6

It was first-blush late evening, just before rosy sunset ended a clear, chilly day. Not a quiet or peaceful one, though. The reverberations of dragon and Emperor tore through Snowmont like bale-fire. Everyone felt it at once when Aldarion died, though most had not met their ruler in person. As the audience gasped and surged to their feet, Magister Serrio stepped out of shadow to end the big fight-show.

"Enough," he said to Lionel and a panting young townsman. Sword and axe dropped at once to the blood-spattered sawdust. Then the Tabaxi's shackle clicked open, abruptly releasing him.

Everyone watched, confused and afraid, as lights dimmed and music stopped playing all over the fairgrounds. Wagons and boxes packed themselves up. Stunned performers were freed of their contracts, which suddenly tore up to shreds right in front of them. Tents and game-booths melted away like dream stuff, leaving the grief-stricken crowd packed into that newly barren town square. At first, there was no sound at all but sobbing and wind. Then,

"Good people," announced the ringmaster, in a velvety purr that carried to every part of the town and its fields. "Due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, these our revels are ended, forever."

The tall, tiefling-horned man seemed amused as he doffed a silk hat and bowed to his audience. The people drew closer, looking for shelter and strength, for Magister Serrio was eternal. Conflict never touched him, or anyone sheltered inside of his borders.

As the war bells sounded from Karellon, the ringmaster rose again, waving an elegant, casual hand.

"Please accept, in lieu of the evening's entertainment, these travel tokens. Use them wisely and well, my good folk, for your environs are about to become... decidedly insalubrious."

At his sigil and word, a trove of octagonal copper coins appeared, one in each person's grip, no matter how small or how humble. A few coins dropped to the ground, lost to deep snow or the sewer grates, but most were held tight and examined. Serrio's image was stamped on one side, the words "Free Passage" on the other.

"But… Magister Serrio," pled a young dryad, "What d'you want us to do?"

"Flee," said the ringmaster, in a suddenly thunderous voice. "Fast and far. Stop for nothing. Just, go."

He changed as they watched; skin growing metallic and scaly, wings and tail bursting through shredded fine clothes. Changed, but not quickly enough. As people screamed and leapt out of Serrio's way, the sky overhead split like old cloth. A gate opened up, edged in dark flame. Shrieking wind and questing dark tendrils thrust out of the hole, along with a vast copper dragon. Swooping down on the helpless town, the newcomer bellowed a ground-shaking challenge, jetting fire and smoke.

Screeching people burst into flame or invoked Serrio's travel coins, popping from sight like a sinkful of bubbles. Most of the elves escape-spelled at once, leaving the rest to their fate. The dragon turned in midair, then swept back around for another pass, using magic and shockwaves to bring down half of the buildings and thorn wall.

It was not unopposed.

"Away!" snarled the wyrm that had so long hidden as Magister Serrio. It launched itself into the sky. Fighting because it was too late to run, and there was no place to go, in any case. Some of the traveler's fury crossed over; stiffening, strengthening Serrio's will.

Lady Alfea looked on from under a balcony, so great with child she could barely move, a small, squirming dog pressed close to her heart.

"Hush, Pudge, we must be very still and quiet now, little one," she admonished, covering the dog's bulging eyes. Alfea clenched a travel token in one hand, but she could remember nothing at all before marrying Orrin. Could visualize only her own little room in the shattered mansion, above; her plants, her songbird and all of those clothes in the wardrobe that didn't quite fit; had belonged to the first… or the second… 'Lady Arvendahl'.

Chief Steward Raun had remained with his noble young charge. As the twin copper dragons clashed overhead… as Mount Kronnar trembled and lurched… the steward gently took hold of her elbow.

"Milady, we must seek shelter," he urged. "There are deep cellars under the brewery. Perhaps we can escape the worst, down there." Not likely, but better than gaping like two witless fleas at a cockfight.

She nodded, one hand pressed to her belly, so frail that she glowed like an elf in distress.

"Lead the way, Sir Raun," she told him. "Pudgy is frightened and… and I feel that Little Bean is soon to come forth."

Raun looked tense, but he wasn't the sort to flee, or back down.

"Let's get you someplace quiet and safe, Milady. Too much grand doings up here, for the likes of me."

Then Sapling the dryad pelted up, looking as frantic as Raun was unflappable.

"My tree!" he cried out. "White Dog, the horses! They be back at the stable, yet. Please, someone help me t' free them!"

Buernar stumped up from closing the Merry Lad. Like most of the dwarves, he had refused to leave Snowmont, muttering,

"Done with runnin' away. Here I stays n' here I fights, whatever comes next."

Now the broad, red-bearded inn-keeper got Sapling's attention.

"I'm with ya, Sap," he grunted. "Let's go."

The Tabaxi, too, came forward. A hulking, grey-furred male with black points, a coarse mane and blue eyes, he seemed more ogre than person. Yet,

"The beasts will scent me and run," rumbled the warrior, over the riot and clamor of battle and bells. "You have only to plan a safe path for them."

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Sapling's rough face split into a grateful smile, cracking his bark skin.

"Yes, please, both of you. Follow me. Hurry!"

Overhead, meanwhile, twin copper dragons swirled, dashed and struck at each other; incredibly fluid and graceful in flight. Hissing dark blood spattered the ground as talon or wing-joint hit flesh. Those sizzling droplets burnt holes in the cobbles and buildings, setting the last of Gildyr's thornwall alight.

Lord Orrin had just about made it over the mountain pass, leading his balky pack-mule, when Andrax and Serrio roared past, overhead. The entire mountain shifted and thrummed in response, as though something was waking. He heard a sharp CRACK, felt the ground lurch violently sideways, and then a wave of boulders and snow broke loose to hurtle downslope. Orrin slapped the mule's neck.

"GO!" he yelled, but it was too late to run. The avalanche was upon them in less than a terrified heartbeat, sweeping up Orrin, crushing the breath from his lungs. As his mind blacked out, something whispered,

'Poor dear. So misunderstood… so unjustly treated! Would you have vengeance, Sweet Orrin? Would you see those who've tormented you fall?'

His last thought, before darkness claimed him forever, was: "Yes, to the last, bitter dregs… yes."

Down in Snowmont, Filimar's set had remained at their posts. Their lord had left them in charge of his town and his people, so Sandor, Kellen and Arien went to work with a will, guiding dwarves, half-elves and humans alike to the brewery cellar. Extending far into the rock, the place was ankle-deep in frothing dark ale from a dozen sprung barrels, but otherwise sound.

Not everyone had somewhere to go, or was clear-headed enough to invoke Serrio's travel-coin. Drunks, children, the addled and lost wound up in that dark, yeasty basement, crowded between long wooden shelves full of barrels.

Dust sifted down from the rafters with each rumbling thump of a serpentine body, outside. Sometimes the temperature spiked to near roasting, leaving everyone gasping like fish at the top of a dried-out pond. But the worst was not knowing. Not being able to see.

Most of Snowmont's cellars were connected underground, in case of blizzard or fire. These tunnels were warded against thievery, murder and intrigue, but easy enough for honest folk to make use of, at need. Walking the tunnels, one could travel the length of Snowmont without ever breaking the surface, provided that there was no evil intent.

After a time, Sapling came in through a crawl space with White Dog. Behind them, Buernar and Lionel dragged in a sizable, spell-bound cutting of Sapling's tree. Not the whole thing, as Gildyr's magic had rooted it far too deeply to move.

They were just a bit singed, Buernar and Sapling somewhat trampled, but victorious, having chased twelve horses into the southern woods. The Tabaxi's roar was a tremendous spur to equine obedience, as it turned out, for a cat-monster here frightened them more than dragons up there.

Hilt brought up the rear, shepherding a group of excited young children. In their minds, this was all a great lark, and they'd wanted to watch the whole sky-battle. Some reunited with parents, a few joined their school friends… but those were the last saved of Snowmont before Kellen (who was a bit of a hobbyist mage) sealed up and warded the trapdoors.

He'd bitten his lip as he started his pocket spell, asking Buernar, Sandor and Arien,

"Ought we to wait a little while longer, in case anyone else is still out there?"

But the red-bearded dwarf shook his head, saying,

"Ye'll risk all them as are already here, milord… and there're diggings aplenty in Snowmont. Blasted most of 'em out, meself."

Sandor agreed with the Innkeeper.

"As soon as things settle outside, we shall hunt for survivors, Kelno, but these folk depend on us, here and now. Do what you have to."

And so, the entire cellar was sealed and then quarter-turned out of the plane like a massive faerie pocket… just as Lady Alfea curled up and cried out, riven by birth-pangs. But it wasn't Orrin she screamed for.

High overhead, the battle raged on, with Andrax driving its plane-twin into the mountainside, striking at the other dragon with fire and magic and lightning-bolt tail. Exposed its own underside in the process, allowing Serrio to lunge upward and sink its flame-blackened teeth through the scales and hide of Andrax's throat. Blasted fire with all of its might, burning and tearing a great, ragged gash.

Andrax shrieked and ripped free, surging skyward; beating hard for more altitude. Given brief respite, Serrio peeled itself off of the cliff-face, which shook like the flank of a horse.

As Serrio took to the air, battling Andrax's intruding mind, an elven wizard appeared. Sherazedan the Subtle, first on the shuddering slope of Mount Kronnar, then upon Serrio's back, just where the wings sprouted.

Held there by mage force, the wizard called,

"To the ocean, swiftly!"

Serrio, too, was an ancient dragon, if a peace-loving one. He did not take kindly to riders. Only, the situation was grim and urgent. Rumbling assent, the great copper wyrm slashed westward, chasing nightfall. Andrax followed, bellowing,

"Think not to run from me, Coward! The old one's schemes will not save you!"

Again, their minds flowed together, driven apart by Serrio's hasty spell.

"A plan," panted the dragon, flying as fast as it could over forest and farmland, river and plain. "Tell me that there is a plan, old conjurer!"

At such comet-velocity, there was far too much wind noise for regular speech. Sherazedan shifted to mage voice, instead, his words sounding mostly inside the dragon's long head.

'There is,' he promised, proceeding to lie like a dog. Fully expecting that Andrax would eavesdrop, he continued: 'We flee to the midocean portal and thence to the fey-wild, where I have allies.'

Utter rot, made up on the wing, but Andrax believed it.

"Bring on your allies, old one!" howled their pursuer, loudly enough to shake the lower Empyrean. "Fey-wild or Midworld, they shall burn and I'll feed you their steaming chunks, then finish you, too!"

Serrio faltered a bit, nearly overcome by the force of Andrax's wrath and its sheer, seething hatred.

"You two… have… some history… I take it," gasped the fleeing dragon, as they swooped high over Milardin, then River Reach, and thence out to the sea.

'A bit,' hedged Sherazedan, turning in his mage-built harness to fire a volley of spells back at Andrax. Goading. Annoying. At the same time, he began humming along with a certain very old harp-lay, having sensed Lyroc's opening chords. Added his own minor-key theme to the song. Nothing much… Just the speed, height and location of one who had helped raise the very first continent, bringing dry land to Midworld.

More lies. Andrax wasn't that old… but the truth didn't matter. Only that Something accepted the tale. With the end of his staff, as they neared the Fierce Current, Sherazedan gave sudden instructions in tap-code, knocking hard at Serrio's scales.

'Up. High and fast. Now.'

The laboring dragon obeyed, using its final reserves to misty-flit so very high in the air that new, shier stars shone forth like candles. Just in time, for Something truly enormous breached like the godly mother of whales, great mottled jaws yawning open, sluicing a torrent of seawater. Teeth like high crags shone in the moonlight. Ocean and mighty leviathan roared with one voice as the last world-serpent surged from its bed, impossibly far in the sky. Almost too big to make sense of. It snapped once, taking in a huge, millennial lungful of air along with one startled dragon.

Then, as Andrax was crushed into slime between massive tongue and vast, wreck-studded palate, the world-serpent twisted around. It completed its breach, plunging back into the water; raising waves that scoured the coast from Land's End to Easterling, reaching even Okuni and Point Despair. Then it was gone, having swallowed Andrax like krill.

"That was the plan?!" demanded Serrio, from a vantage point that turned war bells to chimes and city-wide fires to sparkling lights. He might have been eaten, himself.

'Yes,' said Sherazedan curtly, using his mage voice again. 'And, unless you fancy a battle with giants, old wyrm, I suggest we hie ourselves back to Snowmont, where I'll do my best to lull Kronnar. Objections?'

The dragon snorted a few wisps of flame, shaking its slender, horned head.

"Not one," it replied. "Back to town, then, Wizard… and may your lying tongue be coated in silver and honey."