The Dragon's Doom

23

Great Serpent Rising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not."

"Harsadrin? Thelvaun?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fangmaster gave Ambelter a considering look. "Well, not so. Despite our best efforts, Aglirta still has barons and tersepts ruled more by ambition than by fear of us-and some of these have already invited outlander hireswords into the realm to fight for them. More than a few wealthy Sirl merchants are also watching what unfolds in Aglirta, and gathering mercenaries for their own forays into the Vale."

Raunthur the Wise nodded. "We can't get terrified farmers and villagers to rise in arms in any numbers or effectiveness. If we move openly to take Flowfoam, we'll be forced to hire outlanders to forge an army of our own."

"And so? A shortage of coins has never seemed to be among your problems."

"No," Caronthom agreed, "we've hired armies before and could do so again-but we dare not begin whelming until the new Great Serpent has been found, or we face the danger of becoming the victims of our hirelings. Some brute of an outlander warlord will crown himself King of Aglirta-and we'll have achieved nothing but to rouse the whole realm, weaken it, and empty our coffers."

Ingryl Ambelter nodded. "That's more wisdom than I've heard in many a year. So how will I know if I've found your Great Serpent for you? How do you tell when you've found him?"

Raunthur the Wise shook his head with a smile, remembering. "There's a… feeling. Any Priest of the Serpent knows, the moment they're in the same room as the chosen one. We can feel the power of the Dark One, flowing from him."

Ingryl Ambelter nodded again. "Well, that seems clear enough. I accept, with thanks." He smiled-and the Dwaer beneath his robes erupted in a bright blast of force that stabbed out at the shieldings of Caronthom and Raunthur.

In an instant they flared to a blinding brightness, and the Dwaer-bolts sped on to the shieldings of the other priests, leaping from one to another. Some of the Serpent-lords tried to weave magics of their own, in the space of a scant breath, or rose to flee; but when their shields were struck, those magics were rooted to the spot, and then-one after another, like mushrooms frying in a pan-popped and died to shrunken darkness, leaving nothing of themselves or the men they'd held behind but a little sizzling wetness. So passed most of the Lords of the Serpent.

The slaying was done in less than four breaths. The Spellmaster of All Aglirta smiled around at the last drifting smokes, used the Dwaer to suck in every vestige of heat and spilled power, cast another long look at the Serpent-statue, just to be sure, and calmly strode to the door.

It was trembling and straining under a magic cast by some of the boldest priests outside. Ambelter smiled tightly. Before leaving the ruined house in Sirlptar, he'd knotted his thieves' sack into a bulky neck scarf that looked more like a bib than anything else, to cover the Dwaer. He adjusted it now so that the Dwaer was completely hidden beneath it again, carefully put one hand on the Stone beneath its concealment, and banished the scry-seal spell on the doors-apparently with an airy wave of his other hand.

Several priests almost tumbled into the room. His hand never leaving the hidden Dwaer, the Spellmaster stepped back and let them all flood in.

They stared around at the empty room, still echoing with power and sharp with the smell of fiery death, and then looked at him in dawning terror and anger. But before any of them could yell or hurl anything, he said coolly, "The most senior Lords of the Church have charged me with a great task, and then taken themselves into seclusion with a very powerful magic. I have been set in office over you until the Great Serpent himself commands otherwise."

He turned to the man he judged the most dangerous, and added, "My first orders to you are to go and summon to me here Maskalos and Cheldraem from Ibryn. They are to meet with me without delay." Without pause he pointed at the next man and ordered, "Bring here also Naumun of Sirlptar."

Continuing to turn, he pointed at the next priest and commanded, "Escort to me Lethsais, from Telbonter."

The next priest was trembling with fear or rage, and Ambelter spoke to him gently. "Bring me the Lord of the Serpent Yedren." He continued naming the Lords he'd been told of, and issuing firm orders for them to be brought to this chamber.

"And who are you to give such orders?" a Masterpriest demanded furiously. "I see no Carondiom assuring us that we are to obey you-nor countermanding the orders he earlier gave to me, which were to watch you carefully, wizard, for signs of evil deeds or intent toward our Church. I can only-"

The Dwaer flashed under the concealing scarf, just for a moment, and the flagstones beneath the shouting Masterpriest moved, rippling like living things. They drew back into huge serpent-jaws, jutting up into fangs with a yawning mouth between-a mouth inhabited by the now frantically spell-weaving Masterpriest, whose booted feet seemed to be stuck in the heart of the opening maw.

As the other priests watched in pale-faced silence, the mouth widened almost lazily-and then closed with a snap, snatching the shouting man down into the floor. Stones rippled again and then lay flat and seemingly solid once more.

"I'd hoped to avoid unpleasantness," the Spellmaster said quietly, "but the authority given to me was absolute. Go and fetch some other priests, one of you; I'm sure you know as well as I do that I haven't assigned devout faithful to fetch all of the Lords of the Serpent yet, and now I'm short one fool of a Masterpriest. He was going to bring Kelhandros here from Sart, so now I'll need someone else for that task. And mind you bring them without delay, Brothers; the urgency is such that the Church cannot wait. Go now, all of you. The only one I expect to see again without his assigned Lord of the Serpent is the one fetching me more Brethren to serve me as summoners."

The scramble for the lone door was as frantic as it was fearful, and Ingryl Ambelter barely had time to smile before he was using the Dwaer to draw the door firmly closed behind the last fleeing priest.

He spell-sealed that door for time he needed to conjure a floating mirror in the air before him, work a very complex and exacting magic on himself, study his reflected result critically, and make a few adjustments.

When he banished the mirror, unsealed the door, and turned to face it once more, a stealthily invisible shielding-spell gathering strength around him, the Spellmaster of All Aglirta sported a green-scaled snake's head in place of his own. He flashed his yellow eyes with a smile, tasted the air with his flickering forked scarlet tongue, and waited for the new group of priests to appear.

If he served all of the Lords of the Serpent the same deadly fate, priest after priest, he could hardly help but become the Great Serpent in truth. Well, he'd always been good at crafting magics against poisons and venoms-and it was a better way than many of gaining the throne of Aglirta.

The mists fell away, and the world around them had changed. They stood in a high-vaulted, arch-windowed chamber hung with rich tapestries, a floor of gleamingly smooth marble beneath their feet. Guards in bright-polished silver armor whirled around to face them, glaives flashing in their hands as they dipped. Their wielders gasped, straightened again, and bowed their heads. The nearest one said swiftly: "Fair greeting, Lord and Lady Overdukes."

"Fair greeting, Braeros," the Lady Silvertree replied gravely, for all the world as if she wore naught but a nightrobe, sash, and boots every day, and customarily went about the world collecting unlovely and aging naked men. "Where bides the King?"

"In the Southern Sunchamber, Lady," the guard replied swiftly, "with the Lord and Lady Delcamper."

Embra nodded her thanks and the overdukes hastened to the southern doors of the room, with Hulgor padding along barefoot in their midst frowning and asking Flowfoam around him, "Lady Delcamper? Has the lad married, then? Why, the scamp! To manage a courtship without laying a hint of it amongst us, his dearest kin…"

As they trotted along a passage, crossed a larger, grander one, and mounted a broad flight of stairs, servants and courtiers alike cast swift, startled glances at the unclad stranger among the four hurrying overdukes, and then as quickly looked away again and continued about their business.

Craer took silent note of those few who froze and then hastily ducked away in a different direction than they'd been proceeding-and as they turned on a landing of Axehelve Stair, he laid a hand on the arm of the duty page of drat stair, and murmured, "Suitable garb for this noble lord who accompanies us, with a dresser and a screen, to the Southern Sunchamber, before I draw twenty breaths more."

The page bowed and raced off down the steps as the overdukes proceeded, passing several pairs of stern and watchful guards, and entered the Sunchamber.

A small ring of guards faced outward in a corner of that large, bright, and mostly empty hall. Within the ring of sentinels, three folk sat at one end of a table that had chairs for six, talking earnesdy: King Raulin Castlecloaks of Aglirta, and-

"Flaeros, you young rogue!" Hulgor roared, lumbering forward with his arms flung wide. The guards lowered their glaives menacingly, even as Hawkril bellowed, "Blades aside and rest easy, all!" and the bard stood up and gasped, "Uncle Hulgor!"

The guards glanced away from the onrushing, naked graybeard to their king, and Raulin grinned and waved a hand to indicate agreement with Hawkril's shouted order. The guards drew aside, revealing-

"Orele, graul you! Gel, I thought the maids'd been a trifle more on both the lazy and frisky side this last while! Well, by all the watching stars and gods-"

And then Flaeros and his uncle slammed together in an unruly bear hug, and Hulgor's words were lost in roaring laughter. The older Delcamper shook Flaeros, ruffled his hair, and men scooped him off his feet and carried him like a featherweight child's doll to where the Lady Orele waited demurely-and swept her up into the same jovial embrace.

Crushed against his overweight nakedness, the wrinkled Lady of Chambers clung to her cane as the guards watched, some of them grinning openly, and gasped, "Don't crush all of my ribs, you great bear!"

Hulgor bellowed laughter into her face, making her wince visibly, and then held Orele out dangling at the full stretch of his arm. "Well, now, Old Wrinkles, ye still look as slyly beautiful as ever, under all mat starch and sharp tongue! Why, graul me if-"

"Lord Hulgor," the aging servant said primly, "at your age you should be very aware that 'tis less man seemly for men of your station and present lack of dress to go about accosting servants of any gender, particularly mine. Have you misplaced your dresser? Or left some wench in such rude haste that your garments remain strewn about her bedchamber, perhaps?"

"Uh, the Lord's dresser," the breathless page announced from behind them all, judging this the proper moment to interject. Craer thanked him with a grin, and guards chuckled as Hulgor let go of Flaeros and snatched Orele up in both hands to bring her close for a kiss.

"Ah, now, Sweethips, 'tis not like that at all! Why, not a-"

Lady Orele was shorter and far more slender than the Lord Hulgor, but her present position in midair placed her feet at a most effective height for dealing with accosting lords. She made use of that situation now, abruptly.

The Lord Hulgor announced his reaction to Flowfoam with a strangled "Eeep!" and a hasty, staggering return of the Lady Orele to the ground. It was accomplished with as much care as a pain-wracked, doubled-over man of advancing years can manage, and Orele acknowledged his effort with a curtsy before telling him severely, "As I've said before on several occasions, my lord, I am not to be addressed by that love-name in public. Nor as 'Wrinkles,' 'Old Boot,' or some others you should recall." Then she whirled around to turn her back on him, ere calmly resuming her seat.

Flaeros gazed at her, shaking his head slightly, before turning to the king and saying, "Your Majesty, may I present the Lord Hulgor Delcamper?"

The wincing, naked man glanced up from his pain and gasped, "Ah, yes, ye'd be Raulin. Charmed."

The king took Hulgor's hand and chuckled. "Likewise. Be welcome in Flowfoam, and at all our councils. Nice fashion statement, but one I hope few of my courtiers will adopt." He hesitated, and then added with a grin, "Save perhaps the Lady Factor of Sart, Florimele, and-"

"Not now, Raulin," Embra Silvertree told him warningly. "You know such public revelations will only lead to trouble. Florimele's mind is far less lovely than her skin, believe me." She turned and gave Craer a hard look. "And before you say something clever, Lord Delnbone, 'tis none of your business and irrelevant anyway, so ask not how much experience I've had of either." She turned her head again. "Lord Hulgor, is our bargain fulfilled?"

Dressers were swarming around Hulgor Delcamper, and his face was still creased with pain, but he managed a nod, a smile, and the words, " 'Tis indeed."

Embra nodded, and turned to her three companions. "Then, Overdukes, we've an unfinished task and a Stone to accomplish it with." She drew off her boots, thrust them through her sash, and stroked her bare feet across the marble floor, nodding as she felt the old Living Castle enchantments stirring. Then she held up the Dwaer. "Let's try again to trace the Dwaer my father holds."

Hawkril promptly turned to the page and growled, "Proper garments for the Lady Silvertree, here in haste!"

"A moment," the Lady Talasorn added, as the lad rose out of a florid bow to race for the doors. "Bring also, from the chambers I share with the Lord Craer, the belt with three pouches on it. Open none of them, mind, unless painful death beckons you strongly this morn."

The page nodded and ran out. Several courtiers tried to crowd in as the door opened, but the guards were watching the king and Hawkril for signals, and received the same gesture from both. Accordingly, they swept the room clear again and closed the doors, despite shrill protests.

Silence fell in the Sunchamber, and the Four became aware that they had an interested audience. Embra was already trembling in near trance, calling on the Flowfoam enchantments and the Dwaer whilst trying not to "hear" either, but the other overdukes gazed at everyone crowded into the room until Craer waved a dismissive hand and said, "Now, now, there's not really going to be much to see. This is real magic, not-"

"Craer," Tshamarra warned silkily, and the procurer shut his mouth softly, without saying another word. The guards goggled at him as if the Three themselves had appeared in glowing splendor to work a miracle before their very eyes… because, of course, that was more or less what had happened.

At which point Embra opened her eyes again and murmured, "I've found Overduke Blackgult and that Dwaer-in the Silent House."

The other overdukes looked at her, and Hawkril rumbled, "I find myself unsurprised."

Embra nodded and sighed. "Somehow I knew we'd end up back there before long."

Craer shrugged. "We should fix it up and make it our palace."

She wrinkled her nose. "Haven't you forgotten that it drives Silvertrees mad?"

Craer grinned at her. "It's already done its worst to you, I'd say."

They stuck out their tongues at each other in unison.

The Sunchamber doors crashed open. The Four whirled around, the guards swung down their glaives… and relaxed again as the red-faced, panting page and two chambermaids came trotting across the room, bearing clothes.

Embra unconcernedly undid her sash, letting her boots fall, and tossed her robe to the floor. The page stared, swallowed, and then twisted around as he skidded to a stop in front of her, so that she beheld his back, and he was facing the chambermaid who held a heap of lacy and frilly things. The page tentatively dug into them with trembling hands, mumbling, "Wasn't sure… just which…"

The Lady Silvertree patted his shoulder and then bent past him, brushing against him very distractingly. "None of these," she said, brushing aside most of the diaphanous silk. "These are for Lord Hawkril's entertainment, not rough travel."

The armaragor rumbled wordless embarrassment behind her as Embra plucked up a scrap of silk and then a pair of leather breeches, placing the former as a breechclout and sliding the latter on over them. She selected a plain cotton shirt, a broad cummerbund belt of stiff leather, and then a leather warrior's jack, good boots, gloves, and a half-cloak. "My thanks. Hawk, buckle me up, will you? And bring one of those cloaks-my liking for unadorned stone floors as beds wanes and wanes."

"Ah, I wa-" a voice hailed them, from across the chamber, but Orele and Embra snapped: "No!" in unintentional unison.

The Lady Silvertree added, "Lord Hulgor, please take no offense when I say that getting guests bloodily killed holds no attractiveness for we of Aglirta. We go now to a haunted place of much magic, where we'll face traps, poison, monsters, and perhaps a hostile madman with one of these!' She held up the Dwaer, and added softly, "Forgive me for saying this, Lord Delcamper, but you'd not last six breaths."

Hulgor sat back with a sigh. "No offense taken-graul you, Lady. Bring me back the tale of what befell, mind!"

"We will," Embra promised, and turned to survey the rest of the Four. "Ready?"

"As much as always," Tshamarra replied with a sigh. "Take us."

The Lady of Jewels smiled grimly, waved a hand, the Dwaer flashed, and the mists rose.

Mists curled and sank away, and the Band of Four blinked in the gloom of a great chamber, as Embra's Dwaer flashed and another Stone winked back in reply, from not far away.

It was whirling in an endless loop around a man lying unclad and asleep upon a robe on the dusty stone floor: Blackgult, looking much as they'd seen him last. At every flash of Dwaerindim, the air around the orbiting Stone glowed momentarily, outlining a great curving barrier like a sphere of armor.

"He's in trance, probably healing himself," Embra said quietly, "and that's a shield-spell around him, a powerful one. We'd best wait for him to awaken, and hope."

"Hope that he's healed?"

"Hope that what awakens is still Ezendor Blackgult, and not something else," the Lady Silvertree replied grimly, advancing to where she could peer all around the large chamber. "Find the doors, all of them. We'd best mount a guard."

"Embra," Craer said warningly, pointing. A snake had reared up in the dust just inside one open doorway, regarding them with glittering eyes. Unhesitatingly, Embra blasted it to oily smoke with a Dwaer-bolt. Blackgult's Stone and shielding both flared into answering light, but seemed otherwise unaffected.

'Just a snake, or Serpent-work?" Tshamarra asked, as Craer and Hawkril advanced on that door, blades ready in their hands.

"Serpent-work," the Lady of Jewels replied shortly. "That was a spy, spell-linked back to someone else; I hope I gave him a searing headache. Come, Tash, let's spell-seal these other doors."

The armaragor peered through the open archway- "No door left here, not for years. Dark and empty passage, opens out fairly soon… and we forgot torches."

"So we did," Embra said with a sigh, turning away from the door she and Tshamarra had just sealed, tracing it with glowing fingertips in unison with the Stone held between them. "We'll have to conjure up a door, then, and-"

Whatever else she was going to say was lost forever in a sudden hissing flood. Dozens of serpent-arrows came streaking along the passage and through the doorless arch in a deadly storm. They sizzled to ashes where they struck Blackgult's shielding, but otherwise broke from their racing flights in midchamber to whirl into separate strikes at the Four, darting like wasps.

The Dwaer flashed in Embra and Tshamarra's shared grasp, and from both sorceresses a gigantic cloak of flame snarled up-and fell over the hissing missiles.

Flaming snakes writhed and tumbled in all directions, falling as embers and whirling scraps of ash, but many of the rigid serpents still swooped and soared. Craer sprang high to slash one to ribbons in midair with two daggers, and Hawkril waited warily, warsword raised, to hack down any snake-shaft that darted through the pursuing claws of Dwaer-flame.

Only one did, and his slash struck it aside just enough for him to grasp its body and fling it to the floor. The armaragor stamped on its head, hard, and whirled away from the feebly wriggling remains-just as the door Embra and Tshamarra had sealed burst with a roar of dust, rubble and searing magic.

Serpent-priests came leaping through that fog. With a shout of glee Craer sprang to meet them, his blade flashing and Hawkril right behind him. A half-seen priest stopped and raised a bow. Before he could fire a serpent Embra sent a Dwaer-blast into his face-and then whirled to fire another, larger bolt at something large, bony, and bestial that was crawling slowly in through the doorway.

It quivered, seemed to shudder soundlessly… and kept coming, as large as a one-horse cart, its low body covered with angled plates of bone.

Tshamarra cursed softly and backed away from the advancing bulk. "What is it?"

"Hawk!" Embra called sharply. "Back here, please! I like not the look of-"

Another monstrous something loomed up out of the drifting dust of the felled door, gliding through the ranks of Serpent-priests, and a soft green glow of magic wafted out from it, washing over the procurer and a priest he was busily slaying.

They stiffened and groaned in unison. Then the Serpent-man toppled, trailing blood, and Craer ducked away, falling heavily amid the rubble and losing the gory dagger he'd just used. On his hands and knees he scrambled clumsily but hastily back to Embra.

A Serpent-priest ran after the procurer, but Hawkril plucked up a fallen stone and hurled it hard, taking the man in the face and hurling him back into a hard landing on the floor.

Craer slithered to Embra's feet, his voice a raw gasp. "Whatever that is, its magic numbs… weakens… Three Above, it still hurts…"

Tshamarra hastily snatched the Dwaer from Embra and bent down to touch Craer's shoulder with it.

The Lady of Jewels eyed both advancing monsters, and frowned. "Hawk," she asked quietly, "what are these beasts?"

"Fearsome monsters, Lady," Craer offered brightly, shaking still-numbed hands as he smiled his thanks up at the Lady Talasorn. Embra didn't even bother to sigh.

The armaragor pointed at the bone-plated, crablike creature advancing slowly toward them from the archway. Serpent-priests could be seen advancing in its wake, keeping well back. "Yon's a dargauth, moving about as fast as such things can move. 'Tis like a gigantic scorpion without a stinging tail. Those two pincer-claws up front are what it slays with; they can easily crush warriors, armor and all. See the dark syrup dripping from its barbs? Smeared on… poison, methinks."

"Plague-taint," Tshamarra murmured. "Let's blast it."

Embra nodded, and they directed the full fury of the Dwaer on the crablike dargauth as they backed away, eyeing the other monster now. Blackgult's circling Stone flashed at each orbit, tugging at the fire the sorceresses of the Four were sending.

"Over here, Ladies!" Craer snapped.

Embra whirled, stabbing out with one hand, and brought the Dwaer-fire with her. It washed over a handful of spellweaving Serpent-priests, setting the clinging dust cloud aflame, and seemed to struggle with a fresh gout of the soft green glow spewed by the larger, gliding monster.

Craer shook his head. "The Snake-lovers certainly seem to have made the Silent House their home. Hawk, this beast would be-?"

"A sarath of the swamps. They must have used spells to tame it, but yon green light is magic of its own, that slows prey and foes, even puts small creatures to sleep or freezes them where they stand. The spell-bolts come from somewhere amid those spines along its back, but it feeds like a score of eels: with many little fanged sucking maws on its belly. We're food to it-and it can smother, too. I've only ever seen one before."

"Charming," Tshamarra remarked, as they backed away to the very tingling edge of Blackgult's Dwaer-barrier. "Any chance of getting these two horrors to fight each other?"

"Not while the priests are controlling them," Embra replied grimly. "I'll not be surprised if both these beasts turn out to be humans twisted by the plague."

"We haven't swords enough to fight both," Hawkril rumbled. "Any swift sorcery?"

"Litde time for that, either," Tshamarra snapped, watching the beasts close in. Neither the scuttling thing nor the gliding one were moving with any haste, but they were both perhaps four running strides distant now, no more, with grinning Serpent-priests behind them.

The Dwaer flashed in Embra's hand. "Close together! Hurry!"

The Lady Talasorn looked a silent question at the taller sorceress, who replied, "I'm shielding us, just as my father did himself. I'll try to link to his barrier. If I manage it, I can bring it forward to enclose us, leaving us protected by his Stone, and free ours to smite again."

The air glowed around them, a faint, pearly radiance that visibly threw back a gout of the sarath's green glow. Both monsters clawed at the air as if it was thickening around them.

Suddenly the sarath climbed the air in front of the overdukes, whirling up on its side to drift along in front of them, underbelly raised to gnaw hungrily at nothing with its dozens of lampreylike mouths.

"Well," Craer offered, studying those questing jaws narrowly, "this certainly beats getting drenched in beast-blood and wondering if you're unwittingly hacking up all the tasty bits. I-"

There was a sudden flash and roar from behind them, and the room rocked. The Four found themselves whirling through the air, away over the sarath and the rubble of the shattered door, the air around them gleaming like a great shell of armor.

Amid frantic Serpent-shouts, a strange, bubbling cry arose from behind them, liquid and slobbering and agonized. The overdukes crashed into the far wall of the chamber, drifting to slow stops against creaking, dust-spewing stone as their shared shielding-spell smote the wall and stuck there, held by a great thrusting force. With one accord, they struggled to turn around and see what was happening behind them. "Has the Griffon-?" Craer gasped, his words echoing with a strange, soft distortion.

The monsters were both torn, splattered heaps against the chamber walls, broken-bodied priests strewn among them. Beyond, in the leaping heart of Dwaer-fire…

Blackgult lay sprawled and bare, just as before-but awake now, staring fixedly at nothing above him, and screaming. His raw cry went on and on, neither rising nor falling, and its mindless anguish made all of the Four wince or shudder.

If the Golden Griffon's mind was still his own, he would surely have been staring at the slender young woman who floated just above him, barefoot and clad in a clinging black gown. Her hand was on Blackgult's Dwaer, and her eyes were on the Four.

Great flashing dark eyes, gloating openly as she smiled. She was beautiful, long raven-dark hair swirling around her as if with a life of its own as she sneered at Embra's attempts to wrestle the shielding into some sort of lance, to stab at her. The Lady of Jewels struggled against the force pinning the overdukes against the wall, snarling… and as she slowly forced the nickering shield forward, Hawkril and Craer raised their weapons and advanced with it. Three strides, four…

The Stone flashed in the hands of the stranger-and abruptly she was gone, the force that pinned the Four vanishing with her. Blackgult's screams ended in midbellow as the overdukes tumbled to the floor.

"Graul it, doesn't Darsar have enough mysterious and beautiful sorceresses?" Hawkril growled.

Craer grinned. "Ah, Hawk, there're never enough, you know! Why, I-"

Tshamarra caught hold of his arm with one hand and dealt him a stinging slap across the face with the other.

Then they were driven abruptly apart by the passage of a whirlwind between them: Embra, running hard toward Blackgult with their Dwaer glowing fitfully in her hands. "Father? Father?

Boazshyn of Ool was fast. He managed to conjure the clawed and fanged beginnings of a spell before the Dwaer swept him away-but he Died as surely as had tall and patrician Lord of the Serpent Yedren, who'd spread empty hands and said flatly, "I cannot fight you, mage, and I will not. But neither will I bow or plead to a wizard, particularly one of Silvertree's Dark Three."

Ingryl Ambelter grinned as the oily smoke that had been Boazshyn drifted away, and regarded his own tingling fingers. This was succeeding beyond his wildest hopes-if he drank the lives of these fools with the Dwaer, some measure of their power passed into him! Busily slaying Serpent-priests just might be in truth the road to truly taking the mantle of the Great Serpent.

Power… this was power, more than he'd ever felt before. Power in and of him, not Dwaer-flow… might of his own. He could feel the flows of natural energies around him now, faint but ceaseless. His adopted serpent-head felt… right, as if it had always been part of him. Yes, increasingly so, it felt fitting and proper.

There came another respectful knock at the door. "Lord Ambelter," announced the by now familiar voice of the tremulous priest he'd made doorguard, "to you have come the priests Rauldron of Tselgara, Maskalos and Cheldraem of Ibryn, Pheltarth of Adelnwater, and Old Nael of Ridirym. They await your pleasure without."

"Rauldron may enter," Ambelter called, making his voice loud, imperious, and grandly welcoming. "We shall speak alone, ere you admit the others."

The doorpriest knew by now to close the door firmly between each arrival, and keep the other priests well back from it. Long-laid and powerful enchantments made scrying into this chamber difficult; no one would be casually eavesdropping from outside. Wherefore Rauldron, like all of the others before him, was doomed.

The Spellmaster of All Aglirta smiled as the doors opened to admit a slightly frowning priest. Handsome, dark-haired, and keen-featured, with eyes that darted everywhere. Yet empty-handed, and alone. Ambelter's smile broadened. This was truly like skewering flatfish from a feast platter…

"Welcome, Lord Rauldron," he began, gesturing toward the front bench. "Though unfamiliar to you, I have been charged with a most sacred mission by Caronthom 'Fangmaster' and Raunthur the Wise. It involves you and all of the other important priests of our faith, and-"

The doors were closing. Ambelter strode to the bench, deliberately exposing his well-shielded back to his guest. When he was seated, Rauldron should be in just the right spot for an easy Dwaer-drain. Why, he was getting quite deft at this…

The fire snatched the Spellmaster off his feet, shredding his shieldings as if they were nothing more than mist, and flung him headlong into the bench with bone-shattering force.

Luckily, Ingryl's own hand was already on his Dwaer, and his hastily spun shield drove the bench before him, shattering it into great shards as it smashed into the next bench, and that one in turn to the next.

In the grinding heart of their destruction, Ingryl Ambelter whirled, his rage and Dwaer-fire rising together.

Lord of the Serpent Rauldron grinned at him, the glowing web of his next Dwaer-weaving already flashing out toward the Spellmaster-and for just a moment, it seemed to Ingryl that he was looking into two mocking, glittering lights in the empty eyesockets of a skull rather than the flat, brown eyes of the priest.

And then his foe's Dwaer-attack fell on him with the crushing force of a hammer, stabbing through his crackling, flaming shieldings in a dozen places.

The Spellmaster shrieked in fear and spun frantic Dwaer-fire around himself, whirling it in a spiral that-yes, thank the Three! -caught up the bolts reaching for him and whisked them around and around him to augment his own armor.

Ambelter's own slashing counterbolt went hopelessly awry, twisted by the maelstrom of magic around him, and cracked its way along the front wall of the room, slamming the door open and scorching its way into the far corner, where it clawed mightily at the stones and spent itself.

His foe lashed him with a Dwaer-spell that rent his whirlwind as if it was nothing-a nothing that flashed blindingly and rocked the chamber again with the shrill shriek of its dying. The Spellmaster flung himself aside and spun himself a better shield, hurling another bolt at his foe-or so he desired Gadaster to think.

In truth, this bolt was but a shell of the one he'd hurled before. It took the same flashing path as its predecessor, as the man who was not Rauldron strode forward, weaving another Dwaer-spell, but veered out the open door while just a small and snarling offshoot raced on to the corner.

The other priests were in the audience chamber outside, eyeing each other in open fear as the battle raged in front of them-and Ambelter's draining bolt fell on them like the clutching fingers of a desperate man, splitting to strike every man there.

One of them had time to hurl a magic back into the chamber, a net of fanged serpent-mouths that Gadaster casually destroyed. He sent back a flood of lightning, and as the priests stood rooted, struggling against Ambelter's draining magic, that river of lightning struck them all at the knees, hurled them to the stone floor, and slew them. Ambelter's drain-tendrils greedily took their lives.

Even as Gadaster struck at him again and the Spellmaster was forced to retreat, his shieldings faltering and failing in showers of sparks and blossoming darkness, Ingryl Ambelter felt new energies-the stolen vitality of the priests on the threshold-come raging into him, followed by something else.

Something large, and deep, and dark. Something that made him tremble at its very touch. More power than he'd ever tasted before, shuddering into him, making him strong, and cold, and… and…

INGRYL AMBELTER, a god whispered in his head.

"Y-yes?"