Authors: Margaret Weis
Fire Sea (62 page)
Known for their innovation, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman reach an entirely new level with
The Death Gate Cycle.
For this seven-book extravaganza they have developed four completely realized worlds. In the first four novels, a new adventure with both continuing and new characters will be set on each of the four worlds. In later volumes, the realms begin to interact, with the supreme battle for control of all the worlds in the final novel.
Generations ago, magicians sundered the world into four distinct realms. Now, few even know of the other worlds. Haplo has been sent through the treacherous Death Gate to explore the realms and stir up dissension. The first visit is to Arianus, a world where islands float in the sky and men travel by enchanted dragonships.
Haplo's second journey takes him to the jungle world of Pry an. Here the three races of men, elves, and dwarves seem to have already completed Haplo's task of causing unrest—not even the threat of annihilation can bring these peoples together.
The story takes a truly dark turn, as the enemies Haplo and Alfred are forced to travel together for their first visit to the world of Abarrach. Here, these powerful magicians discover that the barren Realm of Stone is also the land of the dead.
In the world of Chelestra, realm of water, Haplo the Patryn discovers the seas counteract all magic—and leave him nearly powerless against a new threat.
The Lord of the Nexus has ordered Haplo and the human child known as Bane to the world of
Arianus, realm of air. Now Haplo must decide whether to obey his master or betray the powerful Patryn.
Xar, Lord of the Nexus, has learned of the existence of a Seventh Gate, which grants the power to create worlds—or destroy them. Only Haplo knows its location, and so he must seek sanctuary in the Labyrinth, a prison maze whose inhabitants are condemned to death.
The titanic Death Gate saga concludes as Haplo must enter the deadly Seventh Gate, with the fate of the sundered realms in the balance. This scene sets the situation.
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 this dawn was different than most. It was more glorious than most … and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.
It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, in the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing, victorious, after a terrible battle with its most 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 life might be better.
It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was brightening, strengthening. Those Patryns who guarded the city walls turned their eyes to that strange and unnatural glow, shook their heads, 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. They were 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 was the Serpent Mage, who was also the bumbling 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.
Volume One
The Lost King
by Margaret Weis
Even before Margaret Weis teamed up with Tracy Hickman, she had several writing projects in the works. Now, more than ten years in the making,
Star of the Guardians
is finally published. It's the page-turning tale of the man known as the Warlord and his search for the lost heir to the galactic throne.
“Ah, Dr. Giesk. I was beginning to think you might fail me.”
The deep baritone voice was emotionless, almost pleasant and conversational. But Dr. Giesk shuddered.
Failure
was a word the Warlord never spoke twice to
any man. The doctor could not remove his hands from the controls of his delicate equipment, but he managed to give the Warlord a beseeching look.
“The subject proved unusually resistant,” Giesk quavered. “Three days, my lord! I realize he was a Guardian, but none of the others held out that long. I can't understand—”
“Of course you can't understand.” The Warlord stared down impassively at the man on the table. He laid a guantleted hand upon the quivering chest of the man with as little regard as he would have laid that same hand upon the man's coffin. Yet, when the Warlord spoke, his voice was soft, tinged with a sadness and, it seemed, regret.
“Who is there left now who understands, Stavros?”
The gloved fingers touched a jewel the man wore around his neck. Hanging from a silver chain, the jewel was extraordinarily beautiful. Carved into the shape of an eight-pointed star, the gleaming jewel was the only object worn by the naked man, and it had been left around his neck by the Warlord's expressed command.
“Who knows of the training, the discipline, Stavros? Who remembers? And you. One of my best.”
The man on the table moaned. His head moved feverishly from side to side. The Warlord watched a moment in silence, then bent close to speak softly into the man's ear.
“I saved your life once, Stavros. Do you remember? it was at the Royal Academy. On a dare, you had climbed that ridiculous thirty-foot statue of the king. You were what—nine? I was thirteen and she …” the Warlord paused, “she would have been six. Yes, it was soon after she came to the Academy. Only six. All eyes and hair, wild and lonely as a catamount.” His voice
softened further, almost to a whisper. The man on the table began to shiver uncontrollably.
“Fascinating,” murmured Giesk with professional interest, monitoring his instruments. “I haven't been able to elicit a response that strong in three days.”
The Warlord moved his hand up to the man's head, the gauntleted fingers stroking back the graying hair almost caressingly. “Stavros,” commanded the Warlord, his helmeted visage bending over the man. “Stavros, can you hear me?”
The man made a slight moaning sound. A froth of blood appeared on his ashen lips.
“Be quick, my lord!” cried Dr. Giesk, “or you will lose him!”
The Warlord brought his face so near to that of his victim that his breath touched the man's skin, displacing the bubbles of blood and saliva on the gaping mouth.
“Where is the boy?”
The man shivered, fighting with himself. But it was useless. The Warlord regarded him intently. The gauntleted hand moved to rest upon the cold white forehead.
“Stavros?”
In a wild, tortured shriek, the man screamed out words that made no sense to Giesk. He glanced at the Warlord uncertainly.
The Warlord slowly rose and straightened. “Well done, Dr. Giesk. You may now terminate,”
FIRE SEA
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