The Hand of Chaos

43

An army of dwarves marched up out of the tunnel beneath the statue.

“Not bad, Sang-drax,” Haplo muttered in grudging admiration. “Not bad at all. Confuse the hell out of everyone.”

The serpents resembled the dwarves of Drevlin in every aspect—in clothes, in appearance, in the weapons they carried. They were shouting their hatred of the elves, urging their fellows to launch the attack. The true dwarves were beginning to waver. They were afraid of the newcomers, but their fear was starting to merge with their fear of the elves and soon they wouldn’t be able to tell one fear from the other.

And they wouldn’t be able to tell one dwarf from another.

Haplo could. He could see the red-eyed glint that gave away the serpents, but how could he explain all this to the true dwarves, how could he warn them, convince them? The two dwarven armies were about to join together. They would attack the elves, defeat them, drive them from Drevlin. And then the serpents, disguised as dwarves, would attack the machine, the Kicksey-winsey, on which the lives of all of the races on Arianus depended.

A brilliant stroke. So what if the humans and elves allied? So what if Rees’ahn and Stephen overthrew the Tribus empire? Word would come to them that the dwarves were wrecking the Kicksey-winsey, about to deprive the Mid Realm of water. The humans and elves would have no choice but to fight the dwarves to save it. ...

Chaos. Endless conflict. The serpents would grow powerful, invincible.

“Don’t believe them! They’re not us!” Jarre cried shrilly. “They’re not dwarves. And they’re not elves, either. They’re the ones who hurt me! Look at them. Limbeck. Look at them!”

Limbeck tried to wipe the mist from his spectacles.

Frustrated, Jarre grabbed hold of the spectacles, gave them a tug that broke the string. Snatching them off Limbeck’s nose, she threw them on the floor.

“What have you done?” Limbeck roared in anger.

“Now you can see, you druz! Look at them! Look!”

Limbeck peered myopically ahead. The army of dwarves was now only a dark blur, congealed together into a long, flowing mass. The mass heaved and writhed and glared at him from countless pairs of gleaming red eyes.

“A giant snake!” Limbeck shouted, raising his battle-ax. “We’re being attacked by a giant snake!”

“We are?” Lof asked confusedly, looking up and down and in front and behind him. “Where?”

“Here,” said Haplo.

Drawing the elven sword, stolen from the Imperanon, the Patryn lunged at the red-eyed dwarf standing nearest him. The runes etched on the sword flared, the metal glowed. A cascade of blue and red flame flowed from die blade toward the dwarfs head.

Except that it was no longer a dwarf.

A massive, flat, and snakelike body—ancient and awful—reared upward, expanding out of the dwarfs body like a monstrous plant bursting out of a seed pod. The serpent took shape and form faster than the eye could follow. Its tail lashed out, struck the sword, sent it flying. The weapon’s rune-magic began to fall apart, the sigla shattered, crumbled in midair—links of a chain broken and scattered.

Haplo sprang back, out of the way of the lashing tail, watched for an opportunity to recover his weapon. He’d expected this—his attack had been too swift, too random. He hadn’t had time to concentrate on his magic. But he had achieved his goal. Killing, even wounding the serpent, was not his objective. He’d meant to force it to show its true form, disrupt its magic. At least now the dwarves would see the serpent for what it was.

“Very clever of you, Patryn,” said Sang-drax. The graceful form of the serpent-elf walked slowly out of the ranks of red-eyed dwarves. “But what have you accomplished—except their deaths?”

The dwarves gasped in shock, fell over themselves and each other in an effort to escape the hideous creature that now loomed over them.

Haplo darted beneath the serpent’s whipping tail, snatched up his sword. Falling back, he faced Sang-drax. A few dwarves, shamed by the cowardice of their fellows, came to the Patryn’s side. The other dwarves rallied around him, gripping pipes, battle-axes, whatever weapons they had been able to find. But their courage was short-lived. The rest of the serpents began abandoning their mensch bodies. The darkness was filled with their hissing and the foul odor of decay and corruption that clung to them. The fire of the red eyes flared. A head dove down, a tail struck out. Massive jaws picked up a dwarf, lifted him to the Factree roof far above, dropped him to a screaming death. Another serpent crushed a dwarf with its tail. The serpents’ best weapon—fear—swept through the ranks of dwarves like an ague. Dwarves bellowed in panic, dropped their weapons. Those nearest the serpents scrambled to retreat down the hole, but ran up against a wall of their brethren, who could not get out of the way fast enough. The serpents leisurely picked off a dwarf here and there, making certain that they died loudly, horribly.

The dwarves fell back toward the front of the Factree, only to encounter the elven barricades. Elven reinforcements had begun arriving, but they were meeting—by the sounds of it—dwarven resistance outside the Factree. Elves and dwarves were fighting each other among the wheels and gears of the Kicksey-winsey, while inside the Factree itself, chaos reigned. The elves cried that the serpents had been built by the dwarves. The dwarves shrieked that the snakes were a magical trick of the elves. The two turned on each other, and the serpents drove mem on, inciting them to the slaughter. Sang-drax alone had not altered his form. He stood in front of Haplo, a smile on the delicate elven features.

“You don’t want them to die,” said Haplo, keeping his sword raised, watching his opponent closely, trying to guess his next move. “Because if they die, you die.”

“True,” said Sang-drax, drawing a sword, advancing on Haplo. “We have no intention of killing them, not all of them, at any rate. But you, Patryn. You no longer provide sustenance. You have become a drain, a liability, a threat.” Haplo risked a swift glance around. He couldn’t see either Limbeck or Jarre, presumed that they had been caught up in the panicked tide, swept away. He stood alone now, near the statue of the Manger, who stared out unseeing on the bloodshed, an expression of stern and absurdly foolish compassion frozen on the metal face.

“It is all hopeless, my friend,” said Sang-drax. “Look at them. This is a preview of the chaos that will rule the universe. On and on. Everlasting. Think of it, as you die...”

Sang-drax lashed out with his sword. The metal gleamed with the sullen, reddish light of the serpent’s magic. He could not immediately penetrate the magical shield of the Patryn’s sigla, but he would try to weaken it, batter it down.

Haplo parried the blow, steel clanging against steel. An electrical jolt ran from the serpent’s blade to Haplo’s, surged through the hilt, passed into his palms—the part unprotected by the runes—and from there up his arms. His magic was shaken. He fought to hold on to the blade, but another jolt burned the flesh on his hand, set the muscles and nerves in his arm twitching and dancing spasmodically. His hand no longer functioned. He dropped the sword, fell back against the statue, grasping his useless arm.

Sang-drax closed in. Haplo’s body-magic reacted instinctively to protect him, but the serpent’s blade easily penetrated the weakening shield, slashed across Haplo’s chest.

The sword cut the heart-rune, the central sigil, from which Haplo drew his strength, out of which sprang the circle of his being.

The wound was deep. The blade sliced through flesh, laid bare the breastbone. To an ordinary man, to a mensch, it would not have been mortal. But Haplo knew it for a death blow. Sang-drax’s magical blade had cut open more than flesh. It had severed Haplo’s own magic, left him vulnerable, defenseless. Unless he could take time to rest, to heal himself, to restructure the runes, the serpent’s next attack would finish him.

“And I’ll die at the feet of a Sartan,” Haplo muttered dazedly to himself, glancing up at the statue.

Blood flowed freely, soaked his shirt front, ran down his hands, his arms. The blue light of his sigla was fading, dwindling. He sank to his knees, too tired to fight, too ... despairing. Sang-drax was right. It was hopeless.

“Get on with it. Finish me,” Haplo snarled. “What are you waiting for?”

“You know full well, Patryn,” said Sang-drax in his gentle voice. “I want your fear!”

The elven form began to alter, the limbs merged horribly, coalesced into a slack-skinned, slime-coated body. A red light glared down on Haplo, growing brighter. He had no need to look up to know that the giant snake head loomed above him, prepared to tear at his flesh, crush his bones, destroy him. He was reminded of the Labyrinth, of the time he’d been mortally wounded there. Of how he’d laid down to die, too tired, too hurt...

“No,” said Haplo.

Reaching out his hand, he grasped the hilt of the sword. Lifting it awkwardly in his left hand, he staggered slowly to his feet. No runes shone on the blade. He’d lost the power of the magic. The sword was plain, unadorned mensch steel, notched and battered. He was angry, not afraid. And if he ran to meet death, he could, perhaps, outrun his fear.

Haplo ran at Sang-drax, lifting the blade in a blow he knew he would never live to strike.

At the start of the battle, Limbeck Bolttightner was on his hands and knees on the floor, trying to find his spectacles.

Dropping his battle-ax, he paid no attention to the shouts and frightful yells of his people. He paid no attention to the hissing and slithering of the serpents (they were only shadowy blobs to him anyway). He paid no attention to the fighting raging around him, no attention to Lof, who was rooted to the spot with terror. Limbeck paid absolutely no attention to Jarre, who was standing over him, beating him on the head with the feather duster.

“Limbeck! Please! Do something! Our people are dying! The elves are dying! The world is dying! Do something!”

“I will, damn it!” Limbeck yelled at her viciously, hands pawing desperately over the floor. “But first I have to be able to see!”

“You could never see before!” Jarre shrieked at him. “That’s what I loved about you!”

Two panes of glass shone red in the reflected light of the serpent’s eyes. Limbeck made a grab for them, only to have them shoot out from under his very fingers.

Lof, jolted free from his paralyzing fear by Jarre’s shout, turned to run away and accidentally kicked the spectacles, sent them skittering across the floor. Limbeck dove after them, sliding on his rotund belly. He scrabbled under one dwarfs legs, reached around another’s ankles. The spectacles seemed to have become a live thing, perversely keeping just beyond his grasp. Booted feet crunched on his groping fingers. Heels jabbed into his side. Lof toppled to the floor with a panic-stricken yell, his rump missing smashing the spectacles by inches. Limbeck clambered over the prostrate Lof, stuck a knee in the unfortunate dwarfs face, made a wild, stabbing grab.

Intent on the spectacles, Limbeck didn’t see what had terrified Lof. Admittedly, Limbeck wouldn’t have seen much anyway, nothing but a large gray, scaly mass descending on him. His fingertips were actually touching the wire frame of his spectacles when he was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind. Strong hands took hold of his collar, sent him flying through the air. Jarre had run after Limbeck, trying to reach him through the milling crowd of frightened dwarves. She lost sight of him for an instant, found him again—lying on top of Lof, both of them about to be crushed by the body of one of the horrible serpents.

Dashing forward, Jarre caught hold of Limbeck’s collar, yanked him up, and flung him out of danger. He was saved, but not the spectacles. The snake’s body crashed down. The floor shook, glass crunched. Within instants, the serpent reared up again, red eyes searching for its victims. Limbeck lay on his stomach, gulping for breath and not having much luck finding it. Jarre had only one thought—to keep the red eyes of the serpent off them. Again, she took hold of Limbeck by the collar and began to drag him (she couldn’t lift him) over to the statue of the Manger.

Once, long ago, during another fight in the Factree, Jarre had taken refuge inside this statue. She’d do it again. But she hadn’t counted on Limbeck.

“My spectacles!” he screamed with the first breath he was able to suck into his lungs.

He lunged forward, pulled himself free of Jarre’s grasp... and was almost beheaded by the backswing of Sang-drax’s sword.

Limbeck saw only a blur of red fire, but he heard the blade whistle past him, felt the rush of air on his cheek. He stumbled backward, into Jarre, who caught hold of him, pulled him down beside her at the statue’s base.

“Haplo!” she started to cry, then hastily swallowed her shout. The Patryn’s attention was fixed on his enemy; her yell might only distract him. Intent on each other, neither Haplo nor his foe noticed the two dwarves, crouching at the statue’s base, afraid to move.

Limbeck had only the vaguest idea of what was going on. To him, it was all a blur of light and motion and confusing impression. Haplo was fighting an elf, and then it seemed that the elf swallowed a snake, or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Sang-drax!” Jarre breathed, and Limbeck heard the horror and fear in her voice.

She shrank back against him. “Oh, Limbeck,” she whispered unhappily. “Haplo’s finished. He’s dying, Limbeck.”

“Where?” shouted Limbeck in frustration. “I can’t see!” And the next thing he knew, Jarre was leaving his side.

“Haplo saved me. I’m going to save him.”

The serpent’s tail lashed out, smashed into Haplo, knocked the sword from his hand, battered him to the floor. He lay dazed and hurting, weak from loss of blood, no breath left in his body. He waited for the end, for the next blow. But it didn’t come.

A dwarf-maid stood over him protectively. Defiant, fearless, side whiskers quivering, a battle-ax in both hands, Jarre glared at the serpent.

“Go away,” she said. “Go away and leave us alone.” The serpent ignored the dwarf. Sang-drax’s gaze and attention were concentrated on the Patryn.

Jarre jumped forward, swung the ax at the snake’s putrid flesh. The blade bit deep. A foul ooze flowed from the wound.

Haplo struggled to regain his feet. The serpent, wounded and in pain, struck at Jarre, intending to rid itself of a pest, then deal with the Patryn. The snake’s head dove at the dwarf. Jarre stood her ground, waited until the head was level with her blade. The serpent’s toothless jaws opened wide. Jarre sprang clumsily to one side, swinging her ax. The sharp blade struck the snake’s lower jaw, the force of the blow buried the head of the ax deep in the serpent’s flesh.

Sang-drax howled in pain and fury, tried to shake the ax loose, but Jarre clung to the handle tenaciously. Sang-drax reared his head, intending to slam the dwarfs body into the floor.

Haplo grasped his sword, raised it.

“Jarre!” he cried. “Stop it! Let go!”

The dwarf released her hold on the ax handle, tumbled to the ground. Sang-drax shook the ax loose. Infuriated at this insignificant creature who had inflicted such terrible pain on him, the serpent lashed out, jaws open to snap Jarre in two.

Haplo thrust the blade into the serpent’s gleaming red eye.

Blood spurted. Half blind, mad with pain and outrage, no longer able to draw on the fear of its foe for strength, the serpent thrashed about in murderous fury.

Haplo staggered, nearly fell. “Jarre! Down the stairs!” he gasped.

“No!” she shrieked. “I’ve got to save Limbeck!” and she was gone. Haplo started to go after her. His foot slipped on the serpent’s blood. He fell, slid painfully down the stairs, too weak to catch himself. It seemed he fell for a long, long time.

Oblivious to the fighting, searching for Jarre, Limbeck groped his way around the statue of the Manger and nearly tumbled into the hole that gaped suddenly at his feet. He stood gazing down into it. He could see blood and darkness and the tunnel that led to his unraveled sock, to the automaton, to the turning on of the wondrous machine. And down there, too, was that room, the mysterious room where he’d seen elves and dwarves and humans coming together in harmony. He peered around him and saw on the floor elves and dwarves lying together, dead.

A frustrated “why” was on his lips, but it was never spoken. For the first time in his life, Limbeck saw clearly. He saw what he had to do. Fumbling in his pocket, Limbeck dragged out the white cloth he used to clean his spectacles and began to wave it in the air. “Stop,” he shouted, his voice loud and strong in the silence. “Stop the fighting. We surrender.”