The Hand of Chaos

15

“As I suspected, the Gegs staged the diversion to cover their tracks,” stated the elven captain. He stood near the statue of the Manger, peering down at the crack at the base. “One of you men, remove that pipe.” None of the members of the small squad of elves rushed forward to do the captain’s bidding. Shifting their feet, they glanced at each other or looked sidelong at the statue.

The captain turned to see why his order hadn’t been obeyed. “Well? What’s the matter with you?”

One of the elves saluted, spoke up. “The statue’s cursed, Captain Sang-drax. Everyone knows it, who’s served here any length of time.” A none-too-subtle reminder to the captain that he hadn’t been here all that long.

“If the Gegs went down there, that’s an end of them, sir,” said another.

“Cursed!” Sang-drax sniffed. “You’ll be cursed, if you don’t obey orders. My curse! And you’ll find my curse more damning than anything this ugly hunk of rock could do to you!” He glared at them. “Lieutenant Ban’glor, remove that pipe.”

Reluctantly, afraid of the curse, but more afraid of his captain, the chosen elf came forward. Reaching down gingerly, he took hold of the pipe. His face was pale, sweat trickled down his skin. The other elves involuntarily backed up a pace, caught the baleful glare of their captain, and froze. Ban’glor yanked on the pipe, nearly tumbled over backward when it slid out easily. The statue’s base revolved, opened, revealing the staircase leading down into darkness.

“I heard noise down there.” The captain walked over, stared down into the hole. The other elves gazed at it in unhappy silence. They all knew what their next order would be.

“Where did High Command find this enthusiastic bastard?” whispered one soldier to another.

“Came in on the last troop ship,” said the other gloomily.

“Just our luck we’d get stuck with him. First Captain Ander’el has to go and get himself killed—”

“Did you ever wonder about that?” asked his companion abruptly. Captain Sang-drax was staring intently into the hole at the statue’s base, apparently listening for a repetition of the sound that had drawn his attention.

“Silence in the ranks.” He glanced around irritably. The two soldiers hushed, stood unmoving, faces expressionless. The officer resumed his reconnaissance, descending about halfway down into the hole in a futile attempt to see into the darkness.

“Wonder about what?” the soldier whispered after the captain had disappeared.

“The way Ander’el died.”

The other shrugged. “He got drunk and wandered out in the storm—”

“Yes, and when did you ever see Captain Ander’el when he couldn’t hold his liquor?”

The soldier flashed his companion a startled glance. “What are you saying?”

“What a lot of people are saying. That the captain’s death was no accident—” Sang-drax returned. “We’re going in.” He gestured to the two who had been talking. “You two men, take the lead.”

The two exchanged glances. He couldn’t have overheard, they said to each other silently. Not from that distance. Glumly and without haste, they moved to obey. The remainder of the squadron marched down after them, most eyeing the statue nervously, giving it a wide berth. Last to descend, Captain Sang-drax followed his men, a slight smile on his thin, delicate lips. Haplo ran after Bane and the dog. As he ran, he glanced down at his skin—which was now burning a bright blue tinged with fiery red—and he cursed beneath his breath. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have allowed Bane to come, or the dwarves. He should have heeded the warning his body was trying to give him, even though it made no sense. In the Labyrinth, he would have never made this mistake.

“I’ve grown too damn cocky,” he muttered, “too sure of myself, counting myself safe in a world of mensch.”

But he was safe, that was the inexplicable, maddening part of all this. Yet his runes of defense and protection glowed blue and now red in the darkness. He listened for the pounding, heavy footfalls of the two dwarves, but couldn’t hear them. Perhaps they’d gone in another direction. Bane’s steps sounded nearer, yet still some distance away. The kid was running with all the speed and heedless abandon of a frightened child. He was doing the right thing—keeping the elves from finding the automaton’s room. But getting himself captured in the process wasn’t likely to help.

Haplo rounded a corner, paused a moment, listening. He had heard voices, he was certain—elven voices. How close was beyond his ability to guess. The twisting halls distorted sound and he had no way of knowing how near he was to the statue.

Haplo sent an urgent message to the dog, Stop Bane! Hold on to him!, started running again. If he could just reach the kid ahead of the elves—

A cry, sounds of a scuffle, and the dog’s urgent, angry snarling and growling brought Haplo up short. Trouble ahead. He cast a swift glance behind him. The dwarves were nowhere in sight.

Well, they were on their own. Haplo couldn’t be responsible for them and Bane, too. Besides, Limbeck and Jarre would be most at home within these tunnels, quite capable of finding a hiding place. Putting them from his mind, he crept forward.

Shut up, dog! he ordered the animal. And listen!

The dog’s barking ceased.

“And what have we here, Lieutenant?”

“A kid! Some human’s brat, Captain.” The elf sounded considerably astonished.

“Ouch! Cut it out, you little bastard!”

“Let go of me! You’re hurting me!” Bane shouted.

“Who you? What you do down here, brat?” demanded the officer, speaking the crude form of elven that most elves are convinced is the only form humans can understand.

“Mind your manners, brat.” The sound of a slap—hard and cold and impersonal, “The captain ask you question. Answer nice captain.” The dog growled. No, boy! Haplo commanded silently. Let it go. Bane gasped from the pain, but he didn’t blubber or whimper. “You’ll be sorry you did that,” he said softly.

The elf laughed, slapped the child again. “Speak up.” Bane gulped, drew in a hissing breath. When he spoke, he spoke elven fluently.

“I was looking for you elves when I saw the statue open and I was curious and came down. And I’m not a brat. I’m a prince, Prince Bane, son of King Stephen and Queen Anne of Volkaran and Ulyndia. You better treat me with respect.” Good for you, kid. Haplo awarded the boy grudging praise. That will make them stop and think.

The Patryn slipped silently closer to the hallway in which the elves held the child captive. He could see them, now—six elven soldiers and one officer, standing near the staircase that led back up to the statue.

The soldiers had fanned out down the hallway, stood with weapons drawn, looking nervously this way and that. Obviously, they didn’t like it down here. Only the officer appeared cool and unconcerned, although Haplo could see that Bane’s answer had taken the elf by surprise. He rubbed a pointed chin, eyed the boy speculatively.

“King Stephen’s whelp is dead,” said the soldier holding the boy. “We should know. He accused us of the murder.”

“Then you should know that you didn’t do it,” returned Bane cunningly. “I am the prince. The very fact that I’m here on Drevlin should prove that to you.” The boy spoke scornfully. His hand started to rub his aching jaw, but he changed his mind, stood proudly, too proud to admit he was hurt, glaring at his captors.

“Oh, yes?” said the captain. “How?”

The captain was obviously impressed. Hell, Haplo was impressed. He’d forgotten how smart and manipulative Bane could be. The Patryn relaxed, took time to study the soldiers, tried to decide what magic he could use that would render the elves helpless and leave Bane unharmed.

“I’m a prisoner, King Stephen’s prisoner. I’ve been looking for a way to escape and, when the stupid Gegs left to attack your ship, I had my chance. I ran away and came searching for you, only I got lost, coming down here. Take me back to Tribus. It will be well worth your while.” Bane smiled ingenuously.

“Take you back to Tribus?” The elven captain was highly amused. “You’ll be lucky if I waste energy enough taking you back up the stairs! The only reason I haven’t killed you yet, you little worm, is that you are right about one thing: I am curious to know what a human brat is doing down here. And I suggest that this time you tell me the truth.”

“I don’t see the need to tell you anything. I’m not alone!” Bane crowed shrilly. Turning, he pointed down the hallway, back the way he’d come.

“There’s a man guarding me, one of the mysteriarchs. And some Gegs are with him. Help me escape before he can stop me!”

Bane ducked beneath the elf captain’s arm, headed for the shelter of the stairs. The dog, after a swift glance back at Haplo, bolted after the boy.

“You two, catch the brat!” shouted the captain swiftly. “The rest of you, come with me!”

He drew a dagger from a sheath worn on his belt, headed down the hallway in the direction Bane had pointed.

Damn the little bastard! Haplo swore. He called upon the magic, speaking and drawing the sigla that would fill the hallway with a noxious gas. Within seconds, everyone—including Bane—would be comatose. Haplo raised his hand. As the first fiery sigil burned in the air beneath his fingers, he wondered who Bane was truly trying to escape.

A short, stout figure darted suddenly from around back of Haplo. “I’m here! Don’t hurt me! I’m the only one!” shouted Jarre. Trundling clumsily down the hall, she was headed straight for the elves.

Haplo had not heard the dwarf approach and he dared not stop his magic long enough to grab her, keep her out of the line of his spell-casting. She’d end up right in the midst of the sleeping gas. He had no choice but to continue. He’d pick her up when he picked up Bane. He stepped out from his hiding place. The elves came to a confused halt. They saw runes flashing in the air, a man with shimmering red and blue skin in front of them. This was no mysteriarch. No human could cast magic like this. They looked to their captain for orders. Haplo drew the last sigil. The magic was nearly complete. The elven captain was prepared to hurl his dagger, but the Patryn paid it scant attention. No mensch weapon could harm him. He completed the sigil, stepped back, and waited for the spell to work.

Nothing happened.

The first sigil had, inexplicably, flickered and gone out. Haplo stared at it. The second sigil, dependent on the first, began to fade. He couldn’t believe it. Had he made a mistake? No, impossible. The spell was a simple one... Pain flared in Haplo’s shoulder. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a dagger protruding out of his shirt. A dark splotch of blood flowered beneath it. Anger and confusion and pain robbed him of coherent thought. None of this should be happening! The dagger should not have touched him! The runes on his body should have protected him! The damn spell should be working! Why wasn’t it?

He looked into the eyes—the red eyes—of the elven captain and saw the answer. Haplo clutched at the dagger, but he lacked the strength to pull it out. A sickening, horrible warmth had begun flowing through his body. The warmth made him queasy, twisted him up inside. The terrible sensation weakened his muscles. His hand dropped, limp, lifeless. His knees buckled. He staggered, almost fell, and stumbled over to lean against the wall in an effort to try to keep on his feet.

But now the warmth was spreading up into his brain. He slumped to the floor... And then he wasn’t anywhere.