The dog crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Haplo looking at it, the dog whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man’s hand. It was then that Haplo saw the dog was hurt. Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal’s body. Haplo recalled vaguely hearing its cry and the whimper when it fell. The dog was staring at him hopefully, expecting—as dogs do—that this human would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.
“I’m sorry,” Haplo mumbled drowsily. “I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself.”
The dog, at the sound of the man’s voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.
“Go off and die somewhere else!” Haplo made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The dog gave a small bark, and Haplo felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.
And then Haplo, glancing over half-irritably, half-comforted, saw that the injured dog was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the line of trees behind them. It licked Haplo’s hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the forest.
It had misunderstood Haplo’s gesture. It was going to try to go for help—help for him.
The dog didn’t get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three faltering steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.
“Stop it!” Haplo whispered. “Stop it! It’s not worth it!” The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at the man as if to say, “Be patient. I can’t go very fast but I won’t let you down.” Selflessness, compassion, pity—these are not considered by the Patryns to be virtues. They are faults belonging to lesser races who cover for these inherent weaknesses by exalting them. Haplo was not flawed. Ruthless, defiant, burning with hatred, he’d fought and battled his way through the Labyrinth, solitary and alone. He had never asked for help. He had never offered it. And he had survived, where many others had fallen. Until now.
“You’re a coward,” he said to himself. “This dumb animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up. What’s more, you will die owing. Die with a debt on your soul, for, like it or not, that dog saved your life.” No tender feeling caused Haplo to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.
“Come here!” he commanded the dog.
The dog, too weak to stand, crawled on its belly, leaving a trail of blood in the grass behind.
Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out against the pain, Haplo pressed the sigil on the back of his hand against the dog’s torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the dog’s head. The healing circle was formed; Haplo saw, with his fading vision, the dog’s wound close. . . .
“If he recovers, we’ll take him to the High Froman and offer him proof that what I said was true! We’ll show him and our people that the Welves aren’t gods! Our people will see that they’ve been used and lied to all these years.”
“If he recovers,” murmured a softer female voice. “He’s hurt really bad, Limbeck. There’s that deep gash on the head, and he may be hurt someplace else too. The dog won’t let me get close enough to find out. Not that it matters. Head injuries as bad as that almost always lead to death. You remember when Hal Hammernail missed a step on the pussyfoot and tumbled down—”
“I know. I know,” came the discouraged reply. “Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die! I want you to hear all about his world. It’s a beautiful place, like I saw in the books. With clear blue sky and a bright shining light beaming down, and wonderful tall buildings as big as the Kicksey-Winsey—”
“Limbeck,” said the female voice sternly, “you didn’t happen to hit your head, did you?”
“No, my dear. I saw them! I truly did! Just like I saw the dead gods. I’ve brought proof, Jarre! Why won’t you believe me?”
“Oh, Limbeck, I don’t know what to believe anymore! I used to see everything so clearly—all black and white, with clean, sharp edges. I knew exactly what I wanted for our people—better living conditions, equal share in the Welf’s pay. That was all. Stir up a little trouble, put pressure on the High Froman, and he’d be forced to give in eventually. Now everything’s a muddle, all gray and confusing. You’re talking about revolution, Limbeck! Tearing down everything we’ve believed in for hundreds of years. And what do you have to put in its place?”
“We have the truth, Jarre.”
Haplo smiled. He had been awake and listening for about an hour now. He understood the basic language—though these beings called themselves “Gegs,” he recognized the tongue as a derivative of one known on the Old World as dwarven. But there were a great many things they said that he didn’t understand. For example, what was this Kicksey-Winsey that they spoke of with such reverent awe? That was why he’d been sent here. To learn. To keep eyes and ears open, mouth shut, and hands off.
Reaching down on the floor beside his bed, Haplo scratched the dog’s head, reassuring the animal that he was well. This journey through Death Gate had not started out exactly as planned. Somewhere, somehow, his liege lord had made serious miscalculations. The runes had been misaligned. Haplo had realized the mistake too late. There had been little he could do to prevent the crash, the resultant destruction of his ship.
The realization that he was now trapped on this world did not unduly worry Haplo. He had been trapped in the Labyrinth and escaped. After that experience, on an ordinary world such as this, he would be—as his lord said—“invincible.” Haplo had only to play his part. Somehow, after he’d done what he came to do, he would find a way back.
“I thought I heard something.”
Jarre entered the room, bringing with her a flood of soft candlelight. Haplo squinted, blinking up at her. The dog growled and started to jump up, but it lay still at its master’s stealthy, commanding touch.
“Limbeck!” Jarre cried.
“He’s dead!” The stout Geg came hurrying anxiously into the room.
“No, no, he’s not!” Sinking down beside the bed, Jarre reached out a trembling hand toward Haplo’s forehead. “Look! The wound’s healed! Completely. Not...not even a scar! Oh, Limbeck! Maybe you’re wrong! Maybe this being truly is a god!”
“No,” said Haplo. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed intently at the startled Gegs. “I was a slave.” He spoke slowly in a low voice, fumbling for words in the thick dwarven tongue. “Once I was as you are now. But my people triumphed over their masters and I have come to help you do the same.”
21
The journey across Pitrin’s Exile was easier than Hugh had anticipated. Bane kept up gamely, and when he did tire, he tried very hard not to show it. Alfred watched the boy anxiously, and when the prince began to show signs of being footsore, it was the chamberlain who announced that he himself could not proceed another step. Alfred was, in fact, having a much more difficult time of it than his small charge. The man’s feet seemed possessed of a will of their own and were continually going off on some divergent path, stumbling into nonexistent holes or tripping over twigs invisible to the eye. Consequently, they did not make very good time. Hugh did not push them, did not push himself. They were not far from the wooded inlet on the isle’s edge, where he kept his ship moored, and he felt a reluctance to reach it—a reluctance that angered him, but one for which he refused to account. The walking was pleasant, for Bane and Hugh, at least. The air was cold, but the sun shone and kept the chill from being bitter. There was little wind. They met more than the usual number of travelers on the road, taking advantage of this brief spell of good weather to make whatever pressing journeys had to be made during the winter. The weather was also fine for raiding, and Hugh noted that everyone kept one eye on the road and one on the sky, as the saying went.