Dragon Wing

55

In a room down the corridor, Limbeck finally put his pen to paper.

“My people . . .” he began.

Haplo had long imagined meeting a Sartan, meeting someone who had sealed his people in that hellish place. He imagined himself angry, but now even he could not believe his fury. He stared at this man, this Alfred, this Sartan, and he saw the chaodyn attacking him, he saw the dog’s body lying broken, bleeding. He saw his parents dead. It was suddenly hard to breathe. He was suffocating. Veins, red against fiery yellow, webbed his vision, and he had to close his eyes and fight to catch his breath.

“Leaving again!” He gasped for air. “Just like you jailers left us to die in that prison!”

Haplo forced the last word out between gritted teeth. Bandaged hands raised like striking talons, he stood quite close to Alfred and stared into the face of the Sartan that seemed surrounded by a halo of flame. If this Alfred smiled, if his lips so much as twitched, Haplo would kill him. His lord, his purpose, his instructions—he couldn’t hear any of them for the pounding waves of rage in his head.

But Alfred didn’t smile. He didn’t blench in fright or draw back or even move to defend himself. The lines of the aged, careworn face deepened, the mild eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed, shimmering with sorrow.

“The jailer didn’t leave,” he said. “The jailer died.” Haplo felt the dog’s head press against his knee, and reaching down, he caught hold of the soft fur and gripped it tightly. The dog gazed up with worried eyes and pressed closer, whimpering. Haplo’s breathing came easier, clear sight returned to his eyes, clear thought to his mind.

“I’m all right,” said Haplo, drawing a shivering breath. “I’m all right.”

“Does this mean,” asked Bane, “that Alfred’s not leaving?”

“No, he’s not leaving,” said Haplo. “Not now, at least. Not until I’m ready.” Master of himself once more, the Patryn faced the Sartan. Haplo’s face was calm, his smile quiet. His hands rubbed slowly, one against the other, displacing slightly the bandages that covered the skin. “The jailer died? I don’t believe that.”

Alfred hesitated, licked his lips. “Your people have been . . . trapped in that place all this time?”

“Yes, but you knew that already, didn’t you? That was your intent!” Limbeck, hearing nothing of what was happening two doors down from him, continued writing;

“My people, I have been in the realms above. I have visited the realms our legends tell us are heaven. And they are. And they aren’t. They are beautiful. They are rich—rich beyond belief. The sun shines on them throughout the day. The firmament sparkles in their sky. The rain falls gently, without malice. The shadows of the Lords of Night soothe them to sleep. They live in houses, not in cast-off parts of a machine or in a building the Kicksey-Winsey decided it didn’t need at the moment. They have winged ships that fly through the air. They have tamed winged beasts to take them anywhere they want. And all of this they have because of us.

“They lied to us. They told us that they were gods and that we had to work for them. They promised us that if we worked hard, they would judge us worthy and take us up to live in heaven. But they never intended to make good that promise.”

“That was never our intent!” Alfred answered. “You must believe that. And you must believe that I—we—didn’t know you were still there! It was only supposed to be a short time, a few years, several generations—”

“A thousand years, a hundred generations—those that survived! And where were you? What happened?”

“We . . . had our own problems.” Alfred’s gaze lowered, his head bowed.

“You have my deepest sympathy.”

Alfred glanced up swiftly, saw the Patryn’s curled lip, and, sighing, looked away.

“You’re coming with me,” said Haplo. “I’m going to take you back to see for yourself the hell your people created! And my lord will have questions for you. He’ll find it hard to believe—as I do—that ‘the jailer died.’ ”

“Your lord?”

“A great man, the most powerful of our kind who has ever lived. He has plans, many plans, which I’m certain he’ll share with you.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Alfred murmured. “His plans? No, I won’t go with you.” The Sartan shook his head. “Not voluntarily.” Deep within the mild eyes, a spark kindled.

“Then I’ll use force. I’ll enjoy that!”

“I’ve no doubt. But if you’re trying to conceal your presence in this world”—his gaze fixed on the bandaged hands—“then you know that a fight between us, a duel of that magnitude and magical ferocity, could not be hidden and would be disastrous to you. The wizards in this world are powerful and intelligent. Legends exist about Death Gate. Many, like Sinistrad or even this child”—Alfred’s hand stroked Bane’s hair—“could figure out what had occurred and would eagerly start to search for the entry into what is held to be a wondrous world. Is your lord prepared for that?”

“Lord? What lord? Look here, Alfred!” Bane burst out impatiently. “None of us are going anywhere as long as my father’s alive!” Neither of the two men answered him or even looked at him. The boy glared at them. Adults, absorbed in their own concerns, they had, as usual, forgotten his.

“At last our eyes have been opened. At last we can see the truth.” Limbeck found his spectacles irritating and pushed them back up on top of his head.

“And the truth is that we no longer need them ...”

“I don’t need you!” Bane cried. “You weren’t going to help me anyway. I’ll do it myself.” Reaching into his tunic, he drew out Hugh’s dagger and gazed at it admiringly, running his finger carefully over the rune-carved blade. “Come on,” he said to the dog, still standing beside Haplo. “You come with me.” The dog looked at the boy and wagged his tail but did not move.

“Come on!” Bane coaxed. “Good dog!”

The dog cocked his head, then turned to Haplo, whining and pawing. The Patryn, intent on the Sartan, shoved the dog aside. Sighing, with a final, pleading glance back at its master, the dog—head down, ears flat—padded slowly over to Bane’s side.

The child shoved the dagger in his belt and patted the dog’s head. “That’s a good boy. Let’s go.”

“And so, in conclusion ...” Limbeck paused. His hand trembled, his eyes misted over. A blot of ink fell upon the paper. Pulling his spectacles down from on top of his head, he adjusted them on his nose and then sat unmoving, staring at the blank spot where the final words would be written.

“Can you truly afford to fight me?” Alfred persisted.

“I don’t think you’ll fight,” answered Haplo. “I think you’re too weak, too tired. That kid you pamper is more—”

Reminded, Alfred glanced around.

“Bane? Where is he?”

Haplo made an impatient gesture. “Gone somewhere. Don’t try to—”

“I’m not ‘trying’ anything! You heard what he asked me. He has a knife. He’s gone to murder his father! I’ve got to stop—!”

“No, you don’t.” Haplo caught hold of the Sartan’s arm. “Let the mensch murder each other. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter to you at all?” Alfred gave the Patryn a peculiar, searching look.

“No, of course not. The only one I care about is the leader of the Gegs’ revolt, and Limbeck’s safely shut up in his room.”

“Then where’s your dog?” asked Alfred.

“My people”—Limbeck’s pen slowly and deliberately wrote down the words—“we are going to war.”

There. It was done. Pulling off his spectacles, the Geg tossed them down upon the table, put his head in his hands, and wept.