Alfred heard shouts behind him. He was vaguely aware of the dog leaping and snarling, of Marit attempting to drive Kleitus away from his victim, of Balthazar frantically summoning weak magic.
But they could not save Alfred. The fight had been joined on an immortal plane. These others were like insects buzzing far, far away, Kleitus’s dead hands were tearing apart Alfred’s being as surely as they were ripping apart his flesh.
Alfred struggled, fought, and knew he was losing.
And then a powerful explosion of rune-magic dazzled his eyes. The starlit blast burst between him and his enemy. Kleitus reeled back, dead mouth open and screaming. The lazar’s hands released Alfred’s soul and he fell amid a shower of glittering runes, landing heavily on the dock.
Lying on his back, Alfred looked up, with fast-beating heart, to see a white-robed Sartan, standing above him.
“Samah . . .” Alfred murmured, his failing senses catching only the vague outline of the man’s features.
“I am not Samah. I am Samah’s son, Ramu,” the Sartan corrected, his voice cold and flaring as the starbursts of his magic. “You are Alfred Montbank. What horror was that thing?”
Alfred, dazzled, dazed, clutched his soul to him and struggled to sit up. Fearful, he gazed around, bleary-eyed. Kleitus was nowhere to be seen. The lazar had vanished.
Destroyed? Alfred didn’t think it likely.
Driven off, escaped. To wait. Bide its time. There would be other ships. Death’s Gate would always be open . . .
Alfred shuddered. Marit knelt beside him, put her arm around him. The dog—which entertained bad memories of Ramu—stood over them both protectively.
Other white-robed Sartan were proceeding down the dock. Above them floated an enormous vessel, its blue protective Sartan runes flaring brightly in Abarrach’s sullen, red-tinged darkness.
“Who is this Sartan? What does he want?” Marit demanded, suspicious.
Ramu’s gaze was on her, on the sigla that flared defensively on her skin.
“I see we come in good time. The warning we received was well founded.”
Alfred looked up, dazed. “What warning? Why have you come? Why did you leave Chelestra?”
Ramu was cold, grim. “We were warned that the Patryns had broken out of their prison, that they had launched an assault on the Final Gate. We are sailing to the Labyrinth. We intend to return the prisoners to their cells, keep them trapped there. We will close the Final Gate. We will make certain—once and for all—that our enemy never again escapes.”
20
Across the Fire Sea, Xar, Lord of the Nexus, saw his carefully conceived plans sucked down into chaos, like chunks of broken rock caught in the maelstrom.
The Sartan ship had appeared out of nowhere, materializing above the Fire Sea in a shimmering blaze of blue sigla. An enormous construction, long and sleek, with a swanlike shape, it hovered over the magma river as if loath to touch it. Those people aboard it dropped ladders of magic from the sides, rune-constructs that carried them down to the docks below.
Xar heard Ramu’s words through Marit’s ears, heard them as clearly as if he had been standing beside her. We will close the Final Gate. We will make certain—once and for all—that our enemy never again escapes.
The Sartan ship was visible to the Patryns waiting on board their own iron dragon ship, floating above the molten lava in the bay below. A group of them were now scaling the rocks, hastening to join their lord.
Xar remained standing, silent, unmoving.
Several Patryns, arriving on the promontory, prepared for action, came up against the high, chill wall of Xar’s silence. He paid no attention to them, to their arrival. They glanced at each other, uncertain. Eventually, one of them—the eldest—moved forward.
“Sartan, My Lord!” he ventured.
Xar did not reply aloud. He nodded grimly, thought, We are outnumbered almost four to one.
“We will fight, Lord,” said the Patryn eagerly. “Give us the word . . .”
Fight! Battle! Revenge at last on the ancient enemy. The anticipation, the desire clenched Xar’s stomach, burned the breath from his lungs, nearly burst his heart. It was like being young again and waiting to meet a lover.
The fire was doused swiftly by the icy waters of logic.
“Ramu is lying,” Xar said to himself. “This talk of going to the Labyrinth is a ruse, a diversion. He’s hoping we’ll abandon Abarrach. He wants this world for his own. He came here to find the Seventh Gate.”
“My Lord!” cried the Patryn, peering across the Fire Sea. “They have captured Marit! They’re taking her prisoner!”
“What is your command, Lord?” His people clamored for, yearned for blood.
Outnumbered four to one. Yet my people are strong. If I was with them . . .
“No.” Xar spoke harshly. “Keep watch on the Sartan. See what they do, where they go. They claim they are bound for the Labyrinth.”
“The Labyrinth, Lord!” His people must have heard rumors of the fighting there.
“They plan to finish us for good this time,” one said.
“Over my dead body,” said another.
Over many, many dead bodies, Xar thought. “I don’t trust them,” he said aloud. “I don’t believe they really plan to go to the Labyrinth. However, it is well to be prepared. Don’t interfere with them here. Make ready to sail. If they actually enter Death’s Gate, follow them.”
“Do we take all our people, Lord?”
Xar pondered a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. If Ramu was sending his forces into the Labyrinth, the Patryns would need all the manpower they could muster. “Yes, take everyone. I put you in charge, Sadet. In my absence.”
“But, My Lord—” The Patryn started to protest, to question. Xar’s flashing glare halted the words on the man’s lips. “Yes, My Lord.”
Xar waited to see his orders being carried out. The Patryns left the Anvil, slid down the rocks back to their iron ship below. Once they were gone and he was alone, the Lord of the Nexus began tracing a circle of fiery runes in the air. When the circle was complete, he stepped through it and vanished.
The Patryns left behind saw the sigla flare on top of the Anvil. They watched until the rune-circle had flickered and died. Then, slowly, cautiously, they eased their iron dragon ship out of the bay, moved into position to keep watch on their enemy, made ready to sail into Death’s Gate.
“Fool Sartan, you have this all wrong!” Surrounded by a shell of protective blue and red light, her own runes acting to defend her, Marit faced Ramu defiantly. In her hand she held her sigla-covered sword. “Ask one of your own, if you don’t believe me. Ask Alfred. He has been in the Labyrinth! He has seen what is happening!”
“She is telling the truth,” Alfred said earnestly. “The serpents—those you know as dragon-snakes—are the ones attempting to shut the Final Gate. The Patryns are defending themselves against this terrible evil. I know! I’ve been there!”
“Yes, you’ve been there.” Ramu sneered. “And that is why I do not believe you. As my father said, you are more Patryn than Sartan.”
“You can see the truth in my words—“[18]
Ramu rounded on him. “I see Patryns massing around the Final Gate. I see the city we built for them in flames. I see hordes of evil creatures, coming to their aid, including the dragon-snakes ... Do you deny any of this?”
“Yes,” Alfred said, trying desperately to keep everyone calm, to keep the situation from deteriorating. “You see, Ramu, but you are not seeing!”
Marit could have told Alfred he was wasting his time.
Ramu could have told him he was wasting his time.
Alfred included them both in a despairing, pleading glance.
Marit ignored him.
Ramu turned away in disgust. “Some of you—disarm her.” He gestured to Marit. “Take her prisoner, bring her on board her own ship. We will use that ship to transport our Abarrach brethren.”