The submersible’s prow scraped against rock. Haplo steered it swiftly upward, breathed a sigh when it continued, unimpeded. He must be nearing the shore. He decided to risk bringing the vessel to the surface…
The runes on his hands! Blue. Faint blue.
Haplo brought the ship to a full stop, stared down at the sigla. Faint blue color, not nearly as blue as the veins beneath his skin on the back of his hands. And that was odd. Damn odd!
Weak as they were, the sigla should have been glowing— his body’s reaction to the danger of the serpents. But the sigla weren’t reacting as they had in the past and, he realized, neither were his other instincts. He’d been too preoccupied piloting the submersible to notice.
Before, when he’d come this close to the snakes’ lair, he could scarcely move, scarcely think for the debilitating fear that flowed from the monsters.
But Haplo wasn’t afraid; at least, he amended, he wasn’t afraid for himself. His fear ran deeper. It was cold and twisted him inside.
“What’s going on, boy?” he asked the dog, who had crowded near him and was whimpering against his leg.
Haplo patted the animal reassuringly, though he himself could have used reassurance. The dog whined and edged closer.
The Patryn started the vessel again, guided it toward the surface, his attention divided between the gradually brightening water and the sigla on his skin. The runes did not alter in appearance.
Judging by the evidence of his own body, the serpents were no longer on Draknor. But if they weren’t on Draknor and they weren’t with the mensch and they weren’t battling the Sartan, where were they?
The submersible surfaced. Haplo scanned the shoreline rapidly, found his ship, smiled in satisfaction to see it whole, undamaged. But his fear grew stronger, though the sigla on his skin gave him no reason to be afraid.
The body of the king serpent, slain by the mysterious “serpent mage” (who might or might not have been Alfred), lay on the cliffs above. No sign of living serpents was visible.
Haplo beached the submersible. Cautious, wary, he opened the hatch, climbed up onto the top deck. He carried no weapons, though he’d found a cache of battle-axes inside the ship. Only blades enhanced by magic would bite through the flesh of the serpents, and Haplo was too weak in his own magic now to impart its power to metal.
The dog followed him, growled a warning. Its legs stiffened, its hackles rose. Its gaze was fixed on the cave.
“What is it, boy?” Haplo asked, tensing.
The dog quivered all over, looked at its master, pleading permission to race to the attack.
“No, dog. We’re heading for our own ship. We’re getting out of here.”
Haplo jumped off the deck, landed on the foul, slime-covered sand, began to edge his way along the shoreline toward his rune-inscribed ship. The dog continued to growl and bark and came along with Haplo only reluctantly and after repeated commands.
Haplo was within arm’s length of reaching his vessel when he caught a glimpse of movement near the cavern’s entrance.
He waited, watching. He was cautious, but not particularly worried. He was now close enough to his ship to seek the safety of its protective runes. The dog’s growl became a snarl; its upper lip curled, revealing sharp teeth.
A man emerged from the cave.
Samah.
“Easy, boy,” said Haplo.
The leader of the Sartan Council walked with the bowed head and listless tread of someone deep in thought. He had not come by boat; no other submersibles were moored along the shore. He had come by magic, then.
Haplo glanced at the sigla on his hands. The runes were a little darker in color, but they did not glow, were not warning him of the advance of an enemy. By this and by logical deduction, Haplo guessed that Samah’s magic, like Haplo’s own, must be spent. Probably waterlogged. The Sartan was waiting, resting, to regain strength enough for his return journey. He posed no threat to Haplo. Just as Haplo posed no threat to him.
Or did he? All things equal, both bereft of their magic, Haplo was the younger of the two, the stronger. The fight would be crude, undignified, menschlike—two men rolling about on the sand, pummeling each other. Haplo thought it over, sighed, shook his head. He was just too damn tired.