“Commence,” he said to Sang-drax.
The dragon-snake made no move. He did not raise his hand against Samah, did not summon fire or conjure steel. Yet suddenly Samah’s head jerked up. He stared at something only he could see, his eyes widening in horror. He raised his hands, tried to use the Sartan runes to defend himself, but since he was wet with the magic-nullifying sea water of Chelestra, the magic would not work.
And perhaps it would not have worked anyway, for Samah was fighting a foe of his own mind, an enemy from somewhere in the depths of his own consciousness, brought to life by the insidious talents of the dragon-snake. Samah screamed and leapt to his feet and flung himself against the stone wall in an effort to escape.
There was no escape. He staggered as beneath a tremendous blow, screamed again—this time in pain. Perhaps sharp talons were rending his skin. Perhaps fangs had torn his flesh or an arrow had thudded into his breast. He sank to the floor, writhing in agony. And then he shuddered and lay still. Xar watched a moment, frowned. “Is he dead?” The lord was disappointed. Though he could commence his rune-magic now, death had come too quickly, been too easy.
“Wait!” the dragon-snake cautioned. He spoke a word in Sartan. Samah sat up, clutching a wound that was not there. He stared around in terror, remembering. He gave a low, hollow cry, ran to the other side of his cell. Whatever was attacking him struck again. And again.
Xar listened to the Sartan’s fearful screams, nodded in satisfaction.
“How long will this go on?” he asked Sang-drax, who was lounging back against a wall, watching, smiling.
“Until he dies—truly dies. Fear, exhaustion, terror will eventually kill him. But he’ll die without a mark on his body. How long? That depends on your pleasure, Lord Xar.”
Xar ruminated. “Let it continue,” he decided finally. “I will go and question the other Sartan. He may be far more willing to talk with the yells of his compatriot ringing in his ears. When I return, I will ask Samah one more time about the Seventh Gate. Then you may finish it.”
The dragon-snake nodded. After taking another moment to watch Samah’s body twitch and jerk in agony, Xar left the Sartan’s cell, proceeding down the corridor to where Marit waited in front of the cell of the other Sartan. The one called Zifnab.
3
The old man huddled in his cell. He looked pathetic and rather pale. Once, when a bubbling cry of excruciating torment was wrenched from Samah, the old man shuddered and put the tip of his yellowed white beard to his eyes. Xar watched from the shadows, deciding that this wretched relic would probably collapse into a trembling heap if the lord stamped his foot at him. Xar approached the cell, signed Marit to use her rune-magic to remove the bars.
The old man’s wet robes clung to his pitifully thin body. His hair trailed in a sodden mass down his back. Water dripped from the straggly beard. On the stone bed beside him was a battered pointed hat. The old man had from all appearances been attempting to wring the water from the hat, which had a twisted and maltreated look about it. Xar stared hard and suspiciously at the hat, thinking it might be a hidden source of power. He received the odd impression that it was sulking.
“That is your friend you hear screaming,” said Xar conversationally, sitting down beside the old man, taking care to keep himself from getting wet.
“Poor Samah,” the old man said, trembling. “There are those who would say he deserves this, but”—his voice softened—“he was only doing what he believed to be right. Much as you have done, Lord of the Nexus.”
The old man lifted his head, looked intently at Xar with a disconcertingly shrewd expression. “Much as you have done,” he repeated. “If only you’d left it there. If only he’d left it there.” He inclined his head in the direction of the screams and gave a gentle sigh.
Xar frowned. This wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind. “The same thing will be happening to you shortly, Zifnab—”
“Where?” The old man peered around curiously.
“Where what?” Xar was growing irritated.
“Zifnab! I thought”—the old man looked deeply offended—“I thought this was a private cell.”
“Don’t try any of your tricks on me, old fool. I won’t fall for them... as did Haplo,” Xar said.
Samah’s cries ceased for a moment, then began again.
The old man was regarding Xar with a blank expression, waiting for the lord to proceed. “Who?” he asked politely.
Xar was strongly tempted to commence torturing him right then and there. He contained himself by a great effort of will. “Haplo. You met him in the Nexus, beside the Final Gate, the gate that leads to the Labyrinth. You were seen and overheard, so don’t play stupid.”
“I never play stupid!” The old man drew himself up haughtily. “Who saw me?”
“A child. His name is Bane. What do you know about Haplo?” Xar asked patiently.
“Haplo. Yes, I do seem to remember.” The old man was growing anxious. He stretched out a wet and shaking hand. “Youngish chap. Blue tattoos. Keeps a dog?”
“Yes,” Xar growled, “that is Haplo.”
The old man grabbed Xar’s hand, shook it heartily. “You will give him my regards—”
Xar yanked his hand away. The lord stared at his skin, displeased to note the weakening of the sigla wherever the water touched them.
“So I arrive to give Haplo—a Patryn—the regards of a Sartan.” Xar wiped his hand on his robes. “Then he is a traitor, as I have long suspected.”
“No, Lord of the Nexus, you are mistaken,” said the old man earnestly and rather sadly. “Of all the Patryns, Haplo is the most loyal. He will save you. He will save your people, if you will let him.”
“Save me?” Xar was lost in astonishment. Then the lord smiled grimly. “He had better look to saving himself. As you should do, Sartan. What do you know about the Seventh Gate?”
“The citadel,” the old man said.
“What?” Xar asked with feigned carelessness. “What did you say about the citadel?”
The old man opened his mouth, was about to reply, when he suddenly let out a shriek, as though he’d been kicked. “What did you do that for?” he demanded, whirling around and confronting empty air. “I didn’t say anything. Well, of course, but I thought that you... Oh, very well.”
Looking sullen, he turned back around, jumped when he saw Xar. “Oh, hullo. Have we met?”
“What about the citadel?” Xar recalled hearing something about a citadel, but he couldn’t remember what.
“Citadel?” The old man looked vague. “What citadel?” Xar heaved a sigh. “I asked about the Seventh Gate and you mentioned the citadel.”
“It’s not there. Definitely not there,” the old man said, nodding emphatically. Twiddling his thumbs, he looked nervously around his cell, then said loudly, “Pity about Bane.”
“What about Bane?” Xar questioned, eyes narrowing.
“Dead, you know. Poor child.”
Xar couldn’t speak, he was so amazed. The old man kept rambling on.
“Some would say it wasn’t his fault. Considering the way he was raised and all that. Loveless childhood. Father an evil wizard. Boy didn’t stand a chance. I don’t buy that!” The old man looked extremely fierce. “That’s the problem with the world. No one wants to take responsibility for his actions anymore. Adam blames the apple-eating incident on Eve. Eve says the serpent made her do it. The serpent claims that it’s God’s fault for putting the tree there in the first place. See there? No one wants to take responsibility.” Somehow Xar had lost control of the situation. He was no longer even enjoying Samah’s tormented screams. “What about Bane?” he demanded.
“And you!” the old man shouted. “You’ve smoked forty packs of cigarettes a day since you were twelve and now you’re blaming a billboard for giving you lung cancer!”