The Dragon's Doom

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.

11

A Bowdragon Comes Calling

A man whose robes bore the arms of Stornbridge stood blinking in the shadows of a stinking moonlit alley in Sirlptar, a small but heavy sack of coin-purses in his hands.

Though strewn with rat-haunted rubble from the collapse of two buildings, the alleyway had been entirely empty of men-blinking or otherwise- a moment before.

At first, Coinmaster Eirevaur just looked in all directions, fearing immediate attack. Reassured by the still emptiness of his surroundings, he shook himself like a dog awakening from dreams, and looked up at the sky in wonder, smelling the sour sea air and reassuring himself that yes, this must be Sirlptar.

Then he seemed to recall that he was holding a sack of money-and that this could be a danger in itself. With slow, exaggerated care, seeking to avoid any telltale clink or metallic shifting of coins, he thrust the sack under his robes and folded his arm over it. Moving slowly and bent over, as if he was a beggar or an old destitute, Eirevaur shuffled out into the moonlight and off down the alley, seeking a place of safety-but too happy to entirely hide his wide grin.

He was away from the coldly spying Serpents at last, and his cruel, increasingly treacherous Storn fellows, too. Not far enough to be comfortable, of course. His first move must be to take passage on a ship, and get well away from Aglirta before it erupted in war once more.

A scribe who could keep honest count could readily find work in any port of Asmarand-and any port comfortably distant from Silverflow Vale beckoned warmly about now.

Coinmaster of Stornbridge no longer-gods, yes, he must get rid of these arms on his breast; best turn his robe inside out in this next doorway-Inskur Eirevaur went on down the alley, daring to hope for the first time in months.

Out of a doorway that had seemed quite empty when he passed it slid something that looked like a cat, only larger. It rose, shifting smoothly into manlike stance, but remained black and furred as it loped silently along after Eirevaur, padding closer… and closer…

When the scribe reached his chosen doorway and glanced quickly up and down the alley again, the loping thing had thrown itself onto its face in the refuse, and he did not see it. It risked scarring no features on the littered cobbles by its swift dive, for its otherwise human head had a smoothly featureless face.

Once Eirevaur set down his sack and hoisted his robe up over his head, however, the faceless beast rose up from the cobbles like a great black claw, growing huge fanged jaws and curving talons as long as scimitars-talons that reached out in almost loving anticipation…

The moon was sinking, but would shine brightly on the high battlements of Stornbridge Castle for some time yet. Occasional gentle breezes ghosted past the nervous Storn cortahars who kept watch there, but the starry sky had been clear since sunset, and bid fair to remain so.

Or had, at least, until a moment ago, when a drift of cloud as thick as river-mist had unaccountably formed above the moat, curling around itself with deceptive lassitude… and then suddenly flowed up the castle wall and flooded through the merlons, to drift among the warriors.

There were words of wary alarm, and a call through a turret window for a Serpent-priest-but before any robed figure could stride forth to deal with the mysterious mist or impart some sharp words to overly fearful cortahars, two figures appeared in the lee of the mist, seemingly born of nothingness, on a part of the battlements where the usual bored wallwatch sentries were absent thanks to the unusual gathering of fully armored defenders around the turret of Storn Tower.

"A snake'll be out to clear it soon," Craer murmured. "By then we must be right in their midst, or 'twill be farewell, surplus overdukes!"

The armaragor glanced over his shoulder. "The one from the gate-tower's seen us. He's… aye, he's on his way here-with his alarm-horn."

"That's unfriendly of him. He's alone?"

"Yes," Hawkril said. "Should I-?"

"No, we need him taken silently. His helm and tunic would be useful, too. Get down here."

The armaragor stooped, puzzled, as Craer laid himself on the flagstones and asked, "Did you bring that cloak the Coinmaster left behind? The one I pointed at?"

Hawkril snorted. "Of course. My mind may not follow yours down every devious twist and trail, but I trust you-the Three alone know why." He plucked a wadded bundle of cloth from behind his shield-strap, and shook it out to full length. "Here 'tis."

"Right. Draw your sword and lay it ready here." The procurer patted the flagstones just to his left. "Then keep hold of that cloak and lie down on top of me-and don't crush me, you great ox, or as I die groaning, I'll curse you to the doing something much worse. How close is our enthusiastically approaching guard?"

Hawkril glanced again. "Starting along the last run of battlements now."

"Good. Spread the cloak over us. I don't want him to see anything of me but my boots. Leave the talking to me, and don't act startled."

"You're the madman," the armaragor agreed amiably, lowering himself carefully onto his elbows and shaking the cloak out over them both.

"Ready?" Craer murmured from beneath him. "Shift your left arm a bit, so I can peer out under it. Yes."

A moment later, he gasped in a high, feminine-sounding voice, "Oh, yes! Oh, love me! More! More! Don't stop, my stallion! Oh, don't stop!"

Hawkril moved atop his friend as if they were lovers, hearing the nearby scrape of a cortahar's boot coming to an uncertain stop.

"Oh, yesss! More! Oh, give me more of you, you great-oh, ohhh, ohhh!n Craer cried, setting Hawkril to trembling with suppressed laughter.

"Graul!" the cortahar exclaimed, his voice a mix of disgust and wonder, and the overdukes heard the tip of a grounded sword grate on stone. "Who's that, Orsor, and where did you find her?"

Craer laid a finger across Hawkril's lips, reminding him to be silent. "Oh, my Horse!" he cried in apparent alarm, sounding so much like Embra playacting that Hawkril nearly collapsed into guffaws. "Someone's watching us! Oh, hurry! Uh! Hurry!"

He paused for a moment, and then added with a girlish giggle, "Unless he's one of your friends…"

"Forefather above," the cortahar growled, leaning closer. "Orsor, who is this wench?" He peered, leaning on his sword as if it was a walking stick, and then stiffened. " You’re not Or-"

The rest of whatever he'd intended to say was drowned in gurgling-the only sound the Storn knight could make over the hilt of the dagger that had come whirling up from under the armaragor's arm to bite deeply into his throat.

"Catch him, Hawk!" the procurer hissed, and Hawkril spun around atop Craer with fearsome speed to thrust a hand into the knight's gut ere he collapsed.

"Stand him up and lean him back," Overduke Delnbone added, springing to his feet. "We need to keep his blood off the helm and tunic."

"Neither will fit me," Hawkril observed, plucking the helm from the dead cortahar's flopping head before it could fall off.

The procurer snared the alarm-horn from around a limp, dead arm, and gave his friend a sour look. "You just dislike Storn gear. Put them on." He glanced back along the battlements, and snapped, "Lower him, quickly! A snake-priest is back there, sternly commanding Embra's cloud to begone."