Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

“My Lord,” Haplo murmured. “I’m here . . . I’ve reached it. The Final Gate.”

“What is he talking about, Lord?” Sang-drax demanded nervously. “What is he telling you? Lies, My Lord. Lies.”

“He’s not saying anything important,” Xar replied. “He imagines he is back in the Labyrinth.”

Haplo shuddered. His voice hardened, grew strong. “I beat it, Lord. I defeated it.”

“You did, my son,” Xar said. “You won a great victory.”

Haplo smiled. He clung to Xar’s hand a moment longer, then let go. “Thank you for your help, My Lord, but I do not need you now. I can walk through the Gate on my own.”

“So you can, my son,” said Xar softly. “So you can.”

Sang-drax spoke a sigil—a Sartan sigil—and drew a Patryn sigil in the air at the same time. The two runes flared, flashed, and flew toward the construct Xar had created.

But the Lord of the Nexus had been watching, waiting for the serpent to make just such a move. He reacted swiftly, cast his own rune. The constructs met, burst, exploded in a shower of sparks, and canceled each other out.

Xar rose to his feet. He held the snake dagger in his hand.

“I know the real traitor,” he said, watching Sang-drax, who watched the lord through narrowed, glittering red eyes. “I know who has tried to bring my people to ruin.”

“You want to see the person who has brought destruction to his people?” Sang-drax sneered, mocking. “Look in a mirror, Lord of the Nexus!”

Sang-drax shed the Patryn body, took on serpent form, growing, expanding until the great, slime-covered bulk filled the Chamber of the Damned.

“Thank you, Lord of the Nexus, for casting the spell to tear down the worlds,” said the serpent, its head rearing upward. “It was, I admit, a plan we had not considered. But it will work out well for us. We will feed off the turmoil and chaos for eons to come. And your people, trapped forever in the Labyrinth. I regret you will not live to see it, Lord Xar, but you are far too dangerous—”

The serpent’s toothless maw opened. Xar looked at his doom. Then he turned away.

He gave his attention to the magic, to the wondrous rune-construct he had created. The magic he had spent his life creating—a dream forged out of hatred.

He knew the snake was attacking, lethal jaws opening wide to devour him.

With a steady hand, he drew the sigil in the air. Its fire glowed blue, then red, then hot white, blazing, blinding. Xar spoke the command, his voice firm, clear, loud.

The sigil struck the magical rune-construct, burst on it like an exploding star, tore the heart out of the spell.

Snapping jaws closed over the Lord of the Nexus.

The serpents flew toward Death’s Gate. The opening was clearly visible now, a black patch in the gray, smoke-filled sky above the Labyrinth. Below, the Final Gate remained open, but the Sartan were massing their forces along it; the Patryns were doing the same on the opposite side.

Alfred tried to contain his despair, but he could not hope to hold the Gate against the enormous power of the enemy. Frightful sounds from the Chamber behind him unnerved him, distracted his attention when he needed to concentrate on his magic. Frantically, he searched through the possibilities, trying to find one that would come to his aid, but it seemed he was seeking to do the impossible.

Whatever spell he cast, the serpents had the ability to rip it asunder. He had never realized before how truly powerful the creatures were—either that or they were gaining strength and power from the war below. Sick at heart, the green and golden dragon kept guard before Death’s Gate and waited for the end.

A shape loomed into view, swooping at him from the side.

Bracing himself, Alfred swerved to fight.

He faced an old man seated on a dragon’s back. The old man was dressed in mouse-colored robes, his white hair flew out wildly behind.

“Red Leader to Red One!” the old man howled. “Come in, Red One!”

The serpents were spreading out, sending some to deal with Alfred. The rest were massing to enter Death’s Gate.

“Break off the attack, Red One,” the old man shouted and waved a hand. “Go rescue the princess! My squadron’ll take over!”

Behind the old man, legions of dragons of Pryan flew out of the smoke of the burning Nexus.

“How do you like my ship?” The old man patted the dragon’s neck. “Made the Kessel run in six parsecs!”

The dragon dropped suddenly from the skies, diving for one of the serpents. The old man gave Alfred a salute before he disappeared from view. The other Pryan dragons followed, soaring into the battle against their enemies.

Alfred no longer had to deal with his enemies alone. He could return to the Chamber of the Damned. He flew inside Death’s Gate. Once there, he altered his form, was again the tall and gangling, balding, velvet-coated Sartan. He stood for a moment watching the fight.

Confronted by a courageous, determined foe, most of the serpents were fleeing.

“Good-bye, Zifnab,” Alfred said quietly.

Sighing, he turned back to face the chaos reverberating throughout the hall behind him.

And, as he did so, he heard a faint cry.

“The name’s . . . Luke . . .”

Inside the Chamber of the Damned, the serpent crushed Xar in its toothless mouth, then flung the broken and bloodied body into the softly glowing walls of the Chamber of the Damned.

The lord’s body hit with a bone-crushing thud, slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the white marble. Xar lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom. The serpent shrieked in triumph.

“My Lord!” Haplo was on his feet, dizzy and weak, but no longer disoriented.

“There is nothing you can do,” said the serpent. “The Lord of the Nexus is dead.”

The serpent’s red eyes turned on Haplo.

Through the four doors behind him, Haplo could see the four worlds. The storms on Arianus were beginning to abate. The seas of Chelestra were once more calm. Pryan’s suns shone with blinding brilliance. Abarrach’s crust shuddered and was still. The crumpled body of his lord lay in a pool of blood.

Seated at the white table, Jonathon intoned, “Do no violence.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Haplo said grimly.

The serpent loomed over him, its huge head weaving hypnotically back and forth, red eyes staring down at him.

Haplo’s only weapon was the snake-shaped dagger. He was surprised to feel how well it fit his hand, the hilt seeming to adapt itself to his touch. But the short blade would be less than an insect bite on the thick and magical skin of the serpent.

Haplo gripped the weapon, eyed the monster, waited for the attack. The sigla on his skin flared brightly.

The serpent began to shift form, dwindling in size until, within the span of an eyeblink, an elf lord

Giving Haplo an ingratiating smile, Sang-drax began to sidle closer.

“Far enough,” said Haplo, raising the knife.

Sang-drax halted. Slender, delicate hands raised, palms facing outward, in a gesture of surrender and conciliation. He looked hurt, disappointed.

“Is this how you thank me, Haplo?” Sang-drax made a graceful gesture toward Xar. “But for my intervention, he would have taken your life.”

Haplo cast Xar’s body a glance, quickly brought his attention back to Sang-drax, who—in the intervening time—had once again attempted to draw near the Patryn.

“You killed my liege lord,” said Haplo quietly.

Sang-drax laughed in disbelief. “Liege lord! I killed the lord who ordered Bane to have you assassinated. The lord who seduced the woman you love, then convinced her to murder you. The lord who was going to chain you to a life of torment among the undead! That’s your liege lord for you.”