“It shames me to say it, Headman,” Marit said in a low voice, “but I feel the same.”
“No shame,” said the dragon. “The fear grows from seeds planted within you by the serpents. Fear’s roots seek out every dark part of you, every memory, every nightmare, and, once found, the roots sink into those dark parts and drink deep. Fear’s evil plant flourishes.”
“How can I destroy it?” Alfred quavered.
“You cannot,” said the dragon. “Fear is a part of you. The serpents know this and that is why they use it. Don’t let fear overwhelm you. Don’t become afraid of the fear.”
“Just what I’ve been all my life!” Alfred said miserably.
“Not all your life,” the dragon said—and it might have been Alfred’s imagination, but he thought he could see the dragon smile.
Marit gazed down at the buildings of the Nexus, their walls and pillars, towers and spires now black skeletons, lit from within by the devouring flames. The buildings were made of stone, but the support beams and floors and walls within were wood. The stone was protected by runes, wrought by the Sartan, strengthened by the Patryns. Marit wondered at first how the city could have fallen; then she remembered the walls of Abri. They, too, had been protected by the rune-magic. The serpents had thrown themselves bodily against the walls, causing small cracks to form, cracks that widened and spread until they broke apart the runes, tore apart the magic.
The Nexus. Marit had never considered the city beautiful. She had always thought of it in terms of practicality, as did most Patryns. Its walls were thick and sound, its streets well laid and smooth, its buildings strong and solid and sturdy. Now, by the light of the fire that was destroying it, she noticed its beauty, the grace and delicacy of its tall spires, the harmonious simplicity of its design. Even as she watched, one of the spires toppled and fell, sending up a shower of sparks and a cloud of smoke.
Marit despaired. Her lord could not have let this happen. He could not be here. Or if he was, he must now be dead. All her people must now be dead.
“Look!” Vasu cried suddenly. “The Final Gate! It’s still open! We’re holding it!”
Marit dragged her gaze from the burning city, stared through the smoke and darkness, trying to see. The dragons tipped their wings, turned, started to descend from the sky in large spirals.
Patryns on the ground below lifted their faces upward. Marit was too far away to see their expressions, but she guessed by their actions what thoughts were running through their minds. The arrival of a vast army of winged beasts could only mean one thing—defeat. The death blow.
Understanding their fear, Vasu began to sing; his voice—using Sartan rune-language—carried clearly through the smoke and the flame-lit darkness.
Marit couldn’t understand the words; she had the feeling they weren’t meant to be understood. But they lifted her heart. The horrible terror that had almost suffocated her in its choking grasp shriveled and lost some of its strength.
The Patryns on the ground below stared up in wonder. Vasu’s song was echoed by Patryn voices, shouting encouragement and war chants. The dragons flew low, allowing their passengers to jump off. Then the dragons returned to the skies, some circling, keeping watch, others departing, scouring the area for the enemy or flying back to the interior of the Labyrinth, to bring more Patryns to the battlefield.
Between the Labyrinth and the Nexus stood a wall covered with Sartan runes—runes strong enough to kill anything that touched them. The wall was immense, stretching from one mountain range to another in an irregular gigantic semicircle. Barren plains extended from the wall on both sides. The city of the Nexus offered life on one side; the dark forests of the Labyrinth offered death on the other.
Those in the Labyrinth who came within sight of the Final Gate faced their most terrible challenge in trying to reach it. The plains were a no-man’s-land, bare of any cover, providing an enemy a clear view of anyone attempting to cross. Here was the Labyrinth’s last chance to hang on to its victims. Here, on this plain, Marit had nearly died. Here her lord had rescued her.
Flying over the ground that had been churned up and blasted by magic and battle, Marit searched the crowd of weary, bloodied Patryns, looking for Xar. He must be here. He must! The wall stood, the Gate held. Only her lord could have performed such powerful magic.
But if he was in the crowd, she couldn’t find him.
The dragon settled to the ground, the Patryns giving it a wide berth, regarding it with dark looks, wary suspicion. The dragon carrying Vasu also landed, both dragons remaining, while the rest returned to the skies and their duties.
The howls of wolfen reverberated from the forests, punctuated by the unnerving clicking sounds made by the chaodyn before a fight. Numerous red dragons flew through the smoke, their scales reflected in the flames of the burning city, but they didn’t attack. To her astonishment, Marit saw no sign of the serpents.
But she knew they were near; the sigla on her skin flared almost as brightly as the fire.
The Abri Patryns banded together, waited silently for orders from their headman. Vasu had gone to make himself known to the Patryns at the Gate. Marit accompanied him, still searching for Lord Xar, They passed by Alfred, who was gazing sadly at the wall, wringing his hands.
“We built this monstrous prison,” he was lamenting softly. “We built this!” He shook his head. “We have much for which to answer. Much.”
“Yes, but not now!” Marit chided him. “I don’t want to have to explain to my people what a Sartan is doing here. Not that my people would likely give me much chance to explain before they ripped you apart. You and Hugh keep out of sight, as much as possible.”
“I understand,” Alfred said unhappily.
“Hugh, keep an eye on him,” Marit ordered. “And for all our sakes, keep control of that cursed knife!”
The Hand nodded in silence. His gaze was taking in everything about his surroundings, revealing nothing of his thoughts. He put his hand over the Cursed Blade, as if endeavoring to restrain it.
Vasu strode across the burned and blasted plains, his people remaining silently behind him, showing him respect and support. A woman left the group of Patryns guarding the Gate, walked to meet him.
Marit’s heart lurched. She knew this woman! They had lived near each other in the Nexus. Marit was tempted to rush forward, demand to know where Xar was, demand to know where he had taken the wounded Haplo.
She choked back her need. To speak to the woman before Vasu would be a serious discourtesy. The woman, rightly, would rebuff Marit, would refuse to answer her questions. Containing herself, Marit kept as close to Vasu as possible. She glanced back worriedly at Alfred, fearful he would give himself away. He remained on the fringes of the crowd, Hugh the Hand beside him. Nearby, alone, stood the gentleman dressed in black. The blue-green dragon of Pryan had disappeared.
“I am Headman Vasu of the village of Abri.” Vasu touched his heart-rune. “A village several gates from here. These are my people.”
“You and your people are welcome, Headman Vasu, though you come here only to die,” said the woman.
“We will die in good company,” Vasu responded politely.
“I am Usha,” the woman said, touching her heart-rune. “Our headman is dead. More than one are dead,” she added, her voice grim, her gaze going to the Gate. “The people have turned to me to lead them."[5]
Usha had many gates, as the saying went. Her hair was streaked with gray, her skin wrinkled. But she was strong, in far better physical condition than Vasu. She was, in fact, regarding him with drawn brows and a doubtful look.
“What beasts are these you have brought with you?” she demanded, her gaze going to the dragons wheeling in the sky above them. “I have never seen their like in the Labyrinth before.”
“You have obviously never been to our part of the Labyrinth before, Usha,” Vasu said.