"No!" a white-haired tersept roared, in a voice that rang out as loud as any war-horn. "Aglirta is ours-not some Dragon's or Serpent's or the plaything of wizards! How can we flee now, and dare to call the Vale our own? Row on!"
"Well said!" a ragged mountain of a blacksmith bellowed from another boat. Tersepts were, well, tersepts, but many men knew and respected Lorgauth the Smith, and there were other, grimmer sounds of agreement from many boats, all around. A few vessels rested oars and started to drift back downstream, but most of the rowers on the river pulled hard on their oars, heading for the Flowfoam docks.
A dragon-wing beat vainly at the air. Two great scaled bodies rolled in the sky, fangs struck, a gout of flame spewed vainly-and the warring Serpent and Dragon crashed down onto the palace together, rolling and biting like two maddened cats.
A roof collapsed under them with a groan, stones crashing down in a deadly rain inside, and pillars toppled.
The two struggling monsters clawed, bit, and lashed their tails, smashing walls and driving balconies and even entire turrets down to ruin. The Serpent struck and struck again, biting the Dragon repeatedly as they slithered and arched and spat, crushing galleries and great chambers.
And the Dragon burned.
Tshamarra wept as liquid fire rushed through her, boiling along her veins… a venom that ravaged her as deeply as her destruction of the Thrael had torn asunder the Great Serpent's powers… even as it snatched Ingryl Ambelter back from helplessness in the maze of enchanted mists Gadaster had flung him into.
At last the Serpent had a foe he could see and strike at-a foe he hated and feared-and strike at it he did, again and again. Fangs pierced deep into golden scales, smoking blood sluicing out in their wake, until Tshamarra Talasorn's world became a red-gold whirl of pain, lit by gloating Serpent-eyes and flashing fangs…
Dimly she knew her strength was leaving her. She was draped back over a wall, shedding scales as she slid down into the Throne Chamber of Aglirta-open to the sky now once more, and full of running, shouting folk. The pain was like a red river within her, a river of her shed blood, and the flames snarling along it were the Serpent's dark venom, gnawing its way through her…
The western wall of the Hall of Shields cracked and fell away. The armed folk barricaded grimly therein found themselves suddenly staring down into the roofless, riven Throne Chamber.
That once splendid hall was a wasteland of death and rubble. Courtiers, servants, guards, and Serpent-priests alike lay dead in their blood, or were fleeing wildly from the rearing Great Serpent and the Dragon struggling feebly beneath it. Beyond their fray, most of the western end of the palace lay in ruins, little more than crushed heaps of rubble.
"Horns of the Lady," King Raulin Castlecloaks gasped in horror, staring up at the sky and the triumphant Serpent rising to fill it. Beside him, Hulgor Delcamper said something worse.
As they watched-and Craer Delnbone sobbed in despair, beside them-the body of the Serpent started to dwindle.
"Come on!" Ezendor Blackgult roared, darkly magnificent in his borrowed black palace armor, as he waved his warsword above his head. "Band of Four, to me!"
The Golden Griffon did not wait for a reply, but raced to where a once secret stair had become little better than a slide, descending steeply into the Throne Chamber.
Hawkril, a fully armored giant once more, sprang after him. Craer stumbled in their wake, weeping openly.
Embra Silvertree strode after him, tall and sleek in battle leathers like those Craer wore. After a few strides she turned to look back at Hulgor, Flaeros, and Lorivar. "Guard the King," she told them grimly, and waved a hand at the Serpent below. "Our duty lies yonder."
"But, Lady Embra-!"
That protest burst from the lips of King Raulin Castlecloaks, standing uncertainly in the midst of the handful of loyal men. He fell silent, opening his mouth helplessly, and reached out to her with one hand… not knowing what else to say.
The smile Embra gave him was a trifle sad. "Be of good cheer, Majesty," she said calmly. "There's no better way to spend one's time-one's life-than fighting for Aglirta… and who knows? We may live to see another sunset. Remember, lad: 'Tis not when you die… 'tis how you die."
She nodded to the pale-faced and trembling Raulin, cradled her Dwaer firmly in both hands, turned, took two running steps, and sprang off the edge of the stair, flying down into the battle below.
The Serpent bit down again, roaring with triumphant, bubbling laughter- but its fangs struck only fallen stone: the Dragon was a small, slender, and half-fainting human sorceress once more, lying crumpled between two fallen pillars.
Overduke Blackgult raced in under those fangs like an impatient black flame to defend her, catching her up into the crook of his arm. "Now, little one," he muttered, "I was once something of a bold dabbler in sorcery… I think I can still fly us out of here. You can join the King, yonder, and watch the rest of us the heroically, hey?"
"Blackgult!" Hawkril roared from nearby, the crashings of armored footfalls heralding his frantic rush. He wasn't going to reach them in time, before the Serpent-
– Bit down, a fang twice the height of Blackgult plunging down so close beside his hip that he could easily have nudged it with an elbow. The Golden Griffon swung himself around to shield Tash's limp body from the stinging rain of venom that accompanied the Serpent's bite, and coolly finished his incantation.
The gigantic snake snatched its head back aloft, trailing rubble and spilling him sideways… and Blackgult swung around to cradle the woman in his arms from a hard fall onto rubble, a fall that never came. His awakening magic sent him gliding along the ground, no more than a handspan above a tumbled heap of fallen stone blocks. He grinned tightly and bent his will to lofting them higher, curving around and up-
"Blackgult!" Hawkril roared again, planting himself with his warsword held pointing right up into the sky, preparing to meet that descending maw.
The warning drove the Golden Griffon to fling himself sideways, curled around the sorceress. The huge snake's shadow fell over them as he spun away, laughing at the success of his magic-and straightened out in a glide that brought them rushing to meet Craer.
The procurer reached for Tshamarra, his eyes blazing. Blackgult put her gently into her man's arms and flew up and past them, curling back around to face-
The Great Serpent's strike was at Hawkril. The armaragor leaped aside at the last moment, into a little hollow in the rubble, and the snake's huge head glanced off rubble and followed, turning to pursue the warrior.
Blackgult flew right at the head, tugging out his blade once more, aiming for those triple eyes. Three eyes? No, just two, but with something circular gleaming between them, embedded in serpent-scales…
Flashing with hatred, those orbs swiveled to regard Blackgult. The moment their gazes met, he knew who was glaring at him.
Ingryl Ambelter, the self-styled Spellmaster of All Aglirta, was the Great Serpent!
And a mighty wizard still. The embedded thing-a Dwaer, of course!- flashed, and bolts of strange green flame lanced out of those eyes at Blackgult.
There was no time to counterspell, or dodge. The green fire clawed and swirled, streaming icily around him.
The Golden Griffon tried to twist up and out of its reach, but his sword crumbled away to nothing in his hands, his gauntlets and breastplate and shoulder-plates started to follow…
Cursing, Ezendor Blackgult soared up and away, trying to dart free of the spell. More of his armor fell from him as he went, tumbling…
He swooped, curved, looped and swooped again. One green bolt faded, but the other curved after him, reaching… reaching…