05 The Hand of Chaos by Weis & Hickman

Author:Weis & Hickman [Weis & Hickman]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-04-10T22:57:39.141000+00:00

"Iridal..."

The panel slid shut abruptly.

The Abbot glanced at her, curious to see her response, probably expecting her to turn and flee. Iridal stood firm, the fingers of one hand, hidden beneath her cloak, digging into her flesh. The other hand, which held the candle, was steady.

Frantic activity sounded inside: furniture being overturned, casks upset, as if Hugh was searching for something. A snarl of triumph. A metal object struck the lower half of the door. Another snarl, this one of frustration, then a key shot out from beneath the crack.

The Abbot leaned down, picked the key up, held it in his hand a moment, eyeing it speculatively. He looked at Iridal, silently asking her if she wanted him to proceed.

Lips pressed together, she indicated with a cold nod that he was to open the door. Shrugging, the Abbot did so. The moment the lock clicked, the clay door was flung open from the inside. An apparition appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against dimly lit, smoke-filled shadows behind, illuminated by the candlelight before him. The apparition sprang at Iridal. Strong hands grabbed hold of her arms, dragged her inside the cell, and flung her back against a wall. She dropped the candle; it fell to the floor, the light drowning in a pool of spilled wax.

Hugh the Hand, blocking the door with his body, faced the Abbot.

"The key," the Hand commanded. The Abbot gave it over. "Leave us!"

Catching hold of the door, Hugh slammed it shut. Turning, he faced Iridal. She heard the Abbot's soft footfalls pad disinterestedly away.

The cell was small. The furniture consisted of a crude bed, a table, a chair--overturned--and a bucket in a corner, used-- by the stench--to hold the body's wastes. A thick wax candle stood on the table. Hugh's pipe lay beside it. A mug stood near that, along with a plate of half-eaten food and a bottle of some liquor that smeiled almost as bad as the stregno.

Iridal took in all these objects with a swift glance that was also searching for weapons. Her fear was not for herself; she was armored with her powerful magic that could subdue the man more swiftly and easily than she subdued her dragon. She feared for Hugh, that he might do some harm to himself before she could stop him, for she assumed that he was drunk beyond the point of sanity.

He stood before her, staring at her, his face--with its hawk nose, strong forehead, deep-set, narrow eyes--was hideous, half-hidden by wandering shadows and a haze of yellow-tinged smoke. He breathed heavily, from the frenzied exertion, the liquor, and an avid excitement that made his body tremble. He lurched unsteadily toward her, hands outstretched. The light fell full upon his face and then Iridal was afraid for herself, for the liquor had inflamed his skin but did not touch his eyes.

Some part of him, deep within, was sober; some part that could not be touched by the wine, no matter how much he drank; some part that could not be drowned.

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