The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  With a sigh, the procurer examined his belongings. They held no delights unfamiliar to him, but 'twas something to do until darkness came-and all the slaying and similar fun began.

  "I seem to have been crouching behind bushes and trees forever," Fang-brother Khavan complained in a whisper.

  Scaled Master Arthroon gave him precisely the cold and withering sort of look he'd expected. "When the Great Serpent comes, those who've been unwilling to do what's needful will be those considered expendable. You'd do well to remember that, Fangbrother."

  Khavan nodded and flexed his cramping, protesting legs by extending one in a slow, soundless parody of a dancer's deep kick, and then drawing it back and doing the same with the other. The pain lessened but little.

  They were crouching in the deep gloom of a thornvine-filled thicket behind Bowshun, on the edge of a little clearing where Aranglar the Weaver and his wife Thaelae split and stacked their firewood, kept their privy, and tossed things that had rotted. The happy couple were in the clearing now, but decidedly not engaged in any of the activities they customarily used it for.

  Instead, they were trying to kill each other.

  Grunts and shrieks of effort, triumph, and pain mingled with the crashings of their bodies rolling in underbrush, dead leaves, and formerly tidy piles of kindling.

  Kicking, punching, and gouging, Thaelae and Aranglar tore at each other's hair, tried to smother each other, attempted stranglings, butted each other like enraged bulls, and even tried to batter each other's limbs and heads against handy trees-while ignoring a handy ax buried in Aranglar's chopping block. Gasping and shuddering, they snarled and spat, wild-eyed, and literally raked and tore with their fingers at each other.

  Fangbrother Khavan winced, more than a little sickened-and well aware that Arthroon was watching him. The weaver and his wife were streaming blood from dozens of places, now, and Thaelae had just gouged out one of Aranglar's eyes with hideous ease.

  Khavan set his teeth, gorge rising, and risked a look at his superior. The Scaled Master was smiling, obviously amused at Khavan's discomfort.

  "Come, Brother Softguts," he purred. "We've seen enough of this particular plague affliction. There's someone else I want a look at. Keep low and quiet unless you'd like to lose your eyes too."

  Skulking around the fray, the two priests scuttled hurriedly back to Aranglar's cottage.

  "Why the rush?" Khavan gasped. Arthroon's reply was to throw himself flat behind moss-covered rocks, catch hold of the Fangbrother's leg with cruel force, and drag his fellow priest down to join him.

  "Three people live in yon hovel, not just the loving pair we've been watching," he murmured, ignoring Khavan's gasps of pain. "That gives us a good chance of seeing a different plague effect than mindlessly seeking to slay, taking hold of the third person. Right about… now."

  The ramshackle back door facing them banged open, and an old man lurched out, his wrinkled and unshaven face twisted in pain. He retched, clutched at his ribs, bent over, and spewed what looked like a very large meal onto the ground, groaning like a woman astonished by the pains of her first hard labor. Then he stumbled off down the narrow track that led to the stream and the deeper forest beyond.

  "Who-?" Khavan asked, more in an attempt to appear alert and interested than out of any true interest.

  "Thaelae's aging father," Arthroon replied, rising like a hunter stalking a beast of which he must be wary-and yet get very close to, to make his kill. "Follow quietly. 'Twould be very unwise to let him see or hear us, if my suspicions are correct."

  Like wary ghosts they drifted along the trail from tree to tree, keeping to dappled shadows well behind the old man-who was staggering along feebly, bent over like a man on the verge of collapse, but groaning with ever greater vigor.

  Anon those groans become rougher and deeper, until they were almost growls. Khavan gave Arthroon a "what now?" look, but the Scaled Master merely smiled and continued his patiently stealthy pursuit.

  The Fangbrother took care that his resulting sigh was silent. He was shaking his head and hastening to catch up with Arthroon-and yet do so silently-when the Scaled Master held up a hand to indicate that Khavan should halt.

  The old man was still wandering along the forest track, growling like a beast, but now he was tearing at his clothing. As Khavan peered, he could see hair-reddish-brown, profuse hair, not sparse gray and white-cloaking the man's hands and neck. More of it could be seen wherever clothing had been torn away-and "torn" was exactly the right word: the old man's fingers seemed to be lengthening into claws! That stooped, frail body was growing taller, broadening to split its well-worn tunic…

  Khavan took a careful step back, but Arthroon whirled and gave him such a glare that the Fangbrother froze, trembling, and remained in that quivering hesitancy even when the old man-or rather, the thing that the old man had become-stopped in its amblings, sniffed, raised its head to sniff again, and then turned with a roar to confront the two priests.

  That weathered old face was gone, replaced by something with great long-fanged jaws and a snout. The body below it resembled some sort of long-tailed bear, its only traces of humanity being a few rags of tunic and the flopping remnants of boots it still wore.

  It strode forward slowly and menacingly, stalking the Serpent-clergy. " 'Tis gathering itself to charge," the Scaled Master observed, as calmly as if he'd been identifying a flower in which he had no particular interest. Khavan eyed it, gulped, and more than agreed.

  Hurriedly he cast a spell, almost stumbling over the incantation in his haste to get it out. Khavan's hands tingled, his fingers went numb-and the air around them shimmered.

  As if his casting had been a signal, the bear-creature charged at them, howling and snorting horribly. It swung those gnarled, long-clawed arms forward and back as it came.

  Khavan retreated another step, swallowing hard. Was his spell not working? Why hadn't…?

  And then the shimmering before him collapsed into sudden dark, solid clarity. A shield of hissing, snapping snakes was abruptly hanging in the air, coiling and writhing around each other, biting at the air, and slithering along on nothing but emptiness.

  The serpents formed a floating wall in front of both priests, most of their jaws reaching for the onrushing bear-beast. Forked tongues flickered and baleful eyes glowered; a fearsome sight even to their creator.

  Khavan gasped in relief as he backed hastily away, trying to calm himself enough to recall the incantation for his "lance of acid" spell-in case this bear-beast burst through his conjured serpents, and he found himself facing those long-taloned claws directly.

  Arthroon merely nodded in satisfaction as the monster thundered up to him and reared to awesome height, pawing the air. The snakes hissed in unison, and it recoiled from them and then froze, wavering and hardly daring to wave a paw at the floating, writhing mass.

  The snakes arched and lunged, seeking to reach this creature that loomed so close to them… and yet was just beyond the reach of their fangs. It roared at them, eyes wild-then turned on its haunches with a long, slobbering snarl, and plunged off the trail into the trees.

  The Scaled Master wore a faint smile as the crashings of the beast hastening away from them faded into the forest. Khavan returned to his shield of snakes almost as swiftly, fearing his superior more than a beast who was no longer charging in his direction.

  He'd just reached the spot where he'd cast the spell when the receding crashings of dead leaves, trampled underbrush, and splintering dead tree limbs suddenly erupted into the challenging roars of two contesting beasts.

  These were swiftly followed by more crashings, a horrible snapping and gnawing, roars and squeals of pain, sharp splintering sounds, and several heavy thuds, as if large, hurrying bodies had fallen, rolled, and scrambled about. Then the crashings of movement resumed, swiftly dying away into the distance.

  The Scaled Master turned to Khavan. "Good. We've truly recreated the Blood Plague of old. Some victims fall to the Ma
lady of Madness, but others turn into beasts and forthwith attack all creatures they see."

  He wagged his finger at the Fangbrother like a tutor enlightening a particularly stupid pupil. "Soon," he said flady, "Aglirta will be ours."

  "Ours?"

  "Ours," Arthroon repeated firmly, "to keep forever, once anyone who drinks anything in this land is either under our protection or swiftly dead."

  "And the overdukes?" Khavan dared to ask.

  "We shall see. They bide in Stornbridge, feasted by the tersept there. Some who bow before the Scaled One serve at that table. Yes, we'll soon see."

  Lord of the Serpent Hanenhather shook his head. "Clumsy, Arthroon, very clumsy. Let a plague-beast just wander and slay whilst you chatter? How then is it a weapon in your hand? Or for our faith?"

  The bear-beast lay sprawled and dead, torn bloodily open by the plague-monster Brother Landrun had been spell-tracking.

  The monster that was lumbering toward the Serpent-lord right now. Another unfortunate villager twisted into a new shape by the plague… a peak-stalker, this one: all massive gray head and claws, stonelike skin, and size and weight to overmatch any two oxen.

  The Serpent-lord shook his head again. Arthroon didn't even know of their presence-and obviously cared nothing for the fate of the bear-beast, which could have served the Brethren well in the days ahead. And such men preened under tides like Scaled Master these days. Ah, well…

  "Be still, Landrun," he snapped. "Blunder forward now, and you may be forced into another shape rather than yon stalker."

  Brother Landrun froze and turned fearful eyes to his superior. Lord Hanenhather was smiling slightly as he wove his spell, but his eyes were as cold as ever-and Landrun shivered more than once as the peak-stalker twisted, dwindled… and was suddenly a man.

  Lurching and stumbling, it turned away from them, into the trees. The Lord of the Serpent smiled after it. "Go, Tersept of Ironstone, and give the orders I bade you," he said softly, "and war will soon rage in Aglirta again- ah, such a realm of blooddiirsty, restless hotheads!"

  Brother Landrun swallowed. "And the real Tersept of Ironstone, Lord?"

  "Oh, he died rather suddenly, I'm afraid. You remember what our pet direjaws devoured by the roadside, last night?"

  "A slithersnake as long as a wagon," the Brother of the Serpent said slowly, frowning-and then looking horrified. "You mean-?"

  "Yes." The Serpent-lord's smile wouldn't have looked out of place on the face of the direjaws. " 'Twas a noble slithersnake, to be sure."

  Landrun fought down nausea. "But if no one can trust his lord or wife to really be themselves, then…"

  "We can spread blood-chaos from one end of the Vale to the other," Hanenhather replied, "and watch overdukes and boy kings-and clumsy Scaled Masters, for that matter-fall."

  He chuckled. "Good feasting for some. Come, Landrun, we've work to do. You need more practice controlling these beasts. I think it's time a few simple farmers had their chances at playing overdukes."

  There'd been just enough warm water in the wash ewer for a pleasurable soak in the dark. Craer had brought on that darkness the moment the bowl on the floor was full, by snuffing out the oil lamp. He'd long since lifted his dripping feet out of the bowl, dried them on the robe left ready, and pulled on his boots again. He'd never so much as disarranged the rest of his clothing. Doing so would have been less than prudent, if even half the events he expected to befall this evening started to happen.

  On his first stroll around the room he'd found the usual chamberpot under the bed, in addition to the thunder-chair. He hooked it forward in case his complaining innards desired sudden emptying. Then Craer stretched like a cat and began to prowl his unlit bedchamber, looking at the carved wall panels for any hint of lamplight, an approaching candle, or the like. After a time he traced a particular carving with his fingertips, in a vertical line from about the height of his head to his knees. As he did so, a soft smile appeared on his face, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

  There came a soft rap upon his door. Craer took three swift steps to one side of it, drew two of his knives, and used the point of one to pluck up a spare boot from the table of belongings and toss it gently to the floor just inside the door.

  There came no thrusting blade under the door or through the suspiciously wide gap down one of its sides, and no spell blasted through the doorway. After a moment Craer called softly, "Who is it?"

  "Me, you dolt," came a familiar whisper.

  Overduke Delnbone smiled in the darkness, sidled a few paces closer, and asked, "And whom might me be, this time?"

  "You bastard," the soft whisper came back. "You know perfectly well 'tis me, Tshamarra."

  "Oh? I know several Tshamarras," Craer whispered merrily back. "Where does this particular one wear a scar shaped rather like the mark of my bite?"

  "On the underside of my left teat, where you bit me, Craer. Now open this damned door or I'll blast it down!"

  "Are you alone, and acting freely?"

  "Yes, bebolt you!"

  Craer sheaDied his knives, and then plucked up a third: the blade he'd driven between two flagstones just inside the door as a doorstop. Drawing forth the two wedges he'd slipped into the doorframe, he lifted the small, ornamental brass bar Lord Stornbridge provided to his guests and swung the door wide, moving like a knife-wielding shadow to stay behind it as it opened.

  Tshamarra Talasorn stood alone in the passage, fully dressed in dark leathers like those many thieves favored-Craer leered appreciatively-and bearing a small, shielded lantern. The two passage lamps flanking Craer's door seemed to have gone out, and the guards standing under them to have suffered some common misfortune that had left them sprawled on the floor. It must have been a silent mishap-but then, with the right magics, almost everything can become an "accident" of roughly the desired main effect.

  "Pray excuse my caution, Lady Talasorn," Craer murmured, as Tshamarra stepped carefully into the darkened chamber. "One can never be too careful-a drinking you seem to share with me, given your garb and demeanor. To put it plainly, you must be expecting trouble as much as I do."

  "Even more than that," she replied grimly, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment in either weariness or nausea. "We must find Embra without delay. I feel less than well; the food, of course."

  Craer bent to his boot, plucked something from within it, and held it out, deftly untwisting a stopper. "Would you like some? 'Tis half empty already, I'm afraid."

  "And this hitherto-unrevealed drink would be-?"

  "My 'timely flagon.' " Craer touched the metal to her palm. His fingers, cradling it, found her skin shockingly cold. "I bought it years ago in Sirl town," he added with an inviting smile, concealing his alarm at her chill, "from a crone who swore 'twould purge all taints and poisons."

  Tshamarra lifted an eyebrow. "And you believed her? Are you in the habit, Lord Craer, of believing the claims of old crones who keep shops in Sirlptar?"

  "Lady Talasorn," Craer replied with dignity, "she was of the Wise, and I'd just rendered her a service. Buying myself armor for the morrow, as it were. I drank the uppermost half not long ago, and-see?-still stand before you. Have all that remains. Please?

  Tshamarra nodded-and a sudden shuddering shook her entire body and left her in an anxious crouch, halfway to her knees. "It can hardly make me feel worse," she muttered, putting her lantern on the floor and taking the flask. She sniffed it suspiciously, and then drank.

  The shuddering that seized her this time was much worse. Tshamarra gasped, reeled, and put out a hand to clutch the wall, shaking her head and wincing.

  "Ah," Craer said sympathetically, "forgive me. I forgot; 'tis strong stuff."

  "Tell me no tales I know not already." She fixed him with tear-starred eyes that were both baleful and amused. "Let's find Embra before this night brings any more fiery little surprises."

  Craer nodded, stepped to the carved wall panels where he'd traced a line with his fi
ngers earlier, and did something to a carved stag-head. The wall split soundlessly and sagged open, to reveal utter darkness behind.

  As Tshamarra lifted her lantern, the procurer gestured grandly at the hitherto-hidden passage its faint light revealed. Then he made a gesture that indicated that Tshamarra should move herself to one side, and then another that bade her hood her lantern.

  As the Talasorn sorceress swiftly did both of those things, she saw Craer draw a dagger from one sleeve and glide to the opening, stepping to one side-and then the flash and gleam of the procurer hurling his blade sidelong, into and down the passage.

  There followed a soft thud and a hiss of pain.

  Then, softly and from very close by, a whisper of movement came to Tshamarra's ears. She reared back from it but did nothing else… and almost immethately saw a flare of light as Craer lifted the hood of her little lantern just enough to get the wick from another lantern under it. He drew it forth flaming, and softly let the hood back down again, Tshamarra watched the wick bob across the room in silken silence. As Craer settled the wick back into place and his lamp caught alight, they exchanged silent glances over its dancing radiance. The procurer winked solemnly, swept up his lit lamp, and strode back to the passage.

  The moment he showed himself in the entrance, there came the snap and clack of bowguns-the hand-sized crossbows so favored in Teln and the cities of the South-from down the passage.

  Craer sprang back, wielding the lantern like a buckler to strike aside the darts that came hissing at him, and grinning fiercely. Another trap anticipated. The luck of the Three-which any good procurer knows is no luck at all, but the result of preparation, suspicion, anticipation, and a certain nimbleness-was with him.