by Ed Greenwood
"Em!" Hawkril cried, bending toward her with force enough to drag seven horses in her direction. "Are you-?"
"F-fine," his lady told him, managing a wry grin as she rose with dirt all over her forehead and an array of leaves in her hair and sticking to her chin. 'Just… whew. It feels… different from what afflicted us. 'Tis a magic that twists the mind-and its unraveling is beyond me, without time and quiet and the right books and such, to cast the spells I'll need. It seemed almost as if the plague itself can sense, and think, there in his mind…"
"A Serpent-priest, watching us through him?" Tash asked sharply.
"No, not that sort of awareness. Just the plague itself, stirring and flowing. Craer, let him go. He means us no harm-and no, he's not running from anything he remembers, he's just seeking 'away' as strongly as he can cling to the thoughts he has left."
"Can he… give the plague to someone else, by biting or touching them, or…?"
Embra sighed. "I think so, Tash, but I don't know. That's why I wanted us in Glarondar. If the Three smile on us more widely than they've ever been known to do before, we just might find some answers in certain books in the baronial library there."
"Might?" the Lady Talasorn echoed with a smile.
"And how is it," Craer said gently, freeing the man and letting him stumble away, "that you know the contents of a library in Glarond? Not meaning any offense; I'm just ruled by curiosity, that's all."
The Lady Silvertree gave them both a thin smile. "The 'might' is because those books may not still be there. All my knowing of Glarondan libraries is that these particular books were once held by a previous Baron of Glarond. Ambelter wanted my fa-that is, Baron Faerod Silvertree-to send agents to steal them, long ago."
"There've been several Barons of Glarond since then," Hawkril rumbled gently.
"So we mustn't get too hopeful," Craer agreed. "All right: what was or is in those books that you're after now?"
"Castings of, and notes on, some spells associated with the Blood Plague that afflicted Aglirta long ago," Embra replied. "Now please find us a hollow, here in the woods, or some other place the horses can't easily get free from."
The procurer rolled his eyes. "But of course, lady fair," he fluted, flawlessly aping the elaborate gestures of a mincing courtier as he strolled forward. "Might I ask why?"
"You might," the Lady Silvertree agreed, and then chuckled. "I… saw enough inside that farmer to know I must use the Dwaer on us all, as soon as possible. The plague still lurks in us, awaiting future weakness to rage again-and ready, even now, to spread to others we have dealings with."
"Ah. Upon reconsideration," Craer announced solemnly, "I've concluded that I won't ask you why, after all."
"Get thee to a hollow!" Tshamarra snarled, pointing into the woods.
The procurer rolled his eyes again and fled. His return was almost immediate. "There's one just beyond yon stump. Go around to the right a bit, to lead the horses down; there're moss-slick boulders everywhere else. If Hawk and Lord Blackgult shift one of the dead trees down like a bar behind us, the horses'll be penned in. Right where their hooves can do us the greatest harm, might I remind you, if we get them scared. That is why you want a horse-pen, hey?"
"It is," the Lady of Jewels agreed rather grimly, and they descended into the hollow.
"Link to me, Tash," Embra said gently, "and see just how I do this."
"So I can do it to you?" Tshamarra asked softly.
Blackgult looked up sharply at something in her voice, and put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
Embra nodded. "Last, after I purge you. On the ground, all of you men."
Cheek to cheek and hip to hip, the two sorceresses touched the Dwaer to each of their companions in turn. Each man shuddered, stared wide-eyed at nothing, and then convulsed and started to flail and writhe, clawing at the ground in pain. Craer whimpered, but the two larger men growled, loud and long, like angry wolves. The horses snorted and stamped nervously at that, tossing their heads.
"Burning it back," Tshamarra murmured, going reluctantly to her knees and then sinking down into a sitting position.
"Yes," Embra agreed. "No, right down. This'll hurt some."
"No lie?" the last living Talasorn replied sarcastically, giving the nearest horse a doubtful look as she took herself to the ground. Then she bit her lip at the Dwaer-touch, shook, and sobbed, thrashing and arching back and forth. Embra shielded her head from a root, and waited for Tash to recover.
The horses tried to bolt several times, and had taken to milling about the hollow in great haste, neighing frantically and recoiling whenever Embra used the Dwaer to shove them away from a human shuddering on the ground, ere Tshamarra Talasorn drew in a deep, tremulous breath, blinked eyes that were awash with tears, and reached out to clasp Embra's hand.
"I'm… I'm almost ready." She drew in another deep breath, shook her head with a rueful smile, and added, "Yes. I'm ready."
Somewhat unsteadily she found her feet, and with a flourish indicated the ground where she'd been thrashing. Embra smiled, handed her the Dwaer, and laid herself down.
Tshamarra stared at the Dwaer in her hand with a sort of wonder, smiling faintly-and never saw Blackgult's burning eyes on her, as he clawed his way upright on nearby rocks, and drew his dagger.
Like a patient mountain, Hawkril also found his feet, and eyed the horses, wondering if he'd have to charge and wrestle them back to protect Embra or the still-groaning Craer.
Tshamarra drew in a deep breath, threw her head back like a lass preparing to dive deep into a pool, made the Dwaer flame, and plunged her hand down onto Embra's breast.
And the Lady of Jewels screamed.
Loud and long and raw, the throat-stripping shriek of agony set the horses into a thundering gallop away from the two women, at Hawkril's barrier tree.
The scream was promptly answered by a roar of challenge from above, a great thunderous cry that echoed and rolled around the hollow-and made the horses skid to a stop and cower in a trembling heap.
Embra wriDied in heedless pain, but the roar brought Craer back to cursing awareness, lying on his back and staring up at the suddenly darker sky. Something huge and dark was blotting out the sunlight, vast wings spread. Branches splintered and cracked under clutching claws far too large for them to support, trees bent aside and then broke, and with dust-stirring beats of its great bat-wings the nightmare came down to earth, stretching forth its heads to snap down at all the moving meals in the hollow.
Yes, heads: three of them. A dragon or nightwyrm twisted into a three-headed abomination such as had never been seen in Aglirta before. Tshamarra rose out of the fires in Embra's mind blinking in disbelief, the Dwaer forgotten in her hand, as searing, smoking spittle fell like rain, and three scaled necks plunged down at her, great jaws agape!
The Baron of Glarond hadn't been master of Glarondar for very long. Riding its streets was still a thrill, even if folk no longer cheered at the sight of him. It was his, every balcony, spire, and merlon of it. Oh, various of his subjects owned this house and that shop-but if he took a liking to a particular building, a few moments of strenuous stabbing by his guards led to the goods of dead traitors devolving into waiting baronial hands.
Not that he wanted most of the dirty, leaning houses in Glarondar. He was used to grander buildings from his days as a courtier in Flowfoam. The glitter of gold, the sheen of expensive cloth, the cold fire of gems-all of these he was used to seeing, but not actually having.
Not until now.
His castle vaults held a coffer of gems and at least three sacks of gold coins as large as he was, as well as several chests of lesser coins. He'd pawed through them more than once, despite the carefully expressionless scrutiny of the ever present guards-Aw guards, now-and looked forward to acquiring more. Much more. But he hadn't expected this much, so soon.
Like a golden mirror the tray gleamed up at him. He looked down at it, seeing his own bright-eyed reflection peering up at-at sixte
en gleaming new Carraglan zostarrs, their gold as rich as that of the thick, chased-edge tray; nine rubies larger than his thumb; and a gold wristlet that must hold as much metal as fifty zostarrs.
"Beautiful, yes?" the Serpent-priest asked gently. "And all yours, plus rule over half the Vale, if you obey me and not the doomed King in Flowfoam."
The Baron of Glarond looked up, suddenly dry-mouDied. He'd sent his guards away to make this a truly private audience at the priest's request, and now there was no one to shield him against the spells of this man Arthroon-if he was a man, and not some magic-driven shell used by the Great Serpent he claimed to serve.
He licked his lips, and then from somewhere found the strength to ask, "And if I refuse?"
Arthroon's cold eyes did not smile, even if the mouth below them slid easily into a mirthful curve. "Then death will come to Glarondar. The mad death of the Blood Plague, wracking you and all your courtiers with agonies and gnawing at your minds!"
The baron looked again at the gleaming tray, and then back up at the smiling Serpent-priest, and said carefully, "I've heard of this Malady, yes. Yet Glarondar has been spared the plague thus far, despite busy Vale merchant traffic, and my advisors assure me that spells laid on this town centuries ago by the mage Laerlor keep such perils at bay, and will continue to do so." He tried a smile at the priest, though he could not-quite-keep his eyes from straying to the tray of riches again.
Belgur Arthroon's own smile widened. "Good Baron," he said gently, "Laerlor's spells were broken seventy years ago, by the archmage Golkuth of Sirlptar-better known today as the Skull That Does Not Sleep. Know this truth: everyone in Glarondar is infected, including you! All that prevents the plague rending you, right now, is this!"
The priest's right hand shot forth from his left sleeve, cradling a rounded, mottled stone-a stone that was glowing a flickering, pulsing white, and hovering a finger-thickness above Arthroon's palm.
The Baron of Glarond was not a learned man, but courtiers heard much-and even a fool could have felt the raw power pulsing from the stone. This was one of the fabled Dwaerindim, the War Stones… the Stones of Power!
Sensibly, he fainted.
Belgur Arthroon's lip curled. So this was what ruled baronies in Aglirta, these days. It was more than time for it all to be swept away, in the rightful rise of the Great Serpent.
He bent his will to the Stone, and used its fire to lash Glarond.
The slumped man trembled, hands opening and closing, and then swayed upright in his seat again, wild-eyed. He started to scream, but Arthroon choked it off into a strangled, bubbling whistle, and forced the man to slap himself.
The baron's head reeled, the eyes trapped and wild. Arthroon smiled grimly into them and made Glarond slap himself again.
And again. Then he forced the man to rise from his chair. Limbs twitching and jerking like a clockwork Carraglan automaton, Glarond fell over twice, but the priest forced him to his feet again, stumbling and swaying.
"Thank me for my generous gift," Arthroon commanded, pointing at the tray and letting slip his control over the baron's head.
Glarond burst into tears, but managed to stammer thanks through the flood of sobbing terror.
"Silence," Arthroon snapped, not bothering to hide his disgust-and used the Stone's magic to force the despairing noble's obedience.
"Now, come!" he added, rising from his own chair with an angry swirl of serpent-adorned robes. "We've much to do!"
"Craer!" Hawkril roared, as gaping jaws came down at him like the descending roof of a cottage. "Throw your fangs at its eyes!"
"I'm not an idiot, Tall Post," the procurer replied, reeling to his feet and snatching at hilts here and there about himself. "So have some like advice: Hit it with your sword! Use the sharp edge!"
"Shield-spell, Tshamarra!" Blackgult snapped, running toward her. "Use the Dwaer!"
The Lady Talasorn hadn't stopped to think or to weave magics. Aghast, she'd simply lashed out with the fire still roiling around her mind-and the Dwaer spat forth flame.
One of the dragon's jaws filled with bright fire, roiling flames that spat and curled around its great fangs. Shuddering, that neck spasmed and snatched its head away, leaving just two-one closing around Hawkril with a vicious snap, and the other turning to engulf horses.
Belatedly, Tshamarra tried to spin a shield, using the Dwaer to power what she remembered of such spells.
The result was a failure of whirling sparks, but it struck the descending snout like a great unseen fist, driving fangs aside from the terrified horses.
And then Blackgult was there, large and solid, slapping his hand to the Dwaer beside her own. His mind was like a great sharp sword, dark and knowing, torn and yet storm-strong.
Rouse Embra, he commanded. Use this, thus. He showed her bright threads within the Dwaer's unfolding power, and then his attention whirled away from her, back to the dragon above them.
It had drawn in its wings, arching its burned head in pain, but was breaking trees down and aside with its great claws, settling down over the hollow like a ceiling.
"What eyes, Hawk?" Craer complained, springing from rock to rock like a mad jester, trying to reach the lip of the hollow. "There's this big scaled body in the way! Hawk? Hawk? Hawk?
Only one side of the hollow was free of covering dragon now, and down through that remaining sliver of sky one head quested for prey, snapping wildly. Blackgult struck at it with unseen, slashing edges of Dwaer-force, short-lived whelmings that shouldn't rob Tshamarra of too much of the power she needed to finish Embra's healing and drag her back to wakefulness.
The burning dragon-head was thrashing somewhere up out of sight, but the third head hung over the hollow, closed and quivering-and Blackgult saw the point of Hawkril's warsword protruding from it, dark with glistening gore.
The armaragor had wedged his blade across the jaws to keep from being crushed, and the dragon had bitten down on it anyway. Blackgult could see an armored arm stabbing and hacking behind the not-quite-closed teeth-Hawkril was still alive and had his dagger out.
"Cut its tongue!" he roared. "Hawk, cut its tongue!"
There, the pain would be greatest, and the beast should try to spit the armaragor out, if only to bite him the better…
Craer snarled in satisfaction as his third hurled dagger slashed across an eyeball before spinning away. The dragon screamed.
Heads ringing from the din, Blackgult and Tshamarra wrestled with the Dwaer, the Golden Griffon spinning a shield of shimmering force to fend off dragon jaws, and the Lady Talasorn to get Embra back… "to join this mad mayhem," she gasped aloud, ruefully, watching the head that held Hawkril shaking violently, and the burned head swoop down again, trailing smoke, while Craer capered about, hurling daggers in an enthusiastic and largely futile flurry.
Where by all the Three had this beast come from, anyway? It was obviously no spell-spun illusion, but… Serpent-magic? The wilds north of the Silverflow headwaters went on for unmapped miles, rugged ridges of forests split by rushing rivers and lakes beyond number, enough to hold a dozen realms and dragons to spare, but nothing like this had ever been-
"Where's Hawkril?" a quiet voice asked, from beside her waist. Tshamarra looked down, and drew in a deep breath of relief. Embra was awake and seemingly whole once more.
"Inside yon head, fighting," the Lady Talasorn told her, pointing.
Embra shivered, and then said briskly, "Father, unhand the Dwaer. I need it all." Wordlessly Blackgult complied, and they watched the shimmering of his shield dart under the head. The dragon was still shaking it violently, rather as a dog frees itself of water.
That shimmering flared into brief brightness, broke into two, and one half soared up to slice at the dragon's neck like an ax blade.
Gore sprayed, scales flew, the dragon roared-and its jaws sprang open. Hawkril tumbled out, still hacking as he went, and fell onto the waiting first part of the shield. Embra lowered him swiftly away from the wildly thrashing head-and
used her improvised ax of force to strike aside the burned head, which had nosed perilously close to the descending armaragor.
"A vicious beast," she murmured, as they watched Craer scamper along the lip of the hollow, easily evading snapping bites of the third head, "but clumsy. Almost as if it doesn't know how to fight-or even use its jaws with any precision. And there's no way it could have fed all that bulk to grow this large and not be an expert with those fangs, if its mind is its own."
"Or if it's been a dragon for very long," Blackgult commented.
Embra shot him a glance. "That's so, Father!" Then she looked at Tshamarra. "My thanks for bringing me back. For now, at least, I'm free of the plague."
The Lady Talasorn managed a pale smile. "I thought the Dwaer made magic so easy. I know better now. Lady, I salute you."
Embra smiled wryly. "Hah! You think I know what I'm doing with this? I just wish we weren't always fighting, so I could explore the implications of half the unleashings I do. What if using the Dwaer harms Darsar in some way we don't even know about?"
"Later, Daughter," Blackgult said firmly. "There's this three-headed dragon, remember?"
Hawkril stumbled onto the rocks rising to the lip of the hollow, climbing to join Craer. Embra whisked the shield that had carried him back up into the fray, jabbing it into another neck.
The dragon recoiled, snatching its third head well away from Craer. Eyes narrowing, Embra struck it again with both shimmering shield-wedges. The dragon reared up, letting light back into the hollow and causing a fresh frantic turmoil among the trapped horses.
"Not a dragon long," Tshamarra murmured. "Could it be the Dragon, sent by the gods and destined to oppose the Serpent? And if it's come again, is the Serpent itself risen again, too? Can we spend our lives slaying that snake and never truly kill it?"
The Lady Silvertree shook her head. "This is neither that dragon nor a real dragon at all, I'm thinking. As for the Great Serpent, we can probably never slay it. There'll always be both Serpent and Dragon, but their power comes from the awe or fear or worship folk give them. Shatter the priesthood, and reduce fear of the Serpent to old tales, and the real Serpent won't be more than a big beast."