“I’ve sworn to tell you one thing before I kill you,” Hugh the Hand said, rising to his feet. “That’s the name of the person who wants you dead. Xar. That name mean anything to you? Xar wants you dead.”
“Xar!” Haplo’s eyes flared open. “How do you know Xar? He wouldn’t hire you—a mensch. No, damn it, this doesn’t make any sense!”
“He didn’t hire me. Bane did. Before he died. He said I was to tell you that Xar wants you dead.”
Haplo went numb. Xar wants you dead. He couldn’t believe it. Xar might be disappointed with him, angry with him. But want him dead?
No, Haplo said to himself, that would mean Xar is afraid of me. And Xar isn’t afraid of anything.
Bane. This was his doing. It had to be.
But now that Haplo had figured that out, what did he plan to do about it?
Hugh the Hand stood over him. The assassin was reaching into his cloak, probably for the weapon he was going to use to finish the job.
“Listen to me, Hugh.” Haplo hoped to distract the assassin with talk while he tried surreptitiously to loosen his bonds. “You’ve been tricked. Bane lied to you. He was the one who wanted me dead.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hugh the Hand drew a knife out of a sheath strapped behind his back. “A contract’s a contract, no matter who made it. I took it. I’m honor-bound to carry it out.”
Haplo didn’t hear. He was staring at the knife. Sartan runes! But how?... Where?... No, damn it, that didn’t matter! What mattered was that now he knew—sort of—what was blocking his magic. If he only understood how the runes worked...
“Hugh, you’re a good man, a good fighter.” Haplo stared hard at the knife. “I don’t want to have to kill you—”
“Good thing,” Hugh the Hand remarked with a grim smile. “Because you’re not going to have the chance.”
Concealed in Haplo’s boot was a rune-covered dagger of his own. He acted on the probability that the dagger wasn’t in his boot but in his hands. The magic worked. The knife was in Haplo’s hands. But at the same instant the knife in the assassin’s hand was suddenly a double-bladed ax. Hugh fumbled, nearly dropped the heavy weapon, but quickly recovered, held on to it.
So that’s how the magic works, Haplo realized. Ingenious. The knife can’t stop my magic, but it can limit my choices. It will let me fight, because it can counteract whatever weapon I choose to use. And the weapon works on its own, obviously, judging by the look on Hugh’s face. He was more shocked than I was. Not that this helps much, since the Sartan knife will always give him the upper hand. But does it react to all magic? Or just to a threat...
“I’ll make your death quick,” Hugh the Hand was saying. He gripped the ax in both hands, raised it over Haplo’s neck. “If you people have any prayers to say, you’d best say them.”
Haplo gave a low whistle.
The dog—sausage grease on its nose—trotted out from the hold. It paused to regard its master and Hugh with amazed curiosity. Obviously this was a game... Take him! Haplo ordered silently.
The dog looked puzzled. Take him, Master? He’s our friend! I saved his life. He was kind enough to feed me a sausage or two. Surely you’re mistaken, Master.
Take him! Haplo ordered.
The dog might have, for the first and only time in its life, disobeyed. But at that moment Hugh raised the ax.
The dog was baffled. The game had suddenly turned ugly. This couldn’t be allowed. The man must be making a mistake. Silently, not growling or barking, the dog jumped for Hugh.
The Hand never knew what hit him. The animal struck him solidly from behind. The assassin lost his balance; the ax flew from his hands, thudded harmlessly into the wall. Hugh stumbled, fell. The human’s heavy weight crashed down on top of Haplo.
Hugh the Hand gave a great groan. His body stiffened. Haplo felt a rush of warm blood cover his hands and arms.
“Damn!” Haplo pushed on the assassin’s shoulder, rolled him over onto his back.
Haplo’s knife protruded from the man’s gut.
“Damn it! I didn’t mean—Why the hell did you—” Cursing, Haplo crouched over the man. A major artery had been severed. Blood was pulsing out of the wound. Hugh was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long.
“Hugh,” Haplo said quietly. “Can you hear me? I didn’t mean to do this.” The man’s eyes flickered open. The Hand seemed almost to smile. He tried to speak, but the blood rattled in his throat. His jaw fell slack. The eyes fixed. His head rolled to one side.
The dog trotted over, pawed at the dead man. Game’s over. That was fun. Now it’s time to get up and play again.
“Leave him alone, boy,” Haplo said, shoving the dog back. The dog, not understanding but having the idea that this was all somehow its fault, flopped down on its belly. Nose between its paws, it gazed from its master to the man, who was now lying quite still. The dog hoped someone would tell it what was going on.
“You of all people,” Haplo said to the corpse. “Damn it!” He beat gently on his leg with a clenched fist. “Damn it all. Bane! Why Bane—and why this? What cursed fate put this weapon into your hands?”
The Sartan weapon lay on the blood-spattered deck beside the body. The weapon, which had been an ax, was now again a crude knife. Haplo didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to touch it. The Sartan runes etched into its metal were hideous, repulsive, reminded him of the corrupt Sartan runes he’d seen on Abarrach. He left it where it was.
Angry at Hugh, himself, fate—or whatever one might call it—Haplo stood up, stared grimly out the ship’s porthole.
The sun was pouring down on Drevlin with blinding intensity. The rainbow geyser sparkled and danced. More and more dwarves were coming up to the surface, staring around them in dazzled bewilderment.
“What the devil am I going to do with the body?” Haplo demanded. “I can’t leave it here, on Drevlin. How would I explain what happened? And if I just dump it out, the humans will suspect the dwarves of murder. All hell will break loose. They’ll all be back right where they started.”
“I’ll take him back to the Kenkari,” he decided. “They’ll know what to do. Poor bastard—”
A great and terrible cry of rage and anguish, coming from directly behind him, froze Haplo’s heart to awed stillness. He was unable to move for an instant, his brain and nerves fused by fear and disbelief.
The cry was repeated. Haplo’s icy blood surged through his body in chilling waves. Slowly he turned around.
Hugh the Hand was sitting up, looking down at the knife hilt protruding from his stomach. Grimacing as if in memory of the pain, the assassin took hold of the hilt and pulled the blade out. With a bitter curse, he hurled the weapon—stained with his own blood—away from him. Then he let his head sink into his hands.
It took only a moment for the initial shock to wear off, for Haplo to understand what had happened. He said one word.
“Alfred.”
Hugh the Hand looked up. His face was ravaged, haggard; the dark eyes burned.
“I was dead, wasn’t I?”
Wordlessly Haplo nodded.
Hugh’s hands clenched; fingernails dug into flesh. “I... couldn’t leave. I’m trapped. Not here. Not there. Will it be like this always? Tell me! Will it?” He sprang to his feet. He was nearly raving. “Must I know death’s pain and never its release? Help me! You have to help me!”
“I will,” Haplo said softly. “I can.”
Hugh halted, regarded Haplo with suspicion. His hand went to his breast, tore open the bloodstained shirt. “You can do something about this? Can you get rid of it?”
Haplo saw the sigil, shook his head. “A Sartan rune. No, I can’t. But I can help you find the one who can. Alfred put it there. He’s the only one who can free you. I can take you to him, if you have the courage. He’s imprisoned in—”
“Courage!” Hugh gave a roaring laugh. “Courage! Why do I need courage? I can’t die!” His eyes rolled in his head. “I don’t fear death! It’s life I’m scared of! It’s all backward, isn’t it? All backward.”