The Hand of Chaos

42

Limbeck took off his spectacles for the twentieth time in almost as many minutes and rubbed his eyes. He tossed the spectacles on the table in front of him, plopped down in a chair, and glared at them. He had made them himself. He was proud of them. For the first time in his life, with these spectacles on, he could see clearly—everything sharp and in focus, no fuzzy blobs, no vague and blurry outlines. Limbeck stared at the spectacles, admiring them (what he could now see of them) and loathing them.

He hated them, detested them. And he dared not move without them. They had begun to give him frightful headaches that started in back of his eyeballs, shot what felt like little ’lectric zingers into his head. The ’lectric zingers fired up a giant whumping whammer that marked time by banging against his skull.

But now he could see his people clearly, could see their faces pinched with hunger, drawn with the fear that grew worse every day that passed, every day the Kicksey-winsey refused to move, remained shut down, shut off, silent. And when Limbeck looked at this people through the spectacles, when he saw their despair, he hated.

He hated the elves, who had done this to them. He hated the elves who had dragged off Jarre and were now threatening to kill her. He hated the elves or whatever it was that had killed the Kicksey-winsey. And when he hated, his stomach muscles twisted and lurched up and wrapped around his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe for the tightness.

Then he planned grand and glorious wars, and he made very fine and impassioned speeches to his people. And for a while, they hated, too, and they forgot about being cold and hungry and afraid of the terrifying silence. But eventually Limbeck would have to fall silent, and then the dwarves would return to their homes and be forced to listen to their children cry. Then the pain would be so bad it sometimes made him throw up. When he was finished throwing up, he’d feel his insides slide back into their proper places. He’d remember how life used to be, before the revolution, before he’d asked why, before he’d found the god who wasn’t a god, who turned out to be Haplo. Limbeck would remember Jarre and how much he missed her, missed her calling him a “druz” and yanking on his beard.

He knew that the why had been a good question. But maybe his answer to the why hadn’t been such a great answer.

“There are too many why’s,” he muttered, talking to himself (the only person he had to talk to now, most of the other dwarves not liking to be around him much, for which he didn’t blame them, since he didn’t like to be around himself much either). “And there are no answers. It was stupid of me to ask. I know better now. I know things like: That’s mine!, Hands off!, Give me that or I’ll split your skull open, and Oh, yeah? Well, you’re another!” He’d come a long way from being a druz.

Limbeck laid his head down on the table, stared morosely through the wrong end of the spectacles, which had the interesting and rather comforting effect of making everything seem far away and small. He’d been a lot happier, being a druz.

He sighed. It was all Jarre’s fault. Why did she have to run off and get herself captured by elves? If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. He’d be threatening to destroy the Kicksey-winsey...

“Which I couldn’t do, anyway,” he muttered. “These Gegs would never hurt their precious machine. The elves know that. They’re not taking my threat seriously. I—” Limbeck stopped in horror.

Gegs. He’d called his people Gegs. His own people. And it was as if he were seeing them through the wrong end of the spectacles—distant, far away, small.

“Oh, Jarre!” Limbeck moaned, “I wish I was a druz!” Reaching up, he gave his own beard a hard and painful yank, but it just didn’t have the same effect. Jarre put love into her beard-yanking. She’d loved him when he was a druz.

Limbeck snatched up the spectacles, hurled them on the table, hoping they’d break. They didn’t. Peering around nearsightedly, he went on a grim and frantic search for a hammer. He had just picked up what he’d thought was a hammer but which turned out to be a feather duster when a furious pounding and loud, panicked shouting exploded outside his door.

“Limbeck, Limbeck,” howled a voice he recognized as belonging to Lof. Bumbling into the table, Limbeck groped about for the spectacles, stuck them, slightly askew, on his face, and—feather duster in hand—flung the door open.

“Well? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he said in an Important Voice, which is how he generally got rid of people these days.

Lof didn’t notice. He was in a pitiable state, his beard sticking out wildly in all directions, his hair standing on end, his clothes every which way. He was wringing his hands, and when a dwarf wrings his hands, matters are desperate. For long moments, he couldn’t talk, but could only shake his head, wring his hands, and whimper.

Limbeck’s spectacles were hanging from one ear. He took them off, stuffed them in a vest pocket, and patted Lof kindly on the shoulder. “Steady, old man. What’s happened?”

Encouraged, Lof gulped and drew a shuddering breath. “Jarre,” he managed.

“It’s Jarre. She’s dead. The elves killed her. I... I s-s-saw her, Limbeck!” Dropping his head to his hands, Lof gave a harsh sob and began to weep. It was quiet. The quiet came from Limbeck, bounced off the walls, returned to him. He couldn’t even hear Lof crying anymore. He couldn’t hear anything. The Kicksey-winsey had long been silent. Now Jarre was silent, forever. It was all so very, very quiet.

“Where is she?” he asked, and he knew he asked the question, though he couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice.

“In... in the Factree,” Lof burbled. “Haplo’s with her, he says she’s not dead... but I know I saw...”

Limbeck saw Lof’s mourn moving, forming words. Limbeck understood one—“Factree.”

Taking out his spectacles, placing them firmly on his nose and over his ears, Limbeck grabbed hold of Lof. Dragging him along, Limbeck headed for the secret tunnels that led to the Factree.

As he went, he rallied every dwarf he found. “Come with me,” he told them.

“We’re going to kill elves.”

Haplo’s magic transported him to the Factree, the only place on Drevlin—other than his ship—that he could picture clearly in his mind. He had considered his ship. Once there, he could save Jarre’s life, return her to her people, then he could return to his people. He would sail to Abarrach and try, once again, to persuade his lord that the serpents were using him, using them all.

The idea of his ship was in his mind only briefly, before he abandoned it. Sang-drax and the serpents were plotting something—something major, something dire. Their plans for Arianus were going awry. They hadn’t expected Haplo or Iridal to escape, they hadn’t taken the Kenkari into consideration. They would have to make a move to counter whatever good effect Iridal might be able to achieve in the Mid Realm. Haplo had a good idea what the serpents next move was going to be.

He materialized inside the Factree, near the statue of the Manger. Haplo laid Jarre down gently on the base of the statue and took a swift look around. His skin glowed a faint blue, a residue of the magic expended to bring himself and the dwarf here, but also a warning. The serpents were near. Down below, he guessed, down in their secret caverns.

As for more immediate danger, he was prepared to face the elven soldiers, who were bivouacked in the Factree, prepared to deal instantly with any who might be standing guard duty around the statue. They would be astounded to see him materializing out of nowhere. In that moment of shock, he would subdue them. But there was no one there. The statue’s base had been shut again, covering the tunnel beneath. Elves still moved about the Factree, but they were all gathered at the front of the huge building, as far from the statue as they could get.

The glimmerglamps were dark, this part of the Factree was left to darkness. Haplo looked up at the benign face of the statue, reflected in the blue light radiating from the Patryn’s skin. He saw, in the face, Alfred. “This fear of your people would grieve you, wouldn’t it, my bumbling friend?” the Patryn asked. Then the shadows moved, and Haplo saw Samah’s stern face beneath the statue’s hood. “But you’d think their fear a fitting tribute.” Jarre moaned and stirred. Haplo knelt by her side. The statue shielded them from the sight of the elves. Should any happen to look this direction—a possibility he didn’t consider likely—they would see only a blue glow, soft and faint, so soft and faint that they would probably think their eyes were deceiving them and discount it.

But other eyes were watching, eyes Haplo hadn’t counted on.

“J-Jarre!” gasped a horrified voice.

“Damn!” Haplo swore, and turned.

Two figures crept out of the darkness, emerging from the hole in the floor that led to the dwarves’ secret tunnels.

Of course, Haplo realized, Limbeck would have posted spies to keep an eye on the elves. The dwarves could sneak up the ladder, sit in the darkness, watch the elves’ movements without running serious risk. The only drawback would be the feeling of fear that flowed from beneath the statue, from the serpents below.

Haplo noted that the dwarves appeared hesitant to approach the statue, were drawn to it by their shock and their worry over Jarre.

“She’s all right,” Haplo told them, trying to sound reassuring, hoping to prevent panic. One bellow and it was all over. He’d have the entire elven army to cope with. “She looks bad now, but I’m going to—”

“She’s dead!” gasped the dwarf, staring. “The elves killed her.”

“Limbeck!” said his companion. “Must tell... Limbeck.” Before Haplo could say another word, the two had turned and dashed off, trundling across the Factree floor toward the tunnel entrance. He heard their heavy boots clumping down the ladder; they’d forgotten to shut the metal cover.

Fine. Just fine. If he knew Limbeck, Haplo would soon have half the dwarves in Drevlin up here. Well, he’d deal with mat when it happened.

Leaning over Jarre, he took both her hands in his, extended the circle of his being, made her a part of it. The sigla’s glow brightened, traveled from Haplo’s right hand to Jarre’s left. His health and strength flowed into her, her pain and torment flowed into him.

He’d known the pain was coming, was braced to receive it. He’d experienced the same thing, healing the elf lad, Devon, in Chelestra. But this was more terrible, the pain was far worse, and—as if the serpents knew it would reach him eventually—the torment took him back to the Labyrinth.

Again the cruel birds with their razor talons and tearing beaks gorged on his flesh, tore at his vitals, beat at him with their leathery wings. Haplo grit his teeth, closed his eyes, told himself over and over it was not real, and held fast to Jarre.

And some of her strength—the strength and courage that had kept her alive—flowed to him.

Haplo gasped and shuddered, wanted desperately to die, the pain and fear were so bad. But firm, strong hands held his and a voice was saying, “It’s all right. They’re gone. I’m here.”

The voice was a woman’s, a Patryn’s. He knew it. It was her voice! She’d come back to him. Here, in the Labyrinth, she’d found him at last. She’d driven away the serpents. He was safe, with her, for the time being. But the serpents would come back, and there was the child to protect... their child.

“Our child?” he asked her. “Where is our child?”

“Haplo?” said the voice, now sounding puzzled. “Haplo, don’t you see me? It’s me, Jarre...”

Haplo sat up, caught his breath. Level with his face was the frightened and anxious face—and quivering side whiskers—of a female dwarf. His disappointment was almost as terrible to bear as the pain. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumped. It was all hopeless. How could he go on? Why should he? He’d failed, failed her, their child, failed his people, failed Jarre’s people...

“Haplo!” Jarre’s voice was stern. “Don’t be a druz. Snap out of it.” He opened his eyes, looked up at her, standing near him. Her hands twitched; he had the impression that if he’d had a beard, she’d be yanking it—her usual remedy for restoring Limbeck to sense.

Haplo smiled his quiet smile, rose to his feet. “Sorry,” he said.

“Where was I? What did you do to me?” Jarre demanded, eyeing him suspiciously. Her face paled, she looked frightened. “The .. the elf... he hurt me.” Her expression grew puzzled. “Only he wasn’t an elf. He was a horrible monster, with red eyes ...”

“I know,” said Haplo.

“Is he gone? He is gone, isn’t he?” she said, brightening with hope. “You drove him away.”

Haplo regarded her in silence.

She shook her head, hope dimming. “He’s not?”

“No, he’s here. Down below. And there’s more of them. Many more. The elf, Sang-drax, was only one of them. They’re able to enter your world the same way I enter it.”

“But how—” she wailed.

“Hush!” Haplo raised his hand.

The sound of feet, many feet, heavily booted feet, pounded down below—in the dwarves’ secret entrance. Deep voices, shouting and clamoring in anger, echoed through the tunnels. The heavily booted feet began climbing up the ladder that led into the Factree.

The noise was like the rumble of the storms that swept Drevlin, swelling from beneath the Factree floor. Haplo cast a swift glance toward the elves, even as he raced over to the dwarves. The elven soldiers were on their feet, grabbing for weapons, their officers shouting orders. The expected dwarven attack was underway. The elves were prepared.

Haplo reached the tunnel entrance and was nearly bowled over by a surge of dwarves, leaping out at him. The elves were hastily overturning cots, throwing up barricades. The Factree doors flew open, a gust of rain-laden wind blew inside. Lightning flashed and the crack of thunder nearly drowned out the shouting dwarves. Someone cried in elven that the entire dwarven community was in arms. An officer yelled back that this was what he’d been waiting for, now they could exterminate the little “Gegs.”

Limbeck charged past Haplo. At least Haplo assumed it was Limbeck. The dwarfs face was contorted with hatred and fury and the lust to kill. Haplo would not have recognized the dwarf had it not been for the spectacles, planted firmly on his nose and tied around his head with a long piece of string. He was carrying a wicked-looking battle-ax in one hand and, unaccountably, a feather duster in the other. Limbeck dashed past Haplo, leading his fellow dwarves in a mad, frenzied dash that would take them headlong into the advancing ranks of the disciplined elves.

“Avenge Jarre!” shouted Limbeck.

“Avenge Jarre!” answered the dwarves in a single, rumbling, dire voice.

“I don’t need avenging!” Jarre yelled shrilly, from where she stood at the base of the statue of the Manger. “It wasn’t the elves! Limbeck!” she howled, wringing her hands. “Don’t be a druz!”

Well, it worked once before, Haplo thought, and was extending his arm to unleash the spell that would freeze everyone in his or her place. But the chant died on his lips. He looked at his arm, saw the runes flare a brilliant, vibrant blue, saw it intertwined with red, felt his skin flame with warning. The statue of the Manger came to life, began to move.

Jarre screamed, lost her balance on the swiveling base, and tumbled down the dais on which the statue stood. Limbeck had not heard her shout, but he heard her scream. He stopped in midrush, turned toward the sound, saw Jarre, scrambling to her feet, and the statue of the Manger, opening slowly. The fear and terror and horror that flowed out of the tunnel ahead of the serpents acted more effectively than any of Haplo’s spells to stop the dwarven advance. The dwarves stumbled to a halt, stared fearfully at the hole. Defiance and fury seeped out of them, leaving them cold and shivering husks. The elves, farther away from the tunnel entrance, couldn’t see precisely what was going on, but they could see the giant statue moving on its base, could hear the rumble it made. And they, too, could feel the fear. They crouched behind their barricades, gripped their weapons, looked questioningly and nervously at their officers, who were grim and uneasy themselves.

“It won’t work, Sang-drax,” Haplo shouted. Through the dog’s ears, Haplo could hear Hugh’s voice, talking to Trian. He could hear the words of Iridal’s bitter sorrow. “You’re defeated! Bane’s dead. The alliance will hold. Peace will come. There’s nothing you can do now!”

Oh, yes there is, said Sang-drax, whispering inside Haplo’s head. Watch!

Jarre half stumbled, half ran to Limbeck.

“We’ve got to escape!” she shrieked, plummeting into him, nearly knocking him flat. “Tell everyone. We have to leave. A... a horrible monster is coming. It lives down there! Haplo said—”

Limbeck knew a horrible monster was coming, something dark and evil and hideous. He knew he should run, knew he should order everyone to run for their lives, but he couldn’t manage to get the words out. He was too frightened. And he couldn’t see clearly. His spectacles had misted over from the sweat dripping down his brow. And he couldn’t take them off. The string was knotted around his head and he didn’t dare let loose of the battle-ax he was holding to unknot the string.

Dark shapes, dreadful beings, poured up out of the hole.

It was... They were...

Limbeck blinked, rubbed at his spectacles with his shirtsleeves.

“What... what is it, Jarre?” he demanded.

“Oh, Limbeck!” She drew in a shivering breath. “Limbeck... it’s us!”