Scales of the Serpent

by Richard A. Knaak

  A particularly ugly Peace Warder suddenly stood in the high priest’s path. So caught up in his thoughts, Arihan nearly collided with the dolt.

  The Peace Warder was obviously mad, for he seemed unconcerned about his transgression. “The Lord Primus wishes to speak with you, High Priest Arihan. Immediately.”

  “Where is he?” the bearded elder asked, his monotone voice belying his sudden anxiety.

  “Awaiting you in his chambers, venerable one.”

  Arihan gave the man a dismissive nod and strode down the long marble hallway at a pace that indicated confidence but not disrespect. He passed several more Peace Warders standing at attention along the way, the guards as resolute as statues. For some reason, that stirred his concerns more.

  The sentries at the doors to the Primus’s inner sanctum gave way without any preamble, which made the robed figure feel as if he was already late. The Primus did not like tardiness; Arihan recalled at least one incident when such a sin had left the sinner bereft of his beating heart.

  All was darkness as he entered the chambers. The doors slammed shut behind him with a harsh finality. Arihan blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the black rooms. He knew in which he would find his master, but what was the reason for having no light whatsoever along the path? Generally, there was at least an oil lamp or dim torch.

  The priest took a step forward…and something about the size of a cat scurried over his sandaled foot.

  Arihan let out an uncharacteristic yelp, which only served to add to his tensions. How did it look for the high priest of Dialon—or rather, Diablo—to be startled by something so small and unseen? He served the master of terror! Arihan hoped and prayed that something had distracted the Primus’s attention at that moment…

  He could now see just enough to wend his way to the innermost chamber. It occurred to him that perhaps he could have conjured a light, but the Primus wanted darkness for a reason, whatever that might be.

  As Arihan reached the doorway to his master’s sanctum, it opened by itself. A dim, unearthly illumination greeted him. Arihan glanced down at his narrow hands, which were now the green of decay.

  “Enter, enter, High Priest Arihan!” the Primus called, his voice oddly excited.

  Doing as commanded, Arihan stepped toward the throne. As he neared, he saw the Primus, a giant, bearded man both younger and older in appearance than him, study the newcomer with a strange fascination. Again, Arihan wondered about the recent changes in the personality of the figure before him. He had always known what to expect…but not this time.

  As was custom, the priest went down on one knee just before his master’s feet. He knew that the Primus was indeed the scion of Lord Mephisto, but always thought of him by his mortal title, not his name.

  Never as Lucion.

  “Great and powerful Primus, son of the most regal Mephisto, your loyal attendant, Arihan, is here at your request. How may I serve thee?”

  A short, erratic chuckle escaped the vicinity of the Primus. Arihan fought not to look up in surprise at this disconcerting sound. He had never heard the master laugh so…so madly.

  Almost as quickly as he thought it, the priest smothered the blasphemy. It was not proper to think ill of the Primus, not proper and not wise for one’s health.

  “Rise! Rise, High Priest Arihan!” the seated figure commanded almost jovially.

  Arihan obeyed. He tried to keep his expression and gaze respectful. Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps his master wanted to see how dedicated and loyal Arihan was.

  “I am yours to command, most glorious one.”

  “Yes…yes, you are…” The Primus leaned against one of the armrests of the throne. “This—I am the Voice of the Triune, am I not?”

  “But, of course, most glorious one.” Arihan felt his brow begin to furrow in concern and perplexity, but fought the action away. He would keep a face of calm adoration, no matter what peculiarity the Primus next exhibited.

  Yes, surely this was some sort of test…

  The Primus fidgeted. Then, as if aware of how he looked, his aspect grew stern. “High Priest Arihan! Do you have anything to say?”

  “N-nay, most glorious one! I but await your word on what it is you wish of me!”

  “Very good…very good…” A small, black form—a spider, Arihan realized—crawled up out of the Primus’s collar. The leader of the Triune paid no mind to the vermin, even when it began making its way up his neck. “This—I have a plan to bring the mortal to our cause, High Priest Arihan. A masterful plan! But it must be implemented quickly, for it involves our brothers in Hashir.”

  “Hashir?” repeated the priest, trying in vain to keep his gaze from shifting to the arachnid. It now crawled on the Primus’s jaw, still apparently undetected.

  “Hashir…yes, Hashir will be the perfect place to turn this all around…”

  Arihan bowed to the Primus’s wisdom. If he had a plan, then surely it would come to wondrous fruition.

  The spider now crawled near the ear, two legs even probing within. Try as he might, the high priest of Dialon could not help but stare at it.

  Spiders…there was something about spiders that Arihan had once known. What was it—?

  With astonishing reflexes, the figure on the throne suddenly snatched the arachnid up. The Primus clenched his hand, crushing the creature within.

  “There is something wrong, my Arihan?”

  It was the first time since the gaunt man had entered that his master had not used his title. Although unsettled, Arihan managed to shake his head.

  “So good…so good…” The hand remained clenched. The Primus smiled wide…something he had never done before. “You are to be my agent! This is what you will do that will bring the human Uldyssian to our side…whether he wishes to come or not.”

  Arihan bowed his head and listened as the Primus outlined his intentions. He listened and all thought of the master’s recent quirks were quickly buried deep in his mind. After all, Arihan lived to serve the Primus; in the end, that was all that mattered.

  That…and the knowledge that even if there might now be a hint of madness in the son of Mephisto, the Primus could still crush Arihan as simply as he had the spider.

  Nine

  Darkness surrounded Mendeln, darkness that felt as if it went on forever. Uldyssian’s brother suspected that if he ran and ran as hard as he could for as long as possible, he would find no change in things. It would still be dark and empty. A part of him was unnerved by that…but another part was morbidly fascinated.

  Still, his concerns for Uldyssian overrode that fascination and the longer Mendeln stood alone and silent in the darkness, the more impatient he became to return…if such a thing was possible. He was, after all, very likely a prisoner.

  Why this betrayal, Achilios? he asked himself. Why steal me away when I only wanted to reunite you with the others? What reason could you have for stopping me?

  “Because what you would have done would have had very unfortunate repercussions,” replied the voice he knew so well from his own mind.

  A shape emerged from the darkness, a shape that yet still seemed very much a part of it. The tall, very pale man with the features too perfect. The cowled figure stood a full head higher than Mendeln, something the younger son of Diomedes had not earlier noticed.

  “What repercussions? What? Speak some sense! What repercussions?”

  But instead of answering those questions, the other turned from him and looked up…not that Mendeln saw anything different when he, too, stared in that direction. There was simply more of the darkness.

  The stranger—no, he had called himself Rathma—quietly asked the emptiness, “Well? Can you sense what she is about?”

  And the emptiness answered.

  No…she is well shielded in this regard. There is perhaps only one who knows best how to infiltrate that shield and learn the truth…

  Rathma frowned. “And we cannot exactly expect my father to be of assistance…as he is more like
ly than even her to try to reduce me to dust.”

  There is that small matter…

  Mendeln’s head throbbed each time the second voice spoke, as if his mind was not strong enough to fully accept its presence. He clutched his temples, trying to regain his balance.

  Forgive me…the voice said, its intensity much reduced. I will endeavor to keep within your bounds…

  Rathma helped Mendeln straighten. “The first time he spoke to me, I thought my head would split open.”

  “Did not mine do so?” Mendeln blinked, again seeking the source of the voice. “Who is it who speaks to us? I have heard him before, too!” To the darkness, he suddenly railed, “Show yourself! I’d know all my captors!”

  “But we are not your captors,” Rathma quietly returned. “Hardly that. Nor, definitely, your enemies.”

  “Not my friends, to be sure! Or else why take me from Uldyssian’s side, where I should always be?”

  Because, if you wish to be there for him when you most need to be, you must be with us now…

  “More riddles? Who are you, speaker in the shadows? Cease hiding from me!”

  Rathma tsked. “There can be no going on with explanations until he sees you, my friend,” he said to the emptiness. “But recall that he is mortal.”

  He is not so much less than you, Rathma…

  “I never said otherwise.”

  Listening to the pair, Mendeln sensed how long they had clearly known one another. There was a bond here as great as that between him and Uldyssian…

  Know me, then, Mendeln ul-Diomed…the voice declared, keeping its intensity to a low booming in his head. Know me as Rathma here does…

  And suddenly there were stars in the darkness above, a blazing multitude of stars that swirled about as if caught up in a tempest. They filled the area above to the point that Mendeln had to shield his eyes. At first there seemed no rhyme or reason to their movements, but quickly they began to spread apart and settle into certain areas. As they did, Mendeln noticed that a shape began to form, a shape only half-seen, yet seen enough to finally identify it.

  It was a creature of myth, a thing in fairy tales and stories, but never truth. Uldyssian had cheerfully frightened Mendeln with tales of such when the latter had been a small child…and Mendeln had savored every story.

  But now…now to see such a giant, especially one composed of stars…Mendeln stood gaping and speechless.

  It was a dragon. A long, sinewy, serpentine dragon beyond epic proportions.

  The dragon has chosen you…those words or ones very close to them had been etched on the stone in the ghastly cemetery Mendeln had found himself in while staying in Partha. The dragon has chosen you…

  The celestial creature shifted, its “eyes” a startling array of smaller stars. Know me…it repeated. Know me as Trag’Oul…

  “The One Who Is Forever,” added Rathma, almost blandly despite the astounding spectacle. “At least, that is one meaning. There are several.”

  But Mendeln barely heard that, for as the dragon spoke, he constantly shifted…and in doing so, revealed a more stunning facet. Within each of the “scales”—the stars—Uldyssian’s brother beheld short glimpses of life…his life. There he was as an infant, in his mother’s arms. Mendeln cried out at the sight of her, the pain of her loss—of his entire family’s loss—suddenly renewed.

  He forced himself to look beyond that moment and thus witnessed one scene after another as the years of his pitiful little mortal existence raced along in what was for Trag’Oul surely the blink of an eye.

  Trying to shake free of his feelings of insignificance, Mendeln beheld the fantastic entity as a whole…and in doing so noticed that not only was his life displayed before him, but so were hundreds, no thousands more.

  We are all there, Mendeln realized. All of Humanity, from the first on…each scale…each scale is a measure of some part of us…

  And among those lives, his eyes somehow fixed upon Uldyssian. In fact, the images of the brothers intertwined constantly, which made sense, of course. Whether together or alone, they were bonded by more than simply blood.

  Yet…as the years of their lives swiftly progressed down the “body” of the giant, the two lives grew more separate. Mendeln saw the discovery of the stone near Seram and his brother’s seduction by Lilith as Lylia. The images flashed faster and faster. Partha. Lucion. Achilios’s death. Toraja. Serenthia. And on and on until—

  Trag’Oul shifted again and the lives of the sons of Diomedes became lost among the sea of other existences. The human let out another cry and stared at what passed for the face of the dragon.

  No more should you perceive, Trag’Oul told him. For beyond that is the realm of possibilities, where what you see are the paths that choices not yet made determine. It would be a danger to yourself and to this world to try to choose from them before life has assisted you in the decision…

  He was speaking of the future. The dragon not only reflected the past and present, but what could be. The incredible immensity of the being stretched above him only now struck Mendeln. He sensed that Trag’Oul only revealed to him—and even Rathma—a most minor portion of himself. Turning to the cowled figure, Mendeln blurted, “What—?”

  “What is ‘he,’ you want to ask?” Rathma gestured at the ever-shifting form. “Even Trag’Oul does not entirely know. He has existed since just after the beginning of creation, although not quite as we sense him now.”

  No…that came later…Whenever the dragon spoke, the scales flowed and shifted, constantly displaying other lives, other times. That came with the finding of the Shards…with the molding of Sanctuary by the renegade angels and demons…

  Mendeln had no idea what the leviathan was talking about save that it had mentioned demons. He glared at Rathma, whose features had, for the past few moments, greatly reminded him of another…too much of another, in fact.

  And then it struck Mendeln like a bolt through his heart. He knew exactly who it was.

  “You and she!” Uldyssian’s brother grated, anger exploding. He pointed a condemning finger at the figure, who stood as motionless as death. “You and she! I can see it in you! You are hers! Hers!”

  Mendeln summoned words of power, words that he was well aware he had gained from the very one he sought to attack.

  Rathma raised a hand. In it materialized the ivory dagger that Mendeln had seen before his kidnapping. As the last of the words escaped Mendeln’s lips, the dagger flared bright.

  So near the unnatural illumination and with his eyes now accustomed to the darkness, Mendeln was instantly blinded. He let out a cry and stumbled back.

  He has adapted to your teachings well, Rathma…

  “Almost too well. I was nearly too late. But his mind…his spirit…are not yet utterly in tune with the Balance.”

  Discovering yourself before the offspring of Lilith can be rather disconcerting. You must consider emotions, Rathma. Sometimes I believe you have taken my teachings too much to heart, my friend…

  Mendeln paid no mind to their discourse, his only concern recovering his sight. He continued stumbing back, somehow hoping to escape the demon before him.

  “I am no demon…at least not in the full sense, Mendeln ul-Diomed,” Rathma declared, again seeming to read his thoughts.

  “Get out of my head!”

  The cloaked figure began to coalesce before Uldyssian’s brother. “We are beyond that, my student. You proved yourself receptive to what I offered that day when you were shown the stone near your village, the stone that was the first of your tests.”

  “Tests for what? To see if I would become servant to a demon?”

  Above, the stars abruptly shifted. Looking up, Mendeln thought that the face of Trag’Oul seemed almost…reproving. You are much too absolute at times, Rathma. Explain more. Tell him of his bloodline. Tell him about Lilith…

  “I was going to.” For the first time, there was a hint of emotion—irritation?—in the cloaked figure’s tone. “You kno
w I was.”

  Eventually…More reshaping of the stars, more displaying of different lives. Never the same ones. Always eventually…

  Rathma suddenly sighed. “Yes, perhaps I do hesitate, despite what I have said about the need for haste.” To Uldyssian’s brother, he calmly explained, “Mendeln, son of Diomedes, who himself was son of Teronus, who was the son of Hedassyian…I tell you now that you are of my own blood, my own offspring…and, thus, in turn, the one you know as Lilith…”

  And Inarius, too, recall…

  “He will know of Inarius soon enough.” Rathma watched Mendeln closely, the dagger held ready.

  But there was neither a renewed attack or even protest from Mendeln. The skills he had gained through Rathma were enough to enable him to gauge the truth of the other’s words. “You do not lie…” rasped Uldyssian’s brother. “You’ve made certain that I would know it!” He shook his head. “Uldyssian and I—we are of her?”

  “As are so several others, the generations that have passed being of great number. And as I said, you are also of mine,” Rathma pointed out, finally lowering the ivory blade. “Which number far, far less…”

  Mendeln sought to put this all together. “Is that why she chose him and you me? Because it was easier to play games with those closest to your infernal blood?”

  Irritation once more crossed Rathma’s face, but before he could speak, the stars once more briefly swirled, then re-formed into Trag’Oul. Peace, the dragon murmured as best as he could. If Rathma can be called a demon, so, too, can you and every human. Theirs is where in part all of you come…but also there are the angels to consider…and their role is no less significant in your creation…”

  Demons and angels…The notion that he—that everyone—was descended from such sounded so ludicrous. Yet once again the abilities with which Rathma had imbued him made it impossible for Mendeln not to see that all of this was truth.

  It all only verified what Lilith herself had revealed in the course of matters. Mendeln had always secretly denied her claims, believing them lies used to undermine Uldyssian’s defiance somehow. But the only lies involved were to myself, it seems…