was hit from behind. A flash of pain seared the back of his head.

Xar stumbled, turned to defend himself.

Haplo was struggling with Sang-drax, both of them grappling for a bloodstained dagger.

“Lord Xar! This traitor tried to kill you!” Sang-drax snarled, striking viciously at Haplo.

Haplo said nothing, his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. The sigla on his skin flared blue. There was blood on his hands.

Xar reached to touch the wound, drew back fingers wet with blood.

“Indeed,” he said and watched the battle between Haplo and the serpent with a strange detachment. The pain was a distraction, but he didn’t have time to heal himself. The rune-construct he had created blazed with a bright light in front of the four doors—the doors that led to the four worlds. But, here and there, the light was starting to fade. Bereft of the lord’s power, the magic he had cast was starting to unravel.

Xar irritably wiped away the blood that was starting to ooze down his neck and into his robes. The blood might have been someone else’s for all the thought he gave it.

Sang-drax struck Haplo again and again—savage, vicious blows that cracked open the rune-magic, began to bruise and batter flesh and bone. Haplo’s face was smeared with blood. He was half-blind, stunned, could do little to halt the brutal attack. Blow after blow drove Haplo to his knees. A vicious kick in the face sent him reeling backward. He fell, lay unconscious. On the floor near him was the snake-shaped dagger.

Sang-drax turned to face Xar.

The Lord of the Nexus tensed. The serpent stood between Xar and the magical rune-construct.

Sang-drax pointed at the fallen Haplo.

“This treacherous servant of yours tried to murder you, Lord of the Nexus! Fortunately, I was able to stop him. Say the word and I will end his life.”

Haplo rolled over, lay face first on the blood-spattered floor.

“You needn’t waste your time,” Xar said, drawing closer to Haplo, to the serpent, to the magic. “I will deal with him. Stand aside.”

The serpent’s red eyes gleamed with a bright, suspicious light. Swiftly, Sang-drax hooded his emotion, lowering the eyelids.

“I am only too pleased to obey you, Lord. First”—the serpent swooped down—“allow me to retrieve the traitor’s dagger. He might be shamming again.”

Sang-drax’s hand closed over empty air.

Xar—quite by inadvertence—had placed his foot on the blood-covered blade. He knelt beside Haplo, all the while keeping an eye on Sang-drax. The lord grasped hold—not gently—of Haplo’s chin, turned his face to the light. A savage cut had split open Haplo’s forehead, practically to the bone.

The lord traced, swiftly, obliquely, a healing sigil over the wound, closing it, stopping the bleeding. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Xar traced another sigil on Haplo’s forehead, a copy of the one over Xar’s own heart. He traced it in blood; it wouldn’t last. It had no power ... no magical power.

At his lord’s touch, Haplo groaned; his eyes flickered open. Xar increased the pressure, digging his gnarled fingers deep into Haplo’s flesh.

Haplo looked up, blinked. He was having difficulty focusing, and when he could see, he seemed puzzled. Then he sighed and smiled. Reaching out his hand, he clasped Xar’s wrist.