Doom Of The Darksword Part 33

There was vast confusion among those left standing upon the beach. Bishop Vanya gave a strangled cry, clutched his throat, and pitched forward, senseless.

The DKarn-Duuk, seeing his prey escape, ran to the stone statue and tried to grab the Darksword. But the stone catalyst held it fast, some property of the metal, perhaps, fusing it to the man's arms. Or maybe it was the scabbard, for the runes upon is glowed with a holy silver light. Whatever the case, Prince Xavier could not budge it.

Lord Samuels ran distractedly along the sh.o.r.eline, crying out for his daughter. Accosting the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, he begged for their help. The black-robed figures only looked at him in cool pity and, disengaging themselves from his clutching hands stepped into the Corridors, returning to their duties within the world.

The catalysts helped each other to stand, the stronger a.s.sisting the weaken Staggering through the sand, they made them way to the Corridors that would take them home again to the Font. Any who looked at the stone statue of Saryon hastily averted their eves.

"Shall I make the man the same size as the rest, my lord?" the Executioner asked, his gaze going to the other Watchers that stood thirty feet tall.

"No!" snarled Prince Xavier, his eyes glittering. "There must be some way to retrieve that d.a.m.n sword!" His hands reached out to touch it. "Some way ..." he muttered.

Corridors opened and cleared rapidly. Theldara Theldara carried the stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped in white linen, was taken to the Palace. The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded by carried the stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped in white linen, was taken to the Palace. The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded by Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever dark and hidden place his Order inhabited, there to begin frantic studies into the properties of darkstone. Lord Samuels, stricken nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their dreadful loss to his wife. and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever dark and hidden place his Order inhabited, there to begin frantic studies into the properties of darkstone. Lord Samuels, stricken nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their dreadful loss to his wife.

Soon, the only one standing on the beach was the Emperor. No one had spoken a word to him. They had removed the body of his wife from where it lay at his feet and he had never even looked down. He stood as still as stone himself, staring fixedly into the mists - that strange, sad smile upon his lips.

Joram had pa.s.sed Beyond, and the wind blowing among the sand dunes whispered, "The Prince is Dead.... The Prince is Dead."

Coda Twilight came to the Border, touching the mists with whorls of red and pink, purple and orange.

The beach was empty, except for the stone statue that stood there, staring out into the Realm of Death. Even the Emperor had gone at last, though no one knew where. He had not returned to the Palace and they were searching for him, needing him to begin the ceremonies for his dead wife.

A palm tree - a rather tall, thin, and sleek palm tree - located on the fringes of the gra.s.s near the beach shook itself, stretched, and gave a cavernous yawn.

"Egad," stated the palm irritably. "I'm stiff. Should know better than to fall asleep standing up like that. And I've been out in the sun all day. I've probably ruined my complexion!"

With a shiver of leaves, the palm changed form - turning into a bearded young man of indistinguishable age, dressed in a flamboyant costume consisting of skintight trousers over silken hose and a velvet coat that came to his knees. Trimmed in ostrich feathers, the coat parted in front to reveal a matching vest - likewise trimmed in ostrich feathers. Lace spilled from the feather-decorated cuffs and bubbled up around his neck. The entire ensemble was done in wide stripes of brownish orange and dark red.

"Perfect for the funeral. I'll call it Rust in Puce," Rust in Puce," Simkin said, conjuring up a mirror and examining himself in it critically. He stared intently at his nose. "Ah, I did get sunburned. Now I'll freckle." He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture. Simkin said, conjuring up a mirror and examining himself in it critically. He stared intently at his nose. "Ah, I did get sunburned. Now I'll freckle." He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture.

Thrusting his hands into pockets that appeared when he put his hands into them, Simkin flitted moodily along the beach.

"Perhaps I'll cover my skin all over with spots," he remarked to the empty sand. Drifting across the beach, he came to a halt before the statue of the catalyst and slowly lowered himself to stand in front of it.

"Sink me!" Simkin said after a moment, profoundly moved. "I am am impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all." impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all."

Turning from the statue, Simkin looked into the mists of Beyond. The mists took on night's blackness, their bright colors fading as twilight's dying grasp slipped from the world. Creeping and curling in upon the sh.o.r.e, they seemed, like the incoming tide, to advance a little farther each time. Simkin watched, smiling to himself, and smoothing his beard.

"Now the game begins in earnest," he murmured.

Drawing forth the bit of orange silk from the air, he tied the silk around Saryon's stone neck. Then, humming to himself, Simkin disappeared into the evening, leaving the statue to stand in awful solitude on the silent sh.o.r.e, the orange banner fluttering from its neck; a tiny flicker of flame in the gathering gloom.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS.

Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman are the are the New York Times New York Times bestselling authors of the bestselling authors of the Dragonlance Dragonlance series, series, The Darksword Trilogy The Darksword Trilogy, and the Rose of the Prophet Rose of the Prophet trilogy. With trilogy. With The Death Gate Cycle The Death Gate Cycle, this imaginative team opens an ambitious, new chapter in epic fantasy.

SPECIAL PREVIEW.

The Seventh Gate The Final Death Gate Novel Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Preeminent storytellers Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman have redefined epic fantasy with the vast scope and imaginative storytelling of their "Death Gate" cycle.

The following is a special preview of the stunning conclusion to the Death Gate cycle-the opening chapter of The Seventh Gate: The Seventh Gate:

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 the dawn was different than most. It was more glowous than most ... and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear. 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 the dawn was different than most. It was more glowous than most ... and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.

It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, was the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing victorious, after a terrible battle with its more 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 lit might be better.

It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was bright ening, strengthening. Those Patryns was guarded the city walls turned their eyes to the strange and unnatural glow, shook their head 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, 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 who was the Serpent Mage, who was also the b.u.mbling 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 riverbank, 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 sh.o.r.e and said, "Only a short run. It won't take us long."

Hugh the Hand said nothing. He was staring-not at the sh.o.r.e, but at the ice.

And then Marit remembered. This man, a professional a.s.sa.s.sin, afraid of nothing in his his world, had come across something in another world he did fear-water. 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 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." 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 bone-numbing cold shot through her; she began shivering uncontrollably.

The ice was slippery and treacherous. 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. It seemed to be trying 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."

Breathing a sigh, 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, seemed to lunge straight up at her. Involuntarily, Marit scrambled backward. Hugh the Hand caught hold of her.

"The ice is breaking apart," he yelled.

And they were at least two body lengths from the sh.o.r.eline.

Marit scrambled toward the sh.o.r.e, 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.