Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  A mile passed. Alfred seemed completely occupied with the task of staying on his own two feet, and Hugh, falling into the easy, relaxed rhythm of the road, let his inner eye take over guard duty. Freed, his mind wandered, and he found himself seeing, superimposed over the body of the prince, another boy walking along a road, though not with cheerful gaiety. This boy walked with an air of defiance; his body bore the marks of the punishment he had received for just such an attitude. Black monks walked along at his side… .

  …”Come, boy. The lord abbot wants to see you.”

  It was cold in the Kir monastery. Outside the walls, the world sweat and sweltered in summer heat. Inside, death’s chill stalked the bleak hallways and kept court in the shadows.

  The boy, who was not a boy any longer, but standing on the threshold of manhood, left his task and followed the monk through the silent corridors. The elves had raided a small village nearby. There were many dead, and most of the brothers had gone to burn the bodies and do reverence for those who had escaped the prisonhouse of their flesh.

  Hugh should have gone with them. His task and that of the other boys was to search for charcrystal and build the pyres. The brothers pulled the bodies from the wreckage, composed the twisted limbs and staring eyes, and placed them upon the heaped oil-soaked faggots. The monks said no word to the living. Their voices were for the dead, and the sound of their chanting echoed through the streets. That chant had come to be a music everyone on Uylandia and Volkaran dreaded to hear.

  Some of the monks sang the words:

  … each new child’s birth, we die in our hearts, truth black, we are shown, death always returns …

  The other monks chanted over and over the single word “with.” Inserting the “with” after the word “returns,” they carried the dark song full-cycle.

  Hugh had accompanied the monks since he was six cycles old, but this time he’d been ordered to stay and complete his morning’s work. He did as he was told, without question; to do otherwise would be to invite a beating, delivered impersonally and without malice, for the good of his soul. Often he had silently prayed to be left behind when the others went on one of these grim missions, but now he had prayed to be allowed to go.

  The gates boomed shut with an ominous dull thunder; the emptiness lay like a pall on his heart. Hugh had been planning his escape for a week. He had spoken of it to no one; the one friend he had made during his stay here was dead, and Hugh had been careful never to make another. He had the uneasy impression, however, that his secret plot must be engraved on his forehead, for it seemed that everyone who glanced at him kept looking at him with far more interest than they had ever before evinced.

  Now he had been left behind when the others were gone. Now he was being summoned into the presence of the lord abbot-a man he had seen only during services, a man to whom he had never spoken and who had never before spoken to him.

  Standing in the chamber of stone that shunned sunlight as something frivolous and fleeting, Hugh waited, with the patience that had been thrashed into him since childhood, for the man seated at the desk to acknowledge not only his presence but also his very existence. While Hugh waited, the fear and nervousness in which he’d lived for a week froze, dried up, and blew away. It was as if the cold atmosphere had numbed him to any human emotion or feeling. He knew suddenly, standing in that room, that he would never love, never pity, never feel compassion. From now on, he would never even know fear.

  The abbot raised his head. Dark eyes looked into Hugh’s soul.

  “You were taken in by us when you were six cycles. I see in the records that ten cycles more have passed.” The abbot did not speak to him by name. Doubtless he didn’t even know it. “You are sixteen. It is time for you to make preparation for taking your vows and joining our brotherhood.”

  Caught by surprise, too proud to lie, Hugh said nothing. His silence spoke the truth.

  “You have always been rebellious. Yet you are a hard worker, who never complains. You accept punishment without crying out. And you have adopted our precepts-I see that in you clearly. Why, then, will you leave us?”

  Hugh, having asked himself that question often in the dark and sleepless nights, was prepared with the answer.

  “I will not serve any man.”

  The abbot’s face, stern and forbidding as the stone walls around him, registered neither anger nor surprise. “You are one of us. Like it or not, wherever you go, you will serve, if not us, then our calling. Death will always be your master.”

  Hugh was dismissed from the abbot’s presence. The pain of the beating that followed slid away on the ice coating of the boy’s soul. That night, Hugh made good his plans. Sneaking into the chamber where the monks kept their records, he found, in a book, information on the orphan boys the monks adopted. By the light of the stub of a stolen candle, Hugh searched for and discovered his own name.

  “Hugh Blackthorn. Mother: Lucy, last name unknown. Father: According to words spoken by the mother before she died, the child’s father is Sir Perceval Blackthorn of Blackthorn Hall, Djern Hereva.” A later entry, dated a week after, stated: “Sir Perceval refuses to acknowledge the child and bids us ‘do with the bastard as we will.’ “

  Hugh cut the page from the leather-bound book, tied it up in his ragged scrip, snuffed the candle, and slipped out into the night. Looking back at the walls whose grim shadows had long ago shut out any of the warmth or happiness he had known in childhood, Hugh silently refuted the abbot’s words.

  “I will be death’s master.”

  CHAPTER 16

  STEPS OF TERREL FEN LOW REALM

  LIMBECK REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS AND FOUND THAT HIS SITUATION HAD IMPROVED, going from desperate to perilous. Of course, it took him, in his confused state, a considerable amount of time to remember just exactly what the situation was. After giving the matter serious thought, he determined he was not hanging by his wrists from the bedposts. Wriggling and grunting at the pain in his head, he looked about him as best he could in the gloom of the storm and saw that he had fallen into a giant pit, undoubtedly dug by the dig-claws of the Kicksey-Winsey.

  Further examination revealed that he had not fallen into a pit but was suspended over a pit-the giant wings having straddled it neatly, leaving him dangling down below. From the pain, he deduced that the wings must have inflicted a smart rap on his head during the landing.

  Limbeck was just wondering how he was going to free himself from this awkward and uncomfortable position when the answer came to him rather unpleasantly in the form of a sharp crack. The weight of the Geg hanging from it was causing the wooden frame to break. Limbeck sank down about a foot before the wings caught and held. His stomach sank a good deal further, for-due to the darkness and the fact that he didn’t have his spectacles on-Limbeck had no idea how deep this pit was. Frantically he attempted to devise some means of escape. A storm was raging above, water was pouring down the sides of the pit, making it extremely slippery, and at that moment there was another crack and the wings sagged down another foot.

  Limbeck gasped, squinched his eyes tightly shut, and shook all over. Again, the wings caught and held, but not very well. He could feel himself slowly slipping. He had one chance. If he could free a hand, he might be able to catch hold of one of the coralite holes that honeycombed the sides of the pit. He jerked on his right hand …

  … and the wings snapped.

  Limbeck had just time enough to experience overwhelming terror before he landed heavily and painfully at the bottom of the pit, the wings crashing down all around him. First he shook. Then, deciding that shaking wasn’t improving the situation, he extricated himself from the mess and peered upward. The pit was only about seven or eight feet deep, he discovered, and he could easily climb out. Since it was a coralite pit, the water that was streaming into it was draining just as swiftly through it. Limbeck was pleased with himself. The pit offered shelter from the storm. He was in no danger.

  No danger until the dig-claws came down to
mine.

  Limbeck had just settled himself beneath a huge piece of torn wing fabric, to protect himself from the rain, when the terrible thought of the dig-claws occurred to him. Hastily he leapt to his feet and peered upward, but couldn’t see a thing except for a black blur that was probably storm clouds and flashes of fuzzy lightning. Having never served the Kicksey-Winsey, Limbeck had no idea if the dig-claws operated during storms or not. He couldn’t see why they wouldn’t, yet on the other hand he couldn’t see why they would. All of which was no help.

  Sitting back down-being careful to first remove several sharp splinters of wood and drop them down the holes of the coralite-Limbeck considered the matter as best he could through the pain in his head. At least the pit offered protection from the storm. And, in all probability, the dig-claws-which were huge, cumbersome things-would move slowly enough that he would have time to get out of the way.

  Which turned out to be the case.

  Limbeck had been squatting in the pit for about thirty locks or so, the storm was showing no signs of abating, and he was wishing he’d had the foresight to stuff a couple of muffins down his pants, when there was a large thump and the pit in which he was sitting gave a tremendous shudder.

  Dig-claws, thought Limbeck, and began to climb up the sides of the pit. It was easy going. The coralite offered numerous hand-and footholds, and Limbeck reached the top in moments. There was no use putting on his spectacles-the rain streaming over the glass would have blinded him. And he didn’t need them anyhow. The dig-claw, its metal gleaming in the incessant flashes of lightning, was only a few feet from him.

  Glancing upward, Limbeck could see other claws dropping out of the sky, descending on long cables lowered from the Kicksey-Winsey. It was an awesome spectacle, and the Geg stood staring, headache forgotten, his mouth gaping wide open.

  Made of bright and shining metal, ornately carved and fashioned to resemble the foot of some huge killer bird, the dig-claws dug into the coralite with their sharp talons. Closing over the broken rock, the claws carried it upward as a bird’s claw grasps its prey. Once back on the isle of Drevlin, the dig-claws deposited the rock they had mined from the Terrel Fen into large bins, where the Gegs sorted through the coralite and retrieved the precious gray ore on which the Kicksey-Winsey fed, and without which-so legend had it-the Kicksey-Winsey could not survive.

  Fascinated, Limbeck watched the dig-claws come smashing down all around him, biting into the coralite, digging down deep, scooping it up. The Geg was so interested in the procedure-which he’d never seen-that he completely forgot what he was supposed to do until it was almost too late. The claws were shaking free of the coralite and starting to rise back up when Limbeck remembered he was to put a mark on one of them to let Jarre and her people know where he was.

  Broken bits of coralite, dropped out of the rising claws, would serve as a writing tool. Grabbing up a chunk, Limbeck made his way through the driving rain, stumbling over the rock-strewn ground, heading for one of the claws that had just come down and was burying itself in the coralite. Reaching the dig-claw, Limbeck was suddenly daunted by his task. The claw was enormous; he’d never imagined anything so big and powerful. Fifty Limbecks would have fitted comfortably inside its talons. It shook and jabbed and clawed the surface of the coralite, sending sharp shards of rock flying everywhere. It was impossible to get close to it.

  But Limbeck had no choice. He had to get near. Gripping his coralite in one hand and his courage in the other, he had just started forward when a bolt of lightning struck the claw, sending blue flame dancing over its metal surface. The simultaneous thunder blast knocked Limbeck off his feet. Dazed and terrified, the Geg was about to give up in despair and run back to his pit-where he figured he would spend the remainder of a short and unhappy life-when the claw came to a shuddering stop. All the claws around Limbeck stopped-some in the ground; others hanging in midair on their way back up; others with talons wide open, waiting to descend.

  Perhaps the lightning had damaged it. Perhaps there was a scrift change. Perhaps something had gone wrong above. Limbeck didn’t know. If he had believed in the gods, he would have thanked them. As it was, he scrambled over the rocks, chunk of coralite in hand, and cautiously approached the nearest claw.

  Noticing lots of scratch marks where the claw dipped into the coralite, Limbeck realized that he would have to make his mark on the upper part of the dig-claw, a part that didn’t sink into the ground. That meant he had to choose a claw which was already buried. Which meant there was every possibility that it would start up again, yank itself out of the ground, and spill tons of rock down on the Geg’s head.

  Gingerly Limbeck touched the side of the dig-claw with the coralite, his hand shaking so that it made a ringing sound, like the clapper of a bell. It didn’t leave a mark. Gritting his teeth, desperation giving him strength, Limbeck bore down hard. The coralite screeched over the metal side of the claw with a sound that made Limbeck think his head would split apart. But he had the satisfaction of seeing a long scratch mar the claw’s smooth unblemished surface.

  Still, someone might take that one scratch for an accidental occurrence. Limbeck made another mark on the claw, this one perpendicular to the first. The dig-claw shivered and shook. Limbeck dropped his rock in fright and scrambled backward. The claws were functioning once again. Pausing a moment, Limbeck gazed proudly on his work.

  One dig-claw, rising into the stormy sky, was marked with the letter L.

  Dashing through the rain, Limbeck returned to his pit. No claws seemed likely to descend on him, this time at least. He climbed back down the sides and, reaching the bottom, made himself as comfortable as possible. Pulling the fabric over his head, he tried not to think about food.

  CHAPTER 17

  STEPS OF TERREL FEN, LOW REALM

  THE DIG-CLAWS CARRYING THEIR ORE LIFTED BACK UP INTO THE STORM CLOUDS, ON

  their way to the Drevlin dumps. Limbeck, watching them ascend, pondered how long it might take them to unload the coralite and return for more. How long would it take someone to notice his mark? Would someone notice his mark? If someone did notice his mark, would it be someone friendly to his cause or would it be a clark? If it was a clark, what was the clark likely to do about it? If it was a friend, how long would it take to attach the help-hand? Would that happen before he froze to death or died of starvation?

  Such gloomy wonderings were unusual to Limbeck, who was not, ordinarily, a worrier. His disposition was naturally cheerful and optimistic. He tended to see the best in people. He held no malice toward anyone for his having been tied to the Feathers of Justick and tossed down here to die. The High Froman and the Head Clark had done what they considered to be best for the people. It wasn’t their fault that they believed in those who claimed to be gods. It was no wonder that the Froman and his followers didn’t believe Limbeck’s story-Jarre herself didn’t believe it either.

  Perhaps it was thinking about Jarre that made Limbeck feel sad and discouraged. He had fondly assumed that she, at least, would believe in his discovery that the Welves weren’t gods. Limbeck, huddling, shivering, in the bottom of his pit, could still not quite accept the fact that she didn’t. This knowledge had nearly ruined his entire execution. Now that the initial excitement was over and he had nothing to do but wait and hope things went right and try not to notice that there was an incredible number of things that could go wrong, Limbeck began to reflect seriously on what would happen when (not if) he was rescued.

  “How can they accept me as their leader if they think I lie?” Limbeck asked a stream of water running down the side of the pit. “Why would they even want me back at all? We’ve always said, Jarre and I, that truth was the most important virtue, that the quest for truth should be our highest goal. She thinks I’ve lied, yet she’s obviously expecting me to continue as leader of our Union.

  “And when I go back, then what?” Limbeck saw it all clearly, more clearly than he’d seen anything in years. “She’ll humor me. They all will
. Oh, they’ll keep me as head of the Union - after all, the Mangers have judged me and let me live. But they’ll know it’s a sham. More important, I’ll know it’s a sham. The Mangers haven’t had a damn thing to do with it. It’s Jarre’s cleverness that will bring me back, and she’ll know it and so will I. Lying! That’s what we’ll be doing!”

  Limbeck was growing increasingly upset. “Oh, sure, we’ll get a lot of new members, but they’ll be coming to us for the wrong reasons! Can you base a revolution on a lie? No!” The Geg clenched his thick wet fist. “It’s like building a house on mud. Sooner or later, it’s going to slip out from under your feet. Maybe I’ll just stay down here! That’s it! I won’t go back!

  “But that won’t prove anything,” Limbeck reflected. “They’ll just think the Mangers did me in, and that won’t help the cause at all. I know! I’ll write them a note and send it up with the help-hand instead of going myself. There are tier feathers lying around. I can use those as a pen.” He jumped to his feet. “And silt for ink. ‘By choosing to stay down here and perhaps dying down here’ - yes, that sounds well - ‘I hope to prove to you that what I said about the Welves was the truth. I cannot lead those who do not believe me, those who have lost faith in me.’ Yes, that’s quite good.”

  Limbeck tried to sound cheerful, but he found his pleasure in his speech rapidly draining. He was hungry, cold, wet, and frightened. The storm was blowing itself out, and an awful, terrible silence was descending over him. That silence reminded him of the big silence - the Endless Hear Nothing - and reminded him that he was facing that Endless Hear Nothing, and he realized that the death of which he spoke so glibly was liable to be a very unpleasant one.

  Then, too, as if death wasn’t bad enough, he pictured Jarre receiving his note, reading it with pursed lips and that wrinkle which always appeared above her nose when she was displeased. He wouldn’t even need his spectacles to read the words of the note she’d send back. He could hear them already.