by Ed Greenwood
It crashed down into a corner as snakes whipped and wriggled frantically away. One of them wriDied in pain, half-crushed, as dark blood slid like a gleaming ribbon across the floor.
"Oh, dear, another Servant of the Serpent gone," Craer said mournfully. "Such a loss."
Overduke Anharu saw further movement out of the corner of his eye, turned with a sigh, and hauled another awakened cortahar out of his pile.
Protesting and cursing, the man clawed at Hawkril-only to find himself sailing up, arms and legs flailing in the moonlight, and then down, down to the waiting moat below.
"So where's Lord Stornbridge?" the armaragor asked, as the sounds of the splash reached them. "You think this whelming was all a trick to draw us here, whilst he goes to ground, or rides across the Vale to raise alarm?"
"No, he's here somewhere," Craer replied. "Behind one of these panels with the highest Serpent-priests. These are underlings, left to delay and entertain us whilst they cook up something especially dastardly. Something Em's probably keeping a firm lid on."
A snake struck at Craer's face, missing narrowly. "That does it," the procurer announced, heading for the door. "Hawk, I'm burning this turret out. Sooner or later, one of these slitherers is going to get us!"
Hissing sounds arose from all around the turret. Hawkril swore and hurried after the procurer.
"Hawk!" Craer snapped, from the door. "Run!"
Hawkril sprang into a thundering sprint as snakes boiled up into human shapes behind him, reaching and hissing, retaining their serpent-heads for one last chance at a bite as they… caught hold of nothing, fingertips sliding helplessly over curved armor.
Snarling human faces were spitting out incantations as the armaragor joined Craer out in the moonlight. The procurer flung a dagger, and then another, at a dodging priest who gave him a sneer-until Craer's third knife sprouted in his eye.
Then the armaragor dived one way and the procurer hurled himself in another, scattering across the width of the battlements as fire flared up in the turret room-and roared forth to stab at them.
Hot flames were suddenly all around Hawkril. He thrust his face tight into his knees and rolled, his hair sizzling. The fire flung him over and aside and snarled on along the flagstones, leaving him staring at fresh flames in front of his nose: the wadded-up cloak was burning. Hawkril shook the shield off his arm as he scrambled up, fearing the next spell might be a bolt of lightning instead of fire, and glanced across at Craer.
The procurer was flinging daggers through the turret door and windows in a constant stream of whirling steel, buying them both time. Hawkril saw a discarded cortahar's sword lying on the flagstones. Plucking it up, he thrust it through the blazing cloak, skewering the bundle, and then ran up to the turret door and flung it inside, aiming high and far.
The flaming bundle struck a tapestry on the far wall and rolled down it, in a spitting of sparks and flaming scraps of cloth that gave Hawkril a momentary glimpse of three Serpent-priests weaving spells in hissing haste.
Another cortahar in the pile was moving, struggling to drag himself out from under the weight of his fellows. Hawkril yanked him free, stood him up like a child's doll, and ran him at the door as a shield. A few running steps away from the doorway, the cortahar started to scream.
A priest hit him with a spell anyway-a beam of flickering dark fire that almost cut the man in half, reducing a hand-wide slice of the man's gut to bare bones, but leaving the body untouched above and below. Hawkril flung the cortahar headlong through the door, bowling over a shouting priest, and then ducked low and ran in himself.
Two priests backed away hastily, trying to get to where they could unleash spells on the armaragor without endangering themselves-but Hawkril dived over the dying cortahar and in under the table in the center of the room, rising up under it to fling it with his shoulders, up and over.
Its legs sent a priest flying, to twist and groan against a wall. Craer came leaping through the door as the table came down atop the tapestry, tearing it and feeding the rising flames. Craer stabbed the groaning priest and then flung the same dagger-his last-across the room, into the face of the remaining priest. It laid open the man's forehead and spun away. Gasping in pain, the priest ducked out the far door of the turret and fled along the battlements.
"Right," Craer snarled, snatching up two broken bows, "burn the place!" He plunged after that last priest.
Hawkril cut down another tapestry and added it to the fire. Then he kicked aside chairs and stabbed into dark corners, making sure no snakes still lurked unseen.
Outside, the last Serpent screamed despairingly as Craer's second flung bow tangled between his legs, sent him crashing helplessly onto his face, and Craer pounced on his back.
A wall panel burst into Hawkril's face, hurling him back across the room-and two men raced for the door that Craer had taken: a priest, face contorted in fear and rage; and the Tersept of Stornbridge, in full armor, with a gleaming sword in his hand. Reeling, Hawkril ran after them.
"Stop him!" the priest ordered sharply. The overduke saw Stornbridge look back nervously, run on a few paces, and then turn, sword flashing.
Hawkril didn't wait for the tersept to take a stance. He swerved, clawing at the night air for balance as Stornbridge slashed at him, let the tip of the tersept's sword whistle past him-then leaned in, still running hard, and slammed his arm across the tersept's throat.
Lord Stornbridge crashed over backwards and bounced, sobbing for breath and feebly clutching at his windpipe. His warsword clattered away, but Hawk ran on. He had to get to the priest before that Serpent-lover had time to stop and cast a proper spell, or he and Craer would be dead in a few breaths.
The priest looked back, and Hawkril slashed at the air between them with his warsword, not slowing a whit. The Serpent grimaced, and swerved toward the line of merlons that guarded the moat side of the bat-dements. Hawkril thundered after him, still unsteady, his sword slashing back and forth.
"Fangbrother Maurivan!" the tersept sobbed from behind Hawkril, his voice raw and feeble.
The priest ran on, giving no sign he'd heard that cry-but in front of him Craer rose up, grinning like a fox, and said merrily, "Good evening, Serpent! Shall we dance?"
Fangbrother Maurivan swerved again, whirling to dive between two merlons. Craer and Hawkril both sprang to the wall, peering, but there was no splash. The robed figure plunged down, down-and vanished in a soundless flash of light, a moment or so before he should have struck the cortahar-strewn water.
"Magic!" Craer said scornfully. "Are we done?"
"Stornbridge," Hawkril growled, and they hurried back together.
The tersept was on his feet, still clutching his throat, his recovered warsword in his other hand. "Don't-don't you dare!" he croaked, backing away from them.
"Lord Stornbridge," Craer replied reproachfully, "we could hardly butcher and maim your faithful cortahars and these snakes you've made welcome in this castle, and not exact the proper punishment on you, now, could we? Hey?"
Stornbridge moaned in despair, and then charged, hacking wildly at the procurer. Craer dodged left-that magnificent blade smashed down on the flagstones, striking sparks-and then right-the blade clanged down again- and then drop-kicked the tersept, aiming his knife-toed feet high.
Those points skittered harmlessly across the tersept's steel breastplate, but sent Stornbridge back on his heels-and Hawkril's lunge, arriving a moment later, caught him flat-footed.
Through the space between two plates of the tersept's splendid armor the armaragor's warsword bit, only going in an inch or so through the under learners, but Stornbridge reeled back again-and Craer, still on the ground by the tersept's feet, hooked his legs around Stornbridge's ankle and flung himself over on his side.
Lord Stornbridge toppled like a felled tree, crashing hard onto the flagstones and losing his warsword once more. Hawkril kicked him hard, rolling him clear of Craer, and then kicked him again, forcing the tersept into a frantic
crawl that brought Stornbridge to his knees and then to triumphantly seizing on two fallen cortahar's swords.
With a bark of triumph he spun around, blades glittering in both hands. Hawkril charged, smashing one aside with his own warsword and then ducking after it, so Stornbridge's vicious thrust with the second blade stabbed only air.
Hawkril kept on circling, striding around behind the tersept until Stornbridge was forced to wheel around, leaving his back open to Craer.
The procurer promptly sprang onto the tersept's back and perched there, slapping Stornbridge's eyes with his fingers until the frantic noble flung himself over backwards to try to crush Craer on the flagstones.
The procurer leaped nimbly away, landed, and then sprang back, landing with both feet together and as hard as he could on Stornbridge's right wrist.
The tersept screamed as bones crunched audibly and his fingers spasmed open, letting fall one of his borrowed swords. Hawkril stalked forward, his warsword gleaming, but Craer called merrily, "Hey, now! You got to carve up Pheldane, and the lornsar, too, whilst declaiming grand doom- this one's mine!"
His next bound brought him down with crushing force on Stornbridge's other wrist-or rather, on a few fingers, as the tersept twisted desperately away.
Stornbridge screamed again, rolling over, and then found his feet and tried to flee, running desperately along his own battlements in the moonlight.
Craer sighed and pursued, springing once more onto Stornbridge's back. Off-balance, the tersept staggered, still running but trying at the same time to claw the procurer off his back.
Craer reached around and quite deliberately broke Stornbridge's nose.
Snarling, the tersept came to a halt, elbowed Craer free of him, snatched out his own dagger, and slashed wildly.
The procurer grinned, just beyond the reach of Stornbridge's fang-and then sat down suddenly and kicked upwards, slicing the tersept's arm with one of his toe-blades.
Stornbridge howled, staggered-and then stabbed down in a blind, frantic fury, again and again, seeking to bury his steel in the infuriating little man beneath him. Kick after kick thudded against the tersept's armor as Craer twisted, rolled, arched, and spun, always avoiding that dagger. Eventually the tersept lost his balance and staggered back until he fetched up against a merlon.
Panting, he glared at the procurer, gathered himself-and then rushed at Craer once more. The procurer ducked sideways, toward the crenellations, and the snarling tersept whirled to follow, reaching out with his dagger-
His wrist was gripped in one strong hand, and another clamped down on his arm above it, tugging in the direction of his thrust, but also turning… and, with a sob of sudden fear and disbelief, Lord Stornbridge was forced to stab his own armpit.
Moaning in pain, he staggered back along a merlon, and felt the dagger ripped from his fingers.
"Enough sport," the procurer told him quietly. "You've lived quite long enough for a man who hurt my Tshamarra, Stornbridge. Oh, yes-and betrayed Aglirta, too. Die, now, and feed some fishes. You might as well be of some use."
A line of liquid fire seemed to erupt across the tersept's brow. Blinking through his own blood, Stornbridge felt tugs at his armpits as straps were deftly cut. Striking out feebly with his fists, he drove his assailant away, hearing a grunt of pain but also the clang of his own breastplate dangling and clashing against his other armor.
Again the deft slicing, and this time cool air touched Stornbridge's sweating chest. His leathers! The little fox must have-
And then something that was both fire and ice together drove into his chest, and he could no longer breathe, could no longer move, could only sag into the warm, waiting chill…
Craer hooked one boot behind the tersept's knee and hauled on the dagger-hilt like a handle, shoving-and the battlements of Stornbridge Castle were suddenly short one tersept.
From somewhere, Lord Stornbridge found the breath and strength for a dying scream, as the cold waters of the moat rushed up to receive him.
The splash was satisfying. Craer straightened up to trade glances with Hawkril-and their gazes were caught by a sudden tongue of bright flame flaring into the night sky from a nearby hilltop. As they watched, it began to curve, changing from a pillar of raging fire to a fiery serpent, swaying as its head cast about for foes, forked tongue licking forth repeatedly.
"All hail the Great Serpent," a weak voice husked from nearby. The overdukes turned to see the priest Craer had felled earlier lying on his side, with the fire-serpent reflected in his dying eyes. The man swallowed, struggled to speak as blood welled from his mouth, and then managed a single word: "Auncrauthador!"
As the two overdukes traded grim shrugs of foreboding, they felt the prickling of magic, and then the cold weight of hostile regard.
Some Serpent-lover was watching them from afar. Probably from yon hilltop, because now they could also hear-as if borne on a faint wind, but against the breeze sighing over the battlements from behind them, blowing toward the hill-chanting… a hissing chant: Serpent-worship.
Sudden shrieks arose in the castle yard below. Hawkril and Craer looked down, and saw cortahars and Storn folk stabbing each other with blades, clawing each other barehanded, and running wildly here and there.
Two strides took Craer to the dying priest. He slapped the man's face, and those dull eyes flickered. "What's causing this? This butchery and fighting? Hey?"
Bloody lips trembled to shape a last smile, and the priest whispered gloatingly, "Blood Plague. The Blood Plague is come at last."
12
A Surfeit of Plague
Fire leaped up in the night. Flaeros Delcamper stared at it-and then at another tongue of flame, shooting up to scorch the stars some distance away, probably at the next village. He frowned. "T'isn't festival time. What's going on?"
There were only three other paying passengers on the trade barge. One was asleep, but the other two were gawking at the flames just as he was. "What's going on?" he demanded again, but one of them-the trim-bearded Sirl merchant in green-just shook his head in silent bewilderment.
The barge crew had been rowing steadily against the steady flow of the river, keeping the barge to the most placid bankside shallows, but they'd seen the nightfires, too-and their response, without waiting for orders, was to stroke more swiftly.
For a moment the barge moved raggedly, and then settled into a new, faster rhythm. The breeze was quickening, too, and for the first time those afloat heard faint screams and shouts.
Flaeros strode toward the barge captain, sitting on his high perch and staring into the night ahead. Several of the hired Sirl guards moved to block his way, but the captain said a single quiet word and they drew back to allow the bard through.
Master Rold did not halt his ceaseless scanning of the way ahead as Flaeros approached. He'd caught up a double-ended metal spear from somewhere, and was holding it ready across his lap.
Even before the bard could open his mouth to repeat his queston, the master of the Silver Fin gave him a flat stare and said, "I don't know either, sir bard-but I'd much appreciate it if you'd stand quiet and just watch and listen, until I tell you different. Panic aboard makes our tasks no easier. So look sharp for archers or others on the banks who could menace us, and otherwise…"
"Keep my jaw shut?"
The barge captain nodded once, and resumed his steady scanning of the waters ahead and the banks around them.
Flaeros sighed, then said, "Very well. I agree if you'll tell me one thing- full truth, mind. I promise not to share your answer with…" He waved his hand to indicate the other passengers, now pacing nervously as new fires sprang up in the night-strange tall, narrow pillars of flame. The sleeping man had awakened, it seemed, and was going about asking very much the same thing Flaeros had been.
The barge captain watched those askings, sighed, and said flatly, "Ask your one thing, Lord Delcamper."
"Why are we on the water? Silverflow barges don't normally travel by night, and I re
member us tying up and bedding down. When I came awake, there were one or two of these fires and we were under way again. Why?"
The breezes brought them more screaming; the folk doing it sounded terrified. "Is Aglirta at war?"
The barge captain shrugged. "As to war, the shouting and the fires, I know no more than you do. Something's going on, aye, but all I can tell you is that we cut our moorings in fair haste, and left Sabbar dock as fast as we could."
Flaeros cast a look back at the grimly rowing sailors, and saw sweat glistening on them in the reflected firelight. It was a clear night, but more warm than chill, even right on the water. "Why?" he asked again, when it became clear the barge captain was in no hurry to say more.
"Sir bard," the man asked reluctantly, "have you ever seen lions with two heads, that turned into great snakes halfway down their bodies, and slithered along with no rear paws? Or doings like walking spiders as big as mules, but with dozens of snake-heads sprouting from the tops of their bodies?"
"N-no," Flaeros replied. "The lion-things are known to heralds, though, and are called krimazror, or krimazrin in the singular. The desert backlands of Sarinda were once full of them, the tales say."
"Ah. Well. That's very nice. Remind me never to take it into my head to go faring into the deserts of Sarinda."
"Master Rold," Flaeros asked firmly, "are you telling me you've seen such beasts this night? Here, in Aglirta? Real beasts, and not some wizard-spun illusions to drive you off a dock he was keeping open for someone else, say?"
"I saw no wizards," the barge captain replied stolidly, "or at least, no men in robes who waved their arms as they sneered and declaimed, but I did see beasts of both these sorts. Real beasts, Lord Delcamper. They burst onto the docks and bit the heads off some of the crew-and sleeping passengers, too-of the Taratheena, out of Dranmaer. It was tied up next to us, and when a lion-thing looked our way, I yelled at the lads to cut loose and push off into the Silverflow."
They were rounding a great bend in the river, and there were more flames ahead. Flaeros shook his head. "I don't doubt your word, master-but I can scarce believe it."