Into the Labyrinth (54 page)

“What’s he doing?” Kari demanded, amazed.

“Crossing the bridge.”

“With his eyes closed?”

“He doesn’t manage all that well with his eyes open,” Haplo said dryly. “I figure this gives him a chance.”

“It’s going to take him the rest of the day,” Kari observed after a tense few moments spent watching Alfred inching his way along.

And they didn’t have the rest of the day. Haplo scratched at his hand; the rune-glow, warning of danger, was growing brighter. Kari peered back into the forest. The Patryns on the opposite shore watched with dark expressions.

Several people had arrived, coming from the direction of the city. In their midst was a young man, probably near Haplo’s age. Absorbed in mentally urging Alfred along, Haplo would not have noticed one man among the rest except that this particular man was markedly unusual.

Most Patryns—male and female alike—are lean and hard-muscled, from lives spent either in running or in fighting to survive. This man’s sigla-covered flesh was soft, his body rounded, shoulders heavy, stomach protruding. But by the deferential way the other Patryns treated him, Haplo guessed that this was the headman—Vasu, a name that meant “bright,” “beneficent,” “excellent.”

Vasu came to stand on the shoreline, watching, listening with slightly inclined head as several Patryns explained what was happening. He gave no commands. Kari was, by rights, in charge here. It was her group. In this situation,
the headman was an observer, taking control only if things began to fall apart.

And so far, everything was going well. Alfred was making progress. Better than Haplo had dared hope. The bridge’s rock surface, though wet, was rough. The Sartan was able to dig his fingers into cracks and crevices and pull himself along. Once his knee slipped. Catching himself, he managed to hang on. He straddled the bridge with his legs. Eyes tightly shut, he gamely kept going.

He was halfway across when the howl rose from the forest.

“Wolfen,” said Kari, with a curse.

The howling sounds made by the wolfen are eerie and unnerving. The howl is bestial, but there are words in it, singing of torn flesh and warm blood and cracked bones and death. One howl rose from the forest; others answered it.

Alfred, startled and alarmed, opened his eyes. He saw the black water boiling below. Panic-stricken, he flung himself flat, clung to the bridge, and froze.

Haplo swore. “Don’t faint! Damn it, just don’t faint!”

Wolfen don’t howl, don’t make their presence known, unless they are ready to attack. And by the sounds, it was a pack of them, far too many for Kari and her small band to fight alone.

Vasu made a swift gesture with his hand. The Patryns ranged along the bank, taking aim with bow and arrow and spear, prepared to cover their crossing. Calling to Alfred to keep moving, Hugh the Hand edged down near the bridge as far as he dared, ready to pull the Sartan to shore.

Haplo jumped on his end of the bridge.

“You’ll never make it!” Kari cried. “The bridge’s magic only permits one person to cross at a time. I will take care of this.”

She raised her spear, aimed it at Alfred.

Haplo grabbed her arm, stopped her throw. She wrestled away from him, glared at him.

“He’s not worth the lives of three of my people!”

“Get ready to cross,” Haplo told her.

He started forward, but at same time the dog leapt past Hugh the Hand, landed on the bridge, and headed for the Sartan.

Haplo paused, waited. The magic would certainly
thwart him, but it might not affect the dog. Behind him, he could hear the wolfen crashing through the underbrush. The howls were growing louder. Alfred lay on his belly, staring down in horrible fascination at the water, unable to move.

The dog ran lightly over the bridge. Reaching Alfred, the animal barked once, tried to rouse him from his stupor.

Alfred didn’t even seem to hear it.

Frustrated, the dog looked to its master for help.

Kari lifted her spear. Across the water, Vasu made a sharp, peremptory motion with his broad hand.

“His collar!” Haplo shouted. “Grab the collar!”

Either the dog understood or it had reached the same conclusion. Digging its teeth firmly into Alfred’s collar, the dog tugged.

Alfred moaned, grasped the bridge even more tightly.

The dog growled, deep in its throat.
Collar or flesh? Which will it be?

Gulping, Alfred let go of his desperate hold. The dog, edging its way backward across the narrow span, dragged the limp and unresisting Sartan along with it. Hugh the Hand and several Patryns waited at the far end. Catching hold of Alfred, they hauled him up safely onto the shore.

“Go!” Kari ordered, her hand on Haplo’s shoulder.

She was in charge; it was her privilege to be the last one to cross. Haplo didn’t waste time arguing, but hastened over the bridge. When he was clear, the other Patryns followed behind him.

The wolfen broke from the forest just as Kari set her foot on the span. The wolfen barked in dismay at the sight of their prey escaping and dashed after Kari, hoping to catch one at least. A rain of spears and arrows—enhanced by the rune-magic—flew across the river and halted their pursuit. Kari reached the other side safely. Marit stood waiting for her, pulled the woman up onto the bank.

The wolfen ran onto the bridge. The sigla on the rock flared red; the wet stone burst into magical flame. The wolfen fell back, snarling and snapping. They paced the bank, staring at their prey with yellow, hungry eyes, but they dared not cross the river.

Once Kari was safe, Haplo went to see how Alfred was doing. Vasu also walked over to take a look. The headman
moved with grace for such a flabby and ungainly man. Reaching the Sartan’s side, the Patryn chieftain stared down at his prisoner.

Alfred lay on the bank. He was the color of something that had been in the river several days. He shook until his teeth rattled. His limbs twitched and jerked with leftover terror.

“
Here
is the ancient enemy,” Vasu said and it seemed he sighed. “
Here
is what we have been taught to hate.”

THE CITADEL
PRYAN

“R
UN, ALEATHA
!”
ROLAND SHOUTED AND JUMPED IN FRONT OF
Xar.

The Lord of the Nexus caught the human by the throat and flung him to one side as if he’d been one of the elves’ magical talking dolls. Xar called on the possibilities, worked the rune-magic. Within the blinking of an eye, every arched doorway that led into and out of the circular chamber was walled up, sealed shut.

This done, Xar glanced around, then began to curse bitterly. He’d trapped three mensch in the chamber. Only three. The elf female had escaped.

But perhaps, Xar reflected, this is all for the best. She will lead me to the dwarf.

Xar turned back to his captives. One of them—the elf male—was staring down at the dead body of the old man, at the empty pitcher lying on the floor beside him.

The elf raised his head, turned a horrified face to Xar. “You poisoned the wine? You meant for us to drink it?”

“Of course I did,” Xar returned testily. He had no time for mensch inanities. “And now I will have to take your lives in a manner far less suitable to my needs. However, there are compensations.” He nudged the corpse with his toe. “I have an extra body. I hadn’t counted on that.”

The mensch huddled together, the human female kneeling over the human male, who was lying on the floor, his throat torn and bleeding as if claws had raked it.

“Don’t go anywhere,” said Xar with fine sarcasm. “I’ll be back.”

He used the rune-magic to escape the sealed room, went after the elf female and the dwarf. And, most importantly, the dwarf’s Sartan amulet.

Run, Aleatha!

Roland’s warning pounded in her heart, throbbed in her ears. And above the words, she could hear the footsteps of the terrible wizard.

Run, Aleatha! Run!

Consumed by fear, she ran.

She could hear the dread footfalls behind her. Lord Xar was pursuing her. And it seemed to her that he, too, was whispering Roland’s last words to her.

“Run, Aleatha,” he was urging her.

His voice was terrifying, laughing at her, mocking. It impelled her to run faster, kept her from being able to think coherently. She ran to the one place where instinct told her she might be safe—the maze.

Xar discovered Aleatha easily. He watched her dash down the street in a flurry of torn silken skirt and tattered petticoat. He pursued her at his leisure, driving her as he might have driven sheep. He wanted her terror, wanted panic. Half-mad, she would unwittingly lead him to the dwarf.

Too late, Xar realized his mistake. He realized it when he saw the maze, saw Aleatha racing for it, saw the Sartan runes that surrounded the entrance.

Aleatha vanished inside. Xar halted outside, glared balefully at the Sartan runes, and considered this latest difficulty.

The three trapped inside the circular chamber stared at the bricked-up walls, at each other, at the corpse of the old man, lying twisted and cold on the floor.

“This isn’t real,” Rega said in a small, tight voice. “This isn’t happening.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Paithan said eagerly and hurled himself at the brick wall that had once been a door.

He smashed into it, groaned in pain, and slid to the floor. “It’s real enough, all right.” A bleeding gash in his forehead proved it.

“Why is Xar doing this to us? Why … why kill us?” Rega quavered.

“Aleatha.” Roland sat up, blinked dazedly. “Where’s Aleatha?”

“She escaped,” Rega said gently. “Thanks to you.”

Roland, gingerly touching his bleeding throat, managed a smile.

“But Xar went after her,” Paithan added. He looked at the magic brick walls, shook his head. “I don’t think she stands much of a chance.”

Roland was on his feet. “There must be a way out!”

“There isn’t,” Paithan said. “Forget it. We’re finished.”

Roland ignored him, began hammering on the bricks and shouting. “Help! Help us!”

“You ninny!” Paithan scoffed. “Just who do you think’s going to hear you?”

“I don’t know!” Roland turned on him savagely. “But it beats the hell out of standing here whining and waiting to die!” He turned to the wall, was about to beat on it again, when the imposing gentleman, dressed all in black, stepped through the bricks as if he were walking through the erstwhile door.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said deferentially to the astounded Roland, “but I thought I heard you call. Might I be of assistance?”

Before Roland could answer, the imposing gentleman saw the corpse. His face paled.

“Oh, dear, sir. What
have
you done now?”

The gentleman knelt beside the body, felt for a pulse. Finding none, he looked up. His expression was terrible, stern, fey.

Paithan, alarmed, caught hold of Rega, pulled her close. The two stumbled backward into Roland.

The imposing gentleman stood up …

 … and kept standing.

His body grew taller and taller, rose higher and higher. His frame filled out. An enormous scaled tail thrashed in
anger. Reptile eyes flared in fury. The dragon’s voice shook the sealed room.

“Who has killed my wizard?”

Aleatha ran through the maze. She was lost, hopelessly lost, but she didn’t care. In her terror-frazzled mind, the more lost she was, the better her chances of losing Xar. She was so frightened, she didn’t realize he was no longer pursuing her.

The hedges tore at her dress, caught her hair, scratched her hands and arms. The stones on the path bruised her tender feet. A stabbing pain tore at her side every time she drew a breath. Footsore, dazed, she was forced by sheer exhaustion to stop her panic-stricken dash. She sank down onto the path, gulping and sobbing.

A hand touched her.

Aleatha shrieked, fell backward into the hedge. But it wasn’t the black robes and cruel face of Xar that loomed over her. It was the black-bearded and concerned face of the dwarf.