Into the Labyrinth

43

The starlight shone brightly from the citadel’s tower. The faint humming sound, whose words could be heard but not distinguished, vibrated through the streets. Outside the walls, the tytans stood in their trance. Inside, Aleatha was holding the amulet on the gate.

“We’d better run for it,” advised Paithan, licking dry lips.

“I’m not leaving without Aleatha,” said Roland.

“I’m not going without Roland,” said Rega, standing next to her brother. Paithan regarded them both with exasperation and despairing fondness. “I won’t go anywhere without you two.” Bracing himself, he added, “I guess this means we’re all going to die.”

“At least we’ll be together,” Rega said softly, reaching out one hand to hold Paithan’s while her other took her brother’s.

“We’ll be safe as long as the light keeps shining.” Roland was considering the matter. “Paithan, you and I’ll run to the gate, grab Aleatha, and then head for the citadel. Then—”

At that moment the gates swung open and the starlight suddenly went off. The tytans outside the walls began to stir about. Paithan tensed, waiting for the tytans to surge inside and start bashing them into the ground. He waited... and waited.

The tytans remained unmoving, sightless heads turned toward the open gate. Aleatha stood before them, just inside the gate. “Please,” she said, with the gracious gesture of an elf queen, “please, come inside.” Paithan groaned. He exchanged glances with Roland. The two made ready to dash forward.

“Stop!” Rega ordered, awed. “Look!”

Quietly, humbly, reverently, the tytans dropped their tree-sized clubs to the ground and began to file peacefully up the hill to the gate. The first tytan to reach the gate stopped and turned its sightless head toward Aleatha.

Where is the citadel? What must we do?

Paithan shut his eyes. He couldn’t look. Next to him, Roland moaned in anguish.

“Here is the citadel,” Aleatha said simply. “You are home.” Wounded and exhausted, Xar sought refuge inside the library. He managed to make his way that far before he collapsed onto the floor. For long moments he lay there, his body bleeding and broken, too weak to heal himself. The Lord of the Nexus had fought many powerful opponents in his long lifetime. He’d fought many dragons, but never one as strong in magic as this wingless beast of fury.

But the lord had given as good as he’d got.

Lightheaded, dazed with pain and loss of blood, Xar had no very clear idea what had happened to the dragon. Had he killed it? Wounded it so severely it had been forced to withdraw? He didn’t know, and at this moment he didn’t particularly care. The beast had disappeared. Xar must heal himself quickly, before those fool mensch found him in this weakened state.

The Lord of the Nexus clasped his hands together, closed the circle of his being. Warmth spread through him, sending him into the restorative sleep that would return him fully to strength and health. He very nearly succumbed to it, but an urgent voice, calling to him, woke him up.

Swiftly he shook off the drowsiness. There was no time for sleep. In all probability the dragon was lurking somewhere, healing itself.

“Marit, you come to me in good time. Have you obeyed my commands? Are Haplo and the Sartan in prison?”

“Yes, Lord. But I fear you’ve... you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“I’ve made a mistake.” Xar was upright, rigid, lethal. “What do you mean, Daughter—I’ve made a mistake?”

“Sang-drax is a traitor. I overheard him plotting. He and the others of his kind are going to attack this city and destroy it. Then they plan to seal shut the Final Gate. Our people will be trapped. You must come—”

“I will come,” Xar said, barely able to contain his anger. “I will come and deal with Haplo and this Sartan, who have obviously subverted you to their foul cause—”

“No, Lord. I beg of you! You must believe me...”

Xar silenced her voice as he would silence the woman herself when he next encountered her. She was probably attempting to invade his thoughts, spy on him.

This is one of Haplo’s tricks—trying to lure me back into the Labyrinth with these foolish tales.

“I will return to the Labyrinth,” Xar said grimly, rising to his feet, his strength renewed, far more than if he’d slept a fortnight. “And both of you, my children, will be sorry to see me.”

But first he needed to find the mensch, particularly that elf woman who had run off with the dwarf’s amulet.

Xar listened, magically extending his hearing, listened for the bickering voices of the mensch, the hideous growl of the dragon. He had a difficult time hearing either at first. The irritating humming from the top of the citadel seemed louder than ever. Then, fortunately, the humming ceased, the light shut off.

And then he heard the mensch, and what he heard amazed and appalled him. They were opening the gates to the tytans! The idiots, the fools, the... Words failed him.

Xar strode over to the solid stone wall, drew a sigil on the marble. A window appeared, as if one had existed in that wall all along. Xar was able to see the gate now, could see the mensch huddled together like the stupid sheep they were. He watched the gate open, saw the tytans marching inside. Xar waited—with a certain grim anticipation—for the tytans to beat the mensch to a bloody pulp. It would only serve them right, though their deaths in such a manner considerably upset his plans. Still, he might be able to take advantage of the tytans’ momentary distraction to make good his escape. To Xar’s astonishment, the tytans walked past the four mensch, not quite oblivious to them—one tytan actually picked up the human male and moved him from its path with a gentle hand—but neither paying them much attention. The giants’ eyeless heads tilted upward. The light of the citadel came back on, beamed down on them, illuminated them, made them almost beautiful. The tytans were heading in Xar’s direction. Their destination was the citadel. The seven chairs. Giants who could not see, who would not be affected by the mind-shattering light. The tytans were coming back to the citadel to fulfill their destiny—whatever that might be.

But most important—the gate stood open. The tytans were distracted. The dragon was nowhere around. This was Xar’s chance.

He left the library, moved swiftly through the building, exiting from the back just as the tytans were entering at the front.

Keeping to the side streets, Xar hastily made his way to the gate. Once it was in sight, he stopped to reconnoiter. Only seven tytans had entered the citadel. The rest remained outside, but on their faces was the same beatific expression worn by those within. The three mensch stood just inside the gate, staring in bug-eyed astonishment at the tytans. The fourth mensch, the elf woman, stood directly in Xar’s path, blocking the gate. His gaze focused eagerly on the bloodstained amulet she held in her hands.

The amulet would get him past the Sartan runes, onto the Sartan ship. Apparently he no longer had to worry about the tytans.

The seven tytans were walking slowly and steadily, two abreast, toward the citadel. Xar took a chance, stepped out in plain sight. The tytans walked past, never noticing him.

Excellent, he thought, rubbing his hands.

He walked swiftly to the gate.

Of course the sight of him threw the mensch into an uproar. The human woman shrieked; the elven male yammered; the human male dashed forward to do Xar bodily harm. The lord tossed a sigil at them as he might have tossed a bone to a pack of ravening wolves. The sigil struck them and the mensch went very quiet, stood very still.

The elven female had turned to face him. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Xar approached her, his hand outstretched.

“Give me the amulet, my dear,” he said to her softly, “and no harm will come to you.”

The elf’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Then, drawing a deep breath, she shook her head. “No!” She hid the amulet behind her back. “This was Drugar’s. I... I don’t care what you do to me, you can’t have it. Without it, I can’t travel to the other city...”

Nonsense, all of it. Xar had no idea what she was talking about, didn’t care. He was about to suck her dry, leave her a pile of dust—with the amulet resting safely on top—when one of the tytans stepped through the gate and came to stand in front of Aleatha.

You will not harm her. The voice resounded in Xar’s head. She is under our protection.

Sartan magic, crude but immensely powerful, shone from the tytan as the starlight shone from the top of the citadel.

Xar could have fought the magic, but he was weak from his battle with the dragon, and besides, a fight wasn’t necessary.

The lord simply chose the possibility that he was standing behind the elf woman instead of in front. She had the amulet clutched in her hands, safely—so she thought—behind her back. Xar switched places, reached out, plucked the amulet from her fingers, and hastened out the gate.

Behind him, he could hear the elf woman crying in dismay.

The tytans paid no heed to Xar as he ran past them, on his way into the jungle, on his way to the ship and, from there, to the Labyrinth.

“Poor Drugar,” said Rega softly. She brushed her hand across her eyes. “I wish... I wish I’d been nicer to him.”

“He was so alone.” Aleatha knelt beside the body of the dwarf, holding his cold hand in her own.

“I feel rotten,” said Paithan. “But who knew? I thought he wanted to be by himself.”

“Which of us bothered to ask?” Roland said quietly. “Too busy thinking about ourselves.”

“Or some machine,” Paithan added beneath his breath. He cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of the Star Chamber.

The tytans were up there now, probably sitting in those huge chairs. Doing what? The machine was dark; the starlight hadn’t come on for a long time now. Yet the air quivered with tension, a good tension, a suppressed excitement. Paithan wanted more than anything to go up there and see for himself. And he would go. He wasn’t afraid of the tytans anymore. But he owed this to Drugar. He owed a lot to Drugar... and it seemed the only way he could repay him was to stand over the dwarf’s body and feel wretched.

“He looks happy,” Rega ventured.

“Happier than he was here with us,” Paithan muttered.

“Come on, Aleatha,” Roland said, helping her to stand. “There’s no need for you to cry. You were kind to him. I... I have to say I admire you for that.” Aleatha turned, looked at him in astonishment. “You do?”

“So do I, Aleatha,” said Rega timidly. “I used to not like you very much; I thought you were weak and silly. But you’re the strongest one of all of us. I want... I really want to be your friend.”

“You’re the only one of us with any eyes,” Paithan added ruefully. “The rest of us were as blind as the tytans. You saw Xar for what he was. And you saw Drugar for what he was.”

“Lonely,” Aleatha murmured. She stared down at the dwarf. “So very lonely.”

“Aleatha, I love you,” Roland said. Reaching out, he took hold of her shoulders, drew her near. “And what’s more, I like you.”

“You like me?” Aleatha repeated, amazed.

“Yes, I do.” Roland flushed, uncomfortable. “I didn’t used to. I loved you, but I didn’t like you. You were so... beautiful.” He said the word with contempt. Then his eyes grew warm; he smiled. “Now you’re beautiful.” Aleatha was confused. She touched her hair, which was filthy, unkempt, straggling over her thin shoulders. Her face was streaked with dirt, stained with tears, her nose swollen, her eyes red. He loved her, but he hadn’t liked her. Yes, she could understand that. No one had ever liked her. Not even herself.

“No more games, Aleatha,” Roland said softly, his grip on her tightening. His gaze went to the body of the dwarf. “We never know when the game’s going to come to an end.”

“No more games, Roland,” she said, and rested her head against his chest.

“What do we do about Drugar?” Paithan asked after a moment’s silence. His voice was husky. “I don’t know anything about dwarven burial customs.” Take him to his people, came a tytan’s voice.

“Take him to his people,” Aleatha repeated.

Paithan shook his head. “That’d be fine, if we knew where they were. Or even if they were still alive...”

“I know,” said Aleatha. “Don’t I?”

“Who are you talking to, Thea?” Paithan looked a little frightened. You know, came the answer.

“But I don’t have the amulet,” she said.

You don’t need it. Wait until the starlight shines.

“This way,” said Aleatha confidently. “Come with me.” Taking off her shawl, she laid it reverently over the dwarf’s body. Roland and Paithan lifted Drugar. Rega went to walk at Aleatha’s side. Together they entered the maze.

“Can I stand up now?” came a peevish voice.

“Yes, sir, but you must hurry. The others might be back at any moment.” The pile of bricks began to move. A few on top slid down, clattered to the floor.

“Please be quiet, sir!” intoned the dragon.

“You could give me a hand,” muttered the peevish voice. “Or a claw. Whatever you’ve got available at the moment.”

The dragon, with a long-suffering sigh, began to sift through the rubble with a green-scaled forearm. Snagging the old man by the collar of his mouse-gray robes—now brick-reddish robes—the dragon hauled the old man up out of the ruin.

“You dropped that wall on me on purpose!” the old man said, shaking his clenched fist.

“I had to, sir,” the dragon answered gloomily. “You were breathing.”

“Well, of course I was breathing!” the old man cried in high dudgeon. “A fellow can only hold his breath so long, you know! I suppose you expected me to turn blue and pass out!”

A bright and happy gleam lit the dragon’s eyes; then it sighed, as over something lost, gone forever.

“I meant, sir, that you were being obvious about your breathing. Your chest was rising and falling. At one point, you even made a sound. Not a very corpse-like thing to do—”

“Beard flew up my nose,” the old man muttered. “I thought I was going to sneeze.”

“Yes, sir,” said the dragon. “That was when I dropped the wall on you, sir. And now, sir, if you’re quite ready ...”

“Are they all right?” the old man asked, peering out the hole in the wall.

“Will they be safe?”

“Yes, sir. The tytans are inside the citadel. The seven chosen will take their places in the seven chairs. They will begin to channel the energy up from the well, use their mental powers to beam it out into Pryan and, eventually, through Death’s Gate. The two humans and the two elves will be able to communicate with others of their kind in the other citadels. And now that the tytans are back under control, the humans and the elves will be able to venture forth into the jungle. They will find others of their races—and the dwarven race as well. They will lead them to safety inside these walls.”

“And they’ll live happily ever after,” the old man concluded, beaming.

“I wouldn’t go that far, sir,” said the dragon. “But they’ll live as happily as can reasonably be expected. They will have plenty to keep them busy. Particularly after they’ve made contact with their people on the other worlds of Arianus and Chelestra. That should give them quite a bit to think about.”

“I’d like to stay and see that,” said the old man wistfully. “I’d like to see people happy, working together, building their lives in peace. I don’t know why”—he frowned—“but I think it would help me get over these terrible dreams I have sometimes.”

He began to tremble. “You know the dreams I mean. Horrible dreams. Dreadful fires and buildings falling and the dying... I can’t help the dying...”

“Yes, you can, Mr. Bond,” said the dragon gently. He passed a clawed hand over the old man’s head. “You are Her Majesty’s finest secret agent. Or perhaps you would rather be a certain befuddled wizard today? You were always rather fond of that one—”

The old man pursed his lips. “Nope. No wizards. I don’t want to get typecast.”

“Very good, Mr. Bond. I think Moneypenny is trying to get hold of you.”

“She’s always trying to get hold of me!” the old man said with a cackle.

“Well, off we go. Let’s be quick about it. Mustn’t keep Q waiting.”

“I believe the initial is M, sir—”

“Whatever!” the old man snapped.

The two began to fade into the air, became one with the dust. The table built by the Sartan lay shattered beneath the bricks and the fallen stone. Many cycles later, when Paithan, along with his wife, Rega, had become rulers of the city named Drugar, the elf commanded that this chamber be sealed off. Aleatha claimed she could hear voices inside it, sad voices, talking a strange language. No one else could hear them, but since Aleatha was now High Priestess of the Tytans and her husband was High Priest Roland, no one questioned her wisdom.

The chamber was made into a memorial for a rather daft old wizard who had twice given his life for them, and whose body—so far as any of them knew—lay buried beneath the rubble.