The Hands of Chaos, page 1
BARGAIN
“You seek our help in obtaining entry into the palace.”
“In exchange for my soul,” said Hugh, placing his pipe in his mouth.
“In exchange for nothing!” Iridal struck in angrily. “Nothing except the knowledge that you elves have done what is right!”
“You ask us, Magicka, to betray our people,” said the Keeper of the Soul.
“I ask you to save your people!” Iridal cried passionately. “Look at the depths to which your emperor has sunk. He murders his own! What will happen if this tyrant rules the world unchallenged?”
The Keepers exchanged glances.
“We accept your offer,” said the Keeper of the Soul.
Hugh made no reply, merely nodded once, abruptly.
“You will accept the ritual death at our hands?”
“I welcome it,” Hugh said.
THE HAND OF CHAOS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition / April 1993
Bantam paperback edition / December 1993
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.
Technical illustrations by GDS/Jeffrey L. Ward.
Illustrations in the Introduction by Tom Canty.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-32978
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48578-6
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Appendix I
Appendix II
Appendix III
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Authors
This my son was dead,
and is alive again;
he was lost, and is found.
Luke 15:24
INTRODUCTION
TO THE
FOUR REALMS
I am called Haplo.
My name means single, alone. It was given to me by my parents as a sort of prophecy, for they knew they would not survive the prison into which my people, the Patryns, had been cast—the prison of dark and terrible magics known as the Labyrinth.
I became a Runner—one who fights the Labyrinth. I was one of the lucky ones. I made it through the Final Gate, though I very nearly perished in the attempt. If it had not been for this sausage-stealing dog who sits here beside me, I would not be here, penning this account. The dog gave me the will to live when I would have given up and died. He saved my life.
The dog gave me the will to live, but my lord Xar gave me a reason to live, a purpose.
Xar was the first Patryn to escape the Labyrinth. He is old and powerful, highly skilled in the rune-magic that gives both the Patryns and our enemies, the Sartan, our strength. Xar escaped the Labyrinth, then immediately went back into it. No other has ever had the courage to do so, and even now he risks his life daily to rescue us.
Many of us have emerged from the Labyrinth. We live in the Nexus, which we have made into a beautiful city. But have we been rehabilitated as our captors had intended?
An impatient people, we learned patience in that hard school. A selfish people, we learned self-sacrifice, loyalty. Above all, we learned to hate.
It is my lord Xar’s goal—our goal—to take back the world that was snatched from us, to rule it as we were always meant to rule, and to inflict dire punishment on our enemies.
The realms used to be but one world, one beautiful green-blue world. It belonged to us and the Sartan, for our rune-magic made us powerful. The other, lesser races, whom we call mensch—the humans, elves, and dwarves—worshiped us as gods.
But the Sartan thought we Patryns were gaining too much control. The balance of power started to shift in our favor. Furious, the Sartan did the only thing they could to stop us. Using their rune-magic—the magic based on probabilities—the Sartan sundered the world and cast us into prison.
They formed four new worlds out of the rubble of the old, each from an element of the original: air, fire, stone, water. The four are connected by the magical Death’s Gate—conduits through which those possessing the rune-magic may safely travel. The four worlds should have worked to support each other: Pryan, the world of fire, would supply energy to Abarrach, the world of stone. Abarrach would supply ores and minerals to Chelestra, world of water, and so forth. All was to be coordinated and fueled by a wondrous machine, the Kicksey-winsey, which the Sartan constructed on Arianus.
But the plans of the Sartan went awry. Their populations on each of the worlds began to mysteriously dwindle and die out. The Sartan on each world called for help from the others, but their pleas went unanswered. Each world had its own troubles.
I discovered this, you see, because it was my task—assigned to me by Xar—to travel to each of the worlds. I was to spy them out and discover what had happened to our ancient enemy. And so, I visited each realm. The complete record of my adventures can be found in my journals, which have come to be known as The Death Gate Cycle.
What I learned was a complete surprise. My discoveries changed my life—and not for the better. When I set forth, I had all the answers. Now, I am left only with questions.
My lord blames my unsettled state of mind on a Sartan I met during my travels. A Sartan who calls himself by a mensch name—Alfred Montbank. And at first, I agreed with my lord. I blamed Alfred, I was convinced he was tricking me.
But now, I am not so certain. I doubt everything—myself … my lord.
Let me try to tell you—in brief—what happened to me.
ARIANUS
The first world I visited was the world of air, Arianus. It is made up of floating continents that exist on three levels. The Low Realm is the home of the dwarves, and it is here, on Drevlin, that the Sartan built the great and wondrous machine, the Kicksey-winsey. But before the Sartan could get the machine working, they began to die. Panic-stricken, they placed their young people into a state of suspended animation, hoping that when they awoke, the situation would have stabilized.
But only one of the Sartan survived—Alfred. He awoke to find himself the only one of his friends and family still alive. The knowledge appalled him, terrified him. He felt responsible for the chaos into which his world had fallen—for the mensch were, of course, on the brink of all-out war. Yet he was afraid of revealing the truth about himself. His rune-magic would give him the power of a demigod over the mensch. He feared that the mensch would try to force him to use his magic for their own destructive ends. And so Alfred hid his power, refused to use it even to save himself. Today, whenever he is threatened, instead of fighting back with his strong magic, Alfred faints.
The dog and I crash-landed on Arianus and nearly died. We were rescued by a dwarf named Limbeck. The dwarves on Arianus are slaves to the Kicksey-winsey, serving it mindlessly as it works away mindlessly, lacking any direction. But Limbeck is a revolutionary, a freethinker. The dwarves were, at that time, under the thumb of a strong nation of elves, who had set up a dictatorship on the Mid Level of Arianus. The elves therefore control the only supply of fresh water in the world, water that comes from the Kicksey-winsey.
The humans, who also dwell in the Mid Realm, have been at war with the elves over water for most of the history of Arianus. The war raged on during my time there, and the battle continues now—with one significant difference. An elven prince has arisen who wants peace, unity among the races. This prince has started a rebellion against his own people, but the only result, so far, has been to cause more chaos.
I managed to assist Limbeck, the dwarf, in leading his people in a revolt against both the humans and elves. And when I
I would have liked to have brought another mensch back with me—a human named Hugh the Hand. A highly skilled assassin, Hugh was the one of the few mensch I’ve met whom I could have accepted as a trusted ally. Unfortunately, Hugh the Hand died fighting Bane’s father, an evil human wizard. And who did I get for a traveling companion?
Alfred.
But that is skipping ahead.
While I was on Arianus, I came across Alfred, who was acting as a servant to the child Bane. I am ashamed to admit it, but Alfred discovered I was a Patryn long before I knew he was a Sartan. When I found out, I intended to kill him, but, at the moment, I had enough to do to save my own life.…
But that is a long story.1 Suffice it to say, I was forced to leave Arianus without settling my score with the one Sartan who had fallen into my grasp.
PRYAN
The next world the dog and I visited was Pryan, world of fire. Pryan is a gigantic world, a hollow sphere of rock, its size nearly incomprehensible to the mind. Its sun burns in the center. Life and vegetation exist on the rock’s inner crust. Because the world does not rotate, Pryan’s sun shines continually—there is no night. Consequently, Pryan is a world of jungle life so thick and heavy that few who live on the planet have ever seen the ground. Entire cities are built in the limbs of huge trees, whose strong branches support lakes, even oceans.
One of the first people I met on Pryan was a daft old wizard and the dragon who appears to be the old man’s keeper. The wizard calls himself Zifnab (when he can remember to call himself anything at all!), and gives every indication of being a raving lunatic. Except that there are times when his madness is all too sane. He knows too much, this befuddled old fool; knows too much about me, about the Patryns, about the Sartan, about everything. He knows too much, yet tells exactly nothing.
Here on Pryan, as on Arianus, the mensch are at war with each other. Elves hate the humans, the humans mistrust the elves, the dwarves hate and mistrust everybody. I should know. I traveled with a bunch of humans, elves, and a dwarf. You never saw such quarreling and bickering and fighting. I grew sick of them and left. I have no doubt that they’ve all probably killed each other by now. That, or the tytans have slaughtered them.
The tytans.
I encountered many fearsome monsters in the Labyrinth, but few equaled the tytans. Gigantic humanoids, blind, with limited intelligence, the tytans are magical creations of the Sartan, who used them as overseers for the mensch. So long as the Sartan survived, they kept the tytans under control. But on Pryan, as on Arianus, the Sartan race mysteriously began to dwindle. The tytans were left without instruction, without supervision. Now they wander Pryan in large numbers, asking all the mensch they meet these strange questions:
“Where are the citadels? What is our purpose?”
When they receive no answer, the tytans fly into a rage and beat the wretched mensch to death. Nothing, no one, can withstand these terrible creatures, for they possess a rudimentary form of Sartan rune-magic. They came very close to destroying me, in fact, but that too is another tale.2
And what is the answer to their question? Where are the citadels? What are the citadels? This became my question as well. And I found at least part of the answer.
The citadels are shining cities, built by the Sartan upon their arrival on Pryan. As near as I can determine from records the Sartan left behind, the citadels were intended to gather energy from Pryan’s constantly burning sun and transmit that energy to the other worlds, through Death’s Gate, via the power of the Kicksey-winsey. But Death’s Gate remained closed; the Kicksey-winsey didn’t work. The citadels are empty, deserted. Their lights shine feebly, if at all.
ABARRACH
I traveled next to Abarrach, world of stone.
And it was on this journey I picked up my unwanted traveling companion: Alfred, the Sartan.
Alfred had been navigating Death’s Gate in a futile attempt to locate Bane, the child I’d taken from Arianus. Alfred bungled it, of course. The man can’t walk without falling over his own shoelaces. He missed his destination and landed in my ship.
At this point, I made a mistake. Alfred was now my captive. I should have returned him immediately to my lord. Xar would have been able to elicit, painfully, all the secrets of this Sartan’s soul.
But my ship had just entered Abarrach. I was loath to leave it, loath to travel back through Death’s Gate—a fearsome, disturbing journey. And, to be honest, I wanted to keep Alfred around awhile. Passing through Death’s Gate, we had—quite unintentionally—switched bodies. For a short while, I found myself in Alfred’s mind, with his thoughts, fears, memories. He found himself in mine. Each of us returned to his own body, but I know I was not quite the same—though it was long before I could admit it to myself.
I had come to know and understand my enemy. And that made it difficult to continue to hate him. Besides, as it turned out, we needed each other for our very survival.
Abarrach is a terrible world. Cold stone on the outside, molten rock and lava on the inside. The mensch the Sartan brought here could not long live in its hellish caverns. It took all our magical strength—both Alfred’s and mine—to survive the blistering heat rising from the molten oceans, the poisonous fumes that fill the air. But people live on Abarrach.
And so do the dead.
It was here, on Abarrach, that Alfred and I discovered debased descendants of his race—the Sartan. And it was here we found the tragic answer to what had happened to his people. These Sartan on Abarrach had begun to use the forbidden art of necromancy. The Sartan were raising the dead, giving them a semblance of cursed life, using the corpses of their own people as slaves. According to Alfred, this arcane art was prohibited anciently because it was discovered that whenever one of the dead is brought back to life, one of the living will die untimely. Either the Sartan on Abarrach had forgotten the prohibition—or were ignoring it.
Having survived the Labyrinth, I thought myself hardened, inured to the sight of almost any atrocity. But the walking dead of Abarrach still haunt my darkest dreams. I tried to convince myself that necromancy would prove a most valuable skill to my lord. An army of the dead is indestructible, invincible, undefeatable. With such an army, my lord could easily conquer the other worlds, without the tragic waste of the lives of my people.
I very nearly ended up a corpse myself, on Abarrach. The thought of my body continuing to live on in mindless drudgery horrified me. I could not bear the thought of this happening to others. I resolved, therefore, not to tell my lord that the art of necromancy was being practiced by the Sartan on that wretched world. That was my first act of rebellion against my lord.
It was not to be my last.
Another experience happened to me on Abarrach, one that is painful, perplexing, irritating, confusing, yet inspires me with awe whenever I recall it.
Fleeing pursuit, Alfred and I stumbled into a room known as the Chamber of the Damned. Through the magic of that chamber I was transported back in time, thrust again into another body, the body of a Sartan. And it was then, during this strange and magical experience, that I encountered a higher power. I was given to know that I was not a demigod, as I had always believed, that the magic I controlled was not the strongest force in the universe.
Another, stronger force exists, a benevolent force, a force that seeks only goodness and order and peace. In the body of this unknown Sartan, I longed to contact this force, but before I could, other Sartan—fearful of our newfound truth—swept into the chamber and cut us down. Those of us gathered in that chamber died there. All knowledge of us and our discovery was lost, except for a mysterious prophecy.
When I awoke, in my own time, in my own body, I could only imperfectly remember what I had seen and heard. And I tried very hard to forget even that much. I didn’t want to face the fact that—compared to this power—I was as weak as any mensch. I accused Alfred of attempting to trick me, of creating this illusion himself. He denied it, of course. He swore that he had experienced exactly the same thing that I did.
