Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  One of the dragons, larger and more powerful than the rest, reared its head out of the water. A huge wave surged to shore. The Sartan could not escape it, and were drenched to the skin, their clothes and hair wringing wet. The water was cold, chilled them to the bone.

  Orla, shivering, hastened to her husband's side. “I am convinced. You are right. These creatures are evil and must be destroyed. Let's do what we have to, quickly, and leave.”

  Samah wiped seawater from his face, looking at it, looking at his hand in awe and perplexity. “Why do I feel so strange? What is happening? As if my body were suddenly made of lead, heavy and clumsy. My hands don't seem to belong to me. My feet cannot move—”

  “I feel it, too,” cried Orla. “We must work the magic swiftly—”

  “I am the Royal One, king of my people,” called the serpent, and its voice was soft and barely heard and seemed to come from a far distance. “I will speak with you.”

  “Why have you come? What do you want?” Samah shouted above the crashing of the waves.

  “Your destruction.”

  The words twisted and writhed in Samah's mind as the dragons twisted in the water, dipping their serpent heads in and flinging them back out, flailing and lashing their bodies and tails. The seawater foamed and boiled and surged erratically over the shore. Samah had never faced any threat as dire as this one and he was uncertain, uneasy. The water chilled him, numbing limbs, freezing feet. His magic could not warm him.

  Samah raised his hands to draw the runes in the air. He began to move his feet in the dance that would paint the runes with his body. He lifted his voice to sing the runes to the wind and the water. But his voice sounded flat and raucous. His hands were like claws, tearing the air. His feet moved in opposing directions. Samah stumbled, clumsy, inept. The magic washed away.

  Orla tried to come to her husband's aid, but her body unaccountably failed her. She wandered across the shore, her feet reacting to a will that was no longer under her control. The remaining members of the Council staggered along the shore or tumbled into the water, like drunken revelers.

  Samah crouched in the sand, battling fear. He faced, he guessed, a terrible death.

  “Where did you come from?” he cried in bitter frustration, watching the dragons surge into shore. “Who created you?”

  “You did,” came the reply.

  The horrible images faded, leaving Alfred weak and shaken. And he had only been a witness. He could not imagine what it must have been like to have lived through the incident.

  “But the dragon-snakes did not kill us that day, as you may have surmised,” Samah concluded dryly.

  He had related his tale calmly enough, but the usually firm, confident smile was thin and tight. The hand that rested upon the marble table shook slightly. Orla had gone extremely pale. Several of the other Council members shuddered, one let his head sink into his hands.

  “There came a time when we longed for death,” Samah continued, his voice soft, as if he spoke to himself. “The dragons made sport of us, drove us up and down the beach until we were faint and exhausted. When one of us fell, the great toothless mouth closed over the body, dragged the person to his feet. Terror alone put life in our bodies. And, at last, when we could run no more, when our hearts seemed as if they must burst and our limbs would no longer support us, we lay in the wet sand and waited to die. The dragons left us, then.”

  “But they came back, in greater numbers,” Orla said. Her hands rubbed the marble table, as if she would smooth out its already smooth surface. “They attacked the city, their huge bodies battering into walls, killing and torturing and maiming any living thing they found. Our magic worked against them and we held them off for a long time. But we could see that the magic was starting to crumble, just as did the rune-covered walls surrounding our city.”

  “But why?” Alfred gazed from one to the other in shocked perplexity. “What power do these dragons have over our magic?”

  “None. They can fight it, certainly, and they resist it better than any other living beings we have faced, but it was not, we soon discovered, the power of the dragons that left us helpless and defenseless on the beach. It was the seawater.”

  Alfred gaped, astonished. The dog lifted its head, its ears pricked. It had fallen asleep, nose on paws, during the recital of the battle with the dragons. Now it sat up, looked interested.

  “But you created the seawater,” said Alfred.

  “As we—supposedly—created these dragon-snakes?” Samah gave a bitter laugh. He eyed Alfred shrewdly. “You have not come across anything like them in other worlds?”

  “N-no. Dragons, yes, certainly, but they could always be controlled by magic, by mensch magic even. Or seemed to be,” he added suddenly, thoughtfully.

  “The water of the sea, this ocean that we named ‘Goodsea’”—Samah spoke the word with irony—“has the effect of completely destroying our magic. We don't know how or why. All we know is that one drop of the seawater on our skin begins a cycle that breaks down the rune structure, until we are helpless—more helpless, in fact—than mensch.

  “And that is why, in the end, we ordered the mensch out into the Goodsea. The seasun was drifting away. We lacked the magical energy to stop it; all our power had to be conserved to fight the dragons. We sent the mensch to follow the seasun, to find other seamoons, where they could live. The creatures of the deep, whales and dolphins and others the mensch had befriended, went with them, to help guard and defend them from the dragons.

  “We have no idea whether the mensch made it safely or not. Certainly, they stood a better chance than we did. The seawater has no effect on them or their magic. In fact, they seem to thrive on it. We stayed behind, waiting for the seasun to leave us, waiting for the ice to close over us … and over our enemy. We were fairly certain, you see, that the dragons wanted us. They cared little for the mensch.”

  “And we were right. The dragons kept up the attack on our city,” Orla continued, “but never in numbers sufficient to win. Victory did not seem to be their goal. Pain, suffering, anguish—that is what they wanted. Our hope was to wait, buy time. Each day the sun's warmth lessened, the darkness gathered around us. Perhaps the dragons, intent on their hatred for us, did not notice. Or perhaps they thought their magic could overcome it. Or, perhaps, at the end, they fled. All we know is that one day the sea froze and on that day the dragons did not appear. On that day, we sent a final message to our people in the worlds beyond, asking that in a hundred years they come to wake us. And we went to sleep.”

  “I doubt if they ever got your message,” said Alfred. “Or if they did, they couldn't have come. Each world had its own problems, it seems.” He sighed, then blinked. “Thank you for telling me. I understand better now and I… I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I thought…” He stared at his shoes, shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

  “You thought we had abandoned our responsibility,” Samah said grimly.

  “I've seen it before. On Abarrach…” Alfred gulped.

  The Councillor said nothing, looked at him expectantly. All the Council members were looking at him expectantiy

  Now you understand, they were telling him. Now you know what to do.

  Except that he didn't. Alfred spread trembling hands.

  “What is it you want of me? Do you want me to help fight the dragons? I know something about the creatures, those we have on Arianus. But they seem to me to be very weak and ineffectual dragons, compared to these serpents you've described. And as for experimenting with seawater, I'm afraid—”

  “No, Brother,” Samah interrupted. “Nothing so difficult. You told Orla that the arrival of this dog on Chelestra meant that the dog's master was also on Chelestra. You have the animal. We want you to find the master and bring him to us.”

  “No,” said Alfred, flustered, nervous. “I couldn't… He let me go, you see, when he could have taken me prisoner to the Labyrinth—”

  “We have no intention of harming this Patryn
.” Samah's tone was soothing. “We only want to ask him questions, discover the truth about the Labyrinth, his people's suffering. Who knows, Brother, but that this could be the beginning of peace negotiations between our people? If you refuse, and war breaks out, how could you live with yourself, knowing that it had once been in your power to prevent it?”

  “But I don't know where to look,” Alfred protested. “And I wouldn't know what to say. He wouldn't come—”

  “Wouldn't he? To face the enemy he has longed to challenge? Consider it,” Samah added before the flustered Alfred had time to think up another argument. “Perhaps you can use the dog as your means of getting him to return.”

  “Surely, you aren't going to refuse a request of the Council?” asked Orla softly. “A request that is so reasonable? One that affects the safety of us all?”

  “No, of… of course not,” Alfred said unhappily.

  He looked down at the dog.

  The animal cocked its head, thumped its plumy tail on the floor, and grinned.

  1A position of honor, granted to those deemed most likely to be full members of the Council at some future date. The post is often hereditary, but is open to all Sartan. Applicants come before the Council and must pass certain secret tests, pertaining not only to their abilities in magic, which must be superior, but to their general knowledge. Servitors act as pages, runners, and must be prepared to defend the Council members in the unlikely event that they are ever attacked. There arc seven Servitors, but only two attend regular Council sessions.

  HAPLO LAY FLAT ON HIS BED, STARING AT THE BACKS OF HIS hands. The sigla tattooed on the skin were a deeper, darker blue; his magic was growing stronger every moment. And the runes were beginning to glow faintly, the prickling sensation tingled over his body—the warning signal of danger, far away still, yet rapidly approaching.

  The dragon-snakes. Without a doubt.

  It seemed to Haplo that the ship had picked up speed. The vessel's motion was less smooth, more erratic, and he sensed an increased vibration in the deck beneath his feet.

  “I could always ask the dwarf. She would know,” Haplo muttered.

  And, of course, he should tell the mensch that they were nearing the lair of the dragon-snakes. Warn them to make themselves ready …

  To do what? Die?

  Devon, the slender, delicate elf, had nearly decapitated himself with the battle-ax.

  Alake had her magic spells, but hers were cantrips that any child in the Labyrinth could perform by the time it was past its second Gate. Against the awesome power of the dragon-snakes, it would be like pitting that child against an army of snogs.

  Grundle. Haplo smiled, shook his head. If any one of those mensch could deal with the dragon-snakes, it would be the dwarf maid. If nothing else, she'd be too stubborn to die.

  He ought to go tell them, do what he could to prepare them. He sat up.

  “No,” he said suddenly, and flung himself back on the bed. “I've had enough dealings with the mensch for one day.”

  What in the name of the Labyrinth had possessed him to make that promise to them? Not letting them come to harm! He'd be damn lucky if he could keep himself alive.

  He clenched his hands to fists, studied the sigla drawn taut over bones and tendons. Raising his arms, he looked at the sharp, clean outline of the muscles beneath the tattooed skin.

  “Instinct. The same instinct that led my parents to hide me in the bushes and lead the snogs away from me. The instinct to protect those weaker than ourselves, the instinct that allowed our people to survive the Labyrinth!”

  He sprang to his feet, began pacing his small cabin. “My lord would understand,” he reassured himself. “My lord feels the same. Every day of his life, he returns to the Labyrinth, returns to fight and defend and protect his children, his people. It's a natural emotion …” Haplo sighed, swore softly. “But it's damn inconvenient!”

  He had other, more urgent matters to think about than keeping three mensch kids alive. The foul seawater that washed away his rune magic faster than ordinary water washed away dirt. And the dragon-snakes' promise.

  At least, he assumed it was a promise.

  Samah. The great Samah. Head of the Council of Seven. The Councillor who had engineered the Sundering, the Councillor who had brought about the Patryn's downfall, imprisonment, and eons of suffering.

  Councillor Samah. Many things had died in the Labyrinth, but not that name. It had been handed down from generation to generation, breathed with the last dying breath of father to son, spoken with a curse from mother to daughter. Samah had never been forgotten by his enemies, and the thought that Samah might be discovered alive filled Haplo with unspeakable joy. He didn't even think to ask how it was possible.

  “I'll capture Samah and take him to my lord—a gift to make up for my past failures. My lord will see to it that Samah pays and pays dearly for every tear shed by my people, for every drop of blood. Samah will spend his lifetime paying. His days will be filled with pain, torment, fear. His nights with horror, agony, terror. No rest. No sleep. No peace, except in death. And soon, very soon, Samah will be begging to die.”

  But the Lord of the Nexus would see to it that Samah lived. Lived a very long life …

  A violent pounding on the door brought Haplo out of a blood-gilded reverie. The pounding had been going on for some time, but he'd been hearing thunder in his waking dreams of vengeance and hadn't noticed.

  “Perhaps we shouldn't bother him, Grundle,” came Devon's soft voice through the door, “He might be asleep …”

  “Then he jolly well better wake up!” answered the dwarf.

  Haplo rebuked himself for his lapse; such a slip would have cost him his life in the Labyrinth. Stalking over to the door, he yanked it open so suddenly that the dwarf, who had been beating on it with the handle of the battle-ax, tumbled inside.

  “Well? What do you want?” Haplo snapped.

  “We … we've wakened you,” said Alake, her gaze shifting nervously from him to the rumpled bed.

  Devon stammered. “W-we're sorry. We didn't mean—”

  “The ship's picking up speed,” stated Grundle. Her own gaze rested suspiciously on Haplo's skin. “And you're glowing again.”

  Haplo said nothing, glared at her, trusting she'd take the hint and go away. Alake and Devon were already sidling backward.

  But Grundle was not to be intimidated. She rested the battle-ax on her shoulder, planted her feet firmly on the swaying deck, and looked Haplo in the face. “We're getting close to the dragon-snakes, aren't we?”

  “Probably,” he said, and started to close the door.

  Grundle's stocky body blocked it.

  “We want you to tell us what to do.”

  How the hell should I know? Haplo felt like shouting back at her in exasperation. I've come near a magical power like this in the Labyrinth, but nothing this strong. And all these dragon-snakes have to do is toss a bucket of seawater on me and I'm finished!

  The mensch stood quietly, looking at him, trusting him (well, two of them trusted him), all of them silently pleading, hoping.

  Who had given them that hope? And did he have the right to destroy it?

  Besides, he told himself coldly, they might be useful. In the back of his mind was a plan …

  “Come in,” he said grudgingly, holding the door open wide.

  The mensch trooped inside.

  “Sit down,” Haplo told them.

  There was only the bed. Alake looked at it—rumpled, still warm from Haplo's body. Her lashes fluttered, brushed against her cheeks. She shook her head.

  “No, thank you. I will stand. I do not mind….”

  “Sit!” Haplo ordered grimly.

  She sat, perched on the very edge of the bed. Devon took his place beside her, long legs spraddled uncomfortably. (Dwarven beds are built low to the floor.) Grundle plopped herself down near the head of the bed, her short legs swinging back and forth, heels scuffing against the deck. All three looked up at him
, faces serious, solemn.

  “Let's get one thing straight. I don't know any more about these dragon-snakes than you do. Less, maybe.”

  “They spoke to you,” Grundle informed him.

  Haplo ignored her.

  “Shush, Grundle,” whispered Alake.

  “What we do to protect ourselves is mostly common sense. You”—Haplo shifted his gaze to the elf—“better keep pretending to be a girl. Cover your face and head and don't take the scarf off, no matter what. And keep your mouth shut. Keep quiet and let me do the talking. That goes for all of you,” Haplo added with a meaningful glare at the dwarf.

  Grundle snorted and tossed her head. She had placed the battle-ax between her legs and was nervously rapping the haft on the deck. The ax reminded Haplo of something.

  “Are there any more weapons aboard? Small ones. Like knives?”

  Grundle sniffed in scorn. “Knives are for elves. Dwarves don't use such puny weapons.”

  “But there are knives on board,” offered Alake. “In the galley.”

  “Cooking knives,” muttered Haplo. “Are they sharp, small? Could Devon hide one in his belt? Could you hide one … somewhere.” He gestured at Alake's tight, form-fitting clothes.

  “Of course they're sharp!” stated Grundle indignantly. “I'd like to see the day a dwarf would craft a dull knife! But they could be sharp as this ax and still not penetrate the hide of those foul beasts.”

  Haplo was silent, trying to think of the easiest, gentlest way to say what he had in mind. There was, he decided at last, no easy, gentle way. “I wasn't thinking about using them on the dragon-snakes.” He said nothing more, hoping they'd get the idea.

  They did … after a moment.

  “You mean,” said Alake, her black eyes large and wide, “that we're to use them … on … on …” She swallowed.

  “Yourselves,” said Haplo, deciding to be brisk, matter-of-fact. “Death can sometimes come as a friend.”

  “I know,” said Alake, shivering. “I saw how my people died.”