“The spell’s ending,” she said, irritated at herself. “We have to hurry.”
She continued across. But a thin layer of water was now seeping over the ice, making it even more slippery. Her feet slid out from underneath her. She grabbed at Hugh, but he, too, had lost his footing. They both fell. Landing on her hands and knees, she stared into the horribly grinning mouth and bulging eyes of a dead wolfen.
The black ice split right between her hands. The wolfen popped out, lunged straight at her. Involuntarily, Marit shrank backward. Hugh the Hand caught hold of her.
“The ice is breaking apart,” he yelled. “Hurry!”
They were at least two body lengths from the shoreline.
Marit scrambled toward the shore, crawling since she could not stand. Her arms and legs ached with the cold; the pain was intense. Hugh the Hand slithered along beside her. His face was livid, his jaw clenched so tight it resembled the ice. His eyes were wide and staring. For him—born and raised on a waterless world—drowning was the worst possible death imaginable. Terror had very nearly robbed him of his senses.
They were close to the bank, close to safety.
The Labyrinth was intelligent evil, cunning malevolence. It permitted you to hope, let you imagine that you could make it to safety.
Marit’s numb hand clutched at a large rock, one of several lining the riverbank. She struggled to grip it with unfeeling fingers, pull herself up.
The ice gave way beneath her. She plunged to her waist in frothing black water. Her hand slid off the rock. The current was carrying her down . . .
A terrific boost from strong arms propelled Marit up and onto the bank. She landed hard, the breath knocked from her body. She lay, gasping, until a gurgle and a wild yell caused her to turn around.
Standing precariously on an ice floe, Hugh clung with one hand to the trunk of a scrub tree growing out of the bank. He had thrown her to safety, then managed to grab hold of the tree.
But the rushing water was tearing the ice floe out from under him. The current was strong. His tenuous hold on the tree was slipping.
Marit flung herself bodily on Hugh just as he lost his grasp. Her numb fingers clutching at the back of his leather vest, she fought to pull him from the river. She was on her knees; the water was rising. If she failed, they would both go under. Desperately she held on to his vest, pulled it up nearly over his head. Digging her knees into the mud, she dragged the man’s heavy body backward. Hugh was strong; he gave her what help he could. He kicked with his feet, sought purchase with his flailing legs, and, finally, managed to squirm his way onto the bank.
He lay still, gasping and shivering with cold and terror. Hearing a rumbling sound, Marit looked upriver. A wall of black water tinged with red foam, pushing huge chunks of ice in its path, thundered downstream.
“Hugh!” she cried.
He raised his head, saw the rushing floodwaters. He staggered to his feet, began scrambling up the bank. Marit was past helping him; she could barely make it herself. She collapsed onto firm, level ground; was dimly aware of Hugh the Hand falling somewhere near her.
The river roared in rage at losing its prey; or perhaps that was only her imagination. She stilled her rapid breathing, calmed the wild beating of her heart. Letting the rune-magic warm her, she banished the terrible cold.
But she couldn’t lie here long. The enemy—chaodyn, wolfen, tiger-men—must be hiding in the woods, perhaps watching them even now. She glanced at the sigla tattooed on her skin; the glow of the runes would warn her of approaching danger. Her skin was slightly blue, but that was with cold. The sigla were dark.
This should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. It was illogical. Certainly some of those who had attacked the city with such fury yesterday must still be lurking outside the city walls, waiting for a chance to pick off a scouting party.
But the runes did not glimmer, except perhaps very, very faintly. If any of the enemy were about, they were far away and not interested. Marit couldn’t understand it and she didn’t like it. This uncanny absence of the foe frightened her more than the sight of a pack of wolfen.
Hope. When the Labyrinth offers you hope, it means that it is just about to snatch that hope away.
She pushed herself to a crouching position, alert and wary. Hugh the Hand lay huddled on the ground. He was shivering uncontrollably, his body racked by chills. His lips were blue, his teeth chattering so violently he’d bitten his tongue. Blood dribbled from his mouth.
Marit didn’t know much about mensch. Could he die of the cold? Perhaps not, but he might fall sick, slow her up. Moving about, walking, would warm his blood, but she had to get him on his feet first. She recalled hearing from Haplo that rune-magic would work to heal mensch. Crawling over to Hugh, she clasped her hands over his wrists, let the magic flow from her body to his.
His shaking ceased. Slowly, a tinge of color returned to his pallid face. At length, he sighed, fell back on the ground, closed his eyes, letting the blissful warmth spread through his body.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Marit warned.
Touching his tender tongue to his teeth, he groaned, grunted. “Back on Arianus, I used to dream that when I was a wealthy man, I’d wallow in water. Have a big barrel of it outside my house and I’d jump in it, splash it over my head. Now”—he grimaced—“may the ancestors take me if I so much as drink a sip of the cursed stuff!”
Marit stood up. “We can’t stay here, out in the open like this. If you’re feeling up to it, we have to move.”
Hugh was on his feet immediately. “Why? What is it?”
He looked at the runes on her hands and arms; he’d been around Haplo long enough to know the signs. Seeing the sigla dark, he glanced up at her questioningly.
“I don’t know,” she answered, staring hard into the forest. “There’s nothing close, seemingly. But . . .” Unable to explain her uneasiness, she shook her head.
“Which way?” Hugh asked.
Marit considered. Vasu had pointed out the site where the green and golden dragon—Alfred—had last been seen. That was to the gateward side of the city, the side facing the next gate.[1] She and Vasu had judged the distance to be within half a day’s walk.
Marit gnawed her lip. She could enter the woods, which would give them shelter but would also make them more vulnerable to their enemies, who—if they were out there—were undoubtedly using the woods to conceal their own movements. Or she could keep to the riverbank, keep in view of the city. For a short distance, any foe who attacked her would be in range of the magical weapons held by the guards on the city walls.
Marit decided to stay near the river, at least until the city could offer no more protection. Perhaps by then she would have picked up a trail that would lead her to Alfred.
What that trail might be, she didn’t like to think.
She and Hugh moved cautiously along the river’s shoreline. The black water churned and fumed in its banks, brooding over the indignities it had suffered. The two took care to keep clear of the slippery bank on one side and avoid the forest shadows on the other.
The woods were silent, strangely silent. It was as if every living being had gone away . . .
Marit halted, sick with realization, understanding.
“That’s why no one’s around,” she said aloud.
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” Hugh the Hand demanded, alarmed by her sudden stop.
Marit pointed to the ominous red glow in the sky. “They’ve all gone to the Final Gate. To join the fight against my people.”
“Good riddance, then,” said Hugh the Hand.
Marit shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” Hugh continued. “So they’ve left. Vasu said the Final Gate was a long way from here. Not even those tiger-men could reach it anytime soon.”
“You don’t understand,” Marit replied, overwhelmed by despair. “The Labyrinth could transport them there. It could move them in the blink of an eye, if it wanted. All our enemies, all the evil creatures of the Labyrinth . . . joined together, fighting against my people. How can we survive?”