Vanity's Brood

by Lisa Smedman

  “Why are you following me?” Arvin asked. “What do you want?”

  The dog-man merely stared at him. “You should learn,” he said in a high, quick voice like that of a yapping dog, “to let sleeping serpents lie!” Then his eyes began to glow.

  “I …” That was all Arvin managed before his gaze was locked by those large, golden eyes.

  He dimly realized the dog-man was unleashing magic that didn’t require words or gestures—just as a sorcerer or psion would. Arvin tried to mount a defense, but even as energy flowed into the power point at his throat his eyes closed. He felt himself falling …

  When awareness returned, he found himself lying on the road in the spot where he’d been waylaid. Sunlight slanted through the forest as the sun slowly moved toward the horizon. Not much time had passed then. He sat up, rubbing an arm that must have banged against a rock when he fell. He blinked, yawned, and shook his head, willing himself to come fully awake.

  The dog-man was gone. Blood marked the spot where he’d stood.

  Arvin yawned again and rubbed his eyes.

  More blood was on Arvin’s dagger, which lay next to his pack. The pack was open.

  Arvin scrambled toward it. He turned it over, inspecting it. The musk-creeper net was still inside—it looked as though the dog-man had the presence of mind to leave it alone—but the contents of the side pouches had been pulled out. Arvin’s magical ropes and twines were scattered about, as were the mundane bits of equipment he’d gathered together after leaving Zelia’s rooftop garden. There were smears of blood on several of them. The dog-man hadn’t stopped to bind his wound before rifling through the pack.

  Stuffing the items back into their pouches, Arvin wondered what the dog-man had been looking for. Had he, like Pakal and the Naneth-seed, also been searching for the Circled Serpent? He didn’t look—or act—like one of Sibyl’s minions, which meant that some other faction must be involved, but who?

  Arvin didn’t know much about ordinary tracking, but it was clear from the drops of blood on the road which way the dog-man had gone. Uphill, toward the temple. Toward Pakal. A faint paw print in the dust marked the spot where he’d shifted back into a dog then started to run.

  Arvin turned in the other direction and felt the tickle in his forehead intensify. The iron cobra was close—very close. He’d better get moving.

  He slung his backpack onto his shoulder and drew deep from his muladhara. Ectoplasm sweated out of his pores and the scents of saffron and ginger filled the air around him as he began his metamorphosis. He pressed his legs together and spread his arms, and willed his body into a tiny, slender, snakelike form. It unnerved him, a little, feeling his legs join together to form a tail—it was a little too close to what Zelia had just put him through—but he clamped down on his trepidation and forced himself to concentrate.

  Arms feathered into wings, his tongue split into a fork, and his pupils became slits. He felt his body shrinking, contracting, becoming sinuous and light-boned. He flapped his arms experimentally—and found himself hovering, his tail dangling just above the road. By concentrating, he was able to rise a little farther, but it was awkward; the form was so alien to his own. It was difficult to control, difficult to find his balance.

  From behind him came the scrape of metal on stone. Glancing back, he saw the iron cobra slithering up the road toward him. Red eyes gleamed in the dusk as it spotted him and gave a malevolent hiss.

  Silver burst from Arvin’s forehead and coalesced as a sheen of ectoplasm on the cobra’s body as Arvin manifested another of his powers. The ectoplasm solidified into transluscent ropes, and he gave them a mental yank, binding the cobra up in a tight ball. It thrashed, and two of the coils of rope burst apart, spraying ectoplasm, but the rest held.

  Before the entangling net he’d created evaporated, Arvin drew still more ectoplasm from the Astral Plane and gave it human form. It was difficult work, manifesting yet another power while hovering in mid-air with unfamiliar wings, but by concentrating fiercely he managed it. He was still a beginner when it came to creating astral constructs—he couldn’t yet imbue them with the ability to discharge electricity or do extra damage with a chilling or fiery touch—but the constructs he created could punch and stomp. The one he manifested then did just that, pummelling the cobra with massive fists and feet. The cobra’s iron body rang with each blow, and several of the metal bands that made up its body were dented. The astral construct gave it a final kick, and the iron cobra’s metal head snapped back, its neck bent at a sharp angle. It clattered to the ground.

  The ropes of ectoplasm faded then disappeared. Still the iron cobra didn’t move. Arvin hovered just in front of it, waiting. Even given that invitation, it didn’t attack, and the tickling sensation in Arvin’s forehead was gone. Satisfied, he let his astral construct fade.

  He climbed into the air. He rose above the treetops and began winging his way above the road to the distant temple. It lay higher up Mount Ugruth, on a bare area with burned trees to either side. Higher still, the peak of the volcano smoldered, a dim red glow that rivaled the setting sun.

  Arvin flew toward it, hoping that Pakal still waited for him.

  It was middark by the time Arvin reached the temple. He spotted it by the red glow in its central courtyard. The building had been built in a square surrounding a deep fissure in the ground, one that plunged like a knife wound all the way down to Mount Ugruth’s molten heart. The white marble tiles surrounding the fissure were splattered with glossy black stone: lava that had cooled and hardened. Heat hazed the air above the crack, carrying with it the smell of sulfur. The inside wall of the building surrounding the courtyard had a wide portico supported by massive pillars that glowed a dusky red, like tree trunks in a burning forest. The rest of the building lay in shadow.

  Farther up the mountain, Arvin spotted movement. He flew in that direction and saw a large group of people—about a hundred or so—climbing a narrow path that led toward the peak. Arvin swooped down lower and saw that they were Talos worshipers following a cleric—one who walked with a swaying gait. Suspicious, Arvin dipped into the cleric’s thoughts.

  The cleric—another yuan-ti in disguise—was leading an even larger group of worshipers to their deaths.

  Not too much farther up the mountain was a large fissure, one that vented ash and poisonous fumes. The worshipers would be told to walk to its lip and breathe deeply. By breathing the fumes, they would “embrace” Talos and prove themselves worthy of him. If any of them dared to question their cleric’s orders or realized what was happening and tried to run away, the wand would take care of them, just as it had taken care of the lower-ranked clerics. One way or another, they would die.

  Arvin skimmed the thoughts of the worshipers closest to the cleric, hoping to find some spark of resistance. There was none. What their god had instructed them to do, they would do, no matter how odd his command seemed. Their thoughts were sluggish, as if they had been drugged.

  The cleric glanced up at Arvin. Strange, he thought. I didn’t know Thessania kept a pet.

  Arvin broke contact. He wheeled back in the direction of the temple, searching for Pakal along the way. There was no sign of the dwarf, just as there had been no sign of him on the road leading to the temple. Nor did Arvin see anyone else. The temple seemed to be abandoned.

  No, not quite. As Arvin circled over its roof, he spotted a solitary figure standing between two columns of the portico. Behind him was an arch that must have been the temple’s main entrance. He was a tall man, his hair and beard as black as his clerical robes. Arvin might not have noticed him save for the javelin the man held. Its point, jagged as a lightning bolt, gave off a faint shimmer of electrical energy that illuminated his face. He leaned on the weapon, using it like a staff, staring into the courtyard with an unfocused gaze.

  Arvin circled overhead, once again manifesting the power that allowed him to read minds, wondering if he’d discovered another yuan-ti. He was surprised to find nothing serpe
ntlike at all about the man’s thoughts. They were very human—and very troubled. The man wondered if he’d done the right thing. Did Talos truly demand more sacrifices? Already the clergy were gone, and they were forced to use lay worshipers from distant cities. The signs were all there, it was true—the smoke that rose from Mount Ugruth’s peak, the lava that had bubbled up into the courtyard, the fire that had broken out on the hillside after the lighting strike—but was sacrifice what was truly required? And of the entire flock? Talos only seemed to be getting angrier with each passing day, yet if the high stormherald himself had sent word that sacrifice was necessary, it must be so.

  He couldn’t help but wonder, however, if he shouldn’t have communed with Talos himself, just to be sure. If only his furies hadn’t insisted on being the first to die, he might have consulted with them. Perhaps he should go after Siskin, ask the newly arrived cleric to wait until …

  Arvin withdrew from the man’s thoughts. The cleric—the stormlord of the temple, Arvin guessed—had been duped by the yuan-ti, but his mind was still his own. If Arvin could convince him to listen, perhaps the slaughter that was about to happen on the hillside above could be stopped. The worshipers would surely listen to their stormlord.

  Arvin landed outside the temple’s entrance and allowed his metamorphosis to end. His tail sprang apart and became two legs again, and his body grew as it took on human form. He flexed his muscles, getting reacquainted with the feeling of arms and legs, then used his psionics to alter his appearance slightly, creating the illusion of deep red scratches in each of his cheeks. The stormlord would be more willing to listen to a warning if it came from one of his own followers.

  Arvin strode through the entrance into the courtyard, he formed a cross with his arms against his chest as he’d seen the Talos worshipers do.

  “Stormlord,” he said, bowing, “I bring urgent news. May I speak with you?”

  The brooding man turned. Close up, Arvin could see more details of his appearance. The stormlord’s nose was long and sharp, his forehead creased with deep lines. Heavy black eyebrows were drawn together in what looked like a perpetual scowl. The right side of his face was puckered with white scar tissue and his hairline on that side was slightly higher. It looked as though he’d suffered a burn some time in the past. A wide metal bracer embossed with silver lightning bolts encircled each forearm.

  “Approach,” he said, “and speak.”

  Arvin rose from his bow and stepped closer. He had no idea what the protocol was for a lay worshiper addressing a cleric of this faith. He was taking a big chance. If he angered the stormlord, the man might strike him down with a lighting bolt. But he couldn’t just let those people die—not when there was someone who might be able to do something about it.

  “Stormlord,” Arvin said, “I’ve just come from Hlondeth. I learned something there—something terrible. The cleric who just left the temple … Siskin. He isn’t human. He’s a yuan-ti.”

  “Nonsense,” the stormlord said. “Siskin has been touched by Talos. I saw the burn mark myself.”

  Arvin was about to counter that the burn had probably been an illusion when he realized something. The stormlord’s breath had a sweet odor to it. He’d been drinking wine.

  Wine that smelled like Thessania’s perfume.

  Arvin had been certain, back at the quarry, that the black liquid was poison, but he started to wonder. Perhaps it was something else, something more insidious. Something that would bend a person’s thoughts along paths they wouldn’t ordinarily follow, until even the most horrific suggestions sounded perfectly reasonable.

  “Siskin served you wine earlier tonight, didn’t he?” Arvin asked. “And he insisted that all of your flock drink, as well.”

  The stormlord nodded. The furrow in his brow deepened. “What of it?”

  “Did the wine taste unusual?”

  “It was sweeter. Flavored. It came from the east, he said.”

  “After drinking the wine, you talked,” Arvin said. “Siskin suggested that the lay worshipers be sacrificed. Tonight. It sounded reasonable at the time, but less reasonable now that you’ve had a chance to think about it.”

  The stormlord started to nod, but just then, the ground trembled. Deep in the fissure that split the courtyard, something rumbled. Arvin heard a wet splat as lava shot out of the crack. He could feel its heat through his shirt.

  The stormlord stared at the cooling rock, which was already losing its glow. “It is … necessary,” he said. “Talos demands a sacrifice. Without it, he will level Mount Ugruth. Thousands will die. Hlondeth itself may be wiped out. We cannot allow that to happen. The sacrifice is … necessary.”

  Arvin blinked. For a moment, the stormlord had sounded like Karrell. He’d sounded as though he cared about Hlondeth and its people. Arvin, like most folks in Hlondeth, had been taught that the clerics of Talos reveled in destruction and death, but the stormlord’s comments gave him cause for thought.

  “You don’t want the mountain to erupt?” Arvin asked.

  The stormlord glared at him. “You’re not one of us,” he rumbled.

  “No,” Arvin admitted. “I’m not. Nor is Siskin. I’ll bet that when he arrived here, he was as much a stranger to you as I am.” He spread his hands, entreating the cleric to listen. “Think about it—of the two strangers, who gives you more cause for concern? The one who is asking you to listen to your own doubts before it’s too late—or a ‘cleric’ who got you drunk on a strange-tasting wine, then suggested you kill off all of your worshipers?”

  The stormlord blinked and blinked again. A shudder ran through him. He shook his head like a man trying to throw off a dream. When he looked at Arvin again, his eyes were clear and hard. “Thank you—friend—for the warning. May Talos’s fist never strike you.”

  Then he wheeled, javelin in hand, and ran through the temple, out into the night.

  Arvin activated his lapis lazuli. It was time to find Pakal. He imagined the dwarf’s face, but though he could picture it clearly—dark, tattooed skin framed by ropy hair—Pakal refused to come into focus. Arvin, worried, wondered if Pakal had decided not to wait for him. Even if the dwarf had moved on from the temple, a sending still should have been able to reach him.

  Unless …

  A terrible thought occurred to Arvin. Maybe the dog-man had caught up to Pakal, killed him, and taken the Circled Serpent.

  Then again, Arvin realized, Pakal could just be in another form, as he had been in Sibyl’s temple, cloaked in an illusion that fooled the sending—an illusion, for example, that would help him blend in at Talos’s temple.

  “Pakal!” Arvin shouted. “Are you here? Pakal!”

  Arvin heard what he expected—silence. He could guess where Pakal was: on the footpath above the temple, somewhere among the hundred or so others who were walking to their deaths.

  He bolted in the direction the stormlord had gone.

  The path up the mountain was a steep one, made treacherous by loose volcanic rock that skittered away with each step. Arvin slipped repeatedly, scraping his hands and knees. The night was overcast, and Mount Ugruth lent an ugly red glow to the clouds above. Smoke and ash rose into the sky from its peak. Perhaps the mountain really was about to erupt. Arvin ran until his lungs ached, but instead of stopping to catch his breath, he pressed on.

  The air was hotter than it had been below. Here and there beside the path, heat waves danced in the night air over a crack in the ground. Glancing down into one of them, Arvin saw glowing lava. It bubbled out onto the trunk of a dead tree. The bark smoldered, then burst into flame. A thin stream of molten rock oozed out of the hole and flowed downhill, cutting across the path.

  From above, past a point where the path rounded a knoll that hid what lay above from view, came confused shouts then screams.

  As Arvin reached the knoll, a bolt of lightning lanced out of the sky, then forked horizontally just before striking the ground, as if it had been deflected by something. One bolt hit a rocky out
cropping just a few paces away from Arvin. He threw up his hand to shield his face as splinters of rock rained down on him. He scrambled up the path, manifesting the power that would allow him to see through illusions as he ran. Sparkles flashed into the night in front of his forehead then were gone.

  As he rounded the knoll, he saw the stormlord locked in magical combat with the yuan-ti—and it didn’t look good for the stormlord. The yuan-ti menaced the worshipers with bared fangs, using his magical fear to drive them toward a stream of flowing lava. The stormlord was several paces back, caught in a dead tree that had wrapped its branches around him like a magical entangling rope. One of the cleric’s hands was free, and he swept it up and down as he shouted a prayer. A pillar of lava burst from the flow, arced toward the yuan-ti in a streak of red, then plunged down.

  The yuan-ti raised a hand above his head, magically deflecting the molten rock. It shot back toward the stormlord then veered aside and splashed onto the ground in front of him, splattering the worshipers. At least a dozen were badly burned, and they fell to the ground screaming.

  The yuan-ti retaliated with a flick of his hand that engulfed the stormlord in a cloud of magical darkness. Then he turned his attention back to the remaining worshipers with an angry hiss. They recoiled and stumbled backward, screaming and weeping. At least a dozen ran blindly into the lava and were killed, their hair and clothes bursting into flame and their flesh sizzling as it roasted from their bones. One or two managed to resist the fear and tried to run back down the hill past the yuan-ti, but the false cleric was faster. Whipping a wand out of his belt, he pointed it at them. A pea-sized mote of fire burst from the wand, growing as it streaked through the night. It struck the back of one of the worshipers and exploded into an enormous ball of white-hot flame. In the blink of an eye, all that remained of those who had fled were twisted, blackened corpses.