“The dog!” breathed Devon.
Alake clasped his hand, counseled silence. She shivered, and looked uneasy when the dragon-snakes ordered Haplo to kill Alfred, but her face cleared when the Patryn told him he would do so in his own time.
“A trick,” she whispered to the other two. “It’s a trick to rescue the man. I’m sure Haplo doesn’t mean to really kill him.”
Grundle looked as if she’d like to argue, but Devon took hold of her hand and squeezed it warningly. The dwarf subsided into a muttering silence. Haplo left, taking Alfred with him. The dragon-snakes began talking.
“You saw the dog,” said their king, continuing to speak human, even among themselves.
The three young people, accustomed to hearing the human language by now, never gave this odd occurrence a second thought.
“You know what the dog means,” the dragon-snake continued ominously.
“I don’t!” whispered Grundle loudly.
Devon squeezed her hand again. The dragon-snakes nodded their understanding.
“This will not do,” their king said. “This does not suit. We have been lax, the terror has subsided. We trusted that we had found the perfect tool in this Patryn. He has proven weak, flawed. And now we find him in company with a Sartan of immense power. A Serpent Mage, one whose life the Patryn held in his hands and yet did not take!”
Hisses of anger breathed through the darkness. The three young people exchanged puzzled glances. Each was beginning to notice a faint flutter in the stomach, a chill creeping over the body—the no-fear weed was wearing off, and they had not thought to bring more with them. They huddled near each other for comfort.
The king dragon-snake raised its head, twisted round to take in everyone in the cave. Everyone.
“And this war he proposes. Bloodless! Painless! He talks of ‘surrender’!” The serpent hissed the words in derision. “Chaos is our life’s blood. Death our meat and drink. No. Surrender is not what we had in mind. The Sartan grow more frightened every day. They now believe that they are alone in this vast universe they created. Their numbers are few, their enemies many and powerful.
“The Patryn did have one good suggestion, and I am indebted to him for it—flood their city with seawater. What subtle genius. The Sartan will watch the water rise. Their fear will change to panic. Their only hope—escape. They will be forced to do what they were strong enough to resist doing ages before. Samah will open Death’s Gate!”
“And what of the mensch?”
“We will trick them, turn friends into enemies. They’ll slaughter each other. We will feed off their pain and terror and grow strong. We will need our strength, to enter Death’s Gate.”
Alake was shivering. Devon put his arm around her, comfortingly. Grundle was crying, but she did so silently, her lips clamped tight. She wiped away a tear with a grimy, trembling hand.
“And the Patryn?” asked one. “Does he also die?”
“No, the Patryn will live. Remember: chaos is our goal. Once we pass through Death’s Gate, I will visit this self-styled Lord of the Nexus. I will endear myself to him by bringing him a present—this Haplo, a traitor to his own kind. A Patryn who befriends a Sartan.”
Fear grew on the three young people, invaded their bodies, an insidious disease. They burned and chilled, limbs shook, stomachs clenched with sickness. Alake tried to speak. Her facial muscles were stiff with fright, her lips quivered.
“We must . . . warn Haplo,” she managed to gasp.
The others nodded in agreement, neither being able to respond aloud. But they were too terrified to move, afraid the slightest sound would bring the dragon-snakes down upon them.
“I must go to Haplo,” Alake said faintly. She reached out her hands, grasped the cavern wall, and dragged herself to her feet. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. She started to try to leave.
But whatever light had shone them their way here was gone. A terrible smell, of living flesh rotting away, nearly made her gag. She seemed to hear, far away, a dismal wail, as of some huge creature, crying in agony. Alake walked ahead into the noisome shadows.
Devon started to follow, discovered he couldn’t free his hand from Grundle’s panicked, deathlike grip.
“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Don’t leave me.” The elf’s face was chalk white, his eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Our people, Grundle,” he whispered, swallowing. “Our people.”
The dwarf gulped, bit her lip. She let go—reluctantly—of his hand. Devon fled. Clambering to her feet, Grundle stumbled after.
“Are the mensch children leaving?” asked the king dragon-snake.
“Yes, Royal One,” answered one of his minions. “What is your command?”
“Kill them slowly, one at a time. Allow the last survivor to remain alive long enough to tell Haplo what they overheard.”
“Yes, Royal One.” The dragon-snake’s tongue flickered with pleasure.
“Oh,” added the king dragon-snake offhandedly, “make it appear as if it was the Sartan who murdered them. Then return the bodies to their parents. That should end all thought of a ‘bloodless war.’ ”
30
The submersible looked strangely pathetic and helpless, beached on the shoreline, like a dying whale. Haplo dumped the unconscious Alfred none too gently on the ground. The Sartan flopped and groaned. Haplo stood over him grimly. The dog kept some distance from both, watched each anxiously, uncertainly.
Alfred’s eyes flickered open. For a dazed moment, he obviously had no idea where he was or what had happened. Then memory returned, and so did his fear.
“Are . . . are they gone?” he asked in a quavering voice, propping himself up on bony elbows and staring around in a panic.
“What the hell were you trying to do?” Haplo demanded. Seeing no dragon-snakes, Alfred relaxed, looked rather shamefaced. “Return your dog,” he said meekly.
Haplo shook his head. “You honestly expect me to believe that. Who sent you? Samah?”
“No one sent me.” Alfred gathered the various parts of his gangling body together and, putting them into some semblance of order, managed to stand up.
“I left of my own accord, to return the dog. And to ... to talk with the mensch.” He faltered some, on this last statement.
“The mensch?”
“Yes, well, that was my intent.” Alfred flushed in embarrassment. “I commanded the magic to take me to you, assuming that you would be on board the sun-chasers with the mensch.”
“I’m not,” said Haplo.
Alfred ducked his head, glanced around nervously. “No, I can see that. Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t we be leaving?”
“I’ll be leaving soon enough. First you’re going to tell me why you followed me. When I leave, I don’t want to walk into some Sartan trap.”
“I told you,” Alfred protested. “I wanted to return your dog. It’s been very unhappy. I thought you would be with the mensch. It never occurred to me that you might be somewhere else. I was in a hurry. I didn’t think—”
“I can believe that!” Haplo said impatiently, cutting off the excuses. He eyed Alfred intently. “But that’s about all I believe. Oh, you’re not lying, Sartan, but, as usual, you’re not telling the truth, either. You came to return my dog. Fine. And what else?”
Alfred’s flush deepened, flooding his neck and the top of his balding head.
“I thought I would find you with the mensch. And I would be able to talk to them, urge them to be patient. This war will be a terrible thing, Haplo. A terrible thing! I must stop it! I need time, that’s all. The involvement of those . . . those hideous creatures ...”
Alfred looked again toward the cave, shuddered, glanced back at Haplo, at the sigla on his skin that glowed a vibrant blue. “You don’t trust them, either, do you?”
Once again, the Sartan was in Haplo’s mind, sharing his thoughts. The Patryn was damn sick and tired of it. He’d said the wrong thing in that cavern. These mensch can’t fight. . . . The Sartan could . . . inflict serious casualties. And he heard again the hissing response. Since when does a Patryn care how mensch live ... or how they die?