Dragon Wing

20

In the Labyrinth, a man must hone his instincts to a fine, sharp point, as sharp as any blade of knife or sword, for the instincts, too, are weapons of self-preservation and are oftentimes as valuable as steel. Struggling to regain consciousness, Haplo instinctively kept himself from revealing that he was conscious. Until he could regain complete control of every faculty, he lay perfectly still and unmoving, stifled a groan of pain, and firmly resisted the overwhelming impulse to open his eyes and look at his surroundings. Play dead. Many times, an enemy will let you alone.

Voices swam in and out of his hearing. Mentally he grasped at them, but it was like snagging fish with bare hands. They darted among his fingers; he could touch them but never quite catch hold. They were loud, deep voices, sounding quite clearly over a roaring thrumming that seemed to be all around him, even inside of him, for he could swear he could feel his body vibrating. The voices were some distance away and sounded as if they were arguing, but they weren’t being violent about it. Haplo did not feel threatened and he relaxed.

“I’ve fallen in with Squatters, seemingly. . . .”

“. . . The boy’s still alive. Got a nasty crack on the head, but he’ll make it.”

“The other two? I suppose they’re his parents.”

“Dead. Runners, by the looks of them. Snogs got them, of course. I guess they thought the kid too little to bother with.”

“Naw. Snogs don’t care what they kill. I don’t think they ever knew the kid was there. He was well-hidden in those bushes. If he hadn’t groaned, we never would’ve heard him. It saved his life this time, but it’s a bad habit. We’ll have to break him of it. My guess is the parents knew they were in trouble. They clouted the kid a good one to keep him quiet and hid him away, then tried to lead the snogs away from him.”

“Lucky thing for the kid it was snogs and not dragons. Dragons would’ve sniffed him out.”

“What’s his name?”

The boy felt hands run over his body, which was naked except for a strip of soft leather tied around his loins. The hands traced a pattern of tattoos that began at his heart, extending across his chest, down his stomach and legs to the tops of his feet but not the soles, down his arms to the back of his hands but not the fingers or the palms, up his neck but not on the head or face.

“Haplo,” said the man, reading the runes over the heart. “He was born the time the Seventh Gate fell. That would make him about nine.”

“Lucky to have lived this long. I can’t imagine Runners trying to make it, saddled with a kid. We better be getting out of here. Dragons’ll be smelling the blood before long. Come on, boy. Wake up. On your feet. We can’t carry you. Here, you, awake now? All right.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, the man took Haplo to stand beside the hacked and mangled bodies of his parents. “Look at that. Remember it. And remember this. It wasn’t snogs that killed your father and mother. It was those who put us in this prison and left us to die. Who are they, boy? Do you know?” His fingers dug into Haplo’s flesh.

“The Sartan,” answered Haplo thickly.

“Repeat it.”

“The Sartan!” he cried.

“Right, never forget that, boy. Never forget. . . .” Haplo floated again to the surface of consciousness. The roaring, drumming sound whooshed and thumped around him but he could hear voices over it, the same voices he vaguely remembered hearing earlier, only now there seemed to be fewer of them. He tried to concentrate on their words, but it was impossible. The throbbing pain in his head stamped out every spark of rational thought. He had to end the pain.

Cautiously Haplo opened his eyes a crack and peered out between the lashes. The light of a single candle, placed somewhere near his head, did not illuminate his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he could manage to make out that he was alone.

Slowly Haplo lifted his left hand and was bringing it near his head when he saw that it was swathed in strips of cloth. Memory glimmered, shining a feeble ray of light into the darkness of pain that surrounded him. All the more reason to rid himself of this debilitating injury. Gritting his teeth, moving with elaborate care so as not to make the slightest sound, Haplo reached across with his right hand and tugged at the cloth covering the left. Wrapped in between the fingers, it did not come completely loose but gave way enough so that the back of the left hand was partially exposed.

The skin was covered with tattoos. The whirls and whorls, curls and curves, were done in colors of red and blue and were seemingly fanciful in nature and design. Yet each sigil had its separate and special meaning, which, when combined with other sigla that they touched, expanded into meaning upon meaning.[9] Prepared to freeze his motion at the barest hint that someone was watching him, Haplo raised his arm and pressed the back of his hand upon the gash in his forehead.

The circle was joined. Warmth streamed from his hand to his head, flowed through his head to his arm, from his arm back to his hand. Sleep would follow, and while his body rested, pain would ease, the wound would close, internal injuries would be healed, complete memory and awareness would be restored on his awaking. With his waning strength, Haplo arranged the cloth so that it covered his hand. His arm fell limply, striking a hard surface beneath him. A cold nose thrust into his palm ... a soft muzzle rubbed against his fingers. . . .

Spear in hand, Haplo faced the two chaodyn. His only emotion was anger—a fiery, raging fury that burned up fear. He was within sight of his goal. The Last Gate was visible on the horizon. To reach it, he had only to cross a vast open prairie that had looked empty when he reconnoitered. He should have known. The Labyrinth would never let him escape. It would hurl every weapon it had in its possession at him. But the Labyrinth was smart. Its malevolent intelligence had fought against the Patryns for a thousand years before a few had been able to gain the skills to conquer it. Twenty-five gates[10] Haplo had lived and fought, only to be defeated in the end. For there was no way he could win. The Labyrinth had allowed him to get well into the empty prairie without so much as a single tree or boulder on which to set his back. And it had pitted him against two chaodyn.

Chaodyn are deadly foes. Bred of the insane magic of the Labyrinth, the intelligent giant insectlike creatures are skilled in the use of all weapons (these two were using broadswords). Tall as a man, with a hard black-shelled body, bulbous eyes, four arms, and two powerful back legs, a chaodyn can be killed—everything in the Labyrinth can be killed. But in order to slay one, you have to hit it directly in the heart, destroying it instantly. For if it lives, even a second, it will cause a drop of its own blood to spring into a copy of itself, and the two of them, whole and undamaged, will continue the fight.

Haplo faced two of these, and he had only one rune-marked spear and his hunting dagger left. If his weapons missed their mark and wounded his opponent he would face four chaodyn. Missing again, he would face eight. No, he could not win.

The two chaodyn were moving, one drifting off to Haplo’s right, the other to his left. When he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The Patryn’s only chance would be to kill the first outright with his spear, then turn and fight the other.

This strategy in mind, Haplo backed up, feinting first toward one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for chaodyn enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport. Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Labyrinth, Haplo called on a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The spear flew from his hand; he shouted after it the rune calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the spear tore through the insect’s black carapace, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground. A flash of pain shot through Haplo. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against his chill skin, flow from the wound. The chaodyn cannot use the rune magic, but long experience battling the Patryns has given them the knowledge of where the tattooed body is vulnerable to attack. The head is the best target. This chaodyn, however, had stabbed its sword into Haplo’s back. Obviously the insect did not want to kill him, not yet.

Haplo’s spear was gone. It was hunting dagger against broadsword. Haplo could either run in under the chaodyn’s guard and strike directly for the heart or he could risk a throw. His knife—used for skinning, honing, cutting—did not have runes of flight inscribed upon it. If he missed, he would be weaponless and probably facing two foes. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the chaodyn’s sword blows. The chaodyn, realizing Haplo’s dilemma, swung its huge blade. Aiming for the left arm, the insect tried to cut it off—disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Haplo saw the blow coming and dodged as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Haplo black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it. The chaodyn fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Haplo gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn’t care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.

The chaodyn lifted the blade again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Haplo waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The insect arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black shape leapt out from somewhere behind Haplo and launched itself straight at the chaodyn.

Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the chaodyn glanced away from Haplo to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its sword thrust to meet this new foe. Haplo heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He didn’t pay any attention to what it had been. The chaodyn, lowering its arms to strike at the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Haplo aimed his dagger straight for the heart.

The chaodyn saw its danger and attempted to recover, but Haplo had come in too close. The insect creature’s sword sliced into the Patryn’s side, glancing off his ribs. Haplo never felt it. He drove his dagger into the chaodyn’s chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.

Rolling off the body of his enemy, Haplo did not bother to try to stand. The chaodyn was dead. Now he, too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Labyrinth had won. He had fought it, though. Even to the end. Haplo lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to heal himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn’t have to fight ever again.

A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn’t going to be allowed to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a dog. So that Was the black furry thing that had attacked the chaodyn. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been out in the prairie, perhaps hunting, and had come to his aid.

The dog crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Haplo looking at it, the dog whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man’s hand. It was then that Haplo saw the dog was hurt. Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal’s body. Haplo recalled vaguely hearing its cry and the whimper when it fell. The dog was staring at him hopefully, expecting—as dogs do—that this human would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.

“I’m sorry,” Haplo mumbled drowsily. “I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself.”

The dog, at the sound of the man’s voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.

“Go off and die somewhere else!” Haplo made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The dog gave a small bark, and Haplo felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.

And then Haplo, glancing over half-irritably, half-comforted, saw that the injured dog was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the line of trees behind them. It licked Haplo’s hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the forest.

It had misunderstood Haplo’s gesture. It was going to try to go for help—help for him.

The dog didn’t get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three faltering steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.

“Stop it!” Haplo whispered. “Stop it! It’s not worth it!” The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at the man as if to say, “Be patient. I can’t go very fast but I won’t let you down.” Selflessness, compassion, pity—these are not considered by the Patryns to be virtues. They are faults belonging to lesser races who cover for these inherent weaknesses by exalting them. Haplo was not flawed. Ruthless, defiant, burning with hatred, he’d fought and battled his way through the Labyrinth, solitary and alone. He had never asked for help. He had never offered it. And he had survived, where many others had fallen. Until now.

“You’re a coward,” he said to himself. “This dumb animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up. What’s more, you will die owing. Die with a debt on your soul, for, like it or not, that dog saved your life.” No tender feeling caused Haplo to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.

“Come here!” he commanded the dog.

The dog, too weak to stand, crawled on its belly, leaving a trail of blood in the grass behind.

Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out against the pain, Haplo pressed the sigil on the back of his hand against the dog’s torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the dog’s head. The healing circle was formed; Haplo saw, with his fading vision, the dog’s wound close. . . .

“If he recovers, we’ll take him to the High Froman and offer him proof that what I said was true! We’ll show him and our people that the Welves aren’t gods! Our people will see that they’ve been used and lied to all these years.”

“If he recovers,” murmured a softer female voice. “He’s hurt really bad, Limbeck. There’s that deep gash on the head, and he may be hurt someplace else too. The dog won’t let me get close enough to find out. Not that it matters. Head injuries as bad as that almost always lead to death. You remember when Hal Hammernail missed a step on the pussyfoot and tumbled down—”

“I know. I know,” came the discouraged reply. “Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die! I want you to hear all about his world. It’s a beautiful place, like I saw in the books. With clear blue sky and a bright shining light beaming down, and wonderful tall buildings as big as the Kicksey-Winsey—”

“Limbeck,” said the female voice sternly, “you didn’t happen to hit your head, did you?”

“No, my dear. I saw them! I truly did! Just like I saw the dead gods. I’ve brought proof, Jarre! Why won’t you believe me?”

“Oh, Limbeck, I don’t know what to believe anymore! I used to see everything so clearly—all black and white, with clean, sharp edges. I knew exactly what I wanted for our people—better living conditions, equal share in the Welf’s pay. That was all. Stir up a little trouble, put pressure on the High Froman, and he’d be forced to give in eventually. Now everything’s a muddle, all gray and confusing. You’re talking about revolution, Limbeck! Tearing down everything we’ve believed in for hundreds of years. And what do you have to put in its place?”

“We have the truth, Jarre.”

Haplo smiled. He had been awake and listening for about an hour now. He understood the basic language—though these beings called themselves “Gegs,” he recognized the tongue as a derivative of one known on the Old World as dwarven. But there were a great many things they said that he didn’t understand. For example, what was this Kicksey-Winsey that they spoke of with such reverent awe? That was why he’d been sent here. To learn. To keep eyes and ears open, mouth shut, and hands off.

Reaching down on the floor beside his bed, Haplo scratched the dog’s head, reassuring the animal that he was well. This journey through Death Gate had not started out exactly as planned. Somewhere, somehow, his liege lord had made serious miscalculations. The runes had been misaligned. Haplo had realized the mistake too late. There had been little he could do to prevent the crash, the resultant destruction of his ship.

The realization that he was now trapped on this world did not unduly worry Haplo. He had been trapped in the Labyrinth and escaped. After that experience, on an ordinary world such as this, he would be—as his lord said—“invincible.” Haplo had only to play his part. Somehow, after he’d done what he came to do, he would find a way back.

“I thought I heard something.”

Jarre entered the room, bringing with her a flood of soft candlelight. Haplo squinted, blinking up at her. The dog growled and started to jump up, but it lay still at its master’s stealthy, commanding touch.

“Limbeck!” Jarre cried.

“He’s dead!” The stout Geg came hurrying anxiously into the room.

“No, no, he’s not!” Sinking down beside the bed, Jarre reached out a trembling hand toward Haplo’s forehead. “Look! The wound’s healed! Completely. Not...not even a scar! Oh, Limbeck! Maybe you’re wrong! Maybe this being truly is a god!”

“No,” said Haplo. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed intently at the startled Gegs. “I was a slave.” He spoke slowly in a low voice, fumbling for words in the thick dwarven tongue. “Once I was as you are now. But my people triumphed over their masters and I have come to help you do the same.”