Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

“What happened?”

“A magnificent dragon—green and gold—appeared out of nowhere and fought the snakes. The dragon destroyed the king snake. Haplo and the children were saved. The only thing I remember was waking up on the beach.”

“Indeed, a serpent mage,” Vasu said.

“What is a serpent mage, Headman? Does it have anything to do with these dragon-snakes? If so, how is that possible? They were unknown to the Sartan at the time of the Sundering—at least so far as I can determine.”

“It seems odd that you—a pure-bred Sartan—don’t know,” Vasu responded, regarding Alfred with some misgiving. “And that I—a half-breed—do.”

“Not so strange,” Alfred said, smiling bleakly. “You have kept the fire of memory and tradition burning brightly. In our obsession with trying to put back together what we destroyed, we let our fire go out. And then I was very young when I went to sleep. And very old when I woke up.” Vasu considered this in silence; then, relaxing, he smiled. “The Serpent Mage has nothing to do with those you call dragon-snakes, although it is my guess that they have been around far longer than you credit them. ‘Serpent Mage’ is a title denoting ability—nothing more.

“At the time of the Sundering, there was a hierarchy of magi among the Sartan, denoted by animal names. Lynx, Coyote, Deer... It was very involved, complicated.” Vasu’s remarkable eyes were fixed on Alfred. “Serpent was near the top. Extraordinarily powerful.”

“I see.” Alfred was uncomfortable. “I suppose there was training involved, years of study—”

“Of course. With that much power comes responsibility.”

“The one thing I’ve never been very good at.”

“You could be of immense help to my people, Alfred.”

“If I don’t pass out,” Alfred said bitterly. “But then again, you might be happier if I did. I could bring more danger to you than I’m worth. The Labyrinth seems to be able to turn my magic against me—”

“Because you’re not in control of your magic. Or of yourself. Take control, Alfred. Be the hero of your own life. Don’t let someone else play that role.”

“Be the hero of my own life,” Alfred repeated softly. He almost laughed. It was so very ludicrous.

The two men sat together in companionable silence. Outside, the black began to soften to gray. Dawn—and battle—approached.

“You are two people, Alfred,” said Vasu at length. “An inner person and an outer. A chasm exists between the two. Somehow you must bridge it. The two of you must meet.”

Alfred Montbank—middle-aged, balding, clumsy, a coward.

Coren—life-giver; a creature of power, strength, courage, the chosen. These two could never come together. They had been apart far too long. Alfred sat dejected. “I think I would only fall off the bridge,” he said miserably.

A horn sounded, a call of warning. Vasu was on his feet. “Will you come with me?”

Alfred attempted to look brave. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up... and tripped over the corner of the rug.

“One of us will come,” he said, and picked himself up with a sigh.

By the gray light of dawn, it seemed to the Patryns that every enemy in the Labyrinth was ranged against them.

Until that moment, when they looked out over the walls and stared in horrified awe, some had doubted, not believed the warnings. They thought the headman’s fears exaggerated. There had been intruders in the city, but they had done no harm. A few packs of wolfen might attack. Or perhaps even a legion of the hard-to-kill [39] Insect-like creatures, the chaodyn have a hard outer shell that is extremely difficult to penetrate even with magical weapons. A chaodyn must be struck directly, die instantly, or else an attacker will find himself facing two where one stood before. chaodyn. How could such vast forces as the headman spoke of gather unobserved? The forest and the surrounding lands had been no more dangerous than normal.

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, gray-scaled, 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.