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.
45
He sat on the stairs leading down from the base of the fallen statue into the secret tunnels of the Sartan. Above him, Limbeck harangued, the mensch battled the serpents to save their world, and the Kicksey-winsey stood silent, unmoving. Haplo leaned against the wall, weak and light-headed from shock and loss of blood.
The dog was with him, gazing at him anxiously. Haplo didn’t know when it had come back, was too tired to think about it or what its return portended. And he could do nothing to help the mensch; he could barely help himself.
“It doesn’t sound as if they need any help, though,” he said to the dog. He had closed the terrible wound in his chest, but he needed time, a long time, to completely heal himself. The heart rune, the very center of his being, was torn.
He leaned against the wall, shut his eyes, grateful for the darkness. His mind drifted. He was holding the small book, the one given him by the Kenkari. He would have to remember to turn the book over to Limbeck. He was looking at it again ... he had to be careful... didn’t want to smear blood ... on the pages.... The drawings... diagrams... instructions.
“The Sartan didn’t abandon the worlds,” he was telling Limbeck ... or the dog... who kept changing into Limbeck. “Those on this one foresaw their own demise. Alfred’s people. They knew they would not be able to complete their grand scheme for uniting the worlds, for providing air to the world of stone, water to the world of air, fire to the world of water. They wrote it all down, wrote it down for those they knew they would have to leave behind.
“It’s all here, in this small book. The words that will start the automaton upon its tasks, start the Kicksey-winsey operating, align the continents, bring them all life-giving water. The words that will send a signal through Death’s Gate to all the other worlds.
“It is all in this book, written down in four languages: Sartan, elven, dwarven, human.
“Alfred would be pleased,” Haplo told Limbeck... who kept changing into the dog. “He can quit apologizing.”
But the plan had gone awry.
The Sartan who were supposed to awaken and use the book had not. Alfred, the one Sartan who did wake up, either didn’t know about the book or had searched for it and couldn’t find it. It was the Kenkari elves who had found the book. Found it, suppressed it, hidden it away.
“And if it hadn’t been the elves,” Haplo said, “it would have been the humans, or the dwarves. All of them, too filled with hate and distrust to come together ...”
“Workers of the world!” Limbeck was winding up. “Unite!” And this time, he got it right.
“Maybe this time, they will get it right,” Haplo said tiredly, smiling. He sighed. The dog whimpered, crowded close to its master and sniffed worriedly—flesh twitching—at the blood on his hands and arms.
“I could take the book,” came a voice. “Take it from your dead body, Patryn.” The dog whimpered, pressed its nose into his hand.
Haplo’s eyes flared open. Fear snapped him to full, alert wakefulness. Sang-drax stood at the bottom of the stairs. The serpent had resumed his elf form, looked much the same as before, except that he was wan and pale and only one red eye gleamed. The other eye socket was a dark and empty hole, as if the serpent had plucked out the injured orb and tossed it away.
Haplo, hearing the dwarves shout triumphantly from above, understood.
“They’re winning. Courage, unity—the pain’s more bitter than a sword’s thrust inside you, isn’t it, Sang-drax? Go on, get out. You’re as weak as I am. You can’t hurt me now.”
“Oh, I could. But I won’t. We have new orders.” Sang-drax smiled, his voice lingered over die last word as if he found it amusing. “You’re to live, after all, it seems. Or perhaps I should rephrase that. I’m not the one destined to kill you.”