Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 1

Dragon Wing - Death Gate Cycle 1

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

PROLOGUE

"BE AT EASE, HAPLO. COME IN AND MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE. SIT DOWN. THERE

are no formalities between us."

"Allow me to fill your glass. We drink what was once called the stirrup cup, a

salute to your long journey.

"You like the port? Ah, my talents are many and manifold, as you know, but I

begin to think that only time-not magic- can produce a truly fine port. At

least that's what the old books teach. I've no doubt our ancestors were right

about that ... no matter how wrong they were in other things. There is

something about the drink I miss, a warmth, a mellowness that comes with age.

This port is too harsh, too aggressive. Fine qualities in men, Haplo, but not

in wine.

"So, you are prepared for your journey? Is there any need or want I can

satisfy? Say so, and it's yours. Nothing?

"Ah, I do envy you. My thoughts will be with you every moment, waking and

sleeping. Another salute. To you, Haplo, my emissary to an unsuspecting world.

"And they must not suspect. I know we've been over this before, but I want to

stress this again. The danger is great. If our ancient enemy catches even the

slightest hint that we've escaped their prison, they will move land, sea, sun,

and sky-as they did once-to thwart us. Sniff them out, Haplo. Sniff them out

as that dog of yours sniffs out a rat, but never let them catch a whiff of

you.

"Let me refill your glass. Another salute. This one to the Sartan. You

hesitate to drink. Come. I insist. Your rage is your strength. Use it, it will

give you energy. Therefore...

"To the Sartan. They made us what we are.

"How old are you, Haplo? You have no idea?

"I know-time has no meaning in the Labyrinth. Let me think. When I first saw

you, you looked to be just over twenty-five years. A long life for those of

the Labyrinth. A long life, and one that had almost ended.

"How well I remember that time, five years ago, I was about to reenter the

Labyrinth when you emerged. Bleeding, barely able to walk, dying. Yet you

looked up at me with an expression-I will never forget it-Triumph! You had

escaped. You had beaten them. I saw that triumph in your eyes, in your

exultant smile. And then you collapsed at my feet.

"It was that expression which drew me to you, dear boy. I felt the same when I

escaped from that hell so long ago. I was the first one, the first one to make

it through alive.

"Centuries ago, the Sartan thought to defeat our ambition by sundering the

world that was ours by rights and throwing us into their prison. As you well

know, the way out of the Labyrinth is long and tortuous. It took centuries to

solve the twisting puzzle of our land. The old books say the Sartan devised

this punishment in hopes that our bounding ambition and our cruel and selfish

natures would be softened by time and suffering.

"You must always remember their plan, Haplo. It will give you the strength

you'll need to do what I ask of you. The Sartan had dared to assume that, when

we emerged into this world, we would be fit to take our places in any of the

four realms we chose to enter.

"Something went wrong. Perhaps you'll discover what it was when you enter

Death Gate. It seems, from what I have been able to decipher in the old books,

that the Sartan were to have monitored the Labyrinth and kept its magic in

check. But, either through malicious intent or for some other reason, they

forsook their responsibility as caretakers of our prison. The prison gained a

life of its own-a life that knew only one thing, survival. And so, the

Labyrinth, our prison, came to see us, its prisoners, as a threat. After the

Sartan abandoned us, the Labyrinth, driven by its fear and hatred of us,

turned deadly.

"When at last I found my way out, I discovered the Nexus, this beautiful land

the Sartan had established for our occupation. And I came across the books.

Unable to read them at first, I worked and taught myself and soon learned

their secrets. I read of the Sartan and their 'hopes' for us and I laughed

aloud-the first and only time in my life I have ever laughed. You understand

me, Haplo. There is no joy in the Labyrinth.

"But I will laugh again, when my plans are complete. When the four separate

worlds-Fire, Water, Stone, and Sky-are again one. Then I will laugh long and

loudly.

"Yes. It's time for you to leave. You've been patient with the ramblings of

your lord. Another salute.

"To you, Haplo.

"As I was the first to leave the Labyrinth and enter the Nexus, so you shall

be the first to enter Death Gate and walk the worlds beyond.

"The Realm of the Sky. Study it well, Haplo. Come to know the people. Search

out their strengths and their weaknesses. Do what you can to cause chaos in

the realm, but always be discreet. Keep your powers hidden. Above all, take no

action that will draw the attention of the Sartan, for if they discover us

before I am ready, we are lost.

"Death first, before you betray us. I know you have the discipline and the

courage to make that choice. But more important, Haplo, you have the skill and

the wits to make such a choice unnecessary. This is why I've chosen you for

this mission.

"You have one other task. Bring me someone from this realm who will serve as

my disciple. Someone who will return to preach the word, my word, to the

people. It can be someone of any race - elven, human, dwarven. Make certain

that he or she is intelligent, ambitious, . . . and pliable.

"In an ancient text, I came across a fitting analogy. You; Haplo, shall be the

voice of one crying in the wilderness.

"And now, a final salute. We will stand for this one.

"To Death Gate. 'Prepare ye the way.' "

CHAPTER 1

YRENI PRISON, DANDRAK,

MID REALM

THE CRUDELY BUILT CART LURCHED AND BOUNCED OVER THE ROUGH CORALITE

terrain, its iron wheels hitting every bump and pit in what passed for a road.

The cart was being pulled by a tier, its breath snorting puffs in the chill

air. It took one man to lead the stubborn and unpredictable bird while four

more, stationed on either side of the vehicle, pushed and shoved the cart

along. A small crowd, garnered from the outlying farms, had gathered in front

of Yreni Prison, planning to escort the cart and its shameful burden to the

city walls of Ke'lith. There, a much larger crowd awaited the cart's arrival.

Dayside was ending. The glitter of the firmament began to fade as the Lords of

Night slowly drew the shadow of their cloaks over the afternoon stars. Night's

gloom was fitting for this procession.

The country folk-for the most part-kept their distance from the cart. They did

this not out of fear of the tier-although those huge birds had been known to

suddenly turn and take a vicious snap at anyone approaching them from their

blind side-but out of fear of the cart's occupant.

The prisoner was bound around the wrists by taut leather thongs attached to

the sides of the cart, and his feet were manacled with heavy chains. Several

sharp-eyed bowmen marched beside the cart, their feathered shafts nocked and

ready to be let loose straight at the felon's heart if he so much as twitched

the wrong way. But such precautions did not appear to offer the cart's

followers much comfort. They kept their gaze-dark and watchful-fixed on the

man inside as they trudged along behind at a respectful distance that markedly

increased when the man turned his head. If they'd had a demon from Hereka

chained up in that cart, the local farmers could not have gazed on it with any

greater fear or awe.

The man's appearance alone was striking enough to arrest the eye and send a

shiver over the skin. His age was indeterminate, for he was one of those men

whom life has aged beyond cycles. His hair was black without a touch of gray.

Sleeked back from a high, sloping forehead, it was worn braided at the nape of

his neck. A jutting nose, like the beak of a hawk, thrust forward from between

dark and overhanging brows. His beard was black and worn in two thin short

braids twisted beneath a strong chin. His black eyes, sunken into high

cheekbones, almost disappeared in the shadows of the overhanging brows.

Almost, but not quite, for no darkness in this world, it seemed, could quench

the flame that smoldered in those depths.

The prisoner was of medium height, his body bare to the waist and marked all

over with gashes and bruises, for he had fought like a devil to avoid his

capture. Three of the sheriff's boldest men lay in their beds this day and

would probably lie there tor a week recovering. The man was lean and sinewy,

his movements graceful and silent and swift. One might say, from looking at

him, that here was a man born and bred to walk in the company of Night.

It amused the prisoner to see the peasants fall back when he glanced around at

them. He took to looking behind him often, much to the discomfiture of the

bowmen, who were constantly lifting their shafts, their fingers twitching

nervously, their gazes darting for instructions at their leader-a solemn-faced

young sheriff. Despite the chill of the fall evening, the sheriff was sweating

profusely, and his face brightened visibly when the coralite walls of Ke'lith

came in sight.

Ke'lith was small in comparison with the other two cities on Dandrak Isle. Its

ill-kept houses and shops barely covered a square menka. In the very center

stood an ancient fortress whose tall towers were catching the last light of

the sun. The keep was constructed of rare and precious blocks of granite. In

this day, no one remembered how it was built or who had built it. Its past

history had been obscured by the present, by the wars that had been fought for

its possession.

Guards pushed open the city gates and motioned the cart forward. Unfortunately

the tier took exception to a ragged cheer that greeted the cart's arrival in

Ke'lith and came to a dead stop. The recalcitrant bird was alternately

threatened and coaxed by its handler until it began moving again, and the cart

trundled through the opening in the wall onto a smoothed coralite street known

grandiosely as Kings Highway; no king in anyone's memory had ever set foot on

the place.

A large crowd was on hand to view the prisoner. The sheriff barked out an

order in a cracked voice and the bowmen closed ranks, pressing close around

the cart, the front men in dire peril of being bitten by the nervous tier.

Emboldened by their numbers, the people began to shout curses and raise their

fists. The prisoner grinned boldly at them, seeming to consider them more

amusing than threatening until a jagged-edged rock sailed over the cart's

sides and struck him in the forehead.

The mocking smile vanished. Anger contorted the blood-streaked face. His fists

clenched, the man made a convulsive leap at a group of ruffians who had

discovered courage at the bottom of a wine jug. The leather thongs that held

the man fastened to the cart stretched taut, the sides of the vehicle quivered

and trembled, the chains on his feet jangled discordantly. The sheriff

screeched-the young man's voice rising an octave in his fear- and the bowmen

swiftly lifted their weapons, although there was some confusion over their

target: the felon or those who had attacked him.

The crudely made cart was strong, and the man inside, though he exerted all

his energy, could neither break his bonds nor the wood that held them. His

struggles ceased and he stared through a mask of blood at the swaggering

ruffian.

"You wouldn't dare do that if I were free."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" the youth jeered, his cheeks flushed with drink.

"No, you wouldn't," replied the man coolly. His black eyes fixed themselves

upon the youth, and such was the enmity and dire threat in their coal-fire

stare that the young man blanched and gulped. His friends-who were urging him

on, though they themselves stayed well behind him-took offense at the felon's

remarks and became more threatening.

The prisoner turned, glaring at one side of the street, then the other.

Another rock struck him in the arm, followed by rotting tomatoes and a

stinking egg that missed the felon but caught the sheriff squarely in the

face.

Having been prepared to kill the prisoner at the first opportunity, the bowmen

now became his protectors, turning their arrows toward the crowd. But there

were only six bowmen and about a hundred in the mob, and things appeared

likely to go ill for both prisoner and guards, when a beating of wings and

high-pitched screams from overhead caused most of those in the crowd to take

to their heels.

Two dragons, guided by helmed and armored riders, swooped in low over the

heads of the mob, sending them ducking into doorways and dashing down alleys.

A call from their leader, still wheeling high overhead, brought the dragon

knights back into formation. He descended and his knights followed him, the

dragons' wingtips clearing the buildings on either side of the street by

barely a hand's breadth. Wings rucked neatly at their flanks, their long tails

lashing wickedly behind, the dragons alighted near the cart.

The knights' captain, a paunchy middle-aged man with a fiery-red beard, urged

his dragon closer. The tier-terrified at the sight and smell of the

dragons-was heaving and howling and going through all kinds of gyrations,

causing its handler no end of grief.

"Keep that damn thing quiet!" snarled the captain.

The tiermaster managed to catch hold of the head and fixed his beast with an

unblinking stare. As long as he could maintain this steady gaze, the stupid

tier-for whom out of sight was out of mind-would forget the presence of the

dragons and calm down.

Ignoring the stammering, babbling sheriff, who was hanging on to the captain's

saddle harness as a lost child hangs on to its newly found mother, the captain

gazed sternly at the bloody, vegetable-stained prisoner.

"It seems I arrived in time to save your miserable life, Hugh the Hand."

"You did me no favor, Gareth," said the man grimly. He raised his shackled

hands. "Free me! I'll fight all of you, and them too." He flicked his head at

the remnants of the mob peeking out of the shadows.

In the wild, these enormous birds are a dragon's favorite prey. Tiers' wings

are large and covered with soft feathers and are almost completely useless.

They can, however, run extremely fast on their powerful legs. They make

excellent beasts of burden and are extensively used as such in the realms of

the humans. Elves consider the tier repulsive and unclean.

The captain of the knights grunted. "I'll bet you would. That death's a damn

sight better than the one you're facing now- kissing the block. A damn sight

better and a damn sight too good for you, Hugh the Hand. A knife in the back,

in the dark-that's what I'd give you, assassin scum!"

The curl of the Hand's upper lip was emphasized by a feathery black mustache

and was clearly visible even in the failing light. "You know the manner of my

business, Gareth."

"I know only that you are a killer for hire and that my liege lord met his end

by your hand," retorted the knight gruffly. "And I've saved your head merely

to have the satisfaction of placing it with my own hands at the foot of my

lord's bier. By the way, they call the executioner Three-Chop Nick. He's never

yet managed to sever a head from a neck at the first blow."

Hugh gazed at the captain, then said quietly, "For what it's worth, I didn't

kill your lord."

"Bah! The best master I ever served murdered for a few barls [1]. How much did

the elf pay you, Hugh? How many barls will you take now to restore my lord's

life to me?"

Yanking on the reins, the captain-his eyes blinking back tears-turned the head

of his dragon. He kicked the creature in the flanks, just behind the wings,

and caused it to rise into the air, where it remained, hovering over the cart,

its snakelike eyes daring any of those lurking in the shadows to cross its

path. The dragon knights riding behind likewise took to the air. The

tiermaster, his own eyes watering, blinked. The tier once more trod sullenly

forward, and the cart clattered over the road.

It was night when the cart and its dragon escort reached the fortress keep and

dwelling place of the Lord of Ke'lith. The lord himself lay in state in the

center of the courtyard. Bundles of charcrystal soaked in perfumed oil

surrounded his body. His shield lay across his chest. One cold, stiff hand was

clasped around his sword hilt; the other hand held a rose placed there by his

weeping lady-wife. She was not among those gathered around the body, but was

within the keep, heavily sedated with poppy syrup. It was feared that she

might hurl herself upon the flaming bier, and while such sacrificial

immolation was customary on the island of Dandrak, in this case it could not

be allowed; Lord Rogar's wife having just recently given birth to his only

child and heir. The lord's favorite dragon stood nearby, proudly tossing its

spiky mane. Standing beside it, tears rolling down his face, was the head

stablemaster, a huge butcher's blade in his hand. It wasn't for the lord he

wept. As the flames consumed its master's body, the dragon which the

stablemaster had raised from an egg would be slaughtered, its spirit sent to

serve its lord after death.

All was prepared. Every hand held a flaming torch. Those milling about the

courtyard awaited only one thing before they set fire to the bier: the head of

the lord's murderer to be placed at his feet.

Although the keep's defenses had not been activated, a cordon of knights had

been drawn up to keep the curious out of the castle. The knights drew aside to

allow the cart entry, then closed ranks as it trundled past. A cheer went up

from those standing in the courtyard when the cart was sighted rumbling

beneath the arched gateway. The knights escorting it dismounted, and their

squires ran forward to lead the dragons to the stables. The lord's dragon

shrieked a welcome-or perhaps a farewell-to its fellows.

The tier was detached and led away. The tiermaster and the four men who had

pushed the vehicle were taken to the kitchen, there to be fed and given a

share of the lord's best brown ale. Sir Gareth, his sword loosened in its

scabbard, his eyes noting every move the prisoner made, climbed into the cart.

Drawing his sideknife, he cut the leather thongs attached to the wooden slats.

"We caught the elflord, Hugh," Gareth said in an undertone as he worked.

"Caught him alive. He was on his dragonship, sailing back to Tribus, when our

dragons overtook him. We questioned him and he confessed giving you the money

before he died."

"I've seen how you 'question' people," said Hugh. One hand free, he flexed his

arm to ease the stiffness. Gareth, loosing the other one, eyed him warily.

"The bastard would've confessed to being human if you'd asked him!"

"It was your accursed dagger we took from my lord's back, the one with the

bone handle with those strange markings. I recognized it."

"Damn right, you did!" Both hands were free. Moving swiftly, suddenly, Hugh's

strong hands closed over the chain-mail armor that covered the knight's upper

arms. The assassin's fingers bit deep, driving the rings of the chain mail

painfully into the man's flesh. "And you know both how and why you saw it!"

Gareth sucked in his breath, his sideknife jerked forward. The blade was

three-quarters the way to Hugh's rib cage when, with an effort of will, the

knight halted his reflexive lunge.

"Get back!" he snarled at several of his fellows, who, seeing their captain

accosted, had drawn their swords and were preparing to come to his assistance.

"Let go of me, Hugh." Gareth spoke through gritted teeth. His skin was a

ghastly leaden hue, sweat beaded on his upper lip. "Your trick didn't work.

You won't meet an easy death at my hand."

Hugh, with a shrug and a slight sardonic smile, released his grip on the

knight's arms. Gareth caught hold of the assassin's right hand, jerked it

roughly behind his back, and, grabbing his left, bound the two together

tightly with the remnants of the leather thongs.

"I paid you well," the knight muttered. "I owe you nothing!"

"And what about her, your daughter, whose death I avenged-"

Spinning Hugh around by the shoulder, Gareth swung his mailed fist. The blow

caught the assassin on the jaw and sent him crashing through the wooden slats

of the cart. Sprawled on his back on the ground, the Hand lay in the muck of

the courtyard. Gareth jumped down from the cart. Straddling the prisoner, the

knight stared down at him coldly.

"You'll die with your head on the block, you murdering bastard. Bring him," he

ordered two of his men, and kicked Hugh in the kidney with the toe of his

boot. Gareth watched with satisfaction as the man writhed in pain. The knight

added grimly, "And gag his mouth."

CHAPTER 2

KE'LITH KEEP, DANDRAK, MID REALM

"HERE is THE ASSASSIN, MAGICKA," SAID GARETH, GESTURING TO THE

bound-and-gagged prisoner.

"Did he give you any trouble?" asked a well-formed man of perhaps forty

cycles, who gazed at Hugh with a sorrowful air, as though he found it

impossible to believe that so much evil could reside in one human being.

"None that I couldn't handle, Magicka," said Gareth, subdued in the presence

of the house magus.

The wizard nodded and-conscious of a vast audience- straightened to his full

height and folded his hands ceremoniously over his brown velvet cassock; he

was a land magus and so wore the colors of the magic he favored. He did not,

however, wear in addition the mantle of royal magus-a title he had, according

to rumor, long coveted but one which Lord Rogar, for reasons of his own,

refused to grant.

Those standing in the muddy courtyard saw the prisoner being led before the

person who was now-by default-the highest voice of authority in the fiefdom,

and crowded around to hear. The light of their torches flared and danced in

the cold evening breeze. The lord's dragon, mistaking the tenseness and

confusion for battle, trumpeted loudly, demanding to be unleashed upon the

enemy. The stablemaster patted it soothingly. Soon it would be sent to fight

an Enemy that neither man nor even the long-lived dragon can finally avoid.

"Remove the gag from his mouth," ordered the wizard.

Gareth coughed, cleared his throat, and cast the Hand a sidelong glance.

Leaning near the wizard, the knight spoke in low tones. "You will hear nothing

but a string of lies. He'll say anything-"

"I said, remove it," remonstrated Magicka in a commanding tone that left no

doubt in the minds of anyone standing in the courtyard who was now the master

of Ke'lith Keep.

Gareth sullenly did as he was told, yanking the gag from Hugh's mouth with

such force that he wrenched the man's head sideways and left an ugly weal on

one side of his face.

"Every man, no matter how heinous his crime, has the right to confess his

guilt and cleanse his soul. What is your name?" questioned the wizard crisply.

The assassin, gazing over the wizard's head, did not answer. Gareth smote Hugh

rebukingly.

"He is known as Hugh the Hand, Magicka."

"Surname?"

Hugh spit blood.

The wizard frowned. "Come, Hugh the Hand can't be your real name. Your voice.

Your manners. Surely you are a nobleman! The baton sinister, no doubt. Yet, we

must know the names of your ancestors in order to commend to them your

unworthy spirit. You will not speak?" Reaching out a hand, the wizard caught

hold of Hugh's chin and jerked the man's face to the torchlight. "The bone

structure is strong. The nose aristocratic, the eyes exceedingly fine,

although I seem to see something of the peasant in the deep lines in the face

and the sensuality of the lips. But there is undoubtedly noble blood in your

veins. A pity it runs black. Come, sir, reveal your true identity and confess

to the murder of Lord Rogar. Such confession will cleanse your soul."

The prisoner's swollen mouth widened in a grin; there was a flicker of flame

deep in the sunken black eyes. "Where my father is, his son will shortly

follow," Hugh replied. "And you know better than any here that I did not

murder your lord."

Gareth raised his fist, intending to punish the Hand for his speech. A glimpse

of the wizard's face caused him to hesitate. Magicka's brow cleared in an

instant, his face smooth as a pail of fresh cream. The sharp eyes of the

captain, however, had noted the ripple that passed across its surface at

Hugh's accusation.

"Insolence," the wizard said coldly. "You are bold for a man facing a terrible

death, but we will hear you cry out for mercy before long."

"You better silence me and silence me quick," said Hugh, his tongue running

across his cracked and bleeding lips. "Otherwise people might remember that

you're now guardian of the new little lord, aren't you, Magicka? Which means

you can run things around here until the kid's . . . What? Eighteen? Or maybe

longer than that if you can keep your web wound tight around him. And I've no

doubt you'll be a great comfort to the grieving widow. What mantle will you

wear tonight-the purple of royal magus? And wasn't it strange, my dagger

disappearing like that. As if by magic-"

The wizard lifted his hands. "The ground quakes in fury at this man's

blasphemy!" he shouted. The courtyard began to shake and tremble. Granite

towers swayed. People cried out in panic, huddling close together. Some fell

to their knees, wailing and pressing their hands in the muck and mud, shouting

in supplication to the magus to ease his anger.

Magicka glared down his long nose at the captain of the knights. A punch from

Gareth, given somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, in the small of Hugh's back,

caused the assassin to gasp and draw a painful breath. The Hand's gaze,

however, never wavered or faltered, but remained fixed on the wizard, who was

pale with fury.

"I have been patient," said Magicka, breathing heavily, "but I will not be

subjected to such filth. I apologize to you, captain," the wizard continued,

shouting to be heard above the rumbling of the ground and the cries of the

people. "You were right. He will say anything to save his miserable life."

Gareth grunted but did not reply. Magicka raised his hands placatingly and,

gradually, the ground ceased to shake. People drew deep breaths of relief and

rose to their feet again. The knight's gaze flicked aside at Hugh, met the

Hand's own intense, penetrating stare. Gareth frowned; his eyes went from the

assassin to the wizard, and they were dark and thoughtful.

Magicka, speaking to the crowd, did not notice.

"I am sorry, truly sorry, that this man must leave this life with such black

spots upon his soul," said the wizard in grieved and pious tones. "Yet so he

chooses. All here are witness that I have given him ample opportunity to

confess."

There were sympathetic, respectful murmurs.

"Bring forth the block."

The murmurs changed in aspect, becoming loud and anticipatory. People shifted

around to get a good view. Two burly wardens, the strongest that could be

found, emerged from a small doorway leading to the dungeon of the keep.

Between them they carried a huge stone-not the lacy and delicate coralite of

which almost everything in the city except the keep itself was constructed.

Magicka, whose business it was to know the types and natures and powers of all

rocks, recognized the stone as marble. It did not come from this island or

from the larger, neighboring continent of Uylandia, for no such rock existed

there [2]. The marble, therefore, came from the larger, neighboring continent

of Aristagon, which meant that this block had been dug out of the land of the

enemy.

Either it was a very old piece of marble and had been brought over

legitimately during one of the few periods of peace between the humans and the

elves of the Tribus Empire-a theory the wizard discounted-or Three-Chop Nick,

as he was known, had smuggled it over, which Magicka thought probable.

Not that it mattered. There were numerous diehard nationalists among the

lord's friends, family, and followers, but the wizard doubted if there were

any who would object to a piece of dung such as Hugh the Hand losing his head

on an enemy rock. Still, they were a hotheaded clan and the wizard was

thankful that the marble was so covered with dried blood that few of Rogar's

kin would recognize the stone. None would think to question its origin.

The marble block was about four feet by four feet and had a groove cut out of

one side that was almost exactly the size of the average human neck. The

warders-staggering under the weight-hauled the block out into the courtyard

and placed it in front of Magicka. The executioner, Three-Chop Nick, ducked

out from beneath the doorway and a tremor of excitement rippled through the

crowd.

Nick was a giant of a man and not one soul on Dandrak knew who he really was

or what he looked like. Whenever he performed an execution, he wore black

robes and a black hood over his head so that, when passing among the populace

on a daily basis, he would not be recognized and shunned. Unfortunately, the

result of his clever disguise was that people began to suspect every man over

seven footspans in height of being an executioner and tended to avoid them all

indiscriminately.

When it came time to deal out justice, however, Nick was the most popular and

sought-after executioner on Dandrak. Whether an incredible bungler or the most

talented showman of his time, Three-Chop certainly knew how to entertain an

audience. No victim ever died swiftly, but lingered on in screaming agony as

Nick hacked and chopped away with a sword that was as dull as his wits.

All eyes went from the hooded Nick to the black-haired prisoner, who-it must

be admitted-had impressed most of those present with his coolness. But all

those in the courtyard that night had either admired or actually been fond of

their murdered liege lord, and it was going to be a distinct pleasure for them

to see his killer die horribly. The people noted with satisfaction, therefore,

that-at the sight of the executioner and the bloodstained weapon in his

hand-Hugh's face set in masklike calm, and though he carried himself well and

forbore to tremble, they could see his breath come quick and hard.

Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard's

presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.

"What you said about Magicka . . ." Gareth hissed the words in a low

undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard's eyes boring into his back, let

the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the

assassin with a glance.

Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit

night. "Watch him," he said.

Gareth nodded. -His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He

had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his

hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught

a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.

"I can't save you, Hugh," Gareth mumbled. "They'd cut us both to ribbons. But

I can end it for you quick. It'll likely cost me my captaincy"-the knight

glanced back darkly at the wizard- "but then, after what I've heard, it's

likely I've lost that anyhow. You're right. I owe that much to her."

He shoved the Hand around to stand in front of the block. The executioner

solemnly removed his black robes-he disliked having them fouled with blood-and

handed them to a young boy standing nearby. Highly elated, the child stuck out

his tongue at an unfortunate friend who had been hovering near, hoping for the

same honor.

Grasping the sword, Nick took two or three practice swings to limber up his

arms and then indicated, with a nod of his head, that he was ready.

Gareth forced Hugh to his knees before the block. The knight stepped back, but

not far, only two or three paces. His fingers flexed nervously around the

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 1 - Dragon Wing

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