Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

“If my lord required my death as payment for my life, then that was his right,” Haplo returned, holding the dagger high and steady. “You are wasting my time. Whatever it is you mean to do to me, get on with it.”

He wondered where Alfred was, could only assume the Sartan was dead.

Sang-drax was perplexed. “My dear Haplo, I have no weapons. I am not a threat to you. No, I want to serve you. My people want to serve you. Once I bowed down to you and called you ‘Master.’ I do so again.”

The serpent in elf form made a low and servile bow, red eyes lowered, hooded. Crouching like a toad, he made another attempt to creep up on Haplo, halted at the flash of the snake-shaped blade.

“The Sartan have arrived in the Nexus,” Sang-drax continued, voice sibilant. “Do you know that, Haplo? Ramu plans to seal shut the Final Gate. I can stop them. My people and I can destroy them. You have only to say the word, and your enemy’s blood will be sweet wine for you to savor. We ask one small favor in return.”

“And that is—?” Haplo asked.

Sang-drax looked toward the four doors; the red eyes glinted eagerly, hungrily. “Cast the spell, the one your lord was weaving. You can do it, Haplo. You are as powerful as Xar. And I will be glad to offer my poor help—”

Haplo smiled grimly, shook his head.

“Surely you don’t refuse?” Sang-drax was pained, sadly astonished.

Haplo didn’t answer. Instead, he began walking backward, toward the first door—Arianus.

Sang-drax watched, red eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, Haplo, my friend?”

“Shutting the door, Sang-drax, my friend,” Haplo returned. “Shutting all the doors.”

“A mistake, Haplo.” The serpent hissed softly. “A terrible mistake.”

Haplo looked down onto Arianus, world of air. The storm clouds were being blown apart; Solarus was shining. He could see the continent of Drevlin, the metal parts of the great Kicksey-winsey flashing in the intermittent sunlight. He could picture Limbeck the dwarf, peering nearsightedly through his thick lenses, giving a speech to which no one was listening, except Jarre. And perhaps, someday, a host of small Limbecks who would change a world with their “whys.”

Haplo smiled, said good-bye, and slammed shut the door.

Sang-drax hissed again in displeasure.

Haplo didn’t look at the serpent; he could tell by the fact that the light was growing dark in the Chamber that the creature was once more altering its shape.

The next door, Pryan, world of fire. Blinding sunlight, a contrast to the growing shadows gathering around him. Tiny silver stars were glittering jewels set in a green velvet jungle. The citadels, come to life, beamed their light and energy out into the universe. Paithan and Rega, Aleatha and Roland and the dwarf Drugar—mankind, elfkind, dwarfkind—loving, fighting, living, dying. According to Xar, they had learned the secret of the tytans. They were operating the citadels. Haplo would never know their fate. But he was confident that—resilient, strong in their many weaknesses, with an indomitable spirit—the mensch would thrive when the gods who had brought them to this world were gone and forgotten.

Haplo said good-bye and slammed shut the door.

“You have doomed yourself, Patryn,” warned a sibilant voice. “You will meet the same end as your lord.”

Haplo didn’t look. He could hear the serpent’s huge body scraping against the stone floor, could smell the foul odor of death and decay, could almost feel the slime on his skin.

He took a quick look at Abarrach, a dead world, populated by the dead. Jonathon had wanted to free them, free himself. That would not happen, apparently.

I have failed them, too, Haplo said to himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he closed the door, and he smiled ruefully. He sounded very much like Alfred.

He reached the fourth door, Chelestra, world of water. On this world he had, at last, come to know himself.

He heard the serpent hiss behind him, but steadfastly ignored the sound. The dwarf maid Grundle had probably married her Hartmut by now. The wedding would have been quite a party: the elves, dwarves, and humans gathering together to celebrate. Haplo wondered how Grundle had done in the ax-throwing contest.

He whispered good-bye and good luck to her and to her husband, and shut the door softly, with a momentary pang of regret. Then he turned to face Sang-drax.

The snake-shaped dagger in Haplo’s hand changed to a sword, made of fine steel, gleaming, heavy. His magic had not altered it. The serpent must have.

The gigantic gray body towered over him, its very presence crushing. The serpent could have struck him from behind at any time, but it didn’t want him to die without a struggle, without a fight, without pain and fear . . .

Haplo raised the sword, braced himself for the attack.

“Don’t, Haplo! Put the weapon down!”

Alfred tumbled out of Death’s Gate. He would have gone sprawling on the floor, but he saved himself by grabbing hold of the white table. Clinging to it, he gasped, “Don’t fight!”

“Yes, Haplo,” the serpent mocked, “put the sword down! Your dying will be so much faster that way.”

There was blood on Haplo’s shirt. The wound over his heart had broken open, was bleeding again. Oddly, the dagger wound he’d taken on his forehead didn’t pain him at all.

“Use nothing.” Alfred sucked in a gulping breath, struggling to remain calm. “Refuse to fight. It’s the fight the creature wants!” The Sartan pointed to the body of Lord Xar. “ ‘Those who bring violence in this place will find it turned against them.’ ”

Haplo hesitated. All his life, he had fought to survive. Now he was being asked to cast away his weapon, refuse to fight, meekly await torture, torment, death . . . Worse, endure the knowledge that his enemy would live to destroy others.

“You’re asking too much, Alfred,” he said harshly. “Next, I suppose you’ll want me to faint!”

Alfred stretched forth his hands. “Haplo, I beg—”

The serpent’s huge tail slashed around, struck the Sartan a blow across his back that doubled him over the white table.

Sang-drax reared up. The serpent’s head hung poised over Alfred. The red eyes focused on Haplo. “The next blow will break his spine. And the one after that will crush his body. Fight, Haplo, or the Sartan dies.”

Alfred managed to lift his head. His nose was broken, his lip split. Blood smeared his face. “Don’t listen, Haplo! If you fight, you are doomed!”

The serpent waited, smug, knowing it had won.

Burning with anger and the strong need to kill this loathsome being, Haplo cast a bitter, frustrated glance at Alfred. “Do you expect me to stand here and die?”

“Trust me, Haplo!” Alfred pleaded. “It’s all I’ve ever asked of you! Trust me!”

“Trust a Sartan!” Sang-drax laughed horribly. “Trust your mortal enemy! Trust those who sent you to the Labyrinth, who are responsible for the deaths of how many thousands of your people? Your parents, Haplo. Do you remember how they died? Your mother’s screams. She screamed a long, long time, didn’t she, before they finally left her to die of her wounds. And you saw it. You saw what they did to her. This man—responsible. And he begs you to trust him . . .”

Haplo closed his eyes. His head had begun to hurt; he felt blood sticky on his hands. He was that child again, cowering in the bushes, stunned and dazed from the blow inflicted by his father. The blow had been intended to knock him out, to keep him silent and safe while his parents drew their attackers away from their child. But his parents had not been able to run far. Haplo had regained consciousness.

His own wail of fear and terror was choked off by his horror. And hate. Hate for those who had done this, who were responsible . . .