Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

Samah was on his feet. His hands clasped the bars of the cell. “I was wrong! My people were wrong! I admit it. I can offer no excuse, except that maybe we do know what it is like to live in fear. I see it now. Alfred, Orla... Orla.” Samah closed his eyes in pain, drew a deep breath. “Orla was right.” Opening his eyes, gazing intently at Xar, Samah shook the bars of his cell.

“But we have a common enemy. An enemy who will destroy us all. Destroy both our peoples, destroy the mensch!”

“And that enemy would be?” Xar was toying with his victim.

“The dragon-snakes! Or whatever form they take. And they can take any form they choose, Xar. That is what makes them so dangerous, so powerful. That Sang-drax. The one who captured me. He is one of them.”

“Yes, I know,” said Xar. “He has been very useful.”

“You are the one being used!” Samah cried in frustration. He paused, trying desperately to think of some way to prove his point. “Surely one of your own would have warned you. That Patryn, the young man. The one who came to Chelestra. He discovered the truth about the dragon-snakes. He tried to warn me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe. I opened Death’s Gate. He and Alfred... Haplo! That’s the name he called himself. Haplo.”

“What do you know of Haplo?” Xar asked in a low voice.

“He learned the truth,” Samah said grimly. “He tried to make me see it. Surely, he must have told it to you, his lord.”

“So this is the thanks I get, is it, Haplo?” Xar asked the dark shadows. This is gratitude for saving your life, my son. Betrayal.

“Your plot failed, Samah,” Xar said coolly. “Your attempt to subvert my faithful servant failed. Haplo told me everything. He admitted everything. If you’re going to speak, Sartan, speak to some purpose. Where is the Seventh Gate?”

“Haplo obviously didn’t tell you everything,” Samah said, lip curling.

“Otherwise you would know the answer to your question. He was there. He and Alfred, at least so I gathered from something Alfred said. Apparently your Haplo trusts you no more than my Alfred trusts me. I wonder where we went wrong...”

Xar was stung, though he took care not to show it. Haplo again! Haplo knows. And I don’t! It was maddening.

“The Seventh Gate,” Xar repeated as if he hadn’t heard.

“You’re a fool,” Samah said tiredly. Letting loose of the bars, he lapsed back on the stone bench. “You’re a fool. As I was a fool. You doom your people.” He sighed. His head sank into his hands. “As I have doomed mine.” Xar made a sharp, beckoning gesture. Sang-drax hastened down the dank and gloomy corridor.

The lord was having a difficult time. He wanted Samah to suffer, of course, but he also wanted Samah dead. Xar’s fingers twitched. He was already drawing, in his own mind, the runes of necromancy that would begin the terrible resurrection.

Sang-drax entered the Sartan’s cell. Samah did not look up, though Xar saw the Sartan’s body stiffen involuntarily, bracing to endure what was coming. What was coming? Xar wondered. What would the dragon-snake do? Curiosity made the lord forget momentarily his eagerness to see it all end.

“Commence,” he said to Sang-drax.

The dragon-snake made no move. He did not raise his hand against Samah, did not summon fire or conjure steel. Yet suddenly Samah’s head jerked up. He stared at something only he could see, his eyes widening in horror. He raised his hands, tried to use the Sartan runes to defend himself, but since he was wet with the magic-nullifying sea water of Chelestra, the magic would not work.

And perhaps it would not have worked anyway, for Samah was fighting a foe of his own mind, an enemy from somewhere in the depths of his own consciousness, brought to life by the insidious talents of the dragon-snake. Samah screamed and leapt to his feet and flung himself against the stone wall in an effort to escape.

There was no escape. He staggered as beneath a tremendous blow, screamed again—this time in pain. Perhaps sharp talons were rending his skin. Perhaps fangs had torn his flesh or an arrow had thudded into his breast. He sank to the floor, writhing in agony. And then he shuddered and lay still. Xar watched a moment, frowned. “Is he dead?” The lord was disappointed. Though he could commence his rune-magic now, death had come too quickly, been too easy.

“Wait!” the dragon-snake cautioned. He spoke a word in Sartan. Samah sat up, clutching a wound that was not there. He stared around in terror, remembering. He gave a low, hollow cry, ran to the other side of his cell. Whatever was attacking him struck again. And again.

Xar listened to the Sartan’s fearful screams, nodded in satisfaction.

“How long will this go on?” he asked Sang-drax, who was lounging back against a wall, watching, smiling.

“Until he dies—truly dies. Fear, exhaustion, terror will eventually kill him. But he’ll die without a mark on his body. How long? That depends on your pleasure, Lord Xar.”

Xar ruminated. “Let it continue,” he decided finally. “I will go and question the other Sartan. He may be far more willing to talk with the yells of his compatriot ringing in his ears. When I return, I will ask Samah one more time about the Seventh Gate. Then you may finish it.”

The dragon-snake nodded. After taking another moment to watch Samah’s body twitch and jerk in agony, Xar left the Sartan’s cell, proceeding down the corridor to where Marit waited in front of the cell of the other Sartan. The one called Zifnab.

The old man huddled in his cell. He looked pathetic and rather pale. Once, when a bubbling cry of excruciating torment was wrenched from Samah, the old man shuddered and put the tip of his yellowed white beard to his eyes. Xar watched from the shadows, deciding that this wretched relic would probably collapse into a trembling heap if the lord stamped his foot at him. Xar approached the cell, signed Marit to use her rune-magic to remove the bars.

The old man’s wet robes clung to his pitifully thin body. His hair trailed in a sodden mass down his back. Water dripped from the straggly beard. On the stone bed beside him was a battered pointed hat. The old man had from all appearances been attempting to wring the water from the hat, which had a twisted and maltreated look about it. Xar stared hard and suspiciously at the hat, thinking it might be a hidden source of power. He received the odd impression that it was sulking.

“That is your friend you hear screaming,” said Xar conversationally, sitting down beside the old man, taking care to keep himself from getting wet.

“Poor Samah,” the old man said, trembling. “There are those who would say he deserves this, but”—his voice softened—“he was only doing what he believed to be right. Much as you have done, Lord of the Nexus.”

The old man lifted his head, looked intently at Xar with a disconcertingly shrewd expression. “Much as you have done,” he repeated. “If only you’d left it there. If only he’d left it there.” He inclined his head in the direction of the screams and gave a gentle sigh.

Xar frowned. This wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind. “The same thing will be happening to you shortly, Zifnab—”

“Where?” The old man peered around curiously.

“Where what?” Xar was growing irritated.

“Zifnab! I thought”—the old man looked deeply offended—“I thought this was a private cell.”

“Don’t try any of your tricks on me, old fool. I won’t fall for them... as did Haplo,” Xar said.

Samah’s cries ceased for a moment, then began again.

The old man was regarding Xar with a blank expression, waiting for the lord to proceed. “Who?” he asked politely.