The Hand of Chaos

44

Elves and dwarves stopped long enough to stare at Limbeck—some were puzzled, some frowning, most suspicious, all astounded. Taking advantage of the general stupefaction, Limbeck climbed atop the statue’s base.

“Are you all blind?” he shouted. “Can’t you see where this will end? Death for us all. Death for the world, unless we stop it.” He held out his hands toward the elves. “I’m High Froman. My word is law. We’ll talk, negotiate. You elves can have the Kicksey-winsey. And I’ll prove I mean what I say. There’s a room down there.” He pointed to the tunnel. “A room where you elves can turn the machine on. I’ll show—”

Jarre screamed. Limbeck had a sudden impression of a huge mass rearing above him, a noxious hissing breath blowing over him, like the wind of the Maelstrom.

“It is too late!” roared Sang-drax. “There will be no peace for this world. Only chaos and terror, as you fight for survival. On Arianus, you will be forced to drink blood instead of water! Destroy the machine!” The serpent’s head swept over the startled dwarf and smashed into the statue of the Manger.

A resounding clang, deep and shuddering, rang through the Factree. The statue of the Manger, the stern and silent form of the Sartan that had stood for centuries, worshiped and adored by countless dwarves, shuddered, rocked on its base. The snake, lashing about in fury, struck at it again. The Manger let out another resounding clang, shook, shivered, and toppled to the floor. The booming echo of its fall tolled like a knell of doom through the Factree. All over Drevlin, the serpents began smashing the ’lectric zingers and ripping off the whistle-toots and battering into bits of metal the wondrous machine. The dwarves halted their retreat, picked up their weapons, turned to face the serpents.

The elves saw what was happening, had a sudden vision of their water-ships, sailing up to the realms above—empty. They began to fire their magical arrows at the serpents’ red eyes. Inside the Factree and out, drawn together by the terrible sight of the serpents attacking the machine, dwarves and elves fought side by side to protect the Kicksey-winsey.

They were aided by the timely arrival of a crippled dragon-ship that had managed, by the combined efforts of its human and elven crew, to make its way safely through the Maelstrom. A group of burly humans, acting under the command of an elven captain, carrying weapons enchanted by the spells of an elven wizard, joined the dwarves.

It was the first time, in all the history of Arianus, that humans and elves and dwarves fought together, not against each other.

The sight would have made the leader of WUPP proud, but unfortunately he couldn’t see it. Limbeck had disappeared, lay buried beneath the broken statue of the Manger.

Jarre, half blinded by tears, lifted her battle-ax and prepared to fight the serpent whose bloodied head was weaving over the statue, perhaps seeking Haplo, perhaps Limbeck. Jarre ran forward, shrieking defiance, swinging the ax... and couldn’t find the enemy.

The serpent had vanished.

Jarre stumbled, unable to stop the momentum of her violent swing. The ax flew from her blood-slick hands. She fell to her hands and knees.

“Limbeck?” she cried desperately, feverishly, and crawled toward the broken statue.

A hand appeared, waved feebly. “Here I am. I... I think...”

“Limbeck!” Jarre dove for the hand, caught hold of it, kissed it, and then began to tug on it.

“Ouch! Wait! I’m stuck! Ooof! My arm! Don’t—”

Ignoring Limbeck’s protests, not having time to pamper him, Jarre clasped his pudgy hand, planted her foot against the statue, and pulled. After a brief but invigorating struggle, she managed to free him.

The august leader of WUPP emerged from underneath the statue of the Manger, rumpled and disheveled, shaken and confused, all his buttons missing, and with the overall impression of having been stomped on and squashed, but otherwise unhurt.

“What... what happened?” he asked, squinting, trying to see.

“We’re fighting to save the Kicksey-winsey,” said Jarre, giving him a swift hug. Then she grabbed up the bloody battle-ax and prepared to launch herself into the fray.

“Wait, I’ll come with you!” Limbeck cried, clenching his fists and looking fierce.

“Don’t be a druz,” Jarre said fondly. Reaching out, she yanked on his beard.

“You can’t see a thing. You’d only hurt yourself. You stay here.”

“But... what can I do?” Limbeck cried, disappointed. “I must do something.” Jarre could have told him (and would, later on, when they were alone together) that he’d done everything. That he was the hero of the War, responsible for saving the Kicksey-winsey and the lives of not only his people but of everyone on Arianus. She didn’t have time for all that now, however.

“Why don’t you make a speech?” she suggested hastily. “Yes, I think one of your speeches would be just the thing.”

Limbeck considered. It had been a long time since he’d made a speech. Not counting the surrender speech, which had been rather rudely interrupted. He couldn’t quite recall where that one had been headed, however.

“But... I don’t have one ready...”

“Yes, you do, my dear. Here.”

Jarre reached into one of Limbeck’s baggy pockets, pulled out a sheaf of ink-stained paper, and, removing the sandwich, handed the speech to Limbeck. Resting his hand on the fallen statue of the Manger, Limbeck held the papers up to his nose and began to thunder, “Workers of Drevlin! Untie and throw off your freckles... No, that can’t be right. Workers of Drevlin! Unite and throw off your mackerels!” And so the dwarves marched into what would later go down in history as the Battle of the Kicksey-winsey, with the occasionally confused but always inspiring words of the leader of WUPP, soon to be world hero, Limbeck Bolttightner, ringing in their ears.