Sang-drax struck Haplo again and again—savage, vicious blows that cracked open the rune-magic, began to bruise and batter flesh and bone. Haplo’s face was smeared with blood. He was half-blind, stunned, could do little to halt the brutal attack. Blow after blow drove Haplo to his knees. A vicious kick in the face sent him reeling backward. He fell, lay unconscious. On the floor near him was the snake-shaped dagger.
Sang-drax turned to face Xar.
The Lord of the Nexus tensed. The serpent stood between Xar and the magical rune-construct.
Sang-drax pointed at the fallen Haplo.
“This treacherous servant of yours tried to murder you, Lord of the Nexus! Fortunately, I was able to stop him. Say the word and I will end his life.”
Haplo rolled over, lay face first on the blood-spattered floor.
“You needn’t waste your time,” Xar said, drawing closer to Haplo, to the serpent, to the magic. “I will deal with him. Stand aside.”
The serpent’s red eyes gleamed with a bright, suspicious light. Swiftly, Sang-drax hooded his emotion, lowering the eyelids.
“I am only too pleased to obey you, Lord. First”—the serpent swooped down—“allow me to retrieve the traitor’s dagger. He might be shamming again.”
Sang-drax’s hand closed over empty air.
Xar—quite by inadvertence—had placed his foot on the blood-covered blade. He knelt beside Haplo, all the while keeping an eye on Sang-drax. The lord grasped hold—not gently—of Haplo’s chin, turned his face to the light. A savage cut had split open Haplo’s forehead, practically to the bone.
The lord traced, swiftly, obliquely, a healing sigil over the wound, closing it, stopping the bleeding. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Xar traced another sigil on Haplo’s forehead, a copy of the one over Xar’s own heart. He traced it in blood; it wouldn’t last. It had no power ... no magical power.
At his lord’s touch, Haplo groaned; his eyes flickered open. Xar increased the pressure, digging his gnarled fingers deep into Haplo’s flesh.
Haplo looked up, blinked. He was having difficulty focusing, and when he could see, he seemed puzzled. Then he sighed and smiled. Reaching out his hand, he clasped Xar’s wrist.
“My Lord,” Haplo murmured. “I’m here . . . I’ve reached it. The Final Gate.”
“What is he talking about, Lord?” Sang-drax demanded nervously. “What is he telling you? Lies, My Lord. Lies.”
“He’s not saying anything important,” Xar replied. “He imagines he is back in the Labyrinth.”
Haplo shuddered. His voice hardened, grew strong. “I beat it, Lord. I defeated it.”
“You did, my son,” Xar said. “You won a great victory.”
Haplo smiled. He clung to Xar’s hand a moment longer, then let go. “Thank you for your help, My Lord, but I do not need you now. I can walk through the Gate on my own.”
“So you can, my son,” said Xar softly. “So you can.”
Sang-drax spoke a sigil—a Sartan sigil—and drew a Patryn sigil in the air at the same time. The two runes flared, flashed, and flew toward the construct Xar had created.
But the Lord of the Nexus had been watching, waiting for the serpent to make just such a move. He reacted swiftly, cast his own rune. The constructs met, burst, exploded in a shower of sparks, and canceled each other out.
Xar rose to his feet. He held the snake dagger in his hand.
“I know the real traitor,” he said, watching Sang-drax, who watched the lord through narrowed, glittering red eyes. “I know who has tried to bring my people to ruin.”
“You want to see the person who has brought destruction to his people?” Sang-drax sneered, mocking. “Look in a mirror, Lord of the Nexus!”
Sang-drax shed the Patryn body, took on serpent form, growing, expanding until the great, slime-covered bulk filled the Chamber of the Damned.
“Thank you, Lord of the Nexus, for casting the spell to tear down the worlds,” said the serpent, its head rearing upward. “It was, I admit, a plan we had not considered. But it will work out well for us. We will feed off the turmoil and chaos for eons to come. And your people, trapped forever in the Labyrinth. I regret you will not live to see it, Lord Xar, but you are far too dangerous—”
The serpent’s toothless maw opened. Xar looked at his doom. Then he turned away.
He gave his attention to the magic, to the wondrous rune-construct he had created. The magic he had spent his life creating—a dream forged out of hatred.
He knew the snake was attacking, lethal jaws opening wide to devour him.
With a steady hand, he drew the sigil in the air. Its fire glowed blue, then red, then hot white, blazing, blinding. Xar spoke the command, his voice firm, clear, loud.
The sigil struck the magical rune-construct, burst on it like an exploding star, tore the heart out of the spell.
Snapping jaws closed over the Lord of the Nexus.
33
The serpents flew toward Death’s Gate. The opening was clearly visible now, a black patch in the gray, smoke-filled sky above the Labyrinth. Below, the Final Gate remained open, but the Sartan were massing their forces along it; the Patryns were doing the same on the opposite side.
Alfred tried to contain his despair, but he could not hope to hold the Gate against the enormous power of the enemy. Frightful sounds from the Chamber behind him unnerved him, distracted his attention when he needed to concentrate on his magic. Frantically, he searched through the possibilities, trying to find one that would come to his aid, but it seemed he was seeking to do the impossible.
Whatever spell he cast, the serpents had the ability to rip it asunder. He had never realized before how truly powerful the creatures were—either that or they were gaining strength and power from the war below. Sick at heart, the green and golden dragon kept guard before Death’s Gate and waited for the end.
A shape loomed into view, swooping at him from the side.
Bracing himself, Alfred swerved to fight.
He faced an old man seated on a dragon’s back. The old man was dressed in mouse-colored robes, his white hair flew out wildly behind.
“Red Leader to Red One!” the old man howled. “Come in, Red One!”
The serpents were spreading out, sending some to deal with Alfred. The rest were massing to enter Death’s Gate.
“Break off the attack, Red One,” the old man shouted and waved a hand. “Go rescue the princess! My squadron’ll take over!”
Behind the old man, legions of dragons of Pryan flew out of the smoke of the burning Nexus.
“How do you like my ship?” The old man patted the dragon’s neck. “Made the Kessel run in six parsecs!”
The dragon dropped suddenly from the skies, diving for one of the serpents. The old man gave Alfred a salute before he disappeared from view. The other Pryan dragons followed, soaring into the battle against their enemies.
Alfred no longer had to deal with his enemies alone. He could return to the Chamber of the Damned. He flew inside Death’s Gate. Once there, he altered his form, was again the tall and gangling, balding, velvet-coated Sartan. He stood for a moment watching the fight.
Confronted by a courageous, determined foe, most of the serpents were fleeing.
“Good-bye, Zifnab,” Alfred said quietly.
Sighing, he turned back to face the chaos reverberating throughout the hall behind him.
And, as he did so, he heard a faint cry.
“The name’s . . . Luke . . .”
Inside the Chamber of the Damned, the serpent crushed Xar in its toothless mouth, then flung the broken and bloodied body into the softly glowing walls of the Chamber of the Damned.
The lord’s body hit with a bone-crushing thud, slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the white marble. Xar lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom. The serpent shrieked in triumph.
“My Lord!” Haplo was on his feet, dizzy and weak, but no longer disoriented.