Into the Labyrinth (33 page)

“But I didn’t mean it,” she said hastily, with an apologetic smile for Paithan.

“You
try to shut it down. Go ahead!” Paithan yelled, waving a hand at the door.

“Maybe I will!” Roland said loftily, somewhat daunted but unable to refuse the challenge.

He took a step toward the door. The light went out; the humming stopped.

Roland stopped, too.

“What did you do?” Paithan demanded, pouncing on him angrily.

“Nothing! I swear! I didn’t go near the damn thing!”

“You broke it!” Paithan clenched his fists.

Roland clenched his own fists, fell into a fighting stance.

“There’s someone out there!” Rega cried.

“Don’t try to trick me, Rega.” Roland and Paithan were circling each other. “It won’t work. I’m going to tie those pointed ears around his neck—”

“Stop it, both of you!” Rega grabbed hold of Paithan, nearly dragging him off his feet, and hauled him over to the window. “Look, damn it! There are two people—two humans, by the look of them—out beyond the gate.”

“Orn’s ears, there
are
people out there!” Paithan said in astonishment. “They’re running from the tytans.”

“Oh, Paithan, you were wrong!” Rega said excitedly. “There
are
more people on this world.”

“They won’t be on it for long,” Paithan said grimly. “There must be fifty of those monsters out there and only two of them. They’ll never make it.”

“The tytans! They’ve got them! We have to help!” Rega started to run off.

Paithan caught her around the waist.

“Are you mad? There’s nothing we can do!”

“He’s right, sis.” Roland had lowered his fists, was peering out the window. “If we went out there, we’d only die, too—”

“Besides,” Paithan added in awed tones, “it doesn’t look as if they need our help. Blessed Mother! Did you see that?”

Loosening his hold on Rega in his amazement, Paithan leaned out the window. Roland crowded in beside him. Rega pulled herself up on her tiptoes to look out over their shoulders.

The citadel was built on one of the few mountains tall enough to rise above the mass of Pryan’s vegetation. The jungle encircled it, but had not encroached upon it. A path, cut into jagged rock, led from the jungle to the citadel, to the large metal door formed in the shape of a hexagon and inscribed with the same picture-writing the books termed “runes.”

Once, many cycles ago, the five trapped in the citadel had run up that path themselves, pursued by a flesh-devouring dragon. It was the dwarf, Drugar, who had figured out how to open that magical door. Escaping inside, they had shut the dragon out.

Now two more people were running along that same treacherous path, attempting to reach the safe haven of
the citadel. The tytans, carrying branches clutched in massive fists, were bearing down on their foes, who looked smaller and more fragile than insects.

But then one of the strangers, clad in black robes,
¹
turned to face the advancing tytans. The figure raised his hands. Blue light flared around him, danced and twined, and then spread out to form an enormous blue wall, a blue wall that burst into flame.

The tytans fell back before the magical fire. The strangers took advantage of the monsters’ confusion to continue running up the path.

“Haplo,” Paithan muttered.

“What?” Rega asked.

“Ouch! Do you have to dig your nails into my shoulder? The blue fire reminds me of that Haplo, that’s all.”

“Maybe. But look, Paithan! The fire isn’t stopping the tytans!”

The magical fire was flickering, dying out. The tytans continued their advance.

“But the two have almost reached the gate. They’ll be safe enough.”

The three fell silent, watching this life-or-death race.

The strangers—the one in black robes and the other dressed in ordinary human-type clothing—had reached the metal gate. They came to a sudden halt.

“What’s stopping them?” Roland wondered.

“They can’t get in!” Rega cried.

“Sure they can,” Roland scoffed. “Any wizard who can work magic like that ought to be able to open a gate.”

“That Haplo got in,” Paithan said. “Or at least he claimed he did.”

“Would you quit yammering about Haplo!” Rega shouted at him. “I tell you they can’t get in! We’ve got to go down there and open the gate for them.”

Paithan and Roland exchanged glances. Neither moved.

Rega cast them each a furious look; then, turning, she headed toward the stairs.

“No! Wait! If you open the gate for them, you’ll let the tytans in, too!”

Paithan made a grab for her, but this time Rega was prepared. She darted out of his reach and was off and running down the hall before he could stop her.

Paithan swore something in elven and started after her. Noticing he was alone, he stopped, turned. “Roland! Come on! It’ll take both of us to fight the tytans off—”

“Not necessary,” Roland said. He waved Paithan back to the window. “Drugar’s down there.
He’s
opening the gate.”

The dwarf took the pendant that hung from around his neck and placed it in the center of the runes as he had done once before, only this time he was inside the gate instead of outside. The sigil on the dwarf’s pendant burned with blue fire, expanded. Wherever its fire touched one of the sigla on the gate, that sigil burst into blue flame. Soon a circle of magic burned brightly.

The gates swung open. The two strangers darted inside, the tytans roaring on their heels. The magical fire daunted the monsters, however. They fell back. The gates shut; the flames died.

The tytans began to beat on the gates with their fists.

“They’re attacking the citadel!” Paithan exclaimed in horror. “They never did that before. Do you think they can get in?”

“How the hell should I know?” Roland retorted. “You’re the expert. You’re the one who’s read all those damn books! Maybe you should turn that machine of yours back on again. That seems to calm them down.”

Paithan would gladly have turned the machine on again, but he didn’t have any idea how. He couldn’t tell Roland that, however, and for the moment, Roland was actually regarding Paithan with a certain amount of grudging respect.

What the human doesn’t know won’t hurt him, was Paithan’s theory. Let him think I’m a mechanical genius. If I’m lucky, the machine will cycle itself back up again. If not, and the tytans manage to break down the wall, well, the truth won’t matter much then anyway.

“The machine … uh … has to rest. It’ll come back on soon.” Paithan prayed to Orn he was right.

“It had better. Or we’re all going to be resting—resting in peace, if you know what I mean.”

They could hear clearly, through the open window, the tytans roaring and bashing at the walls in a frantic effort to get inside. Rega was down there now, talking with the human in the black robes.

“One of us ought to go down there,” Paithan suggested, prodding Roland.

“Yeah, you should,” Roland agreed, prodding Paithan.

Suddenly an enormous shape filled the window, blotting out the sunlight. A dank, dark smell choked them.

Frightened half out of their wits, the two grabbed hold of each other, dragged each other down. A massive green-scaled body slid past the window, scraping along the outside wall of the citadel at tremendous speed.

“A dragon!” Paithan quavered.

Roland said something not repeatable.

A gigantic talon thrust through the window.

“Oh, god!” Paithan quit hugging Roland and hugged the floor.

Roland flung his arms over his head.

But the talon disappeared after breaking out a section of the marble wall. The dragon had apparently used the window to give itself leverage. The green-scaled body slithered off. Sunlight shone through.

Trembling, the two clutched at the windowsill, pulled themselves cautiously back up, peered out over the ledge.

The dragon was sliding down the tower, wrapping its wingless body around tall spires, then dropping onto the courtyard below. Those in the courtyard—Rega, Drugar, and the two strangers—appeared to be frozen with terror. None of them made a move. The dragon lurched toward them.

Paithan moaned and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Rega! Run for it!” Roland screamed out the window.

But the dragon thundered past them without a glance, heading straight for the gates. The Sartan runes flashed blue and red, but the dragon soared right through the magic and through the metal gates as well.

Outside the walls, the dragon reared up to an astonishing height, its head nearly at a level with the citadel’s tall spires. The tytans turned and fled, their enormous bodies moving with incongruous fluid grace.

“It saved us!” Paithan cried.

“Yeah, for lunch,” Roland said grimly.

“Nonsense!” said a voice behind them.

Paithan jumped, cracked his head on the casement. Roland whirled around, lost his balance, and nearly fell backward out the window. Fortunately Paithan, feeling the need to grab hold of something substantial, grabbed hold of Roland. Both stood staring.

An old man with a stringy white beard, mouse-colored robes, and a disreputable hat was stalking down the hall, waving his arms and looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Dragon’s under my complete control. Hadn’t been for me, you’d be guava jelly right about now. Showed up in the nick of time—whoever Nick is.
Dukes ate mackinaw
, you might say.”

The old man planted himself triumphantly in front of the elf and the human, folded his arms across his chest, and rocked back on his heels.

“What dukes?” Paithan asked feebly.

“Dukes ate mackinaw,”
repeated the old man, scowling. “With ears as big as yours, you’d think you could hear. I flew down to save your lives, arrived right in the nick of time.
Dukes ate mackinaw.
That’s Latin,” the old man added importantly. “Means … well, it means … well, that I showed up … in the … er … nick of time.”

“I don’t understand.” Paithan gulped.

Roland was rendered speechless.

“ ’Course you don’t understand,” said the old man. “You have to be a great and powerful wizard to understand. You’re not, by chance, a great and powerful wizard?” He appeared somewhat nervous.

“N-no.” Paithan shook his head.

“Ah, there, you see?” The old man was smug.

Roland drew a quivering breath. “Aren’t … aren’t you Zifnab?”

“Am I? Wait!” The old man closed his eyes, held out his hands. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Zifnab. No. No. Don’t believe that’s it.”

“Then … who the devil are you?” Roland demanded.

The old man straightened, threw out his chest, stroked his bearded chin. “Name’s Bond. James Bond.”

“No, sir,” came a sepulchral voice from down the hall. “Not today, I’m afraid, sir.”

The old man flinched, drew nearer Paithan and Roland. “Don’t pay any attention. That’s probably only Moneypenny. Got the hots for me.”

“We saw you die!” Paithan gasped.

“The dragon killed you!” Roland gargled.

“Oh, they’re always trying to kill me off. But I come back in the last reel.
Dukes ate mackinaw
and all that. You wouldn’t have a dry martini about you, would you?”

Measured footfalls echoed in the hallway. The closer the footfalls came, the more nervous the old man appeared, although he was obviously doing his best to ignore the ominous sound.

A very tall, imposing gentleman walked up to the old man. The gentleman was dressed all in somber black—black waistcoat, black vest, black knee-breeches with black ribbons, black stockings and shoes with silver buckles. His long hair was white and tied in the back with a black ribbon, but his face was young, and rather stern about the mouth. The gentleman bowed.

“Master Quindiniar. Master Redleaf. I am pleased to see you again. I trust I find you in good health?”

“Zifnab died!” Paithan insisted. “We saw him!”

“We can’t have everything, can we?” The imposing gentleman gave a long-suffering sigh. “Excuse me, please.” He turned to the old man, who was staring hard at the ceiling. “I am sorry, sir, but you cannot be Mr. Bond today.”

The old man began to hum a tune. “Dum deedle-um dum—dum, dum, dum. Dum deedle-um dum—dum, dum, dum. Bomp—de-um.”

“Sir.” The imposing gentleman’s voice took on an edge. “I really must insist.”

The old man appeared to deflate. Taking off his hat, he twirled it around and around by the brim, darting swift glances from beneath his brows at the imposing gentleman.

“Please?” the old man whined.

“No, sir.”

“Just for the day?”

“It simply wouldn’t do, sir.”

The old man heaved a sigh. “Who am I, then?”

“You are Zifnab, sir,” said the imposing gentleman with a sigh.

“That doddering idiot!” The old man was quite indignant.

“If you say so, sir.”

The old man stewed and fumed and made a complete shambles of his hat. Suddenly he cried, “Ah, ha! I can’t be Zifnab! He’s dead!” He stabbed a bony finger at Paithan and Roland. “
They’ll
tell you! By cracky, I’ve got witnesses!”

“
Deus ex machina
, sir. You were saved in the final reel.”

“Damn the dukes!” Zifnab cried in a towering rage.

“Yes, sir,” said the imposing gentleman serenely. “And now, sir, if you will permit me to remind you. The Lord of the Nexus is in the courtyard—”

“The courtyard … Blessed Mother! The dragon!” Paithan whirled, almost fell out the window. He caught himself, blinked. “It’s gone.”

Roland turned. “What? Where?”

“The dragon. It’s gone!”

“Not precisely, sir,” said the imposing gentleman with another bow. “I believe that would be me to whom you are referring. I am the dragon.” The gentleman turned back to Zifnab. “I, too, have business in the courtyard, sir.”

The old man looked alarmed. “Will this end up in a fight?”

“I trust not, sir,” said the dragon. Then its voice softened. “But I’m afraid I may be gone for some considerable length of time, sir. I know that I leave you in good company, however.”

Zifnab reached out a trembling hand. “You will take care of yourself, won’t you, old chap?”