ALFRED GULPED, SINKING ONTO A FLAT ROCK. “I have to rest.” The last panicked dash and the fall of the mountain on top of him had been too much for the Sartan. He sat hunched over, wheezing and gasping. Marit cast a disdainful glance at him, then one at Haplo. Then she looked away. I told you, said her scornful gaze. You are a fool. Haplo said quietly, “There’s no time, Alfred. Not now. We’re exposed, out in the open. We find cover, then we rest.” “Just a few moments,” Alfred pleaded meekly. “It seems quiet …” “Too quiet,” Marit said. They were in a small grove of scrub trees that appeared, from their stunted growth and twisted limbs, to have waged a desperate struggle for life in the shadow of the mountain. A sparse smattering of leaves clung dejectedly to the branches. Now that the mountain had collapsed, the Labyrinth’s sun touched the trees for perhaps the first time. But the gray light brought no cheer, no comfort. The leaves rustled mournfully, and that, Marit noticed uneasily, was the only sound in the land.
