"I'm… I'm almost ready." She drew in another deep breath, shook her head with a rueful smile, and added, "Yes. I'm ready."
Somewhat unsteadily she found her feet, and with a flourish indicated the ground where she'd been thrashing. Embra smiled, handed her the Dwaer, and laid herself down.
Tshamarra stared at the Dwaer in her hand with a sort of wonder, smiling faintly-and never saw Blackgult's burning eyes on her, as he clawed his way upright on nearby rocks, and drew his dagger.
Like a patient mountain, Hawkril also found his feet, and eyed the horses, wondering if he'd have to charge and wrestle them back to protect Embra or the still-groaning Craer.
Tshamarra drew in a deep breath, threw her head back like a lass preparing to dive deep into a pool, made the Dwaer flame, and plunged her hand down onto Embra's breast.
And the Lady of Jewels screamed.
Loud and long and raw, the throat-stripping shriek of agony set the horses into a thundering gallop away from the two women, at Hawkril's barrier tree.
The scream was promptly answered by a roar of challenge from above, a great thunderous cry that echoed and rolled around the hollow-and made the horses skid to a stop and cower in a trembling heap.
Embra wriDied in heedless pain, but the roar brought Craer back to cursing awareness, lying on his back and staring up at the suddenly darker sky. Something huge and dark was blotting out the sunlight, vast wings spread. Branches splintered and cracked under clutching claws far too large for them to support, trees bent aside and then broke, and with dust-stirring beats of its great bat-wings the nightmare came down to earth, stretching forth its heads to snap down at all the moving meals in the hollow.
Yes, heads: three of them. A dragon or nightwyrm twisted into a three-headed abomination such as had never been seen in Aglirta before. Tshamarra rose out of the fires in Embra's mind blinking in disbelief, the Dwaer forgotten in her hand, as searing, smoking spittle fell like rain, and three scaled necks plunged down at her, great jaws agape!
The Baron of Glarond hadn't been master of Glarondar for very long. Riding its streets was still a thrill, even if folk no longer cheered at the sight of him. It was his, every balcony, spire, and merlon of it. Oh, various of his subjects owned this house and that shop-but if he took a liking to a particular building, a few moments of strenuous stabbing by his guards led to the goods of dead traitors devolving into waiting baronial hands.
Not that he wanted most of the dirty, leaning houses in Glarondar. He was used to grander buildings from his days as a courtier in Flowfoam. The glitter of gold, the sheen of expensive cloth, the cold fire of gems-all of these he was used to seeing, but not actually having.
Not until now.
His castle vaults held a coffer of gems and at least three sacks of gold coins as large as he was, as well as several chests of lesser coins. He'd pawed through them more than once, despite the carefully expressionless scrutiny of the ever present guards-Aw guards, now-and looked forward to acquiring more. Much more. But he hadn't expected this much, so soon.
Like a golden mirror the tray gleamed up at him. He looked down at it, seeing his own bright-eyed reflection peering up at-at sixteen gleaming new Carraglan zostarrs, their gold as rich as that of the thick, chased-edge tray; nine rubies larger than his thumb; and a gold wristlet that must hold as much metal as fifty zostarrs.
"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, running toward her. "Use the Dwaer!"
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.