The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  17

  An Array of Grim Faces

  Darkness shimmered, gave birth to swirling glows, and then silently replaced them with a dark-eyed young lass in armor. Maelra Bowdragon looked around herself in wary awe, smelling cold, dank stone, old dust, and something more-a reek of death, or perhaps recent fear. This part of the cellars of Flowfoam Castle looked shattered: a webwork of cracks, not all of them small, wandered across the walls, floor, and ceiling. Yet silence reigned, the air was stale, and dust lay thick and undisturbed.

  I'm here, she thought. No one seems near. 'Tis very dark.

  "Your armor," a thin, cold voice erupted from the steel curving over her breast, startling Maelra for one shivering moment, "allows you to see where there's no light. Concentrate on remembered brightness-sunlight or fire or lamp glow."

  Maelra did so, and the gloom seemed to roll back before her eyes, though her surroundings grew no brighter. She could now see that she stood in a stone-lined alcove off a passage, only paces from a round, waist-high wall that was probably a well-or had once been, for it was now cracked, and no odor of water or cool breeze came to her.

  I can see, she announced silently. There's a well.

  "Good," the Spellmaster's voice said, almost smugly. "Go out into the passage and turn left. The passage will turn right shortly. Follow it, around its next bend-to the left, soon after the first. Stop and tell me when you reach the third bend."

  I proceed, Maelra reported calmly, and did as directed, hearing only the faint scrape of her boots on the dusty stones. The cellars seemed deserted and lifeless, but when she reached that third bend, and saw a door in the wall to her right and the passage turning away from it to her left, there was a high, faint singing in the air. She stepped back from the bend, and it faded, but returned as she advanced again. She reported this, and Ingryl's reply sounded approving.

  "That's a ward. You must be very careful. The Serpent himself prowled the cellars since my departure, undoing some spells and drinking others. Most will have returned, over time, for I doubt he took the time or trouble to break them properly. Therefore, much remains that can slay or entrap you if you fail to heed my instructions precisely. Do you understand?"

  Oh, yes, Maelra thought, and if he felt the faint sarcasm that seeped into that sending, Ambelter gave no sign of it.

  "Don't step forward. Kneel where you are, and pass either bracer you wear over all the flagstones around you, one stone at a time-close to the stones, but taking care not to touch them. Note which ones glow, and what symbols appear on them."

  Maelra did so, and reported back what she found. The Spellmaster's voice, when it came again, sounded irritated. "Someone has wrought changes. Step forward only onto the flagstone that did not glow. Then explore the stones around it with your bracers again."

  Again Maelra did as she was bid. This time, two stones-also to the right-failed to glow, and Ambelter directed her to them. Repeating this process once more brought her to the threshold of the closed, unmarked stone door.

  "Undo the neck-strap of your breastplate, and let it fall forward into your hand. Let it touch no stone, nor fall to the floor." When Maelra did so, finding the air very cool on her skin-a surprising amount of sweat had built up under the metal-a glowing line of light slowly appeared on it, curving as she watched into the shape of something that resembled a triple fishhook. "You see the rune?"

  Yes, Spellmaster, Maelra replied, managing to keep the tremble of rising excitement out of her mind-voice, if not completely out of her hands. The breastplate shook in her grasp.

  "Good. Hold the plate with your right hand so it doesn't touch the door, and use one finger-it matters not which, but only one-of your left hand to trace that rune on the door. Touch the door only as part of the rune-tracing, and pull your hand back when you're done. The door will glow where you touch it."

  It did, and when Maelra completed the rune, the singing in the air around her abruptly ceased. Then, with no more sound than a whisper, the door opened by itself, gliding inward.

  "Don't step into the room yet," the Spellmaster said sharply. "Touch the doorframe and say this word: 'Narathma.'"

  Maelra did so. The stone doorframe briefly awakened to a cold blue glow, and then faded into darkness again. She tried to use that light to peer into the room beyond, but gained only the impression of a fairly small chamber with a stone ceiling about the same height as the one above her in the passage.

  "Now bend down-don't let the breastplate touch stone-and pass one of your bracers over the threshold and as much of the floor within as you can easily reach."

  No glows, Maelra reported, doing so.

  "Step into the room, and then stop. Touch nothing, including the door and the doorframe. Look around-with your eyes only-and tell me what you see."

  Sagging shelves, stones fallen from the ceiling, smashed and opened coffers on the shelves, a few books whose pages look to have melted away, some empty niches cut into the wall-and a trestle table with an open casket in it. I can see bones, within.

  "Approach the casket, but step back at once if you hear a singing or see a glow."

  No such, Spellmaster. I'm beside the casket. There's a human skeleton in it, a few bones crumbled away, but largely intact. Not disarranged. There's a sort of wooden frame built over them, inside the casket.

  "Good. Are you afraid of bones?"

  These are just bones.

  "Pass a bracer over the casket-do any of them move? Any glows? Are the eyesockets of the skull still dark?"

  All is dark and still.

  "Good. Step back from the casket and strip off all your armor. Get bare-take off everything."

  Wondering privately what stripping, here in the dusty, chill darkness, had to do with "bringing back" these or any bones, Maelra did so. As she did off the last piece of armor, darkness returned in a rush, leaving her blind.

  Spellmaster, I'm bare-but I can no longer see.

  " 'Tis of no matter. You know where the casket lies? You can find it without blundering into it? Do so."

  Done.

  "Climb up onto that frame, and lie there, facedown. Try to avoid putting your hands and feet down among the bones."

  Maelra started to do so-and then froze, teetering on the brink of falling back into the darkness. Ambelter, the bones are glowing!

  "So they will. Have no fear. I myself have done what you are doing, without any harm at all. Get onto that frame."

  Swallowing in the darkness-how could one at once be so cold and yet sweating so fiercely that one's skin was slick?-the young Bowdragon sorceress did so, tingling with excitement as she lowered herself onto the latticework of cold, dusty boards. The fell glow from the skeleton beneath her was bright enough to light up the room around her now… and as she steadied herself just above it, though its eyesockets remained empty and dark, it seemed to be looking at her. Maelra swallowed again, the frame creaking as sweat rolled down her nose and she hurriedly swiped it away to avoid letting it fall onto the bones beneath.

  Done, Spellmaster.

  "You'll have noticed that the frame keeps you from crushing the bones, but allows you to reach them. They're the remains of Gadaster Mulkyn, once a mighty mage, and you must not pull one bone apart from another. To have the power to slay the King and hurl aside his guards and courtiers, you must do as I say: Reach down with both of your arms, and your mouth, and embrace the bones as if they were a living man and he your lover."

  Maelra lay above the skeleton, staring down into its dark and empty gaze and eternal grin, and wondered what would truly happen when she touched it. What was Ambelter keeping from her?

  "Be not afraid, lass! You'll feel power passing into you, naught else. Maelra Bowdragon, I command you-"

  My, but the Spellmaster suddenly seemed more fearful than she did! With a shrug and a smile, Maelra Bowdragon reached down and embraced the unknown.

  Pbwer! Magic more than she'd ever felt before slammed into her, so sudden and clear and cold that Maelra arched
up and back from it, shrieking soundlessly at the ceiling at the same time as she unthinkingly kicked at the frame, seeking to grind her pelvis down into the heart of what was flowing into her.

  The skeleton shot bolt upright, passing like a ghost through the boards, and suddenly was embracing her, cold bones sliding hard and smooth over her trembling flesh, grinning right into her face with eyes that had kindled into two arctic stars floating in darkness, dry bony jaws parting as if to bite or kiss her… and then, just as she sought to try to shove it away and scream and struggle, the bones softly sighed into dust, and a wall of ruby fury rolled into Maelra's head. A voice that left her quivering in cowering silence in a small corner of her own mind announced gloatingly: HELLO, RASH YOUNGLING. I AM GADASTER MULKYN, AND THIS BODY WILL DO JUST FINE.

  In a cavern where many men with melted faces stood silently, staring at nothing, Ingryl Ambelter gasped in horror as his mind-spying was severed as if by the slice of a knife. Gadaster was aware, and as powerful as if Ingryl Ambelter had never slain or bound or spell-drained him! He'd poured himself into the young wench, now, and-

  "Claws of the Dark One," the Spellmaster gasped, hands shaking, and then mastered trembling fingers enough to shape a quick, imperious gesture with one hand, his Dwaer flaring into full life in the other. The armor was his only hope! If Gadaster was dust and this Maelra's body now his, he could be slain!

  The body that had been Maelra Bowdragon knelt upright in the casket, head almost scraping the ceiling, and murmured two words she'd never known before. Then, quite suddenly, she was gone and something changed, all over the walls-scant instants before the discarded pieces of armor on the floor glowed with Dwaer-light and then burst with a violent roar, shredding the casket and shelves and everything else in the chamber in a frantic whirlwind of shrapnel that shrieked and rang off floor, ceiling, and walls with force enough to shatter stone blocks and send many deadly shards slicing down into the slow, drifting dust.

  The cellars of Flowfoam shook briefly around the shattered, long-hidden room, and then, slowly, grew still once more.

  Ingryl Ambelter muttered anxious words over his Dwaer, and peered into the roiling whirlwind. Did he dare send light to follow his farscrying?

  He dared not fail to do so.

  He must know if this oldest, yet most unlooked for peril had been destroyed at its birthing… or was coming for him, even now…?

  He must know, must see what had befallen in the chamber where he'd kept his most secret and darkest magics for so long…

  With both hands clutching his Dwaer in a clawlike grasp, Ingryl Ambelter stared into it, trying to wrap its power around him in a shield, and gazed through it at-ruin. Coffers, shelves, and casket were all but small and twisted shards among the dust. Nothing was left. The glow of fresh magic hung in the air, reverberating in waves of silent brightness… a violent casting, just before his own… and there was another enchantment crawling all over the walls. Crawling and dripping from the ceiling… blood. The walls were adrip with blood!

  His eyes narrowed. A splendid wench, to be sure, tallish and yet supple, but-so much blood in her? And not a single hair, of all that long mane of hers, left behind?

  A ruse, or so he must assume. Knowing his old master, it could very well be.

  In a sudden pale, shaking fury, Ingryl slammed a spell into his Dwaer that would sever his scrying and slap down anyone trying to ride the spell-link to him.

  Sweating, he sagged back into his chair and whispered, "Horns and kisses of the Great Lady, sap-spitde of the Forefather… bebolten dung-slung talons of the Dark One!" Staring unseeing at the Melted who stood in what was left of the armor he'd stripped from them, looking unseeingly back at him, the Spellmaster went on swearing.

  It lasted a long time, but the Baron Phelinndar waited until Ambelter's curses died away into half-heard hisses before he said grimly, "I told you, wizard, that this was a fool's plan from the start. Your towering arrogance always gets us-"

  "Be still or be dead!" Ingryl Ambelter snarled, plucking up the Dwaer as if to hurl it into Phelinndar's face.

  Then he halted, and the two men sat in the cavern staring across a table at each other in hard-breathing silence, rage and fear warring in both their gazes.

  The Dwaer-glow faded and left them looking at the beautiful lawns and gardens of Flowfoam-and two low, grassy mounds right in front of them.

  Hawkril and Blackgult looked down at the graves of Sarasper and Brightpennant, but Embra's head snapped around to give Craer a questioning look. The procurer peeked into the saddlebag clutched in his hands, and announced, "Still there. The Dwaer looks whole-and dark."

  Embra nodded, and said merely, "The cells."

  They hurried into the palace, the grim glow of the Stone Embra held all the warrant they needed to make guards hasten aside at their approach, and descended into darkness.

  Both swords and the Dwaer were held ready as a certain door scraped open-but in the damp, dark chamber beyond, a certain sorcerer still hung chained to the wall.

  "How much have you seen?" Embra asked softly, without greeting. "Enough to keep your sanity, I trust?"

  The Master of Bats laughed bitterly. "Many say I lost that years ago-just as you did, little darling of jewels, under your father's hands and his mages' teachings. His kisses were sweet, I trust?"

  Embra's lips tightened. "You heard my first question?"

  The sorcerer gave her a glare. "Of course I've been watching," he said mockingly. "What else is there for me to do? All folk of Aglirta should see their overdukes at work, and marvel thereby. I thank you for the entertainment."

  Craer bowed with full court flourishes, but Blackgult said grimly, "Make us tire overmuch of bandying words with you, Huldaerus, and we'll simply slay you. Aglirta already has more unscrupulous mages than it can hold; we don't need you."

  "Ah, but you do," the chained wizard replied. "Who else has the leisure"-he rattled his chains-"to watch what's happening, and see all? Have you looked upstairs yet?"

  "Why?" Embra's voice was sharp. "What's afoot in the palace?"

  "Faceless and Serpents everywhere-even with your pet imported bard to harp him on his way, your boy king can scarce avoid treading on his foes as they glide and slither down every passage. You really should be more attentive to your duties, and spend less time gallivanting about the Vale. Is it not written that 'The Serpent has many heads, and shall arise again and again'?"

  "Old books say much," Embra replied, "and most of it is witless fancy-as even a casual reader can tell when so many works contradict themselves from page to page, let alone standing against the tellings in other books. Is it not also written, Huldaerus, that there's no Serpent at all, but merely men who seize the mantle for their own purposes?"

  The Master of Bats grinned. "Ah, well now. You've come to waste my time in an interesting manner at last."

  "Think not," Tshamarra Talasorn said suddenly, "to prolong our stay or inflate your own importance, mage, by wasting our time overmuch. I know spells that can make your imprisonment an eternity of itching, or gut-sickness, or stabbing pains, or make you burn so keenly that you plead with your jailer to douse you in icy water, or slay you and so end your torment."

  The chained wizard regarded her thoughtfully, and she answered his unspoken question. "No, I'm not Vale-born, nor given to cruelty. Yet for mages who've offered me any menace-as you did to these my friends, in past strivings in ruined Indraevyn-I cleave to the sensible advice of my family: Destroy, as soon and as harshly as possible. Those who work magic must be rightful and useful in their deeds, or others will cleanse all lands of their presence. By working tyranny with your sorcery, you endanger us all."

  "So all must be burned away save you, maid of steel?" the Master of Bats asked quietly. "Which of us will then be the tyrant?"

  "Bandy not words with me," the Lady Talasorn replied calmly, "but speak plainly and to the point. Darsar needs all the skilled mages it can rear-I'd rather gain you as a friend, sir, when th
is is all over, than reap your bones now."

  The chained man looked at her. "Well, then, I'll lay aside my anger-on one condition: That you tell a few tavernmasters in Sirlptar, or wandering traders from other lands, if any still be in the Vale with this plague rampant, that I'm chained down here… so that if you're all slain in the game of Serpent and Dragon, someone will know where I am, and come looking."

  "That, Lord," Craer said, "has already been done. As Lord Blackgult told you when we put you here, we've almost as little liking for this as you do. The King sent word of your disposition with his envoys to the Delcampers, and his messengers to the court trade agents in Sirlptar, at our suggestion. These folk were in turn instructed to inform certain local sages."

  "Truth," Embra confirmed, the Dwaer flaring in her hand.

  The chained wizard gazed at it longingly for a moment, then sighed and said, "So speak plainly, and I'll do so too. You've come to me because you caught sight of my bats, and wanted to be sure I was still imprisoned. Be assured that I am: This is no spellspun shell or seeming chained here before you, but myself. I've only recently managed to send forth my little spies-your man Thannaso is most attentive-but I know where to look and whose shoulder to peer over, and have seen much. Let me say just this: Many of those old prophecies seem to be coming true. In the words of the great Haundrakh, 'Fate at last catches up.' "

  "The Lady Embra and I have both read all of those writings," Blackgult said calmly, holding up a hand to silence his fellow overdukes, "but dismissed their various fates as impossible. In the history unfolding before us, Aglirta has broken from them with the death of the Serpent-and he is dead, for we were there, and felt, and saw."

  The Master of Bats bowed his head. "I don't claim otherwise, but the Lady was right in pointing out old Aumthur's contention that many men in turn wear the mantle. Like most mages, I thirst most for finding new spells when I seize old tomes-but once protected by the proper magics, I take care to read all, and I've come to believe Maumandiar's view: The Serpent and the Dragon aren't one person each, but rather creatures of the Arrada."