“And this war he proposes. Bloodless! Painless! He talks of 4surrender'!” The serpent hissed the words in derision. “Chaos is our life's blood. Death our meat and drink. No. Surrender is not what we had in mind. The Sartan grow more frightened every day. They now believe that they are alone in this vast universe they created. Their numbers are few, their enemies many and powerful.
“The Patryn did have one good suggestion, and I am indebted to him for it—flood their city with seawater. What subtle genius. The Sartan will watch the water rise. Their fear will change to panic. Their only hope—escape. They will be forced to do what they were strong enough to resist doing ages before. Samah will open Death's Gate!”
“And what of the mensch?”
“We will trick them, turn friends into enemies. They'll slaughter each other. We will feed off their pain and terror and grow strong. We will need our strength, to enter Death's Gate.”
Alake was shivering. Devon put his arm around her, comfortingly. Grundle was crying, but she did so silently, her lips clamped tight. She wiped away a tear with a grimy, trembling hand.
“And the Patryn?” asked one. “Does he also die?”
“No, the Patryn will live. Remember: chaos is our goal. Once we pass through Death's Gate, I will visit this self-styled Lord of the Nexus. I will endear myself to him by bringing him a present—this Haplo, a traitor to his own kind. A Patryn who befriends a Sartan.”
Fear grew on the three young people, invaded their bodies, an insidious disease. They burned and chilled, limbs shook, stomachs clenched with sickness. Alake tried to speak. Her facial muscles were stiff with fright, her lips quivered.
“We must… warn Haplo,” she managed to gasp.
The others nodded in agreement, neither being able to respond aloud. But they were too terrified to move, afraid the slightest sound would bring the dragon-snakes down upon them.
“I must go to Haplo,” Alake said faintly. She reached out her hands, grasped the cavern wall, and dragged herself to her feet. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. She started to try to leave.
But whatever light had shone them their way here was gone. A terrible smell, of living flesh rotting away, nearly made her gag. She seemed to hear, far away, a dismal wail, as of some huge creature, crying in agony.
Alake walked ahead into the noisome shadows.
Devon started to follow, discovered he couldn't free his hand from Grundle's panicked, deathlike grip.
“Don't!” she pleaded. “Don't leave me.” The elf's face was chalk white, his eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Our people, Grundle,” he whispered, swallowing. “Our people.”
The dwarf gulped, bit her lip. She let go—reluctantly— of his hand.
Devon fled. Clambering to her feet, Grundle stumbled after.
“Are the mensch children leaving?” asked the king dragon-snake.
“Yes, Royal One,” answered one of his minions. “What is your command?”
“Kill them slowly, one at a time. Allow the last survivor to remain alive long enough to tell Haplo what they overheard.”
“Yes, Royal One.” The dragon-snake's tongue flickered with pleasure.
“Oh,” added the king dragon-snake offhandedly, “make it appear as if it was the Sartan who murdered them. Then return the bodies to their parents. That should end all thought of a ‘bloodless war.’”
THE SUBMERSIBLE LOOKED STRANGELY PATHETIC AND HELPless, beached on the shoreline, like a dying whale. Haplo dumped the unconscious Alfred none too gently on the ground. The Sartan flopped and groaned. Haplo stood over him grimly. The dog kept some distance from both, watched each anxiously, uncertainly.
Alfred's eyes flickered open. For a dazed moment, he obviously had no idea where he was or what had happened. Then memory returned, and so did his fear.
“Are … are they gone?” he asked in a quavering voice, propping himself up on bony elbows and staring around in a panic.
“What the hell were you trying to do?” Haplo demanded.
Seeing no dragon-snakes, Alfred relaxed, looked rather shamefaced. “Return your dog,” he said meekly.
Haplo shook his head. “You honestly expect me to believe that. Who sent you? Samah?”
“No one sent me.” Alfred gathered the various parts of his gangling body together and, putting them into some semblance of order, managed to stand up. “I left of my own accord, to return the dog. And to … to talk with the mensch.” He faltered some, on this last statement.
“The mensch?”
“Yes, well, that was my intent.” Alfred flushed in embarrassment. “I commanded the magic to take me to you, assuming that you would be on board the sun-chasers with the mensch.”
“I'm not,” said Haplo.
Alfred ducked his head, glanced around nervously. “No, I can see that. Shouldn't… shouldn't we be leaving?”
“I'll be leaving soon enough. First you're going to tell me why you followed me. When I leave, I don't want to walk into some Sartan trap.”
“I told you,” Alfred protested. “I wanted to return your dog. It's been very unhappy. I thought you would be with the mensch. It never occurred to me that you might be somewhere else. I was in a hurry. I didn't think—”
“I can believe that!” Haplo said impatiently, cutting off the excuses. He eyed Alfred intently. “But that's about all I believe. Oh, you're not lying, Sartan, but, as usual, you're not telling the truth, either. You came to return my dog. Fine. And what else?”
Alfred's flush deepened, flooding his neck and the top of his balding head.
“I thought I would find you with the mensch. And I would be able to talk to them, urge them to be patient. This war will be a terrible thing, Haplo. A terrible thing! I must stop it! I need time, that's all. The involvement of those … those hideous creatures …”
Alfred looked again toward the cave, shuddered, glanced back at Haplo, at the sigla on his skin that glowed a vibrant blue. “You don't trust them, either, do you?”
Once again, the Sartan was in Haplo's mind, sharing his thoughts. The Patryn was damn sick and tired of it. He'd said the wrong thing in that cavern. These mensch can't fight…. The Sartan could… inflict serious casualties.
And he heard again the hissing response. Since when does a Patryn care how mensch live … or how they die?
Since when?
I can't even blame that on Alfred. It all happened before he bumbled in. It was my doing. My undoing, Haplo thought bitterly. The danger was present from the beginning. But I wouldn't admit it. My own hatred blinded me. Just as the serpents knew it would.
He eyed Alfred, who, sensing some sort of inner battle within Haplo, kept quiet, waited anxiously for the outcome.
Haplo felt the dog's cold nose press against his hand. He glanced down. The animal looked up, wagged its tail gently. Haplo stroked its head, the dog crowded near him.
“The war with the mensch is the least of your problems, Sartan,” Haplo said finally.
He gazed back at the cave, which could be clearly seen, despite the darkness, a hole of black torn out of the side of the mountain. “I've been near evil before. In the Labyrinth…. But never anything like that.” He shook his head, turned back to Alfred. “Warn your people. As I'm going to warn mine. These dragons don't want to conquer the four worlds. They want to destroy them.”
Alfred blanched. “Yes … Yes. I sensed that. I'll talk to Samah, to the Council. I'll try to make them understand—”
“As if we would talk with a traitor!”
Runes flared, sparkling in the night like a cascade of stars. Samah stepped from the midst of the magic.
“Why am I not surprised.” Haplo smiled grimly, glanced at Alfred. “I almost trusted you, Sartan.”
“I swear, Haplo!” Alfred cried. “I didn't know— I didn't mean—”
“There is no need to continue to try to deceive us, Patryn,” said Samah. “Every move this ‘Alfred’—your compatriot— makes has been watched. It must have been quite e
asy for you to seduce him, to draw him into your evil designs. But surely, considering his ineptness, by now you must be regretting your decision to make use of such a clumsy, bumbling oaf.”
“As if I'd sink so low as to make use of any of your weak and sniveling race,” Haplo scoffed. Silently, he was saying, If I could capture Samah, I could leave this place now! Leave the dragon-snakes and the mensch, leave Alfred and the damn dog. The submersible's ready, the runes will take us safely back through Death's Gate….
Haplo cast a sidelong glance at the cavern. The dragon-snakes were nowhere to be seen, although they must have known of the presence of the Sartan Councillor on their isle. But Haplo knew they were watching, knew it as surely as if he could see the green-red eyes glowing in the darkness. And he felt them urging him on, felt them eager for the battle.
Eager for fear, chaos. Eager for death.
“Our common enemy's in there. Go back to your people, Councillor,” Haplo said. “Go back and warn them. As I intend to go back and warn mine.”
He turned, started walking toward his ship.
“Halt, Patryn!”
Glowing red sigla exploded, a wall of flame blocked Haplo's escape. The heat was intense, scorched his flesh, seared his lungs.
“I'm going back and you're coming back with me, as my prisoner,” Samah informed him.
Haplo turned to face him, smiled. “You know I won't. Not without a fight. And that's just what they want.” He pointed toward the cave.
Alfred extended trembling, pleading hands. “Councillor, listen to him! Haplo's right—”
“Silence, traitor! Don't you think I understand why you side with this Patryn? His confessions will seal your guilt. I am taking you with me to Surunan, Patryn. I prefer that we go peacefully, but, if you choose to fight…” Samah shrugged. “So be it.”
“I'm warning you, Councillor,” Haplo said quietly. “If you don't let me go, the three of us will be lucky to escape with our lives.” But as he talked, he was already beginning to construct his magic.
Anciently, open warfare between Patryn and Sartan had been rare. The Sartan—maintaining as they did to the mensch that warfare was wrong—had their image to consider and would generally refuse to be drawn into a fight. They found subtler means to defeat their enemy. But occasionally battle could not be avoided and a contest would be waged. Such battles were always spectacular, generally deadly. They were held secretly, in private. It would never do for the mensch to see one of their demigods die.
Battle between two such opponents is long and tiring, both mentally and physically.1 Some warriors were known to collapse from sheer exhaustion alone. Each opponent must not only prepare his own offense, drawing his magic from the countless possibilities that are present at that particular moment, but he must also prepare a defense against whatever magical attack his opponent might be launching.
Defense is mainly guesswork, although each side claimed to have developed ways to fathom the mental state of an opponent and therefore be able to anticipate his next move.2
Such was the battle both were proposing to wage. Haplo had been dreaming of it, yearning for it, all his life. It was every Patryn's dearest wish, for though much had been lost to them through the eons, they had held fast to one thing: hatred. But now that the moment he'd lived for was finally here, Haplo could not savor it. He tasted nothing but ashes in his mouth. He was conscious of the audience, of the slit red eyes, watching every move.
Haplo forced the thought of the dragon from his mind, forced himself to concentrate. Haplo called upon the magic, felt it answer. Elation surged through him, submerged all fear, all thoughts of the dragons. He was young and strong, at the height of his power. He was confident of victory.
The Sartan had one advantage that the Patryn didn't anticipate. Samah must have fought in such magical battles before. Haplo had not.
The two faced each other.
“Go on, boy,” Haplo said quietly, giving the dog a shove. “Go back to Alfred.”
The animal whimpered, didn't want to leave.
“Go!” Haplo glared at it.
The dog, ears drooping, obeyed.
“Stop it! Stop this madness!” Alfred cried.
He dashed forward with some wild intent of hurling himself bodily between the combatants. Unfortunately, Alfred wasn't watching where he was going and fell, headlong, over the dog. The two went down in a confused and yelping tangle in the sand.
Haplo cast his spell.
The sigla on the Patryn's skin flared blue and red, twisted suddenly into the air, wound together to form a chain of steel that glimmered red in the firelight. The chain streaked out with the speed of lightning to bind Samah in its strong coils, Patryn rune-magic would render him helpless.
Or that was how it was supposed to work.
Samah had apparently anticipated the possibility that Haplo would try to take him prisoner. The Councillor invoked the possibility that when the Patryn's attack was launched against him, he wouldn't be there to receive it. And he wasn't.
The steel chain wrapped around air. Samah stood some distance away, regarding Haplo with disdain, as he might have regarded a child throwing stones at him. The Councillor began to sing and dance.
Haplo recognized an attack. He was faced with an agonizing decision, and one that had to be made in a heartbeat. He could either defend against an attack—and to do so would require that he instantly sort through myriad possibilities open to his enemy—or he could launch another attack himself, hoping to catch Samah defenseless, in midspell. Unfortunately, such a maneuver would leave Haplo defenseless, as well.
Frustrated and angry over being thwarted by an enemy he'd considered a pushover, Haplo was anxious to end the battle swiftly. His steel chain still hung in the air. Haplo instantly rearranged the magic, altered the sigla's form into that of a spear, and hurled it straight at Samah's breast.
A shield appeared in Samah's left hand. The spear struck the shield; the chain of Haplo's magic began to fall apart.
In the same instant, a gust of wind sprang up off the waters. Taking the shape and form of a huge fist, the wind smote Haplo, buffeted him, sent him reeling.
The Patryn landed heavily on the sandy beach.
Groggy and dazed from the blow, Haplo swiftly regained his feet, his body reacting with the instincts learned in the Labyrinth, where to give in to even a moment's weakness meant death.
Haplo spoke the runes. The sigla on his body flared. He opened his mouth to give the command that would end this bitter contest. His command changed to a startled curse.
Something wrapped itself tightly around his ankle. It began tugging at him, trying to yank him off his feet.
Haplo was forced to abandon his spell. He looked to see what had hold of him.
A long tentacle of some magical sea creature had reached out of the water. Preoccupied with his own spell-casting, Haplo had not noticed it sliding across the beach toward him. Now it had him; its coils, shining with Sartan runes, wound around and around Haplo's ankle, his calf, his leg.
The creature's strength was incredible. Haplo fought to free himself, but the more he struggled, the tighter the tentacle grasped. It jerked him off his feet, flung him to the sand. Haplo kicked at it, tried to wriggle free. Again, he was faced with a terrible decision. He could expend his magic to free himself, or he could use his magic to attack.
Haplo twisted to get a look at his enemy. Samah watched complacently, a smile of triumph on his lips.
How the hell can he think he's won? Haplo wondered angrily. This stupid monster isn't deadly. It's not poisoning me, crushing the life out of me.
It's a trick. A trick to gain time. Samah figures I'll expend my energy trying to free myself instead of attacking. Surprise, Samah!
Haplo's full mental powers concentrated on re-forming the spell he had been about to cast. The sigla flared in the air, were coming together, humming with power, when the Patryn felt water wash over the toe of his boot.
Water…
>
Suddenly Haplo saw Samah's ploy. This was how the Sartan would defeat him: simple, yet effective.
Dunk him in seawater.
The Patryn cursed, but refused to give way to panic. He commanded the rune structure to shift their target, altered them to a flight of flaming arrows, sent them darting into the creature that had hold of him.
The creature's tentacle was wet with seawater. The magical arrows struck it, sizzled, and went out.
Water lapped over Haplo's foot, up his leg. Frantic now, he dug his hands into the sand, tried to hold on, to stop himself from being pulled into the sea. His fingers left long tracks behind them. The creature was too strong and Haplo's magic was weakening, the complex rune-structures starting to break apart, unravel.
The daggers! Flipping over onto his back, squirming in the grasp of the ever-tightening coils, Haplo ripped open his shirt, grabbed the oilskin, and feverishly began to unwrap the weapons.
Cold logic stopped him, the logic of the Labyrinth, the logic that had led more than once to his survival. The water was up to his thighs. These daggers were his only means of defense and he had been about to get them wet. Not only that, but he would reveal their existence to his enemy … enemies. He couldn't forget their audience, who must be disappointed to see the end of the show.
Better to accept defeat—bitter though it was—and retain the hope of fighting back, then risk all in a desperate strike that would get him nowhere.
Clasping the oilskin pouch tightly to his breast, Haplo closed his eyes. The water surged up over his waist, his breast, his head, engulfed him.
Samah spoke a word. The tentacle released its hold, disappeared.
Haplo lay in the water. He had no need to look at his skin to know what he would see: bare flesh, a sickly white in color.
He lay so long and so still, the waves gently lapping over his body, that Alfred must have become alarmed.
“Haplo!” he called, and the Patryn heard clumsy, shuffling footsteps heading his direction, heading inanely into the seawater.
Haplo raised up. “Dog, stop him!” he shouted.
Serpent Mage Page 38