Song of the Serpent

by Hugh Matthews

  "That must have been hard," said Raimeau.

  She sighed. "Until that moment, I had been able to tell myself that it was all a romantic adventure. The flayleaf helped in that regard. But then they took my clothes and locked me in Room Thirteen while Ulm worked out whether he would make more money ransoming me to my father or auctioning me in the camp. Some of those gold seekers had coffers full of nuggets buried under their cabin floors."

  Krunzle said, "I weep great, salty tears for you. Let us get on and get this finished."

  Raimeau said, "Do you not feel for her? She has been much wronged."

  "Someday," said Krunzle, "when we're not deep inside a mountain, facing unknown but doubtless horrific perils, I will explain my point of view."

  They went on, the troll still keeping the ore cart ahead of them. The next time they came to a played-out orc, and the one after that, Skanderbrog bumped the wheels over the corpse and kept rolling.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  They crossed another hollowed-out lava tube. At either end of the trestle that supported the wooden rails, ladders had been nailed to the soft rock. These led to narrow platforms—only two planks wide—suspended from chains attached to iron spikes. Looking up, Krunzle saw glints of blue reflecting the lamplight. The dwarves had not yet cleaned out this lode. He would have liked to have climbed and inspected the size and qualities of the gems, but even as the idea formed in his mind, he heard a sardonic chuckle from the back of his mind.

  You know what the talisman is, the thing that Berbackian stole, don't you?> he thought back. You've known all along.

  Yes, said Chirk, and no.

  What is it, then?

  The stuff of dreams, said the snake, and laughed and would say no more.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  After the lava tube came yet more tunnel, but after a few hundred paces the rails ended. Raimeau held his lamp beyond the wooden bumper that had arrested the ore cart and said, "What now?"

  Brond said, "This must be almost as far as the miners had dug. The last report I had said they were getting close to the main lava tube, the one that went up to the volcano's mouth far above as well as down to the magma chamber. The others were just cracks in the cone where lava had forced its way through. My geologists were confident that there would be some outstanding specimens there."

  "By specimens," Krunzle said, "you mean gems, blue diamonds."

  "Yes."

  The mental image Chirk had shown him—his hands around an incomparable, giant gem—came back. "How far to the diamonds?" he said.

  "The tunnel does not go that far. My miners had yet to dig it."

  "I'll bet it does now," said the thief. "That's what the orcs were for." He drew his short sword and sent a question to Chirk.

  Yes, came the answer, it will still defend you.

  "Then let us go," said Krunzle.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  A pattern was forming in the thief's mind. It all came back to the diamonds. Any diamond of good quality was valuable—even the lesser stones that were used as cutting instruments in artisans' workshops or set into clockwork by watchmakers—but blue diamonds commanded the highest prices of all in Druma's markets. The dwarves had built all of their works—the road, the bridge, the mine itself—to get their hands on blue diamonds, because the gems would pay for all of Brond's grand schemes to revive the Five Kingdoms as a true republic.

  Gyllana wanted revenge, but she was here for the diamonds, too. No daughter of a Kersite Kalistocrat could ignore the opportunity. The Regulate would need an agent to sell the mine's output; Ippolite Eponion, Krunzle was sure, would turn out to be a dealer in such rarities. A commission of even ten percent on sales would amount to a fortune, and the thief had no doubt that the Kersite would haggle for twice that.

  But it wasn't just money. He'd heard that blue diamonds were prized by wizards as crystals of great power. Krunzle had no command of the arcana of sorcery, but he knew that gems of exceptional quality could be used to focus the most powerful of esoteric powers.

  Suppose the stolen talisman was a diviner's tool that, in the hands of one gifted in divination, could show the way to a blue diamond of unheard-of quality. Suppose Berbackian was one of those who possessed the rare and special gift of divination. He learned somehow of the existence of the talisman, traced its ownership to the house of Eponion in Kerse. He came, saw the opportunity of access through the daughter, and used his charms—and the power of the herb known as flayleaf—to make her pliable.

  He gained what he desired. The moment he held the divining tool in his hands, it pointed him toward Mount Sinatuk. He set off immediately, disposing of the impediment of Gyllana Eponion as he passed through Ulm's Delve. A plausible rogue, he talked his way through the gold camp and through the Regulate. Somehow, he also talked his way past a grand war party of orcs—Krunzle was not sure how that had happened—but no doubt it would be revealed in time. Or made irrelevant, once the thief was on his way back to the shores of the Inner Sea, his wallet abulge with a huge blue diamond.

  Thang-Sha must also be a diviner, must have been on the same search as Berbackian. But the rogue had beaten the mage to the prize. Or perhaps the Tian mage's wizardry had been able to discern the talisman as soon as it became active in the Blackjacket's hands. Then he had gotten close to Eponion, identified Krunzle as a useful operative, and sprung the trap that led to the thief being sent on his mission, with a bronze snake in charge of his windpipe.

  It made a rough kind of sense. Although it didn't explain the orcs, especially the dead orcs that had still struggled down the tunnel. But now Krunzle wondered if Thang-Sha might have played a part in that, too. The wizard did not trust Krunzle to do his bidding—hence the imposition of Chirk as his taskmaster. But perhaps Thang-Sha did not entirely trust Chirk, and so had attached a second string to his zither: if Krunzle did not find Berbackian and recover the talisman in time, the ensorcelled orcs would overpower the Regulate's dwarves and seize the riches of Mount Sinatuk for their spell-slinging, string-pulling overlord.

  So there it was. Down at the end of the tunnel, they would find Berbackian and the talisman, waiting as the last of the orcs cut through the remaining few yards of rock to the magma chamber where the great blue gems waited. Thang-Sha, keeping a watching brief by isinglass or mercury pool, might even be preparing to transport himself to the place and take charge. At that point, Krunzle's assignment would be at an end. Chirk would be removed from his neck. Once that happened, there ought to be an opportunity for an enterprising rogue to fill his wallet with gems.

  He decided to ask the snake the crucial question. Chirk, he said inwardly, Once we have recovered the talisman and dealt with Berbackian, Gyllana will want to go home to Kerse. She is very unlikely to want me as her escort. Brond will provide her with one, especially if he is going to do a deal with her father to market the gems. If so, will you need to manage me quite so closely?

  I am sure not, came the reply. The voice sounded strong and certain.

  So I will be free?

  Who of us is free? said the snake.

  Under the circumstances, said Krunzle, I would prefer a less philosophical answer.

  Your preference has been duly noted.

  The snake would say no more, and when Krunzle grew insistent, Chirk sent him a warning tingle and a gentle squeeze about his neck.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Necessary Sacrifice

  Listen," said Skanderbrog, stopping in the darkness. The troll's ears were better than Brond's or the humans', but when they went cautiously forward a few more steps, they heard a faint chink, chink from down the tunnel. Skanderbrog's nostrils distended as they took in a great breath, then he sneezed. "Orcs, all right," he said.

  The distant sounds ceased. The troll handed his lamp to Gyllana. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, "They're coming. Give me room." He stepped in front of the others and said, "If any of them get behind me, kill them fast. They like to go for the hamstrings."

  There was non
e of the stamping and roaring of a normal orc attack. First a rustle of sound from the darkness, growing clearer as it grew nearer, to become the slap of flat-footed steps rushing toward them. Then the hoarse breathing, coming louder, and a few glints of reflected light from the oil lamps, glistening off black eyes and exposed tusks.

  And then the orcs were on them, the tunnel only wide enough for three or four. Their mouths gaped rather than snarled, and the froth on their lips was more of exhaustion than frenzy. Still they swung their swords and lunged with their crude, jagged halberds, those that didn't brandish picks or hammers that were clearly dwarven-made.

  Four of them came first, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space. Skanderbrog roared in their faces, a bellow that would have emptied Krunzle's bowels if he'd been on the receiving end of it. The orcs paused only a moment in their advance, but that was enough. With his left hand, the troll thrust the long black spike of his chisel through the chest of a big brindled buck, gouging the rock wall behind him and pinning his torso to that side of the tunnel. Meanwhile, the huge right hand swung the iron-headed hammer in a flat arc, crushing the heads of the three others—one, two, three—in a spray of blood, brains, and bone. As they dropped, the troll shook the first one loose from his chisel and laid the corpse crosswise across the other three.

  "Make a barrier of their dead, she always said." He seemed to be speaking to himself, even as he repeated the exact same motions to kill four more orcs that leapt their dead hordemates to get at him. In a moment, the barrier was knee-high to the next attackers, who stumbled as they were forced forward by the pressure of those behind. Skanderbrog smashed and skewered them with deliberate care, and now the barrier was waist-high.

  "He fights well," said Brond. "Brains as well as brawn. I think he is an exceptional troll."

  The troll was reaching over the barricade now, thrusting with the hammer to hold off some attackers while he judiciously transfixed one after another with his chisel. These he pulled forward before yanking free the spike, the better to raise the wall of dead between him and the foe.

  "Still, they make no noise," said Raimeau.

  "Indeed," said the bald dwarf, "they are unusual orcs. Look at that one."

  The warrior he had indicated was shuffling forward along the right side of the tunnel, a dwarven spear in his hands, trying to stab the troll under the arm that wielded the spike. But the orc was hampered by a grievous wound to his forehead—pink-gray brain matter was visible through shattered bone—and a flap of skin hung down over where his brow ridge should have been, obscuring his vision.

  "That wound is hours old and should have been fatal," said Brond. "Yet he still fights."

  "Not any more," said Krunzle, as Skanderbrog's hammer swung to finish the damage to the orc's cranium that a spear-dwarf's thrust must have done in the earlier fight. The orc fell across the barricade and lay still. "It looks as if crushing the brain puts an end to even the walking dead."

  The barricade of slaughtered orcs now reached half the height of the tunnel. Krunzle estimated that Skanderbrog had killed more than twenty of them. The attack stopped, as abruptly as if someone had blown a whistle, and the orcs fell back. Krunzle could hear snuffles of breathing from the darkness and sounds of movement. "Are they regrouping for another attack?" he said.

  Skanderbrog applied his sharper hearing. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."

  They listened as the time stretched on. No new attack came. Then they heard, faintly, the chink, chink of metal tools on rock.

  "They've gone back to work," Brond said.

  "Not all of them," said the troll. "There's a bunch a little ways down the tunnel, just outside the lamplight. See the faint gleam of their eyes. It comes and goes as they blink."

  The dwarf went to the barricade, climbed on a convenient knee, and peered down the tunnel. "They're to keep us away until they get at whatever it is they're after."

  "Do you want to let them?" said the troll.

  The dwarf turned to the others. "What do you think?"

  Chirk? Krunzle passed along the question.

  Get there first, said the snake. Seize it.

  Raimeau was saying that the orcs seemed to have the benefit of an able strategist, judging by their success against well-trained dwarves. "If they're after something down there, it must offer them some advantage."

  "I agree," said Krunzle. "We should get it first."

  Gyllana shrugged. "‘Deny the enemy what he seeks' is usually good strategy."

  "Then let us be about it," said the dwarf. He issued orders, and moments later they pulled down the barricade and rushed the orc remnant that stood between them and the end of the tunnel. Skanderbrog led the charge and did most of the carnage, smashing through the plug of orcs that blocked the tunnel—many of them already dead but still capable of pointing a spear or slashing with an axe—while the dwarf and the humans followed on his heels, breaking the heads of any of the orc fallen that still showed motion.

  The tunnel ended at a crack not much wider than a man. From within came the sounds of hammer and chisel—at least one orc was still trying to break through to the last lava tube.

  "That snake magic smell is stronger now," the troll said. His snout wrinkled in disgust.

  Raimeau thrust his lamp on its lathe into the space; it illuminated a second orc with a spear, who immediately knocked the lamp to the floor, spilling its oil, and lunged at the gray-haired man.

  A giant hand on Raimeau's shoulder pulled him back, and Skanderbrog reached into the crevice with his chisel. When he withdrew the iron spike, an orc was struggling on it like a gaffed fish. The troll brought his catch out into the tunnel, where Brond's mace dispatched it with a brain-spilling crunch.

  The sounds of metal on metal still came from the crack in the rock. Gyllana looked at Krunzle. "Your turn," she said.

  The thief had his sword in hand, but it had seen little use except to fend off ineffectual blows from wounded, fallen orcs as Raimeau or Brond put them down for good. Chirk, he thought, do I have to wait until the orc attacks before this will serve me?

  No. Now, get on with it.

  Krunzle slipped into the crack in the rock, sword first, his lamp held above his head, his buskined soles crunching on fragments of rock that littered the floor. At the end of the crevice, a big orc warrior, dappled gray on gray, was frantically driving a dwarven hammer against the head of a black chisel. The man approached cautiously, but the orc paid him no heed, as if survival meant nothing, and the work alone was his reason to exist.

  Rock fragments flew. The chink, chink, chink of iron on iron was almost continuous. A tiny mote of bright blue light appeared at the tip of the orc's chisel. Another blow, another fragment of rock flown away, and the mote was larger, brighter. It illuminated more of the crevice than the thief's guttering oil lamp could manage, showing him that something indistinct lay on the rock-strewn floor. Cautiously, the man knelt and touched: he felt cloth; and through the cloth, skin; and through the skin, bone.

  The orc paid him no heed, only hammered at the black rock. Krunzle brought his lamp closer to the thing on the floor. That's not an orc, he thought.

  Get it out of the way, said Chirk.

  What is it?

  What do you think? Berbackian, of course!

  The thief dragged the body out of the crevice, back into the tunnel. It was curiously light, and he heard its bones rattle within the skin. "Gyllana," he said, "will you come and tell us if this is Berbackian?"

  The woman's drawn face grew paler in the lamplight, but she moved toward the front of the cart. Krunzle heard her swear, too, then make a noise as if she was fighting nausea. The thief bent forward to take a better look, then said, "If that's Wolsh Berbackian, I honestly don't see what you saw in him."

  "Shut up!" said the Kalistocrat's daughter. She looked down again at the thing on the floor and dry-retched once more.

  The other travelers brought their lamps to bear. The combined glow caused shadows to move over sh
adows, so that the corpse's face seemed to be still possessed by a kind of life—until the thief looked closer.

  He had heard tales of caravans crossing the wastes of northern Garund, where the wind piled the dunes high against the horizon. Sometimes, the khamsin—the hot desert wind—would spring up, blowing searing grit that could scour the flesh from the bones of man and beast, and the caravaneers would hunker down beside their camels to wait it out. But, occasionally, the wind blew longer and stronger than a man could endure, and the sand would pile up against the weather-side of the animal, deeper and deeper as the hours turned into days.

  The sand heaps would become sand mountains, and then they would move. The fiery sand would first bury the wayfarers' limbs beneath too much weight, then fill their mouths and noses, smothering them and entombing them in one action. And there they would lie beneath the newly formed dune, their bodies flattened by its weight, the last drop of their moisture leached out by the shining grains to be spirited down into the subsoil to sustain the vermin that lived there.

  And then, a decade, a century, a millennium later, the wind would tear down the dune and carry it off to some other place, and the buried, mummified dead would lie upon the face of the desert, to be found and wondered at by the next troupe of men and camels to come that way.

  Krunzle had heard that these once-human relics appeared shrunken to dwarven size, their skin like seared paper, their eyes dried to the size of peas in their sockets. He had heard that to come across one unexpectedly in the sandy wastes could deliver a shock even to the hardiest desert tribesman.

  How much worse, then, to come across such an object in the deepest, darkest bowels of a mountain? the thief thought, putting out a toe to lift and let fall one black-sleeved arm. He heard the rattle of bones within the fabric; they sounded barely connected. "It's definitely him?" he asked Gyllana.