The Dragon's Doom

10

A Night of Destroying Castles

Hawkril Anharu twisted his blade again. The man transfixed on it sobbed, choked, and then stared over the armaragor's shoulder at Tshamarra and Embra, seizing the chance to gaze on beauty one last time.

They stared coldly back at Onskur Pheldane as his gaze became fixed, his jaw fell slack, and his sword slipped from failing fingers.

Hawkril tugged out his blade and let the body fall. It crashed heavily down the wall to sprawl beside the groaning procurer.

"Bones broken," the armaragor snapped, looking from Craer up at the two sorceresses.

"No doubt. Did he damage the door?" Tshamarra asked wryly, as she and Embra hastened forward. Hawkril and Blackgult stood watchful guard as the Dwaer shone and spun again, and Craer came wincing back to his feet, muttering, "I've got to get me my own magic Stone, really I do!"

"Later," the Golden Griffon told him with a grim smile-as shouts arose from the passage behind them. The overdukes whirled around.

Dozens of Stornbridge cortahars, bright blades gleaming in their hands, were advancing toward them, a Serpent-robed man snapping orders at their rear. Craer eyed the foremost knights and observed, 'Just now, Lady Silvertree, would be a very good time to do something destructive."

"Indeed," Embra replied with dignity. "I'll turn this shielding into something deadly, if our friendly priest yonder doesn't-"

It seemed the Lady of Jewels was fated never to comfortably end a sentence during this early morning excursion through Stornbridge Castle. Fire roared up into a thundering sphere at the far end of the passage, a shouted command made all the cortahars scatter and crouch by the walls… and the passage shook as the ball of flames started to roll forward.

Embra smiled. "He's bound to send at least one more firesphere, right behind the first. We must await just the right moment…"

"Mages always say that," Craer complained, "and then never say what the right moment is, or why. 'Tis all part of acting too mysterious for their own good, or ours, I say…"

Embra gave him a withering look and did something that made her Dwaer-shield twinkle with tiny dancing motes of light-as the firesphere roared up to them.

It thundered against the shield, intense heat licking overduchal faces- and then rebounded away, back down the passage, rolling considerably faster than before.

"So did he cast a second sphere?" Tshamarra murmured. Embra gave her a wolfish smile. "Touch the Dwaer here, and help me steady the shield. We're going to need-"

The blast that smote their ears then made the stone floor leap upward, spilling them all onto hands and knees. Pieces of armored cortahar were flung through the air like rags, tongues of flame stabbed in all directions, flagstones burst into deadly hurtling shards-and everything struck the unseen Dwaer-shield with a force that drove Embra and Tshamarra back up to their feet, up and bowed over backwards as if unseen and brutally raging men were shoving at their breasts and shoulders… and then fell away from that barrier, leaving the overdukes and their end of the passage unharmed.

Obviously, there had been a second sphere. Dust, flames, and smoke roiled in an impenetrable cloud in front of them. Then, amid shrieks of grinding, rending stone, the floor above gave way with a great, gathering roar-and crashed down into the passage.

"Back!" Embra screamed, turning to run. "I can't stop rolling sto-" Craer stared openmouDied at the sight of riven chambers from the floor above slowly tilting and spilling their contents-furniture, tapestries, silver bowls, and portraits-toward him, but Hawkril closed a numbing grip on a leather-clad shoulder, plucked the procurer bodily off his feet, and ran him back along the passage scant instants before a chunk of wall as large as a coach bounced out of the cloud of destruction and tumbled ponderously toward them, shedding blocks as large as their bodies as it came.

"I believe," Blackgult shouted, as they ran down the passage together, "I was going to have some words with you about destroying castles, daughter mine. Now I believe I'll need some time to craft new words in that regard!" "Claws of the Dark One!" Hawkril shouted. "The roof!" Tshamarra looked up, stumbling and almost sprawling headlong in doing so, and saw cracks-dozens of cracks-racing overhead, blocks of stone already falling from between them. "Embra!"

'Just… get… yon door… open," the Lady of Jewels gasped, as they neared the end of the passage. "I moved the shield… to be a roof above us… but…"

Hawkril threw the procurer forward. Craer landed running like the wind, clawed open the door, and then stood beside it like a servant, gesturing each of his fellow overdukes through with a flourish. Embra tarried until last, holding up the shield-and then gave him a friendly swat to make him move when he started making silent "No, after dice" gestures. As she plunged through, the last of the ceiling came down with a crash.

Panting, the overdukes turned and stared at the cloud of dust and tumbling stones beyond the doorway.

"In answer to your question," Embra said briskly, dusting her hands on her hips and smiling at Tshamarra, "yes, I do believe he did cast a second sphere!"

The Lady Talasorn laughed a little wildly, and then broke off suddenly. "I-I'm not used to this much fury from you four. You're changing." Four overdukes looked her way, and she added in a low voice, "And I'm changing, too."

"Later, lass," Blackgult told her gently. "Now is the time to do and be. If we're very good, this next little while, we may win ourselves time to judge and hone philosophies."

Craer looked up. "Warn me when you get to then, and I'll go fetch wine, hey?" Then he turned his head. "Forgive me, Embra, but why can't we use the Dwaer to trace the priests running around this keep?"

Embra sighed. "In the countryside and most towns and villages, of course we could, but in any Vale castle there're so many enchantments, old and new, laid atop each other, that tracing all but a particular spell you've seen cast and hooked talons onto right then, is well-nigh impossible. Add to that the echoes of all the magic unleashed here this night, and…"

The procurer nodded. "So we're back to sidling along with our blades out, trying not to be seen. Right; sidle where?"

"We must keep moving, even if we just blunder around and around the castle," Blackgult put in. "If we take a stand in one spot, or allow ourselves to get cornered, the Storn folk can close in around us as they please. Standing still dooms us."

"Now that last sentence," Craer said thoughdiilly, "would make a court saying many a king might be proud of."

Tshamarra rolled her eyes. "Craer! We're in a hostile castle, surrounded by foes trying to slay us, and-"

"Enough," Hawkril rumbled, in a voice that made them all fall silent and look at him-whereupon he gave them a little smile, and started down the tower stairs. "We go down a level, along to the next stairs, and back up to the battlements, aye?"

"I care not, so long as we get out of Stornbridge," Tshamarra snapped, "so I can find more of this fun in the next village, and the next!" She glared at Blackgult. "Why exactly did you make me an overduke, again?"

"I needed someone to hold Craer's reins," the Golden Griffon replied unsmilingly, "and you seemed willing. Now hush and trot like a good lass." The Lady Talasorn gave Blackgult a look that promised she'd remember this-and not fondly-but did as he'd suggested.

When they opened the door on the first landing below, they saw only darkness. Embra frowned and did something with the Dwaer. "Magical murk, this, and newly cast… with many foes beyond, waiting for us." Craer grinned. "So what're we waiting for, exactly?" Embra found herself grinning back at him. She strode forward, her fellow overdukes with her.

Light promptly blossomed at the far end of the passage as lanterns were unhooded; in their glimmer the overdukes could see armor gleaming on dozens of plate-armored cortahars, garnered around a familiar figure.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Seneschal Urbrindur's voice was loud and cold. "Traitors to the crown and murderers of honest Storn men, who break guest-rights with the bloodiest of crimes, and make war on us in our own castle. The penalty for such behavior is no less than death, and in the King's name I sentence you five false nobles to-"

Craer yawned, turned away politely to mask it with one hand, and then whirled around and hurled a dagger with all the force he could muster.

It was a long throw, and the cortahars had time to see the flash of spinning steel and get their shields up. The dagger clanged off one of them and shot harmlessly aside to clatter down a wall.

"Delnbone! Bring him to me alive, but maimed. For that attempt on my person, little man, your death shall be slow and painful!"

Craer yawned again. "You," he said severely, strolling forward, "have been reading too many bad Sirl chapbooks. Next you'll be telling us that we must die, foul villains that we are, that Aglirta may live! Or couldn't you afford to purchase that particular tale?"

"Kill him," the seneschal ordered the cortahars curtly. "I've no desire to listen to his insolent mouthings."

The Storn knights advanced in careful unison, adjusting shields and blades to form a solid, moving wall. It was clear by their mutters and narrowed eyes that they didn't like the look of their foes.

Not that the overdukes were all that impressive-it was that they were walking unconcernedly forward with no semblance of battle readiness at all. The two women whispered together like town gossips behind old Baron Blackgult, and all three male overdukes seemed relaxed and smiling, slouching along for all the world as if they were crossing a manor lawn for their third or fourth feast of the day.

The two forces were perhaps six paces apart, with Craer busily buffing an invisible blemish on his shortsword on one sleeve, when an invisible force of frightening intensity plucked at the cortahars, tugging them irresistibly into each other. They wavered, leaning and struggling-and then crashed together in a huge, ungainly, and silent knot.

An utter lack of sound now reigned over the passage. Men shouted and dropped their blades unheard, and Blackgult raised a hand as he smilingly sidestepped the frantic, entangled knot of cortahars-and cast a silent spell Seneschal Urbrindur did not recognize.

He discovered what it was as Craer and Blackgult closed in on him and he turned with a pale attempt at a sneer and tried to open the door into Storn Tower, right behind him. It was sealed as solidly as if it had never been there. The wall was as unbroken stone.

The seneschal gabbled soundlessly, and then frantically clawed out various daggers from about his person.

As iron-strong hands encircled his wrists and forced him to drop the two knives he'd managed to fumble forth, Malvus Urbrindur discovered the spell of silence wasn't absolute: if you were touching someone directly, the two of you could hear each other. He could hear Blackgult right now.

"You were correct in one matter," the Golden Griffon told him almost jovially. "The penalty for treason is death, as is murder done or ordered against nobility, by commoners not acting upon royal justice. Overduke Delnbone will now enact sentence upon you."

Craer reached up, put the tip of a wickedly sharp dagger against Urbrindur's throat, and then said, "Ah, let him go. It feels ill to gut a man like a hog, when he's held-and besides, 'tis more fun to chase him."

Blackgult nodded, released the seneschal, and stepped back. Urbrindur stared at the procurer for a moment, trembling-and then whirled away, viciously snatching out and hurling something as he did so.

Craer struck the hurled dagger aside with his own drawn fang, watched it bite deep into a window frame, and noted the greenish sheen on its thrumming blade. "Poisoned," he said contemptuously. "You snake."

The seneschal had run out of places to run to, and turned in a daze of desperation as Craer threw his own dagger. It sprouted under Urbrindur's chin.

The seneschal stared at him, gave an ugly, wet gasp, and then choked and gurgled his dying way to the floor, as the five overdukes assembled around him.

"Well, we're pruning the Vale of corrupt local officers, at least," Tshamarra observed, "though I suspect you'll be more satisfied when Stornbridge is dying, or the Serpents guiding him."

Embra nodded. "Behind it all, in the Vale, if you set aside the lurking Faceless, 'tis always the Serpent-priests." She indicated the door. "Shall I? Given that spells or drawn bows may be waiting for us the other side of it?"

"Ah, open it!" Craer growled. "I weary of creeping caution."

"You," Tshamarra said severely, "wearied of sanity long ago, and now seem to be wearying of something else: continued life!"

Blackgult's spell melted away before the glow of the Dwaer, and Embra spun another spell into curling, drifting existence before she opened the door.

Their first look at Storn Tower was of a sumptuously furnished room-cloth-of-gold and red silk adorning glossy-polished furniture. Bookshelves crammed with interesting-looking tomes ascended into dimness, and the floor was covered with a lush rug bearing scenes of brave knights swording a variety of fantastical beasts.

Seated behind an ornately carved table facing them were Coinmaster Eirevaur and two scribes, wearing black robes with the arms of Stornbridge on their breasts. Impassive Storn cortahars in livery rather than armor stood guard behind their chairs, with spears held in formal rest position.

Eirevaur gave the overdukes a half-smile and nod, folding his hands together on the table. An array of parchments lay before him, but there was no sign of a weapon.

As Embra stepped into the room, her spell curled around her like a cloak, moving with her. She held the Dwaer as a high lady might clutch a tiny purse as she strode to the table, glancing briefly at the ceiling overhead, the empty stair curving up into it, the similarly empty stair leading down, and the closed passage door across the room. "Fair morn to you, Coinmaster," she said politely. "Are you, too, under orders to slay us as traitors to the realm?"

The scribe shook his head. "I've refused to play such games," he announced a trifle sadly, "and am therefore under arrest myself, in the custody of these two gentlesirs."

He inclined his head to either side of him-whereupon the robed scribes came up out of their seats in lunges, spellspun disguises falling away in momentary shimmerings to reveal gloating faces, and flung serpents out of their sleeves at the Lady Silvertree.

"Die, witch!" spat the two Serpent-priests, as fangs bit deep into Embra's breasts, and thrashing tails whipped to and fro exultantly.

The Lady of Jewels sighed, calmly pulled back a vacant chair, and took her own seat at the table. The spell around her flared momentarily into gold-tinged white radiance-and the two snakes burst into flaming gobbets that flared and then were gone into wisps of smoke before they struck the floor.

Embra stared coldly at one priest, and then the other-and they flared up into flames too as her magic struck, screaming for but a breath each ere they became oily, drifting smoke.

Ignoring her bleeding wounds, the Lady Silvertree asked wearily, "Am I supposed to believe you knew nothing of their intent to slay me?"

The Coinmaster's face had gone very pale, but his answer was steady enough. "They did in fact discuss their intentions, which were to kill the Lords Craer and Hawkril, and take the rest of you captive. They spoke of sparing your lives in return for surrender of your noble offices and the Dwaer, but these were apparently the schemes of others, conveyed to them as orders. I believe this throwing of snakes was a personal invention-and it did come as a surprise to me." He sighed. "Slay me if you must. I'm guilty of my own crimes against Flowfoam, though they involve absent coins rather than bloodshed."

"I believe you," Embra replied, the Dwaer flaring into life again between them. "Treat us with continued honesty if you would, Eirevaur, and tell me: What other orders regarding us have you been given? Where's the Lord Stornbridge? Are there other Serpent-priests in this keep-and if so, where?"

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" the Coinmaster asked in apparent terror, as he pointed silently up at the ceiling and then spread his fingers twice, counting out: Five. Then he touched the carved and painted arms of Stornbridge adorning the back of a chair recently vacated by a priest, and pointed up again. So-as far as Eirevaur knew, if he was dealing in truth-five priests and the Lord of Stornbridge were above, either in this turret or on the adjacent battlements.

"Not yet-if you sit in complete silence, unmoving, until we say otherwise." Embra reached back as she uttered these crisp words, and when her fingers brushed Hawkril's hip, she mind-spoke: Say nothing. Touch the others, so we can all mind-talk.

He swiftly did so. When the overdukes had gathered close together around Embra's chair, she mind-said: We must be very careful. Twice now, something-another Dwaer, I think, used in a way I know nothing of-has tried to drain power from this one. I don't think the Serpents here have it, but whoever does is watching us directly. What I want to do now is make this man an offer of escape, and after we've dealt with him, one way or the other, we three who can work spells will use the Dwaer only to negate and oppose Serpentmagics, whilst Hawk and Craer go up and reap priests and a tersept with sharp steel. Agreed?

Can you send us aloft another way besides up yon stair? Craer thought back at her. I'm betting they've bows ready.

Of course. We 'II need to peek at the battlements, to properly see a spot to deliver you to.

'Then let's take your road. Craer's reply was echoed with wordless affirmations from Blackgult and Tshamarra.

Lass! Hawkril's mind-voice burst forth like an anguished shout. Those serpents! How fare you?

His lady's mind-voice sounded wry: Let's just say I've been reminded how painful venom can be, and how much like being on fire Dwaer-healing feels like. I'll live, love.

Then Embra called on the Dwaer with a force they all felt, and it spat forth tendrils of thick mist. Out of them she beckoned the Coinmaster.

The scribe rose, swallowing several times, and moved reluctantly around the table. When he was standing amid the overdukes-painfully aware that Craer was holding a dagger to his codpiece from one side of him, and Hawkril held another blade not far from his ear on the other-the mist suddenly swirled all around them in a sphere, and changed into something deeper and stranger.

Embra gave the trembling Storn officer a steady look. "So, Inskur Eirevaur: Do you prefer to live, this day? Or die?"

"L-live, of course."

"In Aglirta, making full report to King Castlecloaks on Rowfoam-or in exile, to an anonymous alleyway in Sirlptar?"

The Coinmaster stared at her, swallowed, and said, "In exile. Nowhere in the Vale is safe for me, once they know my treachery."

" 'They'? The Serpents?"

Eirevaur nodded mutely. The overdukes exchanged glances.

"Are they that widespread, then?" Craer asked. "Serpents in every village and town?"

"Y-yes."

"How do you know that?" Tshamarra snapped. "They've told you, you've gained that impression, or-what?"

"L-lady, many of them have dined at Stornbridge, passing on reports and orders. Threescore and more, coming singly or in pairs. Add to that the names of never-seen-here fellows they've uttered, they can't muster less than fourscore. They still come, often-and they're building up to something. I know not what, but 'tis something soon and very important. Something they believe is going to give them power over nearly every commoner of Aglirta."

"What sort of something?" Blackgult asked calmly.

The Coinmaster spread helpless hands. "Lord, if I knew, I'd tell you, believe me. Something that will spread, and that-according to a report a few days back that occasioned much celebration amongst them, the first time I've seen them here drunk and merry-has been tried somewhere in the Vale, and has worked."

"Coinmaster Eirevaur," Embra said, "have the thanks of Aglirta. Craer, give him something tangible of that."

The procurer frowned at her. "Em…?"

"Coins," the Lady of Jewels said bluntly. "Those purses you stuffed into your boots not so long ago? A man needs coins to get anything in Sirlptar."

Craer gave her a hurt look, then took off one of his boots and upended it. A slithering pile of purses spilled out onto the floor. He spread them with his fingers to make sure no daggers, lockpicks, or the like had fallen out with them, and then pulled his boot on again.

"And now the other one," Embra said flady.

"Graul," Overduke Delnbone told his second boot, as he slid it off and another pile of purses started to appear. "I suppose you want me to give him a dagger, too?"

"No," the Lady of Jewels said calmly. "I can see from here that Coinmaster Eirevaur has a perfectly good one at his belt, and he walks like a man who has at least one sheaDied down a boot. He also acts like the sort of man who'd carry at least one hidden dagger up a sleeve, probably more. He might even manage to stay alive in Sirlptar long enough to thank us."

The treasurer stared at her, and around at them all, disbelievingly, and then down at the pile of purses.

Craer gave him a disgusted look and Embra another, and plucked a wrinkled carrysack of thin cloth from his belt. He tossed it into the air and let it settle over one heap of purses.

"Try not to spend it all at once," he growled, and turned away.