The Hand of Chaos

3

Xar, lord of the Nexus, walked the streets of his quiet, twilight land, a land built by his enemy. The Nexus was a beautiful place, with rolling hills and meadows, verdant forests. Its structures were built with soft, rounded corners, unlike the inhabitants, who were sharp-edged and cold as steel. The sun’s light was muted, diffused, as if it shone through finely spun cloth. It was never day in the Nexus, never quite night. It was difficult to distinguish an object from its shadow, hard to tell where one left off and the other began. The Nexus seemed a land of shadows.

Xar was tired. He had just emerged from the Labyrinth, emerged victorious from a battle with the evil magicks of that dread land. This time, it had sent an army of chaodyn to destroy him. Intelligent, giant, insectlike creatures, the chaodyn are tall as men, with hard black-shelled bodies. The only way to destroy a chaodyn utterly is to hit it directly in the heart, kill it instantly. For if it lives, even a few seconds, it will cause a drop of its blood to spring into a copy of itself.

And he’d faced an army of these things, a hundred, two hundred; the numbers didn’t matter for they grew the moment he wounded one. He had faced them alone, and he’d had only moments before the tide of bulbous-eyed insects engulfed him.

Xar had spoken the runes, caused a wall of flame to leap up between him and the advance ranks of the chaodyn, protecting him from the first assault, giving him time to extend the wall.

The chaodyn had attempted to outrun the spreading flames that were feeding off the grasses in the Labyrinth, springing to magical life as Xar fanned them with magical winds. Those few chaodyn who ran through the fire, Xar had killed with a rune-inscribed sword, taking care to thrust beneath the carapace to reach the heart below. All the while, the wind blew and the flames crackled, feeding off the shells of the dead. The fire jumped from victim to victim now, decimating the ranks.

The chaodyn in the rear watched the advancing holocaust, wavered, turned, and fled. Under cover of the flames, Xar had rescued several of his people, Patryns, more dead than alive. The chaodyn had been holding them hostage, using them as bait to lure the Lord of the Nexus to do battle. The Patryns were being cared for now by other Patryns, who also owed their lives to Xar. A grim and stern people, unforgiving, unbending, unyielding, the Patryns were not effusive in their gratitude to the lord who constantly risked his life to save theirs. They did not speak of their loyalty, their devotion—they showed it. They worked hard and uncomplaining at any task he set them. They obeyed every command without question. And each time he went into the Labyrinth, a crowd of Patryns gathered outside the Final Gate, to keep silent vigil until his return.

And there were always some, particularly among the young, who would attempt to enter with him; Patryns who had been living in the Nexus long enough for the horror of their lives spent in the Labyrinth to fade from their minds.

“I will go back,” they would say. “I will dare it with you, my Lord.” He always let them. And he never said a word of blame when they faltered at the Gate, when faces blanched and the blood chilled, legs trembled and bodies sank to the ground.

Haplo. One of the strongest of the young men. He’d made it farther than most. He’d fallen before the Final Gate, fear wringing him dry. And then he’d crawled on hands and knees, until, shuddering, he shrank back into the shadows.

“Forgive me, Lord!” he’d cried in despair. So they all cried.

“There is nothing to forgive, my child,” said Xar, always. He meant it. He, better than anyone, understood the fear. He faced it every time he entered and every time it grew worse. Rarely was there a moment, outside the Final Gate, that his step did not hesitate, his heart did not shiver. Each time he went in, he knew with certainty that he would not return. Each time he came back out, safely, he vowed within himself that he would never go back.

Yet he kept going back. Time and again.

“The faces,” he said. “The faces of my people. The faces of those who wait for me, who enclose me in the circle of their being. These faces give me courage. My children. Every one of them. I tore them out of the horrible womb that gave them birth. I brought them to air and to light.

“What an army they will make,” he continued, musing aloud. “Weak in numbers, but strong in magic, loyalty, love. What an army,” he said again, louder than before, and he chuckled.

Xar often talked to himself. He was often alone, for the Patryns tend to be loners.[8] And so he talked to himself, but he never chuckled, never laughed.

The chuckle was a sham, a crafty bit of play-acting. The Lord of the Nexus continued to talk, as might any old man, keeping company with himself in the lonely watches of the twilight. He cast a surreptitious glance at his hand. The skin showed his age, an age he could not calculate with any exactness, having no very clear idea when his life began. He knew only that he was old, far older than any other who had come out of the Labyrinth.

The skin on the back of his hand was wrinkled and taut, stretched tight, revealing clearly beneath it the shape of every tendon, every bone. The blue sigla tattooed on the back of the hand were twisted and knotted, but their color was dark, not faded by the passage of time. And their magic, if anything, was stronger.

These tattooed sigla had begun to glow blue.

Xar would have expected the warning inside the Labyrinth, his magic acting instinctively to ward off attack, alert him to danger. But he walked the streets of the Nexus, streets that he had always known to be safe, streets that were a haven, a sanctuary. The Lord of the Nexus saw the blue glow that shone with an eerie brightness in the soft twilight, he felt the sigla burn on his skin, the magic burn in his blood.

He kept walking as if nothing were amiss, continued to ramble and mutter beneath his breath. The sigla’s warning grew stronger, the runes shone more brightly still. He clenched his fist, hidden beneath the flowing sleeves of a long black robe. His eyes probed every shadow, every object. He left the streets of the Nexus, stepped onto a path that ran through a forest surrounding his dwelling place. He lived apart from his people, preferring, requiring quiet and peace. The trees’ darker shadows brought a semblance of night to the land. He glanced at his hand; the rune’s light welled out from beneath the black robes. He had not left the danger behind, he was walking straight toward its source.

Xar was more perplexed than nervous, more angry than afraid. Had the evil in the Labyrinth somehow seeped through that Final Gate? He couldn’t believe it was possible. Sartan magic had built this place, built the Gate and the Wall that surrounded the prison world of the Labyrinth. The Patryns, not particularly trusting an enemy who had cast them inside that prison, had strengthened the Wall and the Gate with their own magic. No. It was not possible that anything could escape.

The Nexus was protected from the other worlds—the worlds of Sartan and mensch—by Death’s Gate. So long as Death’s Gate remained closed, no one could leave or enter who had not mastered the powerful magic required to travel it. Xar had mastered the secret, but only after eons of long and difficult study of Sartan writings. He had mastered it and passed his wisdom on to Haplo, who had ventured forth into the universe.

“But suppose,” Xar said to himself beneath his breath, his eyes darting side to side, attempting to pierce the darkness that had always before been restful, was now ominous, “suppose Death’s Gate were opened! I sensed a change when I came out of the Labyrinth—as if a breath of air stirred suddenly within a house long closed up and sealed shut. I wonder...”

“No need to wonder, Xar, Lord of Patryns,” came a voice from out of the darkness. “Your mind is quick, your logic infallible. You are correct in your assumption. Death’s Gate has been opened. And by your enemies.” Xar halted. He could not see the speaker, hidden in shadows, but he could see eyes, flickering with a strange red light, as if they reflected a distant fire. His body warned him that the speaker was powerful and might prove dangerous, but Xar heard no note of threat or menace in the sibilant voice. The speaker’s words were respectful, even admiring, and so was his tone. Yet Xar remained on his guard. He had not grown old in the Labyrinth by falling victim to seductive voices. And this speaker had already committed a grave error. He had somehow penetrated into the lord’s head, descried his thoughts. Xar had been talking beneath his breath. No one, standing at that distance from him, could have overheard. “You have the advantage of me, sir,” said Xar calmly.

“Come closer, that these aged eyes of mine, which are easily confused in the shadows, can see you.”

His eyesight was sharp, sharper than it had been in his youth, for now he knew what to look for. His hearing was excellent. The speaker didn’t need to know that, however. Let him think he faced a frail old man.

The speaker was not fooled. “Your aged eyes see clearer than most, I’ll wager, Lord. But even they can be blinded by affection, misplaced trust.” The speaker walked out of the forest, onto the path. He came to stand directly in front of the Lord of the Nexus, spread his hands to indicate he earned no weapon. Torchlight flared, a burning brand materialized in the speaker’s hands. He stood in its light, smiling with quiet confidence. Xar stared at the man, blinked. Doubt crept into his mind, increased his anger. “You look like a Patryn. One of my people,” he said, studying the man.

“Yet I don’t know you. What trick is this?” His voice hardened. “You had best speak quickly. The breath won’t be in your body long.”

“Truly, Lord, your reputation has not been exaggerated. No wonder Haplo admires you, even as he betrays you. I am not a Patryn, as you have surmised. I appear in this guise in your world in order to maintain secrecy. I can appear in my true form, if such is your pleasure, my lord Xar, but my true form is somewhat daunting. I deemed it best for you to decide if you wanted to reveal my presence to your people.”

“And what is your true form, then?” Xar demanded, ignoring, for the moment, the accusation regarding Haplo.

“Among the mensch, we are known as ‘dragon,’ my lord.” Xar’s eyes narrowed. “I have dealt with your species before and I see no reason why I should let you live any longer than I let them. Particularly as you stand in my homeland.”

The false Patryn smiled, shook his head. “Those whom you refer to by that appellation are not true dragons, merely distant cousins.[9] Much as the ape is said to be a distant cousin of the human. We are far more intelligent, far more powerful in magic.”

“All the more reason you should die...”

“All the more reason we should live, especially since we live only to serve you, Lord of the Patryns, Lord of the Nexus, and, shortly, Lord of the Four Worlds.”

“You would serve me, eh? You say ‘we’? How many of you are there?”

“Our numbers are enormous. They’ve never been counted.”

“Who created you?”

“You did, Patryn, long ago,” said the serpent, softly hissing.

“I see. And where have you been all this time?”

“I will tell you our story, Lord,” answered the serpent coolly, ignoring the sarcastic tone. “The Sartan feared us, feared our power, just as they feared you Patryns. The Sartan cast your people into prison, but—since we are of a different species—they determined to exterminate us. The Sartan lulled us into a false sense of security by pretending to make peace with our kind. When the Sundering came, we were caught completely off guard, defenseless. We barely escaped with our lives. To our grief, we were powerless to save your people, who had always been our friends and allies. We fled to one of the newly created worlds and hid there to nurse our wounds and regain our strength.

“It was our intent to seek out the Labyrinth and attempt to free your people. Together, we could rally the mensch, who were left dazed and helpless by their terrible ordeal, and we could defeat the Sartan. Unfortunately, the world in which we chose to live—Chelestra—was also the choice of the Sartan Council. The mighty Samah himself established his city, Surunan, populated it with thousands of enslaved mensch.

“He soon discovered us and our plans to overthrow his tyrannical rule. Samah vowed that we would never leave Chelestra alive. He closed and sealed Death’s Gate, dooming himself and the rest of the Sartan on other worlds to isolation—only for a short time, or so he thought. He meant to make quick work of us. But we proved stronger than he’d anticipated. We fought back, and, though many of our kind gave up their lives, we forced him to free the mensch and at length drove him to seek the safety of the Sartan stasis chamber.

“Before the Sartan abandoned their world, they had their revenge on us. Samah cut adrift the seasun that warms the water of Chelestra. We could not escape; the bitter chill of the ice surrounding this world of water overtook us Our body temperatures dropped, our blood grew cold and sluggish. It was all we could do to manage to return to our seamoon and take refuge inside its caverns. Ice locked us in, sent us into an enforced hibernation that lasted centuries.[10]

“At length, the seasun returned and brought with it warmth and renewed life for us. With it came a Sartan, one who is known as Serpent Mage, a powerful wizard who has been traveling Death’s Gate. He awoke the Sartan and freed them from their long sleep. But by now, you, Lord, and some of your people had also attained your freedom. We sensed it, far away as we were. We felt your hope shine on us and it was warmer than the sun. And then Haplo came to us and we bowed to him and pledged him our help to defeat the Sartan. Defeat Samah, the ancient enemy.”

The serpent’s voice dropped low. “We admired Haplo, trusted him. Victory over Samah was within our grasp. We intended to bring the Sartan leader to you, Lord, as proof of our devotion to your cause. Alas, Haplo betrayed us, betrayed you. Samah fled, as did the Serpent Mage—the Sartan responsible for poisoning Haplo’s mind. The two Sartan escaped, but not before Samah had been driven by his fear of us and his fear of you, great Xar, to open Death’s Gate!

“The Sartan can no longer stop us from returning to assist you. We entered Death’s Gate and we present ourselves to you, Xar. We would call you ‘Lord.’” The serpent bowed.

“And what is the name of this ‘powerful’ Sartan to whom you keep referring?” Xar asked.

“He calls himself by the mensch name ‘Alfred,’ Lord.”

“Alfred!” Xar forgot himself, lost his composure. His hand beneath the black robe clenched into a fist. “Alfred!” he repeated beneath his breath. He glanced up, saw the eyes of the serpent glint red. Xar quickly regained his calm.

“Haplo was with this Alfred?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Then Haplo will bring him to me. You need not fear. You have obviously misunderstood Haplo’s motives. He is cunning, is Haplo. Intelligent and clever. He may not be a match for Samah—if this is truly the same Samah, which I much doubt—but Haplo is more than a match for this Sartan with the mensch name. Haplo will be here shortly. You will see. And he will have Alfred with him. And then all will be explained.

“In the meantime,” Xar added, cutting short the serpent, who would have spoken, “I am very tired. I am an old man and old men need their rest. I would invite you to my house, but I have a child staying with me. A very sharp child, quite intelligent for a mensch. He would ask questions that I would prefer not to answer. Keep hidden in the forest. Avoid going around my people, for they will react to you as I have.” The Lord of the Nexus held forth his hand, exhibited the runes that glowed a vibrant blue. “And they might not be as patient as I have been.”

“I am honored by your concern, my lord. I will do as you command.” The serpent bowed again. Xar turned to take his leave. The serpent’s words followed him.

“I hope mat this Haplo, in whom my lord has placed such faith, will be found worthy of it.” But I most sincerely doubt it!

Unspoken words whispered from the twilight shadows. Xar heard them plainly, or perhaps he was the one who gave them utterance in thought, if not aloud. He glanced back over his shoulder, irritated at the serpent, but the serpent was gone. It had apparently slunk into the woods without a sound, without the rustle of a leaf, the cracking of a twig. Xar was further irritated, then angered at himself for having let the serpent upset him.

“A lack of confidence in Haplo is a lack of confidence in myself. I saved his life. I brought him out of the Labyrinth. I raised him up, trained him, assigned him this most important task, to travel Death’s Gate. When he first had doubts, I chastised him, cleansed him of the poison inflicted by the Sartan, Alfred. Haplo is dear to me. To discover that he has failed me is to discover that I have failed!”

The glow of the sigla on Xar’s skin was beginning to fade, though it still gleamed brightly enough to light the lord’s path through the fringes of the forest. He irritably forbore the temptation to look backward again. He didn’t trust the serpent, but then he trusted very few. He would have liked to have said “none.” He trusted no one. But that would have been wrong. Feeling older and wearier than usual, the lord spoke the runes and summoned out of the magical possibilities an oaken staff, strong and sturdy, to aid his tired steps.

“My son,” he whispered sadly, leaning heavily on the staff. “Haplo, my son!”