The Hand of Chaos

34

Haplo watched Hugh go, intended to follow him, but first looked around warily. Sang-drax was here somewhere; the runes on the Patryn’s skin were reacting to the presence of the serpent. Undoubtedly Sang-drax was waiting in that very room. Which meant that—

“Haplo!” A voice shrieked. “Haplo, come with us!” Haplo turned. “Jarre?”

Sang-drax had the dwarf maid by the hand, was urging her along down the corridor toward the stairs.

Behind Haplo, wood splintered. Hugh had broken down the door. The Patryn heard the assassin crash into the room with a roar. He was met with shouts, orders in elven, a clash of steel against steel.

“Come with me, Haplo!” Jarre reached out to him. “We’re escaping!”

“We dare not stop, my dear,” warned Sang-drax, dragging the dwarf along. “We must flee before the confusion ends. I’ve promised Limbeck I’d see you reached home safely.”

Sang-drax wasn’t looking at Jarre. He was looking at Haplo. The serpent’s eyes gleamed red.

Jarre would never reach Drevlin alive.

Sang-drax and the dwarf ran down the stairs; the dwarf stumbling in her haste, her heavy boots clumping and clattering.

“Haplo!” he heard her howl.

He stood in the hall, swearing in bitter frustration. If he could have, he would have split himself in two, but that was impossible, even for a demigod. He did the next best thing.

“Dog, go to Bane! Stay with Bane!” he commanded.

Waiting only to see the dog take off, dashing for Bane’s room—over which an ominous silence had now settled—Haplo started down the corridor in pursuit of Sang-drax.

A trap!

Haplo’s warning echoed inside Hugh.

You’ve suspected all along.

Too damn right. Hugh reached Bane’s room, found the door locked. He kicked it. The flimsy tik wood splintered, tore at Hugh’s flesh as he dashed through it. He had no plan of attack, there wasn’t time to form one. But experience had taught him that reckless, unexpected action could often overwhelm an enemy—especially one complacent with success. Hugh abandoned stealth and disguise, made as much noise, wrought as much havoc as possible. The elven guards who had been hiding inside the room knew Iridal had an accomplice; her call for help had proclaimed as much. Once they had subdued the mysteriarch, they lay in wait for the man, jumped him when he came smashing through the door. But after a few seconds, the elves began wondering if they were grappling with one man or a legion of demons.

The room had been dark, but, now that the door was shattered, light from the flambeaux in the hallway partially illuminated the scene. The flickering light only added to the confusion, however. Hugh’s mask was torn off. His head and hands were visible, his body was still camouflaged by the elven magic. It seemed to the startled elves that a disembodied human head loomed over them. Hands carrying death flashed out of nowhere.

Hugh’s slashing dagger caught one elf across the face, stabbed another in the throat. He groin-kicked an elf guard, who crumpled with a groan. A battering fist felled another.

The elves, caught flat-footed by the ferocity of the attack, and not exactly certain if they fought a living man or a specter, the elves fell back in confusion.

Hugh ignored them. Bane—his face pale, eyes wide, curls disheveled—crouched beside his mother, who lay unconscious on the floor. The Hand swept aside furniture and bodies. He had very nearly scooped up both mother and child, seemed likely to walk out with them, when a cold voice spoke.

“This is ridiculous. He’s one man. Stop him.”

Shamed, shaken from their terror, the elven soldiers returned to the attack. Three jumped Hugh from behind, grasped his flailing arms and pinned them to his side. Another struck him a blow across the face with the flat of his sword, two more carried his feet out from underneath him. The fight was over. The elves bound Hugh’s arms and wrists and ankles with bowstrings. He lay on his side, his knees hunched to his chest. He was groggy and helpless. Blood ran down the side of his head, dripped from a cut mouth. Two elves stood watchful guard over him, while the others went to fetch light and assist fallen comrades.

Candles and flaring flambeaux illuminated a scene of destruction. Hugh had no idea what sort of spell Iridal had cast before she’d been struck down, but black scorch marks were burned into the walls, several ornate tapestries were still smoldering, and two elves with severe burns were being carried from the room.

Iridal lay on the floor, eyes closed, her body limp. But she was breathing. She was alive. Hugh could see no sign of a wound, wondered what had felled her. His gaze shifted to Bane, who knelt beside his mother’s unmoving form. Hugh recalled Haplo’s words, and, though he didn’t trust the Patryn, he didn’t trust Bane either. Had the child betrayed them?

Hugh stared at Bane hard. Bane stared back, his face impassive, revealing nothing, neither innocence nor guilt. But the longer the child looked at Hugh, the more nervous Bane grew. His gaze shifted from Hugh’s face to a point just above Hugh’s shoulder. Suddenly Bane’s eyes grew wide, he gave a strangled cry.

“Alfred!”

Hugh almost glanced around behind him, then realized that the boy must be trying to trick him, draw his attention away from Iridal.

But if Bane was putting on an act, he was giving a marvel-ous performance. He shrank back, held up a warding small hand.

“Alfred! What are you doing here? Alfred, go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t need you...” The child was babbling, almost incoherent.

“Calm down, Your Highness,” said the cold voice. “There is no one there.” Bane swelled in anger. “Alfred’s there! Standing right at Hugh’s shoulder! I can see him, I tell you—”

Suddenly, the boy blinked, stared, narrow-eyed, at Hugh. Bane gulped, managed a sickly, cunning smile.

“I was laying a trap, trying to find out if this man has an accomplice. You spoiled it. You’ve gone and ruined it all, Count.” Bane tried to look indignant, but he kept his gaze fixed on Hugh, and there was a certain uneasiness in the child’s eyes, Hugh had no idea what Bane was up to, cared less. Some sort of trick. The Hand remembered a time when Bane had claimed to see a Kir monk, standing at Hugh’s shoulder.[67] The assassin licked blood from his cut lip, glanced around the room, trying to get a look at the man in charge.

“Me no speak elf,” Hugh grunted.

A tall, well-formed elf came into view. Dressed in resplendent clothing, the elf had, by some miracle, emerged unscathed, undamaged from the whirlwind of destruction that had leveled much of the room. The count walked forward, studied Hugh with detached interest, as he might have studied some new form of bug life.

“I am Count Tretar, lord of the Tretar elves. You, I believe, are known as Hugh the Hand.”

“No?” Tretar smiled. “But you wear our clothes quite well. Come, come, my dear sir.” The count continued to speak elven. “The game is ended. Accept your loss with grace. I know a great deal about you—that you speak elven fluently; that you are responsible for the deaths of several of our people; that you stole one of our dragonships. I have a warrant for your apprehension—dead or alive.” Hugh glanced again at Bane, who was now regarding the Hand with the unblinking, guileless innocence children practice as their best defense against adults.

Hugh grimaced, shifted his body, ostensibly to ease his discomfort, but in reality to test the strength of his bonds. The bowstrings were tied tight. If he attempted to work them loose, he would only succeed in causing them to dig deeper into his flesh.

This Tretar was no fool. Dissembling would no longer serve the assassin. Perhaps he could strike a bargain.

“What’s happened to the boy’s mother?” Hugh demanded. “What did you do to her?”

The count glanced at Iridal, quirked an eyebrow.

“Poisoned. Oh, nothing fatal, I assure you. A mild form, delivered by a dart, that will render her unconscious and incapacitated for as long a period as we deem necessary. It is the only way to deal with those humans known as ‘mysteriarchs.’ Other than killing them outright, of—”

The count stopped talking. His gaze had shifted to a dog that had come wandering into the room.

Haplo’s dog. Hugh wondered where the Patryn was, what his role was in all this. But the Hand couldn’t guess and he certainly wasn’t going to ask, in case the elves had, by some chance, left the Patryn out of their calculations. Tretar frowned, glanced round at his soldiers. “That’s the dog that belongs to His Highness’s manservant. What’s it doing here? Take the beast out.”

“No!” Bane cried. “He’s mine!” The child leapt up and threw his arms around the dog’s neck.

The dog responded by licking Bane’s cheek, giving every evidence that it had just discovered a long-lost friend.

“He likes me better than Haplo,” Bane announced. “I’m going to keep him.” The count regarded the pair thoughtfully. “Very well, the animal can stay. Go find out how it got loose,” he said, in an undertone to a subordinate. “And what’s happened to its owner.”

Bane pulled the dog down beside him on the floor. The animal lay there panting, looking around with bright eyes.

The count returned to his perusal of Hugh.

“You’ve captured me,” said the Hand. “I’m your prisoner. Lock me up, kill me. What happens to me doesn’t matter. Let the lady and the boy go.” Tretar appeared highly amused. “Really, my dear sir, do you think we are that stupid? A renowned assassin and a powerful wizardess fall into our hands and you expect us to literally throw both of you away. What waste! What folly.”

“What do you want, then?” Hugh growled.

“To hire you,” said Tretar coolly.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Every man has his price.”

Hugh grunted, shifted his position again. “There’s not enough barls in this slimy kingdom of yours to buy me.”

“Not money,” said Tretar, carefully dusting the soot off the seat of a chair with a silken handkerchief. He sat down, crossed shapely legs, covered by silken hose, leaned back. “A life. Her life.”

“So that’s it.”

Rolling over to lie on his back, Hugh bunched his muscles, tried to burst his bindings. Blood—warm and sticky—ran down his hands.

“My dear sir, relax. You’re only damaging yourself.” Tretar heaved an affected sigh. “I admit that my men are not particularly impressive fighters, but they do know how to tie knots. Escape is impossible, and we would not be foolish enough to kill you in the attempt, as perhaps you hope. After all, we are not asking you to do anything you haven’t done countless times before. We want to hire you to kill. As simple as that.”

“Who’s the mark?” Hugh asked, thinking he knew.

“King Stephen and Queen Anne.”

Hugh glanced up at Tretar, surprised.

The count nodded in understanding. “You expected me to say Prince Rees’ahn, didn’t you? We considered it, when we knew you were coming. But the prince has survived several such attempts. It is said that he has supernatural powers guarding him. While I don’t necessarily believe in that rubbish, I do think you—a human—would have an easier time killing the human rulers. And their deaths will serve much the same purpose. With Stephen and Anne dead and their eldest child on the throne, the alliance with Rees’ahn will crumble.” Hugh looked grimly at Bane. “So this was your idea.”

“I want to be king,” Bane said, petting the dog.

“And you trust this little bastard?” Hugh said to the count. “Hell, he’d betray his own mother.”

“That’s meant to be some sort of jest, isn’t it? Sorry, but I never could understand human attempts at humor. His Highness, Prince Bane, knows where his best interests lie.”

Hugh’s gaze went to Iridal. He was thankful she was unconscious. He might almost, for her sake, have wished her dead.

“If I agree to kill the king and queen, you let her go. That’s the deal?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your end?”

“You don’t. But then you haven’t much choice except to trust us, do you? However, I will make this concession. The boy will accompany you. He will be in contact with his mother. Through him, you will know she is alive.”

“And through him you’ll know if I’ve done what you want.” Tretar shrugged. “Naturally. And we will keep the mother informed as to the condition of her son. She would, I imagine, be devastated if anything happened to the child. She would suffer most cruelly...”

“You’re not to hurt her,” Bane ordered. “She’s going to convince all the mysteriarchs to be on my side. She loves me,” the child added with an impish smile. “She’ll do whatever I want her to do.”

Yes, and she wouldn’t believe me if I told her the truth. Not that I’ll be around long enough, Hugh thought. Bane will see to that. He can’t let me live. Once I’ve served my purpose, I’ll be “captured” and executed. But how does Haplo figure in all this? Where is he?

“Well, sir, may we have your answer?” Tretar nudged Hugh with the toe of his polished shoe.

“You don’t need an answer,” Hugh said. “You’ve got me and you know it.”

“Excellent,” Tretar stated briskly. Rising to his feet, he beckoned to several of his men. “Remove the lady to the dungeons. Keep her drugged. Otherwise, she is to be well treated.”

The elves lifted Iridal to her feet. She opened her eyes, stared around drunkenly, saw her son and smiled. Then her eyelids fluttered, her head lolled, she slumped in the arms of her captors. Tretar drew her hood up over her head, hiding her features.

“There, if anyone sees you, they will think that the lady is merely suffering from a surfeit of wine. Go on.”

The elves half carried, half dragged the stumbling Iridal out the door and down the corridor. Bane, his arm around the dog, watched without interest. Then, face brightening, he turned to Hugh.

“When do we leave?”

“It must be soon,” Tretar advised. “Rees’ahn is already at Seven Fields. Stephen and Anne are on their way. We will provide you with whatever you need ...”

“I can’t very well travel like this,” Hugh remarked from his place on the floor.

Tretar regarded him attentively, then gave a single, brief nod. “Release him. He knows that even if he did manage to escape us and find his way to the dungeons, the lady would be dead by the time he reached her.” The elves cut Hugh’s bindings, assisted him to his feet.

“I’ll want a short sword,” he said, rubbing his arms, trying to restore the circulation. “And my daggers back. And poison for the blades. There’s a certain type. Have you an alchemist? Good. I’ll speak to him myself. And money. A lot. In case we have to bribe our way through the lines. And a dragon.”

Tretar pursed his lips. “The last will be difficult, but not impossible.”

“I’ll need traveling clothes,” Hugh continued. “And so will the boy. Human. Something peddlers might wear. And some elven jewels. Nothing good. Cheap and gaudy.”

“That will not be a problem. But where are your own clothes?” Tretar asked, with a sharp look.

“I burned ’em,” Hugh responded calmly.

Tretar said nothing more. The count was longing to find out how, from where, and from whom Hugh had obtained the magical uniform of the Unseen. But he must have guessed that on this point Hugh would keep silent. And perhaps the count had a fair idea anyway. Surely, by now, Tretar’s spies would have connected Hugh and Iridal with the two Kir monks who entered Paxaua. Where would Kir monks go but to their spiritual brothers, the Kenkari?

“I’m taking the dog,” Bane announced, jumping excitedly to his feet.

“Only if you can teach it to fly dragonback,” Hugh told him. Bane appeared crestfallen for an instant, then ran off to his bed, commanding the animal to follow.

“Now, this is a dragon,” Bane said, pointing at the bed. He patted the mattress. “You get up here... That’s it. And now sit. No, sit. Hind end down.”

The dog, tongue out, ears up, tail wagging, entered into the spirit of the game, but appeared uncertain what was required of it and offered a front paw to shake.

“No, no, no!” Bane pressed on the dog’s rear portion. “Sit!”

“Charming child,” observed Tretar. “One would think he was going on holiday...”

Hugh said nothing, eyed the dog. The beast was magical, as he recalled. At least he supposed it must be. He’d seen it do some strange things. It wasn’t often separated from Haplo and, if it was, there must be a reason. But Hugh was damned if he could figure out what. Not that it much mattered anyway. There was only one way out of this, as far as Hugh could see. An elf entered the room, glided over to Tretar, spoke in an undertone. Hugh had sharp hearing.

“Sang-drax ... all going according to plan. He has the dwarf... she will arrive in Drevlin safely, story of escape. Emperor’s pride saved... Kicksey-winsey saved. Boy can keep the dog...”

At first, Haplo had no difficulty following Sang-drax and the dwarf. With her heavy boots, her short legs, which couldn’t quite keep up with her supposed rescuer, and her huffing and puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, Jarre was moving slowly and making enough noise for the Kicksey-winsey itself. Which made it all the more inexplicable when Haplo lost them. He had followed them down the hall outside Bane’s room, down the stairs. But when he reached the bottom of the staircase that opened into another hallway (the same hall through which he’d entered) the two were nowhere in sight. Haplo, cursing in frustration, ran down the hallway, gaze sweeping the floor, the walls, the closed doors on either side.

He was near the end of the hall, almost to the front door, when it occurred to him that something about this was wrong.

Lights were burning, where before it had been dark. No footmen yawned and gossiped in the entryway. He saw, in sudden perplexity, that there wasn’t an entryway. Reaching the end of the corridor and what should have been a door, Haplo discovered a blank wall and two more corridors, each of which branched off in opposite directions. These halls were far longer than normal, far longer than would have been possible, considering the size of the building. And he had no doubt now that if he ran down either one, he would find both led to other corridors.

He was in a maze, a maze of the serpent-elf’s magical creation, a frustrating, nightmarelike concoction that would have Haplo running endlessly, going nowhere except insane.

The Patryn came to a halt. He reached out groping hands, hoping to touch something solid and real, hoping to dispel the magic. He was in danger, for though it appeared to him as if he were standing in an empty corridor, in reality he might be standing in the center of an open courtyard, surrounded by a hundred armed elves.

This was worse, far worse, than being struck suddenly blind. Deprived of his sight, he could have relied on, trusted his other senses. But now his brain was forced to argue with his senses; the dreamlike quality of the illusion was unnerving. He took a step, and the corridor swayed and slanted. The floor he could feel beneath his feet wasn’t the floor he saw with his eyes. Walls slid through his fingers. Yet his fingers touched something solid. He was growing dizzy, disoriented.

He shut his eyes, tried to concentrate on sounds, but that proved unreliable. The only sounds he heard were coming through the dog’s ears. He might have been standing in the room with Hugh and Bane.

Haplo’s skin prickled, the runes activating. Something, someone was coming up on him. And here he stood, with his eyes shut, flailing about helplessly. Now he heard footsteps, but were they near him or near the dog? Haplo fought down a panicked urge to lash out wildly.

A breath of wind touched his cheek. Haplo turned.

The corridor was still empty, but, damn it, Haplo knew someone was there, someone right behind him. He worked his magic, caused the sigla to shine blue, envelop him in a protective shield.

It would work against mensch. But not against...

Pain burst in his head. He was falling, falling into the dream. He hit the ground, the shock jolted him back to conscious awareness. Blood rolled into his eyes, gummed the lids. He struggled to open them, but gave up. It hurt to look into the dazzling light His magic was unraveling.

Another blow...

Gigantic birds—horrible creatures with leather wings, razor-sharp beaks and tearing teeth—attacked Haplo. He tried to escape, but they dove at him, repeatedly. Their wings beat around him. He fought, but he couldn’t see them. They had pecked out his eyes.

He tried to run from them, stumbled blindly over the rough and uneven terrain of the Labyrinth. They swooped down on him, talons raked across his naked back. He fell, and when he did, they were on him. He turned bleeding eye sockets toward the sound they made, the raucous cries of glee and chortles of sated hunger.

He struck at them with his fists, kicked at them with his feet. They flew just near enough to tease him, let him wear himself out. And when he collapsed, weak, they perched on his body, dug talons into his skin, tore out great gobs of flesh, and feasted on it and on his pain and his terror.

They meant to kill him. But they would devour him slowly. Pick his bones, eat the still-living flesh. Gorged, they would flap away, leave him to agony and darkness. And when he had regained his strength, healed himself, tried to run, he would hear once more the horrible flapping of their learner wings. And each time they attacked, he lost a little more of his power to fight them. Lost it, never to regain it.