by Ed Greenwood
"Like this?" Tshamarra asked, waving at the rearing three-headed monster, now snapping furiously if gingerly at Embra's tormenting force-arrows. "I'd say this sort of big beast could destroy any Vale town, or even Sirlptar, if it got going!"
"Not this big," Embra snapped tensely. "Get down!"
From its great height the three-headed nightmare had done what she'd feared it might: surged forward in a clumsy pounce, trying to bring down and crush the flying things that were wounding it with its great bulk.
Hawkril and Craer dived away from the hollow, into the trees, and Embra's outflung arm sent the Lady Talasorn over backwards onto her shapely behind and whirling away, head over heels, down a muddy, leaf-cloaked slope into the wider forest.
She had a brief, confused glimpse of the Dwaer flaring into eye-searing brightness, trees toppling, a dragon-head-Gods, 'tis as big as a small castle!- striking at someone-Blackgult?-off to her right, and then the dragon screamed again, and all other sounds were swept away…
Her left arm hurt. She was lying on it, twisted into a huddled tangle around three leaning tree trunks, and someone was whispering anxiously, "Tash? Tash? Are you-?"
"Alive?" she replied, finding her mouth full of blood. "I'm not sure."
Craer's hand stroked her cheek tenderly. She reached up to hold his fingers and keep them there, leaning into his soothing touch with a contented murmur.
"What happened, lord of my heart?"
"Well, l-what did you call me?'
His voice was so swift with excitement that Tshamarra Talasorn felt a thrill of power. "Well," she purred, "lord of my bed, anyway."
He did not-quite-sigh, but the Lady Talasorn heard his disappointment, even over the faint rumble of Hawkril standing some way off, commenting in low tones, "There was a time when the bed would have been all you cared about, Longfingers."
Craer made no reply to that. Instead, he bent closer to Tshamarra and asked, "Can you move? Should I try to lift you? The battle's over."
"One of them, anyway," she said wryly. "I-Lift me. I seem to be wedged…"
As her knee was turned, she gasped in pain, and Craer snapped, "Embra, get over here!"
"Not yet, Craer," the Lady of Jewels snapped back. 'Just hold her still- I'm busy."
"Graul and bebolt," Hawkril gasped. "How deep-?"
"I'll live," Blackgult said shortly, his voice tight with pain. "Get the beast dead first."
" 'Tis dead, or dying, Father," Embra replied. "See? It dwindles."
"Turn me," Tshamarra hissed to Craer. "I have to see."
The procurer's hands were tender, and therefore slow, but the Lady Talasorn was turned back to face the hollow in time to see the scaled, three-necked lump subside to the size of a cow-and a row of broken-off teeth, just the tips of dragonfangs-melt at the same rate from the punctured and battered breastplate of the Golden Griffon.
Hawkril was holding Blackgult up, though Embra's father was bent over and shaking with pain.
"Ribs, at the very least," the armaragor told his lady. "He's fading."
"Craer!" Embra snapped, without looking, as she strode toward Blackgult with the Dwaer flickering in her hand. Was its radiance more feeble? "Help Hawk. Get him lying down, gently!"
"A moment more," Blackgult gasped, holding up a staying hand. "Look!"
Such was the snap of command in that last word that the overdukes all turned to gaze at the same thing: the great three-headed dragon melting back into the dirty, much-hacked body of a man, lying sprawled on the lip of the hollow with a look of staring horror frozen forever on his face.
"The plague-magic," Embra said bitterly.
Blackgult nodded. "Some regain their proper shapes," he growled, trembling in Hawkril's hands. "Others do not."
He swayed, and even as Craer let Tshamarra fall back against a tree and sprang toward the man who'd once been his master, Blackgult groaned, bent double, and spewed forth blood of a hue none of them had ever thought to see out of a man. His head shifted horribly, sliding into a longer shape, a snout with teeth that became fangs before their horrified eyes, armor sliding askew as the flesh beneath it shifted and sank, becoming-
"Tash! To me!" Embra cried, the Dwaer flaming. "He'll try to use the Stone-he's reaching far it!"
Hawkril flung himself forward into a roll that mashed Blackgult's growing, reaching tentacle to the ground, pinning it among rocks and wet leaf-loam. Tshamarra Talasorn clambered up the tree she'd been leaning against, took two running steps, and collapsed with a scream of pain-and Craer plucked her up, staggering, and ran on, carrying her clumsily to where the Lady Silvertree was beginning to slowly walk in their direction, her eyes and concentration never leaving the man who'd sired her.
The Dwaer flared as she came, and Blackgult threw back his head and roared in pain as a sudden glow of magic washed over him. His armor fell away with a clatter, baring the scaled shoulders beneath. Bones wriDied beneath that hide as new limbs burst forth, grew barbs, and expanded, reaching out… and out…
Hawkril wresded with the tentacle beneath him, struggled to his feet, and lumbered toward Blackgult-as Embra hissed another spell that sent sparks racing over her father and banished his scales.
Craer fell heavily, pitching Tshamarra to the ground. She crawled over his fallen form and on, clawing her way across the forest. "I'm coming, Embra!" she cried-and caught her breath in horror as a tentacle raced toward her, sliding through the long-fallen leaves like a black, wet tongue.
"Craer!" she called-and her man groaned to his feet behind her, plucked her up by the hips, and staggered toward the Lady Silvertree, who was now enshrouded by the whirling radiance of another spell she was weaving.
As Embra's magic grew in brightness and started to blaze ruby-red, Blackgult roared in fresh agony, and grew many eyes. Grotesque and glistening, they sprouted all over him, of varying sizes but all staring in beseeching pain. The body sporting them slumped, turned a muddy hue, and many sucking mouths or holes opened in it, to the accompaniment of horrible wet sounds.
Embra hurled her spell a scant moment before Craer fell again and sent Tshamarra crashing into her, and as the two sorceresses rolled and tumbled together, the Dwaer spinning up out of Embra's grasp, the thing Blackgult had become roared in triumph or hopefulness, and surged forward like a beached seatusk, seeking to reach the glowing, hovering Stone.
Hawkril struck him, shoulder to monstrous bulk, and they crashed together in a shuddering tangle that sent Blackgult struggling through a nightmarish succession of forms. Jaws appeared, snapped, flowed, and were gone, eyes rose and fell atop tentacles and heads and dorsal ridges, tentacles and claws and talons sprouted and melted back into the ever-flowing flesh-and Craer flung himself into the heart of the amorphous body, both boots first.
The thing that had been Blackgult shuddered and wailed, a high and horrible wet fluting cry that sent its many jaws falling open and tentacled limbs collapsing back into shapelessness, and fell back.
It was still thrashing and roiling on the ground when two frantic hands closed together around the glowing Stone. Two pairs of blazing eyes met, and then turned with one accord to gaze at the ever-changing monster. Mouths murmured incantations in unison, hands shaped spells, and the Dwaer sang.
Radiance after rushing radiance burst over Blackgult and settled, and under their sway the slithering of shapes slowed and then halted, until it seemed like a puddle of flesh lay on the forest floor.
Flesh that slowly became pinkish again, and hairy, as it dwindled. The sorceresses went right on murmuring spells, advancing in careful unison as Hawkril and Craer drew warily back, until they knelt an arm's reach from the quivering flesh.
Slowly Embra extended her hand, the Dwaer in it, out and down to the pool of flesh… as if offering it. The incantations continued unbroken as the Stone spun very slowly in a grasp that gave it no such encouragement.
As the armaragor and procurer watched with wary eyes and half-drawn blades, the flesh seemed to shudder, and the
n bulge upward toward the Dwaer. Like an eyeless worm it rose, wriggling, and grew fingers, thinning itself into a human hand… and reaching forth to touch the Dwaer.
The Stone flashed, the pool of flesh seemed to shiver and clench into a wild, whirling variety of shapes… and then the hand led down into an arm, attached to a body with a familiar face… and Ezendor Blackgult was blinking at them, eyes like two coals in a shaking, sweat-drenched body that was his own. Human once more, he groaned, bent his head as the tears came, and collapsed onto his face, exhausted.
"Get up," Craer snapped, picking up the nearest piece of Blackgult's armor and tapping the sprawled, naked man with an air of disgust. "I don't see why you're weary-I'm the one who's been doing all the work!"
14
Riding Through Blood
Sparks raced around her, riding a surging power that left Maelra Bowdragon awed. Rushing magic swept her into its coils, whirling away the dark and narrow storeroom of magics that Uncle Multhas had always thought was his own little secret, in a torrent of air and crackling lightning that left her breathless.
When the chaos fell away, Maelra became aware that she was no longer crouching in the gloom of that hidden Bowdragon storeroom. She was somewhere dim that smelled of damp earth, somewhere she'd never stood before-but that was, yes, familiar. A place she'd visited as a sending: the abode of the Spellmaster of Aglirta… and there he was, standing in the shadows watching her.
Shivering with excitement, Maelra met the cold and knowing eyes of Ingryl Ambelter. She'd seen such soft smiles from men before-smiles that lingered on the sleek curves of her body, but always fled when they learned her heritage. She'd never seen one surmounted by such a deadly gaze, though.
Swallowing, she held out her armful of enchanted Bowdragon things- the mirrors and coffers and daggers she'd obediently stolen for this man a moment ago. One slid in her cradling grasp, and she shifted her arms hastily to avoid dropping it. This was real. She was truly here, somewhere underground near the river in Aglirta, far from home… and two short strides away from more power than she'd ever felt before. Her skin crawled at its awakened, pulsing presence.
"Come," the Spellmaster said with that same softly dangerous smile, holding out a beckoning hand and cradling the glowing Dwaer-Stone with the other. "There's much to do."
"Ah, aren't you going to… uh, yes. Of course," Maelra replied, hearing the faint scrape of a booted foot on stone behind her, and casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
Baron Phelinndar stood regarding her calmly, his armor gleaming and his sword raised-poised to plunge into her back! Yet already he was lowering it, and a Dwaer-Stone was glowing in his other hand.
Maelra whirled back to face Ambelter, to see if these men really possessed two Dwaerindim-but the Spellmaster's hand was now empty. Trying to keep her face expressionless but knowing Ambelter had seen her eyes narrow, she swallowed again and said, "Yes, we've much to do."
"My father and all of our horses are just fine,' Embra said sharply. "Or so the Dwaer showed me, Craer-and believe me, it lets you feel as well as see."
The procurer held up a hand. "Pillory me not, Lady; I was merely pointing out that our mounts all appear… ah, restive."
Tshamarra sighed. "Well, wouldn't you be, Craer, if you were a horse?" She waved one slim hand. "Look around us!"
The choice view of Glarond they were enjoying at that moment included at least six clusters of carrion-crows, vultures, and worse. What was left of a corpse presumably lay at the heart of each squawking, pecking group-and more than one plume of smoke was rising from distant barns and farmhouses. The cottage nearest to them had already been burnt out, and now stood blackened, roofless, and deserted. Livestock wandered aimlessly, bawling their displeasure and loneliness from time to time-except when arrows whistling from stands of trees brought them thunderously down, and men raced out to hack at the twitching corpses, cut off legs or large hunks of rump and ribs, and hurried back to the trees again.
The only other living humans the overdukes had seen since leaving the forest had fled from them in terrified disarray, but the five had already learned to keep well away from woodlots and thickets. Evidendy the good folk of Glarond were not too witless with fear to aim bows, and not too ammunition-poor to stint on loosing arrows at five mounted strangers.
Arrows hissed out of some trees now, arcing high into the air to thump and thud into the ditch, well short of overduchal horses-or torsos. "Are we this close to brigandry in Aglirta?" Craer snarled in disgust, turning in his saddle to glare at the dark stand of trees the shafts had come from.
"Evidently," Embra sighed. "Remember, Craer, it takes three generations of relative peace and order for folk to trust in kings and laws and such… and yon folk have seen barons change with the passing seasons, armies on the march, lawless magic hurled hither and thither, ceaseless talk of new rule in Flowfoam, Serpent-priests whispering in their ears every bebolten year-and now a madness and beast-curse that no one defends them against or tells them truth about. Be glad they've got bows and the wits left to use them!"
"Gah!" the procurer snapped, spurring his mount away. "You speak truth, I know, but I don't have to like it!"
Tshamarra rolled her eyes and called, "Rein in, Lord Idiot! When the next three-headed dragon comes, I want you right here at my side, so you can die with the rest of us!"
Craer shot her a disgusted look back over his shoulder-and reined in.
Embra gave Tshamarra a much more respectful glance, and murmured, "Impressive."
Whatever reply the Lady Talasorn may have been planning to make was lost forever in a sudden scream from the trees to her left. She turned to look, lifting her shield as swiftly as any warrior now, and beheld… more striding-to-nowhere folk in torn and soiled garb. These Aglirtans were quiet as they walked, but their shudderings and wild stares betrayed plague-madness.
"Don't be letting anyone bite you, I'm thinking," Craer said grimly, half-drawing his sword.
"Let's just keep riding," Hawkril growled. "There's nothing we can do for this many folk-except find the Serpent-priests and put a stop to their plague-spreading."
"While there's someone left alive in Aglirta, you mean?" Craer asked bitterly, his hand still on his sword.
They urged their horses to a faster pace, and the snorting beasts seemed eager to comply; firm hands on the reins were required to slow them from a gallop. More wandering humans shrank away at their approach-save for one man, more oblivious than the rest, who kept plunging into convulsions, rising again to walk normally, and then sinking down into spasms again. As the overdukes rode up, they saw him fail to straighten from his latest writhing, as hair-beast hair-suddenly sprouted on his body.
Craer hissed in disgust and drew his sword, but Embra snapped, "Craer, stop! I need this one captured. Hawk?"
"Arrow to your bow, Lady," he rumbled, spurring forward.
"What means he?" Tshamarra asked quickly. "I've heard those words before."
"Oh. Old lovers' saying of the Vale," Embra replied absently, her eyes on Craer turning to spring from the saddle on one side of the man, and Blackgult racing smoothly past to snatch the reins of the procurer's mount, while Hawkril reined in on the other side of the now-crouching, snarling man. "From an old ballad: 'Lady, I'll be the arrow to your bow/Command me lifelong, in all things'… and so on."
"Oh," the Lady Talasorn replied, almost wistfully.
Embra shot her a curious glance, and then looked swiftly around in all directions to make sure no one-and no thing-was getting ready to attack or pounce. Aside from obedient male overdukes, that is.
The man looked like a wolf, now, his transformation into beast-shape almost complete. And when he lowered his head and snarled thrreateningly at Hawkril, Craer deftly looped cord-a line he'd been carrying wrapped around his waist, belt-fashion-around the man's legs.
The man-wolf whirled around with a roar, snapping-and Craer shoved his sword broadside-on into its jaws, just as Hawkril caught it by the
neck with both hands, straddled its back, and sat on it. The transformed man squirmed and thrashed. But Craer wound his line around all of his paws and then his snout, pulling the cord tight, and Hawkril kept him pinned… and it was clear that as long as they kept their positions, the man-wolf wasn't going anywhere.
"Nicely captured," Blackgult said, holding a snorting horse with either hand. He looked at Embra. "Want to practice, I presume?"
"Precisely." The Lady Silvertree held up the Dwaer, and said to Tshamarra, "I want you to ride my mind as I try this."
As the Talasorn sorceress nodded, Embra turned her head. "If it works, and we see another wolf, we'll try it again as you join me, Father. We have to know how to purge the plague, and practice doing it, until forcing folk back to their own shapes isn't a battle against the Dwaer but something we can do readily."
The plague in their captive was subtly different from the last one they'd felt in their own bodies… but having seen the man before he was forced out of his own shape helped, the two sorceresses discovered. Their memories of his proper self gave them something to move him toward as the Stone in their shared grasp forced the man-wolf through a dozen or so transformations. The Malady seemed to be watching them, shifting to minimize their success but having no place to hide, and eventually being driven down to… nothing.
When he was himself again, the plague-magic broken, the man stared at them in haggard, unshaven horror-and fainted.
Craer caught him by the simple tactic of being under the man as he collapsed. "Well," he snapped, wrestling the man into a sitting position, " 'tis a quieter thanks than some you've received."
Embra gave him a wry smile. "The next wolf we see, we must try this again, to see how we fare without knowing the proper human form we're trying to restore."
Craer rolled his eyes. "Exactly how many wolves am I going to have to cuddle for you?"