Marit shrugged. “Haplo and I decided it was time to leave. Later, we came across one of the Squatters, one of the few to survive. He said the dragon kept up the game for a week—coming out of its cave to fight, snatching up new victims, spending the nights torturing them to death. At last, when there was no one left except those too sick or too young to provide any amusement, the dragon razed the village.
“There, now, do you understand?” Marit asked him. “An army of Patryn warriors could not defeat one of these dragons. Do you see what we are up against?”
Hugh did not immediately answer. He was slathering mud on his arms and hands. “What’s your plan, then?” he asked when he was finished.
“The dragon has to eat, which means it will have to go out and hunt—”
“Unless it decides to eat Alfred.”
Marit shook her head. “Red dragons don’t eat their victims. That would be a waste of good sport. Besides, this one is trying to figure out what Alfred is. The dragon’s never seen a Sartan before. No, it will keep Alfred alive, probably longer than he wants. When the dragon leaves the cave to feed, we’ll slip in and rescue Alfred.”
“If there’s anything left to rescue,” Hugh muttered.
Marit made no reply.
They pushed on, following the dragon’s trail. It led them through the forest, heading away from the city, in the direction of the next gate. The ground began to rise; they were in the foothills of the mountains. They had been traveling all day, pausing only to eat enough to keep up their strength, and to drink whenever they came across clear water.
The gray light of day was dwindling. Clouds filled the sky. Rain began to fall, which Hugh counted as a blessing. He was sick of the stench of the mud.
The rain was fortunate in another way. They had left the thick forest behind, and were climbing up a barren hillside dotted by rocks and boulders. They were out in the open; the rain provided cover.
The dragon’s trail was still relatively easy to track—so long as they had light enough to see by. Its feet tore up the ground, gouging out great chunks of dirt and rock. But night was coming.
Would the dragon hole up for the night, perhaps in some cave in the mountains? Or would it press on until it reached its lair? And should they press on, even after dark?
The two discussed it.
“If we stop and the dragon doesn’t, it’ll be a long way ahead of us by morning,” Hugh argued.
“I know.” Marit stood, irresolute, thinking.
Hugh the Hand waited for her to continue. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to, he shrugged, spoke.
“I’ve done my share of tracking. I’ve been in this situation before. Usually I rely on what I know of my mark, try to put myself in his place, figure out what he’d do. But I’m used to tracking men, not beasts. I leave this up to you, lady.”
“We’ll go,” she decided. “Track it by my rune-light.” The glow of the runes on her skin faintly illuminated the ground. “But we’ll have to move slowly. We have to be careful that we don’t accidentally stumble across its lair in the darkness. If the dragon hears us coming . . .” She shook her head. “I remember once, Haplo and I—”
Marit stopped. Why did she keep talking about Haplo? The pain was like a dragon’s claw in her heart.
Hugh settled down to rest and eat, chewing on strips of dried meat. Marit nibbled at hers without appetite. When she realized she couldn’t swallow the soggy, tasteless mass, she spat it out. She shouldn’t keep thinking about Haplo, shouldn’t speak his name. It was like speaking the runes; she conjured up his image, a distraction when she needed to concentrate all her faculties on the problem at hand.
Haplo had been dying when Xar took him away. Closing her eyes, Marit saw the lethal wound, the heart-rune ripped open. Xar could save him. Surely, Xar would save him! Xar would not let him die ...
Marit’s hand went to the torn sigil on her forehead. She knew what Xar would do. No use fooling herself. She remembered Haplo’s face, the astonishment, the pain when he had known she and Xar were joined. In that moment, he had given up. His wounds were too deep for him to survive. He’d left all he had—their people—in her care.
A hand closed over hers.
“Haplo will be all right, lady.” Hugh the Hand spoke awkwardly, not used to offering comfort. “He’s tough, that one.”
Marit blinked back her tears, angry that he’d caught her in this weakness.
The rain had stopped for the moment, but the lowering clouds, obliterating the tops of the mountains, meant that more was coming. A hard rain would wash out the dragon’s tracks completely.
Marit climbed onto a boulder, peered up the mountainside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dragon before darkness fell. Her attention was caught, shifted to the sullen red glow lighting the skyline on the horizon. She watched it in terrible fascination.
What was the glow? Was it a great conflagration, started by the dragon-snakes, meant to act as a beacon fire to lure all evil creatures to the battle? Was the city of the Nexus itself burning? Or was it, perhaps, some type of magical defense thrown up by the Patryns? A ring of fire to protect them from their enemies?
If the Gate fell, they’d be trapped. Trapped inside the Labyrinth with creatures worse than the red dragons, creatures whose evil power would grow stronger and stronger.
Haplo was dying, thinking she didn’t love him.
“Marit.”
Startled, she turned too swiftly, almost fell from the boulder.
Hugh the Hand steadied her. “Look!” He pointed upward.
She looked, couldn’t see anything.
“Wait. Let the clouds pass. There it is! See!”
The clouds lifted momentarily. Marit saw the dragon, moving across the mountainside, heading for a large dark opening in the cliff face.
And then the clouds dropped down again, obscuring the dragon from view. When they lifted, the creature was nowhere in sight.
They had found the dragon’s lair.
3
They spent the night climbing the hillside, listening to Alfred scream.
The screaming was not constant. The dragon apparently allowed its victim time to rest, recuperate. During such lulls, the dragon’s voice could be heard, rumbling from the cave, its words only partially discernible. It was describing to its victim, in lurid detail, exactly what torment it planned to inflict on him next. Worse still, it was destroying hope, robbing him of his will to survive.
“Abri . . . rubble,” was some of what the red dragon was saying. “Its people . . . slaughtered . . . wolfen, tiger-men overrun . . .”
“No,” Marit said softly. “No, it’s not true, Alfred. Don’t believe the creature. Hold on ... hold on.”
At one point, Alfred’s silence lasted longer than usual. The dragon sounded irritated, as might someone attempting to wake a sound sleeper.
“He’s dead,” Hugh the Hand whispered.
Marit said nothing. She continued climbing. Just when Alfred’s silence had lasted long enough to almost convince her that Hugh was right, she heard a low and pleading moan—the victim begging for mercy—that rose to a high-pitched cry of torment, a cry punctuated by the cruel, triumphant voice of the dragon. Listening again to Alfred’s screams, the two pushed on.
A narrow path wound along the hillside, leading up toward the cave, which had undoubtedly been used for shelter by a great many of the Labyrinth’s population over the years—until the dragon moved in. The path was not difficult to climb, even in the steadily pouring rain, and Marit need not have worried about losing the dragon’s trail in the darkness. In its eagerness to reach its lair, the injured dragon dislodged trees and boulders. The beast’s gigantic feet dug deep gouges into the soil, forming crude steps.
Marit didn’t particularly like all this “help.” She had the distinct impression that the dragon knew it was being followed and was quite pleased to do what it could to lure new victims to torment.