Into the Labyrinth (25 page)

The Sartan weapon lay on the blood-spattered deck beside the body. The weapon, which had been an ax, was now again a crude knife. Haplo didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to touch it. The Sartan runes etched into its metal were hideous, repulsive, reminded him of the corrupt Sartan runes he’d seen on Abarrach. He left it where it was.

Angry at Hugh, himself, fate—or whatever one might call it—Haplo stood up, stared grimly out the ship’s porthole.

The sun was pouring down on Drevlin with blinding intensity. The rainbow geyser sparkled and danced. More and more dwarves were coming up to the surface, staring around them in dazzled bewilderment.

“What the devil am I going to do with the body?” Haplo demanded. “I can’t leave it here, on Drevlin. How would I explain what happened? And if I just dump it out, the humans will suspect the dwarves of murder. All hell will break loose. They’ll all be back right where they started.

“I’ll take him back to the Kenkari,” he decided. “They’ll know what to do. Poor bastard—”

A great and terrible cry of rage and anguish, coming from directly behind him, froze Haplo’s heart to awed stillness. He was unable to move for an instant, his brain and nerves fused by fear and disbelief.

The cry was repeated. Haplo’s icy blood surged through his body in chilling waves. Slowly he turned around.

Hugh the Hand was sitting up, looking down at the knife hilt protruding from his stomach. Grimacing as if in memory of the pain, the assassin took hold of the hilt and pulled the blade out. With a bitter curse, he hurled the
weapon—stained with his own blood—away from him. Then he let his head sink into his hands.

It took only a moment for the initial shock to wear off, for Haplo to understand what had happened. He said one word.

“Alfred.”

Hugh the Hand looked up. His face was ravaged, haggard; the dark eyes burned. “I was dead, wasn’t I?”

Wordlessly Haplo nodded.

Hugh’s hands clenched; fingernails dug into flesh. “I … couldn’t leave. I’m trapped. Not here. Not there. Will it be like this always? Tell me! Will it?”

He sprang to his feet. He was nearly raving. “Must I know death’s pain and never its release? Help me! You have to help me!”

“I will,” Haplo said softly. “I can.”

Hugh halted, regarded Haplo with suspicion. His hand went to his breast, tore open the bloodstained shirt. “You can do something about
this?
Can you get rid of it?”

Haplo saw the sigil, shook his head. “A Sartan rune. No, I can’t. But I can help you find the one who can. Alfred put it there. He’s the only one who can free you. I can take you to him, if you have the courage. He’s imprisoned in—”

“Courage!” Hugh gave a roaring laugh. “Courage! Why do I need courage? I can’t die!” His eyes rolled in his head. “I don’t fear death! It’s life I’m scared of! It’s all backward, isn’t it? All backward.”

He laughed and kept laughing. Haplo heard a high, thin note, of hysteria, of madness. Not surprising, after what the human had endured, but he couldn’t be permitted to indulge in it.

Haplo caught hold of Hugh’s wrists. The assassin, scarcely knowing what he was doing, struggled violently to free himself.

Haplo held him fast. Blue light shone from the runes on Haplo’s hands and arms, spread its soothing glow to Hugh the Hand. The light wrapped itself around him, twined up his body.

The Hand sucked in his breath, stared at the light in awe. Then his eyes closed. Two tears squeezed out from beneath his lids, trailed down his cheeks. He relaxed in Haplo’s hold.

Haplo held him, drew him into the circle of his being. He gave his strength to Hugh, took Hugh’s torment into himself.

Mind flowed into mind; memories became tangled, shared. Haplo flinched and cried out in agony. It was Hugh the Hand, his potential killer, who supported him. The two men stood, locked in an embrace that was of spirit, mind, and body.

Gradually the blue light faded. Each man’s being returned to its own sanctuary. Hugh the Hand grew calm. Haplo’s pain eased.

The Hand lifted his head. His face was pale, glistening with sweat. But the dark eyes were calm. “You know,” he said.

Haplo drew a shivering breath and nodded, unable to speak.

The assassin stumbled backward, sat down on a low bench. The dog’s tail stuck out from underneath. Hugh’s resurrection had apparently been too much for it.

Haplo called to the animal. “Come on, boy. It’s all right. You can come out now.”

The tail brushed once across the deck, disappeared.

Haplo grinned and shook his head. “All right, stay there. Let this be a lesson about purloining sausages.”

Glancing out the porthole, Haplo saw several of the dwarves, blinking in the sunlight, looking curiously in the ship’s direction. A few were even pointing and beginning to wander toward the ship.

The sooner they left Arianus, the better.

Haplo put his hands on the steering mechanism, began speaking the runes, to make certain that all were unbroken, that the magic was ready to take them back through Death’s Gate.

The first sigil on the steering stone caught fire. The flames spread to the second, and so on. Soon the ship would be airborne.

“What’s happening?” Hugh the Hand asked, staring suspiciously at the glowing runes.

“We’re getting ready to leave. We’re going to Abarrach,” said Haplo. “I have to report to my lord …” He paused.

Xar wants you dead.

No! Impossible. It was Bane who wanted him dead.

“Then we’ll go find Alf—” Haplo began, but never finished.

Everything that was three-dimensional suddenly went flat, as if all juice and pulp and bone and fiber were sucked out of every object aboard the ship. Without dimension, brittle as a dying leaf, Haplo felt himself pressed back against time, unable to move, unable to so much as draw breath.

Sigla flared in the center of the ship. A hole burned through time, broadened, expanded. A figure stepped through the hole: a woman, tall, sinewy. Chestnut hair, tipped with white, flowed around her shoulders and down her back. Long bangs feathered over her forehead, casting her eyes in shadow. She was dressed in the clothes of the Labyrinth—leather pants, boots, leather vest, blouse with loose sleeves. Her feet touched the deck, and time and life surged back into all things.

Surged back into Haplo.

He stared in wonder. “Marit!”

“Haplo?” she asked, her voice low and clear.

“Yes, it’s me! Why are you here? How?” Haplo stammered in amazement.

Marit smiled at him. She walked toward him, held out her hand to him. “Xar wants you, Haplo. He has asked me to bring you back to Abarrach.”

Haplo reached out his hand to her …

WOMBE, DREVLIN
ARIANUS

“L
OOK OUT!” HUGH THE HAND SHOUTED, JUMPING TO HIS FEET
, he leapt at Marit, caught hold of her wrist.

Blue fire crackled. The sigla on Marit’s arms flared. The Hand was flung backward by the shock. He hit the wall, slid down to the floor, clutching his tingling arm.

“What the—” Haplo was staring from one to the other.

The assassin’s fingers touched cold iron: his knife, lying on the floor beside him. The numbing shock that had sent his muscles into painful spasms disappeared. Hugh’s fingers closed over the hilt.

“Beneath her sleeve!” he shouted. “A throwing dagger.”

Haplo stared in disbelief, unable to react.

Marit drew forth the dagger that she wore in a sheath on her arm and flung it all in the same smooth motion.

Had she caught Haplo unaware, her attack would have felled him. His defensive magic would not react to protect him from a fellow Patryn. Particularly not from her.

But even before Hugh’s warning, Haplo had experienced a glimmer of distrust, unease.

Xar wants you
, she had said to him.

And in his mind, Haplo heard the echo of Hugh’s words.

Xar wants you dead.

Haplo ducked. The dagger fell harmlessly over his head, chest, bounced off, fell to the floor with a clatter.

Marit lunged for her fallen weapon. The dog shot out from underneath the bench, intent on putting its body between its master and danger. Marit tripped over the animal, crashed into Haplo. He lost his balance. Reaching out to save himself from falling, he caught hold of the steering stone.

Hugh the Hand raised the knife, intending to defend Haplo.

The Cursed Blade had other plans. Wrought ages ago, designed specifically by the Sartan to fight their most feared enemies,
¹
the knife recognized that it had two Patryns to destroy, not just one. What Hugh the Hand wanted counted for nothing. He had no control over the blade; rather, it used him. That was how the Sartan, with their disdain for mensch, had designed it. The blade needed a warm body, needed that body’s energy, nothing more.

The blade became a live thing in Hugh’s hand. It squirmed and writhed and began to grow. Appalled, he dropped it, but the blade didn’t mind. It no longer had any need of him. Taking the form of a gigantic black-winged bat, the knife flew at Marit.

Haplo felt the runes of the steering stone beneath his hand. Marit had recovered her dagger. She lunged to stab him. His defensive magic, which would have reacted instantly to protect him from an attack by a mensch or a Sartan, was unable to respond to danger from a fellow Patryn. The sigla on his skin remained pale, would not shield him.

Haplo flung up one arm to fend off Marit’s attack, attempted to activate the steering stone’s magic with the other. Blue and red light flared. The ship soared upward.

“Death’s Gate!” Haplo managed to gasp.

The sudden motion of the ship threw Marit off balance, caused her to miss. The knife slashed across Haplo’s forearm, leaving a streak of glistening red blood. But he was lying on the deck in an awkward and vulnerable position.

Marit regained her balance swiftly. With the skilled, single-minded purpose of a well-trained fighter, she ignored
the ship’s erratic motion and went after Haplo again.

He was staring not at her but past her.

“Marit!” he yelled. “Look out!”

She was not about to fall for a trick she had learned to avoid as a child. She was more worried about the wretched dog, which was in her way. Marit stabbed at the dog. Something large, with scratching claws, struck her from behind.

Tiny, sharp teeth whose bite was like searing flame sank into the flesh at the base of her skull, above the protective tattoos. Wings flapped against the back of her head. Marit knew her attacker—a bloodsucker. The pain of its bite was excruciating; worse, the creature’s teeth were venomous, injecting a paralyzing poison into its victim to bring her down. Within moments she would be unable to move, helpless to stop the bat from draining her life’s blood.

Fighting down panic, Marit dropped the knife. Reaching behind her, she grabbed hold of the furry body. The bat had dug its claws deep into her flesh. Its teeth were nipping and slashing, hunting for a large vein. The poison burned through Marit, making her sick and dizzy.

“Break its hold!” Haplo was shouting. “Quick!”

He was trying to help her, but the lurching of the ship made it difficult for him to reach her.

Marit knew what she had to do. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the flapping bat in her hands and yanked on it as hard as she could. The claws tore her flesh out with them; the bat squealed and bit her hands. Every bite shot another dose of poison into her.

She flung the bat away, hurling it with her remaining strength into the wall. She slumped to her knees. Haplo dashed past her; the dog bounded over her. Marit felt her dagger beneath her palm. Her fingers closed on it. She slid it up the sleeve of her blouse. Keeping her head down, she waited for the sickness to pass, waited for her strength to return.

Behind her she heard a snarling and thumping, and then Haplo’s voice.

“Hugh, stop that damn knife!”

“I can’t!”

The sunlight that had been shining through the porthole was gone. Marit looked up. Arianus had been replaced
by a dazzling display of swiftly altering images. A world of green jungle, a world of blue water, a world of red fire, a world of twilight, a world of terrible darkness, and a bright white light.