Into the Labyrinth
Rows of stalagmites spread out into the darkness. A path, wet and sleek, led from the arch into the stalagmites. Haplo could see from where he stood the first fork in the path, two diverse courses, slanting right and left, each wandering off amid rock formations that had not been naturally created, but had been formed by magic and fear and hate.
There was one right way. All others led to disaster. And they were standing at the very first gate.
“I’ve been in a few caves in my life,” the Hand continued. He gestured into the darkness with the stem of his pipe. “But nothing like this. I figured I’d better come back before I got myself lost.”
“Getting lost would have been the least of your worries,” said Haplo. “The wrong turn in that maze leads to death. It was built that way on purpose. The Labyrinth is more than a maze. It’s a prison. And my child is trapped in there.”
“
If
she lives,” Marit muttered beneath her breath.
Bantam Spectra Books
by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
THE DARKSWORD SERIES
Forging the Darksword
Doom of the Darksword
Triumph of the Darksword
Legacy of the Darksword
THE DEATH GATE CYCLE
Dragon Wing
Elven Star
Fire Sea
Serpent Mage
The Hand of Chaos
Into the Labyrinth
The Seventh Gate
INTO THE LABYRINTH
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition / December 1993
Bantam paperback edition / July 1994
SPECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-25414
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48636-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
v3.1_r1
TO RUSS LOVAASEN,
whose joy and love and courage
are the beacon fires,
shining brightly through the darkness,
guiding us home.
All our knowledge is,
ourselves to know.
Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man
CHAPTER 1
ABARRACHA
BARRACH: WORLD OF STONE, WORLD OF DARKNESS LIT BY THE
fires of molten sea, world of stalagmites and stalactites, world of fire dragons, world of poisonous air and sulfurous fumes, world of magic.
Abarrach: world of the dead.
Xar, Lord of the Nexus, and now Lord of Abarrach, sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes. The rune-constructs he was studying were starting to blur together. He’d almost made a mistake—and that was inexcusable. But he had caught himself in time, corrected it. Closing his aching eyes, he went over the construct again in his mind.
Begin with the heart-rune. Connect this sigil’s stem to an adjoining rune’s base. Inscribe the sigla on the breast, working upward to the head. Yes, that was where he’d gone wrong the first few times. The head was important—vital. Then draw the sigla on the trunk, finally the arms, the legs.
It was perfect. He could find no flaw. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the dead body on which he’d been working rising up and living again. A corrupt form of life, admittedly, but a beneficial one. The corpse was far more useful now than it would have been moldering in the ground.
Xar smiled in triumph, but it was a triumph whose life span was shorter than that of his imaginary defunct. His thoughts went something like this:
I can raise the dead.
At least I am fairly certain I can raise the dead.
I can’t be sure.
That was the pall over his elation. There were no dead
for him to raise. Or rather, there were too many dead. Just not dead enough.
In bitter frustration, Xar slammed his hands down on the elaborately conceived rune-construct. The rune-bones
1
went flying, skittering and sliding off the table onto the floor.
Xar paid no attention to them. He could always put the construct together again. Again and again. He knew it as well as he knew the rune-magic to conjure up water. For all the good it would do him.
Xar needed a corpse. One not more than three days dead. One that hadn’t been seized by these wretched lazars.
2
Irritably he swept the last few remaining rune-bones to the floor.
He left the room he used as his study, headed for his private chambers. On his way, he passed by the library. And there was Kleitus, the Dynast, former ruler (until his death) of Necropolis, the largest city on Abarrach. At his death, Kleitus had become a lazar—one of the living dead. Now the Dynast’s gruesome form, which was neither dead nor alive, wandered the halls and corridors of the palace that had once been his. The lazar thought it was still his. Xar knew better, but he saw no reason to disabuse Kleitus of the notion.
