The path inside the cavern proved all that Haplo had foreseen. It was wide, far easier to travel than even he’d supposed. A large wagon could have rolled through it without much difficulty.
Haplo kept to the sides of the cavern wall, making himself one with shadows. The dog, absolutely fascinated by a flying Alfred, lagged behind, staring upward in profound disbelief at the remarkable sight. The Sartan, hands clasped nervously before him, sailed sedately along after them.
They could hear the voices inside the cavern clearly now. It seemed that rounding the next corner in the twisting cave must bring the people speaking into view. But, as Haplo had said, sound bounced among the rocks and off the cavern ceiling. The Patryn and his companion traversed a considerable distance before the clarity of the words spoken warned Haplo that he was finally drawing near.
The magma stream decreased in width, the darkness grew thicker around them. Alfred was now little more than an indistinguishable blur in the fading light. The dog, whenever it stepped into deep shadow, vanished completely. The stream had once been broad and wide; Haplo could see its bed cut cleanly into the rock. But it was drying up, cooling, and he noted the resultant drop in temperature in the darkening cave. The stream ended altogether. Light failed, leaving them in impenetrable darkness.
Haplo came to a halt and was immediately struck from behind by a heavy object. Cursing beneath his breath, he fended off the floating Alfred who, not seeing the Patryn stop, had barreled right into him. Haplo was considering conjuring light—a simple skill, learned in childhood—but the blue glow of the runes would announce his presence on this world. He might as well shout it. Alfred would be no help either, for the same reason.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Alfred, who nodded, only too happy to obey. “Dog, watch him.”
The dog settled down, head cocked, studying Alfred inquisitively, as if trying to figure out how the man performed such a marvelous feat.
Haplo felt his way along the rock wall. The lava flow behind provided him with ambient light enough to know he wasn’t about to plunge into a chasm. He ventured around another bend in the path and saw, at the end, bright light, yellow light, fire light. Light produced by living beings, not light made by lava. And around the light, across the light, and beneath the light, moved the silhouetted shapes of hundreds of people.
The back of the cavern was vast, opening out into a large room capable of holding an army comfortably. And had he found an army? Was this the army that had sent the shore people scurrying away in panic? Haplo watched and listened. He heard them talking, understood what they said. The darkness grew deep around him, he struggled with overwhelming despair and defeat.
He had found an army—an army of Sartan!
What was to be done? Escape! Return through Death’s Gate, carry word of this disaster to his lord. But his lord would ask questions, questions Haplo could not now answer.
And Alfred? It had been a mistake to bring him. Haplo cursed himself bitterly. He should have left the Sartan behind on the ship, left him in ignorance. Then he could have taken the Sartan back to the Labyrinth, keeping him in complete ignorance of the fact that his people were alive and well on Abarrach, the world of stone. Now, with just one shout, Alfred could end Haplo’s mission, end his lord’s hopes and dreams, end Haplo.
“Blessed Sartan,” whispered a soft voice behind him, nearly causing Haplo to jump out of his runecovered skin.
He turned swiftly, to find Alfred hovering in the air overhead, staring down at the fire-lighted bodies moving in the cavern. Haplo tensed, waiting, casting a furious glance at the dog, who had failed its trust.
At least I’ll have the satisfaction of killing one Sartan before I die.
Alfred stared into the cavern, his face a pale glimmer in the reflected firelight, his eyes sad and troubled.
“Go ahead, Sartan!” Haplo demanded in a savage whisper. “Why don’t you get it over with? Call to them! They’re your brothers!”
“Not mine!” Alfred said in hollow tones. “Not mine!”
“What do you mean? That’s Sartan they’re speaking.”
“No, Haplo. The Sartan language is the language of life. Theirs”—Alfred lifted a hand, ghostly in its grace, and pointed—“is the language of death.”
13
“What do you mean, language of death? Come down here!” Haplo reached up, caught hold of Alfred, and pulled him nearer. “Now talk!” he ordered in a soft undertone.
“I understand it little more than you do,” the Sartan said, looking helpless. “And I’m not sure what I mean. It’s just that. . . well, listen for yourself. Can’t you tell the difference?”
Haplo did as he was advised, pushing aside the turbulent emotions warring in him to pay close attention. Now that he concentrated, he had to admit Alfred had a point. The Sartan language sounded discordant to Patryn ears. Accustomed to hard, swift, harsh, and uncompromising words that expressed what one had to say in the quickest, simplest, shortest way possible, the Patryns considered the Sartan language elaborate, airy-fairy, cluttered with flights of fancy and unnecessary verbiage and an inexplicable need to explain that which required no explanation.
But to hear these cave-people talk was tantamount to hearing the Sartan language turned inside out. Their words did not fly, they crawled. Their language evoked no images of rainbows and sunshine in Haplo’s mind. He saw a pale and sickly light, a light given off by something rotting and corrupt. He heard a sorrow deeper than the dark depths of this world. Haplo prided himself on never feeling “soft” emotion, but this sorrow touched him to the core of his being.
Slowly, he released Alfred from his rough grip. “Do you understand what’s going on?”
“No, I don’t. Not clearly. But I think I could become accustomed to the language in time.”
“Yeah, me, too. Just like I could become accustomed to being hanged. What’re you going to do?” Haplo eyed Alfred narrowly.
“Me?” Alfred was astounded. “Do? What do you mean?”
“Are you going to turn me over to them? Tell them I’m the ancient enemy? You probably won’t even have to tell them. They’ll remember.”
Alfred did not answer immediately. His lips parted several times as if he intended to speak, but shut when he changed his mind. Haplo had the impression that the man was not trying to decide what to do, but how to explain his decision.
“This may sound strange to you, Haplo. I have no desire to betray you. Oh, I’ve heard your threats against me and, believe me, I don’t take them lightly. I know what will happen to me in the Nexus. But now we are strangers in a strange world—a world that appears to grow exceedingly more strange the deeper we probe it.”
Alfred appeared confused, almost shy. “I can’t explain myself, but I feel a ... a kinship to you, Haplo. Perhaps because of what happened to us going through Death’s Gate. I’ve been where you were. And I think, if I’m right, that you’ve been where I was. I’m not explaining this very well, am I?”
“Kinship! The hell with all that. Keep in mind one thing—I’m your way out of here. Your only way out of here.”
“True,” said Alfred gravely. “You are right. It appears, then, that while we are on this world we must depend on each other for survival. Would you like me to pledge it?”
Haplo shook his head, fearing he might be called on to pledge something in return. “I’ll trust you to save your own skin and because that includes saving mine, I guess that’ll be good enough.”
Alfred glanced about nervously. “Now that that’s settled, shouldn’t we be going back to the ship?”
“Are these people Sartan?”
“Ye—es ...”
“Don’t you want to find out more about them? What they’re doing on this world?”
“I suppose so ...” Alfred hesitated.