The Hand of Chaos

2

Haplo had never completely mastered the dwarven system of navigation, which, according to Grundle, relied on sounds emitted by the seamoons themselves. At first he was concerned about being able to find Draknor, but he soon discovered that the seamoon was easy to find... too easy. The serpents left a trail of foul ooze in their wake. The path led to the murky black waters surrounding the tormented seamoon.

Darkness swallowed him. He had sailed into the caverns of Draknor. He could see nothing and, fearful of running aground, slowed the submersible’s forward progress until it barely moved. He could swim through the foul water, if he had to; he’d done it before. But he hoped swimming wouldn’t be necessary. His hands were dry, and his lower arms where he’d rolled up the wet sleeves. The runes were extremely faint, but they were visible. And though they gave him the magical power of a child of two, the faint blue of the sigla was comforting. He didn’t want to get wet again.

The submersible’s prow scraped against rock. Haplo steered it swiftly upward, breathed a sigh when it continued, unimpeded. He must be nearing the shore. He decided to risk bringing the vessel to the surface...

The runes on his hands! Blue. Faint blue.

Haplo brought the ship to a full stop, stared down at the sigla. Faint blue color, not nearly as blue as the veins beneath his skin on the back of his hands. And that was odd. Damn odd!

Weak as they were, the sigla should have been glowing—his body’s reaction to the danger of the serpents. But the sigla weren’t reacting as they had in the past and, he realized, neither were his other instincts. He’d been too preoccupied piloting the submersible to notice.

Before, when he’d come this close to the snakes’ lair, he could scarcely move, scarcely think for the debilitating fear that flowed from the monsters. But Haplo wasn’t afraid; at least, he amended, he wasn’t afraid for himself. His fear ran deeper. It was cold and twisted him inside.

“What’s going on, boy?” he asked the dog, who had crowded near him and was whimpering against his leg.

Haplo patted the animal reassuringly, though he himself could have used reassurance. The dog whined and edged closer.

The Patryn started the vessel again, guided it toward the surface, his attention divided between the gradually brightening water and the sigla on his skin. The runes did not alter in appearance.

Judging by the evidence of his own body, the serpents were no longer on Draknor. But if they weren’t on Draknor and they weren’t with the mensch and they weren’t battling the Sartan, where were they?

The submersible surfaced. Haplo scanned the shoreline rapidly, found his ship, smiled in satisfaction to see it whole, undamaged. But his fear grew stronger, though the sigla on his skin gave him no reason to be afraid. The body of the king serpent, slain by the mysterious “serpent mage” (who might or might not have been Alfred), lay on the cliffs above. No sign of living serpents was visible.

Haplo beached the submersible. Cautious, wary, he opened the hatch, climbed up onto the top deck. He carried no weapons, though he’d found a cache of battle-axes inside the ship. Only blades enhanced by magic would bite through the flesh of the serpents, and Haplo was too weak in his own magic now to impart its power to metal.

The dog followed him, growled a warning. Its legs stiffened, its hackles rose. Its gaze was fixed on the cave.

“What is it, boy?” Haplo asked, tensing.

The dog quivered all over, looked at its master, pleading permission to race to the attack.

“No, dog. We’re heading for our own ship. We’re getting out of here.” Haplo jumped off the deck, landed on the foul, slime-covered sand, began to edge his way along the shoreline toward his rune-inscribed ship. The dog continued to growl and bark and came along with Haplo only reluctantly and after repeated commands.

Haplo was within arm’s length of reaching his vessel when he caught a glimpse of movement near the cavern’s entrance.

He waited, watching. He was cautious, but not particularly worried. He was now close enough to his ship to seek the safety of its protective runes. The dog’s growl became a snarl; its upper lip curled, revealing sharp teeth. A man emerged from the cave.

Samah.

“Easy, boy,” said Haplo.

The leader of the Sartan Council walked with the bowed head and listless tread of someone deep in thought. He had not come by boat; no other submersibles were moored along the shore. He had come by magic, then.

Haplo glanced at the sigla on his hands. The runes were a little darker in color, but they did not glow, were not warning him of the advance of an enemy. By this and by logical deduction, Haplo guessed that Samah’s magic, like Haplo’s own, must be spent. Probably waterlogged. The Sartan was waiting, resting, to regain strength enough for his return journey. He posed no threat to Haplo. Just as Haplo posed no threat to him.

Or did he? All things equal, both bereft of their magic, Haplo was the younger of the two, the stronger. The fight would be crude, undignified, menschlike—two men rolling about on the sand, pummeling each other. Haplo thought it over, sighed, shook his head. He was just too damn tired. Besides, Samah looked to have suffered a beating already. Haplo waited quietly. Samah did not glance up from his troubled musings. He might conceivably have walked past the Patryn without seeing him. The dog, unable to contain itself, remembering past wrongs, barked a sharp warning—the Sartan had come close enough.

Samah raised his head, startled at the sound but not, apparently, startled to see either the dog or its master. The Sartan’s lips tightened. His gaze shifted from Haplo to the small submersible floating behind him.

“Returning to your lord?” Samah asked coldly.

Haplo saw no need to reply.

Samah nodded; he hadn’t expected a response. “You’ll be glad to know your minions are already on their way. They have preceded you. No doubt a hero’s welcome awaits you.” His tone was bitter, his gaze dark with hatred and, lurking beneath, fear.

“On their way...” Haplo stared at the Sartan, then, suddenly, he understood. Understood what had happened, understood the reason for his seemingly unreasonable fear. Now he knew where the serpents were... and why.

“You bloody fool!” Haplo swore. “You opened Death’s Gate!”

“I warned you we would do so, Patryn, if your mensch lackeys attacked us.”

“You were warned, Sartan. The dwarf told you what she overheard. The serpents wanted you to open Death’s Gate. That was their plan all along. Didn’t you listen to Grundle?”

“And so now I should be taking advice from mensch?” Samah sneered.

“They have more sense than you do, seemingly. You opened Death’s Gate, intending to do what? Flee? No, that wasn’t your plan. Help. You sought help. After what Alfred told you. You still don’t believe him. Nearly all your people are gone, Samah. You few on Chelestra are all that’s left, except for a couple of thousand animated corpses on Abarrach. You opened the Gate, but it was the serpents who passed through it. Now they’ll spread their evil throughout the four worlds. I hoped they stopped long enough to thank you!”

“The power of the Gate should have stopped the creatures!” Samah replied in a low voice. His fist clenched. “The serpents should not have been able to enter!”

“Just as mensch can’t enter without your help? You still don’t understand, do you, Sartan? These snakes are more powerful than you or I or my lord or maybe all of us put together. They don’t need help!”

“The serpents had help!” Samah retorted bitterly. “Patryn help.” Haplo opened his mouth to argue, decided it wasn’t worth it. He was wasting time. The evil was spreading. It was now even more imperative that he return to warn his lord.

Shaking his head, Haplo started for his ship. “C’mon, dog.” But the animal barked again, refused to budge. The dog looked at Haplo, ears cocked.

Don’t you have something you want to ask, master?

A thought did occur to Haplo. He turned back.

“What happened to Alfred?”

“Your friend?” Samah mocked. “He was sent to the Labyrinth—the fate of all who preach heresy and conspire with the enemy.”

“You know, don’t you, that he was the one person who might have stopped the evil.”

Samah was briefly amused. “If this Alfred is as powerful as you claim, then he could have prevented us from sending him to prison. He didn’t. He went to his punishment meekly enough.”

“Yes,” said Haplo softly. “I’ll bet he did.”

“You value your friend so dearly, Patryn, why don’t you go back to your prison and try to get him out?”

“Maybe I will. No, boy,” Haplo added, seeing the dog’s gaze go longingly to Samah’s throat. “You’d be up sick half the night.” He returned to his ship, cast off the moorings, dragged the dog—who was still growling at Samah—inside, slammed the hatch shut behind him. Once on board, Haplo hastened to the window in the steerage compartment to keep an eye on the Sartan. Magic or no magic, Haplo didn’t trust him.

Samah stood unmoving on the sand. His white robes were damp and bedraggled, the hem covered with slime and the ooze of the dead serpents. His shoulders sagged; his skin was gray. He looked exhausted to the point of falling, but—probably aware that he was under scrutiny—he remained standing upright, jaw thrust out, arms folded across his chest.

Satisfied that his enemy was harmless, Haplo turned his attention to the runes burned into the wooden planks of the ship’s interior. He traced each one again in his mind—runes of protection, runes of power, runes to take him once again on the strange and terrifying journey into Death’s Gate, runes to ensure his safety until he reached the Nexus. He spoke a word, and the sigla began to glow soft blue in response.

Haplo breathed a deep sigh. He was guarded, protected. He allowed himself to relax for the first time in a long, long while. Making certain his hands were dry, he placed them on the ship’s wheel. It, too, had been enhanced by runes. The mechanism wasn’t as powerful as the steering stone he’d used aboard Dragon Wing. But Dragon Wing and the steering stone were now at the bottom of the sea—if Chelestra’s sea had a bottom. The rune-magic on the wheel was crude, it had been hurriedly done. But it would take him through Death’s Gate and that was all that mattered.

Haplo guided his ship away from the shoreline. He glanced back at the Sartan, who seemed to dwindle in size as the expanse of black water separating them grew larger.

“What will you do now, Samah? Will you enter Death’s Gate, search for your people? No, I don’t think so. You’re scared, aren’t you, Sartan? You know you made a terrible mistake, a mistake that could mean the destruction of all you’ve worked to build. Whether you believe the serpents represent a higher, evil power or not, they’re a force you don’t understand, one you can’t control.

“You’ve sent death through Death’s Gate.”