Ramu was outraged, but he took care not to let his anger show. He sensed in this black-robed Sartan a latent power, a power perhaps as great as Ramu’s own.
Looking ahead into the future, a future where the Sartan would rule the four worlds, the Councillor saw a potential rival. One who knew the necromancy. It would never do to reveal weakness.
“Take your people on board our ships,” Ramu said. “We will give them aid and succor. I presume you want to leave this world?” he added, with his own measure of sarcasm.
Balthazar paled; the dark eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said quietly, “we want to leave. We are grateful to you, Brother, for making this possible. Grateful for any aid you can give us.”
“And, in turn, I will be grateful for any aid you can give me,” Ramu replied.
He guessed they understood each other, though what the necromancer might be thinking was as murky as the poisonous air in this hellish cavern.
Ramu bowed and left. He saw no point in continuing the conversation. Time was running out; every moment that passed was a moment the Patryns were nearer to breaking free.
Once Balthazar was healed and fed and rested, once he was inside the Nexus and came face to face with the savage Patryns, he would understand. He would fight. Of that, Ramu was confident. Balthazar would use every means at his disposal to win the battle. Including the necromancy. And he’d be happy to teach it to others. Ramu would see to that.
He returned to the docks to make preparations for the Sartan of Abarrach to be transported onto the former Patryn ship. Boarding, he made a quick inspection, began working out his strategy.
The journey to the Nexus, through Death’s Gate, would ordinarily be a quick one. But now he’d have to allow time for these Abarrach Sartan to heal, if they were going to make an effective fighting force.
Considering this, trying to figure how long the healing would take, Ramu came across Alfred. The Sartan leaned dolefully against the ship’s rail. The dog crouched, tense and nervous, at his side. The Patryn female sat huddled dejectedly on the deck. Sartan stood guard at her side.
Ramu frowned. The Patryn female was taking all this much too calmly. She’d surrendered too easily. So had Alfred. They must be plotting something . . .
A strong arm grabbed Ramu from behind, encircled his throat. A sharp object prodded him in the ribs.
“I don’t know who you are, you bastard, or why you’re here,” grated a harsh voice—a mensch voice—in Ramu’s ear. “I don’t much care. But if you so much as twitch I’ll drive this knife into your heart. Let Marit and Alfred go.”
21
Alfred had been leaning over the ship’s rail, staring at nothing, wondering despairingly what to do. On the one hand, it seemed vitally important that he travel to the Labyrinth with Ramu.
I have to continue to try to make the Councillor understand the true situation. Make him understand that the serpents are the true enemy, that the Patryns and Sartan must join forces against this evil or it will end up devouring us.
“Not only ourselves,” Alfred said to himself, “but the mensch. We brought them to these worlds, they’re our responsibility.”
Yes, in this his duty was clear, although just how he was going to convince Ramu of the danger was rather foggy in Alfred’s mind at this moment.
But, on the other hand, there was Haplo.
“I can’t leave you,” Alfred argued, and waited in some trepidation for Haplo to argue back. But his friend’s voice had been strangely silent lately, ever since he had ordered the dog to stop Marit. This silence was ominous, made Alfred uneasy. He wondered if it was Haplo’s way of forcing them to leave him. Haplo would sacrifice himself in a minute if he thought that by doing so he could help his people . . .
All this was what Alfred had been thinking when Marit sprang to her feet with a startled cry.
“Alfred!” She clutched at his arm, nearly sent him backward over the rail. “Alfred! Look!”
“Blessed Sartan!” Alfred whispered in shock.
He had forgotten about Hugh the Hand, had forgotten that the assassin was on board the ship. And now Hugh had hold of Ramu, had the Cursed Blade pointed at the Sartan’s throat.
Alfred understood all too clearly what must have happened.
Hidden in the cabin, Hugh had witnessed the arrival of the Sartan. He had watched them take Marit and Alfred captive. His one thought—as their friend and companion and self-appointed bodyguard—would be to secure their freedom. His only weapon—the Sartan blade.
But he could not realize that these were the very Sartan who had forged that blade.
“Don’t any of you move,” Hugh the Hand warned, his gaze taking in all on board the ship. He clenched Ramu tighter, nearly bending the man over backward. The Hand exhibited enough of the knife to the horrified watchers to let them know he was in earnest. “Or your leader will find six inches of steel in his neck. Alfred, Marit, come over and stand by me.”
Alfred didn’t move. He couldn’t.
How will the magical blade react? he wondered frantically. Its first loyalty was to its wielder, Hugh the Hand. The knife might well stab Ramu—especially if he attempted to use magic against it—before it knew its mistake.
And if Ramu died, there would be an end to all hope of bringing the Patryns and Sartan together.
As it was, the other Sartan were staring at the two in amazement, not quite realizing what was going on. Ramu himself appeared stunned. Probably never in his life had such an outrage been perpetrated against him. He didn’t know how to react. But he was quick-thinking. He soon would . . .
“Councillor!” Alfred cried desperately. “The weapon that man holds is a magic one. Don’t use magic against it! That will only make things worse!”
“Well done!” Marit said to him softly. “Keep him busy.”
Alfred was horrified. She’d completely misread his intentions. “No, Marit. I didn’t mean that . . . Marit, don’t . . .”
She wasn’t listening. Her sword lay on the deck, guarded by Sartan. Sartan who were staring in stunned disbelief at their leader. Marit grabbed her sword easily, ran across the deck toward Hugh. Alfred tried to stop her, but he wasn’t watching where he was going and fell headlong over the dog. The animal, yelping painfully, bristled and barked at everyone on general principle.
The Sartan, confused, looked to Ramu for orders.
“Please! Stay calm. Don’t anybody do anything!” Alfred was pleading, but no one heard him over the dog’s frantic barks, and it would probably have made no difference if they had.
At that moment, Ramu cast a paralyzing jolt of electricity through Hugh’s body.
Hugh collapsed, writhing in agony. But the jolt did more than fell the assassin. The shock galvanized the Cursed Blade. It recognized the magic—Sartan magic—recognized the fact that Hugh, the one who wielded the blade, was in peril. The blade sensed Marit, approaching at a run, as the enemy.
The Cursed Blade reacted. As it had been trained to do, it summoned the strongest force available in the vicinity to fight its foe.
Kleitus the lazar appeared on the deck of the ship. Within the space of a heartbeat, the dead of Abarrach were crawling up and over the ship’s rails.
“Control the magic!” Alfred cried. “Ramu—you have to regain control of the magic!”
The blade had merely summoned the dead to its aid; it had no control over them. Control was not the blade’s purpose. Having fulfilled its creator’s intent, it changed back to its original form, fell to the deck beside a groaning Hugh the Hand.
Kleitus lunged for Marit, his wasted hands grasping for her throat. Marit struck him with her sword—a blow that sliced open one of the bony arms. No blood flowed; the dead flesh hung in tatters. Kleitus never felt the wound.
Marit could strike the lazar as often as she liked, without the least effect. Its nails scraped across her skin, and she gasped in pain. She was weakening rapidly. She could not last long against the formidable lazar.