Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

Half blind, choking, fearful of being trampled to death or caught in a magical fire-storm, the three staggered out of the cavern entrance. Once in the clear, they fled down the narrow pathway, kept going until Alfred collapsed, Hugh and Marit paused, gasping for breath. Behind them, the dragons roared in pain and rage.

“You’re hurt!” Marit looked concerned at the sight of the gaping wound across Hugh’s stomach.

“It’ll heal,” he said grimly. “Won’t it, Alfred? I’ll carry him.”

Hugh started to lift Alfred bodily, but the Sartan pushed him away.

“I can make it,” he said, struggling to regain his feet. A fierce shriek of fury caused him to blench, glance back at the cavern. “What—”

“No time to explain! Run!” Marit ordered. Grabbing hold of Alfred, she shoved him along ahead of her.

Alfred stumbled, managed to regain his feet and followed orders.

Hugh twisted around. “Where?”

“Down!” Marit answered. “You help Alfred. I’ll keep watch behind.”

The ground shook with the ferocity of the battle being waged inside the cavern. Hugh moved swiftly down the path, slipping and sliding on the rain-wet rock. Marit followed more slowly, keeping one eye on the path, the other on the cavern. She scrambled down the hillside, often losing her footing in the loose soil. Alfred tumbled head over heels, was well on his way to rolling down the hill when he came up hard against a boulder. By the time they reached the bottom, they were all scratched, bruised, and bleeding.

“Listen!” Marit called a halt.

All was quiet now. Very quiet. The battle had ended.

“I wonder who won?” Hugh asked.

“I can live without knowing,” Marit answered.

“If we’re lucky, they killed each other,” Hugh commented. “I wouldn’t care if I never saw that damn blade again.”

The silence continued; it had an ominous feel to it. Marit wanted to be farther away, much farther.

“How are you?” she asked, including both Hugh and Alfred.

Hugh grunted, pointed. His wound had almost closed; the rent in his armor was the only indication of where it had been. In explanation, he pulled aside his shirt, revealing a single Sartan sigil, gleaming faintly on his chest. Alfred, at the sight, flushed bright red and averted his gaze.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the ground, coming from the direction of the cave. They stared at each other, tense, fearful, wondering at the portent.

Then, once again, all was silent.

“We better push on,” Marit said, keeping her voice low.

Alfred nodded befuddled agreement. Taking a step, he stumbled over his own feet, lurched headlong into a tree.

Marit, sighing, reached out to take hold of his arm. Hugh the Hand, on Alfred’s other side, moved to do the same.

“Hugh!” Marit pointed at the bloodstained leather belt around his waist.

Hanging from it, wrapped snugly in its sheath, was the Cursed Blade.

“I can’t ... go on.” Alfred pitched forward, lay very still.

Marit eyed him, frustrated. They were wasting time. Yet, though she didn’t like to admit it, she could not go much farther. Thinking back, she couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d slept.

“You can rest,” she said curtly, sitting on a tree stump. “But only a few moments, till we catch our breath.”

Alfred lay with his eyes closed, his face half buried in the mud. He looked old—old and shrunken. Marit found it difficult to believe that this gangling, frail Sartan had once been a creature as beautiful and powerful as the green and golden dragon she’d seen soaring above Abri.

“What’s the matter with him now?” Hugh the Hand demanded, entering the small clearing where they had stopped. The Hand had been following some distance behind, keeping watch to make certain nothing was tracking them.

Marit shrugged, too tired to respond. She knew what was wrong with Alfred: the same thing that was wrong with her. What was the use? Why bother to keep struggling?

“I found some water,” Hugh said, gesturing. “Not far from here . . .”

Marit shook her head. Alfred made no move.

Hugh sat down, nervous, ill at ease. He sat with what patience he could for a few moments, then was on his feet again. “We’ll be safer in Abri—”

“For how long?” Marit returned bitterly. “Look. Look up there.”

Hugh peered through the tangled branches of the trees. The sky, which had been gray, was now tinged with a faint pinkish-orange glow.

The runes on her skin barely tingled at all. No enemy was near them. Yet that red fire in the sky seemed to be burning up her hope.

She closed her eyes wearily.

And she saw, once again, the world from the dragon’s eyes. She was flying above Abri, and saw its buildings and its people, saw its sheltering walls, the arms of the land reaching out to encircle the land’s children.

Her children. Her child. Hers and Haplo’s.

A girl-child. Her name—Rue. She was eight gates now, or around there. Marit could see her—skinny and wiry, tall for her age, with chestnut hair like her mother and her father’s quiet smile.

Marit could see it all so clearly.

“We taught Rue how to snare small game, how to skin a rabbit, how to catch fish with her hands,” Marit was telling Headman Vasu, who had inexplicably appeared out of nowhere. “She’s old enough to be of some help to us now. I’m glad we decided to keep her with us, instead of leaving her with the Squatters.”

Rue could run fast, when need arose, and she could fight if cornered. She had her own rune-covered dagger—a gift from her mother.

“I taught her how to use it,” Marit was saying to the headman. “Not long ago, Rue faced down a snog with it. She held the creature at bay until her father and I could rescue her. She wasn’t afraid, she said, though she shook in my arms afterward. Then Haplo came and teased her and made her laugh and we were all three of us laughing . . .”

“Hey!”

Marit jerked to sudden wakefulness. Hugh’s hand was on her shoulder. He’d caught her just as she was about to topple over.

She flushed deeply. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

Rubbing her burning eyes, she stood up. The temptation to slip back into that sweet dream was too strong. For an instant she let herself believe, superstitiously, that the dream held meaning for her. Haplo was alive. He would come back to her. Together, they would find their lost child.

The warmth of that dream lingered in her; she felt surrounded by love and caring . . . Angrily, she banished it.

A dream, she told herself coldly, firmly. Nothing more. Nothing I can ever attain. I threw it all away.

“What?” Alfred sat up. “What did you say? Something about Haplo?”

Marit didn’t think she had spoken aloud, but then she was so tired she didn’t know what she was doing anymore.

“We better get going,” she said, avoiding the subject. Alfred staggered to his feet, continued to stare at her with a strange, sad intensity.

“Where is Haplo? I saw him with Lord Xar, Are they in Abri?”

Marit turned away from him. “They left for Abarrach.”

“Abarrach ... the necromancy.” Alfred sank down despondently on the trunk of a fallen tree. “The necromancy.” He sighed. “Then Haplo is dead.”

“He isn’t!” Marit cried, rounding on Alfred viciously. “My lord would not let him die!”

“Like hell!” Hugh the Hand snorted. “You tried to kill Haplo—on your lord’s orders!”

“That was when he thought Haplo was a traitor!” Marit flared. “My lord knows better now! He knows Haplo was telling him the truth about the dragon-snakes. My lord won’t let Haplo die! He won’t ... he won’t . . .”