The Scaled Master wore a faint smile as the crashings of the beast hastening away from them faded into the forest. Khavan returned to his shield of snakes almost as swiftly, fearing his superior more than a beast who was no longer charging in his direction.
He'd just reached the spot where he'd cast the spell when the receding crashings of dead leaves, trampled underbrush, and splintering dead tree limbs suddenly erupted into the challenging roars of two contesting beasts.
These were swiftly followed by more crashings, a horrible snapping and gnawing, roars and squeals of pain, sharp splintering sounds, and several heavy thuds, as if large, hurrying bodies had fallen, rolled, and scrambled about. Then the crashings of movement resumed, swiftly dying away into the distance.
The Scaled Master turned to Khavan. "Good. We've truly recreated the Blood Plague of old. Some victims fall to the Malady of Madness, but others turn into beasts and forthwith attack all creatures they see."
He wagged his finger at the Fangbrother like a tutor enlightening a particularly stupid pupil. "Soon," he said flady, "Aglirta will be ours."
"Ours?"
"Ours," Arthroon repeated firmly, "to keep forever, once anyone who drinks anything in this land is either under our protection or swiftly dead."
"And the overdukes?" Khavan dared to ask.
"We shall see. They bide in Stornbridge, feasted by the tersept there. Some who bow before the Scaled One serve at that table. Yes, we'll soon see."
Lord of the Serpent Hanenhather shook his head. "Clumsy, Arthroon, very clumsy. Let a plague-beast just wander and slay whilst you chatter? How then is it a weapon in your hand? Or for our faith?"
The bear-beast lay sprawled and dead, torn bloodily open by the plague-monster Brother Landrun had been spell-tracking.
The monster that was lumbering toward the Serpent-lord right now. Another unfortunate villager twisted into a new shape by the plague… a peak-stalker, this one: all massive gray head and claws, stonelike skin, and size and weight to overmatch any two oxen.
The Serpent-lord shook his head again. Arthroon didn't even know of their presence-and obviously cared nothing for the fate of the bear-beast, which could have served the Brethren well in the days ahead. And such men preened under tides like Scaled Master these days. Ah, well…
"Be still, Landrun," he snapped. "Blunder forward now, and you may be forced into another shape rather than yon stalker."
Brother Landrun froze and turned fearful eyes to his superior. Lord Hanenhather was smiling slightly as he wove his spell, but his eyes were as cold as ever-and Landrun shivered more than once as the peak-stalker twisted, dwindled… and was suddenly a man.
Lurching and stumbling, it turned away from them, into the trees. The Lord of the Serpent smiled after it. "Go, Tersept of Ironstone, and give the orders I bade you," he said softly, "and war will soon rage in Aglirta again- ah, such a realm of blooddiirsty, restless hotheads!"
Brother Landrun swallowed. "And the real Tersept of Ironstone, Lord?"
"Oh, he died rather suddenly, I'm afraid. You remember what our pet direjaws devoured by the roadside, last night?"
"A slithersnake as long as a wagon," the Brother of the Serpent said slowly, frowning-and then looking horrified. "You mean-?"
"Yes." The Serpent-lord's smile wouldn't have looked out of place on the face of the direjaws. " 'Twas a noble slithersnake, to be sure."
Landrun fought down nausea. "But if no one can trust his lord or wife to really be themselves, then…"
"We can spread blood-chaos from one end of the Vale to the other," Hanenhather replied, "and watch overdukes and boy kings-and clumsy Scaled Masters, for that matter-fall."
He chuckled. "Good feasting for some. Come, Landrun, we've work to do. You need more practice controlling these beasts. I think it's time a few simple farmers had their chances at playing overdukes."
There'd been just enough warm water in the wash ewer for a pleasurable soak in the dark. Craer had brought on that darkness the moment the bowl on the floor was full, by snuffing out the oil lamp. He'd long since lifted his dripping feet out of the bowl, dried them on the robe left ready, and pulled on his boots again. He'd never so much as disarranged the rest of his clothing. Doing so would have been less than prudent, if even half the events he expected to befall this evening started to happen.
On his first stroll around the room he'd found the usual chamberpot under the bed, in addition to the thunder-chair. He hooked it forward in case his complaining innards desired sudden emptying. Then Craer stretched like a cat and began to prowl his unlit bedchamber, looking at the carved wall panels for any hint of lamplight, an approaching candle, or the like. After a time he traced a particular carving with his fingertips, in a vertical line from about the height of his head to his knees. As he did so, a soft smile appeared on his face, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.
There came a soft rap upon his door. Craer took three swift steps to one side of it, drew two of his knives, and used the point of one to pluck up a spare boot from the table of belongings and toss it gently to the floor just inside the door.
There came no thrusting blade under the door or through the suspiciously wide gap down one of its sides, and no spell blasted through the doorway. After a moment Craer called softly, "Who is it?"
"Me, you dolt," came a familiar whisper.
Overduke Delnbone smiled in the darkness, sidled a few paces closer, and asked, "And whom might me be, this time?"
"You bastard," the soft whisper came back. "You know perfectly well 'tis me, Tshamarra."
"Oh? I know several Tshamarras," Craer whispered merrily back. "Where does this particular one wear a scar shaped rather like the mark of my bite?"
"On the underside of my left teat, where you bit me, Craer. Now open this damned door or I'll blast it down!"
"Are you alone, and acting freely?"
"Yes, bebolt you!"
Craer sheaDied his knives, and then plucked up a third: the blade he'd driven between two flagstones just inside the door as a doorstop. Drawing forth the two wedges he'd slipped into the doorframe, he lifted the small, ornamental brass bar Lord Stornbridge provided to his guests and swung the door wide, moving like a knife-wielding shadow to stay behind it as it opened.
Tshamarra Talasorn stood alone in the passage, fully dressed in dark leathers like those many thieves favored-Craer leered appreciatively-and bearing a small, shielded lantern. The two passage lamps flanking Craer's door seemed to have gone out, and the guards standing under them to have suffered some common misfortune that had left them sprawled on the floor. It must have been a silent mishap-but then, with the right magics, almost everything can become an "accident" of roughly the desired main effect.
"Pray excuse my caution, Lady Talasorn," Craer murmured, as Tshamarra stepped carefully into the darkened chamber. "One can never be too careful-a drinking you seem to share with me, given your garb and demeanor. To put it plainly, you must be expecting trouble as much as I do."
"Even more than that," she replied grimly, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment in either weariness or nausea. "We must find Embra without delay. I feel less than well; the food, of course."
Craer bent to his boot, plucked something from within it, and held it out, deftly untwisting a stopper. "Would you like some? 'Tis half empty already, I'm afraid."
"And this hitherto-unrevealed drink would be-?"
"My 'timely flagon.' " Craer touched the metal to her palm. His fingers, cradling it, found her skin shockingly cold. "I bought it years ago in Sirl town," he added with an inviting smile, concealing his alarm at her chill, "from a crone who swore 'twould purge all taints and poisons."
Tshamarra lifted an eyebrow. "And you believed her? Are you in the habit, Lord Craer, of believing the claims of old crones who keep shops in Sirlptar?"