Into the Labyrinth

18

“Look our!” Hugh the Hand shouted. Jumping to his feet, he leapt at Marit, caught hold of her wrist.

Blue fire crackled. The sigla on Mark’s arms flared. The Hand was flung backward by the shock. He hit the wall, slid down to the floor, clutching his tingling arm.

“What the—” Haplo was staring from one to the other. The assassin’s fingers touched cold iron: his knife, lying on the floor beside him. The numbing shock that had sent his muscles into painful spasms disappeared. Hugh’s fingers closed over the hilt.

“Beneath her sleeve!” he shouted. “A throwing dagger.” Haplo stared in disbelief, unable to react.

Marit drew forth the dagger that she wore in a sheath on her arm and flung it all in the same smooth motion.

Had she caught Haplo unaware, her attack would have felled him. His defensive magic would not react to protect him from a fellow Patryn. Particularly not from her.

But even before Hugh’s warning, Haplo had experienced a glimmer of distrust, unease.

Xar wants you, she had said to him.

And in his mind, Haplo heard the echo of Hugh’s words.

Xar wants you dead.

Haplo ducked. The dagger fell harmlessly over his head, chest, bounced off, fell to the floor with a clatter.

Marit lunged for her fallen weapon. The dog shot out from underneath the bench, intent on putting its body between its master and danger. Marit tripped over the animal, crashed into Haplo. He lost his balance. Reaching out to save himself from falling, he caught hold of the steering stone. Hugh the Hand raised the knife, intending to defend Haplo.

The Cursed Blade had other plans. Wrought ages ago, designed specifically by the Sartan to fight their most feared enemies,[25] the knife recognized that it had two Patryns to destroy, not just one. What Hugh the Hand wanted counted for nothing. He had no control over the blade; rather, it used him. That was how the Sartan, with their disdain for mensch, had designed it. The blade needed a warm body, needed that body’s energy, nothing more.

The blade became a live thing in Hugh’s hand. It squirmed and writhed and began to grow. Appalled, he dropped it, but the blade didn’t mind. It no longer had any need of him. Taking the form of a gigantic black-winged bat, the knife flew at Marit.

Haplo felt the runes of the steering stone beneath his hand. Marit had recovered her dagger. She lunged to stab him. His defensive magic, which would have reacted instantly to protect him from an attack by a mensch or a Sartan, was unable to respond to danger from a fellow Patryn. The sigla on his skin remained pale, would not shield him.

Haplo flung up one arm to fend off Marit’s attack, attempted to activate the steering stone’s magic with the other. Blue and red light flared. The ship soared upward.

“Death’s Gate!” Haplo managed to gasp.

The sudden motion of the ship threw Marit off balance, caused her to miss. The knife slashed across Haplo’s forearm, leaving a streak of glistening red blood. But he was lying on the deck in an awkward and vulnerable position. Marit regained her balance swiftly. With the skilled, single-minded purpose of a well-trained fighter, she ignored the ship’s erratic motion and went after Haplo again.

He was staring not at her but past her.

“Marit!” he yelled. “Look out!”

She was not about to fall for a trick she had learned to avoid as a child. She was more worried about the wretched dog, which was in her way. Marit stabbed at the dog. Something large, with scratching claws, struck her from behind. Tiny, sharp teeth whose bite was like searing flame sank into the flesh at the base of her skull, above the protective tattoos. Wings flapped against the back of her head. Marit knew her attacker—a bloodsucker. The pain of its bite was excruciating; worse, the creature’s teeth were venomous, injecting a paralyzing poison into its victim to bring her down. Within moments she would be unable to move, helpless to stop the bat from draining her life’s blood. Fighting down panic, Marit dropped the knife. Reaching behind her, she grabbed hold of the furry body. The bat had dug its claws deep into her flesh. Its teeth were nipping and slashing, hunting for a large vein. The poison burned through Marit, making her sick and dizzy.

“Break its hold!” Haplo was shouting. “Quick!” He was trying to help her, but the lurching of the ship made it difficult for him to reach her.

Marit knew what she had to do. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the flapping bat in her hands and yanked on it as hard as she could. The claws tore her flesh out with them; the bat squealed and bit her hands. Every bite shot another dose of poison into her.

She flung the bat away, hurling it with her remaining strength into the wall. She slumped to her knees. Haplo dashed past her; the dog bounded over her. Marit felt her dagger beneath her palm. Her fingers closed on it. She slid it up the sleeve of her blouse. Keeping her head down, she waited for the sickness to pass, waited for her strength to return.

Behind her she heard a snarling and thumping, and then Haplo’s voice.

“Hugh, stop that damn knife!”

“I can’t!”

The sunlight that had been shining through the porthole was gone. Marit looked up. Arianus had been replaced by a dazzling display of swiftly altering images. A world of green jungle, a world of blue water, a world of red fire, a world of twilight, a world of terrible darkness, and a bright white light. The thumping ceased. She heard the heavy, labored breathing of the two men, the dog panting.

The images repeated themselves, swirls of color to her dazed mind: green, blue, red, pearl gray, dark, light. Marit knew how Death’s Gate worked. She focused on the green.

“Pryan,” she whispered. “Take me to Xar!” The ship altered course immediately.

Haplo was staring blankly at the dog. The dog was staring at the deck. Growling, wondering where its prey had gone, the animal began pawing at the rune-covered wooden hull of the ship, thinking perhaps that the bat had somehow managed to crawl into a crack.

Haplo knew better. He looked around.

Hugh the Hand was holding the weapon—a crude iron knife. Pale and shaken, he dropped it. “I never did trust magic. You got any idea how the damn blade works?”

“Not much,” Haplo said. “Don’t use it again.” The Hand shook his head. “If we were on solid ground, I’d bury the cursed thing.” He looked out the window, his expression dark. “Where are we?”

“Death’s Gate,” said Haplo, preoccupied. He knelt down beside Marit. “How are you?”

She was shivering hard, almost convulsively.

Haplo took hold of her hands.

Angrily Marit snatched them away, pulled back from him. “Leave me alone!”

“You’ve got a fever. I can help...” he began, and started to brush aside the feathery chestnut bangs that she wore low over her forehead. She hesitated. Something inside her wanted him to know the truth, knew it would hurt him worse than the knife’s blade. But Xar had warned her not to reveal this secret power she possessed, this link to him.

Marit shoved Haplo’s hand aside. “Traitor! Don’t touch me!” Haplo lowered his hand. “I’m not a traitor.”

Marit eyed him with a grim smile. “Our lord knows about Bane. The dragon-snake told him.”

“Dragon-snake!” Haplo’s eyes flashed. “What dragon-snake? One who calls himself Sang-drax?”

“What does it matter what the creature calls himself? The dragon-snake told our lord about the Kicksey-winsey and Arianus. How you brought peace when you were ordered to bring war. And all for your own glory.”

“No.” Haplo’s voice grated. “He lies.”

Marit made an impatient negating motion with her hand. “I heard what the mensch said for myself. Back there on Arianus. I heard your mensch friends talking.” Her lip curled. She cast a scornful glance back at Hugh the Hand.

“Mensch friends armed with Sartan weapons—made by our enemy for our destruction! Weapons you undoubtedly intend to use on your own kind!” The dog whined, started to creep over to Haplo.

Hugh the Hand whistled, spoke gruffly, “Here, boy. Come to me.” The dog gazed woefully at its master. Haplo appeared to have forgotten its existence. Ears drooping, tail hanging limp, the dog wandered over to Hugh and flopped down at his side.

“You betrayed our lord, Haplo,” Marit continued. “Your betrayal hurt him deeply. That was why he sent me.”

“But I didn’t betray him, Marit! I haven’t betrayed our people. Everything I’ve done has been for them, for their own good. The dragon-snakes are the true betrayers—”

“Haplo,” the Hand called warningly, casting a significant look out the porthole. “We’ve changed course, seemingly.”

Haplo barely glanced out. “This is Pryan.” He eyed Marit. “You brought us here. Why?”

She was rising shakily to her feet. “Xar ordered me to bring you here. He wants to question you.”

“He can’t very well do that if I’m dead, can he?” Haplo paused, remembering Abarrach. “On second thought, I guess he can. So our lord has learned the forbidden Sartan art of necromancy.”

Marit chose to ignore the emphasis. “Will you come to him peacefully, Haplo? Surrender yourself to his judgment? Or must I kill you?” Haplo stared out the window at Pryan—a hollow stone ball, its suns shining in the center. Basking in eternal daylight, the plant life on Pryan grew so thickly that vast mensch cities were built in the limbs of gigantic trees. Mensch ships sailed oceans floating on broad moss plains far above the ground. Haplo looked at Pryan, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing Xar. How easy it would be. Fall on my knees before Xar, bow my head, accept my fate. Quit the fight. Quit the struggle.

If I don’t, I’ll have to kill her.

He knew Marit, knew how she thought. Once the two of them had thought alike. She honored Xar. Haplo did, too. How could he not? Xar had saved his life, saved the lives of all their people, led them forth from that heinous prison. But Xar was wrong. Just as Haplo had been wrong.

“You were the one who was right, Marit,” he told her. “I couldn’t understand then. Now I do.”

Not following his thoughts, she eyed him with suspicion.

“ ‘The evil is in us,’ you said. We are the ones who give the Labyrinth strength. It feeds off our hatred, our fear. It grows fat on our fear,” he said with a bitter smile, recalling Sang-drax’s words.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marit said disdainfully. She was feeling better, stronger. The poison was abating, her own magic acting to dilute it. “I said lots of things I didn’t mean then. I was young.” Mentally, silently, she spoke to Xar. I am on Pryan, Husband. I have Haplo. No, he is not dead. Guide me to the meeting place.

She rested her hand on the steering stone. Runes flared. The ship had been drifting aimlessly; now it began to fly swiftly through the green-tinged sky. Her lord’s voice flowed inside her, drew her to him.

“What is your decision?” Course set, Marit let go the stone. She pulled her dagger from her sleeve, held it firmly, steadily.

Behind her the dog growled low in its throat. Hugh the Hand quieted the animal, petting it gently. He watched intently; his own fate—bound up in Haplo, who would lead him to Alfred—was at stake. Marit kept the human in her line of vision, but she was paying scant attention to him. She discounted him as a threat, as she would discount any mensch.

“Xar’s made a terrible mistake, Marit,” Haplo told her quietly. “The dragon-snakes are his true enemy. They’re the ones who will betray him.”

“They are his allies!”

“They pretend to be his allies. They will give Xar what he seeks. They’ll crown him ruler of the four worlds, bow down to him. Then they’ll devour him. And our people will be destroyed as surely as were the Sartan.

“Look at us,” he continued. “Look what they’ve done to us. Since when, in the history of our people, have two Patryns fought each other?”

“Since one of them betrayed his people,” she returned scornfully. “You are now more Sartan than Patryn. So my lord says.”

Haplo sighed. He called the dog to his side. The animal, ears alert, tail wagging happily, trotted over. Haplo scratched its head. “If it were just me, Marit, I’d give up. I’d go with you. I’d die at my lord’s hands. But I’m not alone. There’s our child. You did bear my child, didn’t you?”

“I bore her. Alone. In a Squatter’s hut.” Her voice was hard, sharp as the blade in her hand.

Haplo was silent, then asked, “A girl-child?”

“Yes. And if you’re thinking to soften me, it won’t work. I learned well the one lesson you taught me, Haplo. Caring about something in the Labyrinth brings only pain. I gave her a name, tattooed the heart-rune on her chest, and then I left her.”

“What did you name her?”

“Rue.”

Haplo flinched. He was pale; his fingers curled, dug into the dog’s flesh. The animal yelped, gave him a reproachful glance.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

The ship had descended, was skimming over the tops of the trees, moving at an incredible speed, far faster than when Haplo had first visited this world. Xar’s magic, drawing them to him.

Below, the jungle was a dizzying green blur. A flash of blue, briefly seen and then gone, was an ocean. The ship was dropping lower and lower. In the distance Haplo could see the sparkling beauty of a white city: one of the Sartan citadels. Probably the one he himself had discovered. It would be logical for Xar to visit the citadel; he had Haplo’s account to guide him.

What does Xar expect my corpse to tell him? Haplo wondered suddenly. Obviously he suspects me of having hidden knowledge. Something I’ve kept from him. But what? I’ve told him everything... almost... And what’s left isn’t important to anyone but me.

“Well?” Marit demanded impatiently. “Have you made your decision?” The spires of the citadel loomed above them. The ship was flying over the wall, descending into an open courtyard. Two mensch standing beneath were staring up at them in open-mouthed astonishment. Haplo could not see Xar, but the lord must be somewhere nearby.

If I’m going to make my move, it has to be now.

“I won’t go back, Marit,” Haplo said. “And I won’t fight you. It’s what Sang-drax wants us to do.” His gaze shifted from the porthole, slid with deliberate slowness around the ship, flicked over Hugh the Hand, returned to Marit.

Haplo wondered how much the human had understood of what had passed. Haplo had spoken in human for the assassin’s benefit, but Marit had been using the Patryn language.

Well, if he didn’t understand before, he would now.

“I guess you’ll have to kill me,” said Haplo.

Hugh the Hand dove for the knife—not the Cursed Blade, but Haplo’s knife, stained with the human’s own blood, which lay on the deck. He intended to distract the woman; he knew he didn’t stand a chance of stopping Marit. She heard him, whirled, stretched out her hand. The sigla on her skin flashed. Runes danced in the air, spun themselves into a flaring rope of fire that wrapped around the human. Hugh screamed in agony and crashed to the deck, the blue and red runes twining around him.

Haplo took advantage of the diversion to grasp the steering stone. He spoke the runes, willed the ship to leave.

Resistance. Xar’s magic held them fast.

The dog gave a warning bark. Haplo turned. Marit had dropped the knife. She was going to use her magic to kill him. Sigla on the backs of her hands began to gleam.

The Cursed Blade came to life.