Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

She hovered protectively over Abri, scattered its enemies, threw down those bold enough to fight. She saw Lord Xar and Haplo—small and insignificant creatures—and she felt Alfred’s fear for his friends, his determination to help . . .

And then a shadow glimpsed from the corner of the eye ... a desperate swerve in midair . . . too late. Something struck her side, sent her rolling, out of control. She was tumbling, spiraling downward. Frantically, she beat her wings, clawed her way back up. She could see her enemy now, a red dragon.

Taloned feet extended, the dragon plunged through the sky, aiming for her . . .

Confused images of falling, crashing to the ground. Marit shuddered in pain, bit her lip to keep from crying out. Part of her was Alfred, part of her was flowing into Alfred, but part of her was still in the dragon’s cavern, still very much aware of the danger.

And she could see Hugh, tense and alert, staring into the blackness in the back of the cavern, his face gone rigid. He turned toward her, gesturing, mouthing something. She couldn’t hear, but then she didn’t need to hear.

The dragon was coming.

“Alfred!” Marit pleaded, clasping the man’s wrists more tightly. “Alfred, come back!”

He stirred and groaned. His eyelids fluttered. He caught hold of her, held on to her.

Horrid images slammed into Marit—a bulbous tail inflicting searing, paralyzing, numbing pain; swirling hot darkness; waking to torment and agony. Marit could no longer hold back the screams.

The dragon slid into the cavern.

The dragon had been concealed in the shadows of its back exit all along, watching the two would-be saviors, waiting for the precise moment when they were weakest, most vulnerable, to attack. It had first heard the two in the forest, guessed that they had come in search of their friend. The dragon would have attacked them then and there, since it knew by experience that few Patryns would attempt such a hopeless rescue. But the dragon quite simply didn’t feel up to such a fight and so it had, with regret, contented itself with one toy.

To the dragon’s delight, however, these two had decided to follow it. Patryns weren’t often this stupid, but the dragon sensed something odd about these two. One of them had a strange smell, unlike anything the dragon had previously encountered in the Labyrinth. The other one the dragon understood well. She was a Patryn and she was desperate. The desperate were often careless.

Once back in its lair, the dragon took its time torturing the Thing it had captured, the Thing that had been a dragon and had then transformed itself back into a man. The Thing was powerful in magic; it was not a Patryn, yet it was like a Patryn. The dragon was intrigued by it, but not intrigued enough to waste time investigating. The Thing had not proved as amusing as the dragon had hoped. It gave up too easily and actually seemed on the verge of dying.

Becoming bored with tormenting the wretched Thing, and feeling weak from its injury, the dragon had crawled back into the inner part of the cavern to heal its wounds and wait for prey that might prove more entertaining.

The two were better than the dragon had hoped. The Patryn female was actually healing the Thing, which was fine with the dragon. Saved it time and trouble, gave it a stronger victim, one who might now live until next nightfall. As for the Patryn, she was young and defiant. She would last a long time. The male the dragon was unsure about. He was the one with the peculiar smell and no magic about him whatsoever. More like an animal, a deer, for example. Not much sport to him, but he was large and well fleshed. The dragon would have no need to go out in search of a meal this day.

The dragon waited until it saw the Patryn’s rune-magic wholly consumed by the healing process. Then it moved.

The dragon crawled slowly out of the darkness of the cavern. The tunnel seemed large to Hugh, but it was small for the dragon, which had to duck its head to creep beneath the overhang. Hugh stood his ground, assuming that the dragon would wait until its entire body, including the stinging tail, was out in the open before it would attack. The Sartan knife squirmed in Hugh’s grip.

He held it up in challenge, willed it to change form to fight the dragon.

If it had been possible, he would have sworn that the knife seemed ill at ease, unsure. Hugh wished he understood more about the Cursed Blade, tried frantically to recall everything either Haplo or Alfred had said in regard to it. All he could come up with at the moment was that the blade was Sartan-made. And at that moment it occurred to him that the Labyrinth and the creatures in it—including this dragon—had also been made by the Sartan.

The blade was confused. It recognized the same magic inherent in itself, but it also recognized threat. If the dragon had remained patient, gone after Marit, the Sartan blade would not have altered form. But the dragon was hungry. It planned to catch and devour Hugh; then, with a comfortably full stomach, it could go after the other, more difficult prey. Most of the dragon’s body was still inside the back part of the cavern; it could not yet use its tail in the attack. But the dragon didn’t think it would need such an advantage. Almost lazily, it swiped out a clawed forefoot, intending to impale Hugh the Hand and eat him while his flesh was still warm.

The move caught Hugh by surprise. He ducked and flung himself backward. A giant claw raked across his stomach, tearing the leather armor as if it had been finest silk, slashing through flesh and muscle.

At the attack, the Sartan blade was quick to respond. It wrenched itself free of Hugh’s grasp.

A gigantic sweeping tail knocked him aside. Hugh rolled across the cavern floor, bumped up against Marit and Alfred. The two looked terrible—Marit now almost as bad as Alfred. Both seemed dazed, barely conscious. The Hand regained his feet quickly, prepared to defend himself and his helpless companions. He stopped, frozen, staring.

Two dragons were inside the cavern.

The second dragon—actually the Cursed Blade—was a gorgeous creature. Long and slender, this dragon was wingless; its scales sparkled and gleamed like myriad tiny suns, shining in a blue-green sky. It dove for its victim before the Labyrinth dragon had time to fully assimilate what was happening. The blue-green dragon’s head darted in close, jaws opened and snapped shut on the Labyrinth dragon’s neck.

Shrieking in fury and pain, the red dragon twisted out of its captor’s grasp, freeing itself but leaving a bloody chunk of flesh in its enemy’s mouth. The red dragon heaved its body from beneath the overhang, its tremendous strength literally bearing back the attacker. The bulbous tail struck out, stinging the blue-green dragon again and again.

Hugh had seen enough. The dragons were fighting each other, but he and his friends were in peril of being smashed by the flailing, struggling bodies.

“Marit!” He shook her.

She was still holding fast to Alfred; her face was gray and drawn, but she was now alert, staring at the two dragons in astonishment. Alfred was conscious, but he obviously had no idea where he was, who was with him, or what was going on. He was gazing about in dazed perplexity.

“Marit, we’ve got to get out of here!” Hugh shouted.

“Where did that other dragon—” she began.

“The Cursed Blade,” Hugh answered shortly. He bent over Alfred. “Grab his other arm!”

Hugh instructed her needlessly. Marit had already taken hold. Between the two of them, they dragged Alfred to a semistanding position and—half dragging, half carrying him—headed for the cave opening.

The going was difficult. Their way was blocked by reptile bodies that twisted and grappled. Slashing clawed feet tore up the dirt floor. Enormous heads cracked into the cavern ceiling; rock shards and dust drifted down on top of them. Magical attacks flared and burst around them.