“I saw him standing out there on the deck, fighting those creatures,” murmured Paithan, awed. “His entire body radiated light! He is our savior! He is Om! Mother Peytin’s son, come to lead us to safety!”
“That’s it!” said Zifnab, mopping his brow with his beard. “Orn, favors his mother—”
“No, he doesn’t,” argued Roland, gesturing. “Look! He’s human. Wouldn’t Mother what’s-her-name’s kid be an elf—Wait! I know! He’s one of the Lords of Thillia! Come back to us, like the legend foretold!”
“That, too!” said the old wizard hastily. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him. The spitting image of his father.”
Rega appeared skeptical. “Whoever he is, he’s in pretty bad shape.” Cautiously approaching him, she reached out a hand to his forehead. “I think he’s dying—Oh!”
The dog glided between her and its master, its glance encompassing all of them, saying plainly, We appreciate the sympathy. Just keep your distance.
“There, there, good boy,” said Rega, moving a little nearer. The dog growled, bared its sharp teeth. The plumed tail began to slowly brush from side to side.
“Let him alone. Sis.”
“I think you’re right.” Rega edged back, came to stand beside her brother. Crouched in the shadows, forgotten, Drugar said nothing, might not have even heard the conversation. He was staring intently at the markings on the back of Haplo’s hands and arms. Slowly, making certain no one was looking at him, Drugar reached within his tunic and drew forth a medallion that he wore around his neck. Holding it up to the light, he compared the rune carved into the obsidian with the sigla on the man’s skin. The dwarf’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened.
Rega turned slightly. The dwarf thrust the medallion beneath his beard and shirt.
“What do you think, Blackbeard?” the woman asked.
“My name is Drugar. And I think I do not like being up here in the air in this winged monster,” stated the dwarf. He gestured toward the window. The vars shore of the gulf was sliding beneath them. The tytans had attacked the humans on the bank. Around the shore’s edge, crowded with helpless people, the gulf water was beginning to darken.
Roland looked out, said grimly, “I’d rather be up here than down there, dwarf.”
The slaughter was progressing swiftly. A few of the tytans left it to their fellows and were attempting to wade into the deep gulf water, their eyeless heads staring in the direction of the opposite shore.
“I’ve got to get back to Equilan,” said Paithan, drawing out his etherilite and studying it intently. “There isn’t much time. And I think we’re too far north.”
“Don’t worry.” Zifnab rolled up his sleeves, rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I’ll take over. Highly competent. Frequent flyer. Over forty hours in the air. DC-three. First class, of course. I had a superb view of the control panel every time the stewardess opened the curtain. Let’s see.” The wizard took a step toward the steering stone, hands outstretched. “Flaps up. Nose down. I just—”
“Don’t touch it, old man!”
Zifnab started, snatched his hands back, and attempted to look innocent. “I was just—”
“Not even the tip of your little finger. Unless you think you’d enjoy watching your flesh melt and drop off your bones.”
The old man glowered at the stone fiercely, eyebrows bristling. “You shouldn’t leave a thing that dangerous lying around! Someone could get hurt!”
“Someone nearly did. Don’t try that again, old man. The stone’s magically protected. I’m the only one who can use it.” Groggy, Haplo sat up, stifling a groan. The dog licked his face, and he put his arm around the animal’s body for support, hiding his weakness. The urgency had subsided, his injuries needed healing—not a difficult task for his magic, but one that he preferred undertaking without an audience.
Fighting dizziness and pain, he buried his face in the dog’s flank, the animal’s body warm beneath his hands. What did it matter if they saw? He’d already revealed himself to them, revealed to them the use of rune magic, of Patryn rune magic, that had been absent from their world for countless generations. These people might not recognize it, but a Sartan would. A Sartan … like the old man… .
“Come, come. We’re most grateful that you rescued us and we’re all extremely sorry for-your suffering but we don’t have time to watch you wallow in it. Heal yourself, and let’s get this ship back on the right heading,” stated Zifnab.
Haplo looked up, fixed the old man with a narrow-eyed stare.
“After all, you are a god!” Zifnab winked several times. A god? Hell, why not. Haplo was too tired, too drained to worry about where deification might lead him.
“Good boy.” He patted the dog, eased the animal away from him. The dog looked around worriedly, and whined. “It’ll be all right.” Haplo lifted his left hand, placed it—runes down—over his right hand. He closed his eyes, relaxed, let his mind flow into the channels of renewal, revival, rest. The circle was formed. He felt the sigla on the back of his hands grow warm to the touch. The runes would glow as they did their work, smoothing, healing. The glow would spread over his entire body, replacing damaged skin with whole. A murmur of voices to!d him that this sight was not lost on the audience.
“Blessed Thillia, look at that!”
Haplo couldn’t think about the mensch, couldn’t deal with them now. He didn’t dare break the concentration.
“Quite well done,” crowed Zifnab, beaming at Haplo as if the Patryn were a work of art he, the wizard, had conjured. “The nose could use a little touching up.”
Lifting his hands to his face, Haplo examined himself with his fingers. His nose was broken, a cut on his forehead dripped blood into his eye. One cheekbone appeared to be fractured. He would have to perform superficial repair for the moment. Anything more would send him into a healing sleep.
“If he is a god,” questioned Drugar suddenly, only the second time the dwarf had spoken since the rescue, “then why couldn’t he stop the tytans? Why did he run away?”
“Because those creatures are spawns of evil,” answered Paithan. “All know that Mother Peytin and her sons have spent eternity battling evil.” Which puts me on the side of good, thought Haplo, with weary amusement.
“He fought them single-handedly, didn’t he?” the elf was continuing. “He held them off so that we could escape, and now he’s using the power of the wind to fly us to safety. He has come to save my people—”
“Why not my people?” demanded Drugar, angrily. “Why didn’t he save them?”
“And ours,” Rega said, lips trembling. “He let our people all die—”
“Everyone knows elves are the blessed race,” snapped Roland, casting Paithan a bitter glance.
Paithan flushed, faint red staining the delicate cheek bones. “I didn’t mean that! It’s just—”
“Look, be quiet a minute! All of you!” Haplo ordered. Now that his pain had eased and he was able to think clearly, he decided he was going to have to be honest with these mensch, not because he was any great believer in honesty, but because lying looked as if it was going to be a damn nuisance. “The old man’s got it wrong. I’m not a god.”
The elf and the humans began babbling at once, the dwarf’s scowl grew darker. Haplo raised a tattooed hand for silence. “What I am, who I am, doesn’t matter. Those tricks you saw me do were magic. Different from your own wizards’, but magic just the same.”
He shrugged, wincing. His head throbbed. He didn’t think the mensch would use this information to figure out he was the enemy—the ancient enemy. If this world was in any way similar to Arianus, the people had forgotten al! about the dark demigods who had once sought to rule them. But if they figured it out and came to realize who he was, that was their hard luck. Haplo was too hurt and too tired to care. It would be easy to get rid of them before they did his cause any harm. And right now, he needed answers to his questions.