The Dragon's Doom

27

The Renunciation of the Dragon

Trembling with grief, Embra Silvertree bent forward the few inches of space her father had died trying to cross, and kissed his dead mouth fiercely.

And a gout of shining blue flame rose from within Ezendor Blackgult and hissed out of him, into her.

Swallowing it, Embra gasped-and froze like that, her lips parted and her eyes staring wildly. Flames of that deep and splendid sapphire hue licked up all around her, appearing from the empty air around her body. In their midst, the tall and slender Lady of Jewels was tugged upright, as if plucked by unseen strings, and held there, motionless in the rushing flames. Blue fire roared up all around her, but touched her not.

The Aglirtans now stumbling cautiously through the ruined Throne Chamber, their king among them, stared at her doubtfully. She gave no sign of seeing or hearing anyone.

"He's dead! Blackgult is dead!" a palace guard gasped, staring down at the man fallen on his face at her feet. "The Dragon is dead!"

Armed men burst in through several archways as he spoke, breathless from their race up from the docks.

"The Serpent's dead, too! Aglirta is free at last!" a courtier cried.

"No," a new voice snapped from behind King Raulin Castlecloaks, as a blood-wet sword burst through the royal breastplate from behind. "Now Aglirta is free!"

The king reeled, and then toppled forward as the Tersept of Ironstone shook the gurgling, dying Raulin off his blade, snatching the crown from the king's head in the same motion.

"Behold your new King!" he roared, as he crowned himself.

His armaragors standing with him took up the cry: "King Ironstone!"

"It's customary," Craer Delnbone remarked, as he sprang from atop a broken wall to crash down atop Ironstone's shoulders, slitting the man's throat with a dagger and striking the crown from his head to clang and roll on the floor, "to have just one king in a realm at a time. Orele?"

The Lady of the Wise was already picking her way forward through the rubble to where Raulin lay, the sorceress she'd just healed at her side. Wordlessly the old woman turned to Tshamarra, and the last Talasorn sorceress fed her what magic she had left, to heal the king.

The moment it was clear the Lady Overduke's magic was bent on healing and not blasting them down, Ironstone's men surged forward with a roar-but were met by royal warriors headed by Hawkril, Hulgor, Flaeros, and Craer, who sprang to meet them, striking savagely with their blades.

In a trice the Throne Chamber was in an uproar of men swording each other, chambermaids screaming from the balconies, tersepts shouting orders, and hurrying folk. Royal guards led by Suldun Greatsarn rushed into the room to form a defensive ring around the stricken king-and some of the courtiers shifted their shapes into warriors wearing Flowfoam armor, plucked up weapons from among the fallen, and joined them.

More arrivals from the docks charged in with swords drawn, novice Serpent-priests with venomed knives slipped in among the royal warriors and started slaying, and the clang of steel became deafening in the shattered Throne Chamber. Men were dying bloodily everywhere. Embra stood like a living torch of blue flame in the center of the tumult, and tersept turned on tersept to settle old scores.

On her knees above a blood-drenched Raulin Castlecloaks, Tshamarra Talasorn went pale as she spent the last of her power. Swaying, she almost fell over on her face-but Lady Orele put a steadying hand around her shoulders, ignoring an armaragor bearing down on them with bloody sword raised.

The man was still two hurrying strides away when Hulgor Delcamper crashed into him from one side and Flaeros Delcamper hit him from another. The young bard smote his foe so hard that his sword broke, its riven ends singing past the Lady Talasorn's nose. Snarling, Flaeros drove the broken stub of the blade into the man's face, and they crashed to the floor together, rolling-the bard trying to deal more harm to his foe, and the warrior lost in pain. Hulgor ended it for him with a sword-thrust, and kicked the body aside to grin encouragingly at Orele.

She shook her head and sighed. "Lads never grow up, do they?"

The Tersept of Thornwood died screaming an instant later, his fingers hacked away by the cortahars of a rival and a spear run through him-and at the same time, not far away, the Tersept of Harbridge took a hurled Serpent-dagger in the face and went down, tripping over the heaped bodies of his fallen armaragors.

The ruined Throne Chamber was strewn with the dead and dying now, and as the Tersept of Mesper roared out a challenge to his rival of Tarnshars and launched into a lumbering run, Embra Silvertree suddenly threw up her hands and bellowed "Enough!" in a voice that rocked Flowfoam and echoed back from the banks of the Silverflow and the crumbling battlements of the Silent House.

Scales rippled into being on her cheeks, and then as swiftly faded again. Dragon scales.

"Sithra dourr" she whispered, her voice still thunderous with the awakened power of the Dragon-and all drawn swords, daggers, spears, and like weapons in the room were plucked into the air. Above the roofless part of the Throne Chamber, the sky was full of swords-and where there was still a ceiling, the weapons were driven deep into smoking stone.

Silence fell as dumbfounded men turned to stare at the Lady of Jewels.

Wild-eyed, her breast heaving and her hair standing on end, Embra Silvertree glared back at them.

"There's been more than enough killing in Aglirta today," she said fiercely. "Let it end, now."

A deeper silence fell, wherein men glanced sidelong at each other, and then hurriedly back to the tall, slender woman still sheathed in wisps of bright blue flame, wondering what she'd do next-and what they dared try, in the face of her fury.

"The King lives," Craer Delnbone remarked, into that stillness.

"H-help me up," Raulin said urgently. Hawkril Anharu took one great stride and plucked the King of Aglirta to his feet.

Raulin Castlecloaks's face was bone-white, and he was still drenched in his own blood, his breastplate missing and the rest of his armor much hacked and dented. Yet he looked both calm and older than he'd ever seemed before as he faced the silent crowd and announced, "I'm very weary of Serpent-priests and warring barons and tersepts alike. Henceforth, let it be known that the penalty for worship of the Serpent, anywhere in Aglirta, is death. There will be no more barons, and any tersept who does not declare loyalty to me-and prove it, by service in the army I shall whelm today, to scour the Vale-shall lose his rank and his life. Loyal Aglirtans, to me! No longer shall-"

"No," the Lady Silvertree said firmly, from behind him. "No, Raulin, this is not the way. Loyalty and trust must be earned… and not by greater tyranny than that practiced by those you deem traitors."

She bent, and picked up the crown. "I think Aglirta deserves better."

There was a brief murmur from the watching crowd as she lifted the crown, and the sunlight caught it, making it gleam in her hands.

"What do you mean?" Raulin whispered, whirling around. "You know I never wanted the throne…"

"Precisely why you've done better than a more ambitious man would have," the Lady of Jewels replied, "yet still there's unrest in the Vale, and swords out, and Serpent-mischief."

She turned slowly to look around at all the faces staring back at her. "I could change all that," she told them quietly. "I am the Dragon. A new Serpent is rising even now, but he'll be but a lone, weak man if none worship him-and for now, I hold sway over Aglirta, to do whatever I desire."

She turned again to regard Raulin, and added gently, "And I desire Raulin Castlecloaks to be free of the throne."

"Aye! Down with the King!" someone shouted, from among the watching warriors.

Embra whirled to face whence that cry had come. "No! Say rather: 'Up with the King!' For years upon years the King slept, and Aglirta was the Kingless Land. The curse of the realm then was ambitious, warring men-each baron ruling as his own king, and desiring the rest of the Vale. 'Tis the curse of the realm now. You folk of Aglirta have too many rulers."

She climbed a heap of rubble so that everyone could see her, and turned slowly to look at them all with the crown shining in her hands. "There was a time when I would never have dared challenge what was right and lawful, what nobles and kings said and did. That time is past. Hear then my will. I desire Raulin Castlecloaks to rule as Regent of all Aglirta. There will be no King, hereafter, and no barons-only tersepts who garrison and give judgment and watch over folk around them in the name of the regent. All of these titled folk shall rule in the name of the people."

Embra sighed, looked down at the crown, and added, "The regent will travel the realm constantly, at the head of an army that will build and fix and tend crops and settle disputes and improve roads as well as fighting. Flowfoam will become a court and a place of healing where folk are tended by priests of the Three, who shall be permitted no temples elsewhere, but only open-air altars. No one shall worship the Serpent in Aglirta upon pain of exile, and in like manner none shall venerate the Dragon."

There was a stirring of released breath from all around her, as folk lost themselves in relief that there was to be no attempted tyranny of sorcery, and started to consider her words.

"I renounce this ancient war of Serpent and Dragon," Embra added, "and so long as I curb my power, and none worship me or the Scaled One, the new Serpent can never become stronger than I am. The madness and the turning-to-beasts were fell Serpent-magic; they will end when the last Serpent-priests are slain or driven forth from Aglirta. The Dwaer are hidden, sealed where they're scattered to by my power-and I shall know if anyone disturbs them. My companions will renounce something else with me: our title of 'Overduke.' Our task here is done."

She tossed the crown into the air and made a swift and simple gesture-and the royal circlet of Aglirta burst apart into ringing shards that dissolved in flame… and faded to empty air ere they hit the ground.

Another shared sigh arose all around her, and Embra stepped down from the height of tumbled stones, saying as she went, "Yet we'll always be guardians of Aglirta. If Aglirta should need us, you'll see us again."

She strode to join the rest of the Four, adding over her shoulder, " Try not to let Aglirta have need of us."

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Flaeros Delcamper cried, "Behold the Guardians of Aglirta!"

'"the Guardians of Aglirta!" most of the crowd roared back, their cry thunderous, suddenly eager.

"Wait!" a tersept snarled. "Castlecloaks, are you going to stand for this?"

Silence fell again, very suddenly-and into it Raulin said firmly, "I am, and welcome it dearly. I intend to find and meet with every priest of the Three and every tersept and former baron to hear their personal acceptance of Embra's wise way. Those who refuse to accept it will have to leave Aglirta, or face the swords of those who stand with me. I also want to hear from every man and lass of Aglirta the names of any Aglirtans they deem wordiy of sitting in court judgment over them-I'll need such people as officers in my regency. Embra's right: We've seen far too much of sword and spell and Serpent in Aglirta, and too little of honest toil and earned coin and good harvests and feasts-and peace to enjoy those feasts in!"

"Well said!" the Lady Orele said crisply, and from among the warriors Lorgauth the Smith agreed loudly.

"For Aglirta!" Flaeros Delcamper cried, in the manner of grand bards Darsar over. "The Guardians have spoken! The regent has spoken! For Aglirta!"

"For Aglirta!" came the thunderous reply, and then everyone began talking at once.

"Well, that's settled," Craer commented, cradling an exhausted Tshamarra in his arms as he watched Hawkril embrace a trembling Embra Silvertree. "So how about the first of those feasts, then? I'm starving!"

There was a general roar of approval from the folk standing nearby, and a cry swiftly started of "Feast! Feast!" Throats all over the Throne Chamber echoed those words, and folk stirred into action, rushing once more-hurrying past the sprawled, fly-ridden corpses of Ezendor Blackgult, many Lords and Brothers of the Serpent, and dozens of dead Aglirtans.

With his arms wrapped around his softly weeping lady, Hawkril Anharu gazed down at the man who'd been his master for so many years. The grave would be next to Sarasper's. "Four no longer," he murmured-and then discovered he was crying too.

The taverns and feasthouses of Sirlptar were astir with merchants arguing excitedly about one man's arrival in their streets. Word had raced like a storm breeze through the city: Regent Raulin Castlecloaks of Aglirta had come to Sirlptar.

Prelude to an invasion, some said hotly. Come to beg union, or coins from Sirl city to rebuild the Vale, others claimed. In need of seeing what real wealth could bring but he could only dream of, a few insisted. Here like everyone else, to shop or pay debts-or even to collect them, others reasoned, though what some penniless lad from war-torn Aglirta could have lent anyone in Sirlptar was hard to say.

Wherefore curious crowds of the idle, those too wealthy to work, and those whose profession it was to peer and overhear things followed the lad and his sizable entourage wherever they went-which was, eventually, down to the bustling docks, specifically to a wharf of some age and little importance where a long, slender sea-rel creaked at the pilings.

There the sometime king greeted the master of that vessel-one Tel-gaert, whose ship was the Fair Wind-who seemed to be expecting him. The crowd drew close to hear what might unfold, and saw the regent embrace a handsome young lord of about his own age.

"May you have a fair wind for Ragalar, Flaer," Raulin said huskily, his throat suddenly tight. "You always come when I need you. I'll miss you."

"Not nearly as much as I'll miss you, and all green Aglirta, too," the bard replied. "Send word if ever you need us, or want to see us, or hunger to spend some time smelling the sea in Varandaur."

"Aye," Hulgor Delcamper put in, clapping Raulin on the shoulder, "where Orele can mother you like a warcaptain!" He roared with laughter as the aged Lady of Chambers gave him a glare and a prod with her cane.

"Gentles," Master Telgaert murmured, waving a hand at the waters, "the tide turns already."

"And we're late, as usual," a short, slender man who had the sleek look of a successful procurer said heartily. "But of course. So let's be kissing and cuddling and getting you Delcamper rabble aboard, hey?"

The slender woman beside him winced. "There are gentler ways of saying that, Craer."

"What, the sly nothings courtiers tongue all the time? Aren't you sick of them by now, Tash?"

"Longfingers," a taller woman said firmly from behind him, "say farewell, get out of the way, and shut your mouth for once-or we'll all soon be able to watch how well overclever scions of House Delnbone swim!" Embra raised the toe of her boot meaningfully.

"Like unto an eel," Craer boasted, bowing with a flourish.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me," Tshamarra Talasorn told the sky just above her innocently, "given what I see of my lord in our bedchambers, of nights."

The procurer assumed a scandalized expression, and drew back from his lady to utter a shocked protest-only to have his ear grasped firmly by the Lady Orele, who towed him around to face her, kissed him firmly on the lips, said, "Farewell, lad. Call on us when you grow up," and marched toward the waiting ship.

When she reached its gangplank, calmly ignoring the mirth behind her and the rude gestures Craer was enthusiastically making at her back, she nodded to the slender woman in leathers who waited there-a grave nod of recognition that was returned in kind.

"Orathlee," the woman of the ship identified herself with a warmly welcoming smile, holding out a hand to help her aged passenger aboard. Two of the Wise would have much to talk about, on the run to Ragalar.

Flaeros Delcamper was blushing like a flame as he followed, and Hulgor Delcamper was grinning in his wake, for Embra Silvertree's kisses had been both long and deep, and those of Tshamarra Talasorn only slightly less so.

Two or three of the Delcamper manservants held out their faces hopefully as they trooped past to help load baggage, but the two sorceresses merely grinned and waved them away-and at least one of those men took his leave wearing an expression of clear relief. Sorceresses were not to be safely trifled with, and the Dragon of the Arrada even less so.

In a surprisingly short time lines were cast off, farewells were called, and the Fair Wind sailed. The sleek ship caught the breeze immediately and scudded swiftly out of sight, and the regal party turned away from the docks.

It took them only about three chattering paces to become aware that amid the hurrying sailors, cellarers, and carters were some individuals who did not move, but stood like statues grimly awaiting the regal party-and that these persons were forming a ring around the Aglirtans.

Hawkril growled deep in his throat and laid a hand on the hilt of his warsword-and the folk of the docks melted away from around him with a deft wariness that bespoke familiarity with many brawls and spilled blood, leaving the regal party facing their foes.

A dozen men. Sirl mages, by their garments, wizards for hire. Behind them stood a row of wealthy merchants from the Isles of leirembor, smiling in triumph.

Although she knew very well that the leiremborans still sought revenge for Blackgult's failed invasion, and probably saw this as a perfect opportunity to either slaughter the ruler of Aglirta, or win from him concessions or a rich ransom, Tshamarra Talasorn assumed the role of the bewildered outlander, and asked crisply, "Yes, sirs? What is the meaning of this?"

The wizards merely smirked. One man of the Isles cleared his throat importantly, stepped forward to speak, and-kept silent as Craer and Hawkril drew their blades with a flourish and stepped forward to defend the regent. Behind them, Raulin swallowed nervously and drew his own sword.

Tshamarra raised her hands with a ready spell crackling warningly around them, and stepped forward. "Desist, wizards," she warned, "or there'll be slaughter this day on the docks of Sirlptar."

The mages sneered at her and shook back their sleeves to lift their own hands. The fires of risen magics crackled around them, too.

"Not so mighty without your Dwaer-Stones, are you?" one of them chuckled.

Embra Silvertree smiled back at him. "Oh, we manage," she replied softly-and soared up into Dragon-form, towering great and terrible amid the chaos of their bursting enchantments and frantic slaying-spells.

Screams broke over the docks of Sirlptar, and folk fled in all directions. Tshamarra smote one mage reeling with a spell, Craer brought down another with a hurled dagger to the throat, and above them the Dragon leaned down and breathed fire.

Her huge gout of rolling flame broke over three of the mages… and left nothing of them but dancing cinders. Others abruptly remembered important business elsewhere and vanished-either in a winking of mage-light or in a terrified sprint toward the nearest alley.

In the space of a gasped breath twelve Sirl wizards were gone from the docks, leaving a handful of terrified leiremborans frantically beating at their blazing robes and garments. One of them ran along the wharves with a terrified wail until he reached a spot where he could leap into the sea and douse the flames.

Embra let him go, but lowered her great head to look straight into the eyes of the remaining merchants, and said, "Come to Aglirta with hostile magic, or the words of the Serpent on your tongue, and you can expect a like reception." She used the power of the Dragon to magnify her voice so that it rolled out across Siriptar like thunder, carrying to every ear and for some miles beyond. "Those who come in peace, to trade, we welcome-but never mistake our welcome for weakness."

Embra's words boomed clearly in the taproom of the Sighing Gargoyle, causing every man there to stiffen and fall silent.

In a table in one corner of the room that Flaeros Delcamper would have recognized, four drinkers smiled a little ruefully at each other across a small forest of empty winebottles. Maelra Bowdragon shuddered, too, but Uncle Dolmur patted her thigh comfortingly under the table, and her father clapped her shoulder reassuringly above it, and she sighed a long sigh and then managed another smile.

"I suppose this means we'll have to invent something to trade in, or keep clear of the Vale henceforth," the Master of Bats observed.

"Oh, I don't know," Craer Delnbone replied, stepping forward out of the brief flash of a teleport-spell with Tshamarra Talasorn at his side. "We're short of bats in Aglirta."

He handed a chittering, wing-flapping bat back to Arkle Huldaerus, and added a trifle archly, "Though we won't be, if you keep sending them to spy on us in such excessively obvious numbers."

The four mages around the table eyed each other in startled silence for a moment-and then, suddenly, everyone started to laugh.