SLIM CHOICE
“The only things I believe in, Your Majesty, are my wits and my skill. So I’m to have no choice. I either accept this job or else, is that it?”
“You have a choice. When I have described the job to you, you may either take it or refuse to do so.”
“At which point my head parts company from my shoulders.”
“The man you see is the royal executioner. He is skilled in his work. Death will be quick, clean. Far better than what you were facing. That much, at least, I owe you for your time.” Stephen turned to face Hugh, the eyes in the shadow of the chain-mail helm dark and empty, lit by nothing within, reflecting no light from without. “I must take precautions. I cannot expect you to accept this task without knowing its nature, yet to reveal it to you is to place myself at your mercy. I dare not permit you to remain alive, knowing what you will shortly know.”
“If I refuse, I’m disposed of by night, in the dark, no witnesses. If I accept, I’m entangled in the same web in which Your Majesty currently finds himself twisting.”
“What more do you expect? You are, after all, nothing more than a murderer,” Stephen said coldly.
“And you, Your Majesty, are nothing more than a man who wants to hire a murderer.”
Bantam Spectra Books
by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
THE DARKSWORD SERIES
Forging the Darksword
Doom of the Darksword
Triumph of the Darksword
Legacy of the Darksword
DARKSWORD ADVENTURES
ROSE OF THE PROPHET
The Will of the Wanderer
The Prophet of Akhran
THE DEATH GATE CYCLE
Dragon Wing
Elven Star
Fire Sea
Serpent Mage
The Hand of Chaos
Into the Labyrinth
The Seventh Gate
and by Margaret Weis
STAR OF THE GUARDIANS
The Lost King
King’s Sacrifice
Ghost Legion
Contents
Cover
Slim Choice
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Yreni Prison, Dandrak, Mid Realm
Chapter 2 - Ke’lith Keep, Dandrak, Mid Realm
Chapter 3 - Ke’lith Keep, Dandrak, Mid Realm
Chapter 4 - Somewhere, Volkaran Isles, Mid Realm
Chapter 5 - Kir Monastery, Volkaran Isles, Mid Realm
Chapter 6 - Kir Monastery, Volkaran Isles, Mid Realm
Chapter 7 - Kir Monastery, Volkaran Isles, Mid Realm
Chapter 8 - Het, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 9 - Het To Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 10: Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 11 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 12 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 13 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 14 - Somewhere, Uylandia Cluster, Mid Realm
Chapter 15 - Pitrin’s Exile, Volkaran Isles, Mid Realm
Chapter 16 - Steps of Terrel Fen, Low Realm
Chapter 17 - Steps of Terrel Fen, Low Realm
Chapter 18 - The Steps of Terrel Fen, Low Realm
Chapter 19 - Lek, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 20: Lek, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 21 - Pitrin’s Exile, Mid Realm
Chapter 22 - Pitrin’s Exile, Mid Realm
Chapter 23 - Pitrin’s Exile, Mid Realm
Chapter 24 - Deepsky, Mid Realm
Chapter 25 - Deepsky, Mid Realm
Chapter 26 - Deepsky, Descending
Chapter 27 - Deepsky, Descending
Chapter 28 - Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 29 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 30: Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 31 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 32 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 33 - Wombe, Drevlin Low Realm
Chapter 34 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 35 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 36 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 37 - The Resting Place, Low Realm
Chapter 38 - Deepsky, Above the Maelstrom
Chapter 39 - Wombe, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 40: The Liftalofts, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 41 - The Liftalofts, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 42 - The Liftalofts, Drevlin, Low Realm
Chapter 43 - Deepsky, Mid Realm
Chapter 44 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 45 - New Hope, High Realm
Chapter 46 - The Firmament
Chapter 47 - The Firmament
Chapter 48 - New Hope, High Realm
Chapter 49 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 50: Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 51 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 52 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 53 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 54 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 55 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 56 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Chapter 57 - Castle Sinister, High Realm
Epilogue
Magic in The: Sundered Realms: Excerpt From A: Sartan’s Musings
About the Authors
Darksword Adventures
The Death Gate Cycle
Star of the Guardians
Copyright
This work is dedicated to
the memory of my mother,
FRANCES IRENE WEIS
—Margaret Weis
To Dezra and Terry Phillips
FOR ALL WE SHARED
—Tracy Hickman
Self is the only prison
that can ever bind
the soul.
—Henry Van Dyke
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 alm
ost 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 Satan 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.
Day side 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 sheriffs boldest men lay in their beds this day and would probably lie there for 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 blenched 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.
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