Ed Greenwood - Band of Four 04 - The Dragon's Doom

THE DRAGONS DOOM

by

Ed Greenwood

TOR®

A TOM Doherty ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

Books by Ed Greenwood

The Kingless Land

The Vacant Throne

A Dragon's Ascension

The Dragon s Doom

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

THE DRAGON'S DOOM

thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Greenwood, Ed.

The dragon's doom : a tale of the Band of Four / Ed Greenwood.-lst ed.

p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30223-3 (acid-free paper) I. Tide.

PR9199.3.G759D735 2003

813'.54-dc21 2003040212

First Edition: May 2003

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

To Brian, who helped me to get it right

Esse Quam Videri

Yet folk who know Aglirta of old will know already what befell next.

For the people were unhappy.

The barons were no better than they had ever been

Sly tongues of evil were busy in the land

Fell magic had corrupted those who sought and wielded it

Without ever weakening their eager hands

This could be almost any year in Aglirta

So be thankful for the bards and heralds

Who look upon the Vale that is so fair

And yet so seemingly gods-cursed

For they at least help us keep our disasters straight.

From A Year-Scroll of Aglirta

By Jalrek Halanthan,

Scribe of Sirlptar

Prologue

A hard, sudden rain was lashing the rooftops of Sirlptar as the came down,

driven ashore by a home-harbor wind. The storm rattle on the slates and tiles

of hundreds of roofs quite drowned out the customary chimney-sighs for which

the Sighing Gargoyle was named. Flaeros Delcamper could barely hear his own

harp notes, but—newly esteemed bard to the court of Flowfoam or not—this was

his first paying engagement in the City of River and Sea, and he sang on with

determination.

Yet even he knew, as he lifted his voice in the refrain of his newest ballad

about the Lady of Jewels and the Fall of the Serpent, that he might just as

well have saved his breath. Not a man-jack was listening.

Every patron of the Gargoyle was bent forward over the table that held his

tankard, listening—or talking—intently. The mutter of voices held no note of

happiness.

"And so 'tis another year gone, and how's Aglirta the better for it?"

"Aye, harvests thinner than ever, half the good men in the land dead and

rotting when they should be plowing or scything-and now we have a boy for a

king!"

"Huh. No joy there, yet he can hardly be worse than what we've had, these

twenty summers now—wizards and barons, wizards and barons: villains, all!"

"Aye, that's so. Wizards have always been bad and dangerous—'tis in the

breed, by the Three!"

"So we thrust a pitchfork through every mage we spot, and what then?

Who of our Great Lord Barons can be trusted not to lash out on a whim?

They've all been little tyrants to put the most decadent kings of the old

tales to shame!"

"And here we sit, thinner and fewer, every year, while their madness rages

around us and Aglirta bleeds."

An empty tankard thunked down on a table, and its owner sighed gustily,

clenched his hand into a helpless fist, and added bitterly, "And the great

hope of the common folk, Bloodblade, turned out to be no better than the

rest."

An old scribe nodded. "All our dreams fallen and trampled," he said sadly,

"and no one cares."

A drover shot Flaeros a look so venomous that the bard's fingers faltered on

his harpstrings, and growled, "Now we have some boy for a King, and his four

tame overdukes scour the countryside for barons and wizards who took arms

against him-and who cares for us?"

1

To Conquer a Kingdom

The rattle of keys awakened an echo in that dark and stone-walled place, and

then a heavy door scraped open, flooding torchlight into a damp darkness that

had lasted for decades. Old Thannaso, who kept the locks and hinges—and the

manacles that waited on the gigantic wall wheel within, gleaming now in the

leaping flames—well oiled, was as blind as deep night, and so had no need to

light his way when he worked.

A lithe, slender man who wore skintight garb of soft, smoky-gray leather on

his body and a half-smile upon his darkly handsome face held the torch high

and behind his own shoulder, to peer into all corners of the cell. A little

water was seeping in high on the south wall, glistening as it ran down the

stone, but of intruders—beyond a small, scuttling legion of spiders—he saw

none. Craer Delnbone was one of the best procurers in all Asmarand... which is

to say that after too many years of escapades enough for a dozen thieves, he

was still alive. If Craer's bright eyes saw no intruder, none was there.

The woman who followed at his elbow saw nothing either. She was much of

Craer's size, and moved against him with the familiarity of intimate

companions, but she was no thief. Tshamarra Talasorn was a sorceress from a

proud family of Sirlptar, the last of her line-and her tongue could be every

bit as sharp as her wits, as Craer had learned to both his fascination and

cost. His "Tash" wore garments cut like his but of shimmerweave and silk, that

flashed back torchlight every bit as much as her large and alert eyes. She,

too, saw no peril in the cell—though most of her thin-lipped attention was

bent upon the burden being carried behind her.

That burden was a large, stout man in rich garments, frozen in a pose as

stiff and rigid as stone save for his furious eyes—eyes that darted this way

and that, seeking to see all as one does who knows he will soon have very

little to look upon at all. An armaragor of great size and thews carried the

straight, immobile man, with the legs-steadying aid of a slightly smaller,

older warrior who strode along with the easy authority of one born to command.

Hawkril Anharu was a gentle giant of a man, unless one crossed blades with

him in battle. He carried their captive as lightly as if the man weighed

nothing, and had to stoop and turn his broad shoulders at an angle to pass

through the narrow door of the cell. He resembled an amiable bull in armor

more than anything else.

The formerly raven-dark hair of the older armored man behind Hawkril was

going gray and white now, but Ezendor Blackgult—once infamous across Asmarand

as "the Baron Blackgult," a dashing warcaptain, decadent noble, and seducer of

ladies high and low—was still handsome ... and every bit as alert, as they

moved through the dungeons, as Craer at the front of the band.

A radiance far paler than the torchlight flickered about their captive's

head—the light of magic, lancing forth from a molded stone carried in the palm

of a tall, slender woman who walked at the rear of the group. Above a slight

frown, her eyes were also fixed upon her captive.

Embra Silvertree had once been best known as "the Lady of Jewels" for her

elaborately decorated gowns, but she much preferred the simple leather

breeches, warriors' boots, and open silk shirt she was wearing now. Her long,

dark hair swirled untamed down her back as if it was a half-cloak, and men

best knew her now in Aglirta as the most powerful sorceress in the land.

Like the others who walked with her, she was an Overduke of Aglirta—and like

them, she was carrying out a distasteful but necessary duty this day. Her gaze

never left their dark-robed captive as Hawkril swung the frozen-limbed man

upright—boots uppermost—as if he weighed no more than the petals of a flower.

Craer and the Baron Blackgult deftly plucked and fitted dangling manacles,

the slender procurer trying the smaller key Thannaso had surrendered to him in

each cuff. They locked and unlocked flawlessly, and with a nod to the baron,

Craer fitted them to the arms of their captive, then accepted Blackgult's

cupped hands to boost him to where the procurer could reach higher manacles,

and so secure their captive upside down to the great wheel on the cell wall.

A tremor ran through those limbs as they were secured—gods, but the man must

be part dragon, to struggle so in the thrall of Dwaer-magic! —and Embra let

out a sigh of pain. Hawkril gave her a quick glance as he stepped back from

the chained man, but she gave him a reassuring smile through the ribbons of

sweat now running freely down her face.

"I'm ready," the shorter, darker woman murmured at Embra's elbow, and the

sorceress gasped and nodded, gesturing to her to proceed. Tshamarra Talasorn

smoothly cast a spell, stepping forward at the end of her weaving to hold her

spread hands on either side of the chained man's head-just outside the

flickering aura of Embra's Dwaer-spun magic.

That light promptly faded and Died—only to be replaced by a brighter, more

golden radiance flooding from Tshamarra's fingers.

"Spare your trouble," the chained man said, more wearily than bitterly. "I'm

not going to try anything—not with a Dwaer-Stone that can blast me to

spatters, or cook my mind like spittle sizzling into a fire, close enough to

almost brush my nose. I'm guilty of occasional ambition, not utter

foolishness."

"Indeed. Wizards rise and fall in the Vale as the years pass," Baron

Blackgult said, "and the Serpent returns, and the Faceless and outlander mages

alike clash and scheme—and yet the Master of Bats lives on. Powerful enough to

hurl back those who'd seize your power by force, and wise enough not to step

into anyone's trap."

"Save yours, Band of Four—and Blackgult. Or are you a member, good Baron,

and this wench whose magic now constrains me the fifth, the outsider? I'd not

heard that the boy king was proclaiming new overdukes . .. but then, I've not

had the leisure to hear or see much of anything in the Vale this last while,

with you hunting me. And if, as you say, I'm so wise as not to put a foot

wrong, why this chasing and capturing? I was unaware that I'd slighted the

Young Majesty. What quarrel has he with me?"

"None to speak of, Huldaerus," the Baron Blackgult replied grimly. "Yet your

power is a danger to Aglirta of the sort we can no longer ignore. With

shapeshifters busy and dozens of threats still menacing the River Throne like

drawn blades, it's time—and past time—to scour the realm, collecting foes of

the crown ... or wizards who refuse to kneel to King Raulin and pledge

loyalty. Your refusal was, you must admit, rather spectacular." He examined

one of the chains critically, and told it, "At last, we're gathering enemies

before they show up in the Throne Chamber with swords or flaring spells in

their hands."

The Master of Bats made a face, his hands trembling from the force of a

surreptitious attempt to tear free of his manacles. "So if I go upstairs right

now and kiss the royal slipper and say the right words, I can go free? Surely

'twould have been easier to try that first, ere—"

"No, Arkle Huldaerus," the Lady Silvertree said softly but firmly. "Things

might be different if you meant your pledge, and so swore loyalty in all

heartfelt honesty, but this Dwaer can power spells I'd not dare to weave—or

trust—by myself, and it has told me one thing very clearly, more than once

since your capture: You feel no shred of loyalty or fair feeling to the King,

or to Aglirta."

"So that's why you were forever asking me to swear fealty, or if I would—or

could," the chained wizard murmured, his face now flushed deep red from his

inverted position. "I thought you meant it as some sort of taunt."

"No," Embra told him calmly, "you thought nothing of the kind. You thought

we were trying a new spell on you, to urge you to loyalty. You also thought

that we were a lot of fools who'd be tyrants if we weren't so addle-witted,

that this Dwaer was wasted in our hands, and that you'd been very clever thus

far to hold back when Serpent and Dragon were contesting on Flowfoam, and in

the troubles before that. You then went on to think that you were quite clever

enough to weather this latest storm of foolishness on our part, and break free

with the aid of the three bats that, even now, you're concealing upon

yourself."

"My, my, that unlovely lump of rock shows you everything, doesn't it?" the

Master of Bats replied, more wearily than mockingly.

"Three bats?" Craer snapped. "Where? I felt him all over, good and proper,

and graul if I think he could have hidden even one of the little chitterers

from me. Where did he hide them?"

"Right now," Embra replied, "they're under his manacles, where the metal

will best hide them from us. Before, when you were searching, they were in a

dark place we all have, that's fashioned for expelling what our bodies are

ready to be rid of."

"Why," Tshamarra murmured, "am I unsurprised?" She watched Craer slip a long

dagger under one manacle and slide it around the trapped wrist swiftly. A dark

wing twitched momentarily into view, and then its owner exploded out of the

other side of the manacle—and burst into blood that became threads of smoke in

an instant, as Embra frowned, waved a hand, and her Dwaer flashed.

Anger darkened the face of the chained man, but he launched no futile

struggle this time. Craer drove forth the other two bats, and they met similar

ends. "He can fashion more of them from this, can't he?" he murmured, plucking

at the wizard's dark and much-crumpled robes, and holding up his knife

meaningfully, but Embra shook her head.

"No, Craer," she said. "I'm not going to be so cruel as to leave a man bared

down here, to shiver in the dark and be dead in two hand-counts of days."

"No," the wizard told her flatly, "you're only going to be cruel enough to

let me starve here, forgotten, until my bones fall out of these chains one by

one onto yon floor—unless, of course, this dungeon has crawling gnaw-worms or

other little welcoming beasts who'll come out to feed as soon as you take the

torch away."

"I've almost as little liking for this as you do," Ezendor Blackgult told

him heavily, "believe me. Or not, as is your right. You'll be fed regularly,

rotated upright, and we will visit you from time to time, to ask questions—and

perhaps, if your manner permits it, share news with you of events in the

Vale."

"You realize," the wizard asked calmly, eyes moving from face to face, "how

dangerous a foe you're making, don't you?"

"Huldaerus," the Lady Silvertree replied coolly, "we know how dangerous a

foe you already are. You may have forgotten your casual cruelties at Indraevyn

and since—as they seem to matter so little to you—but I haven't."

Eyes that held coiling flames of fury fixed on hers, but their owner's voice

was as icily calm as Embra's as he responded, "And so 'tis time for you to

practice casual cruelties upon me now, is that it?"

"I can cast a spell upon you that will keep you in dreams, if you desire,"

the Lady of jewels replied gently. "It will seem as if no time is passing, in

the times when you're not being actively roused by someone."

"No," the Master of Bats said firmly, "I would rather hang here and brood.

Perhaps I can come to see my folly and even to embrace King Raulin

Castlecloaks in my heart, if you leave me here long enough. Perhaps."

"You're refusing a spell of dream-sleep," Tshamarra Talasorn asked

carefully. "Are you sure you want to do that, Master Wizard?"

"Quite sure, Lady," the upside-down man chained to the wheel replied

politely. "I am the King's captive, arrested and brought here to my

imprisonment by his loyal overdukes, my freedom taken from me to make Aglirta

the safer. I want time to think on that."

"Very well. We shall depart, and leave you to it," the Baron Blackgult said,

and turned away.

Craer watched the chained man carefully, and saw what he'd expected:

Huldaerus open his mouth to say something—anything—to keep their company

longer. Thereafter followed the next thing he'd expected to see: the wizard

close his mouth again without saying a word, and smooth his face over into

careful inscrutability once more.

Oh, yes, the Master of Bats was good at what he did. Conferring with a few

swift, wordless glances, the Band of Four and Tshamarra reached agreement and

paced to the cell door together. Hawkril and Craer drifted to the rear, hands

on hilts, to watch their prisoner narrowly.

He stared right back at them, his expressionless gaze almost a challenge. As

Craer started to swing the cell door closed, the torch already behind him and

the darkness coming down, the procurer saw the captive wizard's mouth tighten

in angry anticipation of whatever taunt Craer might leave in his wake.

Craer shook his head, and said as gently as a nursemaid, "I wish you well,

Arkle Huldaerus."

The heavy cell door boomed, and the Master of Bats was alone with the chill

darkness. Not a kingdom many would choose to rule.

He waited, listening intently for the scrapes of their boots on stone to the

away, as the darkness grew both heavy and deep around him.

And waited, growing used to the small, faint sounds of his new home. The

whisper of seeping water flowing down stone, the slight echoes his own

breathing awakened. And waited.

When at last he judged that time enough had passed, and young and triumphant

overdukes of the kingdom couldn't possibly have patience enough to still be

lingering outside the cell door of a prisoner they knew to be helpless, Arkle

Huldaerus murmured the word that released a spell he'd cast a dozen years

back—and held ready from that day to this, through all the tumult since.

"Maerlruedaum", he told the darkness calmly, and patiently endured the

creeping sensation that followed. Hairs pulled free of his scalp and slithered

snakelike up his imprisoned limbs, to the place on his left shin where the

legging under his boot had been so carefully soaked in his own blood: a place

where that dark fabric was already stirring and roiling, rearing up ...

Three bats lifted away from his manacled body, whirring reassuringly past

his face at his bidding, and the Master of Bats smiled into the darkness.

There was a jailer's slot in that door, to let someone outside peer in at

prisoners, and in a moment or four his three little spies would be out and

about in the cellars of Flowfoam, watching and prying. He'd have to take great

care to keep them unseen as he saw where the little thief Delnbone returned

those keys to, but th—

Sudden fire exploded into his mind, and in its shattering pain he felt first

one bat, and then the next, torn apart. Desperately he tried to claw at the

last one with his will, snatching it back from—from—

"Not so subtle after all, Master of Bats," Embra Silvertree whispered in his

mind, as the last of his bats flared into oblivion. "I barely had time to get

comfortable out here."

Furiously the manacled wizard thrust out at the sorceress with his will,

seeking to hurl her out from behind his eyes, but the magic that had lanced

into him, leaping back along the links of his own casting, seared agonizingly

wherever it went, and he was failing, quailing.. .

"I'm not here to melt you witless," the lady baron said crisply, "or to

bring you torment, Huldaerus—just to relieve you of all the magics you have

ready to work mischief with. My thanks for providing so swift a road into your

mind. This at least means I can leave you wits enough to remain yourself, and

able to work magic in years to come."

"Mercy," the chained wizard hissed, his voice thin with warring fear and

hatred, "I... I beg of you, wench!"

"Most charmingly begged, to be sure. Rest easy, Huldaerus. I'm not here to

work you any personal harm, just to do away with any other little surprises

you may have for us ... there.”

The Master of Bats felt several tiny, icy jolts as other prepared magics

were forced into wakefulness and then broken and drained away ere they could

take effect—and then a curtain seemed to roll back in his mind, and he was

left with a fair and sunlit view down the Vale from Flowfoam not long after

dawn, as the last mists stole away like hastening wraiths above the mighty

Silverflow on some day in the past. The tiny figures of women come down to the

banks to do their washing could be seen at the first bend. He peered at them,

trying to see their faces and hear the chatter amid their laughter, as a

waterswift flew past overhead, and . . .

"I'll leave you this scene to brood upon," Embra's voice said to him, with a

warmth and closeness whose affection shocked Arkle Huldaerus.

That and the shock of the blow of Craer's flung frying pan that had felled

him hours before in the midst of his spells, with the Four all around him, had

shaken the Master of Bats more than all the events of the year before this

day. He shivered helplessly.

And then she was gone, and he was alone.

Truly alone, the last of his ready magic stripped from him and with no bats

left whose eyes he could borrow. He plunged once more into that view of the

Silverflow, with mists he could almost smell and merry converse he could

almost hear—and then thrust it away again angrily. There would come a time

when he would need its solace to keep away despair or even madness, but for

now he had better things to think about.

The bitch had at least been true to her word. She'd refrained from blasting

his mind and leaving him unable to work magic or know who he was. Ah, no. He

knew all too well who he was.

He was a helpless, spell-drained wizard chained upside down in a dungeon

cell under Flowfoam Palace. The beginnings of a dark storm of a headache were

beginning to rage now, as the echoes of that frying pan blow were made

monstrous by the blood pounding in his head. The Master of Bats clenched his

teeth and spat a single furious obscenity into the surrounding darkness.

Rage and pain clawed at each other, doing battle inside him as he hung heavy

in his chains, numb in some places and throbbing in others. Groaning from time

to time, Arkle Huldaerus drifted in their stormy grip, letting himself be

driven this way and that. . .

He slept, or thought he did. Yet it seemed that he'd not been alone with the

darkness all that long when light arose around him again.

A cold, blue-white glow this time, with none of the warmth of firelight. It

came from the wall of the cell across from him, hitherto hidden in the

darkness, and it was moving. Moving?

Huldaerus stared at the glow. Was he asleep, and this a dream-fancy, or was

that bitch Silvertree—or the other one, her slyskirt sidekick—at work with

spells on his mind, trying to drive him into raving?

The glow had a shape now, as it stepped silently out of the solid wall-the

shape of a skeleton, with two tiny stars of cold flame twinkling in its

eye-sockets. Those eyes looked at him, and the chained wizard knew an old and

fell intelligence lurked behind them, mirth that betokened good for no

creature alive within them. A hand whose floating bones should all have

clattered to the floor waved jauntily at him, the bony feet strolled across

the cell, and the hand sketched another wave in his direction as the skeleton

melted into the waiting stones, its glow dimming, and . .. was gone.

Arkle Huldaerus blinked at the darkness that reigned unbroken under his nose

once more, shook his head, and sighed. This had not been a good day, nor did

the morrow hold bright prospect.

He almost envied that skeleton its freedom to walk through walls.

The young man's bald head was slick with sweat despite the chill of the

cavernous chamber. The snake fang-adorned bottom edge of his high-collared

robe swirled above bare feet as risen magic played dancing white fires around

them, shimmering across the mirror-smooth floor of the vast room. A pattern of

intertwined serpents, jaws agape, encircled his wide sleeves, and scales were

visible on the glistening flesh of his forearms and the backs of his hands.

The man took two measured steps forward, murmured an incantation, and flung

up his hands as if to cradle a large globe of empty air. White sparks crawled

tentatively from his fingertips to shape that sphere... and swirl about it...

and then rise in tendrils around the Serpent-priest, building to silently

raging brightness.

That growing light was reflected in the steady, watching eyes of two tiers

of benches of expressionless priests along the chamber walls, well back from

the spellweaving priest.

The cold radiance brightened as the incantation crafting it rose in

volume—brightened and grew, becoming slowly writhing spirals of tentacles

around the priest... and then coalescing into serpentine bodies shaped all of

sparks. As those swaying serpent-forms grew snake-heads, they began to glide

around and around the bald priest in an undulating, quickening dance.

The watching priests made not a sound, but some leaned forward eagerly. Not

one looked away, even for an instant, as swiftly building spells erupted into

bright bursts, one flaring atop another as the priest who stood alone at their

heart cried phrase after phrase, his voice loud now with confidence, his

fingers writhing like excited snakes in ever more rapid weavings.

White sparks sheaDied the spellweaver's body, drawing in about him in thick

coils, until it seemed a forest of large and ever larger serpents was lovingly

encircling their creator. Their twining force slowly lifted the priest off the

floor until he stood upright on empty air almost his own height off the

ground, hands still furiously shaping spells.

Each new magic reached up, straining toward the lofty ceiling of the

chamber. The unfolding spells seemed to draw upon something up there, unseen

in the darkness, that sent down spiderweb-thin lines of force—force that

blossomed into cold, bright fire when it touched the silently raging serpents

woven by the lone priest.

In the heart of the light his incantations gasped and stammered on. Sweat

drenched him, and his racing fingers were trembling now, his body shuddering

as if fighting to stand against the snatching gusts of a gale.

A spell burst into a sudden shower of sparks, and there came a sudden, brief

murmur—part consternation, and part satisfaction—from the watching clergy as

the bald priest convulsed, shrieked something despairing, and clawed at the

air as if to ward off a pouncing monster.

Sparks fell, and there came another explosion, bright and then dark,

motes of fire raining down in all directions as the spellweaving priest

sobbed bitterly. Burst after burst, in swift succession, tore the dancing

serpents into a swirling cloud.

At its flickering heart the lone, sweat-soaked figure frantically waved

fingers grown impossibly long, trying to shout words with a voice that had

suddenly tightened into a loud hiss. A forked tongue darted from grimacing

lips as the sparks raced aloft to shape many bright serpent heads—which then

struck in unison, lashing down at the wildly gesturing man with terrible

speed.

The bald priest screamed under those fangs of light, high and shrill. His

suddenly long and rubbery arms flapped helplessly in the brightly boiling

radiance—and then caught fire in a long gout of flame.

He screamed again, dancing grotesquely in the rushing conflagration, flesh

melting and receding from bones with horrible swiftness. Smaller explosions

bloomed and rolled all around that capering figure, and in the wake of each a

freed spell fell away from the doomed priest and became a ghostly white

serpent of flickering force, writhing and undulating in uncanny silence.

Within this ghostly circle of swaying heads and lashing coils, the dying

priest danced on, his flesh melting. His screams became raw, faint and

feeble... and he sank to the floor, still dancing-jerking back and forth,

helplessly and horribly, like a stick puppet flailed about at a market fair

for the amusement of small children.

Sprawled on the dark stone, the priest melted swiftly down to near bones-and

as he became more skeletal, the freed, slithering spells dancing around him

moved in, coiling into and out of the writhing bones. Where they passed, bones

parted, dissolving into streamers of smoke, and shifting ... twisting...

The skeleton was soon little more than a flaming skull atop a whirlwind of

tumbling bones—remains spun into the undulating shape of a serpent by the

ghostly Serpent-spells.

The fading serpent-shape coiled, reared menacingly—and the skull atop it

exploded in a puff of bone-dust. The bones below faded, and out of that

writhing collapse rose the last glowing wisps of magic, drifting up to

whatever it was that hung high overhead in the darkness.

There they shone for one whirling moment around a mottled, hand-sized stone

floating alone in midair. Glowed, and then sank into the stone, to glow no

longer.

As darkness returned to the ceiling, the watching priests looked down from

where the wisps had gone, tightened lips grimly, and sighed—some with

wistfulness, and many more with relief.

"This failure was not unexpected," one man said into the silence, his cold

tones loud, firm, and flat. "Shall we resume?"

Another priest lifted a hand. "We shall— and with Ghuldart gone, and his

boasts and claims with him, one thing is certain: None of us has the might to

master the Thrael. The Great Serpent is come not back among us. Yet."

A third, younger priest asked, "Could some of us not cast a few spells of

the Thrael each, and so weld together a ruling council from among our ranks?

Need it be one man?"

The first priest rose to his feet and replied, "There I hear the voice not

just of you, Lothoan, but of all your ilk: the young, eager, and restless

amongst us, who thirst for power and see change as no concern at all if it

wins us more power swiftly. Hear me, now, all of you younglings. Hear and

learn"

Caronthom "Fangmaster" turned slowly to survey all the robed men on the

benches. No women sat in the chamber; he and the knives of elder priests of

like mind had seen to that. She-priests were vicious and treacherous, but

alluring; there would be time enough to empower such when it came to open

strife, and such qualities could serve the Brethren—and be the ready excuse

for slaughtering the women as soon as it became needful.

"The Serpent who spawned us all was never a god. He was a mortal man, a

great wizard—as were all his successors, Great Serpent after Great Serpent.

None of us particularly loves serving a tyrant, but this is how it must be.

Only one being can be master of the Thrael at a time. Once cast, the Thrael

exists as a web of magic whose backlashes slay many linked to it if someone

tries to wrest control of the Thrael from its creator, or craft a second

Thrael that comes into contact with the first. When we pray to the Great

Serpent, we send calls along the Thrael to him, calls he can hear. If he

chooses to do so, he sends us back spells or healing energy or raw power,

drawing on his own manifest power—which is that of all of us who are touched

by the Thrael. Literally, our lives, and those of the sacrifices we slay in

specific ways, empower the Thrael and the Great Serpent, and he returns power

to us as he sees fit. Forgive this blunt speaking, but 'tis time and past time

you heard it shorn of all the 'holy' nonsense we must always cloak it with, to

conceal this central secret from lay believers."

Caronthom sighed, threw back his head, and continued, "So I say again: The

Serpent was a man, not a god. Great elder magics create his recurring

manifestation, and that of the Dragon who opposes him. Divine magics, if you

prefer—magics we no longer understand or know how to control, augment, or

destroy. From the Serpent we have his teachings, the secrets of the Thrael

spells and of its working—and the sacred writings of what has gone before,

which stand as lessons to us in what to do and not to do to win power."

He strode slowly along the benches, meeting the gazes of some priests

thereon directly, and added, "Wherefore this council is met. As always, we

must scheme and work and refine our plots, when seeking to win greater power

in Aglirta—for no god aids us. We all saw Ghuldart try and fail to craft the

Thrael, and witnessed his fate—and I feel no shame in admitting that,

overambitious foolishness aside, Ghuldart was the most confident and powerful

seeker amongst us who desired to master the Thrael. None of us is powerful

enough to survive those castings."

The second priest rose. "Every word you utter is blunt truth, Caronthom. It

should be clear to even the youngest and most restless amongst us that this

council's most urgent business has now been determined."

He began his own slow walk along the benches. "You know me as Raunthur the

Wise. Hear now my latest wisdom, and know it for no more than truth. We came

here to discuss how to win power in the Vale, but could decide nothing until

we saw if Ghuldart could ascend to the rank of Great Serpent over us. His

failure means we must find and recruit a wizard powerful enough to become the

new Great Serpent, so as to conquer Aglirta at last. Each of us—even as we

work against the officers and authority of the boy king—must seek suitable men

to become our leader. To borrow the words of the Old Viper who taught

Caronthom and myself, 'The tyrant we must obey must be found.' "

One of the younger priests moved restlessly, and Caronthom pounced.

"Yes, Thuldran? Speak!"

The young priest flushed and looked down. Both elder priests moved to stand

side by side and glare at him. After a long, unwilling time of glancing up

into their hard gazes and shrinking away and then looking up again to find

their stares still fixed on him, Thuldran said reluctantly, "I—I like this

not. We're to invite an outsider to power over us? Risking possible betrayal,

and a rule none of us may favor?"

"Well said," Raunthur replied. "Of course none of us welcomes this

situation. 'Tis right not to want or trust an outsider as our Great Serpent.

To avoid disaster, all of us elder priests know very well that we must choose

the right outsider. Finding and guiding him into office over us will be

neither swift nor easy."

"In the meantime," Caronthom added, "be aware that we shall be ruthless in

purging all misdirected ambitions from the Brotherhood. We elders are mages of

some accomplishment; those who were not were the ones who perished. We may

cower before the Thrael, but until it has been raised anew by a Great Serpent,

we shall rule the Brotherhood. Speak freely, dispute freely—but obey when we

speak orders, or we shall strike you down. In this leaderless time, treachery

and internal strife are weaknesses we can neither afford nor tolerate. Heed my

words, or die."

There was a stillness along the benches now that sang with tension. Raunthur

smiled softly into it. "That's not to say we desire any of you to sit in

hiding and wait for a new Great Serpent to come calling. Far from it. As we

sit gathered here, we're still the strongest, smartest force in Aglirta, and

we shall not be idle. If blustering idiot barons can hold power in the Vale,

so can we."

"And so," the Fangmaster added smoothly, "we desire every one of you to aid

in our chief plot to bring down the boy king. Some few among you, I've no

doubt, have already gained hints of what this is. More than one of you is

guilty of excessive prying in this regard that I'll henceforth reward with

death. To quell consuming curiosity, know that before departing this place

you'll be furnished with a spell. Others will follow, brought by fellow

Brothers of the Serpent along with strict instructions as to when to use them

and when they are not to be employed."

For the first time, the old priest who'd taught so many of them allowed a

smile onto his face. "The first spell infects drinkables with something akin

to the venom of some rare sorts of snakes, but stronger. Most who imbibe

succumb to 'the Malady of Madness' told of in ancient times, the Beast Plague

that makes victims lash out at others ere they die. Spread among Aglirtans

with the words of 'divine punishment for misrule' you shall whisper, this will

serve to weaken the rule of Flowfoam. When the time is right, all of you shall

be properly placed, up and down the Vale, to supplant the local authority of

the boy king."

Raunthur spoke up. "So much is the plan—so let your various spyings cease.

You shall all hear the unfolding details anyway. Salaundius?"

An old priest with a scarred face rose from the benches, nodded respectfully

to Raunthur and Caronthom, cleared his throat, and said stiffly, "My tests

have been a success. The spells I've worked with can now break the effects of

the venom-spell, repeatedly and reliably. I—ah—there is no more to say." He

sat down again.

The Fangmaster nodded. "Arthroon?"

Ed Greenwood - Band of Four 04 - The Dragon's Doom

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