There was another blast, a short, choked-off scream, and more remains bounced and rolled to a dusty, grisly halt ahead. Thraunt slowed, wondering how long he should wait in silent hiding before venturing around that corner.
This was no trap, for traps do not howl and scream wild laughter, then sob and snarl and hoot and howl again. This sounded like someone gone plague-mad. Perhaps a mage, come here to loot, who'd been caught by the fangs of one of the guardian snakes he'd dropped to guard their way out of the ruins…
Well, if so, all he need do was wait, and this foe would the raving, and leave the way clear. Thraunt knew he was not a patient man, but when the clear alternative is being blown apart…
Around the corner came hissing shouts, and then snapped orders and the clang of blades-far more blades than his warriors bore, even if none of them had fallen. Wild roars followed, mixed with loudly declaimed gibberish this time.
Other priests had planned treasure-snatching expeditions into the Silent House, and although there'd been agreement to allow each foray one day before the next went in, Thraunt had known at the time just how feeble that agreement was… This must be another, larger Serpent party; he could hear spells being hissed and chanted that could only be the weavings of anointed Brothers of the Serpent. Could they have slain his command?
Yet why then all the hooting and howling? And why the sudden, fear-filled shouts? Surely they'd lurk silent, and creep forward hoping to take him or others in these haunted ruins unawares…
More blasts, rocking the ceiling and the floor beneath his feet this time, and the spell-chants suddenly ceased. Thraunt crept forward, not daring to stay where he was any longer for fear of the throat-prickling gas behind him-but he was still three long strides shy of the bend in the passage when a tall man wearing only a nightrobe stalked around the corner, leering and lurching. Tall and handsome and somehow familiar, he carried a glowing rock in his hands and was crooning to it wordlessly, as if it was a baby he was comforting.
He barked with laughter when he saw Thraunt, and the stone flashed-and Masterpriest Thraunt, in the last few seconds of life as a Dwaer-blast raced toward him, understood that what the man held was not merely an enchanted lump of stone but one of the Stones.
And then he experienced his first Dwaer-blast, and his last-and all Darsar went away, just like that.
Blackgult laughed loud and long, holding the Stone high in triumph and letting it spew little stinging lightnings down his arm, cascading snarling sparks across the floor. With these fires he'd slain at least four dozen Serpent-spawn-three different bands of them, by the Horned Lady!
Well, they'd come seeking treasure… and unfortunately for them, they'd found it!
Ezendor Blackgult chuckled gleefully as he strode into a dusty, long-ruined chamber of lofty size, somewhere in the westerly wings and turrets of the Silent House. Ah, but at least he'd not be dying alone. He'd butchered a respectable host of Snake-lovers this day! Why, ther-
Light flashed in the gloom before him, three bright and expanding spheres of radiance. Out of each stepped a tall, slender, robed man-two strangers, and a younger companion one he'd seen before. Seen, and thought dead forever, in the skies above a batdefield here in Aglirta: Jhavarr Bowdragon… and judging by the faces of the elder pair, he'd brought his kin.
"Ezendor Blackgult," the oldest wizard greeted him coldly, as the other two launched without hesitation into complicated spellweavings-bindings to keep him in this chamber, by the sounds of their incantations. "I am Dolmur Bowdragon. This is my brother Ithim-and I believe you've already met Jhavarr. Bowdragons never forget… and Bowdragons pay all debts."
The Golden Griffon threw back his head and cackled. "So," he added joyfully, completing Dolmur's direat, "prepare to die! Aha-ha-ha-ha!"
And with that laughter still echoing off the ceiling above him, Blackgult blasted it with the Dwaer and brought that end of the room crashing down atop his three newfound foes.
Two of them ran, desperately, breaking off their spellcasting. But the one who'd called himself Dolmur calmly spread his hands, and the great chunks of ceiling thundered down onto… something unseen, that sent them tumbling and rolling aside.
And then bursting apart, into powder, under a Dwaer-blast! One of the three-Jhavarr, it must be, for it had come from his side-had a Dwaer!
Blackgult roared out his rage and excitement. There was a way of forcing a blast from one Dwaer to another, now… yes!
Exultantly he did what he'd read in a dusty old tome in the palace library. It hurt the wielder, aye, but what cared he for that? He was dead anyway! Let a richer harvest be reaped, and old Blackgult go down to greet the Three with three dead Bowdragons to his credit.Yes!
The blast, when it came, swept away Dolmur's spell and took all three Bowdragons by surprise. Ithim screamed as the two older Bowdragons were flung away like rags, bones splintering audibly. Jhavarr, holding his Dwaer, was caught in the blast-glow, frozen in pain and rooted to the spot by the sheer power racing through him, his face twisted in dismay… and as the magic roared on, his slender body slowly changed, melting away from the likeness of Jhavarr Bowdragon into… bony facelessness. A Koglaur!
The two torn and bleeding Bowdragons saw the transformation too.
"Duped!" Dolmur snarled. "We've been tricked to our dooms!"
Ithim screamed again in fear and despair-and he was still screaming when Dolmur did something that abruptly snatched them elsewhere, leaving the Koglaur alone to shudder as Blackgult sent another Dwaer-blast through him.
"Skill and savagery, that's the way!" the Golden Griffon called jovially. "You faceless, sneaking rogue, you!"
The Koglaur turned his smooth, eyeless face toward Blackgult, and the Griffon felt the weight of coldly seething scrutiny. Then, abruptly, the Faceless One vanished, leaving the chamber dark and lonely once more. Inconsiderately, he'd neglected to leave his Dwaer behind him.
"Ah, well," Blackgult told the walls around him, "Victorious, the Golden Griffon can get on with dying in peace, then."
Or perhaps… just perhaps… He held up the Dwaer and cast a careful shielding-spell, three-layered and intricate. Blackgult was shaking with weariness when he was done, and dark anger was rising in his belly again, so he made haste to work a last, healing magic, and let go of the Dwaer.
It drifted away from his upflung arm, and gathered speed as it went,
curving along the inside of his shield-spell. Blackgult tore off his robe and laid it out as a bed as near to the center of the shield-sphere as he could quickly judge. He laid himself down hastily, closed his eyes, and pictured the Dwaer whirling around above him in a steady orbit, clinging to images of its speeding glow as the anger surged.
If he was to live, he had to rest. In trance, if he'd recalled Sarasper's instructions aright, the Dwaer just might be able to purge the Blood Plague from his body. "Well, now," he muttered, sinking down into the dark warmth where the rage rolled and snarled, "to be rid of the plague and healed hearty again… wouldn't that enrage a few Serpent-priests? They might even do something foolish and violent… But then again, how would the rest of us tell?"
Chuckling, he let the darkness take him.
23
Great Serpent Rising
Ingryl Ambelter smiled politely at the dozen or so elder Serpent-priests facing him as the underpriests who'd brought him here scuttled hastily out and closed the doors. Protective magics sang almost audibly in the air; every one of these old men must have shield-spells active. The room was small and bare: stone benches faced the oratory floor he was standing on, amid two large pillars. There was but the one visible door-and, rearing out from the wall to his left, a stone statue of a snake poised to strike.