The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  He snatched a lantern from the nearest priest and strode forward, barely noticing the alacrity with which the warriors faded out of the way and back toward the mouth of the chamber. The other priests crowded forward behind him, murmuring, "Careful, Masterpriest Thraunt!" and, "What can you see, great Thraunt?"

  Masterpriest Thraunt raised the lantern and peered carefully into the cavity in the wall, sudden wariness afflicting him. The Silent House was said to be riddled with traps, and he'd heard more than a few grisly tales of overbold treasure seekers who'd found their deaths instead of riches…

  After a moment of tense peering, he could breathe again.

  A few breaths later, he relaxed. There were no signs of guardian creatures, enchanted or otherwise-no spiders spell-slept to awaken when intruders disturbed their niche, nor crawling bone-things held together and given horrible unlife by spells. Nothing awaited above to slam down, or behind to fire or thrust out. Just a small statuette of an armored prince with a sword-as tall as his own head, and seemingly carved of a single, massive ruby.

  There was lettering around its base, script of an archaic, elaborate flowing style little used in these more hasty days, but words he could read: Blood of Silvertree Know Better.

  Hmmph. Well, they hadn't had they? They'd come to this their palace and Died, in their dozens, all struck down by the Doom of the Silvertrees! Perhaps this hidden statuette bore the anchor-spell of that ancient Silvertree curse.

  He whirled around and snapped, "One of those cloths, and be quick about it!"

  The priests wavered, and then one of them turned to call a warrior. Thraunt was quick to roar, "No! One of you: the Holy of the Serpent!"

  The priests all looked at him with fear or perhaps respect in their eyes, and then stooped and scurried and elbowed each other in a way that brought fleeting, swiftly suppressed grins onto the faces of the watching warriors. Thraunt resolved to deal with those insolent idiots later, after…

  The cloth was laid into his waiting hand. He gave the priest who'd proffered it a brittle smile that warned that no praise would be forthcoming for something that should have been foreseen and done with no need for order, offering no delay to a superior-then turned and gingerly lifted the statuette, holding it only through the cloth.

  It was hard, and smooth, and heavy, and did not feel as if it held hidden secrets in its innards, or bore a lurking surface enchantment. Thraunt turned it, marveling at the beautiful carving-solid ruby, all right-and then set down the lantern and with both hands reverently laid it in the coffer.

  There was a murmur from the priests as they got their first proper look at it, and as the warriors started to lean for their own look, without quite daring to step forward from the edges of the room, Masterpriest Thraunt looked up at the holy men of the Serpent and said softly, "Let this not out of your sight for even a moment. Two of you must watch it at all times, for if it goes missing"-he flicked his gaze meaningfully in the direction of the warriors-"all of you shall make a very firm, perhaps final, answer for it."

  They nodded, slowly, reluctantly, and silently. He kept on staring until he had seen each priest's nod-and only then did Masterpriest Thraunt flip the ends of the cloth over the ruby carving, straighten up with a satisfied sigh, and turn to see… dark wisps of vapor curling out of the niche in the wall!

  He almost kicked the coffer flying in his haste to get back and away from that ancient trap-for what else could it be? -and stumbled, falling into the waiting hands of only two of the warriors, for the rest had fled in a wordless rush, and were now somewhere down the long passage they'd arrived by.

  The pair of warriors roughly but skillfully thrust Thraunt upright, and he turned in time to see that fool of a novice, Ornaugh, choke, clutch his throat, and make a peculiar, desperate whimpering sound-before he fell over on his face, clawing at his neck.

  He'd been unable to swallow, Thraunt realized-in his few moments of thought left before the other priests burst into and over him and out the doorway. The last two warriors sprinted in their wake, leaving the Masterpriest battered and winded on the floor, with a peculiar prickling sensation in his nose and throat…

  No! By the Serpent, no! Masterpriest Thraunt was up and on his feet and through that door as fast as he could run, coughing around a tongue grown strangely thick, and trying to keep up with the bobbing lanterns of his craven fellow priests before they left him in utter darkness, here-

  There was a bright burst of light from ahead, around the corner of the passage they'd just taken, and an echoing roar that sounded oddly like…

  There was a second blast, and the tattered remnants of what had been Ilmark of Sirlptar, or Elmargh, or whatever his name was, came bouncing and whirling into view, all of the limbs rolling to a stop separately.

  Spell-blasts! That was it! Just like those he'd seen in a courtyard in Sirlptar, when first observing a casting of the fireburst spell that the Brotherhood called "Fire of the Serpent." Someone-a traitor? a rival priest?-had blasted everyone under his command as they'd run along the narrow passage.

  "Great Serpent!" Thraunt gasped, the words half a prayer and half a curse, and trotted forward warily, readying the best spell he knew: a "Wrath of the Serpent," the stinging cloud of flying, biting snakes that even anointed priests of the Serpent feared…

  There was another blast, a short, choked-off scream, and more remains bounced and rolled to a dusty, grisly halt ahead. Thraunt slowed, wondering how long he should wait in silent hiding before venturing around that corner.

  This was no trap, for traps do not howl and scream wild laughter, then sob and snarl and hoot and howl again. This sounded like someone gone plague-mad. Perhaps a mage, come here to loot, who'd been caught by the fangs of one of the guardian snakes he'd dropped to guard their way out of the ruins…

  Well, if so, all he need do was wait, and this foe would the raving, and leave the way clear. Thraunt knew he was not a patient man, but when the clear alternative is being blown apart…

  Around the corner came hissing shouts, and then snapped orders and the clang of blades-far more blades than his warriors bore, even if none of them had fallen. Wild roars followed, mixed with loudly declaimed gibberish this time.

  Other priests had planned treasure-snatching expeditions into the Silent House, and although there'd been agreement to allow each foray one day before the next went in, Thraunt had known at the time just how feeble that agreement was… This must be another, larger Serpent party; he could hear spells being hissed and chanted that could only be the weavings of anointed Brothers of the Serpent. Could they have slain his command?

  Yet why then all the hooting and howling? And why the sudden, fear-filled shouts? Surely they'd lurk silent, and creep forward hoping to take him or others in these haunted ruins unawares…

  More blasts, rocking the ceiling and the floor beneath his feet this time, and the spell-chants suddenly ceased. Thraunt crept forward, not daring to stay where he was any longer for fear of the throat-prickling gas behind him-but he was still three long strides shy of the bend in the passage when a tall man wearing only a nightrobe stalked around the corner, leering and lurching. Tall and handsome and somehow familiar, he carried a glowing rock in his hands and was crooning to it wordlessly, as if it was a baby he was comforting.

  He barked with laughter when he saw Thraunt, and the stone flashed-and Masterpriest Thraunt, in the last few seconds of life as a Dwaer-blast raced toward him, understood that what the man held was not merely an enchanted lump of stone but one of the Stones.

  And then he experienced his first Dwaer-blast, and his last-and all Darsar went away, just like that.

  Blackgult laughed loud and long, holding the Stone high in triumph and letting it spew little stinging lightnings down his arm, cascading snarling sparks across the floor. With these fires he'd slain at least four dozen Serpent-spawn-three different bands of them, by the Horned Lady!

  Well, they'd come seeking treasure… and unfortunately for them, they'd found
it!

  Ezendor Blackgult chuckled gleefully as he strode into a dusty, long-ruined chamber of lofty size, somewhere in the westerly wings and turrets of the Silent House. Ah, but at least he'd not be dying alone. He'd butchered a respectable host of Snake-lovers this day! Why, ther-

  Light flashed in the gloom before him, three bright and expanding spheres of radiance. Out of each stepped a tall, slender, robed man-two strangers, and a younger companion one he'd seen before. Seen, and thought dead forever, in the skies above a batdefield here in Aglirta: Jhavarr Bowdragon… and judging by the faces of the elder pair, he'd brought his kin.

  "Ezendor Blackgult," the oldest wizard greeted him coldly, as the other two launched without hesitation into complicated spellweavings-bindings to keep him in this chamber, by the sounds of their incantations. "I am Dolmur Bowdragon. This is my brother Ithim-and I believe you've already met Jhavarr. Bowdragons never forget… and Bowdragons pay all debts."

  The Golden Griffon threw back his head and cackled. "So," he added joyfully, completing Dolmur's direat, "prepare to die! Aha-ha-ha-ha!"

  And with that laughter still echoing off the ceiling above him, Blackgult blasted it with the Dwaer and brought that end of the room crashing down atop his three newfound foes.

  Two of them ran, desperately, breaking off their spellcasting. But the one who'd called himself Dolmur calmly spread his hands, and the great chunks of ceiling thundered down onto… something unseen, that sent them tumbling and rolling aside.

  And then bursting apart, into powder, under a Dwaer-blast! One of the three-Jhavarr, it must be, for it had come from his side-had a Dwaer!

  Blackgult roared out his rage and excitement. There was a way of forcing a blast from one Dwaer to another, now… yes!

  Exultantly he did what he'd read in a dusty old tome in the palace library. It hurt the wielder, aye, but what cared he for that? He was dead anyway! Let a richer harvest be reaped, and old Blackgult go down to greet the Three with three dead Bowdragons to his credit.Yes!

  The blast, when it came, swept away Dolmur's spell and took all three Bowdragons by surprise. Ithim screamed as the two older Bowdragons were flung away like rags, bones splintering audibly. Jhavarr, holding his Dwaer, was caught in the blast-glow, frozen in pain and rooted to the spot by the sheer power racing through him, his face twisted in dismay… and as the magic roared on, his slender body slowly changed, melting away from the likeness of Jhavarr Bowdragon into… bony facelessness. A Koglaur!

  The two torn and bleeding Bowdragons saw the transformation too.

  "Duped!" Dolmur snarled. "We've been tricked to our dooms!"

  Ithim screamed again in fear and despair-and he was still screaming when Dolmur did something that abruptly snatched them elsewhere, leaving the Koglaur alone to shudder as Blackgult sent another Dwaer-blast through him.

  "Skill and savagery, that's the way!" the Golden Griffon called jovially. "You faceless, sneaking rogue, you!"

  The Koglaur turned his smooth, eyeless face toward Blackgult, and the Griffon felt the weight of coldly seething scrutiny. Then, abruptly, the Faceless One vanished, leaving the chamber dark and lonely once more. Inconsiderately, he'd neglected to leave his Dwaer behind him.

  "Ah, well," Blackgult told the walls around him, "Victorious, the Golden Griffon can get on with dying in peace, then."

  Or perhaps… just perhaps… He held up the Dwaer and cast a careful shielding-spell, three-layered and intricate. Blackgult was shaking with weariness when he was done, and dark anger was rising in his belly again, so he made haste to work a last, healing magic, and let go of the Dwaer.

  It drifted away from his upflung arm, and gathered speed as it went,

  curving along the inside of his shield-spell. Blackgult tore off his robe and laid it out as a bed as near to the center of the shield-sphere as he could quickly judge. He laid himself down hastily, closed his eyes, and pictured the Dwaer whirling around above him in a steady orbit, clinging to images of its speeding glow as the anger surged.

  If he was to live, he had to rest. In trance, if he'd recalled Sarasper's instructions aright, the Dwaer just might be able to purge the Blood Plague from his body. "Well, now," he muttered, sinking down into the dark warmth where the rage rolled and snarled, "to be rid of the plague and healed hearty again… wouldn't that enrage a few Serpent-priests? They might even do something foolish and violent… But then again, how would the rest of us tell?"

  Chuckling, he let the darkness take him.

  23

  Great Serpent Rising

  Ingryl Ambelter smiled politely at the dozen or so elder Serpent-priests facing him as the underpriests who'd brought him here scuttled hastily out and closed the doors. Protective magics sang almost audibly in the air; every one of these old men must have shield-spells active. The room was small and bare: stone benches faced the oratory floor he was standing on, amid two large pillars. There was but the one visible door-and, rearing out from the wall to his left, a stone statue of a snake poised to strike.

  The Spellmaster gave it a long glance to make sure it was sculpted stone and not a spell-frozen snake of monstrous size, and then regarded the priests again. "You know who I am. And you would be-?"

  One of the oldest men spoke, without rising from his bench. "All of us hold the rank of 'Lord of the Serpent,' most exalted in our Brotherhood beneath the Great Serpent himself. We are not all the Lords, but rather the oldest and largest faction among rival groups of Lords who hold differing views on who the Great Serpent is, and how we shall find him."

  Ingryl nodded. "Forgive my ignorance, but beneath you in the ranks of the Church are… what titles?"

  Another priest spoke. "Beneath us are a handful of Masterpriests, below them a very much larger mustering of senior clergy who are styled 'Priest of the Serpent,' then again a smaller whelming of priests called Scaled Masters, and then the great bulk of the Brethren, who are all 'Brothers of the Serpent.' Below them are Fangbrothers-such as those who conducted you here-and beneath them come lesser ranks of no account, down to the novices. Under every Great Serpent the titles and standings have changed somewhat."

  "And you are all, if I understand things correctly, truly wizards, using spells known to mages everywhere as well as Serpent-related magics held secret by the Church?"

  "Yes. The Great Serpent has access to a great web of spells known as the Thrael, the legacy of the original archmage who founded the faith and became the first Great Serpent."

  Ambelter nodded. "And you need me to-?"

  The priest who'd first made answer held up a hand. "Let us first describe our situation, Spellmaster of All Aglirta. I am called Carondiom 'Fangmaster,' and serve as First Voice in our councils. This"-he indicated the second priest who'd spoken-"is Raunthur the Wise. The reports returned to council tell us that the Church has now successfully infested all Aglirta with the Blood Plague that turns men to beasts we can command, or drives them to slaying rage. We know and can provide antidotes to the effects of the venom, and so keep people 'untainted' if we choose. Through the use-and withholding-of this 'Grace of the Serpent,' and through fear, we now effectively rule every town and hamlet of the Vale, behind the backs of many tersepts and barons. Others bow to us directly."

  "Have the rival Serpent-lords aided you in this, or do they work against you?"

  "They are actively and enthusiastically part of the Church. Our disagreements are over the identity and coming of the Great Serpent, and how and where we should seek him, not over the rightful goals of the faith."

  Ingryl Ambelter nodded. "Is the priest called Yedren part of your faction, or a rival?"

  "Not one of us," Raunthur said gently. "I believe the term 'rival' is a trifle strong."

  The wizard nodded. "Rathtaen? Ormsivur? Of you, then, or not?"

  "Not."

  "Harsadrin? Thelvaun?"

  Carondiom arched an eyebrow, and waved one hand. "You seem well acquainted with us. Well, then…"

  A glowing map of the Vale
appeared on the floor all around the Spell-master. Ambelter hastily stepped back out of it to see better as the Fang-master pointed to spot after spot on the map.

  "The most important Lords of the Serpent who stand against us, besides those you've named, are Naumun in Sirlptar, and Lethsais, over here in Telbonter. I would also describe Hlektaur in Dranmaer and Boazshyn of Ool as less friendly to our approach than to the one advocated by Yedren-which is to pick a brainless novice from our ranks and make him Serpent over us all, controlled by we of the inner council through a great web of blood-spells."

  "And why is that not a good notion?" Ambelter asked, his eyes on the winding Silverflow. The magic of the map made its waters seem to endlessly move.

  "We contend that one so feeble of mind in the first place and so addled with spells in the second can have no hope of mastering the Thrael, and thus be useless in whelming and commanding the true power of the Church."

  "And who are the Lords who lean to your views, or whom you know to be part of your faction?"

  "Our two Lords in Ibryn," Caronthom replied, "Maskalos and Cheldraem. Also Rauldron of Tselgara, Old Nael in Rithrym-so called because his son, Nael, is also of our Brethren, though but a Fangbrother as yet-and Pheltarth in Adelnwater."

  "Kelhandros in Sart," Raunthur added, and the Fangmaster nodded at this amendment.

  "An impressive list of wizards," Ambelter commented. "So how can my spells make a difference, one way or another? If you have all these masters of magic among you, and rule the Vale already, what do you need me for?"

  "To help us find the Great Serpent, assist us in disputes with our ah, rival Lords, and to help us openly conquer the kingdom. We must rule in Flowfoam."

  The Spellmaster looked up from the map. "It seems to me that you could just walk in at any time and sit on the throne. Neither Flowfoam nor the wider Vale holds much of anyone who could or would stand against you."