Margaret Weis - Dragonlance Death Gate Cycle 7 - The Seventh Gate

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Deathgate Cycle
Volume 7
THE SEVENTH GATE
MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY
HICKMAN
CHAPTER 1
ABRI THE LABYRINTH
VASU STOOD ON THE WALL ABOVE THE GATES OF THE CITY OF Abri, stood silent and
thoughtful as the gates boomed shut beneath his feet. It was dawn, which meant, in the Labyrinth,
nothing more than a graying of night's black. But this dawn was different than most. It was more
glorious than most . . . and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.
It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, in the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing,
victorious, after a terrible battle with its most implacable enemies.
It was a dawn smudged with the smoke of funeral pyres; a dawn in which the living could draw a
tremulous breath and dare to hope life might be better.
It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was brightening,
strengthening. Those Patryns who guarded the city walls turned their eyes to that strange and
unnatural glow, shook their heads, spoke of it in low and ominous tones.
"It bodes nothing good," they said grimly.
Who could blame them for their dark outlook? Not Vasu. Certainly not Vasu, who knew what was
transpiring. He would have to tell them soon, destroy the joy of this dawning.
"That glow is the fire of battle," he would have to say to his people. "A battle raging for control of
the Final Gate. The dragon-snakes who attacked us were not defeated, as you thought. Yes, we
killed four of them. But for every four that die, eight are born. Now they are attacking the Final
Gate, seeking to shut it, seeking to trap us all in this dread prison.
"Our brothers, those who live in the Nexus and those near the Final Gate, are fighting this evil—so
we have reason to believe. But they are few in number and the evil is vast and powerful.
"We are too far away to come to their aid. Too far. By the time we reached them—if we ever did
reach them, alive—it would be too late. It may already be too late.
"And when the Final Gate is shut, the evil in the Labyrinth will grow strong. Our fear and our
hatred will grow stronger to match and the evil will feed off that fear and that hatred and grow
stronger still."
It is hopeless, Vasu told himself, and so he must tell the people. Logic, reason said to him it was
hopeless. Yet why, standing on the wall, staring at that red glow in the sky, did he feel hopeful?
It made no sense. He sighed and shook his head.
A hand touched his arm.
"Look, Headman. They have made it safely to the river."
One of the Patryns, standing beside Vasu, had obviously mistaken his sigh, thought it indicated fear
for the two who had left the city in the dark hour before the dawn. They were embarking on a
dangerous and probably futile search for the green and golden dragon who had fought for them in
the skies above Abri. The green and golden dragon was the Serpent Mage, who was also the
bumbling Sartan with the mensch name, Alfred.
Certainly Vasu was afraid for them, but he was also hopeful for them. That same illogical,
irrational hope.
Vasu was not a man of action. He was a man of thought, of imagination. He had only to look at his
soft and pudgy Sartan body, tattooed with Patryn runes, to know that. He must give thought to what
his people should do next. He should make plans, he should decide how they must prepare for the
inevitable. He should tell them the truth, give his speech of despair.
But he didn't do any of that. He stood on the walls, watching the mensch known as Hugh the Hand
and the Patryn woman Marit.
He told himself he would never see them again. They were venturing out into the Labyrinth,
dangerous at any time but doubly dangerous now that their defeated enemies skulked about in
anger and waited for revenge. The two were going on a foolhardy and hopeless mission. He would
never see them again, nor Alfred, the Serpent Mage, the green and golden dragon, for whom they
searched.
Vasu stood on the wall and waited—hopefully—for their return.
The River of Anger, which flowed beneath the city walls of Abri, was frozen. Its water had been
frozen by their enemies, by spells cast on it. The hideous dragon-snakes had turned the river to ice
in order that their troops could cross more easily.
Clambering down the rock-strewn sides of the river-bank, Marit smiled grimly. The tactics of her
enemy would serve her.
There was just one small problem.
"You say this was done by magic?" Hugh the Hand, sliding down the bank behind her, skidded to a
halt beside the black ice floe. He jabbed at it with the toe of his boot. "How long will the spell
last?"
That was the problem.
"I don't know," Marit was forced to admit.
"Yeah." Hugh grunted. "I thought as much. It might end when we're standing in the middle."
"It might." Marit shrugged. If that happened, they would be lost. The rushing black water would
suck them down, chill their blood, grind their bodies against the sharp rocks, fill their lungs with
the black and now blood-tinged water.
"There's no other way?" Hugh the Hand was looking at her, at the blue sigla tattooed on her body.
He meant, of course, her magic.
"I might be able to get myself across," she told him. Then again, she might not. She was weakened
in body from yesterday's battle, weakened in her spirit from yesterday's confrontation with Lord
Xar. "But I'd never be able to manage you."
She set foot on the ice, felt its cold strike through to the very marrow of her bones. Clamping her
teeth together to keep them from chattering, she stared at the far shore and said, "Only a short run.
It won't take us long."
Hugh the Hand said nothing. He was staring—not at the shore, but at the ice.
And then Marit remembered. This man, a professional assassin, afraid of nothing in his world, had
come across something in another world he did fear—water.
"What are you scared of?" Marit jeered, hoping to bolster his courage by shaming him. "You can't
die."
"I can die," he corrected her. "I just don't stay dead. And, lady, I don't mind telling you, this sort of
dying doesn't appeal to me."
"It doesn't appeal to me either," she said snappishly back at him, but she noticed she wasn't going
anywhere, had hurriedly snatched her foot back off the ice.
She drew in a deep breath. "You can follow or not, as you please."
"I'm of little use to you anyway," he said bitterly, hands clenching and unclenching. "I can't protect
you, defend you. I can't even protect or defend myself."
He couldn't be killed. He couldn't kill. Every arrow he fired missed its mark, every blow he aimed
fell short, every slash of his sword went wide.
"I can defend myself," Marit answered. "I can defend you, too, for that matter. I need you because
you know Alfred better than I do—"
"No, I don't," Hugh returned. "I don't think anyone knew Alfred. Not even Alfred knew Alfred.
Haplo did, maybe, but that's not much help to us now."
Marit said nothing, bit her lip.
"But you're right to remind me, lady," Hugh the Hand continued. "If I don't find Alfred, this curse
on me will never end. Come on. Let's get it over with."
He set foot on the ice, began to walk across it. His swift and impetuous move took Marit by
surprise. She was hurrying after him before she quite knew what she was doing.
The ice was slippery and treacherous. The bone-numbing cold shot through her; she began
shivering uncontrollably. She and Hugh clung to each other for support, his arm saving her from
more than one sliding fall, her arm steadying him.
Halfway across, an eardrum-shattering crack split the ice, almost beneath their feet. A fur-covered
clawed hand and arm shot up from the gurgling water, tried to grab hold of Marit. She grappled for
the hilt of her sword.
Hugh the Hand stopped her.
"It's only a corpse," he said.
Marit, looking more closely, saw he was right. The arm was flaccid, sucked down by the current
almost immediately.
"The spell's ending," she said, irritated at herself. "We have to hurry."
She continued across. But a thin layer of water was now seeping over the ice, making it even more
slippery. Her feet slid out from underneath her. She grabbed at Hugh, but he, too, had lost his
footing. They both fell. Landing on her hands and knees, she stared into the horribly grinning
mouth and bulging eyes of a dead wolfen.
The black ice split right between her hands. The wolfen popped out, lunged straight at her.
Involuntarily, Marit shrank backward. Hugh the Hand caught hold of her.
"The ice is breaking apart," he yelled. "Hurry!"
They were at least two body lengths from the shoreline.
Marit scrambled toward the shore, crawling since she could not stand. Her arms and legs ached
with the cold; the pain was intense. Hugh the Hand slithered along beside her. His face was livid,
his jaw clenched so tight it resembled the ice. His eyes were wide and staring. For him—born and
raised on a waterless world— drowning was the worst possible death imaginable. Terror had very
nearly robbed him of his senses.
They were close to the bank, close to safety.
The Labyrinth was intelligent evil, cunning malevolence. It permitted you to hope, let you imagine
that you could make it to safety.
Marit's numb hand clutched at a large rock, one of several lining the riverbank. She struggled to
grip it with unfeeling fingers, pull herself up.
The ice gave way beneath her. She plunged to her waist in frothing black water. Her hand slid off
the rock. The current was carrying her down . . .
A terrific boost from strong arms propelled Marit up and onto the bank. She landed hard, the breath
knocked from her body. She lay, gasping, until a gurgle and a wild yell caused her to turn around.
Standing precariously on an ice floe, Hugh clung with one hand to the trunk of a scrub tree growing
out of the bank. He had thrown her to safety, then managed to grab hold of the tree.
But the rushing water was tearing the ice floe out from under him. The current was strong. His
tenuous hold on the tree was slipping.
Marit flung herself bodily on Hugh just as he lost his grasp. Her numb fingers clutching at the back
of his leather vest, she fought to pull him from the river. She was on her knees; the water was
rising. If she failed, they would both go under. Desperately she held on to his vest, pulled it up
nearly over his head. Digging her knees into the mud, she dragged the man's heavy body backward.
Hugh was strong; he gave her what help he could. He kicked with his feet, sought purchase with his
flailing legs, and, finally, managed to squirm his way onto the bank.
He lay still, gasping and shivering with cold and terror. Hearing a rumbling sound, Marit looked
upriver. A wall of black water tinged with red foam, pushing huge chunks of ice in its path,
thundered downstream.
"Hugh!" she cried.
He raised his head, saw the rushing floodwaters. He staggered to his feet, began scrambling up the
bank. Marit was past helping him; she could barely make it herself. She collapsed onto firm, level
ground; was dimly aware of Hugh the Hand falling somewhere near her.
The river roared in rage at losing its prey; or perhaps that was only her imagination. She stilled her
rapid breathing, calmed the wild beating of her heart. Letting the rune-magic warm her, she
banished the terrible cold.
But she couldn't lie here long. The enemy— chaodyn, wolfen, tiger-men—must be hiding in the
woods, perhaps watching them even now. She glanced at the sigla tattooed on her skin; the glow of
the runes would warn her of approaching danger. Her skin was slightly blue, but that was with cold.
The sigla were dark.
This should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. It was illogical. Certainly some of those who had
attacked the city with such fury yesterday must still be lurking outside the city walls, waiting for a
chance to pick off a scouting party.
摘要：

DeathgateCycleVolume7THESEVENTHGATEMARGARETWEISANDTRACYHICKMANCHAPTER1ABRITHELABYRINTHVASUSTOODONTHEWALLABOVETHEGATESOFTHECITYOFAbri,stoodsilentandthoughtfulasthegatesboomedshutbeneathhisfeet.Itwasdawn,whichmeant,intheLabyrinth,nothingmorethanagrayingofnight'sblack.Butthisdawnwasdifferentthanmost.It...

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