Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  “Here!” panted Limbeck, tugging at the god’s feet. “You get this end, Jarre. I’ll take his head. There, carefully. Carefully. That’s got him, I think.”

  Having braved the dog, Jarre felt equal to anything, even hauling gods around by their feet. Casting a withering glance at her cowardly compatriots, she grasped hold of the god’s leather boots and tugged. Limbeck guided the limp body out of the bubble, catching hold of the shoulders when they appeared. Together the Gegs eased the god onto the floor.

  “Oh, my,” said Jarre softly, her fear forgotten in pity. She touched the gash on his head with a gentle hand. Her fingers came away covered with blood. “He’s hurt awfully bad!”

  “I know,” said Limbeck anxiously. “And I had to handle him kind of roughly, dragging him out of his ship before the dig-claw smashed him to bits.”

  “His skin’s icy cold. His lips are blue. If he were a Geg, I’d say he was dying. But maybe gods are supposed to look like that.”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t look like that when I first saw him, just after his ship crashed. Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die!”

  The dog, hearing the compassion in Jarre’s voice and seeing her touch his master soothingly, gave her hand a swipe with his tongue and looked up at her with pleading brown eyes.

  Jarre was startled at first at feeling the wet slurp, then relaxed. “Why, there, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right,” she said softly, reaching out and timidly giving the animal a pat on the head. He suffered her to do so, flattening his ears and wagging his bushy tail ever so slightly.

  “Do you think it will be?” asked Limbeck in deep concern.

  “Of course! Look, his eyelids are moving.” Briskly Jarre swung around and began giving orders. “The first thing to do is get him someplace warm and quiet where we can take care of him. It’s almost time for scrift change. We don’t want anyone to see him-“

  “We don’t?” interrupted Limbeck.

  “No! Not until he’s well and we’re ready to answer questions. This will be a great moment in the history of our people. We don’t want to spoil it by rushing into anything. You and Lof go get a litter-“

  “A litter? The god won’t fit on a litter,” Lof pointed out sulkily. “His legs’ll hang over the edge and his feet’ll drag the floor!”

  “That’s true.” Jarre wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a person whose body was so long and narrow. She paused, frowning, when suddenly a clanging gong sounding very loudly caused her to glance around in alarm. “What’s that?”

  “They’re going to be opening the floor!” Lof gasped.

  “What floor?” inquired Limbeck curiously.

  “This floor!” Lof pointed at the metal plates beneath their feet.

  “Why? Oh, I see.” Limbeck looked upward at the dig-claws that had dumped their load and were being readied to descend into the gap to fetch up another.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Lof said urgently. Sidling up to Jarre, he whispered, “Let the god stay. When the floor opens, he’ll drop back into the air where he came from. His dog too.”

  But Jarre wasn’t paying attention. She was watching the carts trundle along overhead.

  “Lof!” she said excitedly, grabbing hold of him by his beard and yanking-a habit she had acquired when dealing with Limbeck and one she found difficult to break. “Those carts! The god will fit inside one of those! Hurry! Hurry!”

  The floor was beginning to vibrate ominously, and anything was better than having his beard pulled out by the roots. Lof nodded and ran off with the other Gegs to acquire an empty cart.

  Jarre wrapped the god snugly in her own cloak. She and Limbeck dragged him away from the center of the floor, as close to the edge as they could possibly get. By this time, Lof and company had returned with the cart, rolling it down the steep ramp that connected the bottom level with the one above. The gong sounded again. The dog whined and barked. Either the noise hurt its ears or it sensed the danger and was urging the Gegs on. (Lof insisted it was the first. Limbeck argued it was the second. Jarre ordered them both to shut up and work.)

  Between them, the Gegs managed to drag the body of the god into the cart. Jarre swaddled the god’s injured head in Lof’s cloak (Lof seemed inclined to protest, but a smack on the cheek delivered by a nervous and exasperated Jarre brought him around). The gong sounded a third time. Cables creaking and screeching, the dig-claws began to descend. The floor rumbled and started to open. The Gegs, all but losing their footing, lined up in back of the cart and gave a great heave. The cart leapt forward and rolled up the ramp, the Gegs sweating and straining behind it, the dog running around their feet and nipping at their heels.

  Gegs are strong, but the cart was made of iron and quite heavy, not to mention that it had the added weight of the god inside. It had never been intended to travel a ramp used mainly by Gegs, and it was far more inclined to roll down the ramp than up it.

  Limbeck, noting this, had vague thoughts of weight, inertia, and gravity and would have undoubtedly developed another law of physics had he not been in dire peril of his life. The floor was gaping wide open beneath them, the dig-claws were thundering down into the void, and there came one particularly tense moment when it seemed that the Gegs couldn’t hold on and that the cart must win and end up carrying Gegs, god, dog, and all into the gap.

  “Now, once more, together!” grunted Jarre. Her stout body was braced against the cart, her face fiery red from the exertion. Limbeck, beside her, wasn’t much help, being naturally weak anyway and further weakened by his grueling experience. But he was valiantly doing what he could. Lof was flagging and seemed about to give up.

  “Lof,” gasped Jarre, “if it starts to roll back, put your foot under the wheel!”

  This command from his leader gave Lof, who was naturally flat-footed but saw no reason to carry it to extremes, extra incentive. Strength renewed, he put his shoulder to the cart, gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and gave a mighty shove. The cart surged forward with such force that Limbeck fell to his knees and slid halfway down the ramp before he could manage to stop himself. The cart popped over the top of the ramp. The Gegs tumbled, exhausted, to the floor of the upper level, and the dog licked Lof’s face-much to that Geg’s consternation. Limbeck crawled up the ramp on his hands and knees and, reaching the top, sank down in a swoon.

  “This is all I need!” Jarre muttered in exasperation.

  “I’m not hauling him around too!” protested Lof bitterly. He was beginning to think that his father had been right and that he should never have involved himself in politics.

  A vicious tug on his beard and a sound smack on the cheek brought Limbeck to semi-consciousness. He began babbling something about inclines and planes, but Jarre told him to keep quiet and make himself useful by picking up the dog and hiding it in the cart with its master.

  “And tell it to keep quiet, too!” Jarre commanded.

  Limbeck’s eyes opened so wide that it seemed they might fall out of his head. “M-me? P-pick up th-that-“

  But the dog, seeming to understand, solved the problem by jumping lightly into the cart, where it curled up at its master’s feet.

  Jarre took a peep at the god and reported that he was still alive and looked somewhat better now that he was wrapped up in the cloaks. The Gegs covered his body with small chunks of coralite and various debris that the Kicksey-Winsey let fall from time to time, tossed a gunnysack over the dog, and headed the cart for the nearest exit.

  No one stopped them. No one demanded to know why they were shoving an ore cart through the tunnels. No one wanted to know where they were going or what they were going to do once they got there. Jarre, grinning wearily, said it was all for the best. Limbeck, sighing, shook his head and pronounced this lack of curiosity a sad commentary on his people.

  CHAPTER 20

  LEK, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  IN THE LABYRINTH, A MAN MUST HONE HIS INSTINCTS TO A FINE, SHARP POINT, AS

  sharp as any blade of knif
e or sword, for the instincts, too, are weapons of self-preservation and are oftentimes as valuable as steel. Struggling to regain consciousness, Haplo instinctively kept himself from revealing that he was conscious. Until he could regain complete control of every faculty, he lay perfectly still and unmoving, stifled a groan of pain, and firmly resisted the overwhelming impulse to open his eyes and look at his surroundings.

  Play dead. Many times, an enemy will let you alone.

  Voices swam in and out of his hearing. Mentally he grasped at them, but it was like snagging fish with bare hands. They darted among his fingers; he could touch them but never quite catch hold. They were loud, deep voices, sounding quite clearly over a roaring thrumming that seemed to be all around him, even inside of him, for he could swear he could feel his body vibrating. The voices were some distance away and sounded as if they were arguing, but they weren’t being violent about it. Haplo did not feel threatened and he relaxed.

  “I’ve fallen in with Squatters, seemingly… .”

  “… The boy’s still alive. Got a nasty crack on the head, but he’ll make it.”

  “The other two? I suppose they’re his parents.”

  “Dead. Runners, by the looks of them. Snogs got them, of course. I guess they thought the kid too little to bother with.”

  “Naw. Snogs don’t care what they kill. I don’t think they ever knew the kid was there. He was well-hidden in those bushes. If he hadn’t groaned, we never would’ve heard him. It saved his life this time, but it’s a bad habit. We’ll have to break him of it. My guess is the parents knew they were in trouble. They clouted the kid a good one to keep him quiet and hid him away, then tried to lead the snogs away from him.”

  “Lucky thing for the kid it was snogs and not dragons. Dragons would’ve sniffed him out.”

  “What’s his name?”

  The boy felt hands run over his body, which was naked except for a strip of soft leather tied around his loins. The hands traced a pattern of tattoos that began at his heart, extending across his chest, down his stomach and legs to the tops of his feet but not the soles, down his arms to the back of his hands but not the fingers or the palms, up his neck but not on the head or face.

  “Haplo,” said the man, reading the runes over the heart. “He was born the time the Seventh Gate fell. That would make him about nine.”

  “Lucky to have lived this long. I can’t imagine Runners trying to make it, saddled with a kid. We better be getting out of here. Dragons’ll be smelling the blood before long. Come on, boy. Wake up. On your feet. We can’t carry you. Here, you, awake now? All right.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, the man took Haplo to stand beside the hacked and mangled bodies of his parents. “Look at that. Remember it. And remember this. It wasn’t snogs that killed your father and mother. It was those who put us in this prison and left us to die. Who are they, boy? Do you know?” His fingers dug into Haplo’s flesh.

  “The Sartan,” answered Haplo thickly.

  “Repeat it.”

  “The Sartan!” he cried.

  “Right, never forget that, boy. Never forget… .”

  Haplo floated again to the surface of consciousness. The roaring, drumming sound whooshed and thumped around him but he could hear voices over it, the same voices he vaguely remembered hearing earlier, only now there seemed to be fewer of them. He tried to concentrate on their words, but it was impossible. The throbbing pain in his head stamped out every spark of rational thought. He had to end the pain.

  Cautiously Haplo opened his eyes a crack and peered out between the lashes. The light of a single candle, placed somewhere near his head, did not illuminate his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he could manage to make out that he was alone.

  Slowly Haplo lifted his left hand and was bringing it near his head when he saw that it was swathed in strips of cloth. Memory glimmered, shining a feeble ray of light into the darkness of pain that surrounded him.

  All the more reason to rid himself of this debilitating injury.

  Gritting his teeth, moving with elaborate care so as not to make the slightest sound, Haplo reached across with his right hand and tugged at the cloth covering the left. Wrapped in between the fingers, it did not come completely loose but gave way enough so that the back of the left hand was partially exposed.

  The skin was covered with tattoos. The whirls and whorls, curls and curves, were done in colors of red and blue and were seemingly fanciful in nature and design. Yet each sigil had its separate and special meaning, which, when combined with other sigla that they touched, expanded into meaning upon meaning. [9] Prepared to freeze his motion at the barest hint that someone was watching him, Haplo raised his arm and pressed the back of his hand upon the gash in his forehead.

  The circle was joined. Warmth streamed from his hand to his head, flowed through his head to his arm, from his arm back to his hand. Sleep would follow, and while his body rested, pain would ease, the wound would close, internal injuries would be healed, complete memory and awareness would be restored on his awaking. With his waning strength, Haplo arranged the cloth so that it covered his hand. His arm fell limply, striking a hard surface beneath him. A cold nose thrust into his palm … a soft muzzle rubbed against his fingers… .

  Spear in hand, Haplo faced the two chaodyn. His only emotion was anger-a fiery, raging fury that burned up fear. He was within sight of his goal. The Last Gate was visible on the horizon. To reach it, he had only to cross a vast open prairie that had looked empty when he reconnoitered. He should have known. The Labyrinth would never let him escape. It would hurl every weapon it had in its possession at him. But the Labyrinth was smart. Its malevolent intelligence had fought against the Patryns for a thousand years before a few had been able to gain the skills to conquer it. Twenty-five gates [10] Haplo had lived and fought, only to be defeated in the end. For there was no way he could win. The Labyrinth had allowed him to get well into the empty prairie without so much as a single tree or boulder on which to set his back. And it had pitted him against two chaodyn.

  Chaodyn are deadly foes. Bred of the insane magic of the Labyrinth, the intelligent giant insectlike creatures are skilled in the use of all weapons (these two were using broadswords). Tall as a man, with a hard black-shelled body, bulbous eyes, four arms, and two powerful back legs, a chaodyn can be killed-everything in the Labyrinth can be killed. But in order to slay one, you have to hit it directly in the heart, destroying it instantly. For if it lives, even a second, it will cause a drop of its own blood to spring into a copy of itself, and the two of them, whole and undamaged, will continue the fight.

  Haplo faced two of these, and he had only one rune-marked spear and his hunting dagger left. If his weapons missed their mark and wounded his opponent he would face four chaodyn. Missing again, he would face eight. No, he could not win.

  The two chaodyn were moving, one drifting off to Haplo’s right, the other to his left. When he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The Patryn’s only chance would be to kill the first outright with his spear, then turn and fight the other.

  This strategy in mind, Haplo backed up, feinting first toward one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for chaodyn enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport.

  Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Labyrinth, Haplo called on a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The spear flew from his hand; he shouted after it the rune calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the spear tore through the insect’s black carapace, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground.

  A flash of pain shot through Haplo. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against h
is chill skin, flow from the wound. The chaodyn cannot use the rune magic, but long experience battling the Patryns has given them the knowledge of where the tattooed body is vulnerable to attack. The head is the best target. This chaodyn, however, had stabbed its sword into Haplo’s back. Obviously the insect did not want to kill him, not yet.

  Haplo’s spear was gone. It was hunting dagger against broadsword. Haplo could either run in under the chaodyn’s guard and strike directly for the heart or he could risk a throw. His knife-used for skinning, honing, cutting-did not have runes of flight inscribed upon it. If he missed, he would be weaponless and probably facing two foes. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the chaodyn’s sword blows.

  The chaodyn, realizing Haplo’s dilemma, swung its huge blade. Aiming for the left arm, the insect tried to cut it off-disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Haplo saw the blow coming and dodged as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Haplo black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it.

  The chaodyn fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Haplo gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn’t care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.

  The chaodyn lifted the blade again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Haplo waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The insect arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black shape leapt out from somewhere behind Haplo and launched itself straight at the chaodyn.

  Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the chaodyn glanced away from Haplo to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its sword thrust to meet this new foe. Haplo heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He didn’t pay any attention to what it had been. The chaodyn, lowering its arms to strike at the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Haplo aimed his dagger straight for the heart.