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.”
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.