The Dragon's Doom

"Beautiful, yes?" the Serpent-priest asked gently. "And all yours, plus rule over half the Vale, if you obey me and not the doomed King in Flowfoam."

The Baron of Glarond looked up, suddenly dry-mouDied. He'd sent his guards away to make this a truly private audience at the priest's request, and now there was no one to shield him against the spells of this man Arthroon-if he was a man, and not some magic-driven shell used by the Great Serpent he claimed to serve.

He licked his lips, and then from somewhere found the strength to ask, "And if I refuse?"

Arthroon's cold eyes did not smile, even if the mouth below them slid easily into a mirthful curve. "Then death will come to Glarondar. The mad death of the Blood Plague, wracking you and all your courtiers with agonies and gnawing at your minds!"

The baron looked again at the gleaming tray, and then back up at the smiling Serpent-priest, and said carefully, "I've heard of this Malady, yes. Yet Glarondar has been spared the plague thus far, despite busy Vale merchant traffic, and my advisors assure me that spells laid on this town centuries ago by the mage Laerlor keep such perils at bay, and will continue to do so." He tried a smile at the priest, though he could not-quite-keep his eyes from straying to the tray of riches again.

Belgur Arthroon's own smile widened. "Good Baron," he said gently, "Laerlor's spells were broken seventy years ago, by the archmage Golkuth of Sirlptar-better known today as the Skull That Does Not Sleep. Know this truth: everyone in Glarondar is infected, including you! All that prevents the plague rending you, right now, is this!"

The priest's right hand shot forth from his left sleeve, cradling a rounded, mottled stone-a stone that was glowing a flickering, pulsing white, and hovering a finger-thickness above Arthroon's palm.

The Baron of Glarond was not a learned man, but courtiers heard much-and even a fool could have felt the raw power pulsing from the stone. This was one of the fabled Dwaerindim, the War Stones… the Stones of Power!

Sensibly, he fainted.

Belgur Arthroon's lip curled. So this was what ruled baronies in Aglirta, these days. It was more than time for it all to be swept away, in the rightful rise of the Great Serpent.

He bent his will to the Stone, and used its fire to lash Glarond.

The slumped man trembled, hands opening and closing, and then swayed upright in his seat again, wild-eyed. He started to scream, but Arthroon choked it off into a strangled, bubbling whistle, and forced the man to slap himself.

The baron's head reeled, the eyes trapped and wild. Arthroon smiled grimly into them and made Glarond slap himself again.

And again. Then he forced the man to rise from his chair. Limbs twitching and jerking like a clockwork Carraglan automaton, Glarond fell over twice, but the priest forced him to his feet again, stumbling and swaying.

"Thank me for my generous gift," Arthroon commanded, pointing at the tray and letting slip his control over the baron's head.

Glarond burst into tears, but managed to stammer thanks through the flood of sobbing terror.

"Silence," Arthroon snapped, not bothering to hide his disgust-and used the Stone's magic to force the despairing noble's obedience.

"Now, come!" he added, rising from his own chair with an angry swirl of serpent-adorned robes. "We've much to do!"

"Craer!" Hawkril roared, as gaping jaws came down at him like the descending roof of a cottage. "Throw your fangs at its eyes!"

"I'm not an idiot, Tall Post," the procurer replied, reeling to his feet and snatching at hilts here and there about himself. "So have some like advice: Hit it with your sword! Use the sharp edge!"

"Shield-spell, Tshamarra!" Blackgult snapped, ru

The Lady Talasorn hadn't stopped to think or to weave magics. Aghast, she'd simply lashed out with the fire still roiling around her mind-and the Dwaer spat forth flame.

One of the dragon's jaws filled with bright fire, roiling flames that spat and curled around its great fangs. Shuddering, that neck spasmed and snatched its head away, leaving just two-one closing around Hawkril with a vicious snap, and the other turning to engulf horses.

Belatedly, Tshamarra tried to spin a shield, using the Dwaer to power what she remembered of such spells.

The result was a failure of whirling sparks, but it struck the descending snout like a great unseen fist, driving fangs aside from the terrified horses.

And then Blackgult was there, large and solid, slapping his hand to the Dwaer beside her own. His mind was like a great sharp sword, dark and knowing, torn and yet storm-strong.

Rouse Embra, he commanded. Use this, thus. He showed her bright threads within the Dwaer's unfolding power, and then his attention whirled away from her, back to the dragon above them.

It had drawn in its wings, arching its burned head in pain, but was breaking trees down and aside with its great claws, settling down over the hollow like a ceiling.

"What eyes, Hawk?" Craer complained, springing from rock to rock like a mad jester, trying to reach the lip of the hollow. "There's this big scaled body in the way! Hawk? Hawk? Hawk?

Only one side of the hollow was free of covering dragon now, and down through that remaining sliver of sky one head quested for prey, snapping wildly. Blackgult struck at it with unseen, slashing edges of Dwaer-force, short-lived whelmings that shouldn't rob Tshamarra of too much of the power she needed to finish Embra's healing and drag her back to wakefulness.

The burning dragon-head was thrashing somewhere up out of sight, but the third head hung over the hollow, closed and quivering-and Blackgult saw the point of Hawkril's warsword protruding from it, dark with glistening gore.

The armaragor had wedged his blade across the jaws to keep from being crushed, and the dragon had bitten down on it anyway. Blackgult could see an armored arm stabbing and hacking behind the not-quite-closed teeth-Hawkril was still alive and had his dagger out.

"Cut its tongue!" he roared. "Hawk, cut its tongue!"

There, the pain would be greatest, and the beast should try to spit the armaragor out, if only to bite him the better…

Craer snarled in satisfaction as his third hurled dagger slashed across an eyeball before spi

Heads ringing from the din, Blackgult and Tshamarra wrestled with the Dwaer, the Golden Griffon spi

Where by all the Three had this beast come from, anyway? It was obviously no spell-spun illusion, but… Serpent-magic? The wilds north of the Silverflow headwaters went on for unmapped miles, rugged ridges of forests split by rushing rivers and lakes beyond number, enough to hold a dozen realms and dragons to spare, but nothing like this had ever been-

"Where's Hawkril?" a quiet voice asked, from beside her waist. Tshamarra looked down, and drew in a deep breath of relief. Embra was awake and seemingly whole once more.

"Inside yon head, fighting," the Lady Talasorn told her, pointing.

Embra shivered, and then said briskly, "Father, unhand the Dwaer. I need it all." Wordlessly Blackgult complied, and they watched the shimmering of his shield dart under the head. The dragon was still shaking it violently, rather as a dog frees itself of water.

That shimmering flared into brief brightness, broke into two, and one half soared up to slice at the dragon's neck like an ax blade.