Shrieking a warning, the serpent uncoiled its huge body. Red eyes caught Alfred in their lurid gaze. The serpent screeched hideous threats, conjured up terrifying images of pain-racked torment. Toothless maw gaping wide, the dragon-snake surged toward the open door, moving with the speed and force of a cyclone.
Alfred’s hand closed over the silver handle. Shutting out the serpent’s hideous voice, the Sartan fought to pull the door shut.
And then, from far, far behind him, he heard a distant voice—Lord Xar’s voice.
“You have thwarted my wishes for the last time, my son!”
And Jonathon’s voice, “Do no violence!”
Haplo’s voice, a cry of pain and anguish . . . and a shouted warning to Alfred.
Too late.
A sigil, red and flaming, shot down the corridor. It burst, like a lightning blast, on Alfred’s chest.
Blinded, consumed by fire, he lost his grip on the door handle.
The door swung wide open.
The serpent roared inside.
31
The serpent burst through the door and into Death’s Gate at the precise moment that Xar’s sigil struck Alfred.
Chaos broke free of Alfred’s fragile grasp and began to feed off the serpent, which, in turn, fed off chaos. The serpent cast one glance at the Sartan, saw him horribly injured, probably dying. Satisfied that Alfred posed no threat, the serpent slithered through the corridor, heading for the chamber.
Alfred could not stop it. Xar’s deadly magic seared his skin like molten iron. Falling to his knees, Alfred clutched his chest in agony. Sartan of ancient times would have known how to defend themselves. Alfred had never fought a Patryn. He had never been trained in warfare. The burning pain robbed him of his senses; he couldn’t think. He only wanted to die and end the torment. But then he heard Haplo’s hoarse shout.
Fear for his friend penetrated the blazing wall of agony. Hardly knowing what he was doing, acting out of instinct, Alfred began to do what Ramu would have known to do immediately. Alfred started to unravel Xar’s lethal magic.
The moment he broke the first rune-structure, the pain eased. Breaking down the rest of the sigla was simple after that, similar to ripping out a seam once the first thread has been pulled. But though he was no longer dying, he had let the magical attack go on too long. It had hurt him, wounded him.
Weakened, Alfred cast a despairing glance at the door leading from Death’s Gate into the Labyrinth. He could never shut it now. Chaos buffeted it like a hurricane wind.
He turned, looked down the corridor, trying to see what was happening in the Chamber. But the other door was far, far away from him and so small; he might have been trying to enter a child’s dollhouse. The hall leading back to the door undulated and swayed, the floor now the wall, the wall now the ceiling, the ceiling now the floor.
“Violence,” Alfred said to himself in despair. “Violence has entered the Sacred Chamber.”
What was happening in there? Was Haplo alive or dead?
Alfred tried to stand, but chaos ripped the floor out from under his feet. He tumbled down, landed heavily, gasping for breath. He was too weak to fight, in too much pain, too distracted by his own fear. His clothes hung from him in charred rags. He was afraid to look at the flesh beneath, afraid of what he would see. Gripping hold of the remnants of his faded velvet jacket, he drew the cloth over the wound, hid it from sight.
His hands came away covered with blood.
But he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here. If Haplo was alive, he was fighting his enemies alone . . .
Alfred was about to make another effort to stand when movement caught his attention. He looked out of Death’s Gate into the Labyrinth. Hundreds of serpents were surging for the open door.
Haplo lay sprawled on the floor in front of the doorway leading to Death’s Gate. He was either unconscious or dead; Xar didn’t know which and he didn’t care. The lord had also dealt with the so-called Serpent Mage. Another glance showed him Alfred bleeding, weak, crawling about aimlessly on his hands and knees. So much for the powerful Sartan.
Certain he was now safe from interference, Xar immediately turned his attention to the doors leading to the four mensch worlds, began to chant the spell that would collapse all the worlds into one. He paid no attention to the lazar, which was ranting on about bringing violence into the Sacred Chamber.
Xar knew the spell. The Lord of the Nexus, in the guise of Hugh the Hand, had been sitting at the white table. He had shared Alfred’s visions of the Sundering. Alfred had, in fact, seen him—a lapse on Xar’s part. Fortunately, the Sartan had been so unnerved by the entire experience that he had not known what he’d seen. At that point, Alfred could have made Xar’s task far more difficult. As it was now, the Lord of the Nexus had only to reach into the possibilities.
It had taken hundreds of Sartan to work the magic that had broken the world apart. Xar was not daunted by the task, however. It would be far easier to collapse the world, especially since he could call on the power imbued in the Seventh Gate.
Lord Xar had a clear view of each of the four worlds. He began to draw the runes swiftly in the air, sigla of destruction, of reversal and upheaval.
Ferocious storm clouds massed on Arianus.
The four bright suns on Pryan went dark.
The seawaters of Chelestra bubbled and boiled.
Tremors shook the unstable world of Abarrach.
“Your power is immense, Lord of the Nexus,” hissed a voice behind Xar. “All honor to you.”
Xar turned. A serpent in man’s form—resembling one of Xar’s own people—stood in the center of the Chamber. The serpent looked exactly like a Patryn in all respects, except that the sigla tattooed on its skin were meaningless scrawls.
Xar was wary. He knew enough about the serpents now not to trust them. He also knew they were powerful in magic. This one might very well disrupt his spell, although it had not done so yet.
“Who are you?” Xar demanded. “What do you want?”
“You know me, Lord,” said the serpent. “I am Sang-drax.”
“Sang-drax is dead,” Xar said crisply. “The serpent died in the Labyrinth.”
“Yet here I stand, very much alive. I told your minion”—a red-eyed glance at the fallen Haplo—“and I tell you, Lord of the Nexus, that we cannot die. We have always been. We will always be.”
Xar snorted. “What are you doing here, then? The last I saw, you and your kind were in the Labyrinth, killing my people!”
The serpent was shocked, saddened. “Alas that you refused to take time to let us explain, Lord of the Nexus. Those we attacked in the Labyrinth are not your people, not true Patryns. No, they are an evil mixture—Patryn blood mingled with Sartan. Such a weak strain should not be perpetuated, don’t you agree? After all,” Sang-drax added, eyes glittering red through hooded lids, “you were there. You could have stopped us.”
Xar waved this aside as unimportant. “I heard something of this from Haplo. I do not like the idea, but I will deal with these half-breeds when I return to the Labyrinth. I ask you again, why are you here? What do you want?”
“To serve you, My Lord,” said the serpent, bowing.
“Then keep watch on Death’s Gate,” Xar ordered. “I don’t want that fool Sartan interfering.”
“As you command, My Lord.”
Xar kept watch on the serpent from the corner of his eye. Sang-drax moved obediently to take up his post. The lord no longer trusted the serpents, and he understood that he would eventually have to prove to them, once and for all, who was master. But, for now, the serpent was probably telling the truth. It was here to serve, its interests coinciding with his own. He turned back to his magic, which had already started to wane, gave it his full and complete attention.
The moment Xar’s back was turned, Sang-drax examined Haplo’s body. The Patryn appeared to be dead. The sigla on his skin did not glow in the serpent’s presence. Sang-drax, glancing back at Xar, surreptitiously kicked the fallen Patryn with a toe of his boot.