The Dragon's Doom

And the Great Serpent burned, shriveling in a trice to blackened, screaming bones. Ingryl Ambelter and all his dark dreams fell to ash so swiftly that many of the watching folk of Aglirta could scarce believe what had befallen.

Yet one tiling was clear enough: The towering bulk of the Serpent was gone from above the blackened, near-skeletal remnant of the Dragon, and four Dwaer-Stones were falling out of the sky.

Embra made a wordless sound of her own and started to run to where the plunges of at least two of them would end among the tumbled Stones- but a dark, shuddering, constantly changing shape was there before her.

The Koglaur! She clambered desperately toward it, knowing in her dazed pain and all this chaos of magic she couldn't yet weave a spell no matter what the need… and ahead of her, saw all four Dwaer, glowing faintly again, race down to strike the shapeshifter as if spell-called to it. The Faceless rose up into the shape of Ingryl Ambelter, spell-wove a gate outlined by four whirling Stones-and stepped through it.

In his wake, all four Dwaer sprang apart, fading away in midair as they raced in opposite directions… and leaving in their wake a dumbfounded silence to settle over the riven Flowfoam Palace.

"So did the real Spellmaster die," Flaeros Delcamper murmured, looking to the Lady Orele for answers, "or was it a Faceless, all along?"

"And do we have to go hunting four Dwaer-Stones now?" Craer groaned, from the shattered floor of the Throne Chamber below.

Spell-radiance flared in a darkened chamber in the tower of the Master of Bats, momentarily outshining the saying-globes. Three mages whirled around in time to see what fell out of it, into a weak, weeping, smoking sprawl on the stones. Idiim Bowdragon gasped, but Arkle Huldaerus moved as swiftly as a veteran warrior, striding forward to pluck up the young woman by the throat.

"Are you Gadaster Mulkyn?" he demanded, in a voice that shook with all the magic he could muster-as bats poured down from the ceiling to settle all over his visitor in a flapping cloud.

Dark, tearful eyes flashed. "I know you not, sir," a constricted but furious voice snarled, from under Arkle's hands, "but I am Maelra Bowdragon-and I've had quite enough of being forced to do things by mages!"

With a sigh of relief the Master of Bats let go of her throat and stepped back. He was jostled and almost sent sprawling by Ithim Bowdragon, plunging forward to embrace the daughter he'd thought lost-but who'd just spell-sought him across much of Asmarand. Uncle Dolmur was not far behind.

The Bowdragons collapsed into joyful hugs and tears. Arkle Huldaerus watched their laughter, feeling more lonely than he ever had before, and suddenly tears were welling in his own eyes.

He turned away, wiping at his eyes furiously. It would not do to miss a single glimpse of what was now unfolding in his scrying-globes.

It would not do at all.

Ezendor Blackgult knew he was dying. The pain alone told him that, even without his watery, blood-filled glimpses of his own charred ribs and limbs, returning to him as he slipped helplessly out of dragon-form-and fell just as helplessly across the body of a wounded and dying Lord of the Serpent.

Lying sprawled on his back with the clear morning sky of Aglirta above him, the Golden Griffon mumbled to no one in particular, "I want to hear birds sing again. I don't know why."

As always, Hawkril Anharu reached him first. The great mountain of an armaragor reached down as gently as any wet-nurse, to half-raise his old master, cradling Blackgult in his arms.

The Golden Griffon smiled wearily up at him as darkness came in waves, taking his breath with it. "Good friend," he said swiftly, while he still could, "have my barony. You more than deserve it. I've done much of… what I wanted to do… chased many dreams, and… even caught a few."

Embra Silvertree was crashing toward them across the jagged, tumbled rubble now, heedless of her own safety. "Father!" she cried.

Blackgult kept on speaking, because he had to. "I… wanted love, friends, wealth, danger… and excitement… and I haven't been disappointed."

His daughter reached him and fell to her knees, sobbing, "Father!"

"Hah," the Serpent-priest sneered weakly, from where he lay beside her, "did you think it was going to be easy to kill a god?"

Embra stared at the dying man with fire rising in her eyes. "I do believe," she said softly and deliberately, "I feel the Blood Plague taking hold of me at last."

She snatched out her dagger and drove it firmly through one of the priest's eyes, not flinching when his gore fountained over her.

Incredibly, the Lord of the Serpent did not the right away. Choking on his own blood, he cried, "Serpent, aid me!"

Nothing happened, and his next cry was fainter. "Serpent?"

Blood bubbled from the lips of the Lord of the Serpent as his remaining eye glared at Blackgult, and then turned to gaze back up at the woman who'd brought him death, and was still bent over him, dripping his blood.

"I expected so much more," the priest whispered reproachfully. "You've all been such a disappointment." And he turned his head toward his own shoulder and looked away from them. One last tear ran from his eye, and he died.

A serpent slithered from the neck of the priest's robe and reared up to strike at Embra with a malevolent hiss-and she grabbed it just below the head, flung it to an exposed patch of marble floor, and stomped on its head with one booted foot, shuddering.

Then she whirled back to her father, and burst into tears.

One charred arm reached up and caught hold of her arm in a last, vise-hard grip. "You're… my daughter, all right," Ezendor Blackgult whispered hoarsely, giving her a fierce, pain-wracked smile. "Live… well. Go on to glory, with Hawk… Save Aglirta!"

She leaned forward to stroke his face, through her tears, but he struggled up and forward, trembling. As the Golden Griffon thrust himself forward, trying to reach her lips and kiss them, the light went out of his dark eyes… and that iron strength ebbed, until his fingers fell away from her arm.

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.