Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  “Thank you, no. I’m not wounded. It’s a skin disease, common to my people. It’s not contagious and it doesn’t cause me any pain, but the pustules it creates aren’t pleasant to look at.”

  Disgust twisted Hugh’s features. Alfred’s face paled slightly, and it was a struggle for the servant to express the proper sympathy. Haplo watched with inward satisfaction and did not believe he would encounter any further questions about his hands.

  Hugh sheathed his sword and drew near. “Your ship crashed?” he asked Haplo in low tones.

  “Yes.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “Completely.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Down below, on one of the lower isles. You’ve probably never heard of it. Not many have. I was fighting a battle in my own lands when my ship was hit and I lost control-“

  Hugh walked toward the statue. Apparently deeply engrossed in the conversation, Haplo joined him, but managed to cast a casual glance back at the servant. Alfred’s skin was a deathly hue, his eyes still staring intently at the Patryn’s hands, as if the man wished desperately his look could pierce through the cloth.

  “You’re stranded down here, then?” asked Hugh.

  Haplo nodded.

  “And you want …” Hugh hesitated, certain, perhaps, that he knew the answer but wanting the other to say it.

  “… to get out.” Haplo was emphatic.

  Now it was Hugh who nodded. The two men understood each other completely. There was no trust between them, but that wasn’t necessary, not as long as each was able to use the other to achieve a common goal. Bedfellows, it seemed, who wouldn’t fight over the blankets. They continued to converse in low tones, considering their problem.

  Alfred stood staring at the man’s hands. Bane, frowning, gazed after Haplo; the boy’s fingers stroked the feather amulet. His thoughts were interrupted by the Geg.

  “You’re not a god, then?” Drawn by an irresistible force, Limbeck had moved nearer to talk to the child.

  “No,” answered Bane, wrenching his gaze from Haplo. Turning to the Geg, the prince carefully and quickly smoothed his dour expression. “I’m not, but they told me to tell that man, your king, that I was so that he wouldn’t hurt us.”

  “Hurt you?” Limbeck appeared amazed. The concept was beyond him.

  “I’m really a prince of the High Realm,” continued the child. “My father is a powerful wizard. We were going to see him when our ship crashed.”

  “I’d dearly love to see the High Realm!” exclaimed Limbeck. “What’s it like?”

  “I’m not sure. You see, I’ve never been there before. I’ve lived all my life in the Mid Realm with my adopted father. It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve never been to the Mid Realm either. But I’ve seen pictures of it in a book I found in a Welf ship. I’ll tell you how I found it.” Limbeck began to recite his favorite tale-that of stumbling across the elven vessel.

  Bane, fidgeting, craned his head to look back at Haplo and Hugh, standing together before the statue of the Manger. Alfred was muttering to himself. None of them was paying any attention to Jarre.

  She didn’t like this, any of it. She didn’t like the two tall, strong gods putting their heads together and talking in a language she couldn’t understand. She didn’t like the way Limberk was looking at the child-god, she didn’t like the way the child-god was looking at anyone. She didn’t even like the way the tall, gawky god had tumbled down onto the floor. Jarre had the feeling that, like poor relatives coming to visit, these gods were going to devour all the food and, when that was gone, leave the Gegs with nothing but an empty cupboard.

  Jarre slipped over to where the two Gegs were standing nervously beside the hole.

  “Bring up everybody,” she said in as soft a voice as is possible for a Geg. “The High Froman’s tried to fool us with sham gods. We’re going to capture them and take them before the people and prove that the High Froman is a fraud!”

  The Gegs looked at the so-called gods, then at each other. These gods didn’t appear very impressive. Tall, maybe, but skinny. One of them carried a formidable-looking weapon. If he were mobbed, he wouldn’t get a chance to use it. Haplo had mourned the extinction of Geg courage. It hadn’t completely died out. It had just been buried under centuries of submission and toil. Now the coals had been stirred up. Here and there, flames were flickering.

  The excited Gegs backed down the ladder. Jarre leaned over and looked down after them. Her square face, dimly illuminated by the glimmerglamps, was awesome, almost ethereal, when viewed from below. More than one Geg had a sudden image of ancient days when the clan priestesses would have summoned them to war.

  Noisily, but in the disciplined manner the Gegs had learned serving the great machine, they clambered up the ladder. What with the whumping and the thumping going on all around, no one heard them.

  Forgotten in the confusion, Haplo’s dog lay at the foot of the ladder. Nose on paws, it watched and listened and seemed to ponder whether its master had really been serious about that word “stay.”

  CHAPTER 35

  WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  HAPLO HEARD A WHINE, FELT A PAWING AT HIS LEG. HE TURNED HIS ATTENTION FROM examining the Manger pictures to look down at his feet.

  “What is it, boy? I thought I told you to … Oh.” The Patryn glanced over and saw the Gegs streaming up out of the hole. The Hand, hearing a sound at his back, looked in the opposite direction-toward the main entrance of the Factree.

  “Company,” said Hugh. “The High Froman and his guards.”

  “And over there.”

  Hugh glanced swiftly toward the hole, his hand going to his sword. Haplo shook his head. “No, we can’t fight. There are too many. Besides, they don’t want to harm us. They want to claim us. We’re the prize. There’s no time to explain. It looks as if we’re going to be caught in the middle of a riot. You better go take care of that prince of yours.”

  “He’s an investment-” began Hugh.

  “The coppers!” Jarre shrieked, catching sight of the High Froman. “Quick, grab the gods before they stop us!”

  “Then you better go guard your investment,” suggested Haplo.

  “What is it, sir?” gasped Alfred, seeing Hugh running toward them, sword in hand.

  The two groups of Gegs were yelling and shaking their fists and snatching up makeshift weapons off the Factree floor.

  “Trouble. Take the kid and go with …” Hugh began. “No, dammit, don’t faint …”

  Alfred’s eyes rolled back in his head. Hugh reached out to shake him or slap him or something, but it was too late. The chamberlain’s limp body slid down and flopped gracelessly across the feet of the Manger’s statue.

  The Gegs rushed toward the gods. The High Froman, instantly recognizing his danger, ordered the coppers to rush the Gegs. Shouting wildly-some for the WUPPers and some for the Froman-the two groups came together. For the first time in the history of Drevlin, blows were struck, blood was shed. Haplo, gathering up his dog in his arms, melted back into the shadows and watched quietly, smiling.

  Jarre stood near the hole, helping Gegs climb out, rallying her people to attack. When the last Geg was up out of the tunnels, she looked around and discovered that the battle had surged ahead of her. Worse, she had completely lost sight of Limbeck, Haplo, and the three strange beings. Leaping onto the top of a crate, Jarre peered over the heads of the milling, fighting press of Gegs and saw, to her horror, the High Froman and the Head Clark standing near the statue of the Manger, taking advantage of the confusion to spirit away not only the gods but also the august leader of WUPP!

  Furious, Jarre jumped from her crate and ran toward them, but got caught up in the midst of the battle. Pushing and shoving and lashing out with her fists at the Gegs blocking her path, she struggled to get near the statue. She was flushed and panting, her trousers were torn, her hair had fallen down over her face, and one eye was swelling shut when she finally reached her des
tination.

  The gods were gone. Limbeck was gone. The High Froman had won.

  Her fist doubled, Jarre was prepared to punch the head of the first copper who came near her when she heard a moan and, looking down, saw two large feet sticking up in the air. They weren’t Geg feet. They were god feet!

  Hurrying around to the front of the Manger, Jarre was amazed to see the base of the statue standing wide open! One of the Froman’s gods-the tall, gawky one-had apparently fallen into this opening and was lying half in and half out of it.

  “I’m in luck!” said Jarre. “I’ve got this one, at least!”

  She glanced fearfully behind her, expecting to see the Froman’s coppers, but in the confusion and turmoil, no one was paying any attention to her. The Froman would be intent on getting his gods out of danger and, undoubtedly, no one had missed this one yet.

  “But they will. We have to get you away from here,” muttered Jarre. Hurrying over to the god, she saw that he was lying on a staircase that led inside the statue. Descending below the floor level, the stairs provided a quick and easy means of escape.

  Jarre hesitated. She was violating the statue-the Gegs’ most Holy of Holies. She had no idea why this opening was here or where it might lead. It didn’t matter. This was only going to be a hiding place. She’d wait inside here until everyone was gone. Jarre bounded over the comatose god and stumbled down the stairs. Turning, she grabbed the god’s shoulders and dragged him, bumping and sliding and groaning, inside the statue.

  Jarre had no clear plan in mind. She only hoped that by the time the High Froman came looking for this god and discovered the opening in the statue, she would have been able to smuggle him back to WUPP Headquarters. But when Jarre drew the god’s feet over the base, the opening suddenly and silently slid shut. The Geg found herself in darkness.

  Jarre held perfectly still and tried to tell herself everything was all right. But panic was swelling up inside her until it seemed she must split apart. Her terror wasn’t caused by fear of the dark. Living nearly all of their lives inside the Kicksey-Winsey, the Gegs were used to the darkness. Jarre shook all over. Her hands were sweating, her breath came fast, her heart pounded, and she didn’t know why. And then it came to her.

  It was quiet.

  She couldn’t hear the machine, couldn’t hear the comforting whistles and bangs and hammerings that had lulled her to sleep as a babe. Now there was nothing but awful, terrible silence. Sight is a sense outside and apart from the body, an image on the surface of the eye. But sound enters the ears, the head, it lives inside. In sound’s absence, silence echoes.

  Abandoning the god on the staircase, heedless of pain, forgetting her fear of the coppers, Jarre flung herself against the statue. “Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”

  Alfred regained consciousness. Sitting up, he accidentally began to slide down the stairs, and only saved himself by reflexively grabbing and hanging on to the steps beneath. Thoroughly confused, surrounded by pitch-black night with a Geg screaming like a steam whistle in his ears, Alfred endeavored to ask several times what was going on. The Geg paid no attention to him.

  Finally, crawling on hands and knees in the darkness back up the stairs, he reached out a hand in the direction of the nearly hysterical Jarre.

  “Where are we?”

  She pounded and shrieked and ignored him.

  “Where are we?” Alfred caught hold of the Geg in his large hands-uncertain, in the darkness, just what part he’d grabbed-and began to shake her. “Stop this! It isn’t helping! Tell me where we are and maybe I can get us out of here!”

  Not clearly understanding Alfred’s words, but angered at his rough handling, Jarre came to herself with a gulp and shoved the chamberlain away with a heave of her strong arms. He slid and slithered and nearly tumbled back down the stairs, but managed to stop his fall.

  “Now, listen to me!” Alfred said, separating each word and speaking it slowly and distinctly. “Tell me where we are and maybe I can help get us out!”

  “I don’t know how!” Breathing hard, shivering, Jarre huddled as far away from Alfred as possible on the opposite side of the staircase. “You’re a stranger here. What could you know?”

  “Just tell me!” pleaded Alfred. “I can’t explain. After all, what will it hurt?”

  “Well …” Jarre considered. “We’re inside the statue.”

  “Ah!” breathed Alfred.

  “What does ‘ah’ mean?”

  “It means … uh … I thought that might be the case.”

  “Can you open it back up?”

  No, I can’t. No one can. Not from the inside. But how would I know that if I’ve never been here before? What do I tell her? Alfred was thankful for the darkness. He was a terrible liar and it made it easier that he couldn’t see her face and that she couldn’t see his.

  “I’m … not certain, but I doubt it. You see, uh … What is your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. We’re here together in the dark and we should know each other’s names. Mine is Alfred. And yours?”

  “Jarre. Go on. You opened it once, why can’t you open it again?”

  “I … I didn’t open it,” stammered Alfred. “It opened by accident, I guess. You see, I have this terrible habit. Whenever I’m frightened, I faint. It’s something I can’t control. I saw the fighting, you see, and some of your people were rushing toward us, and I … just passed out.” That much was true. What followed wasn’t. “I guess that when I fell I must have tripped something on the statue that caused it to open.”

  I regained consciousness. I looked up to see the statue, and I felt, for the first time in a long, long while, safe and secure and deeply, fervently at peace. The suspicion that had been awakened in my mind, the responsibility, the decisions I will be forced to make if that suspicion is true, overwhelmed me. I longed to escape, to disappear, and my hand moved of its own volition, without my prompting, and touched the statue’s robe in a certain place, in a certain way.

  The base slid open, but then the enormity of my action must have been too much for me. I suppose I fainted again. The Geg came upon me and, seeking a haven from the melee raging outside, dragged me in here. The base closed automatically and it will stay closed. Only those who know the way in know the way out. Anyone stumbling across an entrance by mistake would never return to tell of it. Oh, they wouldn’t die. The magic, the machine, would care for them, and care for them very well. But they would be prisoners for the rest of their lives.

  Fortunately, I know the way in, I know the way out. But how can I explain this to the Geg?

  A terrible thought occurred to Alfred. By law, he should leave her here. It was her own fault, after all. She shouldn’t have entered the sacred statue. But then Alfred considered, with a pang of conscience, that perhaps she had endangered herself for him-trying to save his life. He couldn’t just abandon her. He knew he couldn’t, no matter what the law said. But right now it was all so confusing. If only he hadn’t given way to his weakness!

  “Don’t stop!” Jarre clutched at him.

  “Stop what?”

  “Talking! It’s the quiet! I can’t stand listening to it! Why can’t we hear anything in here?”

  “It was made that way purposely,” said Alfred with a sigh. “Designed to offer rest and sanctuary.” He had reached a decision. It probably wasn’t the right one, but then, he’d made few right decisions in his lifetime. “I am going to lead us out of here, Jarre.”

  “You know the way?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” She was deeply suspicious.

  “I can’t explain it. In fact, you will see many things that you won’t understand and that I can’t explain. I can’t even ask you to trust me, because, of course, you don’t, and I can’t expect you to.” Pausing, Alfred considered his next words. “Let’s look at it like this: you can’t get out this way. You’ve tried. You can either stay here or you can come with me and I’ll show you the wa
y out.”

  Alfred heard the Geg draw breath to speak, but he forestalled her.

  “There’s one more thing you should consider. I want to return to my people just as desperately as you want to go back to yours. The child you saw is in my care. And the dark man with him needs me, although he doesn’t know it.” Alfred was silent a moment, thinking of the other man, the one who called himself Haplo, and it occurred to him that the silence was loud in here, louder than he’d remembered.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Jarre. “What you say makes sense.”

  “Thank you,” answered Alfred gravely. “Now, hold still one moment. This stairway is steep and dangerous without light.”

  Alfred reached out his hand and felt the wall behind him. It was made of stone, like the tunnels, and was smooth and even. Running his hand along the surface, he had nearly reached the juncture where the wall met the stairs when his fingers brushed over lines and whorls and notches carved in the stone. They formed a distinct pattern, one that he knew. Tracing his finger over the rough edges of the carving, following the lines of the pattern he could see clearly in his mind, he spoke the rune.

  The sigil beneath his fingers began to glow with a soft, radiant blue light. Jarre, seeing it, caught her breath and sank backward, pressing herself against the wall. Alfred gave her a soothing, reassuring pat on the arm and repeated the rune. A sigil carved beside and touching the first caught the magical fire and began to glow. Soon, one after the other, a line of runes appeared out of the darkness, running the length of the steep staircase. At the bottom, they curved around a corner leading to the right.

  “Now it’s safe for us to go down,” said Alfred, rising and brushing the dust of ages from his clothes. Keeping his words and actions purposefully brisk, his tone matter-of-fact, he held out his hand to Jarre. “If I might be of assistance?”

  Jarre hesitated, gulped, and hugged her shawl closely around her. Then, pressing her lips together, her face grim, she rested her small work-worn hand in Alfred’s. The blue-glowing runes glittered brightly in her fearful eyes.