CHAPTER 17

WOMBE, DREVLIN

LOW REALM

HAPLO WOKE IN PAIN, ALTERNATELY SHIVERING AND BURNING. LOOKING up, he saw the eyes of the elven captain gleam red through a shadowed dimness.

Red eyes.

The captain squatted on his haunches, long, thin-fingered elven hands hanging between bent knees. He smiled when he saw Haplo conscious, watching him.

“Greetings, master,” he said pleasantly, his tone light and bantering. “Feeling sickish, are you? Yes, I suppose so. I’ve never experienced the nerve poison, but I understand it produces some remarkably uncomfortable sensations. Don’t worry. The poison is not deadly, its effects wear off soon.”

Haplo gritted his teeth against the chill that made them rattle in his head, closed his eyes. The elf was speaking Patryn, the rune language of Haplo’s people, the language that no elf living or dead had ever spoken, could ever speak.

A hand was touching him, sliding beneath his wounded shoulder.

Haplo’s eyes flared open, he instinctively lashed out at the elf… or that was what he intended. In reality, he flopped his arm around a little. The elf smiled with a mocking compassion, clucked over Haplo like a distracted hen. Strong hands supported the injured Patryn, eased him to an upright, sitting position.

“Come, come, master. It’s not that bad,” said the captain cheerily, switching to elven. “Yes, if looks could kill, you’d have my head hanging from your trophy belt.” Red eyes glinted in amusement. “Or should I say, perhaps, a snake’s head, don’t you agree?”

“What… what are you?” At least, that’s what Haplo tried to say. His brain shaped the words clearly, but they came out mush.

“Talking’s difficult just now, I fancy, isn’t it?” remarked the elf, speaking Patryn again. “No need. I can understand your thoughts. You know what I am. You saw me on Chelestra, though you probably don’t remember. I was only one of many. And in a different body. Dragon-snakes, the mensch dubbed us. Here, what would you say? Serpent-elf? Yes, I rather like that.”

Shape-changers… Haplo thought in a vague kind of horror. He shivered, mumbled.

“Shape-changers,” agreed the serpent-elf. “But come. I’m taking you to the Royal One. He’s asked to speak with you.”

Haplo willed his muscles to respond to his command, willed his hands to strangle, hit, jab, anything. But his body failed him. His muscles twitched and danced in erratic spasms. It was all he could do to remain standing, and then he was forced to lean on the elf.

Or, he supposed he should start thinking, the serpent.

“Suppose you try standing, Patryn. Oh, I say, that’s quite good. Now walking. We’re late as it is. One foot in front of the other.”

The serpent-elf guided the stumbling Patryn’s footsteps as if he were a feeble old man. Haplo shuffled forward, feet falling over each other, hands jerking aimlessly. A cold sweat soaked his shirt. His nerves flamed and tingled. The sigla tattooed on his body had gone dark, his magic disrupted. He shook and shivered and burned, leaned on the elf, and kept going.

Limbeck stood in the darkness that was so extraordinarily dark—far darker than any darkness he could ever remember— and began to think that he’d made a mistake. The sigil Haplo had left above the arched passageway still glowed, but it cast no light, and, if anything, its solitary brilliance so far above the dwarf only served to make his own darkness darker.

And then the light of the sigil began to dim.

“I’m going to be trapped down here in the dark,” said Limbeck. Removing his spectacles, he started to chew on the earpiece, a habit of his when nervous. “Alone. They’re not coming back.”

This possibility had not occurred to him. He’d seen Haplo perform marvelous feats of magic. Surely, a handful of elves wouldn’t be a problem for a man who had driven away a marauding dragon. Haplo would scare away the elves, then come back, and Limbeck could continue investigating that wondrous metal personage inside the room.

Except Haplo didn’t come back. Time passed. The sigil grew dimmer. Something had gone wrong.

Limbeck wavered. The thought of leaving this room, perhaps forever, was agony. He had been so close. Give the metal man its instructions and the metal man would start the heart of the great machine beating again. Limbeck was not quite clear on what the instructions were or how they were to be given or what would happen once the great machine started up, but he had faith that all would be made clear to him in time—just like putting on his spectacles.

But, for now, the door was closed. Limbeck couldn’t get back inside. He knew he couldn’t get back inside, because he’d given the door a push or two, after Jarre had left him. He supposed he should be encouraged because the metal man had at least followed Haplo’s orders, but right at the moment Limbeck could have opted for a more slovenly, undisciplined attitude on the metal man’s part.

The dwarf considered beating on the door, shouting, demanding to be let in.

“No,” Limbeck muttered, grimacing at an awful taste in his mouth, a taste left behind by the earpiece, “yelling and shouting might alert the elves. They’d come searching and find the Heart Room [as he was now terming it]. If I had a light, I could see that symbol Bane drew on the door, then maybe I could open it. But I don’t have a light and no way to get a light without going away and bringing one back. And if I go away to bring one back, how will I get back when I don’t know the way?”

Sighing, Limbeck put his spectacles back on. His gaze went to the archway, to the sigil that had once shone brightly but now was hardly more than a pale ghost of itself.

“I could leave a trail, like Haplo did,” murmured Limbeck, frowning in deep thought. “But with what? I don’t have anything to write with. I don’t”—he felt hastily in his pockets —”even have a single wing nut on me.” He had been thinking of a story he’d heard as a child, in which two young Gegs, before entering the tunnels of the great machine, had marked their route by leaving behind a trail of nuts and bolts.

A thought came to him, then—a thought whose brilliance nearly took his breath away.

“My socks!”

Limbeck plunked himself down on the floor. One eye on the sigil, whose glow was growing dimmer by the minute, and one on what he was doing, he hauled off his boots, stood them neatly by the door. Pulling off one of his long, thick woolen socks, which he had knit himself, he fumbled about at the top of the sock, searching for the knot that marked the end of the thread. He found it without much trouble, not having bothered to try to incorporate it into the fabric. Giving the knot a good swift wrench with his teeth, he tugged it loose.

Since the lives of the dwarves on Drevlin revolve solely around the Kicksey-winsey, male and female dwarves divide household chores such as child rearing, cooking, sewing, and cleaning. Thus all dwarves are adept at knitting, crocheting, darning, and, in fact, consider such skills a form of recreation. All dwarves must have something to do with their hands; to sit idle, dreaming (such as Limbeck did as a youth), is considered a terrible sin.

Limbeck knew how to knit, but he evidently wasn’t much good at it, as is evidenced by the fact that his socks unravel with such ease.

His next problem was: how to anchor the end of the thread? The walls were smooth, as was the door. Limbeck groped about in the dark, hoping to find some protrusion, but discovered nothing. At length, he wrapped the thread around the buckle on his boot, then stuffed the top of the heavy boot beneath the door until only the sole could be seen, sticking out.

“Just leave that alone, will you?” he called to the metal man within the room, thinking that perhaps the automaton might take it into its steel head to either shove the boot back out or (if it took a fancy to the boot) pull it the rest of the way inside.

The boot remained in place. Nothing disturbed it.

Hastily, Limbeck took hold of his sock, began to unravel it. He started down the hall, leaving a trail of woolen thread behind.

He had gone under about three sigil-marked archways and unraveled about half his sock when the flaw in his plan occurred to him.

“Bother,” said Limbeck, irritated.

For, of course, if he could find his way back, following the trail of the sock, then so could the elves. But there was no help for that now. He could only hope he came across Haplo and Bane quickly, then he could take them back to the Heart Room before the elves discovered it.

The sigla over the archways continued to give off their faint glow. Limbeck followed their lead, used up one sock. Taking off the other, he tied the end of its thread to the end of the thread of the first and continued on. He was trying to figure out what he would do when he ran out of socks. He was considering starting on his sweater and even thinking that he must be somewhere near the stairs that led to the statue, when he rounded a corner and almost ran smack into Haplo.

The Patryn was no help to Limbeck, however, for two reasons: Haplo wasn’t alone and he didn’t look at all well. An elf was half-carrying the Patryn.

Startled, Limbeck ducked back into a recessed doorway. Pattering about on his bare feet, the dwarf made hardly a sound. The elf, who had slung Haplo’s limp arm across his shoulders, was talking to Haplo and did not hear Limbeck’s approach or his retreat. The elf and Haplo continued without pause on down a hallway that branched off from Limbeck’s.

Limbeck’s heart sank. The elf was moving confidently through the tunnels, which meant that the elves must know all about them. Did they know about the Heart Room and the metal man? Were the elves the ones responsible for shutting down the Kicksey-winsey?

The dwarf had to find out for certain and the one way to find out was to spy on the elves. He would see where they took Haplo and, if possible, what they did to him. And what he did to them.

Wadding what was left of his sock into a ball, Limbeck wedged the sock into a corner and, moving more quietly (without his boots) than any dwarf had ever moved in the history of the race, he crept down the hall after Haplo and the elf.

Haplo had no idea where he was, except that he had been brought to one of the underground tunnels dug by the Kicksey-winsey. Not a Sartan tunnel… No. A quick glance at the wall confirmed his thinking. No Sartan runes, anywhere. He banished the thought as swiftly as it came. Of course, the serpents now knew about the secret Sartan tunnels, if they didn’t know about them before. But best not to let them know anything else, if he could help it.

Except that Bane…

“The boy?” The serpent-elf glanced at Haplo. “Don’t concern yourself. I sent him back with my men. They’re real elves, of course. I’m their captain—Sang-drax is my name in elven. Rather clever, don’t you agree? Yes, I’ve sent Bane along to the real elves. He’ll be of far more value to us in their hands. Quite a remarkable mensch, that Bane. We have great hopes for him.

“Drax” means “dragon” in elven. “Sang” means snake.

“No, no, I assure you, master.” The red eyes flickered. “The child’s not under our control. No need. Ah, but here we are. Feeling better? Good. We want you to be able to concentrate fully on what the Royal One has to say.”

“Before you kill me,” Haplo mumbled.

Sang-drax smiled, shook his head, but he made no response. He cast a casual glance up and down the corridor. Then, keeping a firm grip on the Patryn, the serpent-elf reached out, knocked on a door.

A dwarf opened it.

“Give me a hand,” said Sang-drax, indicating Haplo. “He’s heavy.”

The dwarf nodded. Between them, they manhandled the still-groggy Patryn into the room. The dwarf kicked at the door to shut it, but didn’t bother to see if he’d succeeded. Apparently, they felt secure in their hideout.

“I have brought him, Royal One,” called Sang-drax.

“Enter and welcome to our guest,” was the response, given in human.

Limbeck, stealing along behind the two, soon became completely lost. He suspected the elf had doubled back on his own trail, and he watched anxiously, half afraid that the elf would come across the woolen thread. But Limbeck concluded he must have been mistaken, for they never did.

They traveled a great distance through the tunnels. Limbeck grew tired of walking. His bare feet were icy cold and bruised from stubbing his toes on walls in the dark. He hoped that Haplo would start to feel better; then, with Limbeck’s help, they could both jump the elf and escape.

Haplo groaned, didn’t look particularly energetic, however. The elf didn’t appear concerned over his prisoner. He would pause occasionally, but that was only to shift his burden more comfortably on his shoulders. He’d then continue on, an eerie red glow—coming from some unknown source—lighting his way.

“My goodness, elves are strong,” Limbeck remarked to himself. “Far stronger than I’d imagined.” He noted down this fact to be taken into account should full-scale war ever be mounted against the enemy.

They took many twists and turns down winding corridors. Then the elf came to a halt. Easing the injured Haplo back against the wall, the elf glanced casually up and down the corridor.

Limbeck shrank back into a convenient passageway located directly across from where the elf was standing and flattened himself against the wall. Now Limbeck knew the source of the eerie red glow—it emanated from the elf’s eyes.

The strange eyes with their fiery gaze flared in Limbeck’s direction. The horrible, unnatural light almost blinded him. He knew he’d been discovered and he crouched, cowering, waiting to be apprehended. But the eyes’ flaming gaze passed right over him, flitted on down the corridor, and back again.

Limbeck went limp in relief. He was reminded of the time one of the ‘lectric zingers on the Kicksey-winsey had gone amok, spit out great bolts of lightning, before the dwarves managed to get it under control. One of those bolts had whizzed right past Limbeck’s ear. Had he been standing six inches to his left, he would have been sizzled. Had the dwarf been standing six inches in front of himself, the elf would have spotted him.

As it was, the elf was satisfied that he was unobserved. But then he hadn’t seemed all that worried about it to begin with. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, the elf turned and knocked on a door.

It opened. Light streamed out. Limbeck blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brilliance.

“Give me a hand here,” said the elf.*

Limbeck learned to speak the elven language from Captain Bothar’el.

Expecting another elf to come to the aid of the first, Limbeck was astonished beyond measure to see a dwarf emerge from the doorway.

A dwarf!

Fortunately for Limbeck, his shock at seeing a dwarf assisting an elf to carry the reviving Haplo into this secret, subterranean room was so great that it paralyzed his tongue and all his other faculties into the bargain. Otherwise, he might have cried out “Hey!” “Hullo!” or “What in the name of Great-aunt Sally’s side whiskers do you think you’re doing?” and given himself away.

As it was, by the time Limbeck’s brain had reestablished communication with the rest of Limbeck, the elf and the dwarf had dragged a groggy Haplo into the room. They closed the door behind them, and Limbeck’s heart traveled down to where his boots had once been. Then he noticed a crack of light, and his heart jumped, though it didn’t quite manage to make it back up to its proper place, for it still seemed to be beating somewhere around the level of his knees. The door had been left slightly ajar.

It wasn’t courage that urged Limbeck forward. It was: What? Why? How?

Curiosity, the driving force in his life, drew him toward that room as the ‘lectrical iron-tuggers on the Kicksey-winsey tugged iron. Limbeck was standing at the door, one bespectacled eye to the crack, before he realized what he was doing or gave a thought to his peril.

Dwarves in collusion with the enemy! How could such a thing be? He’d find out who the traitors were and he’d… well, he’d … or maybe he’d…

Limbeck stared, blinked. He drew back, then brought two eyes to the crack, thinking that one had been playing tricks on him. It hadn’t. He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, looked again.

Humans were in the room! Humans and elves and dwarves. All standing around as peaceful as can be. All getting along together. All, apparently, united in brotherhood.

With the exception that their eyes glowed red and that they filled Limbeck with a cold, nameless terror, he couldn’t remember having seen a more wonderful sight.

Humans, elves, dwarves—one.

Haplo stood in the room, staring around him. The horrible sensation of alternately freezing and burning had ceased, but now he was weak, wrung out. He longed to sleep, recognized this as his body’s desire to heal itself, reestablish the circle of his being, his magic.

And I’ll be dead long before that can happen.

The room was large and dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns hanging from pegs on the walls. Haplo was at first confused by what he saw. But men, on second thought, it made sense. It was logical, brilliant. He sank into a chair that Sang-drax shoved beneath his limp legs.

Yes, it made perfect sense.

The room was filled with mensch: elves like Sang-drax, humans like Bane, dwarves like Limbeck and Jarre. An elven soldier was tapping the toe of his boot with the point of his sword. An elven nobleman smoothed the feathers of a hawk he held on his wrist. A human female, clad in a tattered skirt and a deliberately provocative blouse, lounged in a bored manner against a wall. Beside her, a human wizard was amusing himself by tossing a coin in the air, making it disappear. A male dwarf, in the dress of the Gegs, grinned through a thick tangle of beard. All mensch, all completely different in looks and appearance except for one thing. Each gazed at Haplo with gleaming red eyes.

Sang-drax, posting himself beside Haplo, indicated a human male, clad as a common laborer, who came forward to stand in the center of the group. “The Royal One,” the serpent-elf said, speaking Patryn.

“I thought you were dead,” said Haplo, his words slurred and faltering, but coherent.

The serpent king looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “Ah, yes. Chelestra. No, I am not dead. We can never die.”

“You looked pretty dead to me, after Alfred was finished with you.”

“The Serpent Mage? I admit that he killed a part of me, but for every part of me that dies, two more parts are born. We live, you see, as long as you live. You keep us alive. We are indebted to you.” The serpent-human bowed.

Haplo stared, confused. “Then what is your true form? Are you snakes or dragons or mensch or what?”

“We are whatever you want us to be,” said the serpent king. “You give us shape, as you give us life.”

“Meaning you adapt to the world you’re in, whatever suits your purpose,” Haplo spoke slowly, his thoughts struggling through a drugged haze. “In the Nexus, you were a Patryn. On Chelestra, it suited your purpose to appear in the guise of terrifying snakes…”

“Here, we can be more subtle,” said the serpent king, with a casual wave of his hand. “We have no need to appear as ferocious monsters to throw this world into the turmoil and chaos on which we thrive. We have only to be its citizens.”

The others in the room laughed appreciatively.

Shape-changers, Haplo realized. The evil can assume any form, any guise. On Chelestra—dragon-snakes; in this world —mensch; in the Nexus—his own people. No one will recognize them, no one will know they are here. They can go anywhere, do anything, foment wars, keep dwarf fighting elf, elf fighting human… Sartan fighting Patryn. Too eager to hate, never realizing our hatred makes us weak, we are open and vulnerable to the evil that will eventually devour us all!

“Why have you brought me here?” Haplo asked, almost too sick and despairing to care.

“To tell you our plans.”

Haplo sneered. “A waste of time, since you intend to kill me.”

“No, no, that would be the waste!”

Walking past rows of elves and dwarves and humans, the serpent king came to stand directly in front of Haplo. “You still haven’t grasped it, yet, have you, Patryn?”

The king reached out his hand, stabbed a finger at Haplo’s chest, tapped it. “We live only so long as you live. Fear, hatred, vengeance, terror, pain, suffering—that is the foul and turgid quagmire in which we breed. You live in peace and each of us dies a little bit. You live in fear and your life gives us life.”

“I’ll fight you!” Haplo mumbled.

“Of course you will!” laughed the serpent-human.

Haplo rubbed his aching head, his bleary eyes. “I get it. That’s what you want”

“Now you are beginning to understand. The harder you struggle, the stronger we grow.”

What about Xar? Haplo wondered. You pledged to serve him. Is that, too, a trick… ?

“We will serve your lord.” The serpent king was sincere, earnest.

Haplo scowled. He had forgotten they could read his thoughts.

“We serve Xar with enthusiasm,” the serpent king continued. “We are with him on Abarrach, in the guise of Patryns, of course. We are assisting him to learn the secret of necromancy. We will join his army when he launches his attack, aid him in his war, fight his battles, do willingly whatever he asks of us. And after that…”

“You’ll destroy him.”

“We will be forced to, I’m afraid. Xar wants unity, peace. Achieved through tyranny and fear, of course. We’d gain some sustenance from that but, all in all, a starvation diet”

“And the Sartan?”

“Oh, we don’t play favorites. We’re working with them, as well. Samah was inordinately pleased with himself when several ‘Sartan’ answered his call, came to ‘their dear brothers’ from out of Death’s Gate. He has gone to Abarrach, but, in his absence, the newby arrived ‘Sartan’ are urging their fellow Sartan to declare war upon the mensch.

“And, soon, even the peaceful mensch of Chelestra will fall to quarreling among themselves. Or should I say… ourselves.”

Haplo’s head sagged, heavy as rock. His arms were stones, his feet boulders. He found himself lying on the table.

Sang-drax grabbed Haplo by the hair, jerked his head up, forced him to look at the serpent, whose form now became hideous. The creature loomed large, its body swelling and expanding. And then the body started to break apart. Arms, legs, hands detached themselves from the torso, floated away. The head dwindled in size until all Haplo could see were two slit, red eyes.

“You will sleep,” said a voice in Haplo’s mind. “And when you wake, wake to health, fully restored. And you will remember. Remember clearly all I have said, all I have yet to say. We find ourselves in danger, here, on Arianus. There exists an unfortunate trend toward peace. The Tribus empire, weak and corrupt within, is fighting a two-front war, one which we do not think they can win. If Tribus is overthrown, the elves and their human allies will negotiate a treaty with the dwarves. This cannot be allowed.

“Nor would your lord want this to happen, Haplo.” The red eyes flamed with laughter. “That will be your dilemma. An agonizing one. Help these mensch and you thwart the will of your lord. Help your lord and you help us. Help us and you destroy your lord. Destroy your lord and you destroy your people.”

Darkness, soothing and welcome, blotted out the sight of the red eyes. But he still heard the laughing voice.

“Think about it, Patryn. Meanwhile, we’ll grow fat on your fear.”

Peering inside the room full of mensch, Limbeck could see Haplo clearly—they’d dropped him on the floor, just inside the door. The Patryn, looking around, appeared to be as astounded as the dwarf, to see this unique gathering.

Haplo didn’t seem to be at all pleased, however. In fact, as near as Limbeck could tell, Haplo looked as terrified as Limbeck felt.

A human, dressed as a common laborer, came forward. He and Haplo began to converse in a language that Limbeck didn’t understand, but which sounded harsh and angry and chilled him with dark and frightening sensations. At one point, however, everyone in the room laughed and commented and seemed extremely happy, agreeing to something that had been said.

At that point. Limbeck understood some of the conversation, for the dwarves spoke in dwarven and the elves in elven and the humans, presumably, since Limbeck didn’t speak their language, spoke human. None of this cheered Haplo, however, who appeared more tense and desperate than before, if that were possible. He looked, to Limbeck, like a man about to meet a terrible end.

An elf took hold of Haplo by the hair, jerked the Patryn’s head up, forcing him to look at the human. Limbeck watched wide-eyed, having no idea what was going on, but certain— somehow—that Haplo was going to die.

The Patryn’s eyes fluttered, closed. His head sagged, he sank back into the arms of the elf. Limbeck’s heart, which had struggled up from his feet, now lodged firmly in his throat. He was certain that Haplo was dead.

The elf stretched the Patryn out on the floor. The human looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed. Haplo’s head turned, he sighed. He was, Limbeck saw, asleep.

Limbeck was so relieved that his spectacles steamed up. He took them off and wiped them with a shaking hand.

“Some of you Tribus elves, help me carry him,” ordered the elf who had brought Haplo down here. Once again, he was speaking the elven language, not the strange language that Limbeck couldn’t understand. “I’ve got to get him back up to that Factree place, before the others grow suspicious.”

Several elves—at least Limbeck supposed they were elves; it was difficult to tell, because they were wearing some type of clothing that made them look more like the walls of the tunnels than elves—gathered around the slumbering Haplo. They lifted him by his legs and shoulders, carried him easily, as though he weighed no more than a child, and started for the door.

Limbeck ducked hastily back down the tunnel, watched as the elves bore Haplo off in the opposite direction.

It occurred to Limbeck that, once again, he was going to be left alone down here, with no idea how to get out. He must either follow them or…

“Perhaps I could ask one of the dwarves.”

He turned to look into the room and almost dropped his spectacles. Hurriedly, he wrapped the earpieces around his ears, stared hard through the lenses of thick glass, not believing what he was seeing.

The room, which had been filled with light and laughter and humans and elves and dwarves, was empty.

Limbeck sucked in a deep breath, let it out with a shivering sigh. His curiosity overwhelmed him. He was about to slip into the room and investigate when it struck him that the elves—his way out—were rapidly leaving him behind. Shaking his side whiskers over the strange and inexplicable things he’d seen, Limbeck trotted down the halhvay, following the strangely dressed elves.

The eerie red glow of their eyes lit the passages brightly, showed their way. How they could tell one tunnel from another, one arched entry from an exit, was beyond Limbeck. They moved at a rapid pace, never pausing, never taking a wrong turn, never forced to back up or start over.

“What are your plans, Sang-drax?” asked one. “Clever name, by the way.”

“You like it? I thought it appropriate,” said the elf who had brought Haplo down here. “I must see to it that the human child, Bane, and the Patryn, here, are taken to the emperor. The child has a plan in mind that should foment chaos in the human kingdom far more effectively than anything we could do ourselves. You will, I trust, pass the word along to those near the emperor and urge his cooperation?”

“He’ll cooperate, if the Unseen advise it.”

An elite unit of soldiers created by the emperor, ostensibly to search out and destroy rebel elves. The Unseen—so called because of their mysterious ability to make themselves very nearly invisible—have gained enormous power—even before the infiltration by the evil serpents.

“I am amazed that you managed to join such an elite and powerful unit so quickly. My congratulations.”

One of the oddly dressed elves shrugged. “It was quite simple, really. Nowhere else on Arianus does there exist a group whose means and methods coincide so well with our own. With the exception of an unfortunate tendency to revere elven law and order and to perpetrate their deeds in the name of such, the Unseen Guard are perfect for us.”

“A pity we cannot penetrate the ranks of the Kenkari as easily.”

One of the seven original clans of elves brought by the Sartan to Arianus after the Sundering. All elven clans had wizards among them, but the Kenkari were more powerful in magic than most and, through strict policies of intermarriage, they were able, over many generations, to enhance their magical powers. Consequently, the Kenkari are much in demand by other elven clans. Though they have no lands of their own, they are greatly revered in the elven nation, live as “guests” among the various royal families. Their main duties, however, lie with the Keeping of the Souls.

“I begin to think that will be impossible, Sang-drax. As I explained to the Royal One this evening, prior to your arrival, the Kenkari are spiritual in nature, and therefore extraordinarily sensitive to us. We have concluded that they do not pose a threat, however. Their only interest is in the spirits of the dead, whose power feeds the empire. Their main object in life consists of guarding these captive souls.”

More conversation followed, after that, but Limbeck, slogging along behind and beginning to feel very tired from all this unaccustomed exertion, soon lost interest in trying to follow it. Most of what they discussed he hadn’t understood anyhow, and the small part he understood confused him. He did think it odd that elves, who, moments ago, had been quite chummy with humans, should now be talking about ‘fomenting chaos.”

“But then nothing either humans or elves do would surprise me,” he decided, wishing that he could sit down and rest. Then certain half-heard words of the elves’ conversation jolted Limbeck into forgetting about sore feet and aching ankles.

“What will you do with the dwarf female your men captured?” one of the elves was asking.

“Did they?” Sang-drax replied carelessly. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Yes, they took her while you were occupied with the Patryn. She’s in custody now, with the boy.”

Jarre! Limbeck realized. They were talking about Jarre!

Sang-drax considered. “Why, I suppose I’ll take her along. She might come in handy in future negotiations, don’t you think? If those fool elves don’t kill her first. The hatred they have for these dwarves is perfectly marvelous.”

Kill Jarre! Limbeck’s blood ran cold with shock, then burned hot with rage, then drained from his head into his stomach with the sickly feeling of remorse.

“If Jarre dies, it will be because of me,” he mumbled to himself, barely watching where he was going. “She sacrificed herself for my sake…”

“Did you hear something?” asked one of the elves who was holding on to Haplo’s legs.

“Vermin,” said Sang-drax. “The place is crawling with them. You’d think the Sartan would have taken more care. Hurry up. My men will assume I’m lost down here and I don’t want any of them deciding to play hero and come searching for me.”

“I doubt that,” said the oddly dressed elf with a laugh. “From what I’ve overheard, your men have little love for you.”

“True,” said Sang-drax implacably. “Two of them suspect me of having murdered their former captain. They’re right, of course. Quite clever of them to have figured it out, actually. A pity such cleverness will prove fatal. Ah, here we are, the entrance to the Factree. Quietly, quietly.”

The elves fell silent, all intent on listening. Limbeck— outraged, upset, and confused—came to a halt some distance behind. He knew where he was now, having recognized the entrance to the stairway that led back up to the statue of the Manger. He could still see the faint glow of the rune-mark Haplo had left behind.

“Someone’s moving about up there,” said Sang-drax. “They must have set a guard. Put him down. I’ll take it from here. You two return to your duties.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, sir.” The other elves grinned, saluted mockingly, and then—to the distraught Limbeck’s intense astonishment—both vanished.

Limbeck removed his spectacles, cleaned them. He had the vague idea that spots on the lenses might account for the elves’ disappearance. Clean lenses weren’t any help, however. Two of the elves were still gone. The elf captain was dragging Haplo to his feet.

“Wake up now.” Sang-drax slapped the Patryn’s face. “That’s it. Feeling a bit groggy? It will take you some time to fully recover from the poison’s effects. We’ll be well on our way to the Imperanon by then. Don’t worry. I’ll take over the care of the mensch, especially the child.”

Haplo could barely stand, and then he was forced to lean heavily on the elf captain. The Patryn looked extremely ill, but even then, sick as he was, he seemed loath to have anything to do with the elf. But he had no choice, apparently. He was too weak to climb the stairs on his own. If he wanted out of the tunnel, he had to accept the assistance of Sang-drax’s strong arm.

And Limbeck had no choice. The infuriated dwarf longed to rush out and confront the elf, demand Jarre’s immediate and safe return. The old Limbeck would have done so, without any regard for the consequences.

This Limbeck peered through his spectacles and saw an unusually strong elf. He recalled that the captain had mentioned other elves standing guard above, noted that Haplo was in no shape to help. Sensibly, Limbeck remained where he was, hiding in the darkness. Only when he judged by the sound of their footsteps that the two were halfway up the stairs did the dwarf pad barefooted over to crouch at the bottom.

“Captain Sang-drax, sir,” came a voice from above. “We were wondering what happened to you.”

“The prisoner ran,” said Sang-drax. “I had to go after him.”

“He ran with a knife in his shoulder?” The e!f sounded impressed.

“These damned humans are tough, like wounded animals,” said Sang-drax. “He led me a merry chase until the poison brought him down.”

“What is he, sir? Some type of wizard? I never saw a human whose skin glowed blue tike that.”

“Yes. He’s one of those so-called mysteriarchs. Probably down here to guard the boy.”

“You believe the little bastard’s story, sir?” The elf sounded incredulous.

“I think we should let the emperor determine what we believe, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.”

“Where have they taken the boy?”

Blast the boy, Limbeck thought irritably. Where have they taken Jarre?

The elf and Haplo had reached the top of the stairs. The dwarf held his breath, hoping to hear more.

“To the guardhouse, Captain. Awaiting your orders, sir.”

“I’ll need a ship, ready to fly back to Paxaria—”

“I’ll have to clear that with the lord commander, sir.”

“Then do so, at once. I’ll be taking the boy and this wizard and that other creature we captured—”

“The dwarf, sir?” The elf was astounded. “We had thought to execute her, as an example …”

Limbeck didn’t hear any more. A roaring sound in his ears made him dizzy and light-headed. He swayed on his feet, was forced to lean against the wall. Jarre—executed! Jarre, who’d saved him from being executed! Jarre, who loved him far more than he deserved. No, it wouldn’t happen! Not if he could help it and… and…

The roaring subsided, replaced by a cold emptiness that made him feel hollow and dark inside, as cold and dark and empty as these tunnels. He knew what to do. He had a Plan.

And now he could hear once again.

“What should we do about this opening, sir?”

“Close it,” said Sang-drax.

“Are you sure, sir? I don’t like the feel of that place. It seems… evil. Perhaps we should leave it open, send down teams to explore—”

“Very well, Lieutenant,” said Sang-drax casually. “I saw nothing of interest down there, but if you would like to investigate, feel free. You’ll be exploring on your own, of course. I can’t spare any men to assist you. However—”

“I’ll see to it that the opening is closed, sir,” the elf said hastily.

“Whatever you decide. The choice is yours. I’ll need a litter and some bearers. I can’t carry this heavy bastard much farther.”

“Let me help you, sir.”

“Throw him down on the floor. Then you can close the opening. I’ll—”

The elves’ voices were receding. Limbeck dared wait no longer. He crept up the stairs, keeping his head low, until he could peep out the top of the hole. The two elves, involved with maneuvering the semiconscious Haplo off the statue’s base, had their backs to the opening. Two other elves, standing guard, were eyeing the wounded human—one of the notorious mysteriarchs—with interest. They, too, had their backs turned.

It was now or never.

Planting his spectacles securely on his nose, Limbeck crawled out of the opening and made a mad, desperate dash for the hole in the floor that led back down to the Gegs’ underground system of tunnels.

This part of the Factree was only dimly lit. The elven guards, wary of the strange and forbidding statue, were not standing particularly close to it. Limbeck made it to safety without being seen.

In his panicked flight, he nearly plummeted down into the hole headfirst. Managing to catch himself at the last moment, he threw himself on the floor, grasped hold of the rungs of the ladder, and, executing a clumsy somersault, tumbled down inside. He hung suspended a moment, his hands clinging awkwardly to the top rung of the ladder, his bare feet scrabbling wildly for purchase. It was a long drop down.

Limbeck caught hold of the ladder with his toes, planted his feet more or less securely. Prying his sweating hands loose from their hold, he turned himself around and clung to the ladder thankiully, catching his breath, listening for sounds of pursuit.

“Did you hear something?” one elf was asking.

Limbeck froze against the ladder.

“Nonsense!” The lieutenant’s voice was crisp. “It’s that damn opening. It’s making us all hear things. Captain Sang-drax is right. The sooner we shut it up, the better.”

He heard a grinding sound, made by the statue sliding shut on its base. Limbeck climbed down the ladder and headed, grim-faced and coldly angry, back to his headquarters, there to institute the Plan.

His thread trail back to the automaton, the automaton itself, the unlikely peaceful union of humans, elves, dwarves— none of that mattered now.

And it might not ever matter again.

He would have Jarre back… or else.