“Come on,” he said, stepping forward to help. “Let’s get you home where you belong.”
Then he saw the snakes. They appeared like a gathering fog, slowly, almost imperceptibly coming into existence. They seemed more shadow than substance, ghostly gray things, each less than a foot long, each with pale eyes that glowed in the twilight.
Gasping, Evann drew back, too shocked to run or even look away. He rubbed his eyes, thinking the snakes some illusion, some trick of the moonlight. But rather than fading like the hallucinations he believed them to be, they grew yet more substantial, more solid. He could see the scales on their backs, etched as though in glass. As he watched, they multiplied before him: they seemed to ooze from the air itself, from the buildings around them, from the man’s clothing. The street filled with their writhing bodies. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of snakes….
They swarmed all over the old man now, through his hair, around his neck, over his hands and face. He opened his mouth to scream, but they poured down his throat, choking him, strangling him. His eyes rolled wildly. He clawed at his neck, hands twitching and jerking, face growing purple as he tried to breathe, but couldn’t.
Evann took a step back, touching the talisman pinned to his cloak. Fear swept through him like a sudden wind. This was magic unlike any he’d ever seen before.
The man gave a final twitch, then lay still. Dead, Evann could see. He didn’t touch the body. All the snakes seemed to have vanished inside the old man.
Throwing back his cloak, he drew his sword in a quick, fluid movement, then studied the dock-side buildings. None of the villagers had appeared to help, though they must have heard the man’s cries…. It was almost as if they’d known what would happen and didn’t want to get involved. Shadows ran thick and deep in the alleys.
What did the old man say about snakes? Evann thought. That I have to stop them? He swallowed. How? He didn’t have the faintest idea.
Still, he’d seen enough to know magic was involved, magic powerful enough to threaten his men and mission. He paused, listening intently. From the river, he heard small waves lapping at the docks. Wood creaked as boats shifted at their moorings. Only the tavern echoed with the sounds of men at ease. Somewhere ahead, he suddenly heard a boisterous voice—Wolfgar’s, he thought—drunkenly singing.
Something scrabbled near his feet. Evann leapt back, dropping into a fighting stance. It was the old man, he saw. Somehow, impossibly, he was moving again. Evann stared, bewildered and amazed. He’d just seen this person die. He was as certain of that as he was of the snakes.
As he watched, the old man rose unsteadily to his feet. His movements were jerky and unnatural, and he held his head at an odd angle, bent up so he stared at the moon and the stars. Without a word, he turned and walked back up the alley the way he’d come.
Evann shook his head, hardly daring to believe what he’d seen. The snakes, the old man’s death …
He ran forward and seized the old man’s arm, spinning him around.
“What—” Evann began, then stopped.
The old man’s eyes seethed with shadows. Nothing human remained in his blank expression. The old man jerked his arm free, turned and continued his stiff, unnatural walk through the village.
Evann backed away, whirled, and sprinted to the boat as fast as he could. He leapt to the deck.
Instantly Harrach rose, drawing his sword. “What’s wrong, Captain?” he demanded.
“I saw—” Evann hesitated. What exactly had he seen? A few shadows, a raving old man … magic of some kind.
He told Harrach all that had happened.
“What did he mean?” he said. “What did I see? What were those ghostly snakes?”
Harrach cleared his throat. “I have heard legends of such things,” he said, so softly Evann had to strain to hear. “I believe those snakes must be from the Shadow World, brought here to serve a dark magic.”
“The Hag …”
Harrach leaned back. “I think that would be a safe guess, Captain—the Hag or one of her minions must control this village. Maybe even a wizard.”
“A wizard …” Biting his lip, Evann turned and gazed ashore. “And three of my men are out there.”
Suddenly loud footsteps echoed through the darkness. Evann drew his sword, then relaxed when he saw it was just Uwe Taggart. Gasping for breath, Uwe drew up short.
“Captain—” he gasped. “Wolfgar—and Breitt—”
“What about them?” Evann demanded.
“They deserted!”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know!” Uwe cried.
Evann took a deep breath. More of the Hag’s work, he thought.
“Start at the beginning,” he said in a calmer voice. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
All the other men on the boat were coming awake now. They were listening intently, though none spoke.
“I don’t know what happened!” Uwe said again. “We were all of us in the tavern, drinking, and they went out to relieve themselves. And then they came back, but they were … different, somehow. They wouldn’t talk to me. And then they just left.”
“Left? You mean walked out?”
“Yes. They pretended not to know me. They said they were fisherman!”
Evann glanced back at Harrach. “Like you said, one of the Hag’s minions must be at work here. We’ve got to find the one responsible and stop him.”
“Think of the mission, Captain,” Harrach said. “Clearly the talismans don’t work.”
“Um …” said Uwe.
“What?” Evann demanded, rounding on him. “What did you leave out?”
“It was so hot inside,” he said softly. “They took off their cloaks.” He touched his own talisman, still pinned neatly in place.
Evann swallowed and picked up his sword. That one simple mistake might cost two men their lives, he thought.
“Harrach,” he said, “you’re with me. Lothar, you’re in charge while we’re gone. If we’re not back by dawn, continue without us. You’ll still have six men. That’s enough.”
“But, Captain—” he began, looking shocked.
“You heard my orders,” Evann said firmly. Their mission to save King Graben had to come first, but he wouldn’t abandon two of his men without a fight.
Lothar still looked unhappy, but he nodded.
Evann turned to Harrach. “Let’s go. And pray we’re not too late.”
Eleven
From the highest window in his house, Prattis watched as Evann and Harrach left their small boat and started up the street toward the town square. Although it was dark outside, a simple spell enabled him to see everything going on below as though it were day. Now he gazed at them with a longing that made him want to rush his plans, to seize them now, before he was truly ready.
“Have patience,” he whispered to himself, looking out across Gletscherel Village. “One by one, you’ll have them all.”
These two would be next, he decided. It would be a simple matter to grab them, remove their ridiculous protective charms, and begin the magic that would bind them to eternal servitude.
Nodding happily, he shut the window, latched it firmly, and turned toward the stairs and his workroom. It had taken great effort to possess the two sailors and the old man who had wanted to warn Evann—more effort than Prattis had used in quite a while—but rather than exhaust him, it had left him exhilarated and eager to continue.
He sighed longingly, thinking again of the Hag and how proud she would be of him. She liked nothing better than power, and he offered it.
Many years before, the king of Rzhlev had tried to arrest him for daring to explore the darker arts. He had watched from a secret room in his house while the city guard ruined half a lifetime’s work—all in the space of fifteen minutes. They’d smashed his collection of rare elixirs, burned his scrolls and books, slaughtered his helpless servants before his eyes. He’d watched; he’d waited. When the guards finally left, he’d fled through the caves beneath the city.