The Hand of Chaos

39

The phantom dragon swooped close to the elven vessel, far too close. Krishach’s wing clipped one of the guide ropes attached to the sails. The rope snapped, the starboard wing sagged like the broken wing of an injured bird. The elves, stricken with terror at the sight of the monstrous apparition, ran before it. Krishach appeared to be about to smash headlong into the frail ship. Haplo, balancing precariously on the dragon’s back, made a convulsive leap for the deck.

His magic cushioned his fall. He hit, rolled, and was on his feet, dreading to hear the crack of the main mast, see the phantom dragon destroy the ship. He ducked involuntarily as the huge, corpse-white belly passed overhead. A chill blast of air, stirred by the pale wings, billowed the remaining sail, sent the ship into a perilous descent. Staring upward, Haplo saw the awful flames burning in the dead skull and, above that, Iridal’s terrified face. Krishach, with a hollow roar, swooped overhead.

“Fly on!” Haplo shouted to Iridal. “Go! Quickly.” He didn’t see Sang-drax; the serpent-elf had probably gone below decks, to Jarre.

Iridal seemed reluctant to leave him; Krishach hovered in the air near the crippled vessel. But Haplo was in no immediate danger—the elves on deck had either fled below decks or, driven mad with fear, leapt overboard. Haplo shouted to Iridal, waved his arm. “There’s nothing more you can do here! Go find Bane!”

Iridal raised her hand in farewell, turned her face upward. Krishach flapped his wings, and the phantom dragon soared swiftly away to his next destination. Haplo glanced about. The few elves remaining on the top deck were paralyzed with fear, their minds and bodies numb with shock. The Patryn’s flesh glowed, he had arrived on the wings of the dead. Haplo surged across the deck, grabbed one by the throat.

“Where’s the dwarf? Where’s Sang-drax?”

The elf’s eyes rolled, he went limp in Haplo’s grip. But the Patryn could hear, below decks, the dwarfs high-pitched, pain-filled screams. Flinging aside the useless mensch, Haplo dashed over to one of the hatch covers, tried to pull it open.

The cover was shut tight, probably being held from below by the panicked crew. Someone down there was shouting orders. Haplo listened, wondering if it was Sang-drax. But he didn’t recognize the voice, decided it must be the captain or one of his officers, attempting to restore order.

Haplo kicked at the hatch. He could use his magic to blow it open, but then he’d be faced with fighting his way through a mass of desperate mensch who, by this time, were probably nerving themselves up to do battle. And he didn’t have time to fight. He could no longer hear Jarre’s cries. And where was Sang-drax? Lying in wait, in ambush...

Swearing beneath his breath, Haplo looked around for another way below decks. He was familiar with dragonships, having flown one to the other worlds he’d visited. The ship was beginning to list, the weight of its broken wing dragging it down. Only the magic of the ship’s wizard was keeping it afloat. A gust of wind hit the vessel, sent it lurching. A shudder ran through the ship. It had fallen too close to the Maelstrom, was caught in the stormy coils. The captain must have realized what was happening; his shouts turned to bellows.

“Get those slaves back to work on the port side. Use the lash, if you have to! What do you mean, they’ve bolted the door to the cable room? Somebody find the ship’s wizard. Break down the damn door. The rest of you, get back to your stations or by the ancestors you’ll be posted to duty on Drev-li! Where the devil is that blasted wizard?”

The port-side wing had ceased to move, the cable controlling it had gone slack. Maybe the galley slaves were too fear-crazed to perform their tasks. They could, after all, have seen the phantom from out the hawse-hole, located in the hull through which the cable passed.

The hawse-hole...

Haplo ran to the port side, peered over the edge. The Maelstrom was still far below, though much closer than when he’d first boarded the ship. He climbed over the railing, scrambled, slipped, and slid the rest of the way down the side of the hull, catching himself on the cable that guided the port wing. Clinging to the thick rope, he wrapped his legs around it and crawled forward toward the hawse-hole that gaped in the ship’s side. Startled faces—human faces—stared out at him. Haplo kept his gaze fixed on them, not on the drop beneath him. He doubted if even his magic would save him from a fall into the Maelstrom.

Walk the dragon’s wing, Hugh the Hand had termed this maneuver, a term that had become synonymous in Arianus with any daring, dangerous feat.

“What is he?” demanded a voice.

“Dunno. Human, from the looks of ’im.”

“With blue skin?”

“All I know is he don’t have slanty eyes and pointy ears and that makes ’im good enough for me,” said a human, in the firm tones of an acknowledged leader. “Some of you men, give him a hand.”

Haplo reached the hawse-hole, grasped hold of the strong arms that caught him, pulled him inside. Now he could see why the port-side wing had ceased to function. The human galley slaves had taken advantage of the confusion to slip their bonds, overwhelm their guards. They were armed with swords and knives. One was holding a dagger to the throat of a young elf, dressed in wizard’s garb.

“Who are you? Where’d you come from? You was riding the back of that fiend...” The humans gathered around him, suspicious, frightened, half-threatening.

“I’m a mysteriarch,” said Haplo.

Fear changed to awe, then hope. “You’ve come to save us?” said one, lowering his sword.

“Yeah, sure,” said Haplo. “And I’m here to save a friend of mine—a dwarf. Will you help me?”

“Dwarf?” The suspicion returned. The man who was their leader shoved his way forward through the pack. He was older than the rest, tall and muscular, with the huge shoulders and biceps of those who spend their lives in harness, working the giant wings of the dragon-ships.

“What’s a damn dwarf to us?” he demanded, facing Haplo. “And what the hell is a mysteriarch doing here?”

Great. All Haplo needed now was mensch logic. Blows were thundering against the door. Wood splintered. The head of an ax sliced through, was jerked free, cracked through again.

“What’s your plan?” Haplo retorted. “What do you intend to do now that you’ve seized control?” The answer was one he might have expected. “Kill elves.”

“Yeah. And while you’re doing that, the ship’s being sucked into the Maelstrom.”

The vessel shuddered, the deck listed precariously. The humans slid and fell, tumbling into the walls and each other. “Can you fly it?” Haplo shouted, grabbing hold of an overhead beam for support.

The humans looked doubtfully at each other. Their leader’s expression grew dark, grim.

“So we die. We’ll send their souls to their precious emperor first.” Sang-drax. This was Sang-drax’s doing. Haplo had a good idea now how the humans had managed to come by their weapons. Chaos, discord, violent death—meat and drink to the serpent-elf.

Unfortunately, now was not the time for Haplo to try to explain to the humans that they’d been duped by a player in a cosmic game, nor could he very well launch into an exhortation to love those who had inflicted the raw and bleeding lash marks he could see on their backs.

It’s too late! Sang-drax’s mocking voice whispered in Haplo’s brain. It’s too late, Patryn. The dwarf is dead; I killed her. Now the humans will kill the elves, the elves will slay the humans. And the doomed ship hurtles downward, carrying them all to destruction. So it will be with their world, Patryn. So it will be with yours.

“Face me, Sang-drax!” Haplo cried in anger, clenching his fists. “Fight me, damn it!”

You are no different from these mensch, are you, Patryn? I grow fat on your fear. We will meet—you and I—but in my time.

The voice was gone. Sang-drax was gone. Haplo felt the itch and burn of the runes on his skin start to ease. And there was nothing he could do. He was helpless, as the serpent-elf had said.

The door gave way, burst open. Elves charged inside. The humans jumped to meet them. The man holding the ship’s wizard hostage started to draw his knife across the young elf’s throat.

“I lied!” Haplo snarled, grabbing hold of the first mensch that came within his grasp. “I’m not a mysteriarch!”

Blue and red sigla from the Patryn’s arm flared, enveloped the human’s body in dancing runes. The sigla flashed around the terrified man like a whirlwind and, with the speed of lightning, arced from him to the elf he was battling. The jolt sizzled from that elf to a human fighting behind him. Faster than any of them could let go an indrawn breath, the runes jolted through the bodies of every elf and human inside the cable room, sped from there throughout the ship.

There was sudden, frozen silence.

“I’m a god,” Haplo announced grimly.

The spell held the mensch immobile, muscles locked in place, movement suspended, killing strokes arrested, blows halted. The knife drew blood from the wizard’s cut skin, but the hand that held the blade could not stab it home. Only the eyes of each man remained free to move.

At the sound of Haplo’s pronouncement, the eyes of the mensch shifted in their frozen heads, stared at him in mute and helpless fear.

“Don’t go anywhere until I get back,” he told them, and walked around the unmoving bodies, which glowed with a faint, blue light.

He stalked through the shattered door. Everywhere he went, throughout the ship, the awed eyes of the spelt-enthralled mensch followed him. A god? Well, why not. Limbeck had mistaken Haplo for a god when they’d first met.

The god who wasn’t, Limbeck had called him. How appropriate. Haplo hurried through the eerily quiet ship, which was canting and rocking and shivering as if in terror itself of the black clouds swirling beneath it. He shoved open doors, kicked in doors, peered into rooms, until he found what he was searching for. Jarre, lying in a crumpled, bloody heap on the blood-soaked deck.

“Jarre. Jarre,” he whispered, coming to stand by the dwarf. “Don’t do this to me.” Gently, carefully, he turned her faceup. Her face was battered, bruised, her eyes swollen shut. But he noticed, when he examined her, that her lashes fluttered slightly. Her skin was warm.

Haplo couldn’t find a pulse, but, laying his head on her chest, he heard the faint beating of her heart. Sang-drax had lied. She wasn’t dead.

“Good girl,” he said to her softly, gathering her up in his arms. “Just hang on a little longer.”

He couldn’t help her now. He couldn’t expend the energy needed to heal her and maintain his hold over the mensch on this ship at the same time. He would have to transport her somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

Haplo emerged from the room, carrying the unconscious, tormented body of the dwarf in his arms. He made his way slowly through the ship. The eyes stared at him, shifted to the pitiful sight of the tortured dwarf maid.

“You heard her screams?” Haplo asked the mensch. “What’d you do, laugh? Can you still hear them? Good. I hope you hear them a long, long time. Not that you’ve got much time. Your ship is falling into the Maelstrom.

“And what will you do about it, Captain?” he asked the elf who was frozen in midstride, caught dashing off the bridge. “Kill the humans who are the only ones who can work the wings? Yeah, that sounds like a sensible idea to me.

“And you fools,” he said to the humans, immobile in the port cable room. “Go ahead, murder the elf wizard, whose magic is the only thing keeping you afloat.”

Holding Jarre in his arms, the Patryn began to chant the runes. The spell reversed, the blue glow surrounding the mensch slid off them like water. Flowing through the ship, the magic began to gather around Haplo. The fiery runes formed a circle of flame that encompassed him and the dying dwarf. The flames were blinding, forced the mensch standing near to back away, squint their eyes against the radiant light. “I’m leaving,” he told them. “Feel free to take up where you left off.”