“No, sir,” said the dragon firmly
“Or maybe—”
“Nor that either, sir.”
“I suppose not.” Zifnab sighed, pulled the shapeless and battered hat over his eyes. “Next time. Good-bye, dear boy.” Groping about blindly, the old man solemnly shook hands with the dog, apparently mistaking it for Haplo. “Best of luck. I’ll leave you with the advice Gandalf gave Frodo Baggins. ‘When you go, go as Mr Underhill. Worthless bit of advice, if you ask me. As a wizard, Gandalf was highly overrated. Still, it must have meant something, else why would they have bothered to write it down. I say, you should really consider clipping your nails—”
“Get him out of here,” Haplo advised the dragon. “My lord could be along any moment.”
“Yes, sir. I believe that would be the best idea.”
An enormous green-scaled head swooped out of the clouds.
Haplo’s sigla flared, he backed up until he stood against the Final Gate. The dragon ignored the Patryn, however. Huge fangs, protruding from lower and upper jaws, caught hold of the wizard by the back of his mouse-colored robes and, none too gently, heaved the old man off his feet.
“Hey, let go of me, you twisted toad!” Zifhab shouted, flailing about wildly in midair. He began to wheeze and cough. “Ugh! Your breath is enough to flatten Godzilla. Been in the cat’s tuna again, haven’t you? I say, put me down!”
“Yes, sir,” the dragon said through clenched teeth. He was holding the wizard about twenty feet off the ground. “If that’s really what you want, sir.”
Zifhab lifted the brim of his hat, peered out from underneath. Shuddering, he pulled the hat back over his eyes.
“No, I’ve changed my mind. Take me … where is it Samah said we were to meet him?”
“Chelestra, sir.”
“Yes, that’s the ticket. Hope it isn’t one-way. To Chelestra, there’s a good fellow.”
“Yes, sir. With all dispatch, sir.”
The dragon, carrying the wizard, who looked, from this distance, very much like a limp mouse, disappeared into the clouds.
Haplo waited tensely to be certain the dragon was gone. Slowly, the blue light of the sigla faded. The dog relaxed, sat down to scratch.
Haplo turned to face the Final Gate. He could see, through the iron bars, the lands of the Labyrinth. Barren plains, without a tree, shrub, bush, or any type of cover, stretched from the Gate to dark and distant woods.
The last crossing, the most deadly crossing. From those woods, you can see the Gate, see freedom. It seems so close.
You start to run. You dash into the open, naked, exposed. The Labyrinth allows you to get halfway across, halfway to freedom, then sends its foul legions after you. Chaodyn, wolfen, dragons. The grasses themselves rise up and trip you, vines entangle you. And that was getting out.
It was far worse, going back in.
Haplo knew, he’d watched his lord battle it every time he entered the Gate. The Labyrinth hated those who had escaped its coils, wanted nothing more than to drag its former prisoner back behind the wall, punish him for his temerity.
“Who am I kidding?” Haplo asked the dog. “The old man’s right. Alone, I’d never make it alive to the first line of trees. I wonder what the old man meant about the Vortex? I seem to recall hearing my lord mention something about that once. Supposedly the very center of the Labyrinth. And Alfred’s there? It’d be just like Alfred to get himself sent to the very center of the Labyrinth!”
Haplo kicked at a pile of broken stone, rubble. Once, long ago, the Patryns had attempted to tear down the wall. The lord had stopped them, reminded them that though the wall kept them out, it also kept the evil in.
Perhaps it’s the evil in us, she’d said, before she left him.
“A son,” said Haplo, staring through the Gate. “Alone, maybe. Like I was. Maybe he saw his mother die, like I did. He’d be what—six, seven, now. If he’s still alive.”
Picking up a large, jagged-edged chunk of rock, Haplo threw it into the Gate. He threw it as hard as he could, wrenching his arm, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Pain flashed through his body, felt good. At least better than the bitter aching in his heart.