Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  Grundle snorted. “Arrows, even magic ones, won't have any effect on those monsters. Right, Alake?”

  “What? I'm sorry, I was thinking. You mentioned magic. I've been working on my spells. I've learned three new defensive ones. I can't tell you about them, because they're secret, but they worked beautifully against my teacher.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. Has his hair grown back yet?”

  “How dare you spy on me, you little beast!”

  “I wasn't. As if I cared! I happened to be passing by, when I heard a sound and smelled smoke. I thought the ship was on fire and so I looked through a keyhole—”

  “There! You've admitted it—”

  “The dragon-snakes,” inserted Devon with elven diplomacy. “And Haplo. They're what's important. Remember?”

  “I remember! And a fat lot of good magic arrows or magic fire or magic anything's going to do us if we can't get close to the blasted creatures anyway.”

  “She's got a point, I'm afraid.” Devon sighed.

  “And Alake's got an idea,” said Grundle, eyeing her friend closely. “Haven't you?”

  “Maybe. It's something we shouldn't do. We could get into real trouble.”

  “Yes, so?” Grundle and Devon brushed aside such mundane considerations.

  Alake glanced around, although there was no one in the small cabin except themselves. Motioning her friends near, she leaned in toward them.

  “I've heard my father tell that in the old days, when one tribe fought another, some of the warriors chewed an herb that took away fear. My father never used it. He said that fear was a warrior's best weapon in a fight, it sharpens his instincts—”

  “Pah! If your insides feel like they're going to be your outsides any minute, it doesn't matter how sharp your instincts are—”

  “Hush, Grundle!” Devon squeezed the dwarf's hand. “Let Alake finish.”

  “I was about to say, before I was interrupted”—Alake glanced sternly at Grundle—“that in this case we really don't need to have particularly sharp instincts because we don't intend to fight anything. We just want to sneak up on the dragon-snakes, listen to what they talk about, and then sneak away. This herb would help take away our fear of them.”

  “Is it magic?” Grundle asked suspiciously.

  “No. Just a plant. Like lettuce. Its properties are inherent. All you have to do is chew it.”

  The three looked at each other.

  “What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Alake, can you get hold of it?”

  “Yes, the herbalist brought some along with her. She thought some of the warriors might want it if we went to war.”

  “All right, then. Alake gets the herb for us. What's it called?”

  “No-fear weed.”

  “Weed?” Grundle frowned. “I don't think—”

  Voices out in the passageway interrupted them. The meeting was breaking up.

  “When will you leave, Haplo?” Dumaka's deep tones carried clearly through the closed door.

  “Tonight.”

  The three companions exchanged glances.

  “Can you get the weed by then?” Devon whispered.

  Alake nodded.

  “Good, then. It's all settled. We go.” Grundle held out her hand.

  Devon placed his hand over the dwarf's. Alake grasped both.

  “We go,” each said firmly.

  Haplo spent the remainder of the day ostensibly learning how to operate one of the small, two-person submersibles, used by humans and elves for fishing. He studied the operation of the dwarven boat carefully, asked questions—far more than would have been needed simply to sail the vessel the short distance to Draknor. He went over every inch of the craft, rousing the suspicions of dwarves by his intense interest.

  But the Patryn was profuse in his praise of dwarven carpentry and navigation skills, and, eventually, the captain and crew were looking for things to impress him.

  “This will serve my purpose well,” said Haplo, glancing around the submersible in satisfaction.

  “Of course,” growled the dwarf. “Yer only taking her far as Draknor. You ain't plannin' to circumnavigate the bleedin' world.”

  Haplo smiled quietly. “You're right, friend. I'm not planning to circumnavigate the world.”

  He was planning to leave it. Just as soon as the dragon-snakes flooded Surunan, which he hoped would be tomorrow. He'd capture Samah. This ship would carry him—and his prisoner—through Death's Gate.

  “I'll put the runes of protection on the inside of the vessel, instead of the outside,” he said to himself, once he was alone, back in his cabin. “That should solve the problem of the seawater.

  “And that reminds me. All need to take back a sample of the water to my lord, have it analyzed, determine if there isn't some way to nullify its debilitating effects against us. And perhaps he can discover how this strange water came into existence. I doubt if the Sartan created it….”

  Haplo heard a thump in the corridor outside his cabin.

  “Grundle,” he guessed, shaking his head.

  He'd spotted the mensch trailing behind him all day. Her heavy tread, heavier boots, and her huffing and snorting would have alerted a blind and deaf man to her presence. The Patryn wondered vaguely what mischief she was up to now, but gave the matter little thought. One nagging concern continued to prey on his mind, drove all else out.

  The dog. Once his dog. Now, apparently, Alfred's.

  Haplo took from his belt two daggers, given to him by Dumaka, and laid them on the bed, examined them carefully. Good weapons, well-made. He called on his magic. The sigla on his skin glowed blue, flared red. Haplo spoke the runes, placed his finger on the flat of the knife's blade. The steel hissed and bubbled, smoke drifted upward in a thin line. Runes of death began to form on the blade, beneath Haplo's tracing finger.

  “Let the damn dog do what it wants.” Haplo took extreme care drawing the runes on which his life might depend, yet he'd done this so many times he could allow his mind to turn to other matters. “I lived for a long time without the animal and I can do it again. The dog came in handy, admittedly, but I don't need it. I don't want it back. Not now. Not after it's been living with a Sartan.”

  Haplo completed his work on one side of the dagger. He sat back, studied it carefully, searching for the tiniest flaw, the smallest break in the intricate pattern. There wouldn't be any, of course. He was good at what he did.

  Good at killing, cheating, lying. He was even good at lying to himself. Or at least he'd been good once. He used to actually believe his own lies. Why couldn't he believe them anymore?

  “Because you're weak.” He sneered at himself. “That's what my lord would say. And he'd be right. Caring about a dog. Caring about mensch. Caring about a woman who left me long ago. Caring about a child of mine who might be stranded back there in the Labyrinth. A child alone. And I don't have the courage to go back and search for it… for her!”

  A mistake. A broken, incomplete sigil. None of the rest would work now. Haplo swore savagely, bitterly, swept the daggers off the bed.

  The brave Patryn, risking his life to enter Death's Gate, risking his life to explore new, uncharted worlds.

  Because I'm afraid to go back to one world I do know. That's the real reason I was ready to give up and die that long time ago in the Labyrinth.2 I couldn't take the loneliness. I couldn't take the fear.

  And then, he'd found the dog.

  And now, the dog was gone.

  Alfred. It was all Alfred's doing. Damn him to hell and back again.

  A loud drumming, which sounded suspiciously like the heels of heavy boots beating against a wooden deck, came from outside Haplo's cabin. Grundle must be getting bored.

  The Patryn stared grimly at the daggers lying on the deck. Work botched. He was losing control.

  Let Alfred have the damn dog. He was welcome to it.

  Haplo picked up the daggers, carefully began his work over again, this ti
me giving it his full and undivided attention. At last, he etched the final sigil onto the dagger's blade. Sitting back, he studied the dagger. This time, all was correct. He started to work on the next.

  Task complete, he wrapped the two rune-enhanced daggers safely and securely in what the dwarves called oilcloth. The cloth was completely waterproof; Haplo knew, he'd tested it. The oilcloth would protect the daggers, keep them from losing their magic, just in case something happened and he lost his.

  Not that he was expecting trouble, but it never hurt to be prepared. To be honest—and he supposed bitterly that this must be his day for honesty—he didn't trust the dragon-snakes, though logic told him he had no reason not to. Perhaps his instincts knew something his brain didn't. He'd learned, in the Labyrinth, to trust his instincts.

  Haplo walked to the door, flung it open.

  Grundle tumbled inside, falling flat on her face. Nonplussed, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, then glared at Haplo.

  “Shouldn't you be going?” she demanded.

  “Just now,” he said, with his quiet smile.

  He thrust the oilskin pouch into the belt around his waist, hiding it beneath the folds of his shirt.

  “About time,” Grundle snorted, and stomped off.

  That afternoon, Alake went to the herbalist, complaining of a sore throat and cough. While the herbalist was preparing an infusion of chamomile and peppermint and droning on about how terrible it was that most young people didn't seem to have any respect these days for the old ways and how nice it was that Alake was different, Alake managed to pluck several leaves of the no-fear weed the herbalist had growing in a small tub.

  Clutching the leaves in one hand, keeping that hand hidden behind her back, Alake accepted the tea, listened carefully to instructions that the brew was to be drunk without delay, the dose repeated again before bedtime.

  She promised she would, as well as she could speak considering her bad cough. On leaving, she added the no-fear weed leaves to the tea mixture, returned hastily to her room.

  That night, Devon and Grundle met in Alake's quarters.

  “He's gone,” Grundle reported. “I watched him board the submersible. He's a strange one. I heard him inside his cabin, talking to himself. I couldn't understand much, but he sounded upset. You know, I don't think he's coming back.”

  Alake scoffed. “Dont be silly. Of course he's coming back. Where else would he go?”

  “Maybe back to wherever he lives.”

  “That's nonsense. He promised to help our people. He wouldn't leave us now.”

  “What makes you think so, Grundle?” Devon asked.

  “I don't know,” the dwarf replied, unusually solemn and thoughtful. “Something about the way he looked …” She sighed gloomily.

  “We'll find out, soon enough,” Devon predicted. “Did you get the herbs?”

  Alake nodded, handed each a leaf of the no-fear weed. Grundle stared at the gray-green leaf in disgust,3 sniffed at it, sneezed. Holding her nose, she popped it into her mouth, chewed it rapidly, and gulped it down.

  Devon licked the leaf delicately with the tip of his tongue and nibbled at it.

  “You look like a rabbit!” Grundle laughed nervously.

  Alake, solemn and serious, placed her leaf in her mouth with a reverent air. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer before she chewed and swallowed it.

  Then all three sat and stared at each other, waiting for their fear to go away.

  1 AS STATED previously, Grundle leaves us no record of later events. We must refer, therefore, to this account, which is taken from Haplo's Chelestra: World of Water, vol. 4, Death Gate Journals.

  2Reference to Haplo's fight with the chaodyn, Dragon Wing, vol. I of The Death Gate Cycle.

  3Dwarves do not like green vegetables; the potato, the carrot, and the onion are the only vegetables in the dwarven diet, and even these they will not eat raw.

  “WHERE DO YOU THINK YER TAKING THAT THERE BOAT?”

  The dwarven deckhand had popped up out of nowhere seemingly, was glowering at the three young people.

  “You are speaking to a royal chieftain's daughter, sir,” said Alake, drawing herself up imperiously. “And to the daughter of your king.”

  “That's right,” said Grundle, marching forward.

  The deckhand, abashed, snatched the shapeless hat off his head and bobbed from the waist. “Pardon, missy. But my orders are to watch over these here boats. No one takes one without the Vater's permission.”

  “I know that,” Grundle snapped. “And we've got my father's permission. Show him, Alake.”

  “What?” Alake jumped, stared at her.

  “Show him the permission letter from my father.” Grundle winked, glanced significantly at the pouch that hung from a braided belt encircling the human's waist.

  The top edges of several small, tightly rolled parchments were barely visible, peeping out over the edge.

  Alake flushed, her eyes narrowed. “These are my spells!” she mouthed angrily. “I'm not showing them to anyone.”

  “Women,” said Devon hurriedly, taking hold of the deckhand's arm and drawing him away. “They never know what they have in their pouches.”

  “It's all right,” Grundle shot back. “You can show him. He can't read!”

  Alake glared at her.

  “Come on! We don't have much time! Haplo's probably left by now.”

  Alake sighed. Reaching into her pouch, she drew forth one of the parchments.

  “Will this do?” she asked, unrolling it, thrusting it beneath the deckhand's nose, snapping it back up again before he could do more than blink.

  “I … I guess so.” The dwarf ruminated. “Just to be on the safe side, I think I'll go ask the Vater himself. You don't mind waiting, do you?”

  “No, go ahead. Take your time.” Grundle was gracious.

  The deckhand departed. The moment his back was turned, the three climbed through a hatch in the hull and from there into the small submersible, which hung onto the side of the mothership rather like a young dolphin clinging to its parent. Grundle shut both hatches—the one on the hull and the one in the submersible, and detached the vessel from the sun-chaser.

  “Are you sure you know how to operate this thing?” Alake had as much use for mechanical devices as Grundle had for magic.

  “Sure,” Grundle said promptly. “I've been practicing. I thought, if we ever got a chance to spy on the dragon-snakes, we'd need a boat to do it.”

  “Very clever,” Alake conceded magnanimously.

  The water around Draknor, unlike the rest of the Goodsea, was dark and murky.

  “Like swimming through blood,” Devon remarked, peering out the porthole in search of Haplo's small vessel.

  The two girls agreed complacently. The no-fear weed had lived up to its reputation.

  “What's he doing?” Alake wondered uneasily. “He's been inside his ship the longest time.”

  “I told you,” Grundle said. “He's not coming back. He's probably fixing it up to live in for a while—”

  “There he is,” Devon cried, pointing.

  Haplo's submersible was easily recognized: it belonged to Yngvar and was therefore marked with the royal crest.

  Assuming that Haplo knew where he was going, which they did not (none of them having been taught the mysteries of navigating the Goodsea1

  1“Sound is the most reliable form of communication in the sea. Ship captains know and utilize the various distinct sounds that the seamoons— the durnai—make as they drift through the water. These sounds are detected by “elf ears,” magical devices made by elven wizards that pick up the sounds and transmit them through a hollow tube to the ship's captain. By noting the various locations of these sounds and their distances, the position of the ship can be determined.

  Unfortunately, however, the captains would be familiar only with their own local waters. Out of those waters, they must now rely on the dragon-snakes for guidance. The mensch tagged along behind.<
br />
  “Maybe he'll see us. Grundle, keep back,” Alake said worriedly.

  “Pooh. In this muck, he can't see us. Not even if we were on his—”

  “—tail,” said Devon hurriedly.

  Grundle was steering. Alake and Devon stood behind her, peering eagerly over her shoulder. The no-fear weed was working quite effectively. They were agreeably tense and excited but not afraid. Suddenly, however, Grundle turned around to her friends with a stricken look.

  “I just thought of something!”

  “Watch where you're going!”

  “Do you remember the last time we saw the dragon-snake? It talked with Haplo. Remember?”

  Both nodded.

  “And it spoke his language. We couldn't understand a word! How can we find out what they're saying when we don't know what they're saying?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Alake, looking downcast. “I hadn't thought of that.”

  “So what do we do?” Grundle asked, deflated, her excitement for the adventure gone. “Go back to the sun-chaser?”

  “No,” said Devon decisively. “Even if we can't understand what they're saying, we can use our eyes and maybe we'll learn something that way. Besides, Haplo might be in danger. He might need our help.”

  “And my side whiskers might grow until they touch my feet!” Grundle retorted.

  “Well, what do you want to do?” Devon asked.

  Grundle looked at her friend. “Alake?”

  “I agree with Devon. I say we go on.”

  “I guess we go on,” said Grundle, shrugging. Then she cheered up. “Who knows? We might find some more of those jewels.”

  Haplo sailed the submersible slowly toward Draknor, taking his time, trying to avoid running aground again. The water was dark and foul-looking. He could barely see through it, had no idea where he was or which direction he was headed. He was letting the dragon-snakes guide him, letting them draw him toward them.

  The sigla on his skin glowed bright blue. It took enormous force of will for him to steer the ship closer to Draknor's shore, when every instinct screamed for him to turn around and sail away.

  The submersible surfaced, bobbed up out of the water, with a suddenness that startled him. A large stretch of beach was visible, white sand glowing in the darkness with an eerie, ghostly light that emanated from some unknown source, perhaps the crushed and crumbled rock itself.