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.”
40
The Lords of Night spread their cloaks, the sparkle of the firmament dimmed and died. The soft, shimmering glow of the coralite was lost in the brighter light of hundreds of campfires. Smoke rose, filling the air with a haze that had in it the scents of stews and roasting meat, carried the sounds of laughter and shouting and snatches of song. It was an historic occasion, a night of celebration.
Prince Rees’ahn and King Stephen had just this day announced agreement on the terms of the alliance. Each had expressed heartfelt satisfaction in forging a bond between two races who had, for centuries, been grappling for each other’s throats.
There remained now only the formalities—the drawing up of the documents (clerks were working feverishly by the light of glowlamps) and the signing of the documents to make all legal and official. The signing ceremony was to take place one cycle after next, when both sides had taken time to read the documents and King Stephen and Queen Anne had presented them to the barons for consideration.
Their Majesties had no doubt that the barons would vote in favor of signing, though a few malcontents might agree grudgingly, with grumbling and black looks of distrust at the elven side of the camp. Each baron felt the iron grip of either King Stephen or Queen Anne at his throat. Each baron had only to look outside his tent to see the King’s Own—strong and powerful and unfailingly loyal—to imagine that very army flying over his barony. The barons would make no protest aloud but, that night, while the majority celebrated, a few skulked in their tents and muttered to themselves of what would happen should that iron grip ever go slack.
Stephen and Anne knew the names of the dissidents; they had been brought here on purpose. King and queen meant to force the recalcitrant barons to state their “ayes” in public, in full view of their own personal guard and in full view of each other. Their Majesties were aware—or soon would be—of the whisperings going on in camp that night, for the wizard Trian was not present among those celebrating in the royal tent. Had the rebellious barons peered closely into the shadows of their own tents, they would have received a nasty shock.
The King’s Own did not relax their vigilance either, though Stephen and Anne had bid their soldiers drink their health and provided wine for the occasion. Those on duty—standing guard around the royal tent—could only look forward to the pleasure.
But those off duty were glad to obey Their Majesties’ command. The camp was, therefore, a merry one, with much joyful confusion. Soldiers gathered around the fires, boasting of exploits, exchanging tales of heroism. The vendors were doing a brisk business.