Margaret Weis: The Seventh Gate

At one point, Alfred’s silence lasted longer than usual. The dragon sounded irritated, as might someone attempting to wake a sound sleeper.

“He’s dead,” Hugh the Hand whispered.

Marit said nothing. She continued climbing. Just when Alfred’s silence had lasted long enough to almost convince her that Hugh was right, she heard a low and pleading moan—the victim begging for mercy—that rose to a high-pitched cry of torment, a cry punctuated by the cruel, triumphant voice of the dragon. Listening again to Alfred’s screams, the two pushed on.

A narrow path wound along the hillside, leading up toward the cave, which had undoubtedly been used for shelter by a great many of the Labyrinth’s population over the years—until the dragon moved in. The path was not difficult to climb, even in the steadily pouring rain, and Marit need not have worried about losing the dragon’s trail in the darkness. In its eagerness to reach its lair, the injured dragon dislodged trees and boulders. The beast’s gigantic feet dug deep gouges into the soil, forming crude steps.

Marit didn’t particularly like all this “help.” She had the distinct impression that the dragon knew it was being followed and was quite pleased to do what it could to lure new victims to torment.

She had no choice but to go on. And if ever once she despaired, thought of giving up and turning back, the red glow on the horizon reflected off the storm clouds, drove her forward.

At about midnight, she called a halt. The two were as near the lair as Marit deemed safe. Finding a shallow depression in the rock that would at least offer them some shelter from the rain, she crawled into it, motioned Hugh to follow her.

He did not. He remained crouched on the narrow ledge that led up the hill to the gaping darkness of the dragon’s lair. Marit could see, by her rune-light, the mensch’s face twisted with hatred and ferocity. One of those terrible, ominous silences had just fallen, after a particularly long session of torture.

“Hugh, we can’t go on!” Marit warned him. “It’s too dangerous. We have to wait until the dragon leaves!”

A fine plan, except that Alfred’s cries were weakening.

Hugh didn’t hear her. He stared with narrowed eyes up the cliff face. “I’d live this wretched existence forever,” he whispered passionately, reverently, “if I could just, this once, have the power to kill!”

Hatred. Marit knew the feeling well, and she knew how dangerous it could be. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of the man and dragged him bodily inside.

“Listen to me, mensch!” she said, arguing as much with herself as with him. “You’re feeling exactly what the dragon wants you to feel! Don’t you remember anything of what I told you? The dragon’s doing this on purpose, torturing us as well as Alfred. It wants us to rush in and attack mindlessly. And that’s why we won’t. We’re going to sit right here until it leaves or we think of something else.”

Hugh glowered at her and for a moment Marit thought he was going to defy her. She could stop him, of course. He was a strong man, but he was a mensch, without magic and therefore weak, compared to her. She didn’t want to have to fight him, however. A magical battle would alert the dragon to their presence—if it didn’t already know—and then again there was that cursed Sartan knife Hugh carried . . .

Marit sucked in a breath. Her hold on Hugh the Hand eased.

Hugh wedged his body into the narrow space beside her. “What? You’ve thought of something?”

“I might just let you rush in mindlessly, after all. That Cursed Blade. Do you still have it?”

“Yes, I’ve got the damn thing. It’s like this cursed life of mine—I can’t seem to get rid of either . . .” Hugh paused, the same idea occurring to him. “The blade would save Alfred!”

“Maybe.” Marit gnawed her lip. “It’s a powerful weapon, but I’m not sure even such a magical object could stand up against a red dragon. Still, the Cursed Blade could at least buy us time, provide a diversion.”

“The blade has to believe that Alfred’s in danger. No, belay that,” Hugh said, thinking swiftly. “It only has to believe that I’m in danger.”

“You charge in. The dragon will attack you. The Cursed Blade will attack the dragon. I’ll find Alfred, use my magic to cure him enough to get him on his feet, and we’ll leave.”

“Just one problem, lady. The blade could go for you, too.”

Marit shrugged. “You’ve heard Alfred’s cries. He’s growing weaker. Maybe the dragon’s tiring of its sport or maybe, since Alfred’s a Sartan, the dragon doesn’t know how to keep him alive. Whatever . . . Alfred’s dying. If we wait any longer, it may be too late.”

Perhaps now was too late. The words hung between them, unspoken. They had heard nothing from Alfred, not even a moan, in all the moments they’d been crouched in the narrow cave. The dragon, too, was strangely silent.

Hugh the Hand fumbled about in his belt, produced the crude, ugly Sartan knife—the Cursed Blade, as he had named it. He eyed it narrowly, held it gingerly.

“Ugh,” he grunted, grimacing in disgust. “The damn thing wriggles in my hand like a snake. Let’s get on with this. I’d as soon face that dragon as hold on to this knife much longer.”

Grafted by the Sartan, the Cursed Blade was intended to be used by mensch to defend their “superiors”—the Sartan—in battle. The blade was sentient; would, of its own accord, assume a form necessary to defeat its foe. It needed Hugh, or any mensch, merely as a means of transport. It did not need his direction to fight. The blade would defend him as its carrier. It would defend any Sartan in danger. Unfortunately, as Hugh had pointed out, the blade had been designed to battle the Sartan’s ancient enemy—the Patryns. The blade was just as likely (perhaps more likely) to attack Marit as it was to attack the dragon.

“At least now I know how to control the damn thing,” he told her. “If it goes for you, I can—”

“—rescue Alfred.” Marit cut him off. “Take him back to Abri, to the healers. Don’t stop to try to help me, Hugh,” she added, as he opened his mouth to protest. “At least the blade will kill me quickly.”

He regarded her intently, not meaning to argue with her, but taking her measure, trying to decide if she was ail talk or if she had the courage to back her words.

Marit gazed back at him, unblinking.

Nodding once, Hugh slid out of the rock depression. Marit crawled after him. As luck—or the Labyrinth—would have it, the rain that had concealed their movement now stopped. A gentle breeze stirred the trees, producing miniature rainstorms when the water fell from the leaves. The two stood on the ledge, hardly daring to breathe.

Not a whimper, not a moan . . . and the cave’s entrance was only a hundred steps away. Both could see it clearly, a gaping black hole against the white glimmer of the rock. In the distance, the red glow in the sky seemed to burn brighter.

“Perhaps the dragon’s asleep!” Hugh the Hand hissed into her ear.

Marit conceded the possibility with a nod and a shrug. She found little comfort in the idea. The dragon would wake soon enough when it smelled fresh sport.

Hugh the Hand took the lead. He trod softly, testing each step, padding along the path with a skill and ease Marit deemed impressive. She crept after him, making no noise at all. Yet Marit had the uneasy feeling that the dragon could hear them coming, that it was lying in wait.

They reached the cavern’s entrance. Hugh flattened himself back against the rock wall, wormed his way along the cliff face, hoping to be able to peer inside, see without being seen. Marit waited at a distance, hiding behind a bush, keeping the entrance to the cave in plain sight.