Wollop and Doriana shouted aloud in alarm. Lubith gave another fearful shriek from across the theater. The other wyrmlings took these cries as calls to act. They yanked their leashes from Hristomarth’s grip and charged. Jitterclaw and Catchmaw bit at Doriana’s ankles while Breaktooth clambered atop a bench to fling himself at Wollop’s face. Coalbelly blew overexcited gouts of fiery breath into the air, forcing them both to trip over Idleheart in the middle of the floor.
“Stop!” cried Provon Quaile. He looked in alarm to the closest wyrmling, but it was only Greasetrap, racing with single-minded focus for the sideboard buffet on the far side of the theater. “Cease this obstreperous brawling! Accept loss with magnanimity!”
Hristomarth knocked the playwright across the back of the head with the blackjack, dropping him into an unconscious heap.
“Attend!” he cried, holding his blackjack up at the wyrmlings. “An instructional moment is upon us—to the Black Vault Below with guile and cunning! Take everything that’s not nailed down! Catchmaw? Go through his pockets! Jitterclaw? Rummage through the props bin! We run for the hills to the east. They seem like an excellent place to lose the town vigilant. Don’t you agree, Wollop?”
“Mmrgglgl!” cried Wollop, trying desperately to pull the snarling Breaktooth off his face.
With satisfaction, Hristomarth bent to rifle through Provon Quaile’s pockets. While acting still hadn’t risen much in his estimation, he did have to admit that there were other ways to enjoy the theater.
The Ministry
of Fate
CAPTIVITY DID NOT AGREE with Hristomarth. The societal stigma attached to the condition tended to close off opportunity. Practically speaking, it also made the hasty escape of consequences difficult. The state was more troubling than the method, though fetters particularly lacked dignity. Even the simple rope now binding his wrists soured his mood, adding another reason for his disappointment.
“You are too dour,” said Sorra the bandit queen. She walked behind him, hacking playfully at the foliage with his broken-bladed sword. “Here you hike through the bracing wilderness of nature’s bounty. Your guide? My own attractive self. One would think this cause for celebration! Yet your demeanor is that of a Lumbering stranded in the dry desert sands.”
The bracing wilderness of nature’s bounty was a forest somewhere deep within a series of foothills. Ancient trees towered overhead, casting everything beneath in a gloom barely penetrated by the setting sun. Sorra herself was tough, fast, and unreasonably silent, which Hristomarth had discovered to his detriment. Her opinion on her appearance wasn’t far off, though it was tempered by the jagged scar across her face and the half-starved leanness of a professional bandit.
“Some conflicts,” Hristomarth said acidly, “must be fought. Others fled. A lesson I had hoped to teach to my cadre during your ambush, though I suspect they have drawn the wrong conclusion.” He adjusted the leather leashes coiled uncomfortably around his neck. “My demeanor is likely due to unfulfilled expectations on their part. It is possible I have overestimated their ferocity.”
The wyrmlings romped along through the forest behind them. None seemed concerned about the situation. Free of their leashes, they ate insects, lit fires, and ambushed each other from the underbrush. When distant thunder rumbled, a few would stop and growl at the unseen sky.
Sorra put a hand to her chest in surprise. “What? Surely the fault is completely your own. These charming creatures are blameless!” She knelt, surprising Splaywing where it trotted alongside the bandit. “After all,” she continued,” such wise and brilliant creatures could never be taken by surprise. They’re far too clever for that, aren’t they? The very soul of wisdom!”
The little dragon sat back on its haunches, looking pleased and expectant, trilling pleasurably at the praise. Catchmaw poked its head around from behind Sorra, and Breaktooth pushed itself into place on the other side. All three studied her with interest.
Hristomarth glared at them all. Loyalty was apparently cheap among dragonkind.
“Such fine beasts you all are!” Sorra said. She reached out to scratch the underside of Breaktooth’s jaw, thought better of it, and scratched Catchmaw instead. “Your scales shine like packs of jewels, prettier by far than any potentate’s treasure horde.”
The rest of the wyrmling pack clustered eagerly around her. Except Greasetrap, who tried swallowing a stick, coughed it out, then picked it back up to chew on thoughtfully. Hristomarth rolled his eyes and reviewed the forest around them for opportunities. Thunder rolled in the distance again.
“A storm is coming,” he said flatly.
“Hmm?” Sorra cocked her head to listen. “It is distant, still,” she said after a moment. “By the time it breaks, we’ll be safely back at my camp.” She grinned at the turncoat reptiles surrounding her. “You’ll all just love it there. It’s the perfect spot to train you all as fearsome ravagers and tireless reavers! At my direction, you’ll strike terror into the hearts of the populace! Absolute rivers of gold will flow before you, shining and glorious! Every merchant across Darmx will know an empty purse. Can you say that? Say ‘merchant.’”
The wyrmlings sat with wide eyes. They shared an eager look among themselves, except for Greasetrap, who chewed on a stone. Breaktooth sat up a little straighter. “Enemy?” it tried.
“Good answer!” cooed Sorra. She bent over to scratch the wyrmling behind his head, then thought better of it. “Who’s a clever dragon?” she said instead. “Who is just the cleverest dragon?”
Hristomarth felt like swallowing his tongue in revulsion. “An idea occurs to me,” he said instead. “If you command an entire camp full of bandits, why are you out by yourself?”
Sorra shot him a glare. “Because I am a bandit queen!” She stood straight, planting both hands on her hips and thrusting out her chin. “And a queen needs to prove she’s strong. Periodically this means raiding by oneself.”
“Not much is proved thus.”
“You were captured, weren’t you?” She gestured with the tip of his broken sword. “Now march, prisoner. These beautiful creatures await their destiny to carry us all toward gold and glory!”
The wyrmlings trilled eagerly.
Further travel only became more difficult. Rocky outcrops appeared, and the incline they climbed grew steeper. Hristomarth stumbled through increasingly dim underbrush. Either the day was fading or the clouds above had grown to blot it out. Lightning flared and rumbling thunder boomed. The wind pelted him with leaves and the lash of dancing branches. Ducking behind a tree for cover, he turned back to the bandit and the wyrmlings. “Proper refuge is increasingly desirable!”
“We’re almost there,” shouted Sorra. She pointed with the tip of his sword. “Just past that ridge.” She glanced around with a frown. “That’s where my camp is; I’m sure of it.”
Hristomarth peered at her as realization dawned. “You’re lost.”
Sorra jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “I am not! I know these hills like the back of my hand! You’ll pay for such insolence, rogue, if you cannot find a civil tongue.”
The wyrmlings crawled between the two of them for cover from the wind. They turned their heads back and forth between Hristomarth and Sorra like spectators at a sporting event. Hristomarth ignored the little turncoats.
“You’re lost,” he said again.
“Beyond this pass!” she shouted. “Now march!”
Several appropriate retorts came quickly to his tongue. Brawling, of course, was also an option. Unfortunately, the bandit was a surprisingly capable fighter, as he’d already learned. No, that avenue was already closed. Some conflicts were fought, but others had to be fled. Maybe he could lose her in the storm. Hristomarth turned again into the wind and pressed on.
Rain joined the howling wind, and the flashing crackle of lightning heralded thunder. Hristomarth kept his head low, both bound wrists atop his hat to keep it from flying away. The wyrmlings yowled miserably behind him while Sorra brought up
the rear with a steady stream of course invective. Blown back and forth, Hristomarth couldn’t tell if the incline they’d been climbing was growing steeper or less so, whether they were ascending or descending. The rain hammering at his face felt like hailstones. Lightning flashes provided lapsed illumination in the gloom, half a heartbeat at a time.
Abruptly, the storm ended. Hristomarth stumbled onto springy grass and a warm, clear evening. Stars shone down brilliantly, illuminating a clearing in the forest like nothing he’d ever seen. It was a grove, with wizened mulberry trees growing in neatly ordered rows. Through them lay a plaza of white tile gleaming softly in the starlight. Five enormous statues stood around the edge of the tiles, their features hidden by brilliantly green and silver leaves. Behind him, past the edge of the grove, the rest of the forest still raged, lashed by wind and rain and lit by flickering lightning high above.
Freezing a storm in place? Sorcery came to mind, but Hristomarth had never heard of a sorcerer capable of such a feat. Neither were any of those egomaniacal villains capable of keeping secret such an accomplishment.
The others staggered into the grove. Hristomarth was suddenly surrounded by wyrmlings nuzzling his still-bound hands, seeking reassurance as they stared back at the storm. Of course the little beasts wanted comforting now.
“This is not your camp,” Hristomarth said to Sorra.
The self-styled bandit queen stared about in surprise. “Your perception is commendable. Where are we?”
“Reconnaissance would prove useful,” said Hristomarth. He raised his wrists toward her, eliciting chirps of dismay from the wyrmlings below. “Considering that we venture into the unknown, perhaps you could remove my fetters. After all, it’s said that many hands make light work.”
Sorra whipped up the tip of his broken sword in threat. “Proverbs unsettle my digestion,” she replied, “as philosophers are usually impoverished. The bonds stay. You also get to go first.”
Hristomarth pursed his lips. Some conflicts could be fought, others had to be fled. Turning on his heel, he strode through the pack of anxious wyrmlings, heading deeper into the grove.
Soft shadows spread beneath the boughs like curtains spun from starlight. The rich scent of mulberry fruit replaced that of damp forest smells. No breeze blew, the air only just barely stirred by the fluttering of delicate, moon-pale moths between each tree, who alighted on rich green leaves with glittering silver edges. Hristomarth felt unconscionably rude in his passage. There was a kind of serenity here, one which he was not intended to be a part of.
The last few trees gave way to the plaza at the grove’s heart. Large and spacious, the tiles were smooth alabaster, covered with hundreds and hundreds of haphazardly placed wooden frames. They were racks, really, made of mulberry wood and carved into all different shapes and sizes. Each supported a dozen tall spindles wound around with glittering silver thread.
In the center of the plaza, a great silver frame rose from amidst the clustering racks, in the center of the plaza. Stretched across it was a tapestry larger than a cottage. The pattern was so complicated and minute that Hristomarth’s eyes wanted to follow it forever, the hundred thousand geometries twisting in upon themselves as they trailed down the length of the fabric, fading until they disappeared into a field of night-sky blue near the base.
A creature tended the great tapestry, weaving threads from the nearest spindles with inhuman dexterity. It was an enormous spider, colored the same shade as the tapestry and as tall as a bull loxodont. The monster paused in its work and twisted around.
Hristomarth dove for cover behind the nearest statue—a richly-dressed noble in jade-green robes. Damn it all to the Black Vault Below, his hands were still tied. Maybe it hadn’t seen him, though. Maybe he had been fast enough.
He peered back around the gleaming black ankle of the statue. The spider had reared back in surprise. It cocked its head upward and rapidly clacked its mandibles together, almost like it was shouting a warning.
He should run. Just turn and run as fast as his legs would take him. Or his sword. If he could get the sword back from Sorra he’d have a fighting chance. Fighting, though, had been what had gotten him into this miserable situation to begin with.
The spider chittered again in alarm. Something was very wrong. Instincts honed by a lifetime on the road demanded attention. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. Hristomarth slowly looked up at the statue he was hiding behind to find it staring back at him, with eyes like burning stars.
“Who are you to disturb the Ministry of Fate?” boomed the statue. The voice rolled across the plaza, timeless and eternal. Hristomarth somehow knew that long after he was gone, the words would stand as measured notes in the history of the world.
Hristomarth could only stare. Impossible. The Ministry of Fate. The tapestry. It was all supposed to be a myth, like the Great Beasts of Suuth or the Celestial Concordance. People swore by them when they stubbed their toes. They weren’t supposed to be real, just off in the forest past a storm. He had to get out of here. This was worse than some obnoxious forest bandit. This certainly justified an escape.
There were five ministers, of course. Each stood two dozen feet tall, like statues of black glass, carved to wear fine robes and grand headdresses, each a different shade. An-Shah wore jade, Yu-Lizz crimson, Ka-Voya cerulean, Se-Null alabaster, and Di-Tath amethyst. Their eyes blazed with cold fire.
“I remember this one,” boomed Di-Tath. “The last Illuminate, who maimed himself to escape the mobs.”
Hristomarth covered his crippled hand.
“A perfect tragedy,” added Ka-Voya approvingly.
A stampede of tiny claws cut through their remembrance. The wyrmlings bounded out of the grove and slammed into Hristomarth’s legs like a wave made of scales. They trilled and licked his hands, still seeking comfort after the storm.
Of course, the bandit queen wasn’t far behind. “Don’t fret, my tiny little investments. Any discomforts we currently feel are temporary! And know that you can come to Auntie Sorra for comfort at any time. But what is all…this…shouting…” She trailed off upon taking in the scene.
The ministers considered her. “The bandit queen,” rumbled An-Shah. “A fate full of flashing blades and daring knavery.”
“She will encounter the great figures of the age,” boomed Di-Tath.
“And she dreams of feats none would even dare consider,” added Yu-Lizz.
“Though they will cost her everything,” continued Ka-Voya. “Before she comes to her inevitable end.”
“A romance!”
The other four ministers turned to Se-Null, who folded his great arms obstinately. “We all agreed upon it,” he said, voice louder than a shout. “She will meet a handsome captain and forsake her ways.”
Sorra shook as if slapped. “What absurdity is this?” she snarled. “Who are you to decide what I will or won’t—”
An-Shah raised a dark finger, and she froze. The broken-bladed sword fell from her hands. “She is off the thread of her fate,” pronounced the minister. “Weaver? Attend!”
The monstrous spider crawled smoothly into view behind the wyrmlings, sending Hristomarth’s heart into his throat. It had left the plaza and circled around, blocking the way back through the grove. He, Sorra, and the wyrmlings were all trapped now.
“Don’t forget the Illuminate,” said Se-Null.
“None can escape their fate,” boomed Yu-Lizz in a voice like rolling thunder. “Not even the Sagacious or the Illuminated. Place them back on the threads of—”
“What are those?” demanded Se-Null.
Hristomarth glanced back up. The minister had just noticed the wyrmlings. It seemed surprised, pointing at them with a dark, tree-thick finger. The others all shifted their attention to stare.
The distraction was more than welcome. At least the little turncoats were useful for once. Hristomarth sidled over to the still-frozen Sorra and knelt. Then he slid his broken-bladed sword between his knees and sa
wed at the ropes binding his wrists.
The wyrmlings peered up at the towering ministers. They seemed impressed, though Hristomarth could tell it wouldn’t last. Greasetrap was already paying more attention to the mouthful of mulberry leaves he chewed experimentally upon, and Coalbelly was eyeing a fallen branch speculatively.
“They’re some sort of reptile,” said Ka-Voya. “Mountain dragons, I think.”
“Impossible,” said Di-Tath. “These are so small.”
“The clutch of Nesnatoth,” added An-Shah. “Seven wyrmlings. Three quarters of their race that will be born for this age.”
“Oh,” said Yu-Lizz. “We never quite got around to finishing their fates, did we?”
An-Shah’s imperious features froze. “Of course we did,” he said. “Didn’t we?”
The rope around Hristomarth’s wrists parted with a satisfying pop. Freedom! Undoing the coil of leashes wound around his neck would have been nice, but the most important goal for the moment was getting out of here. Some battles were fought, others fled. How to go about it? The Weaver still blocked the return path. That left the other side of the grove, through the plaza and the innumerable wooden frames within. Hopefully they’d provide enough cover. Hristomarth rose to a crouch and began inching away.
“Their unfinished fates,” blared Yu-Lizz, “are a problem easily remedied.”
The minister reached down across the plaza toward a smoldering branch, where Coalbelly had started a fire. The wyrmling yowled as Yu-Lizz gripped its wings and plucked it into the air.
“They shall be reavers and destroyers,” continued Yu-Lizz, turning the wyrmling this way and that. “Simple-minded ravagers laying waste to the countryside. The perfect end to a hero’s grand quest!”
Coalbelly ceased struggling. Its beady eyes screwed up in thoughtful consideration, and it began nodding enthusiastically.
“No,” intoned An-Shah. “That will not do.”
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