To the dragon’s delight, however, these two had decided to follow it. Patryns weren’t often this stupid, but the dragon sensed something odd about these two. One of them had a strange smell, unlike anything the dragon had previously encountered in the Labyrinth. The other one the dragon understood well. She was a Patryn and she was desperate. The desperate were often careless.
Once back in its lair, the dragon took its time torturing the Thing it had captured, the Thing that had been a dragon and had then transformed itself back into a man. The Thing was powerful in magic; it was not a Patryn, yet it was like a Patryn. The dragon was intrigued by it, but not intrigued enough to waste time investigating. The Thing had not proved as amusing as the dragon had hoped. It gave up too easily and actually seemed on the verge of dying.
Becoming bored with tormenting the wretched Thing, and feeling weak from its injury, the dragon had crawled back into the inner part of the cavern to heal its wounds and wait for prey that might prove more entertaining.
The two were better than the dragon had hoped. The Patryn female was actually healing the Thing, which was fine with the dragon. Saved it time and trouble, gave it a stronger victim, one who might now live until next nightfall. As for the Patryn, she was young and defiant. She would last a long time. The male the dragon was unsure about. He was the one with the peculiar smell and no magic about him whatsoever. More like an animal, a deer, for example. Not much sport to him, but he was large and well fleshed. The dragon would have no need to go out in search of a meal this day.
The dragon waited until it saw the Patryn’s rune-magic wholly consumed by the healing process. Then it moved.
The dragon crawled slowly out of the darkness of the cavern. The tunnel seemed large to Hugh, but it was small for the dragon, which had to duck its head to creep beneath the overhang. Hugh stood his ground, assuming that the dragon would wait until its entire body, including the stinging tail, was out in the open before it would attack. The Sartan knife squirmed in Hugh’s grip.
He held it up in challenge, willed it to change form to fight the dragon.
If it had been possible, he would have sworn that the knife seemed ill at ease, unsure. Hugh wished he understood more about the Cursed Blade, tried frantically to recall everything either Haplo or Alfred had said in regard to it. All he could come up with at the moment was that the blade was Sartan-made. And at that moment it occurred to him that the Labyrinth and the creatures in it—including this dragon—had also been made by the Sartan.
The blade was confused. It recognized the same magic inherent in itself, but it also recognized threat. If the dragon had remained patient, gone after Marit, the Sartan blade would not have altered form. But the dragon was hungry. It planned to catch and devour Hugh; then, with a comfortably full stomach, it could go after the other, more difficult prey. Most of the dragon’s body was still inside the back part of the cavern; it could not yet use its tail in the attack. But the dragon didn’t think it would need such an advantage. Almost lazily, it swiped out a clawed forefoot, intending to impale Hugh the Hand and eat him while his flesh was still warm.
The move caught Hugh by surprise. He ducked and flung himself backward. A giant claw raked across his stomach, tearing the leather armor as if it had been finest silk, slashing through flesh and muscle.
At the attack, the Sartan blade was quick to respond. It wrenched itself free of Hugh’s grasp.
A gigantic sweeping tail knocked him aside. Hugh rolled across the cavern floor, bumped up against Marit and Alfred. The two looked terrible—Marit now almost as bad as Alfred. Both seemed dazed, barely conscious. The Hand regained his feet quickly, prepared to defend himself and his helpless companions. He stopped, frozen, staring.
Two dragons were inside the cavern.
The second dragon—actually the Cursed Blade—was a gorgeous creature. Long and slender, this dragon was wingless; its scales sparkled and gleamed like myriad tiny suns, shining in a blue-green sky. It dove for its victim before the Labyrinth dragon had time to fully assimilate what was happening. The blue-green dragon’s head darted in close, jaws opened and snapped shut on the Labyrinth dragon’s neck.
Shrieking in fury and pain, the red dragon twisted out of its captor’s grasp, freeing itself but leaving a bloody chunk of flesh in its enemy’s mouth. The red dragon heaved its body from beneath the overhang, its tremendous strength literally bearing back the attacker. The bulbous tail struck out, stinging the blue-green dragon again and again.
Hugh had seen enough. The dragons were fighting each other, but he and his friends were in peril of being smashed by the flailing, struggling bodies.
“Marit!” He shook her.
She was still holding fast to Alfred; her face was gray and drawn, but she was now alert, staring at the two dragons in astonishment. Alfred was conscious, but he obviously had no idea where he was, who was with him, or what was going on. He was gazing about in dazed perplexity.
“Marit, we’ve got to get out of here!” Hugh shouted.
“Where did that other dragon—” she began.
“The Cursed Blade,” Hugh answered shortly. He bent over Alfred. “Grab his other arm!”
Hugh instructed her needlessly. Marit had already taken hold. Between the two of them, they dragged Alfred to a semistanding position and—half dragging, half carrying him—headed for the cave opening.
The going was difficult. Their way was blocked by reptile bodies that twisted and grappled. Slashing clawed feet tore up the dirt floor. Enormous heads cracked into the cavern ceiling; rock shards and dust drifted down on top of them. Magical attacks flared and burst around them.
Half blind, choking, fearful of being trampled to death or caught in a magical fire-storm, the three staggered out of the cavern entrance. Once in the clear, they fled down the narrow pathway, kept going until Alfred collapsed, Hugh and Marit paused, gasping for breath. Behind them, the dragons roared in pain and rage.
“You’re hurt!” Marit looked concerned at the sight of the gaping wound across Hugh’s stomach.
“It’ll heal,” he said grimly. “Won’t it, Alfred? I’ll carry him.”
Hugh started to lift Alfred bodily, but the Sartan pushed him away.
“I can make it,” he said, struggling to regain his feet. A fierce shriek of fury caused him to blench, glance back at the cavern. “What—”
“No time to explain! Run!” Marit ordered. Grabbing hold of Alfred, she shoved him along ahead of her.
Alfred stumbled, managed to regain his feet and followed orders.
Hugh twisted around. “Where?”
“Down!” Marit answered. “You help Alfred. I’ll keep watch behind.”
The ground shook with the ferocity of the battle being waged inside the cavern. Hugh moved swiftly down the path, slipping and sliding on the rain-wet rock. Marit followed more slowly, keeping one eye on the path, the other on the cavern. She scrambled down the hillside, often losing her footing in the loose soil. Alfred tumbled head over heels, was well on his way to rolling down the hill when he came up hard against a boulder. By the time they reached the bottom, they were all scratched, bruised, and bleeding.
“Listen!” Marit called a halt.
All was quiet now. Very quiet. The battle had ended.
“I wonder who won?” Hugh asked.
“I can live without knowing,” Marit answered.
“If we’re lucky, they killed each other,” Hugh commented. “I wouldn’t care if I never saw that damn blade again.”
The silence continued; it had an ominous feel to it. Marit wanted to be farther away, much farther.