Scales of the Serpent

12

Mendeln worried about his brother. He had no idea where Uldyssian had vanished to and the being called Trag’Oul was of no help whatsoever.

He is where he must be, just as you are where you must be, the dragon had each time answered to his question.

Where Mendeln was bothered him almost as much as the location of his sibling. He no longer stood in the empty darkness that seemed Trag’Oul’s domain, but rather in a wasteland, a place where there had been much carnage long, long ago.

The landscape and sky were utterly gray and not the slightest hint of wind graced his cheek. Dust covered what Mendeln assumed were ancient buildings of some sort, buildings scattered far from one another. They all bore some similarity to one another, though. Some stood nearly whole, others were barely skeletons. In addition to the buildings, there were also signs that this place had been rich in tall trees and other flora as well. Now, though, there were only the petrified traces of that once lush time. Every plant, however, great or small, had perished at the same time that this settlement had come to ruin.

As had the inhabitants. Mendeln sensed the dead. They had died long, long ago. Longer than even legendary Kehjan had existed, yet they were not fully at rest.

He awaited some word from Trag’Oul, but the celestial creature was as silent as the grave. A frustrated Mendeln finally stalked toward the nearest of the ruins, where he began dusting off the upthrust corner of one.

Not at all to his surprise, the archaic words of the language Rathma had burned into his head were just barely visible. These, however, meant nothing to him, not even after Mendeln sounded them out. He understood the “letters,” but they added up to nothing comprehensible.

Straightening, he muttered, “And so what do we have here, then? What?”

The legacy of the demoness’s previous crusade…came the answer immediately.

Mendeln shuddered, but not only because of what the dragon had said. Since Uldyssian had pointed it out, even he now recognized the similarity between his voice and that of the leviathan…not to mention Rathma, also. How long ago and how deeply had they infested his mind?

That question almost made him rebel against any further movement here, but the threat of Lilith and his concern for Uldyssian overrode the hesitation. In truth, thus far Mendeln had not experienced anything actually sinister at the hands of those who claimed that they wanted to be his mentors. In fact, if he recalled his own mind, they only acted on desires already stirring within him for the past few years.

And if learning from them could help save both his brother and his world…it behooved Mendeln to do whatever was necessary.

He stepped to the next ruins, the trek taking barely more than a heartbeat. Mendeln was aware that this was not right, that the distance should have taken much longer. However, he was grateful that he would not have to take what would have possibly been hours just to traverse his immediate surroundings.

The second structure was much more intact than the first. A quick dusting revealed more unknown words. This time, however, Uldyssian’s brother did not so quickly give up. He repeated each rune with care, trying them in different vocal variations. Perhaps pronunciation was the mistake, he wondered. Perhaps—

Suddenly, the word before him made sense. A name, or at least a noun. Pyragos.

Quite pleased by his success, Mendeln spoke the word out loud. “Pyragos!”

Instantly, the ground around the ruined building shuddered. Mendeln stumbled back, already regretting his rash action.

From below burst a grotesque, fleshless form with wings stripped of the membranes that had once given them the potential for flight. The head was shaped like a bull’s, even with two savage horns that interlocked in the middle. The fiend leaped up, dry dirt and what might have been drier skin dropping from it. Mendeln was immediately put to mind of the demonic presence that he and Uldyssian had fought in the jungle.

But something concerning this situation was not quite the same. First and foremost, the skeletal form rising up from its grave was shorter than the one in the jungle and its frame was much more petite overall despite the vast wings. Staring at it, Mendeln would have sworn that it was—or had once been—female.

Less certain than a moment before, he yet again repeated the name. “Pyragos?”

In reply, the ground to his right shook. In fact, the entire landscape suddenly convulsed. He cursed himself as he leapt back. Once had been ignorant; twice had been utterly foolhardy.

Out of the wasted landscape rose a legion of monstrous corpses, none of them completely human and all nearly bone…or some equivalent to it. In fact, there were many that to his eye seemed more merely empty garments or shadowy images. They came in all shapes, all sizes, to his eye registering as once male, female, and…simply other.

But there was something about them that did not seem right. Mendeln had faced ghosts before and these were not such. He put a hand to the foremost, a winged thing with horns that, from its slight size and certain characteristics, Mendeln judged once female. The hand went through, not so great a surprise, but the sense of former life was not there.

They are the memories of angels and demons, came Trag’Oul’s voice. Their deaths so terrible that their shadows are forever burned into this place…

Not real spirits. Mendeln wondered if either group had what he would have called a soul, but suspected not. Perhaps that was another reason they both coveted and distrusted humans…

Then…among them he sensed the coming of others. Misty forms milled around and even through the macabre memories, misty forms with which Mendeln was more familiar. These were true spirits, true souls.

But…of whom?

Show yourself to me! he demanded. Show yourself!

They did. A legion of men and women, many of them astonishingly perfect even in death, overwhelmed the visions of demons and angels. Mendeln recognized them for who they were, for their perfection was as Rathma’s.

The children of Sanctuary’s founders. The first nephalem and the immediate generations after.

The ghosts of the nephalem stood motionless, as if awaiting his next action. Mendeln had no notion as to what that might be and Trag’Oul appeared silent on the subject. Evidently, it was up to Mendeln to make his own path.

But with an endless array of dead before him, what was that path?

He looked to the foremost of them, a woman of such dark beauty that she made his heart beat faster. Her silver eyes stared into his without blinking.

Hoping that he was not making a fatal mistake, Mendeln reached out a hand.

The female nephalem immediately bowed her head so that the top of it hovered directly before his fingers.

Acting on a hunch, Mendeln let the fingertips graze the lush, black hair. Immediately, he felt a force surge through him and a voice—a distinctly feminine voice—said to him, I was Helgrotha…

He pulled the fingers back. The nephalem raised her head, the silver orbs again staring into his own.

Curiously, although he had only heard the name—her name—Mendeln discovered that he now knew much, much more about her. He could imagine her as she had once been, from her birth to her death. Once, she had been nearly as powerful as Rathma and had watched over those creatures who lived during night as opposed to the day. She had been kind, but also firm in her protection of those for whom she had cared.

He stood there, wondering what next to do. The dead waited with him, forever patient, even if he was not.

“And what am I to do with you?” Mendeln demanded. “Will you march against Lilith for me? Will you? Will even one of you do this?”

The woman raised her left hand to him. The action startled Mendeln, who took another step back. But the specter did not attack. Instead, in her hand materialized a long, narrow object. A bone.

She offered it to him.

Having no idea what he should do with the grisly gift but certain that it would be folly to refuse it, Mendeln gingerly gripped the piece of bone.

“Thank you?” he blurted.

But even as the last word slipped from his lips…what had once been a nephalem called Helgrotha faded like a dying wisp of smoke suddenly caught in a breeze. Mendeln looked around and saw the rest of the ghostly legion vanish in like manner.

No sooner had they faded away, than the ruins, the visions of demons and angels—the entire wasteland—followed suit.

A moment later, Mendeln did the same, suddenly reappearing in the dark emptiness with which he was starting to become too familiar.

Say the word again. Say it, son of Diomedes…

“Pyragos?” Mendeln instantly felt a coolness in his hands, an almost refreshing coolness. He glanced down and saw the bone shimmer. It took all his will not to drop the fragment.

It is the first word of summoning and this the item that will better bind you to the powers involved in such an act. The nephalem’s bone twisted, reshaped. It grew slightly shorter and much slimmer. One end narrowed to a point, then flattened. The edges grew sharp.

The shimmering dulled but did not completely fade. Mendeln stared at what he held.

A dagger…an ivory dagger such as he had seen Rathma wielding.

They have accepted you who hears them —the children of angels and demons slain so foully —accepted that you will keep Sanctuary from becoming either the fury of the Burning Hells or the oppressive order and worship of the High Heavens. They who were the first birthed in Sanctuary and are, because of that, still more of it than either Lilith or Inarius can understand, forever open the link between the phase of afterdeath and that of living…

“‘Afterdeath’?” Mendeln repeated, but the glittering stars did not further explain that term and Mendeln finally understood that he should define it as best he could on his own.

Take up the dagger in one hand, Trag’Oul then commanded. When Uldyssian’s brother had done so, the celestial leviathan added, Turn it point down to your palm.

Mendeln did not like where this was going, yet he still obeyed. “Great Trag’Oul—”

Prick your palm, son of Diomedes…

“But—”

It must be done…

He had come this far, Mendeln thought. Besides, all the dragon asked of him was a slight jab, nothing more. What harm could come of that?

What harm, indeed…

Mouth grimly set, Mendeln did as instructed. He pulled the point away almost as soon as it touched, so swiftly, in fact, that at first he wondered whether he had actually punctured the skin.

But a tiny red dot did form, so miniscule that Mendeln expected Trag’Oul to command him to try again. The dagger still hovered an inch or two above the palm…

Then, to his shock, a thin stream of blood rose from his hand to the blade’s tip. Only magic could explain this defiance of nature. The tiny stream covered the point…then continued to flow up, covering more and more of the narrow end of the blade and heading slowly but inexorably toward the hilt.

Mendeln could only imagine how much blood it would take to reach that point and started to pull his hand away.

Leave it…

Mendeln wanted to disobey, but did not. It was not that Trag’Oul had just cast some spell over him, merely that he yet trusted in the dragon that no harm would come to him.

But when did I start to trust him? Before he could answer that question, the first drops touched the handle.

The blood already flowing continued its journey, but no more rose from Mendeln’s palm. In fact, when he sought the small wound, he could find nothing.

Watch…

His gaze returned to the dagger, where the blade was now colored crimson. Yet, the crimson grew more faded with each passing moment, until finally it disappeared.

The dagger is bound to you and you are bound to the dagger. Through it, you are bound to them and through them, the Balance.

“What is this Balance ?” Mendeln called to the stars. “You speak of it and I think of it, but I have never known what it truly means!”

The stars moved, briefly erasing any semblance to a beast. When they returned to their proper positions, Trag’Oul replied, The Balance is the even distribution of Light and Dark. Its essence is most significant to Sanctuary, but it goes beyond, to all of creation. A world where Dark rules would burn itself up. A world where Light commands would eventually stagnate. If either gained enough control of Sanctuary so that the other could not match it again, then that would be the end of all things…

There was sense to what the leviathan said, or at least Mendeln saw it that way. Yet…“But should we not ever strive for good over evil?”

Light and Dark are not necessarily good and evil, son of Diomedes. Yes, good must outshine evil, but if the knowledge of evil is erased utterly, even good may turn on itself…

“Even still, I would never side with any demon!” Such a notion seemed incredulous.

What almost appeared mirth touched Trag’Oul’s “voice.” “Never” is a word rarely attained in fact. And would you ever join the cause of an angel…such as Inarius…who would keep Humanity bent low in prayer to him?

The dragon had him there. From all he had learned, Inarius’s notion of what was right meant absolute obedience to him.

Mendeln shook his head. “I cannot believe that we must suffer two such forces without any hope…”

Did I say there was not? The High Heavens and the Burning Hells create their own notions of their absolute might. The dragon paused, then added, They will someday find that they are far from the ultimate masters of all things created…

Uldyssian’s brother seized upon the other’s words. “Are you saying that there is something more, something greater?” He recalled something that he had wondered about earlier. “The spirits of the firstborn; they have not moved on, but where do all others go? Where do the souls of my people go?”

To their rightful place…to beyond the reach of both the High Heavens and the Burning Hells and this universe of tragedy they have wrought…

“What does that mean? How do you know all you say?”

We know because we know…

Mendeln noted the “we” and somehow felt it did not include Rathma. Were there others like Trago’Oul? Was that possible?

But the celestial beast said no more on the subject and Mendeln knew that, if he asked such questions, Trag’Oul would not answer him. Still, some of what the dragon had said just prior gave him hope again.

“Then, there is truly a chance for Sanctuary to be more than what they would have of it…” Mendeln clutched the dagger, which felt so right in his hand. It was not a weapon—although it could easily be used as such—but one key toward freeing Humanity’s destiny from the angels’ and demons’ perpetual war.

However, that was only if he and Uldyssian managed to somehow help prevent Lilith and the mysterious Inarius from succeeding with their own plots.

The angel bothered him most. “This Inarius…Rathma’s father…what does he do now?”

For the first time, Trag’Oul radiated uncertainty. Lilith is a creature of many plots and although difficult to always ferret out, her mark is generally quite noticeable. Inarius, on the other hand, plays the game more subtly. It may be that we are already destined to fail against him, for he may have moved to defeat her and us simultaneously. Rathma can judge him better, but even he is uncertain as to how well…

Which was a lengthy way to tell Mendeln that the angel was as much an enigma to his mentors as he was to the human. “But we know he acts as the Prophet, whose face stands unveiled for all to see! Surely, we can calculate his actions thus—”

Inarius stands utterly veiled even surrounded by a multitude of eyes. What is seen of the Prophet is never necessarily what he is, even more so than the Primus, who has been not one but at least three…

And here he brought up another point that had troubled Mendeln even before Rathma had whisked him away. “The demon Lucion was the Primus and he is no more. It is Lilith who wears that mask, surely.”

But would Lilith have created such chaos in Hashir?

She would not have and Mendeln knew that. He had wondered at what had seemed irrational even for the demoness.

“Another commands?” Uldyssian’s brother finally asked. “Another demon? That could work in our favor! If even indirectly this third interferes with her plots—”

It does not…in fact…it has accelerated it.

That did not bode well. With both him and Uldyssian gone, that left only Serenthia to watch for the demoness. Still, in many ways, Cyrus’s daughter was likely far more capable than Mendeln. “Serenthia will guide the edyrem. They trust her. They will follow her in all things—”

The stars yet again shifted, then resettled. Mendeln had learned quickly that this was a sign of the dragon’s displeasure. Yes…they will heed the commands of your companion in the absence of your brother…and thus become Lilith’s more and more…

Mendeln let out a growl of frustration. “What are you not telling me? What is it you know?”

There was an unusual hesitation…and then Trag’Oul replied, Uldyssian’s edyrem believe that they follow your friend, but in doing so, they actually follow the demoness.

“Follow—no!”

Yes…it is Serenthia of Seram that they see before them, but she is in truth Lilith and has been so since some days ago as Sanctuary counts time…

“Serenthia…” Mendeln fell down on one knee, so struck was he by the news. His mind raced back to Partha and Malic, who had worn the skin of another. “No…Serenthia…no…it cannot be…”

The skin of another…Lilith wearing Serenthia’s skin… Hashir might have been far smaller than Toraja, but the mark the edyrem left upon it—especially within the temple—far exceeded what they had done in the first city. The temple still stood, but it was awash in blood. The high priests had been made special victims, their bodies now hanging from the ruined pillars standing at the building’s front. The power of the edyrem had allowed bolts a foot long to drive into the thick marble… after going through the soft flesh first.

Each of the priests had their arms held directly over their heads. The metal bolts had pierced the back of the hands, which had been first clasped together. Bolts had also been driven through the throats and torsos.

The suggestion for such a visual display had come from the woman now leading the edyrem. The priests had stolen away Uldyssian, Serenthia had vehemently claimed, and one by one they would be hung so until some voice among those remaining revealed where he was.

But all the priests perished, each swearing that they did not know what had happened to the mob’s leader. Serenthia had seized upon that to further scour the area for supporters of the sect, especially among city leaders.

Three days after Uldyssian and his followers entered the city, Hashir was, in many ways, little more than a scar.

The populace hid while this happened, fearful of both the temple and the newcomers. However, on the fourth day, Serenthia—her long hair flowing wildly in the wind—went to the market center and proclaimed in a voice that echoed throughout the city that she had now brought peace and hope to Hashir. This was naturally met with some wariness on the part of the locals, but the edyrem ushered many out of their homes so that they could see that she spoke the truth.

To her captive audience, Serenthia offered the same as Uldyssian, but not immediately. The Hashiri had witnessed the might of the foreigners and so not a few were tempted. Yet, Serenthia did not show even those the way, although she among all the edyrem should have been able to do so.

Instead, in the very temple they had conquered and even as the bodies of the priests fed some of the local birds, good Romus found himself summoned for an audience with the master’s first acolyte. He had no idea what Serenthia wanted of him, save that, if Uldyssian were no more—as was the rumor vilely spreading through the ranks—then she was their only hope of not only continuing on, but even merely surviving.

Serenthia had taken for her temporary quarters those of the local high priest. Romus, who had always been poor even when he had been a brigand, could only marvel at the silken wall coverings and goldlaced tapestries as he entered. Some of the regret that he had had for the harshness of the edyrem’s actions in Hashir faded as he considered the Triune’s massive, ill-gotten wealth.

A moment later, he stopped short. Serenthia lay stretched across a reclining couch, her gaze on a parchment in her hands. Her long, lush hair cascaded down her shoulders and even enshrouded part of her face. She was a breathtaking sight to behold even in her battle-worn garments, especially to Romus, who had been infatuated by Serenthia almost since the first he had seen her in the Parthan square.

He finally managed to clear his throat, which made her immediately glance up.

“Romus!” The smile that lit up her face kindled the fire in his heart. Had Serenthia asked him to singlehandedly fight a pack of the savage creatures called morlu, he would have willingly leapt into the fray. “I feared you wouldn’t come!”

“How could I not, mistress? Anytime, for anything, all you need do is call and faithful Romus will rush to obey…”

She sat up. “How poetic! But come! Why are you standing all the way over there by the doorway?” Serenthia patted the couch. “Join me here!”

Bowing low, he hastened to approach. At the couch itself, the onetime thief hesitated, but again Serenthia smiled and patted it.

He seated himself, leaving a respectful space between them. Romus looked at his mistress and immediately found his gaze captivated by her glittering green eyes. A small part of him vaguely wondered why he had once thought them blue. Surely, he could not have been so mistaken…

“Romus…you were one of those closest to Uldyssian besides myself.”

It took him a moment to notice the past tense. “We’ll find him, we will, mistress! Have no fear of that!”

She shook her head. “No, dear, loyal Romus…even though I’ve said so to the people, I don’t think we will. Like his brother, I fear Uldyssian’s lost to us forever!”

It was unthinkable. The master had defeated terrible demons and legions of warriors! Nothing could take him so easily…and yet…

“Some say…mistress…some say that they saw his brother near him just before he vanished…perhaps…”

“A disguise, like that worn by the two monsters who attacked me.” Serenthia shuddered, which made Romus want to comfort her in his arms. “No, a demon took Uldyssian, of that I’m certain.” Her green eyes bore deeper into his. “One almost took me even. Before Hashir.”

He was aghast. “Mistress! When?”

“In the jungle. When Uldyssian ordered us across the river. You recall?”

“Aye…” Romus gritted his teeth. In some ways, it bothered him even more that she had nearly been taken than it did that Uldyssian was now missing. He found it impossible to imagine the edyrem without her.

“Uldyssian…and even Mendeln…protected me then. Since they vanished, I’ve worked as hard as I can to protect everyone else, but…I must tell you something, for your ears alone, dear Romus.”

“What? What?” Without realizing it, he slid closer until they were nearly touching.

“I am afraid. Afraid. I can protect the others, but who is there now to protect me ?”

The answer escaped him before he realized how it sounded. “Me! I’ll always be there to protect you, mistress!”

Before his face could redden too much from shame, Serenthia suddenly put a soft hand to his cheek. She smiled. “You would? Would you really, Romus?”

It all began pouring out. “I’d give my life and soul for you, mistress! I’d stand against all the powers of the Triune! I could never let anything happen to you!”

He expected her to throw him out for daring to speak so when it was evident to all how much the master had meant to her.

And yet…

“Romus…” Serenthia whispered, her lips so close that he was nearly ready to sacrifice his life just to kiss them once. “Romus…you’ve no idea how much that means to me…”

She caressed his cheek again, then, almost reluctantly, leaned back. The former brigand was unable to stop himself from exhaling sharply.

“If you mean what you say…and I so very much hope that you do…this gives me another idea…”

Still recovering from before, Romus managed only a grunt of inquisitiveness.

“You know how Uldyssian introduced others to the gift. But with me, he delved deeper…and that’s why I think that my abilities grew faster than anyone else’s.”

“Very likely, very likely,” he replied, glad to have a safe subject to discuss.

“I think…no…I know…how he did it. They were private moments, when he could focus on me alone. You did notice that there were times when he and I were gone for hours?”

Romus recalled some such periods and felt for the first time a jealousy that the master had been able to partake in them with the woman before him. “Yes…mistress…”

“Good!” Her eyes seemed to glow brighter than the torches in the chamber warranted. “Will you do me the honor of doing as Uldyssian did with me? It’ll mean hours together, for which I apologize, but with both him and Mendeln gone, someone else must step up…and I suppose you could better protect me while I protect you…”

He could hardly deny her. “I’m yours, mistress. To my very soul, I’m yours. Teach me, if you think me worthy…”

“I find you very worthy,” Serenthia returned in what from any other woman would have sounded coy to Romus. Not the mistress, though. Not her.

Steeling himself, the brigand finally tore his gaze from hers. She wanted him merely as a fellow comrade, nothing more. Everything that she had suggested made perfect sense; Romus should have felt honored for that alone. If the master was indeed never returning, as she clearly believed, the least that his loyal follower could do was to see that his legacy lived on.

Feeling better about his decision, Romus bowed his head. “When shall we start, mistress?”

Her smile curled higher. “Why not now?”

“Now?” He thought quickly. “Saron and some of the others’ll need to know, mistress, so they can do without me…”

“They are capable of that already. You need go and tell them nothing…not even after tonight…”

Her hands went to his and when she touched them, a flush went through Romus. Trying to recover, he looked to the doors and only then noticed that they were shut.

“I want us alone…the better to concentrate,” Serenthia explained. “You understand the need for privacy, don’t you?”

“Yes…yes, mistress…”

She giggled, which caused his face to again flush. “And one more thing, dear Romus…” Her fingers intertwined with his. “You need never call me ’mistress’…”