The Fanged Crown

by Jenna Helland

  “Can you get us through, Verran?” Harp asked.

  “I’ll try,” Verran said, his eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at Harp’s unscarred face. “If you need us, you know where to find us,” Zo said, clasping hands with each of them before he turned and headed back down the way they’d come.

  “Well, men,” Harp said. “Any final thoughts before we head into the mouth of the beast?”

  “I wanted to go back to the ship that first day,” Boult said, snatching the torch from Harp’s hand and stomping down the tunnel. “I said we should sail to Nyanzaru and sell the Marigold. If you’d listened to me, we’d be sitting on a pile of coin and drinking a pint.”

  “Ah, but you’d never have seen a giant lizard.”

  “It was dead,” Boult said over his shoulder as they followed him into the tunnel.

  “You’d never have seen a dead giant lizard get eaten by ants,” Harp reminded him.

  “Eh,” Boult said, shrugging.

  “You’d never have jumped off a waterfall,” Harp said.

  “Or been attacked by a creature made out of corpses,” Kitto added.

  “Or seen the bones of a god,” Harp pointed out.

  “It wasn’t a god,” Verran muttered, but everyone ignored him.

  “And Harp would still have his scars,” Kitto said.

  Boult stopped. At first Harp thought it was because of what Kitto had said, but Boult was staring at the wall. In tiny writing from floor to ceiling, black runes were scorched into the rock and glowing faintly in the torchlight. Boult held the torch close to them and peered at the wall.

  “Are those the wards of protection?”

  “Those are what has kept the dwarves hidden all these years,” Boult said in amazement. “But they’re more than that. They tell the dwarves’ history. Embedded in the writing are the names of everyone who’s lived here. How people died.”

  “Like a genealogy?” Harp asked.

  Boult read more. “No, more than that. Events are recorded too. The Spellplague. The history of the yuan-ti is probably written here as well, at least from the dwarves’ perspective.”

  “Does it tell the future too?” Harp asked. “I’d really like to know if I’m going to die today.”

  “Come on,” Verran said impatiently. “This isn’t the time for a history lesson.”

  They moved slowly down the tunnel, with Boult trying to read as they walked. Finally, Verran lit his own torch and took the lead, moving much more quickly down the passage.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Harp asked Verran.

  “Do you want me to take down the barrier? Or are we going to sit around and read about Grandma Bushybeard? If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”

  Verran stormed off down the passage while the others exchanged looks.

  “He’s grumpy this morning,” Harp said. “Anyone know why?”

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” Boult said “He didn’t eat breakfast with us.”

  “Where did you find him?” Harp asked.

  “I didn’t. He walked into the hub after you went into the armory.”

  Verran had disappeared from sight, and Harp felt increasingly uneasy about the boy’s mood. When the tunnel veered right, they saw Verran crouched in the middle of the tunnel and staring at a white mesh that stretched across the passageway. Swaying gently as if blown by a light breeze, it had the appearance of an exquisite tapestry that was woven from fine, almost translucent threads.

  “Is it wrong for me to hope that’s a spider web?” Harp said.

  “It’s the barrier,” Verran replied. “It’s a type of ward.”

  “It doesn’t look very magical,” Boult said doubtfully. “Can we just brush it aside?”

  Verran reached into his cloak, pulled out a hunk of bread, and tossed it into the barrier. With a snap of light, the bread seared black and fell to the ground smoking.

  “Toast anyone?” Boult said.

  “My father’s mentor called it a shroud barrier,” Verran said. “He used them to contain dead bodies.”

  “Contain them from doing what?” Harp asked.

  “No, to preserve them for later use,” Verran said.

  “Use for what?” Boult asked. “How come you know that?”

  “I don’t know anything,” Verran said ferociously, and he covered his face with his hands. It was such a childlike gesture that Harp felt the urge to comfort him, but then he realized that Verran’s lips were moving behind his fingertips. His was not the stance of a penitent. Verran was casting.

  A gust of hot air blew through the tunnel. It was dry and smelled like cinders, like air from the bellows of a distant forge. Faint rips appeared in the barrier as if an invisible hand were gently pulling apart the strands. Then red stains branched out from the separations, staining the white gauze with crimson. When all trace of white was gone, the barrier slid to the ground in a wet, bloody heap. Verran glanced at his crewmates with a self-satisfied expression.

  “Do you even know how you did that?” Harp said in disbelief.

  “Does it matter?” Verran said smugly. “It’s down, at least for the moment. Do you want to chat, or go find your elf? Or at least another husk of your elf?”

  Beside him, Boult bristled, but Harp laid a hand on the dwarf’s arm. “Lead on, young master,” he said to Verran with no trace of sarcasm in his tone.

  “When we get back to the Crane, he needs a lesson in manners,” Boult whispered to Harp as they stepped over the lumpy mass on the ground. When they reached the end of the tunnel, Harp stared at the scene in front of him with a sinking feeling in his chest.

  “That’s if we get back to the Crane at all,” Harp said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  3 Flamerule, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  Chult

  Hisari had been a city of domed buildings, whitewashed walls, and elevated roads that arched over fast-flowing canals. The focal point of the city had been the golden-domed palace and its surrounding open-air forums.

  Then the earth swallowed half of the gleaming city, which came to rest in a sprawling underground cavern that had never been warmed by the sun. The rest of Hisari remained above ground to be engulfed by vines and creeping flowers, while the collapsed city stewed in the hot, moist climate until every brick and pillar was coated in a slick mossy growth. Over time, a latticework of roots and dirt formed above the ruins. It was not a seamless floor, and strands of murky light filtered into the cavern along with dripping rainwater.

  “That is beyond disgusting,” Harp said. “At least Vankila was dry.”

  They scrambled down the embankment and made a small jump onto the remains of a raised road that was constructed from stone and supported by stout pillars. The surface had once been covered in a smooth, glassy coating that had shattered into sharp fragments that crunched as they walked on them. From their vantage point, they could see that the road arched over a canal, just one of several channels of water radiating from the dome.

  “I’ve never seen a road built that way,” Verran said as they walked slowly down the slope. “Why elevate it? Why not just build bridges over the canals?”

  “Maybe no one wanted to get anywhere near the water,” Harp said, staring down at a bloom of pink globs floating in the thick, sludgy canal. There was movement under the surface as the occasional air bubble fought its way to the surface and popped. But whatever was writhing below them was hidden under a layer of black algae.

  “Any ideas what lives down there?” Harp asked, covering his nose to block the stench of bloated dead things.

  Verran shook his head. “Nothing pleasant, that’s for sure.”

  Harp took a closer look at the boy, whose mood seemed to have improved after they left the Domain. In fact, Verran seemed downright cheerful, considering they were walking through the rotting remains of a hostile empire. They crossed the canal and walked past a row of crumbling round houses, the walls green with fungus. The
trenches along the streets were filled with brown slime, and slugs as long as a human’s leg writhed in the muck.

  “You want to take a peek inside one of the houses?” Harp asked Kitto.

  “No way,” Kitto said grimly. “Do you really think Liel would have stayed down here?”

  “I don’t know,” Harp replied. If she had stayed down here, it meant she probably had been trapped.

  They had almost reached the end of the street when a shadow passed between the houses. Kitto saw it first and put his hand on his sword. Boult and Harp drew their weapons. Verran had been walking slightly ahead, but at the sound of the swords, he turned to them, and a look of curious concern crossed his features. Behind him, something darted out from around the corner, but Verran’s body blocked their view of it.

  “Verran …” Harp began. But the boy had already wheeled around to see a scaly doglike creature crouched behind him, its fangs bared, and its tail quivering. When Verran turned, the animal bristled, and a guttural hissing noise emerged from its throat. About the size of a goat but more heavily muscled, the creature was eyeless, with an elongated muzzle, an oversized jaw, and mud-colored scales. A plated tail curved over its ridged back like a scorpion.

  “It’s a nifern,” Verran told them, amazement evident in his tone. “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “Back away,” Boult warned him. “It’s not a puppy dog.”

  “See that barb on the end of the tail?” Verran said. “It’s poisonous. It can stop a man’s heart in moments.”

  Instead of moving back as he had been instructed, Verran crouched down so he was face to face with the nifern. The growling intensified, and the animal lowered its head aggressively.

  “Verran, move away,” Harp warned again, but Verran ignored him. Boult rolled his eyes in disgust, and Kitto shifted nervously. The nifern could easily rip out Verran’s throat before any of them had time to do anything to help him.

  “Have you ever heard of self-preservation, kid?” Boult grumbled, inching slowly toward the hunched-over boy. Speaking softly in indecipherable words, Verran held out his hand. The nifern cocked his head as if it was listening. When the nifern whined and raised its head, Verran looked back at his shipmates, a pleased expression on his face.

  “I think I tamed it,” he said. But the animal sprang forward against the boy’s chest and knocked him hard onto the ground. Verran cried out as the shards of glass dug into his back and the nifern’s fangs sunk into his shoulder. Boult reacted first, rushing forward and swinging his sword just as the creature’s tail dipped toward Verran. The tip of its tail went flying into the canal. A mass of black flesh with white fangs rose up out of the water and devoured the tail, before disappearing with a splash back under the algae.

  Boult arched his sword around and plunged the blade deep into the back of the nifern’s neck. The animal squealed and let loose of Verran’s shoulder. The boy scrambled back on the roadway, slicing his hands on the shards before Kitto and Harp reached him and pulled him to his feet.

  Yanking the sword out of the twitching animal collapsed on the ground, Boult wheeled on Verran, who was cradling his bloody hands against his chest.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Boult demanded angrily. “Don’t you ever do what you’re told?”

  The dwarf started to say more, but Harp silenced him with a shake of his head.

  “You have bandages?” Harp asked Kitto, who nodded and pulled off his pack.

  Verran whimpered and held out his hands as Kitto wound the gauze around them. Boult stalked a perimeter, keeping an eye on the churning water in the canal.

  “The spells I want to do, I can’t,” Verran said sadly. “And the spells I hate come as naturally to me as breathing.”

  “Yeah,” Kitto said. “I know how you feel. The only thing I was ever good at was stealing.”

  The glass from the roadway had shredded the back of the boy’s shirt. Through the rips in the dirty white cotton, Harp could see a sliver of glass as long as a finger lodged in Verran’s shoulder.

  “I need to pull that out,” Harp said, but Verran shook his head and twisted away from him.

  “It’s fine,” Verran insisted.

  “You have a huge shard of glass stuck in your back,” Harp said. “How is that fine?”

  “Leave it alone!” Verran snapped, turning again so Harp couldn’t see his back. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  The absurdity of Verran’s claim made Harp instantly suspicious. He started to chastise the boy but stopped abruptly. With sudden clarity, Harp realized why Verran didn’t want him to pull the glass out. Looking at the defiant boy, Harp felt fear for the first time since they set foot in the repulsive ruins of Hisari.

  “Then let Kitto do it,” he said nonchalantly, despite his growing dread. “But someone has to. You can’t reach it yourself, and you can’t wander around like that.”

  Verran seemed to consider the suggestion while Harp strolled casually over to Bolt, who was staring grim-faced into the canal.

  “We got a problem?” Boult asked softly.

  “I told you that his father was a warlock,” Harp whispered. “His father had brands across his back. They marked the debts he owed his patron in exchange for power.”

  “Do you think Verran has them too?” Boult asked.

  “It would explain how he can do spells beyond what you would expect a boy to handle,” Harp said. He felt slightly ill at the thought of a father who would lead his son into a cult and let him make a bargain that would mark his child’s life forever. Cutting his son’s throat in ritual sacrifice might have been a less cruel fate.

  “And if the patron is working through him …” Boult said. Behind them, Verran yelped as Kitto yanked out the glass. “Then who knows what Verran is capable of.”

  “Remember, we don’t know anything for certain,” Harp said as they went to rejoin the boys. “And I don’t want to confront him down here—if we’re wrong, we’re just going to make him upset and distract him.”

  “And if we’re right?”

  Harp stopped and faced Boult.” You really think he’s a warlock—do want to fight him in this cesspool? We deal with it before we get back to the Crane. Let’s find the palace. Hisari is a breeding ground for things I don’t want to meet.”

  The palace wasn’t hard to find. The wide causeway leading up to the dome was adorned with pillars, each with a white urn at the top that might have held flowers but were crumbling into dust. When the crewmates reached the carved doorway at the front of the palace, they could see a band of blue sky above them where the jungle floor didn’t meet the edge of the golden dome.

  They stared at the imposing façade, which had been constructed from dark red. An arched double doorway reached halfway up the front of the palace. Framing the sides and top of the door, three panels of redwood carvings depicted a creature with the body of a snake, the head of a bird, and horns like those of a ram. Both the stones and the ornately carved door were untouched by the dank growth that marred the rest of the fallen city.

  “Look at those,” Kitto said, pointing at the pattern of tiny interlocking triangles carved into the face of door. A shiny silver stone had been laid at the center of each triangle. Of the hundreds of tiny stones spaced across the door, not a single one was missing.

  “The stones must not be valuable,” Boult said as they approached the door. “Or someone would have stolen them.”

  “Thieves probably took one look at the ruins and ran screaming in the other direction,” Harp said.

  “Look, there’s no handle,” Kitto said, running his hands lightly over the door. “Or hinges. Or seam.”

  On closer inspection, they saw that Kitto was right. The door appeared to be a solid piece of wood. If there was a way to get inside the palace through the front entrance, it wasn’t readily apparent. And it wasn’t going to be easy to search the perimeter of the building for another way inside, either. Thick, black water had seeped over the banks of the canal and settled in the
low courtyards on either side of the causeway.

  The rectangular courtyards were home to bulbous swamp dwellers that oozed across the top of the water and around mossy bones jutting above the water line. Except for the elevated causeway, the stagnant water surrounded the palace. Occasionally black tentacles or the arch of a bloated back would crest the surface and then disappear.

  “No one goes anywhere near that water,” Harp said. “Just the sight of it probably takes years off our lives.”

  “Just the sight of you takes years off my life,” Boult replied.

  “Can we get up there?” Kitto asked. There was a narrow balcony high above their heads, its stone supports carved to look like snakes.

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” Verran said after they had searched the front of the palace. Even Kitto couldn’t locate any handholds or niches to climb up to the balcony.

  “I say we go back into the ruins and try to circle behind the palace,” Boult suggested.

  “I agree,” Harp said. “What do you think, Kitto?”

  “I think we’re in trouble,” Kitto said, pointing to a nifern that was standing at the top of the causeway.

  “Nah,” Boult said. “They’re like dumplings with legs. I killed the other one with one blow.”

  Before Boult had finished his sentence, several other niferns appeared. They milled around at the top of the causeway, raising and lowering their heads as if they were sniffing the foul-smelling air.

  “Huh,” Harp said as the pack continued to amass on the road ahead of them. “I don’t think they liked you calling them dumplings.”

  “Your mother was a dumpling,” Boult said.

  “My mother was a saint.”

  “Your mother was a whore who left you in an alley for the rats.”

  “Your mother was a rat who left you in the alley for the whores,” Harp retorted.

  “Shut up!” Verran snapped. “Can’t you be serious for once?”

  “It gets them worked up to kill something,” Kitto said. “You should try it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Verran said. “And I don’t see you making a fool of yourself every time you open your mouth, Kitto.”