Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  The chaodyn saw its danger and attempted to recover, but Haplo had come in too close. The insect creature’s sword sliced into the Patryn’s side, glancing off his ribs. Haplo never felt it. He drove his dagger into the chaodyn’s chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.

  Rolling off the body of his enemy, Haplo did not bother to try to stand. The chaodyn was dead. Now he, too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Labyrinth had won. He had fought it, though. Even to the end.

  Haplo lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to heal himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn’t have to fight ever again.

  A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn’t going to be allowed to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a dog. So that Was the black furry thing that had attacked the chaodyn. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been out in the prairie, perhaps hunting, and had come to his aid.

  The dog crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Haplo looking at it, the dog whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man’s hand. It was then that Haplo saw the dog was hurt.

  Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal’s body. Haplo recalled vaguely hearing its cry and the whimper when it fell. The dog was staring at him hopefully, expecting-as dogs do-that this human would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.

  “I’m sorry,” Haplo mumbled drowsily. “I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself.”

  The dog, at the sound of the man’s voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.

  “Go off and die somewhere else!” Haplo made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The dog gave a small bark, and Haplo felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.

  And then Haplo, glancing over half-irritably, half-comforted, saw that the injured dog was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the line of trees behind them. It licked Haplo’s hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the forest.

  It had misunderstood Haplo’s gesture. It was going to try to go for help-help for him.

  The dog didn’t get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three faltering steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.

  “Stop it!” Haplo whispered. “Stop it! It’s not worth it!”

  The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at the man as if to say, “Be patient. I can’t go very fast but I won’t let you down.”

  Selflessness, compassion, pity-these are not considered by the Patryns to be virtues. They are faults belonging to lesser races who cover for these inherent weaknesses by exalting them. Haplo was not flawed. Ruthless, defiant, burning with hatred, he’d fought and battled his way through the Labyrinth, solitary and alone. He had never asked for help. He had never offered it. And he had survived, where many others had fallen. Until now.

  “You’re a coward,” he said to himself. “This dumb animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up. What’s more, you will die owing. Die with a debt on your soul, for, like it or not, that dog saved your life.”

  No tender feeling caused Haplo to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.

  “Come here!” he commanded the dog.

  The dog, too weak to stand, crawled on its belly, leaving a trail of blood in the grass behind.

  Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out against the pain, Haplo pressed the sigil on the back of his hand against the dog’s torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the dog’s head. The healing circle was formed; Haplo saw, with his fading vision, the dog’s wound close… .

  “If he recovers, we’ll take him to the High Froman and offer him proof that what I said was true! We’ll show him and our people that the Welves aren’t gods! Our people will see that they’ve been used and lied to all these years.”

  “If he recovers,” murmured a softer female voice. “He’s hurt really bad, Limbeck. There’s that deep gash on the head, and he may be hurt someplace else too. The dog won’t let me get close enough to find out. Not that it matters. Head injuries as bad as that almost always lead to death. You remember when Hal Hammernail missed a step on the pussyfoot and tumbled down-“

  “I know. I know,” came the discouraged reply. “Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die! I want you to hear all about his world. It’s a beautiful place, like I saw in the books. With clear blue sky and a bright shining light beaming down, and wonderful tall buildings as big as the Kicksey-Winsey-“

  “Limbeck,” said the female voice sternly, “you didn’t happen to hit your head, did you?”

  “No, my dear. I saw them! I truly did! Just like I saw the dead gods. I’ve brought proof, Jarre! Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Oh, Limbeck, I don’t know what to believe anymore! I used to see everything so clearly-all black and white, with clean, sharp edges. I knew exactly what I wanted for our people-better living conditions, equal share in the Welf’s pay. That was all. Stir up a little trouble, put pressure on the High Froman, and he’d be forced to give in eventually. Now everything’s a muddle, all gray and confusing. You’re talking about revolution, Limbeck! Tearing down everything we’ve believed in for hundreds of years. And what do you have to put in its place?”

  “We have the truth, Jarre.”

  Haplo smiled. He had been awake and listening for about an hour now. He understood the basic language-though these beings called themselves “Gegs,” he recognized the tongue as a derivative of one known on the Old World as dwarven. But there were a great many things they said that he didn’t understand. For example, what was this Kicksey-Winsey that they spoke of with such reverent awe? That was why he’d been sent here. To learn. To keep eyes and ears open, mouth shut, and hands off.

  Reaching down on the floor beside his bed, Haplo scratched the dog’s head, reassuring the animal that he was well. This journey through Death Gate had not started out exactly as planned. Somewhere, somehow, his liege lord had made serious miscalculations. The runes had been misaligned. Haplo had realized the mistake too late. There had been little he could do to prevent the crash, the resultant destruction of his ship.

  The realization that he was now trapped on this world did not unduly worry Haplo. He had been trapped in the Labyrinth and escaped. After that experience, on an ordinary world such as this, he would be-as his lord said-“invincible.” Haplo had only to play his part. Somehow, after he’d done what he came to do, he would find a way back.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  Jarre entered the room, bringing with her a flood of soft candlelight. Haplo squinted, blinking up at her. The dog growled and started to jump up, but it lay still at its master’s stealthy, commanding touch.

  “Limbeck!” Jarre cried.

  “He’s dead!” The stout Geg came hurrying anxiously into the room.

  “No, no, he’s not!” Sinking down beside the bed, Jarre reached out a trembling hand toward Haplo’s forehead. “Look! The wound’s healed! Completely. Not…not even a scar! Oh, Limbeck! Maybe you’re wrong! Maybe this being truly is a god!”

  “No,” said Haplo. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed intently at the startled Gegs. “I was a slave.” He spoke slowly in a low voice, fumbling for words in the thick dwarven tongue. “Once I was as you are now. But my people triumphed over their masters and I have come to help you do the same.”

  CHAPTER 21

  PITRIN’S EXILE, MID REALM

  THE JOURNEY ACROSS PITRIN’S EXILE WAS EASIER THAN HUGH HAD ANTICIPATED.


  Bane kept up gamely, and when he did tire, he tried very hard not to show it. Alfred watched the boy anxiously, and when the prince began to show signs of being footsore, it was the chamberlain who announced that he himself could not proceed another step. Alfred was, in fact, having a much more difficult time of it than his small charge. The man’s feet seemed possessed of a will of their own and were continually going off on some divergent path, stumbling into nonexistent holes or tripping over twigs invisible to the eye.

  Consequently, they did not make very good time. Hugh did not push them, did not push himself. They were not far from the wooded inlet on the isle’s edge, where he kept his ship moored, and he felt a reluctance to reach it-a reluctance that angered him, but one for which he refused to account.

  The walking was pleasant, for Bane and Hugh, at least. The air was cold, but the sun shone and kept the chill from being bitter. There was little wind. They met more than the usual number of travelers on the road, taking advantage of this brief spell of good weather to make whatever pressing journeys had to be made during the winter. The weather was also fine for raiding, and Hugh noted that everyone kept one eye on the road and one on the sky, as the saying went.

  They saw three of the dragon-headed, sail-winged elven ships, but they were far distant, traveling to some unknown destination on the kiratrack side. That same day, a flight of fifty dragons passed directly overhead. They could see the dragonknights in their saddles, the bright winter sun gleaming off helm and breastplate, javelin and arrow tips. This detail had a wizardess with them, flying in the center, surrounded by knights. She carried no visible weapons, only her magic, and that was in her mind. The dragonknights were headed toward the kiratrack as well. The elves weren’t the only ones who would take advantage of clear, windless days.

  Bane watched the elven ships with wide-eyed, openmouthed, boyish awe. He had never seen one, he said, and was bitterly disappointed that they didn’t come closer. A scandalized Alfred had, in fact, been forced to restrain His Highness from pulling off his hood and using it as a flag to wave them this direction. Travelers along the road had not been at all amused by this stunt. Hugh took grim delight in watching the peasants scatter for cover before Alfred managed to put a damper on His Highness’s enthusiasm.

  That night, as they gathered around the fire after their frugal meal, Bane went over to sit beside Hugh, instead of his usual place near the chamberlain. Squatting down, he made himself comfortable.

  “Will you tell me about the elves, Sir Hugh?”

  “How do you know I have anything to tell?” Hugh fished his pipe and the pouch of sterego out of his pack. Leaning back against a tree, his -feet stretched out to the flames, he shook the dried fungus out of the leather pouch and into the round, smooth bowl.

  Bane gazed not at the assassin but at a point somewhere to Hugh’s right, over his shoulder. His blue eyes lost their focus. Hugh thrust a stick into the fire and used it to light his pipe. Puffing on it, he watched the boy with idle curiosity.

  “I see a great battle,” said Bane dreamily. “I see elves and men fighting and dying. I see defeat and despair, and then I hear men singing and there is joy.”

  Hugh sat still for so long that his pipe went out. Alfred shifted position uncomfortably and put his palm on a hot coal. Stifling a cry of pain, he wrung his injured hand.

  “Your Highness,” he said miserably, “I have told you-“

  “No, never mind.” Casually Hugh knocked the ash out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again. He puffed on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the boy. “You just described the Battle of Seven Fields.”

  “You were there,” said Bane.

  Hugh blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. “Yes, and so was nearly every other human male near my age, including your father, the king.” Hugh took a long drag on the pipe. “If this is what you’re calling clairvoyance, Alfred, I’ve seen better acts in a third-rate inn. The boy must have heard the story from his father a hundred times.”

  Bane’s face underwent a swift and startling change-the happiness dissolved into stark, searing pain. Biting his lips, he lowered his head and brushed his hand across his eyes.

  Alfred fixed Hugh with an odd look-one that was almost pleading. “I assure you, Sir Hugh, that this gift of His Highness’s is quite real and should not be taken lightly. Bane, Sir Hugh does not understand magic, that is all. He is sorry. Now, why don’t you get yourself a sweetmelt from the pack.”

  Bane left Hugh’s side, going over to the chamberlain’s pack to find his treat. Alfred pitched his voice for Hugh’s ears alone. “It’s just … You see, sir, the king never really talked that much to the boy. King Stephen was never quite … uh … comfortable in Bane’s presence.”

  No, Hugh mused, Stephen must not have found it pleasant to look into the face of his shame. Perhaps, in the boy’s features, the king saw a man he-and his queen-knew all too well.

  The glow of the pipe died. Knocking out the ashes, Hugh found a small twig and, splitting the end with his dagger, thrust it into the bowl and attempted to clean out the blockage. He cast a glance at the boy and saw Bane still rummaging through the pack.

  “You really believe this kid can do what he claims-sees pictures in the air-don’t you?”

  “He can!” Alfred assured him earnestly. “I have seen him do it too many times to doubt. And you must believe it too, sir, or else …”

  Hugh, pausing in his work, looked up at Alfred.

  “Or else? That sounds very much like a threat.”

  Alfred cast his eyes down. His hurt hand nervously plucked the leaves off a cupplant. “I … I didn’t mean it-“

  “Yes, you did.” Hugh knocked the pipe on a rock. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that feather he wears, would it? The one given him by a mysteriarch?”

  Alfred went livid, becoming so pale Hugh was half-afraid he might faint again. The chamberlain swallowed several times before he found his voice. “I don’t-“

  A snapping branch interrupted him. Bane was returning to the fire. Hugh saw Alfred cast the boy the grateful glance of a drowning man who has been tossed a rope.

  The prince, absorbed in enjoying his sweetmelt, didn’t notice. He threw himself on the ground and, picking up a stick, began to poke at the fire.

  “Would you like to hear the story of the Battle of Seven Fields, Your Highness?” Hugh asked quietly.

  The prince looked up, eyes shining. “I’ll bet you were a hero, weren’t you, Sir Hugh!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” interrupted Alfred meekly, “but I don’t take you for a patriot. How did you chance to be at the battle to free our homeland?”

  Hugh was about to reply when the chamberlain winced and hurriedly jumped up. Reaching down on the ground where he’d been sitting, Alfred picked up a large piece of broken coralite. Its knife-sharp edges sparkled in the firelight. Fortunately, the leather breeches he wore, which they had purchased from a cobbler, had protected him from serious harm.

  “You’re right. Politics mean nothing to me.” A thin trickle of smoke curled up from Hugh’s lips. “Let’s just say that I was there on business… .”

  … A man entered the inn and stood blinking in the dim light. It was early morning, and the common room was empty except for a slovenly woman scrubbing the floor and a traveler seated at a table in deep shadow.

  “Are you Hugh, called the Hand?” the man who had entered asked the traveler.

  “I am.”

  “I want to hire you.” The man plunked a bag down in front of Hugh. Opening it and sorting through it, Hugh saw coins, jewelry, and even a few silver spoons. Pausing, he lifted out what was obviously a woman’s wedding ring and looked at the man narrowly.

  “That comes from a number of us, for none was rich enough to hire you himself. We gave what valuables we had.”

  “Who’s the mark?”

  “A certain captain who hires himself out to the gentry to train and lead foot soldiers in battle. He’s a bully and a cowar
d and he’s sent more than one squad to its doom while he’s stayed safe behind and collected his fee. You’ll find him with Warren of Kurinandistai, marching with the army of King Stephen. I’ve heard they’re headed for a place called Seven Fields, on the continent.”

  “And what’s the special service you require of me? You and”-Hugh patted the money sack-“all these.”

  “Widows and kinsmen of those he last led, sir,” said the man. His eyes glinted. “We ask this for our money: that he be killed in such a manner that it will be obvious no enemy hand touched him, that he knows who has bought his death, and” -the man carefully held out to Hugh a small scroll-“that this be left on the body. …”

  “Sir Hugh?” said Bane impatiently. “Go on. Tell me about Seven Fields.”

  “It was back when the elves ruled us. Over the years, the elves had grown soft in their occupation of our land.” Hugh gazed at the smoke curling upward into the darkness. “Elves consider humans to be little better than animals, and so they underrate us. In many ways, of course, they’re right, and so you can hardly blame them for continuing to make what seems to be the same mistake over and over.

  “The Uylandia Cluster, at the time they ruled it, was divided into bits and pieces, each small bit ruled nominally by a human lord and in actuality by an elven overlord. The elves never had to work to keep the clans from uniting-the clans did that quite well themselves,”

  “I’ve often wondered why the elves didn’t demand that we destroy our weapons, as was done in centuries past?” interjected Alfred.

  Hugh, puffing on the pipe, grinned. “Why bother? It was to their advantage to keep us armed. We used our weapons on each other, saving the elves a lot of trouble.

  “The plan worked, so well, in fact, that the elves shut themselves up in their fine castles, never bothering to open a window and take a good look at what was really transpiring around them. I know, for I used to hear their talk.”