THE WYVERN'S TEETH

UrokYann gazes in wonder at the four—Cusáhn, Vivict, Rokál, and Harrin—who have slain Azaocratz. Out of all of them, Harrin astounds him most of all. The other three bear an aura of legend upon them; but Harrin, who has neither cunning, nor strength, nor skill—for him to throw himself into battle against the terrifying Azaocratz, unarmored, with nothing to offer but his body as sacrifice… This, UrokYann has never heard of, never even imagined.

When he had seen Harrin fall, with a mangled wrist rent by the teeth of Azaocratz, fall to lie bleeding in the freezing water, with no one to help him, UrokYann had been struck to tears. Though still transfixed by draconic dread, unable to do anything but watch as Harrin lay groaning and turning pale, he had been unable to accept a future in which that heroic man bled to death alone, and so he had bowed his head as if shouldering a heavy weight, and had broken his fear like bonds.

Even then, UrokYann could not have attacked the monster—not on that night. But he could move, and he could run, and he could save his friend.

But now, standing over the glittering body of the foe, gazing down on the sobbing of the wyvern-slayer, UrokYann wonders how any of the four who faced Azaocratz yet live. Their wounds are terrible, and he, who learned to suffer wounds in slavery, knows them to be dreadful things, inflicted by those who seek to punish, and who will be appeased only by wretched groveling and unfeigned tears.

However the four, wounded more grievously than UrokYann has ever been, now show him another way. Cusáhn binds his broken arm into a sling with passionless efficiency; Harrin, on the edge of collapse, goes to Glaneir and asks quietly that his wound be sealed; and Viványa, having shed all her tears for her enemy's hurts, seems unaware of her own gashes until a slash on her arm catches her fancy, and she fastens her mouth to it with pride, savoring victory.

Just as UrokYann begins to think his comrades invincible, Harrin collapses. Cusáhn, reaching to catch him, stumbles and falls as well. Arduously, the guardsman rises, but Harrin is pale, unseeing, and cannot be roused.

"A pity," Glaneir says. "He had proved himself useful. Yet there are limits to what the will alone can accomplish, and we are, I suppose, bearing witness to those limits."

"Not yet," Rokál rasps, kneeling at Harrin's side. "Not just yet, for his will persists in me. Hear this: until the children of this man depart the Tower, I will not."

Viványa looks up, wide-eyed with interest and alarm. Covering her mouth, she asks, "A vow?"

Rokál strikes his breastplate. "On my life!" He gestures to Cusáhn and Viványa. "If I fail in this, cut off my head!"

The comrades stare aghast at this command—all save Viványa, whose fatherland is near to Rokál's. She merely nods.

After a silence, Glaneir says, "Then one, at least, will go on. I had wondered. Certainly Harrin cannot."

"Harrin's task falls to us," Cusáhn agrees. "UrokYann, you must remain behind to guard this worthy man. If you can carry him, then find us a route of escape as well, leaving signs for us to follow when our task is done. Then guard it for us; we will rejoin you."

Glaneir, approaching Cusáhn's sling-bound arm with her silver wand, asks "And what of you, Cusáhn? With this broken arm, have you not become a hindrance?"

"Not wholly, no," he protests. But he grimaces with pain as Glaneir causes the vambrace to flow into the form of a metal splint.

Tzark watches the spellwork narrowly, recalling the words of the maiden who gave him gold. He now senses falseness within the intricate patterns of the moving wand, the theatricality of a street performer. He conceives a suspicion: the wand is nothing more than a prop. Then a second suspicion flashes after the first: Glaneir is Ulto.

But how is he to act on this mistrust? A lifelong criminal and outcast, his experience tells him that any accusation would rebound upon himself. And so he waits…

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Meanwhile, except for Viványa, who is prying out the wyvern's teeth, the comrades discuss whether Cusáhn should accompany Harrin and UrokYann to protect them.

Tzark asks lightly, as if at random, "What of Ulto? If she is half as much trouble as this cantankerous lizard, we shall need all hands."

"Ulto is human," Cusáhn answers, "—mostly. I believe treachery is her greatest weapon."

"What of her raven shape?" asks Tzark.

Cusáhn says, "It is known that she cannot assume it without her master's aid."

"Besides," Rokál adds, "she is no warrior, no draconic beast. Tonight's great battle is over. Now we hunt."

"And Voua Azrain?" Tzark persists. "He may have crushed Mathras. Why not us?"

Glaneir delicately waves this aside, "Even Voua Azrain would not be cavalier about the assassin we bring, with this crescent halberd—or, shall I call it a crescent axe now?" She raises an eyebrow at the weapon, much shortened by Azaocratz' teeth. "Regardless, we shall not have to face him."

In truth, it is Ulto's prime ambition to expend the comrades in a suicidal assault upon the exalted sorcerer. They would be crushed like gnats, troubling Voua Azrain for only a moment, but in that precious instant, Ulto plans to thrust accursed daggers through his ever-distant eyes.

"Voua Azrain," she lies, "is undoubtedly masquerading in the form of Ulto, somewhere in the Upper Tower, while she masquerades in his form, serving as a body double. A trite deceit, no?"

"A trite deceit indeed," Tzark answers dryly, seeing what doom she has planned for them.

Soon thereafter, it is decided: Cusáhn, UrokYann, and Harrin will find a route of escape and guard it, while Rokál, Glaneir, and Tzark will hunt for Harrin's children, and slay Ulto.

Glaneir asks, "But what of you, Vivict?" and, finding herself even more wary of the pirate than before, she adds hopefully, "You are covered in blood."

Viványa rises. While the others had been speaking, she had drunk of Azaocratz' blood, to always be one with her.

Now she covers her mouth and declares, "I hunt."

Glaneir begins to turn away, concealing her displeasure, but Viványa holds out a fist, palm up, and opens it to reveal the teeth of Azaocratz.

Glaneir asks. "What of them?"

Viványa grins in a way that reveals her entire mouth. Her teeth are a jagged ruin, shattered or swallowed in a hundred chaotic fights. She pushes one of the wyvern's teeth root-first against the pits of her own gums, and points to the silver wand.

"I see," Ulto says. She is disinclined to arm Vivict still further, but is fearful of angering him by an outright denial; so she appeals to the others, "Are there objections? These are treasures of immense value, and I recall a certain alchemist who—if he yet lives—will be enraged to have his claim on them ignored."

Rokál puts a hand on Vivict's shoulder and declares, with menacing finality, "None object. Who are we to deny our javelineer?"

Cusáhn agrees, "Mathras will be furious, it is true… but he is our patron, not our brother." He clasps Vivict by the other shoulder.

Viványa, light-headed from standing swiftly after a loss of blood, does not shake off Rokál and Cusáhn, but allows them to support her, even leaning slightly on Rokál as Glaneir draws closer and, reluctantly, begins weaving gums and teeth.

After some shrinking and rearrangement, the wicked spikes fit inside Viványa's mouth as smoothly as natural fangs. Even when she smiles or yawns, they befit her so well that they seem the work of nature, not of art, like the canines of a wolf.

"Take my advice," Glaneir says, "Do not bite your tongue."

Viványa grins in thanks—not a reassuring sight. Grateful and happy about the new weapons sheathed within her mouth, each one a memento of beloved Azaocratz, she chooses not to ask Glaneir why her breath, when she had leaned close to work, had smelled thickly of human blood.

The companions sit and rest for a time before they part. Cusáhn confers with Tzark about his knowledge of the labyrinth, and Tzark, confident that he can defeat any locks which bar the hunters' path, passes Cusáhn a pouch, telling him it contains secret thieves' tools, and making him promise not to look inside unless he encounters a lock he cannot circumvent. The pouch actually contains the silver keys.

Meanwhile Viványa presents UrokYann with the makeshift harpoon, in case its long rope is needed. He grips her arm in thanks, and gives in return his pair of scimitars on crossed belts, since so many of Viványa's weapons have been destroyed.

Then the comrades part, with cries of "Good luck!" and "Good hunting!"

Cusáhn leads his group through the smoldering trees toward the chamber of the dragonflies, while the hunters press deeper into the Tower, under the guidance of the treacherous Ulto.