“We have plenty of dumb monsters already,” added Ka-Voya. “Why add more? And keeping them around to test some barbarian is inefficient.”
The other ministers made noises of agreement. Yu-Lizz scowled. “Fine,” he snapped, releasing the wyrmling. Coalbelly fell onto the racks below with a surprised squawk. “Then what should they be?”
“Wait,” said Di-Tath. “What of the humans? They have lost their path.”
Hristomarth cursed his fate and crept along faster.
“Yes, yes,” agreed An-Shah, gesturing dismissively at Hristomarth and Sorra. “Weaver! Place them back upon the threads of their fate. Start with the one with the sword.”
The giant spider dipped its head deferentially. Then it rose, raising both forelegs menacingly as it came forward. Glistening venom dripped from its mandibles. Light reflected from its carapace like the sheen of armored glass.
He had the sword. The monster was after him. Hristomarth broke out into a run. Behind him, Sorra swore vehemently, finally shaking herself free of the minister’s spell. Her boots stomped the flagstones a half second later as she tried to catch up. Hristomarth ignored her to dive beneath a cluster of thickly clustered wooden racks.
The Ministers of Fate barely seemed to notice. “I have it,” said Se-Null from above, lifting Splaywing like its sibling. “They should be graceful sages. Peaceable creatures much renowned across the land for their wisdom.”
Splaywing stopped trying to claw the minister’s fingers. Instead, the wyrmling tried to appear demure. It failed completely.
“You are thinking of moon dragons,” said Di-Tath. “We already have those. And these creatures…will never be graceful.”
Se-Null considered the wyrmling and discarded it with a shrug.
Splaywing crashed down just past the gleaming bulk of the Weaver, who stood at the edge of the plaza. It twisted its multifaceted eyes back and forth, hunting uncertainly among the tightly packed wooden frames. Hristomarth repressed a sigh of relief. Stealthy as it was for its size, it appeared neither quick nor perceptive. It would be no match for the steely nature of his resolve.
Something scrabbled on the flagstones beside him, launching Hristomarth’s heart into his throat and his sword to the ready. Sorra forced the broken blade back down and glared. Not at him, but at the Weaver and the ministers. Her affront was almost palpable. It was obvious she wanted to fight. Hristomarth gave her a shrug and crawled to the next rack over.
“I suppose that you have a better idea?” said Se-Null.
“Here,” intoned Ka-Voya, lifting Catchmaw for all to see. “A classic. They shall be hoarders of gold and fine gemstones. They will build troves of treasure deep in their mountain lairs.”
Catchmaw nodded enthusiastically.
“No,” said Di-Tath. “We have economies to consider.” The minister raised Idleheart between two fingers. “Let us make them sleep. For an age at a time. After a thousand years of slumber, they will wake to feed and mate. Look.” The minister shook the wyrmling. “This one has a head start already.”
Catchmaw, seeming to sense the shift in discourse, had latched on to the titanic silver ring its minister wore. Ka-Voya flung the wyrmling away to crash down into the plaza. “What kind of life cycle is that?” boomed the minister. “They would all be extinct within the first generation.”
Hristomarth crept past a still-stunned Splaywing for the cover afforded by the silver frame of the Great Tapestry of Fate. Sorra followed along, though she watched the Weaver as it picked its way through the opposite side of the plaza. Behind her came Breaktooth and Greasetrap, trying to avoid the gaze of the ministers.
“Enough skulking!” hissed Sorra, sitting up and throwing her arms wide. “I am a bandit queen! Such scraping and crawling about lacks dignity!”
Hristomarth twisted around beside the tapestry. The woman was intolerable. “Do you want to get caught?” he asked in a stage whisper. “Freedom is almost ours!”
She glared at him. “Give me an honest defeat over ignoble cowardice.”
Unbelievable. “The defining feature of glorious last stands,” he replied, “is their finality. Consider the giant spider! Consider the very real Ministers of Fate surrounding us!”
Sorra narrowed her eyes. “Are you calling me a fool?”
Hristomarth leaned in. “Yes!”
“These ministers called you the last Illuminate Knight,” she sneered. “Yet the only man I’ve seen today is a craven and incompetent vagabond.”
That was quite enough. Hristomarth launched himself to his feet, shaking his maimed fist in her face. “Consider consequences!” he roared. “Fighting back was what got me tethered to you in the first place!”
Silence reigned over the plaza. The ministers were staring down, now. The wyrmlings watched him as well. The Weaver paid especially close attention. It chittered victoriously and lunged forward, picking its way between the forest of wooden frames.
Hristomarth cursed it all to the Black Vault Below. He turned and ran, pushing through the racks as he made for the grove. Sorra unleashed her own stream of invective, followed by her frustrated bootsteps as she ran after him. Above, the ministers resumed their deliberations.
“Let us put an end to this,” boomed An-Shah. It grabbed Jitterclaw, who immediately snarled, spat, and bit at the entity’s finger. “We shall make them brave guardians over the heavens. Stalwart protectors of the weak. Valiant and capable of honorable conflict when needed.”
The other ministers all cried out.
“Terrible!”
“Worst idea yet!”
“That one seems completely unsuitable for the role.”
An-Shah scowled and flung Jitterclaw with a flick of the wrist. The wyrmling sailed out over the plaza with a terrified wail. Hristomarth watched the wyrmling land somewhere in the grove just ahead. There were only a few racks of the sparkling silk remaining between him and escape. He was almost home free.
A whistling noise sounded behind Hristomarth. His instincts roared, and he threw himself to the side, barely avoiding the ball of sticky webbing that whipped past, trailing a line behind it. He collided roughly with a rack and fell, bowling it over, rocking enough of the others that they toppled down on him in a clattering heap. Sorra cursed as she tripped into the pile as well.
Everything was a chaos of wooden racks and spindles of glittering silk. Hristomarth fumbled for purchase, to right himself, to shove the bandit queen out of the way. Another faint whistling sounded across the crowded plaza, followed by an impact on his boot. Hristomarth was yanked suddenly, violently out into the open. This time the ball of sticky webbing had hit home. The line connecting to it trailed back to the Weaver, which reeled him closer with its forelegs like a fisherman pulling in his catch.
Hristomarth shook away his disbelief. Amazingly, he still had his sword clenched in his one good hand. Bringing it down in a tight arc, he severed the strand, stopping his progress across the plaza and eliciting a frustrated screech from the Weaver. Hristomarth rolled over onto his hands and knees, then up into an awkward hop, then into a full-out run back to where Sorra was pulling herself out from the pile of toppled wooden frames.
“There’s got to be something we can all agree upon,” intoned Yu-Lizz, plucking Greasetrap up from where the wyrmling was creeping past.
Hristomarth quailed. What to do? Even now the Weaver was balling up another wad of secreted webbing and spinning it with a foreleg like a champion bola thrower. There was no way he could run fast enough to escape the spider. Maybe he could hide behind Sorra? No, the woman was far too disagreeable and belligerent a piece of cover. She’d be sure to fight him, even if some good could have come of it by saving his skin.
He stopped at the thought. The sword hung heavy in his good hand. Rearing back, Hristomarth tossed the blade hilt-first at the self-proclaimed bandit queen. Then he ducked.
Sorra caught the sword, a little surprised. Then she smiled fiercely. “Do you hope to curry favor after my inevitable v
ictory?” She kicked the last wooden rack away. “So be it. I—”
A ball of webbing whipped into view, falling just past Sorra’s arm. Momentum carried it back around, tightly wrapping her outstretched limb with the line trailing back to the Weaver. This time, the Weaver yanked immediately on its prize. Sorra dropped the sword and went tumbling across the flagstones. She tried frantically to pull the webbing free, but only got herself stuck tighter.
“Help!” she cried as the Weaver pulled her close.
Hristomarth retrieved his fallen hat. “Further consideration of the situation revealed an option,” he said. “The Weaver was after the one carrying my sword. Take note—a proper escape requires that I am not the fastest, only that I am faster than you. Enjoy your preassigned fate!”
“Hristomarth!” Sorra shouted. “Don’t you dare leave me behind!”
The Weaver pulled her close. It picked her up in its forelegs, secreting more webbing to wrap her up in a tight little bundle. Once finished, the spider turned her back and forth to make certain there would be no escape, chittering to itself in satisfaction.
Hristomarth grabbed his sword and quickly left the plaza for the grove. Jitterclaw was a short distance beyond, picking itself nervously out from a small crater. Hristomarth scratched it behind the ear as he hid behind a mulberry tree.
The giant spider picked its way over to the Great Tapestry and pitched Sorra’s cocoon at the fabric like a drover with a sack of potatoes. There was a faint flash, and she was gone, off to whatever journey had been decreed by the ministers, who were still arguing among themselves obliviously up above. The Weaver nodded to itself, then returned to where Hristomarth had escaped it.
A cold ball of fear settled into his stomach as the monster glanced up at the grove. Was it more perceptive than he had thought? Why hadn’t he kept running for the forest?
The Weaver took a step forward just as a reptilian ball of wings and scales slammed into its abdomen, knocking it flat to the ground. The ministers had now discarded Greasetrap, who rolled on to a stop at the line of grass.
The Weaver lay still, either unconscious or dead. It didn’t move when the rest of the wyrmlings trudged past to a dazed Greasetrap or when they all followed their noses to Hristomarth’s hiding place. It didn’t move when the ministers’ argument intensified, pealing like thunder overhead.
“Well,” said Hristomarth to the wyrmlings. He pulled the coil of leather leashes from around his neck and unwound them. “I trust that all those fanciful destinies and bandit-birthed futures have been appropriately discarded?”
The wyrmlings hunkered, apologetic. Except for Greasetrap, who nibbled at the remnant wad of webbing still stuck to his boot, promptly gumming its maw shut.
“Let this be a lesson,” Hristomarth continued. “The world is arrayed against us. Some conflicts may be fought. Others must be fled. And lone forest bandits are never worth the trouble. Now come along. It’s high time we got back on the road. I know your fates already, my wyrmlings. And it lies at a fair in Alhambry.”
Wrapping their leashes back into place, Hristomarth led the wyrmlings out of the grove. Beyond lay the forest and the wind and the rain. Behind them, the Ministry of Fate squabbled, in voices that had rolled on since the beginning of the world.
Creature Comforts
THE DITCH WAS NO LONGER a tenable solution. Hristomarth also refused the hedgerow, the shrubbery, and the boughs of a low-hanging tree. Even a convenient abandoned stable caused him to turn up his nose. Tonight he would sleep in a bed. A real bed with blankets and a mattress and a pillow to lay his head upon. A bed beneath a roof. No other option would be tolerated.
It seemed a remote possibility. The sun was setting fast above the forest, a wild and gloomy place with that seemed to go on forever. Hristomarth couldn’t even say how long he’d been traipsing through it—there had been a storm, that much was clear in his memory. A storm followed by endless underbrush. At least the road he’d found made the going somewhat easier, though it did seem to attract other forms of inconvenience.
“Thus the scales will harden with age,” continued Philosopher Dovardis, marching along beside Hristomarth. “This is the primary mechanism by which Darmxian mountain dragons gain their legendary durability. In fact, the Moon Folk Dominion would utilize cast-off dragon scales…”
Hristomarth sighed. Wandering philosophers usually waited until they found a prospect who would pay in good copper obels, or at least fresh produce. But the wyrmlings’ presence had excited Dovardis into a lecture which simply would not stop. Agreeing to travel together remained Hristomarth’s great regret of the day. Though, now he did know how to determine the sex of a lizard, along with other bits of herpetological trivia that he’d likely never find useful.
Crawling along behind them both, the wyrmlings took little notice of the discourse. Each of the little monsters were weary from the hike, with no interest in causing mayhem. Hristomarth hadn’t even bothered carrying their leashes. Usually this would have been cause for celebration, but Hristomarth wasn’t in the mood. A bed. He wanted a bed.
The shadows lengthened as they marched. Nocturnal creatures stirred, making their first few tentative cries of the evening. A chill wind blew through the trees, conjuring thoughts of a warm campfire and a hearty meal. Hristomarth forced himself to put one aching foot after the other. An interruption was unacceptable. Tonight would be spent inside.
“Ah,” said Lecturer Dovardis as they turned around a bend in the path. “Here we are.”
The forest disappeared. Its deep trees opened onto a wide plain dominated by a single massive oak at its center. Candlelight glimmered from behind casement windows hanging among the leaves. Smoke curled from a brick chimney peeking up through the boughs. Lanterns illuminated a staircase winding down the trunk to the ground, where flightless moa, horses, and wagons clustered together.
Hristomarth stopped, the wyrmlings bumping into his legs. “What’s this?” he asked, confusion giving way to excitement.
“The Mayfly Public House,” replied Dovardis, one eyebrow raised. “I had thought this your destination? It is a common stop for those heading to the freestyle theology competitions in Lodara. My companion, the admirable Relisolde, should await me here.”
“My exhibition is bound to the east,” said Hristomarth. He could almost feel the softness of a pillow, the gauzy lightness of the sheets. “A significant opportunity awaits us at the Grand Fair of Alhambry.”
“You’re on the right course, then. In fact, there are some fascinating facts about the origin of the Grand Fair. A century ago ...”
Hristomarth left him to prattle. A roadhouse. He’d found a roadhouse. Food. A hearth. And a bed. By hook or by crook, a bed would be his tonight.
Travelers in all manner of garb clustered around the base of the tree. Many seemed to be on a pilgrimage. There were shabby Tophic monks with expensive cudgels at their hips. Suuthi cultists stood nearby, wrapped in heavy cloaks and unused to the colder climate. Everyone seemed road stained and weary.
Hristomarth scuttled over as a woman descended the stairs. She was older, with silver hair and a stern demeanor. Following closely was a burly doorman with a robed philosopher held up by the scruff of his neck. She came to a stop on the last few steps and gestured sharply. The doorman flung the philosopher, sending him tumbling roughly the rest of the way.
“Attention!” called the woman. “I demand the attention of anyone planning to seek shelter in my inn this evening.”
The abuse of a philosopher was a common sight in cities, towns, and principalities across Hegres. This statement, however, captured interest.
“Full capacity has almost been achieved at the Mayfly Inn,” continued the proprietor. “There is but a single vacancy remaining!”
A concerned murmur sprung up from the crowd. Hristomarth realized that he was one of those making the complaint.
The proprietor held up her hands. “To prevent a mad scramble which might scuff my stairs, I add this
additional fact: Prices for a spot in the common room, with accompanying victuals, are now conditionally raised to forty-five silver obels. No aphorisms or axioms accepted! If you wish, feel free to spend the evening here outside. There is a small stream on the far side of the field. In the spirit of neighborly affection, I advise you that the field is infested with aggressive and near-sighted owls. The stream is also haunted. Please direct all queries on these matters to Rostoc, who is known throughout the roadhouses of Charke for being both unreasonable and intransigent.”
Without another word, she ascended back up the tree as Rostoc folded his massive arms across his chest and moved to block the stairway. Despair washed over Hristomarth. Prince of Thieves and the Black Vault Below! There weren’t four obels in his purse, let alone forty-five. What was he to do?
A glance down revealed the wyrmlings staring back, expectant and hopeful. Their eyelids drooped wearily. Splaywing sat back on her haunches and chirped anxiously. The others followed suit. Their chorus of chirps transmuted into growls before becoming a plaintive communal wailing.
“Enough!” he cried, hands clapped over his ears. “Rarely is there any need for such auditory assault.” Hristomarth glanced at the other travelers, now all frowning at him. “My purse doesn’t have forty-five silver obels. Cultivate acceptance of this unpleasant fact!”
The wyrmlings looked at each other, then peered back up at Hristomarth. They opened their maws to take a breath for a truly epic complaint.
“Ut!” said Hristomarth, wagging a finger and lowering his voice. “I may not be in possession of such funds, but this does not mean they cannot be acquired. In fact, thoughts of a soft mattress galvanize my motivation to do so even beyond your own. Now, let us consider.” He gestured discreetly at the other travelers, clustering to compare the contents of their purses.
“Enemy?” chirped Catchmaw.
“Even better,” said Hristomarth. “Victims. Follow my lead, now. And discreetly, if you please.”
The Tophic monks were closest. They huddled together, hirsute men in rough robes, counting coinage out of little-used purses. Beside them, their mule was overburdened with trunks, traveling bags, and reliquaries.
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