The Dragon's Doom

"Seven beasts worth looking at," Hawkril growled, returning from his survey. "No wagons, Lord Delnbone."

"No wagons? Then we take every horse and saddlebag. What we don't fill, we sling over top, tied down, and take empty-we'll find uses for them, never fear."

"Aye, I'll bet," Embra murmured. " 'Tis those in our path who own any-thing attractive or valuable who'll have to fear."

"By the Three!" Blackgult agreed with a smile, in quavering mockery of a doom-saying old man.

"Help me get reins and saddles on these horses, you jesters," Tshamarra said from her perch on the rail of a stall above them, where she stood eyeing a horse almost as uncertainly as it was eyeing her. "If'tis not too much trouble for you high-and-mighty folk, that is."

"Lady Talasorn," Embra said in mock-offended tones, "everything's too much trouble for we high-and-mighty folk. That's what's made Aglirta the glorious center of peace and prosperity that 'tis today!"

Tshamarra gave her a sour look. "Get in here and show me which end of the horse I put this on, hey?"

"Hey, indeed," Embra agreed. "Father?"

"Of course," Blackgult agreed, striding into the stall, striking aside its frightened occupant's deadly foreleg kick with one blow of a practiced hand, and ramming himself against the breast of the horse, crowding it back until he could get the bridle on. "Easy, see?"

Tshamarra and Embra looked at each other and rolled their eyes in heartfelt unison.

Fires were rising here and there in Stombridge town, and half-eaten bodies and the stains of pools of blood were everywhere. The horses snorted and danced, even under Dwaer-calming, and their disgusted riders glanced around warily in search of danger. No dogs barked… probably because they'd been eaten, perhaps by the dark shapes that slunk from bush to bush and tree to tree, following the five riders and their pack horses, but never coming near.

"So this is a Blood Plague," Tshamarra said slowly, looking around at the devastation. "If it was what tainted us, it can be visited on folk in food or wine… but what is it, really?"

"Aye," Hawkril growled. "Foul Serpent-work, to be sure, but how? What spell, and how to undo or stop it?"

Embra sighed. "And so we're back to the problem that always besets us: not knowing." She held up the Dwaer. "If I knew what I was doing with this, and how to make sure the other three Dwaerindim were lost forever, I could rule Darsar quite handily, were I subtle and cu

She smiled thinly at the looks she received. "Worry not, friends-not only have I no desire to rule Darsar, I'll never know this Stone properly. They fight you, you know, quietly-things you've done before with them become harder to remember how to evoke, not easier."

Blackgult nodded. "That's true. I've never voiced it before, but… yes. The Dwaer do fight their wielders."

Craer glanced at the molded Stone in Embra's hand with new respect. "Well, now," he began, "that makes dreams of snatching one of these baubles for my own-"

He was interrupted by a ragged shout from among the cottages to their left. A wild-eyed man charging at them, pitchfork in hand, with several boys ru

"Hold!" Hawkril bellowed, drawing his sword, but the Storn folk didn't seem to hear him. Straight at the overdukes they ran.

Embra sighed, the Dwaer flared in her hand-and when the first stones came, they struck something unseen in the air and bounced away. The fork halted suddenly in midair, causing its wielder to emit a startled "Ooof!" as he folded up around it. The overdukes spurred their horses and rode away, up the road where they'd been greeted by arrows the day before.

Today, there were no woodcutters, or bowmen, though they all kept a sharp watch as they rode up through the trees, heading back to Osklodge.

"Whither now?" Craer asked quietly, as the trees gave way to fields around them. No carts, no beasts in the high meadows; this part of Aglirta seemed to have emptied.

"Glarondar," Embra said firmly. "We go right back the way we came."

"Well, that's a relief," the procurer said with a smile, cutting into a small wheel of cheese that seemed to have fallen out of his saddlebag into his hand a moment before. " 'Tis nice to have a clear destination for once. The barony of Glarond, where they've at least heard of decent wine, food, and hospitality."

Blackgult and Hawkril both cast looks at Embra, but said nothing. If she was choosing not to share her reason for heading to Glarond with them yet, that was all right. They had to search for missing Dwaer somewhere-and seemed to have found something more pressingly important that just might be everywhere in the Vale, so one direction was as good as any other.

Moreover, every last one of the Overdukes of Aglirta was weary of constant wrangling over deeds and destinations.

"We have the 'where,' now, but what shall we be doing there?" Tshamarra asked quietly, after they'd galloped along the road for some time, leaving Osklodge behind and losing all sight of Stornbridge.

Craer shrugged. "What we always do-draw our swords and chase them around the kingdom."

Tshamarra smiled and sighed. "Yes, but doing what?"

"Causing trouble, blundering along not knowing what to do next, and offering ourselves as targets for all foes of the crown."

"Craer!"

"Well," the procurer told her with an ingenuous grin, "it's worked so far."

Brother Landrun came up beside him, and Hanenhather sighed. "What do you think, Landrun?"

The tentacle that slapped across the Serpent-lord's mouth did not- quite-break his neck. A second tentacle was already ensnaring his wrists, crushing them ruthlessly even as it garnered them in, and a third wrapped around his waist and snatched him up into the air, to stare helplessly down at-at something that no longer looked much like Landrun at all.

For one thing, it had no face. Just smooth flesh where eyes, nose, and mouth should be… yet its voice was clear enough as it said coldly, "We Koglaur are feared and hated enough in the Vale without your shapeshifting mischief, Serpent-priest. Plague-monsters are one thing, but making doubles of tersepts and overdukes-or kings-is our province. The, overclever Lord of the Serpent."

The last thing Melvar Hanenhather saw, as tentacles slammed his head floorwards at breath-snatching speed, was a trickle of blood coming around the corner from the side passage. Landrun's, of course.

"Well, Brother Landrun?"

"Ah… isn't Overduke Anharu taller than that, Lord?"

The Lord of the Serpent peered at his most recent transformation. The armaragor did seem to loom a little less than the real Anharu did, in his remembrances, but…

"You may be right, Landrun," he said slowly. "Make it stand beside our Embra. I should have done Blackgult first, because he's about half a head taller than his daughter, and Anharu overtops him by about the same… or a little less, perhaps. Hmm."

Brother Landrun hastened to obey-so quickly that there was a stumbling thud as he hastened down the side passage.

He strode into view soon enough, looking none the worse for wear, and towed the shuffling Anharu over to where the false Embra stood. Neither of the transformations looked at the other, but stood shifting aimlessly from one foot to another. Landrun gazed at them for a moment, and then returned to the passage.

Lord of the Serpent Hanenhather peered narrowly at the two false overdukes. How much of the real Anharu's hulking size was his armor, bulking up those massive shoulders? Or did folk really look closely enough at him for it to matter? Casting the spell took but a moment, but getting the results right, now…

There was a guard at the Rowfoam docks that hadn't been there before- with ready strung bows, too, the customary spears relegated to the ba