“What’s in there?” Haplo hissed through clenched teeth, glaring fiercely at the dwarf.
She gulped. “The … the pilot’s house. You see?” she added, growing bolder. “I was right. Like walking into death.”
“Yeah, you were right.” Haplo took a step forward.
Alake clutched at him. “Wait! You can’t go! Don’t leave us!”
Haplo turned. “Wherever it is they’re taking you—will it be any better?”
The three stared at him, silently begging him to say he’d been wrong, to tell them everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. Truth, harsh and bitter, like a cold wind, blew out hope’s faint, flickering light.
“Then we’ll come with you,” said Devon, pale but resolute.
“No, you won’t. You’re going to stay right here, all three of you.”
Haplo looked down the corridor, glanced again at his arms. The sigla’s glow was faint, the runes on his body barely visible. He cursed softly, beneath his breath. A child in the Labyrinth could defend itself better than he could, at this moment.
“Do any of you have a weapon? You, elf? A sword, a knife?”
“N-no,” Devon stammered.
“We were told not to bring any weapons,” Alake whispered fearfully.
“I have an ax,” Grundle said, tone defiant. “A battle-ax.”
Alake stared at her, shocked.
“Bring it to me,” Haplo ordered, hoping it wasn’t some puny toy.
The dwarf looked at him long and hard, then ran off. She returned, puffing, carrying what Haplo was relieved to see was a sturdy, well-made weapon.
“Grundle!” said Alake reprovingly. “You know what they told us!”
“As if I’d listen to a bunch of snakes!” Grundle scoffed. “Will this do?”
She handed the ax to Haplo.
He grasped it, hefted it experimentally. Too bad he didn’t have time to inscribe runes on it, enhance it with magical power. Too bad he didn’t have the strength to do it, he reminded himself ruefully. Well, it was better than nothing.
Haplo started to creep forward. Hearing footsteps shuffling along behind him, he whirled around, glared at the mensch.
“You stay there! Understand?”
The three wavered, looked at each other, then at Haplo. Devon began to shake his head.
“Damn it!” Haplo swore. “What can three terrified kids do to help me? You’ll only get in my way. Now keep back!”
They did as he told them, huddling against the walls, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. He had the feeling, though, that the minute he turned his back, they’d be creeping up behind.
“Let them take care of themselves,” he muttered.
Ax in hand, he started down the corridor.
The sigla on his skin itched and burned. Despair closed in on him, the despair of the Labyrinth. You slept out of exhaustion, never to find easeful rest. You woke every day to fear and pain and death.
And anger.
Haplo concentrated on the anger. Anger had kept the Patryns alive in the Labyrinth. Anger carried him forward. He would not rush meekly to his fate like the mensch. He would fight. He …
Haplo reached the door that led into the steerage, the door that threatened—guaranteed—death. Pausing, he looked, listened. He saw nothing but deep, impenetrable darkness, heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, his own short and shallow breathing. His grip on the ax was so tight his hand ached. He drew a breath, bounded inside.
Darkness closed over him, fell down on him like the nets the gibbering monkkers of the Labyrinth use to snare the unwary. The faint glow of his sigla disappeared. He knew himself to be completely helpless, completely at the mercy of whatever was in here. He stumbled about in a blind panic, fighting to free himself. The ax slid from his sweat-damp hand.
Two eyes, slits of red-green flame, slowly opened. The darkness took shape and form around the eyes, and Haplo was aware of a gigantic serpentine head. He was aware, too, of a ripple in the darkness, a shimmer of doubt, astonishment.
“A Patryn?” The voice was soft, sibilant.
“Yes,” Haplo answered, tense, wary. “I am a Patryn. What are you?”
The eyes closed. The darkness returned, strong, intense, guarding. Haplo stretched out a groping hand, hoping to find the steering mechanism. His fingers brushed against cold, scaly flesh. A viscous liquid clung to his skin, chilled his blood, began to burn his skin. His stomach wrenched in revulsion. Shuddering, he tried to wipe the slime off on his trousers.