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In the same instant, a gust of wind sprang up off the waters. Taking the shape and form of a huge fist, the wind smote Haplo, buffeted him, sent him reeling. The Patryn landed heavily on the sandy beach.

Groggy and dazed from the blow, Haplo swiftly regained his feet, his body reacting with the instincts learned in the Labyrinth, where to give in to even a moment’s weakness meant death.

Haplo spoke the runes. The sigla on his body flared. He opened his mouth to give the command that would end this bitter contest. His command changed to a startled curse.

Something wrapped itself tightly around his ankle. It began tugging at him, trying to yank him off his feet.

Haplo was forced to abandon his spell. He looked to see what had hold of him. A long tentacle of some magical sea creature had reached out of the water. Preoccupied with his own spell-casting, Haplo had not noticed it sliding across the beach toward him. Now it had him; its coils, shining with Sartan runes, wound around and around Haplo’s ankle, his calf, his leg. The creature’s strength was incredible. Haplo fought to free himself, but the more he struggled, the tighter the tentacle grasped. It jerked him off his feet, flung him to the sand. Haplo kicked at it, tried to wriggle free. Again, he was faced with a terrible decision. He could expend his magic to free himself, or he could use his magic to attack.

Haplo twisted to get a look at his enemy. Samah watched complacently, a smile of triumph on his lips.

How the hell can he think he’s won? Haplo wondered angrily. This stupid monster isn’t deadly. It’s not poisoning me, crushing the life out of me. It’s a trick. A trick to gain time. Samah figures I’ll expend my energy trying to free myself instead of attacking. Surprise, Samah!

Haplo’s full mental powers concentrated on re-forming the spell he had been about to cast. The sigla flared in the air, were coming together, humming with power, when the Patryn felt water wash over the toe of his boot. Water . . .

Suddenly Haplo saw Samah’s ploy. This was how the Sartan would defeat him: simple, yet effective.

Dunk him in seawater.

The Patryn cursed, but refused to give way to panic. He commanded the rune structure to shift their target, altered them to a flight of flaming arrows, sent them darting into the creature that had hold of him.

The creature’s tentacle was wet with seawater. The magical arrows struck it, sizzled, and went out.

Water lapped over Haplo’s foot, up his leg. Frantic now, he dug his hands into the sand, tried to hold on, to stop himself from being pulled into the sea. His fingers left long tracks behind them. The creature was too strong and Haplo’s magic was weakening, the complex rune-structures starting to break apart, unravel.

The daggers! Flipping over onto his back, squirming in the grasp of the ever-tightening coils, Haplo ripped open his shirt, grabbed the oilskin, and feverishly began to unwrap the weapons.

Cold logic stopped him, the logic of the Labyrinth, the logic that had led more than once to his survival. The water was up to his thighs. These daggers were his only means of defense and he had been about to get them wet. Not only that, but he would reveal their existence to his enemy . . . enemies. He couldn’t forget their audience, who must be disappointed to see the end of the show.

Better to accept defeat—bitter though it was—and retain the hope of fighting back, then risk all in a desperate strike that would get him nowhere. Clasping the oilskin pouch tightly to his breast, Haplo closed his eyes. The water surged up over his waist, his breast, his head, engulfed him. Samah spoke a word. The tentacle released its hold, disappeared. Haplo lay in the water. He had no need to look at his skin to know what he would see: bare flesh, a sickly white in color.

He lay so long and so still, the waves gently lapping over his body, that Alfred must have become alarmed.

“Haplo!” he called, and the Patryn heard clumsy, shuffling footsteps heading his direction, heading inanely into the seawater.

Haplo raised up. “Dog, stop him!” he shouted.

The dog dashed after Alfred, caught hold of his coattails, dragged him backward.

Alfred fell. Legs spraddled, arms akimbo, he sat down heavily in the sand. The dog stood next to him, looking pleased with itself, though it occasionally glanced Haplo’s way with an anxious air.

Samah gave Alfred a look of contempt and disgust.

“The animal has more brains than you do, seemingly.”

“But . . . Haplo’s hurt! He might be drowning!” Alfred cried.

“He’s no more hurt than I am,” Samah replied coldly. “He’s shamming, most likely plotting some evil, even now. Whatever it is, he must do it without his magic.”

The Councillor walked to the shore, maintaining a safe distance from the waterline. “Stand up, Patryn. You and your cohort will accompany me back to Surunan, where the Council will decide what to do with you.” Haplo ignored him. The water had destroyed his magic, but it had also calmed him, calmed his fever, his rage. He could think clearly, begin to try to sort out his options. One question came insistently to mind: Where were the dragon-snakes?

Listening . . . Watching . . . Savoring the fear, the hatred. Hoping for a deadly conclusion. They wouldn’t intervene, not as long as the battle raged. But the battle had ended. And Haplo had lost his magic.

“Very well,” said Samah. “I will take you with me as you are.” Haplo sat up in the water. “Try it.”

Samah began to sing the runes, but his voice cracked. He choked, coughed, tried again. Alfred stared at the Councillor in astonishment. Haplo watched, smiled grimly.

“How—” Samah rounded on the Patryn furiously. “You have no magic!”

“Not me,” said Haplo calmly. “Them.” He pointed a wet finger at the cave.

“Bah! Another trick!” Samah again attempted to cast his spell. Haplo stood up, splashed through the water, back toward the shore. He was being watched. They were all being watched.

He groaned in pain, glared at Samah. “I think you’ve broken one of my ribs.” His hand pressed against his side, pressed against the hidden daggers. His skin would have to be dry, in order to use the weapons. But that shouldn’t be too difficult to manage.

He groaned again, stumbled, and fell; dug his hands deep into the warm, dry sand. The dog watched him, whined and whimpered in sympathy. Alfred, his forehead wrinkled in concern, was heading in Haplo’s direction, his own hands outstretched.

“Don’t touch me!” Haplo snarled. “I’m wet!” he added, hoping the fool would take the hint.

Alfred, looking hurt, backed away.

“You!” Samah accused. “You are the one blocking my magic!”

“Me?” Alfred gaped, gabbled incoherently. “I ... I ... Me? No, I couldn’t possibly—”

Haplo had one thought: to return to the Nexus, to carry the warning. He lay on the warm sand, hunched over, groaned as if in acute agony. His hand, dry from the sand, slid inside his shirt, inside the oilcloth.

If Samah tries to stop me, he’ll die. Lunge, stab for the heart. The dagger’s runes will unravel any protective magic he’s cast around himself. Then the real fight begins.

The dragons. They had no intention of letting any of them escape. If I can make it to the submersible, its magic should be powerful enough to keep them at bay. Long enough for me to make it back safely to Death’s Gate. Haplo’s hand closed over the dagger’s hilt.

A terror-filled scream pierced the air. “Haplo, help us! Help!”

“That sounds like a human’s voice!” Alfred cried in astonishment, peering through the darkness. “What are mensch doing here?” Haplo paused, dagger in his hand. He had recognized the voice: Alake’s.

“Haplo!” she cried again, desperate, frantic.

“I see them!” Alfred pointed.

Three mensch, running for their lives. The dragon-snakes slithered behind, driving their victims like sheep to the slaughter, teasing them, feeding off their panic.