Into the Labyrinth (63 page)

Now the land crawled with death.

Wolfen, chaodyn, tiger-men, snogs, and hosts of other monsters, born and bred by the evil magic of the Labyrinth, were massed along the riverbank, their ranks rippling with activity, until it seemed that they formed another River of Anger.

The forest concealed the numbers hidden within, but the Patryns could see the tops of the trees swaying, stirred by the movement of armies below. Dust rose from where
giant trees were being felled to serve as bridges and battering rams, were being made into ladders to scale the walls.

And beyond the forest, the grass plains that lay fallow, ready for the planting, sprouted a hideous crop. Springing up in the night like weeds that thrive on darkness, the ranks of the foe stretched to the horizon.

Leading the armies were creatures never before seen in the Labyrinth: huge serpents, without wings or feet, grayscaled, their wrinkled bodies dragging over the ground. They oozed slime that poisoned the land, the water, the air—anything they touched. Their foul smell, of rot and decay, was like a film of oil on the wind. The Patryns could taste it on their tongues and in their throats, feel it coating their arms and hands, obscuring their vision.

The red eyes of the serpents burned hot with bloodlust. Their toothless mouths gaped wide, sucking in the terror and the fear the sight of them inspired, gorging on it, growing fat and strong and powerful.

One of the serpents, however, had only one eye. And it scanned the top of the city walls with evil intent, as if searching for someone in particular.

The dawn came, gray light shining from a source never seen, serving only to illuminate, doing little to warm or cheer. But this day the gray was brightened by a halo of blue, an aura of red. The Patryns’ rune-magic had never before gleamed so brilliantly, reacting to the powerful forces arrayed against it with power of its own.

The sigla flared on the protecting wall, its light so dazzling that many standing on the riverbank, awaiting the signal to attack, were forced to shade their eyes against it. The bodies of the Patryns themselves gleamed as if each individual burned with his or her own vibrant flame.

Only one person stood in darkness, forlorn, almost suffocating with terror.

“This is hopeless!” Alfred peered over the edge of the battlements. His hands, gripping the wall, shook so that fragments of rock dislodged, came down in a rain of gritty dust that covered his shoes.

“Yes, it is hopeless,” answered Haplo beside him. “I’m sorry I got you into this, my friend.”

The dog pattered back and forth nervously along the wall, whining because it couldn’t see, occasionally alert and
growling at the sound of a wolfen’s challenging howl or a dragon-snake’s taunting hiss. Marit stood next to Haplo; her hand was twined fast in his. They looked at each other every so often, smiling, finding comfort and courage in each other’s eyes.

Alfred, watching them, felt that comfort include him. For the first time since he had met Haplo, Alfred saw the Patryn almost whole, almost at peace. He was not fully whole, not completely—the dog was with him still. Whatever had led Haplo to come back to the Labyrinth had led him home. And he was content to stay here, to die here.

My friend
, he had said.

Alfred heard the words dimly above the shrieks of the invading foe. The words kindled a small fire inside him.

“Am I?” he asked Haplo timidly.

“Are you what?”

The conversation had moved on, at least between Haplo and Marit and Hugh the Hand. Alfred hadn’t been listening to them. He’d been listening to the voice across the chasm.

“Your … what you said. Friend,” Alfred said shyly.

“Did I say that?” Haplo shrugged. “I must have been talking to the dog.” But he was smiling.

“You weren’t, were you?” Alfred said, red with pleasure.

Haplo was silent. The armies below them hooted and howled, gibbered and cursed. Haplo’s silence wrapped around Alfred like a comforting blanket. He couldn’t hear the screams of death. Only Haplo, when he spoke.

“Yes, Alfred, you are my friend.” Haplo held out his hand—the hand that was powerful, tattooed on the back with blue runes.

Alfred extended his hand—white, shriveled, with knobby wrists and thin bones, its flesh cold and clammy with fear.

The two hands met, clasped, gripped each other firmly.

Two people, reaching across a chasm of hate. At that moment, Alfred looked inward and met himself.

And he was no longer afraid.

Another shrill blast of the trumpet and the battle began.

The Patryns had either destroyed the bridges across the river or set magical traps on them. These obstructions halted the enemy only momentarily, were no more than a minor inconvenience. The narrow rock bridge that had cost Alfred some painful moments exploded in a flash of magic, taking out a host of the enemy who had foolishly ventured onto it.

But before the last fragments had fallen down into the raging water, six logs were hauled by tusked behemoths to the river’s bank. Dragons—true dragons of the Labyrinth
²
—lifted the logs with claw and with magic and dropped them down. Legions of the dread host swarmed across. If any of their number slipped and fell into the torrent—which many did—they were abandoned to their fate.

Higher up among the cliffs stood permanent bridges of stone. These the Patryns left standing, but used the magic of their engraved sigla to confound the enemy, arousing an intense fear in those trying to cross, causing the ones in front to turn and flee in panic, disorganizing and stampeding those in the rear.

The Patryns guarding the walls were heartened by the sight, assuming that the bulk of the enemy would be unable to reach the city. Their cheering died when the enormous serpents reared up and crashed headlong into the under-section of the bridges, a part left unprotected by magic. The sigla on the sides flashed wildly, but cracks spread through it, disrupting the magic, weakening it—in some cases completely destroying it. The enemy commanders rallied their troops with furious shouts. The retreat was halted, the armies of the Labyrinth raced across
the damaged bridges, which trembled beneath the weight, but held.

By midmorning, the sky above Abri was dark with the wings of dragons and griffins, gigantic bats, and leatherwinged birds of prey that swooped down on the Patryns from above. Hordes of chaodyn, wolfen packs, and tigermen dashed across the no-man’s-land below. Siege towers were raised, ladders thrust up along the sides of the walls. Battering rams thundered against the iron gates.

The Patryns rained down magic on their foes—spears kindled into bolts of flame, javelins burst overhead in a shower of flesh-consuming sparks, arrows that could not miss flew directly to the heart of the chosen victim. Smoke and magical fog obscured the sight of the monsters descending from the air; several crashed headlong into the mountain. The magic of the rune-inscribed walls and buildings of Abri repelled invaders. Ladders thrown up against the walls turned from wood to water. Siege towers caught fire and burned. Iron battering rams melted, the molten metal consuming all those who stood near it.

Daunted by the force and power of the Patryn magic, the armies of the enemy faltered and fell back. Alfred, watching from his place on the walls, began to think he’d been wrong.

“We’re winning,” he said excitedly to Haplo, who had paused to rest.

“No, we’re not,” Haplo said grimly. “That was only the first wave. Meant to soften us up, force us to expend our weapons.”

“But they’re retreating,” Alfred protested.

“Regrouping. And this”—Haplo held out a spear—“is my last. Marit’s gone to find more, but she won’t be successful.”

Archers were on their hands and knees, searching for any arrow dropped or spent. They pulled shafts out of the bodies of the dead for use against their killers. On the ground below, those too old to fight hunched over the few remaining weapons, hastily inscribing them with sigla, replicating them with magic that was already starting to wane.

And it still wouldn’t be enough to hold back the foes, already massing for the next attack. All along the battlements, the Patryns drew knife and sword, prepared to face the assault, which would be fought hand to hand.

Marit returned, carrying two javelins and a broken spear. “All I could find.”

“May I?” Alfred asked, his hand hovering over the weapons. “I can replicate them.”

Haplo shook his head. “No. Your magic—remember? Who knows what these might turn into.”

“I can’t be of any help,” Alfred said, discouraged.

“At least,” Haplo observed, “you didn’t faint.”

The Sartan looked up, mildly astonished. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

“Besides, I don’t think it will matter at this point,” Haplo said dryly. “You could make spears from every branch of every tree in the forest and it wouldn’t matter. The dragon-snakes are leading this attack.”

Alfred stared over the top of the wall. His knees weakened; he very nearly lost his balance. The dog edged close, bolstering him with an encouraging lick and a wagging tail.

The River of Anger had frozen, probably from the magic of the serpents. Armies of creatures now marched across its solid black surface. Surrounding the city, the serpents began to fling themselves bodily at the walls. The sigla-inscribed stone shook beneath the blows. Cracks speared through the structure, small at first, then growing larger. Time and again, the serpents attacked the very bones of Abri. The cracks spread and began to widen, dividing the runes, weakening the magic.

The Patryns atop the walls fought the serpents with every weapon, every magical spell they could think to cast. But weapons struck the gray-scaled skin and bounced off harmlessly; magic burst over the serpents, did no damage. It was afternoon. The armies of the enemy stood on the frozen river and cheered the serpents on, waited for the walls to fall.

Headman Vasu climbed up to where Haplo stood atop the wall. A shuddering blow rocked it beneath his feet. “You said you once fought these creatures, Haplo. How can we stop them?”

“Steel,” Haplo yelled back. “Inscribed with magic. Drive it into the head. Can you find me a sword?”

“That would mean fighting them outside the wall,” Vasu shouted.

“Give me a group of our people skilled with sword and dagger,” Haplo urged.

“We would have to open the gates,” Vasu said, his expression dark.

“Just long enough to let us out. Then shut them behind us.”

Vasu shook his head. “No, I can’t permit it. You would be trapped out there …”

“If we fail, it won’t matter,” Haplo returned grimly. “Either we die out there or we die in here. And out there, we’ve got a chance.”

“I’ll go with you,” Marit offered.

“So will I,” said Hugh the Hand, frustrated, eager for action.

The assassin had tried fighting, but every spear he threw went wide of its mark; the arrows he shot might have been flowers for all the damage they did.

“You can’t kill,” Haplo reminded him.

The Hand grinned. “They don’t know that.”

“You’ve got a point,” Haplo admitted. “But maybe you should stay here, protect Alfred …”

“No,” said Alfred resolutely. “Sir Hugh is needed. You will all be needed. I’ll be all right.”

“You sure?” Haplo regarded him intently.

Alfred flushed. Haplo wasn’t asking if Alfred was sure he’d be all right, but if he was sure about something else. Haplo had always been able to see through him. Well, friends could do that sort of thing.

“I’m sure,” Alfred said, smiling.

“Good luck, then, Coren,” Haplo said.

Accompanied by the dog and Hugh the Hand, the Patryns—Haplo and Marit—left, disappearing into the fog and smoke of battle.

“Good luck to you, my friend,” Alfred said softly.

Closing his eyes, he delved into the very depths of his being—a place he had never before visited, consciously at least—and began to search among the clutter and the refuse for the words of a spell.

Kari and her band of hunters volunteered to go with Haplo to fight the serpents. They armed themselves with steel, taking the time to inscribe the magic on the blades as Haplo instructed.

“The head of the serpent is the only vulnerable part that I know of,” Haplo told them. “Between the eyes.”

No need to add what they could all see, that the serpents were powerful, that the lashing tails could batter them until their own shielding magic gave way, the enormous bodies crush them, the gaping toothless maws devour them.

Four serpents crawled around the walls, including Sang-drax.

“He’s ours,” said Haplo, exchanging glances with Marit, who nodded grim agreement. The dog barked in excitement, dashed in circles in front of the gate.

The walls continued to hold, but they wouldn’t much longer. Cracks spread from base to top now; the flaring light of the runes was starting to dim and in places had gone out. Hosts of the enemy were taking advantage of the weakness to throw up ladders, begin scaling the walls. The attacking serpents occasionally knocked down their own allies, but paid little heed. Another swarm arrived to take the places of the dead.

Haplo and his group stood by the gates.

“Our blessing on you,” Vasu said, and, raising his hand, he gave the signal.

Patryns who were guardians of the gate’s magic placed their hands on the runes. The sigla flashed and darkened. The gates began to open. Haplo and his people dashed out rapidly, squeezing through the crack. Seeing the breach in the defenses, a pack of wolfen let out a howl and flung themselves at it. The Patryns cut them down swiftly. Those few wolfen who managed to win through were caught between the iron gates as they boomed shut.

Haplo and those with him were now locked outside their own city, with no way back in. The gates would not—by Haplo’s own orders—open again until the serpents were dead.

The magic of the Patryns’ swords and their own bodies shone brightly. At Haplo’s command, the teams separated, spread out, breaking off into small groups to challenge the serpents individually, prevent them from banding together, draw them away from the walls.

The serpents mocked them, turned from their destruction to eliminate these petty nuisances and go back to the
task at hand. Only Sang-drax understood the danger. He shouted a warning, but it wasn’t heeded.