Into the Labyrinth

48

The battle came to an end with the evening. The dragon-snakes were vanquished, destroyed; they no longer threatened to breach the walls. The wondrous green dragon—the likes of which no one had ever before seen in the Labyrinth—joined with the Patryns to defeat the serpents. The walls held, their magic swiftly reinforced. The gate stood fast. Hugh the Hand was the last one through before it shut. He bore Kari in his arms. He had found her lying wounded beneath a score of dead chaodyn.

He carried her inside the gate, gave her into the arms of her people.

“Where are Haplo and Marit?” the Hand demanded.

Vasu, directing the renewing of the gate’s magic, looked at him in sudden consternation. “I thought they were with you.”

“They haven’t come in here?”

“No, they haven’t. And I’ve been here the entire time.”

“Open the gate again,” Hugh ordered. “They must still be out there.”

“Open it!” Vasu commanded his people. “I will come with you.” Hugh the Hand, glancing at the pudgy headman, was about to protest, but then remembered that he could not kill.

The gate swung open; the two men ran out into a host of the enemy. But with their leaders dead, the lust for battle seemed to have drained from the foe. Many were beating a retreat across the river, and these were creating confusion among the ranks.

“There!” Hugh the Hand pointed.

Hurt and bewildered, Marit was wandering alone near the base of the wall. A pack of wolfen, drawn by the scent of blood, were tracking her. Vasu began to sing in a deep baritone.

Hugh the Hand decided the man had gone mad. This was no time for an aria! But suddenly an enormous bush, with long, spearing thorns, thrust up out of the ground, surrounded the wolfen. Thorns caught their thick fur, held them fast. Supple branches wrapped around their paws. The wolfen howled and shrieked, but the more they fought to escape, the more entangled they became. Marit did not even notice. Vasu continued singing; the thorns grew deeper, denser. Above, Patryns waited until Marit was safe to finish off the wolfen trapped in the bush.

Hugh the Hand ran to her, caught hold of her. “Where is Haplo?” She stared at him from eyes almost gummed shut by clotted blood. Either she couldn’t see him clearly or she didn’t recognize him. “Alfred,” she said to him in Patryn. “I must find Alfred.”

“Where is Haplo?” Hugh repeated in human, frustrated.

“Alfred.” Marit spoke the name over and over.

Hugh saw that he would get nothing from her in her dazed condition. He swept her up in his arms and ran back to Vasu. The headman sheltered them in his magic until they had safely reached the gate.

When night fell, the beacon fire still burned bright. The magic of the sigla on the walls glimmered and flickered, but their light continued to shine. The last of the foe slunk off into the wilderness, leaving their dead behind. The elders who had spent the day inscribing the weapons with death-dealing runes now spent the night restoring life to those injured and dying. Marit’s head wound was not life-threatening, but the healers could not heal it completely. Whatever weapon had torn her flesh must have been poisoned, they told Hugh the Hand when they showed him the raw and inflamed mark on her skin. But at least Marit was conscious—far too conscious, as far as the healers were concerned. They had difficulty keeping her in her bed. She kept demanding to see Vasu, and at last they sent for him, since nothing else would calm her. The headman came—exhausted, grieving. The city of Abri stood, but many had given their lives, including Kari. Including someone Vasu dreaded to name, especially to the woman who watched him draw near her sickbed.

“Alfred,” Marit said immediately. “Where is he? None of these fools knows or will tell me. I must find him! He can reach the Final Gate in time to fight the dragon-snakes! He can save our people.”

Patryns could not lie to each other, and Vasu was Patryn enough to know that she would see through his deceit, no matter how kindly meant.

“He is a serpent mage. He changed into dragon form—”

“I know all that!” Marit snapped impatiently. “Surely he has changed back by now. Take me to him!”

“He... did not return,” Vasu said.

The life drained from Marit’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“He fell from the skies, perhaps mortally wounded. He’d been fighting a legion of dragons...”

“Perhaps!” Marit grabbed the word, clung to it. “You didn’t see him die! You don’t know if he’s dead!”

“Marit, we saw him fall—”

She rose from her bed, shoving aside the restraining hands of the healers.

“Show me where.”

“You can’t go out there,” Vasu said sternly. “It’s too dangerous. There are roving bands of wolfen and tiger-men, furious at their defeat, waiting to catch one of us alone.”

“The human assassin. Where is he?”

“Here, Marit.” Hugh the Hand stood up. He had been watching by her bedside, unseen, unnoticed. “I’ll go with you. I need to find Alfred myself,” he added grimly.

“He is our only hope,” Marit said. Her eyes glimmered with tears for a moment.

“He is Haplo’s only hope.” She blinked the tears away and reached for her weapons, which the healers had set aside.

Vasu did not ask what she meant. Xar’s magic had not blinded the headman’s eyes. He had seen the Lord of the Nexus, had witnessed the meeting of the three. He had seen Xar leave with Haplo... and the dog. He had guessed that the Lord of the Nexus was not traveling to the battle of the Final Gate.

“Let her go,” he said to the healers.

They stood aside.

Vasu led Marit and Hugh the Hand to the wall. He pointed out to them where he had seen the dragon—flaming green and gold—fall from the skies. He opened the gate of Abri and saw them depart into the darkness.

Then he stood for long, long hours, until the dawn, watching in despair a sullen red glow that lit the horizon in the direction of the Final Gate.