Ed Greenwood - Band of Four 03 - A Dragon's Ascension

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A Dragon's

Ascension by Ed

Greenwood

The Foe of the Serpent

Is the Dragon.

No true Crawling viper

But a Black-Robed mage

Heart darker than garb of night

Hands adrip with blood

His spells so deep

Crawl and creep

Beyond death and passing years

Kings falling, towers crumbling

Always watching,

Lurking in shadows

Slithering in dark dreams

The Serpent Who Shall Rise Again.

Whispers he to princes

Steals he into minds by night

Men of malice chant his name

Gasping Fools Fill his Fane

Crowns tumble before his fangs

Men mutter of him, and cower

True Crawling viper, after all

Yer stand against him not in vain

Keep sword sharp to be his bane

Stray not to peaks snow-cloaked deep

Ruins Forgot, nor echoing grot

Hunt no wyrms, gold aseeking

For the Foe of the Serpent

Is the Dragon.

from The Way of Valor

by the Bard Haelithe of Ranshree Penned in the days of King

Gaur (too long ago)

From the Chronicles of Aglirta: A

History

Now in the Time of Many Wizards, when all Darsar sought

the Dwaerindim and realms rose and fell with each passing

season, there arose in Aglirta four heroes, who were destined to

give the Kingless Land a king once more—though to many it

seemed not the salvation and peace for all Asmarand that had

been foretold.

This Band of Four arose in desperation, in the time after

Baron Blackgult sought to gain an edge in his long feud with the

rival house of Silvertree, and made war upon the rich Isles of

Ieirembor, seeking to make their tall timber and trade-metals

his own, but was vanquished, and hurled back with great loss of

armsmen and armaragors, Blackgult himself being thought lost

in the fray.

Then did the cruel Faerod Silvertree, the fell magic of his

Dark Three wizards his main weapon, seize the barony of

Blackgult, and he made war on the other baronies nigh his own

holdings, and flourished. So great was the rise of his power that

it seemed that he would soon be King in Aglirta, whose king had

slept for years beyond the memories of living men.

Then did two desperate warriors of Aglirta—the great

armaragor Hawkril Anharu, most trusted of Blackgult's blades,

though he refused all rank; and his closest friend, the

barb-tongued and nimble procurer Craer Delnbone—return as

outlaws to Aglirta, and made so bold as to try to steal gowns

from the Lady of Jewels—Faerod Silvertree's own

daughter—from her very palace bedchamber. She being skilled

in sorcery, her father's Dark Three had trained but also enslaved

her, making Silvertree Castle her prison, and planning someday

that she'd be bound into its very stones, to serve them as a living

fortress. Thus Embra Silvertree, who could have slain the two

thieves, instead made pact with them to carry her away.

Pursued by her father's forces, the three fled to the Silent

House, the cursed and long-abandoned mansion of House

Silvertree, and there did meet with an aging healer, Sarasper

Codelmer, who could take the shape of a longfangs—called by

some a "wolf-spider"—among other forms. Sarasper was friend

unto Craer from long before, but was in hiding from all men to

escape being enslaved, as barons chained all healers for their

usefulness.

So the Band of Four were born, as merry a band of rogues as

ever enlivened bards' ballads, and in their strivings Faerod

Silvertree and his Dark Three were thrown down, and the

Sleeping King awakened, to rule from Flowfoam once more.

King Kelgrael Snowsar rewarded them for their deeds with

the titles of Overdukes of Aglirta, in the same wise as he made

the returned Baron Blackgult Regent of Aglirta, ere returning to

his spellbound Slumber-for only when Kelgrael slept could his

age-old foe, the fell and most mighty archwizard remembered by

men only as the Serpent, be held also asleep, and away from the

world he so desired to rule.

Yet in all this strife of ambitious barons and wizards, of folk

everywhere seeking the four powerful Dwaer-Stones, the folk of

Aglirta were grown tired indeed of misrule. And they turned to

the worship of the Serpent, whose scaled priests-who were not

priests at all, but wizards who as they grew in power took on

more and more of the shapes of snakes—led them into intrigues

that sought the Crown of Aglirta. They turned also to various

barons, who hungered after the same thing, hoping each one

would become the great king that Aglirta had lacked for so long,

who would restore peace and justice to the Kingless Land, so folk

could rest easy and the land flourish at last.

And all the while outlander mages eyed the rich Vale of

Aglirta and thrust their own hands into the fray, and the fabled

Faceless lurked behind all, and the Band of Four rushed hither

and other, seeking to set wrongs aright…

Yet the slaughters and Dwaer-seekings continued apace, and

none of all those hard-riding folk foresaw the Great Doom

rushing to meet them.

Or rather, the apocalypse that their own deeds were bringing

down swift and hard upon their beloved Aglirta—and all Darsar

around it.

Prologue

Lamplight flickered back from the bright-polished rims of a

dozen Delcamper shields. A young man in a magnificent silk

shirt stared past rich blue tapestries into that dazzle, and

murmured, "For if all the world my love forsake… her life like a

flame the wind doth take… doth take…"

He sighed heavily, tossed his parchment down, and speared

an innocent quace-fruit with his quill. "Oh, to be the bard they

dunk I am!" he quoted darkly, glowering out his open window at

the stars.

Flaeros Delcamper brought his boots up onto the gleaming

top of his best bedchamber table with a crash, and leaned back

in his chair.

Fighting dragons was easy-now, composing ballads, that was

hard.

The shore breeze rose, bringing the familiar tang of the sea to

him. Restlessly, Flaeros swung his feet back down and sprang

upright, striding across the room in an idle parody of a gliding,

courtly dance. Slapping his palms down on the sill, he stared out

over Ragalar Bay, its waters shimmering under the light of the

rising moon and the familiar vault of stars.

He'd stood here on early evenings for years, looking out at a

little slice of Darsar—a slice that rolled or blew past uncaring

how haughty or coin-bright the Delcampers might be, or noisy

and bustling the gray city of Ragalar might become. His

great-great-grandsire had stood in this room when as young as

he was now, and undoubtedly stared out at these same stars.

This castle, Varandaur, seat of the Delcampers, had stood here

like a grim, weary fang of stone for five centuries at least,

looming over this corner of Ragalar Bay—the tower he was

standing in, all nine floors of it, actually overhung the waters,

jutting up and out above the spray like the prow of a great stone

ship, and—

A chime sounded musically behind him. Flaeros whirled

around. What could befall at this time of night?

It sounded again, like a discreet servant's cough. The Bard of

the Delcampers smiled thinly, and called, "Enter!" Then he

raised an eyebrow. 'Janthlin?"

"Of course, Lord Flaeros," came the dignified reply.

The bard turned back to the window, so that only the stars

saw his smile flash into a broad grin. Janthlin always sounded

so world-weary, so pained to humor the nobles he served. Face

composed, Flaeros turned his head. "What brings you up here

after moonrise?" he asked the row of shields. "Is someone in

need of a song?"

"Nay, m'Lord. We are well supplied with music, down-hall. A

minstrel of the road is harping in return for candlefeast and a

bed. He's come from Aglirta, he says, an—"

Flaeros whirled around and strode past the servant like a

rising storm. "Yes, Janthlin, you've done well. My thanks! Aye,

my thanks!"

The last words echoed back up the stair in his wake. The old

servant turned, tottering slightly, to watch the young lord's

shadow race down the wall, and grew a slow smile of his own.

So like his father, this one. Flits like a bird, leaps like a

flame… Janthlin's smile died as his thought came inevitably to

the next line of that old ballad.

Dies cry unheard, naught left but his name.

That was the thing about ballads. All too often, they went

where you didn't want them to. Like love. Like life. Hmmph.

Janthlin reached into the breast of his tunic, drew forth the flask

of liquid fire he kept ready to wash away such morose,

increasingly frequent thoughts—and used it.

The high, lacy harping died away into a few last, aching tones

as Flaeros bounded down the Urdragon Stair and paused on the

landing overlooking the High Hall. "Under the lamps below, a

great crowd of servants jostled with Delcamper uncles in their

crimson and gold, goblets dangling empty in many hands. And

no wonder, with nary a maid hastening to refill them. Everyone

was speaking at once, hurling questions at the sad-eyed man in

worn leather, who sat on a stool perched atop the long feast table

nearest the great open sea window, his harp still thrumming in

his hands.

News from Aglirta was always worth hearing-and here was a

taleteller who could be asked things, not the usual few paltry,

suspect whispers heard seventh hand…

The minstrel looked up at Flaeros and seemed to nod slightly,

though his drooping moustache made the gesture hard to read.

"I came to this happy house," he said abruptly, his words hewing

a sudden stillness out of the clamor of voices, "because amid all

the latest tidings of barons' boasts and lost lasses and trade

shortages, there's real news for one here: the Regent of Aglirta

has put out an urgent call to parley with one Flaeros

Delcamper!"

Heads turned, brows lifted, and murmurs rose. "Flaeros?"

more than one uncle asked, in astonishment that might have

pained the young bard had he not been hastening down the last

flight of stairs so eagerly, spilling out the words, "I am he!"

The minstrel- Three bless him!--waved his free hand out from

his harp in the flourish with which folk of music salute bards.

"Lord Flaeros, I am Taercever Redcloak, harp of the road, and

honored to meet you. Before you ask: I know nothing more than

the bald proclamation I've just imparted. The regent hopes to

see you at Flowfoam soon, for parley."

Flaeros drew himself up, feeling all eyes in Varandaur on him,

and made his voice as deep and mellifluous as he knew how. "I

thank you, Master of the Harp. Your music honors our house,

and I'll ask no more, save what all here would know: what news

rides high in Aglirta?"

The bard Taercever smiled, something akin to mockery in the

twist of his lips. "The usual chaos of barons clawing for power.

The waiting hands of hireswords are filling with coin in plenty

again, as brigandry is so sharply on the rise."

"And is it?" the nearest uncle of Flaeros growled, waving a

gleaming goblet as large as two servants' heads like a

disapproving finger.

The minstrel shrugged.

"When armed men at loose ends wander so rich a realm,

Lord," he told the glossy curves of his harp, "trouble always

awakens, and with a sharp edge. Yet so much swift and

unforeseen trouble that only dozens of lancers and scores of

bowmen can quell it?"

"Aye," another uncle rumbled, "I take thy point. Tis a tune

we've all heard a time or two too often before. So it's war again,

sooner or later. Anything else?"

"A talking cow shown at market in Ibryn," the minstrel said

lightly, pausing for the expected—and enthusiastically

given—snorts and dismissive growls. "Oh, and something more:

word hisses over all Aglirta like shaken bedsilks that the regent

is looking for—this!"

From the folds of the weathercloak bundled beside him the

minstrel plucked up something bright, that caught and flashed

back hearthfire like a hand mirror. It was a scepter of massy

gold swept into the likeness of a dragon's head, jaws slightly

agape, atop the proud curve of a many-scaled neck.

The minstrel moved his arm slowly, so that all gathered

around him could see its magnificence. The eyes—amber-hued

gems?—seemed to glitter, as if the wyrm could truly see them.

There were gasps, and some drew back. "The foe of the

Serpent," someone in the crowd muttered, before Flaeros could.

And then from among the servants crowded to the fore a

figure darted. A handsome steward, who thrust aside the

plucking arm of a Delcamper uncle with a hand whose fingers

were suddenly hissing, snapping snake-heads.

Amid the gasps and shrieks the steward never slowed, racing

forward to spring up onto the feast table where the minstrel had

bent to wrap his cloak around his harp.

Taercever glanced up, saw his peril, and flung the scepter in

his hand-not at the rushing steward, but towards Flaeros at the

foot of the stair.

The bard grabbed for it, but tried to keep his gaze on the

steward's charge; the heavy scepter dealt his arm a numbing

blow and clattered on the steps beside him.

A knife flashed…

Serving maids shrieked.

The minstrel sprang back.

An uncle vainly hurled a goblet and another bellowed for

guards as Taercever caught his heel on his stool. It tumbled

under the diving steward as his gleaming blade stabbed down,

rose again—and Snake-worshipper and minstrel plunged out the

window together.

There was a thunderous splash below—and everyone started

running.

"Fetch the snake-head!" Uncle Hulgor shouted, his hoarse

bellow cleaving the uproar like a trumpet. "I'll deal with him!"

"Three look down," Uncle Sarth snarled to Hulgor, giving his

young kinsman a glare as the bard snatched up the scepter and

stared at it in wonder, "but young Flaeros seems to wear drawn

swords and danger like an always-flapping cloak!"

"Aye," Hulgor said with some satisfaction, as they both drew

their slender, ornamented swords and watched guards trotting

into the room with halberds in their hands. "The lad's become

someone of importance-in Aglirta, at least."

"Aye, Aglirta," Sarth said sourly. "Where all the troubles

always are."

Yet even as Hulgor waved his blade at the window and

snapped orders about boats, lanterns, nets, and hooks, Sarth

stood guard over the wonder-struck bard, who was still hefting

the scepter in his hand, turning it round and around as he felt

something stirring within it, some magic that made his arm

thrum and tingle.

"The regent must have this, and my presence, too," Flaeros

murmured. "At once."

The bard sprang up the stair in a sudden charge of his own,

heading back up to his chambers to prepare.

Sarth shook his head and ran after him, gasping and growling

after a few flights of steps, his sword gleaming in his hand as

Varandaur erupted into shouting tumult around him. He was

getting too old for this…

"As we all do," he grunted, slashing a particularly ugly display

of crownflowers out of its urn as he passed. They fell before his

blade without a fight, scattering petals in a golden rain, and

Sarth raced on, his legs feeling heavier and heavier. Aye, too old

by half.

Something rose dripping out of the night-dark sea, glistening

wet in the moonlight as a fin grew fingers, and then a human

arm. That arm took firm hold of a wet rock, and a faceless snout

rose to join it.

The snout rose, thickened, and became a head that watched a

second creature rise from the waters, sinuous tail curling, and

grew arms of its own, its faceless head split in a great vertical

mouth to spit forth onto the rock a damp cloak, wrapped around

a harp.

The other shapechanger's head grew a similar gash. It spat

the steward's knife onto the stone beside the cloak, and then

twisted into a jagged smile.

"Nice harping."

"I try, Indie. I try."

The Koglaur who usually went by the name of Oblarma

heaved herself out onto the rocks, fins and tail melting away in

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Ed Greenwood - Band of Four 03 - A Dragon's Ascension

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