Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [192]
Hope. When the Labyrinth offers you hope, it means that it is just about to snatch that hope away.
She pushed herself up to a crouching position, alert and wary. Hugh the Hand lay huddled on the ground. He was shivering uncontrollably, his body racked by chills. His lips were blue, his teeth chattering so violently he’d bitten his tongue. Blood dribbled from his mouth.
Marit didn’t know much about mensch. Could he die of the cold? Perhaps not, but he might fall sick, slow her up. Moving about, walking, would warm his blood, but she had to get him on his feet first.
Marit recalled hearing from Haplo that rune-magic would work to heal mensch. Crawling over to Hugh, she clasped her hands over his wrists, let the magic flow from her body to his.
His shaking ceased. Slowly, a tinge of color returned to his pallid face. At length, he sighed, fell back on the ground, closed his eyes, letting the blissful warmth spread through his body.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Marit warned.
Touching his tender tongue to his teeth, he groaned, grunted. “Back on Arianus, I used to dream that when I was a wealthy man, I’d wallow in water. Have a big barrel of it outside my house and I’d jump in it, splash it over my head. Now”—he grimaced—“may the ancestors take me if I so much as drink a sip of the cursed stuff!”
Marit stood up. “We can’t stay here, out in the open like this. If you’re feeling up to it, we have to move.”
Hugh was on his feet immediately. “Why? What is it?”
He looked at the runes on her hands and arms; he’d been around Haplo long enough to know the sings. Seeing the sigla dark, he glanced up at her questioningly.
“I don’t know,” she answered, staring hard into the forest. “There’s nothing close, seemingly. But …” Unable to explain her uneasiness, she shook her head.
“Which way?” Hugh asked.
Marit considered. Vasu had pointed out the site where the green and golden dragon—Alfred—had last been seen. That was to the gateward side of the city, the side facing the next gate.1
She and Vasu had judged the distance to be within half a day’s walk.
Marit gnawed her lip. She could enter the woods, which would give them shelter but would also make them more vulnerable to their enemies, who—if they were out there—were undoubtedly using the woods to conceal their own movements. Or she could keep to the riverbank, keep in view of the city. For a short distance, any foe who attacked her would be in range of the magical weapons held by the guards on the city walls.
Marit decided to stay near the river, at least until the city could offer no more protection. Perhaps by then she would have picked up a trail that would lead her to Alfred.
What that trail might be, she didn’t like to think.
She and Hugh moved cautiously along the river’s shoreline. The black water churned and fumed in its banks, brooding over the indignities it had suffered. The two took care to keep clear of the slippery bank on one side and avoid the forest shadows on the other.
The woods were silent, strangely silent. It was as if every living being had gone away …
Marit halted, sick with realization, understanding.
“That’s why no one’s around,” she said aloud.
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” Hugh the Hand demanded, alarmed by her sudden stop.
Marit pointed to the ominous red glow in the sky. “They’ve all gone to the Final Gate. To join the fight against my people.”
“Good riddance, then,” said Hugh the Hand.
Marit shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” Hugh continued. “So they’ve left. Vasu said the Final Gate was a long way from here. Not even those tiger-men could reach it anytime soon.”
“You don’t understand,” Marit replied, overwhelmed by despair. “The Labyrinth could transport them there. It could move them in the blink of an eye, if it wanted. All our enemies, all the evil creatures of the Labyrinth … joined together, fighting against my people. How can we survive?”
She was ready to give up. Her task seemed futile. Even if she found Alfred alive, what good could he do? He was only one man,