Into the Labyrinth

2

Samah. Of all the wonderful prizes. Samah. The Sartan who had thought up the plot to sunder the world. The Sartan who had sold the idea to his people. The Sartan who had taken their blood and the blood of countless thousands of innocents in payment. The Sartan who had locked the Patryns in the prison hell of the Labyrinth.

“And,” Xar said to himself suddenly, his gaze going back to the book, “the Sartan who undoubtedly knows the location of the Seventh Gate! Not only that, but he will probably refuse to tell me where it is or anything about it.” Xar rubbed his hands. “I will have the inordinate pleasure of forcing Samah to talk!”

There are dungeons in the palace of stone on Abarrach. Haplo had reported their existence to Xar. Haplo had very nearly died in the dungeons of Abarrach.

Xar hastened through the rat’s warren of corridors that led downward to the dungeons—the “catacombs,” as they had been euphemistically known during the reign of the Sartan.

What had those early Sartan used the catacombs for? Prisons for the malcontents among the mensch? Or perhaps the Sartan had even tried housing the mensch down here, away from the corrupt atmosphere of the caverns above, the atmosphere that was slowly poisoning every living thing the Sartan had brought with them. According to Haplo’s report, there were rooms down here, other rooms besides prison cells. Large rooms, big enough to hold a fair number of people. Sartan runes, traced along the floor, led the way, for those who knew the secrets of their magic.

Torches burned in sconces on the wall. By their light, Xar caught an occasional glimpse of these Sartan runes. Xar spoke a word—a Sartan word—and watched the sigla flicker feebly to life, glow a moment, then die, their magic broken and spent.

Xar chuckled. This was a game he played around the palace, a game of which he never tired. The sigla were symbolic. Like their magic, the power of the Sartan had shone briefly, then died. Broken, spent.

As Samah would die. Xar rubbed his hands together again in anticipation. The catacombs were empty now. In the days before the accidental creation of the dread lazar, the catacombs had been used to house the dead, both types of dead: those who had been reanimated and those awaiting reanimation. Here they stored the corpses for the three days requisite to being brought back to life. Here, too, were the occasional dead who had already been brought back to life but who had proved a nuisance to the living. Kleitus’s own mother had been one of these.

But now the cells were empty. The dead had all been freed. Some had been turned into lazar. Others, dead too long to be of use to the lazar—like the queen mother—were left to wander vaguely around the halls. When the Patryns arrived, such dead had been rounded up, formed into armies. Now they awaited the call to battle.

The catacombs were a depressing place in a world of depressing places. Xar had never liked coming down here, and had not done so after his first brief tour of inspection. The atmosphere was heavy, dank and chill. The smell of decay was rank, lingering on the air. It was even palpable to the taste. The torches sputtered and smoked dismally.

But Xar didn’t notice the taste of death today. Or if he did, it left a sweet flavor in his mouth. Emerging from the tunnels into the cellblock, he saw two figures in the shadows, both keeping watch for him. One was the young woman who had summoned him. Marit was her name. He’d sent her on ahead to prepare for his arrival. Although he could not see her clearly in the murky dimness, he recognized her by the sigla glowing faintly blue in the darkness; her magic acting to keep her alive in this world of the living dead. The other figure Xar recognized by the fact that the sigla on this man’s skin did not glow. That and the fact that one of his red eyes did.

“My Lord.” Marit bowed with deep reverence. “My Lord.” The dragon-snake in man’s form bowed, too, but never once did the one red eye (the other eye was missing) lose sight of Xar.

Xar didn’t like that. He didn’t like the way the red eye was always staring at him, as if waiting for the moment the lord would lower his guard, when the red eye could slide swordlike inside. And Xar did not like the lurking laughter he was positive he could see in that one red eye. Oh, its gaze was always deferential, subservient. The laughter was never there when Xar looked into the eye directly. But he always had the feeling that the eye gleamed mockingly the moment he glanced away.

Xar would never let the red eye know it bothered him, made him uneasy. The lord had even gone so far as to make Sang-drax (the dragon-snake’s mensch name) his personal assistant. Thus Xar kept his eye on Sang-drax.

“All is in readiness for your visit, Lord Xar.” Sang-drax spoke with the utmost respect. “The prisoners are in separate cells, as you commanded.” Xar peered down the row of cells. It was difficult to see by the feeble light from the torches—they too seemed to be coughing in the ruinous air. Patryn magic could have lit this foul place as bright as day on the sunny world of Pryan, but the Patryns had learned from bitter experience that one didn’t waste one’s magic on such luxuries. Besides, having come from the dangerous realm of the Labyrinth, most Patryns felt more at ease under the protection of darkness.

Xar was displeased. “Where are the guards I ordered?” He looked at Marit.

“These Sartan are tricky. They might well be able to break free of our spells.”

She glanced at Sang-drax. Her glance wasn’t friendly; she obviously disliked and distrusted the dragon-snake. “I was going to post them, My Lord. But this one prevented me.”

Xar turned a baleful gaze on Sang-drax. The dragon-snake in Patryn form gave a deprecating smile, spread his hands. Patryn runes adorned the backs of those hands, similar in appearance to the runes tattooed on Xar’s hands and on Marit’s. But the sigla on Sang-drax’s hands didn’t glow. If another Patryn attempted to read them, the runes wouldn’t make any sense. They were strictly for show; they had no meaning. Sang-drax was not a Patryn.

Just what he was Xar wasn’t certain. Sang-drax called himself a “dragon,” claimed he came from the world of Chelestra, claimed he and others of his kind were loyal to Xar, living only to serve Xar and further his cause. Haplo referred to these creatures as dragon-snakes, insisting that they were treacherous, not to be trusted.

Xar saw no reason to doubt the dragon or dragon-snake or whatever it was. In serving Xar, Sang-drax was only showing good sense. Still, the lord didn’t like that unblinking red eye, or the laughter that wasn’t in it now but almost certainly would be when Xar’s back was turned.

“Why did you countermand my orders?” Xar demanded.

“How many Patryns would you require to guard the great Samah, Lord Xar?” Sang-drax asked. “Four? Eight? Would even that number be sufficient? This is the Sartan who sundered a world!”

“And so we have no guards to guard him. That makes sense!” Xar snorted. Sang-drax smiled in appreciation of the humor, was immediately serious again.

“He is under constraint now. A mensch child could guard him, in his state.” Xar was worried. “He is injured?”

“No, My Lord. He is wet.”

“Wet!”

“The sea water of Chelestra, My Lord. It nullifies the magic of your kind.” The voice lingered over the last two words.

“How did Samah come to soak himself in sea water before entering Death’s Gate?”

“I cannot imagine, Lord of the Nexus. But it proved most fortuitous.”

“Humpf! Well, he will dry out. And then he will need guards—”

“A waste of manpower, My Lord Xar. Your people are few in number and have so many matters of urgent importance to deal with. Preparing for your journey to Pryan—”

“Ah, so I am going to Pryan, am I?”

Sang-drax appeared somewhat confused. “I thought that was my lord’s intent. When we discussed the matter, you said—”

“I said I would consider going to Pryan.” Xar eyed the dragon-snake narrowly.

“You seem to be unusually interested in getting me to that particular world. Is there any special reason, I wonder?”

“My lord has said himself that the tytans of Pryan would make formidable additions to his army. And, in addition, I think it quite likely that you might find the Seventh Gate on—”

“The Seventh Gate? How did you come to find out about the Seventh Gate?” Sang-drax was now definitely confused.

“Why... Kleitus told me you were searching for it, Lord.”

“He did, did he?”

“Yes, Lord. Just now.”

“And what do you know of the Seventh Gate?”

“Nothing, Lord, I assure you—”

“Then why are you discussing it?”

“The lazar brought it up. I was only—”

“Enough!” Xar had rarely been so angry. Was he the only person around here who didn’t know about the Seventh Gate? Well, that would soon end.

“Enough,” Xar repeated, casting a sidelong glance at Marit. “We will speak of this matter later, Sang-drax. After we have dealt with Samah. I trust I will receive many of the answers to my questions from him. Now, as to guards—”

“Allow me to serve you, Lord. I will use my own magic to guard the prisoners. That will be all you need.”

“Are you saying that your magic is more powerful than ours? Than Patryn magic?” Xar asked the question in a mild tone. A dangerous tone, to those who knew him.

Marit knew him. She drew a step or two away from Sang-drax.

“It is not a question of whose magic is more powerful, My Lord,” Sang-drax replied humbly. “But let us face facts. The Sartan have learned to defend against Patryn magic, just as you, My Lord, can defend against theirs. The Sartan have not learned to fight our magic. We defeated them on Chelestra, as you will remember, Lord—”

“Just barely.”

“But that was before Death’s Gate had been opened, My Lord. Our magic is much more powerful now.” Again the threatening softness. “I was the one who captured these two.”

Xar looked at Marit, who confirmed this fact with a nod. “Yes,” she conceded.

“He brought them to us, where we stood guard, at the gates of Necropolis.” The Lord of the Nexus pondered. Despite Sang-drax’s protestations, Xar didn’t like the implied conceit of the dragon-snake’s statement. The lord also didn’t like admitting that the creature had a point. Samah. The great Samah. Who among the Patryns could guard him effectively? Only Xar himself. Sang-drax appeared ready to argue further, but Xar cut the dragon-snake’s words short with an impatient wave of his hand. “There is only one sure way to prevent Samah’s escape, and that is to kill him.”

Sang-drax demurred. “But surely you require information from him, My Lord...”

“Indeed,” Xar said with smooth satisfaction. “And I will have it—from his corpse!”

“Ah!” Sang-drax bowed. “You have acquired the art of necromancy. My admiration is boundless, Lord of the Nexus.”

The dragon-snake sidled closer; the red eye gleamed in the torchlight. “Samah will die, as you command, My Lord. But—there is no need for haste. Surely he should suffer as your people have suffered. Surely he should be made to endure at least a portion of the torment your people have been made to endure.”

“Yes!” Xar drew in a shivering breath. “Yes, he will suffer. I will personally—”

“Permit me, My Lord,” Sang-drax begged. “I have a rather special talent for such things. You will watch. You will be pleased. If not, you have only to take my place.”

“Very well.” Xar was amused. The dragon-snake was almost panting with eagerness. “I want to speak to him first, though. Alone,” he added, when Sang-drax started to accompany him. “You will wait for me here. Marit will take me to him.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” Sang-drax bowed again. Straightening, he added in solicitous tones, “Be careful, My Lord, not to get any of the sea water on yourself.”

Xar glowered. He looked away, looked back quickly, and it seemed to him that the red eye glinted with laughter.

The Lord of the Nexus made no reply. Turning on his heel, he stalked down the row of empty cells. Marit walked beside him. The sigla on the arms and hands of both Patryns glowed with a blue-red light that was not entirely acting in response to the poisonous atmosphere of Abarrach.

“You don’t trust him, do you, Daughter?”[3] Xar asked his companion.

“It is not for me to trust or distrust anyone whom my lord chooses to favor,” Marit answered gravely. “If my lord trusts this creature, I trust my lord’s judgment.”

Xar nodded in approval of the answer. “You were a Runner,[4] I believe?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Slowing his steps, Xar laid his gnarled hand on the young woman’s smooth, tattooed skin. “So was I. We didn’t either of us survive the Labyrinth by trusting in anything or anyone other than ourselves, did we, Daughter?”

“No, My Lord.” She seemed relieved.

“You will keep your eye on this one-eyed snake, then.”

“Certainly, My Lord.”

Noticing Xar glancing around impatiently, Marit added, “Samah’s cell is down here, My Lord. The other prisoner is being held at the opposite end of the cellblock. I deemed it wise not to put them too close together, although the other prisoner appears harmless.”

“Yes, I forgot there were two. What about this other prisoner? Is he a bodyguard? Samah’s son?”

“Hardly that, My Lord.” Marit smiled, shook her head. “I’m not even certain he’s a Sartan. If he is, he’s deranged. Odd,” she added, thoughtfully, “but if he were a Patryn, I would say he suffers from Labyrinth sickness.”

“Probably an act. If the man was mad, which I doubt, the Sartan would never permit him to be seen in public. It might harm their status as demigods. What does he call himself?”

“A bizarre name. Zifnab.”

“Zifnab!” Xar pondered. “I’ve heard that before... Bane spoke... Yes, in regard to—” Casting a sharp look at Marit, Xar shut his mouth. “My Lord?”

“Nothing important, Daughter. I was thinking out loud. Ah, I see we are nearing our destination.”

“Here is the cell of Samah, My Lord.” Marit gave the man inside a cool, dispassionate glance. “I will return to guard our other prisoner.”

“I think the other will get along well enough on his own,” Xar suggested mildly. “Why not keep our snaky friend company?” He motioned with his head back toward the opening of the cellblock tunnels, where Sang-drax stood watching them. “I do not want to be disturbed in my conversation with the Sartan.”

“I understand, My Lord.” Marit bowed and left, walking back down the long, dark corridor flanked by rows of empty cells.

Xar waited until she had reached the end and was speaking to the dragon-snake. When the red eye turned upon Marit and away from Xar, the Lord of the Nexus approached the prison cell and looked inside.

Samah, head of the Sartan governing body known as the Council of Seven, was—in terms of years—far older than Xar. Yet because of his magical sleep—one which had been supposed to last only a decade but had inadvertently lasted centuries—Samah was a man in the prime of middle age.

Strong, tall, he had once had hard, chiseled features and a commanding air. Now the sallow skin sagged from his bones; the muscles hung loose and flaccid. The face, which should have been lined with wisdom and experience, was creviced, haggard, and drawn. Samah sat listlessly on the cold stone bed, his head and shoulders bowed in dejection, despair. His robes, his skin were sopping wet.

Xar clasped his hands around the bars, drew close for a better look. The Lord of the Nexus smiled.

“Yes,” he said softly, “you know what fate awaits you, don’t you, Samah? There is nothing quite as bad as the fear, the anticipation. Even when the pain comes—and your death will be very painful, Sartan, I assure you—it won’t be as bad as the fear.”

Xar gripped the bars harder. The blue sigla tattooed on the backs of his gnarled hands were stretched taut; the enlarged knuckles were as white as exposed bone. He could scarcely draw breath; for long moments he couldn’t speak. He had not thought to feel such passion in the presence of his enemy, but suddenly all the years—years of battle and suffering, years of fear—returned to him.

“I wish”—Xar almost choked on his words—“I wish I could let you live a long, long time, Samah! I wish I could let you live with that fear, as my people have lived with it. I wish I could let you live centuries!” The iron bars dissolved beneath Xar’s squeezing hands. He never noticed. Samah had not raised his head, did not look up at his tormentor. He sat in the same attitude, but now his hands clenched.

Xar entered the cell, stood over him.

“You can’t escape the fear, never for a moment. Not even in sleep. It’s there in your dreams. You run and run and run until you think your heart must burst and then you wake and you hear the terrifying sound that woke you and you get up and you run and run and run... all the time knowing it is hopeless. The claw, the tooth, the arrow, the fire, the bog, the pit will claim you in the end.

“Our babies suck fear in their mother’s milk. Our babies don’t cry. From the moment of birth, they’re taught to keep quiet—out of fear. Our children do not laugh either. Who knows who might be listening?

“You have a son, I am told. A son who laughs and cries. A son who calls you ‘Father,’ a son who smiles like his mother.”

A shiver crawled over Samah’s body. The lord didn’t know what nerve he had hit, but he reveled in the discovery and kept probing.

“Our children rarely know their own parents. A kindness—one of the few we can do for them. That way they don’t become attached to their parents. It doesn’t hurt so much when they find them dead. Or watch them die.” Xar’s hatred and fury were slowly suffocating him. There wasn’t enough air in Abarrach to sustain him. Blood beat in his head, and the lord feared for an instant that his heart might rupture. He raised his head and howled, a savage scream of anguish and rage that was like the heart’s blood bursting from his mouth.

The howl was horrifying to hear. It reverberated through the catacombs, growing louder by some trick of the acoustics, and stronger, as if the dead in Abarrach had picked it up and were adding their own fearful cries to those of the Lord of the Nexus.

Marit blanched and gasped and shrank in terror against the chill wall of the prison. Sang-drax himself appeared taken aback. The red eye shifted uneasily, darting swift glances into the shadows, as if seeking some foe. Samah shuddered. The scream might have been a spear driven through his body. He closed his eyes.

“I wish I didn’t need you!” Xar gasped. Foam frothed his mouth; spittle hung from his lips. “I wish I didn’t need the information you have locked in that black heart. I would take you to the Labyrinth. I would let you hold the dying children, as I have held them. I would let you whisper to them, as I have whispered: ‘All will be well. Soon the fear will end.’ And I would let you feel the envy, Samah! The envy when you gaze down upon that cold, peaceful face and know that, for this little child, the fear is over. While for you, it has just begun...”

Xar was calm now. His fury was spent. He felt a great weariness, as if he had spent hours fighting a powerful foe. The lord actually staggered as he took a step, was forced to lean against the stone wall of the prison cell.

“But unfortunately, I do need you, Samah. I need you to answer a... question.” Xar wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, wiped the chill sweat from his face. He smiled, a mirthless, bloodless smile, “I hope, I sincerely hope, Samah, Head of the Council of Seven, that you choose not to answer!” Samah lifted his head. The eyes were sunken, the skin livid. He looked truly as if he were impaled on his enemy’s spear. “I do not blame you for your hatred. We never meant...” He was forced to pause, lick dry lips. “We never meant any of the suffering. We never meant for the prison to turn deadly. It was to be a test... Don’t you understand?”

Samah gazed at Xar in earnest appeal. “A test. That was all. A difficult test. One meant to teach you humility, patience. One meant to diminish your aggression...”

“Weaken us,” Xar said softly.

“Yes,” said Samah, slowly lowering his head. “Weaken you.”

“You feared us.”

“We feared you.”

“You hoped we would die...”

“No.” Samah shook his head.

“The Labyrinth became the embodiment of that hope. A secret hope. A hope you dared not admit, even to yourselves. But it was whispered into the words of magic that created the Labyrinth. And it was that secret, terrible hope that gave the Labyrinth its evil power.”

Samah did not answer. He sat again with his head bowed.

Xar shoved himself away from the wall. Coming to stand in front of Samah, the lord put his hand beneath the Sartan’s jaw, wrenched his head up and back, forced Samah to look up.

Samah flinched. He wrapped his hands around the old man’s wrists, tried to free himself from the lord’s grasp. But Xar was powerful. His magic was intact. The blue runes flared. Samah gasped in agony, snatched his hands away as if he had touched burning cinders.

Xar’s thin fingers bit deeply and painfully into the Sartan’s jaw.

“Where is the Seventh Gate?”

Samah stared, shocked, and Xar was pleased to see—at last—fear in the Sartan’s eyes.

“Where is the Seventh Gate?” He squeezed Samah’s face.

“I don’t know... what you’re talking about,” Samah was forced to mumble.

“I’m so glad,” Xar said pleasantly. “For now I will have the pleasure of teaching you. And you will tell me.”

Samah managed to shake his head. “I’ll die first!” he gasped.

“Yes, you probably will,” Xar agreed. “And then you’ll tell me. Your corpse will tell me. I’ve learned the art, you see. The art you came here to learn. I’ll teach you that, too. Though it will be rather late to do you much good.” Xar released his hold, wiped his hands on his robes. He didn’t like the feel of the sea water, could already notice it starting to weaken the rune-magic. Turning tiredly, he walked out of the cell. The iron bars sprang back into place as he passed by.

“My only regret is that I lack the strength to instruct you myself. But one waits who, like me, also wants revenge. You know him, I believe. He was instrumental in your capture.”

Samah was on his feet. His hands clasped the bars of the cell. “I was wrong! My people were wrong! I admit it. I can offer no excuse, except that maybe we do know what it is like to live in fear. I see it now. Alfred, Orla... Orla.” Samah closed his eyes in pain, drew a deep breath. “Orla was right.” Opening his eyes, gazing intently at Xar, Samah shook the bars of his cell.

“But we have a common enemy. An enemy who will destroy us all. Destroy both our peoples, destroy the mensch!”

“And that enemy would be?” Xar was toying with his victim.

“The dragon-snakes! Or whatever form they take. And they can take any form they choose, Xar. That is what makes them so dangerous, so powerful. That Sang-drax. The one who captured me. He is one of them.”

“Yes, I know,” said Xar. “He has been very useful.”

“You are the one being used!” Samah cried in frustration. He paused, trying desperately to think of some way to prove his point. “Surely one of your own would have warned you. That Patryn, the young man. The one who came to Chelestra. He discovered the truth about the dragon-snakes. He tried to warn me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe. I opened Death’s Gate. He and Alfred... Haplo! That’s the name he called himself. Haplo.”

“What do you know of Haplo?” Xar asked in a low voice.

“He learned the truth,” Samah said grimly. “He tried to make me see it. Surely, he must have told it to you, his lord.”

“So this is the thanks I get, is it, Haplo?” Xar asked the dark shadows. This is gratitude for saving your life, my son. Betrayal.

“Your plot failed, Samah,” Xar said coolly. “Your attempt to subvert my faithful servant failed. Haplo told me everything. He admitted everything. If you’re going to speak, Sartan, speak to some purpose. Where is the Seventh Gate?”

“Haplo obviously didn’t tell you everything,” Samah said, lip curling.

“Otherwise you would know the answer to your question. He was there. He and Alfred, at least so I gathered from something Alfred said. Apparently your Haplo trusts you no more than my Alfred trusts me. I wonder where we went wrong...”

Xar was stung, though he took care not to show it. Haplo again! Haplo knows. And I don’t! It was maddening.

“The Seventh Gate,” Xar repeated as if he hadn’t heard.

“You’re a fool,” Samah said tiredly. Letting loose of the bars, he lapsed back on the stone bench. “You’re a fool. As I was a fool. You doom your people.” He sighed. His head sank into his hands. “As I have doomed mine.” Xar made a sharp, beckoning gesture. Sang-drax hastened down the dank and gloomy corridor.

The lord was having a difficult time. He wanted Samah to suffer, of course, but he also wanted Samah dead. Xar’s fingers twitched. He was already drawing, in his own mind, the runes of necromancy that would begin the terrible resurrection.

Sang-drax entered the Sartan’s cell. Samah did not look up, though Xar saw the Sartan’s body stiffen involuntarily, bracing to endure what was coming. What was coming? Xar wondered. What would the dragon-snake do? Curiosity made the lord forget momentarily his eagerness to see it all end.

“Commence,” he said to Sang-drax.

The dragon-snake made no move. He did not raise his hand against Samah, did not summon fire or conjure steel. Yet suddenly Samah’s head jerked up. He stared at something only he could see, his eyes widening in horror. He raised his hands, tried to use the Sartan runes to defend himself, but since he was wet with the magic-nullifying sea water of Chelestra, the magic would not work.

And perhaps it would not have worked anyway, for Samah was fighting a foe of his own mind, an enemy from somewhere in the depths of his own consciousness, brought to life by the insidious talents of the dragon-snake. Samah screamed and leapt to his feet and flung himself against the stone wall in an effort to escape.

There was no escape. He staggered as beneath a tremendous blow, screamed again—this time in pain. Perhaps sharp talons were rending his skin. Perhaps fangs had torn his flesh or an arrow had thudded into his breast. He sank to the floor, writhing in agony. And then he shuddered and lay still. Xar watched a moment, frowned. “Is he dead?” The lord was disappointed. Though he could commence his rune-magic now, death had come too quickly, been too easy.

“Wait!” the dragon-snake cautioned. He spoke a word in Sartan. Samah sat up, clutching a wound that was not there. He stared around in terror, remembering. He gave a low, hollow cry, ran to the other side of his cell. Whatever was attacking him struck again. And again.

Xar listened to the Sartan’s fearful screams, nodded in satisfaction.

“How long will this go on?” he asked Sang-drax, who was lounging back against a wall, watching, smiling.

“Until he dies—truly dies. Fear, exhaustion, terror will eventually kill him. But he’ll die without a mark on his body. How long? That depends on your pleasure, Lord Xar.”

Xar ruminated. “Let it continue,” he decided finally. “I will go and question the other Sartan. He may be far more willing to talk with the yells of his compatriot ringing in his ears. When I return, I will ask Samah one more time about the Seventh Gate. Then you may finish it.”

The dragon-snake nodded. After taking another moment to watch Samah’s body twitch and jerk in agony, Xar left the Sartan’s cell, proceeding down the corridor to where Marit waited in front of the cell of the other Sartan. The one called Zifnab.