Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

His gaze came back, and the eyes were hard and cold and calculating. “The Final Gate will fall. But I will open it again. When I have found the Seventh Gate, then I will take my revenge.”

“Lord Xar, what do you mean?” Marit stared at him, not understanding. “Lord, do not worry about us. We will manage here. You must save our people.”

“I intend to do so, Wife,” Xar said curtly.

Marit flinched.

Haplo heard the word, felt the quiver run through the arms whose touch was so comforting, so welcome. He opened his eyes, looked up at her. Her face was streaked with blood—his own, her own, the dragon-snake’s. Her hair was disheveled, and now he could see, on her forehead, the mark, the entwined sigla—hers and Xar’s.

“Leave him to me, Wife,” Xar commanded.

Marit shook her head, crouched over Haplo protectively. Xar reached down, laid his hand on her shoulder. She cried out and slumped to the ground, her body limp, its rune-magic disrupted.

Xar turned to Haplo. “Don’t fight me, my son. Let go. Let go of the pain and the despair, the heartache of this life.”

The Lord of the Nexus slid his arms beneath Haplo’s broken body. Haplo made a feeble attempt to free himself. The dog dashed up, barked at Xar frantically.

“I know I cannot hurt the animal,” Xar said coldly. “But I can hurt her.” Marit, curled up, helpless, moaned and shook her head. The sigil on her forehead blazed like fire.

“Dog, stop,” Haplo whispered through ashen lips.

The dog, whining, not understanding but trained to obey, fell back. Xar lifted Haplo in his arms as easily and tenderly as if he were a small injured child.

“Rise, Wife,” he said to Marit. “When I am gone, you will need to defend yourself.”

The magic that held her paralyzed released her. Weak, Marit stood up. She took a step nearer Xar, nearer Haplo.

“Where are you taking him, Lord?” she asked, hope fighting a final struggle in her heart. “To the Nexus? The Final Gate?”

“No, Wife.” Xar’s voice was cold. “I return to Abarrach.” He looked with satisfaction on Haplo. “To the necromancy.”

“How can you let this evil happen to your people, Lord?” she cried in anger. Xar’s eyes flared. “They have suffered all their lives. What is one more day or two or three? When I come back in triumph, when the Seventh Gate is open, their suffering will end!”

It will be too late! The words were on her lips, but she looked into Xar’s eyes and dared not say them. Catching hold of Haplo’s hand, she pressed it against her own heart-rune. “I love you,” she said to him. His eyes opened. “Find Alfred!” He spoke without a voice, his lips moving, stained with his own blood. “Alfred can... stop them...”

“Yes, find the Sartan,” Xar sneered. “I am certain he will be more than happy to defend the prison his kind built.”

The lord spoke the runes; a sigil formed in the air. The flaring rune struck Marit, slashed across her forehead.

The pain seared through her as if he’d cut her with a knife. Blood flowed down over her eyes, blinding her. Gasping, dizzy with the agony and the shock, she fell to her knees.

“Xar! My Lord!” she cried wildly, wiping the blood from her eyes. Xar ignored her. Bearing Haplo in his arms, the lord walked calmly across the field of battle. A shield of magic surrounded them, protected them. Trotting along behind, unnoticed and forlorn, was the dog.

Marit sprang to her feet with some desperate notion of stopping them, attacking Xar from behind, rescuing Haplo, but at that moment a whirlwind of sigla spun about them—all three of them, including the dog—and all three were gone.

The battle came to an end with the evening. The dragon-snakes were vanquished, destroyed; they no longer threatened to breach the walls. The wondrous green dragon—the likes of which no one had ever before seen in the Labyrinth—joined with the Patryns to defeat the serpents. The walls held, their magic swiftly reinforced. The gate stood fast. Hugh the Hand was the last one through before it shut. He bore Kari in his arms. He had found her lying wounded beneath a score of dead chaodyn.

He carried her inside the gate, gave her into the arms of her people.

“Where are Haplo and Marit?” the Hand demanded.

Vasu, directing the renewing of the gate’s magic, looked at him in sudden consternation. “I thought they were with you.”

“They haven’t come in here?”

“No, they haven’t. And I’ve been here the entire time.”

“Open the gate again,” Hugh ordered. “They must still be out there.”

“Open it!” Vasu commanded his people. “I will come with you.” Hugh the Hand, glancing at the pudgy headman, was about to protest, but then remembered that he could not kill.

The gate swung open; the two men ran out into a host of the enemy. But with their leaders dead, the lust for battle seemed to have drained from the foe. Many were beating a retreat across the river, and these were creating confusion among the ranks.

“There!” Hugh the Hand pointed.

Hurt and bewildered, Marit was wandering alone near the base of the wall. A pack of wolfen, drawn by the scent of blood, were tracking her. Vasu began to sing in a deep baritone.

Hugh the Hand decided the man had gone mad. This was no time for an aria! But suddenly an enormous bush, with long, spearing thorns, thrust up out of the ground, surrounded the wolfen. Thorns caught their thick fur, held them fast. Supple branches wrapped around their paws. The wolfen howled and shrieked, but the more they fought to escape, the more entangled they became. Marit did not even notice. Vasu continued singing; the thorns grew deeper, denser. Above, Patryns waited until Marit was safe to finish off the wolfen trapped in the bush.

Hugh the Hand ran to her, caught hold of her. “Where is Haplo?” She stared at him from eyes almost gummed shut by clotted blood. Either she couldn’t see him clearly or she didn’t recognize him. “Alfred,” she said to him in Patryn. “I must find Alfred.”

“Where is Haplo?” Hugh repeated in human, frustrated.

“Alfred.” Marit spoke the name over and over.

Hugh saw that he would get nothing from her in her dazed condition. He swept her up in his arms and ran back to Vasu. The headman sheltered them in his magic until they had safely reached the gate.

When night fell, the beacon fire still burned bright. The magic of the sigla on the walls glimmered and flickered, but their light continued to shine. The last of the foe slunk off into the wilderness, leaving their dead behind. The elders who had spent the day inscribing the weapons with death-dealing runes now spent the night restoring life to those injured and dying. Marit’s head wound was not life-threatening, but the healers could not heal it completely. Whatever weapon had torn her flesh must have been poisoned, they told Hugh the Hand when they showed him the raw and inflamed mark on her skin. But at least Marit was conscious—far too conscious, as far as the healers were concerned. They had difficulty keeping her in her bed. She kept demanding to see Vasu, and at last they sent for him, since nothing else would calm her. The headman came—exhausted, grieving. The city of Abri stood, but many had given their lives, including Kari. Including someone Vasu dreaded to name, especially to the woman who watched him draw near her sickbed.

“Alfred,” Marit said immediately. “Where is he? None of these fools knows or will tell me. I must find him! He can reach the Final Gate in time to fight the dragon-snakes! He can save our people.”

Patryns could not lie to each other, and Vasu was Patryn enough to know that she would see through his deceit, no matter how kindly meant.