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He waved a hand that bore many rings at the dark and yet somehow glowing crystal spheres that floated in a curious, unmoving cluster above a small circular table across the room. "You've made good use of the scrying-spheres since I linked them to you, I trust?"
The baron nodded. "Unrest is rife, up and down Aglirta-neighbor turning on neighbor in mad violence, folk becoming beasts and savaging everyone… it can't be natural. Either the gods have cursed the Vale, or there's dark magic at work. And dark magic either means crazed wizards- an army of them, to cause this much bloodletting-or the Serpents. Unless you believe all those bards' tales about the Faceless rising to slaughter us all."
Ambelter shook his head. "Oh, the Faceless exist, to be sure, but this is not their way. No, this is the work of the Servants of the Serpent."
Pheli
The Spellmaster shrugged. "Mad folk, obeying mad orders? Who knows?"
The baron leaned forward in his chair suddenly, and burst out, "Ah, but we must find out! How can we proceed if the Vale is full of reckless idiots who could be unleashed upon us at any moment? Or commanded to work some idiocy like burn all the crops or poison the Silverflow itself?"
Ambelter nodded. "There's truth in what you say. I must confess I've been trying to ignore the priests and work around them-judging that any sort of assault would be attracting a foe to myself who could prove endless and all-consuming of my time-but yes, we should try to learn just who's leading the Serpents, and judge for ourselves their aims and probable forth-coming orders."
"Precisely!" Pheli
The Spellmaster winced. "Experience tells me they'd never be more than a treacherous weapon in our hands, at best. Yet knowing what they plan, that I do agree to. Now, given their reckless and active nature, numbers, and the magical knowledge senior priests among them undoubtedly possess, do we dare risk scrying to find out? They may well be waiting for us to use the Dwaer for such pryings, so they can trace it."
"They may also be kings of far lands, every one of them, with their armies arriving in Sirlptar right now to bring them their favorite fresh morning eggs, or eels, or tree-worms," Pheli
A shimmering occurred then, in the air beside the Spellmaster's chair. Astonished, he snapped an incantation and raised his hands like claws to smite-never faltering when the rippling radiances resolved themselves into an unfamiliar, darkly beautiful young woman who stood facing them, her hands clasped together like a dutiful and abashed daughter being presented at court. Long, raven-dark hair fell in a smooth sweep down over a clinging black gown. Slender hips, great dark eyes-flashing now from one man to the other, above a mouth that opened uncertainly…
The baron gaped at this apparition, who stood unharmed and seemingly unangered in the midst of a lashing fury of spells hurled by Ambelter. Pheli
The air around the wench caught fire, flames that raged and then fell to ice, leaving behind the sharp stink of burning. Tiny lightnings stabbed like tavern-brawl daggers… and then fell away, leaving the lass unmoved.
A sending, she must be.
Ambelter mastered his fear and astonishment, and addressed the stranger sharply. "I know not who you are, sending, but I am the Spellmaster of Aglirta, and I can destroy you-not merely this your seeming, but through it your true self. I intend to do this only after I've traced you and brought you here to us, to learn how it is that you found us, and all you know… and how you can be made to serve our pleasure. Prepare, rash one, to taste the first moments of your doom!"
The Dwaer tore free of Pheli
"Lord Ambelter," their visitor said firmly, not moving, "these acts of rough-and all too traceable, by those who even now search for you and the Dwaerindim-magic won't be necessary." For a moment Pheli
"I'm called Maelra Bowdragon, and I believe you know my lineage. I witnessed your meetings with my uncles-and know who and what you are."
The Spellmaster's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"And I want you to know that not all Bowdragons are afraid of the Vale. I… I want to work with you."
Dark magic boiled up around them again. Hawkril winced, staggered, and dropped the bowman he was carrying. "Craer?"
"Keep at it," the procurer snapped. "Trust Embra to quell such, or we'll never be done here. I've not seen so many bowmen in one place since the Isles!" A splash a
As the dark cloud faded, thi
Hawkril nodded, and waved into the turret behind him. "A dozen or so are lying there yet-every time I bend to reach for a bow, one of these damned snakes tries to put its fangs in my face. Why couldn't Em stop them turning themselves into slitherers? I can't hack any of them without letting the rest fang me… which I suspect would be a very foolish tactic." With a grunt he heaved the limp cortahar onto a growing pile of senseless Storn warriors. To drop them into the moat now would be to slay helpless men-but the moment he saw one moving, he intended to pluck and toss.
"Very foolish," Craer agreed, "and I don't know why. Our ladies could probably do more if they could touch the priests directly, but… I long ago left the details of matters magical to others. I may be crazed enough to earn my coins as a procurer-but I'm not wolf-howling mad, like every mage I know."
Hawkril chuckled. "I'm sure Em and Tash will be happy to hear they're howling mad-just as I'm sure they're listening to us now."
"Truth," Craer replied with dignity, "is its own reward."
Hawkril swung around abruptly and dragged the third cortahar-who'd been stealthily but vainly trying to draw a dagger that was no longer in its sheath-out of the pile. Ignoring a stream of curses, he heaved.
There was a despairing, fading cry, and then a splash. Hawkril looked along the moonlit battlements of Stornbridge Castle, but the surviving wall-guards had long since disappeared down various towers. "I hope no one's rallying the Storn-"
"Hush!" Overduke Delnbone said severely. "Don't give these snakes any ideas!" He whirled around suddenly with a footstool in his hand, and flung it.
It crashed down into a corner as snakes whipped and wriggled frantically away. One of them wriDied in pain, half-crushed, as dark blood slid like a gleaming ribbon across the floor.
"Oh, dear, another Servant of the Serpent gone," Craer said mournfully. "Such a loss."
Overduke Anharu saw further movement out of the corner of his eye, turned with a sigh, and hauled another awakened cortahar out of his pile.