Weis, Margaret And Hickman, Tracy - The Deathgate Cycle - All 7 Books

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Deathgate Cycle
Volume 1
DRAGON WING
MARGARET WEIS AND 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
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：1778 页 大小：6.01MB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-05

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