City of Serpents

City of Serpents

Aranthir XIII

A late autumn sunset came slowly to the land of Chand. The waning rays of the sun retreated across the drylands, date groves, and empty vineyards toward the walls of a lonely city. Anourah was an ancient, crumbling city of brick and sandstone on the border between the land of Chand and the vast dry plains of Khoraz Rhudin that stretched from the Black Mountains to the Tangyr Range in the east. As the last stop before a thousand miles of parched flatlands ruled by centaurs, it played host to an endless parade of camel caravans plying the long, dry road that ran ever toward the sunrise.

Anourah had long ago been the center of a great empire that stretched across the plains to the feet of the Tangyrs, worn away little by little over the centuries until barely more than the city itself remained. Behind towering yellow walls, thirty thousand souls were crammed together into an endless warren of narrow streets that wound around inns, markets, modest homes, and the lavish palaces of a wizened aristocracy that still clung desperately to power.

Down these streets prowled a young man recently come to the city in search of fortune. Vasham was his name and a proud and ancient heritage was his birthright. With few prospects in his family's meager lands, he had ventured to the king's city on the border between Chand and the endless steppes to offer his arm in service. His skill and vigor had brought him into no lesser court than that of royalty, but his stroke of fortune was soured by the king's counselors who took offense at his every word and deed. His enemies seemed to lurk behind every door and around every corner, and the man checked over his shoulder with every five steps as he walked.

Now, Vasham made for an inn along the outer wall in search of the man known as Ertham, a matchmaker by trade. However, Ertham did not match brides and bridegrooms, but instead made arrangements between denizens of the underworld, connecting buyers and sellers. He straddled the line between common thieves and respectable society to discretely dispose of stolen goods and so incidentally made himself a useful contact for anyone wishing to find blades for hire.

Coming at last to the outer walls of the city, Vasham made his way through the throng of merchants and their beasts of burden to enter the inn known as the Spitting Camel. Evening had settled over Anourah the same as ever; the merchants were chattering, the serving wenches were busy, and the pickpockets were on the hunt for fat purses. The Spitting Camel was like every other inn Vasham had known in the whole of Chand; a raucous, crowded place home to gamblers, drunks, barterers, and whores.

The smoke of hashish and candles formed a light haze over the throng in the common room, and Vasham squinted in search of Ertham.

As if summoned, the man appeared at Vasham's side, a wizened man in a dark gray cowl and cloak. His beard was thin and white, but his gray eyes still sharp as he clasped one bony hand over Vasham's forearm.

"You're late," the old man chided in a rasp. "Your new friend is impatient."

"Where is he?" Vasham demanded. Ertham nodded his chin toward the far side of the room.

"By the back wall. Seek out the dancing girl."

"You will not show me to him?" Vasham asked with suspicion, but Ertham shook his head.

"He's the dangerous sort, just as you asked for. He's been in the city three days and already killed two thugs and sent a pickpocket to the Temple of Askallon for a month or more."

"You don't deal with dangerous sorts?" Vasham pressed and Ertham shook his head again.

"Not when I can avoid it. How do you think I made it to my age? Thieves are my people, not killers. But you have not wasted your money. Go, he is waiting."

Vasham frowned in disappointment, but Ertham moved away toward the bar and left him no other choice. The young nobleman laid a hand on the gilded pommel of his sword and began to forge his way through the crowd. The dancing girl, he thought of Ertham's directions, why her?

His path was blocked by a fat merchant, drunk on his wine, who fell backward off his bench in an uproarious fit of laughter, knocking into Vasham and knocking Vasham into another man across the aisle.

"Watch yourself!" Vasham snapped, one arm cocked to deliver a chastisement with the back of his hand as the other rested on his pommel. From the other side, the man he had just inadvertently elbowed growled something hostile in a foreign tongue.

Both men stood up and Vasham saw their companions turn their heads his way as well. He was outnumbered.

He drew back his cloak to show a badge on his should that bore the colors of King Sogdai, the venerable monarch who ruled their ancient city. The two aggressors scowled, balled their fists, and sat down again.

Vasham breathed a sigh of relief. He was no coward, but he was here for something important and becoming embroiled in a tavern brawl was not in his plans.

He turned back toward the far wall and, through a momentary part in the crowd, spied the dancing girl. She was a pretty thing, something Vasham had seen too little of late, as King Sogdai was a jealous ruler who kept his concubines under lock and key. She danced sinuously, covered only by sheer wrappings about her slender young body. Vasham felt something stirring in him at the sight of her long, dark hair and her big breasts barely concealed beneath her scanty clothing. He shook thoughts of lust from his mind--they were as distracting as the bar brawl he had just avoided.

Before the dancing girl sat a young man--surprisingly young, to Vasham's youthful eyes--who smiled as he leaned against the wall and watched. One leg rested on the long bench that he had claimed all to himself. On the table beside him lay a nearly empty bottle of wine and a clay mug. A simple iron dagger had been driven into the table, no doubt in a fit of boredom. The man's eyes were hard and green, dancing with bitter joy as he watched the girl.

He was tall, that much was evident even from his seat, and thin. But he was no weakling, for even his subtle movements were made with the grace of a strong and skilled swordsman. The implements of his trade were bundled together with his traveler's pack beside the dagger; a saber in its scabbard, a small round shield, a bow in its case, a quiver of arrows, a bunched-up shirt of mail, and a domed helm.

Vasham stepped forward from the parting crowd and stood before the table. The man ignored him, jade eyes fixed on the dancing girl, until Vasham cleared his throat. The man's smile faded, and he turned at last to face Vasham.

His eyes seemed to glitter in the candlelight, and it was not until he brushed away his shoulder-length brown hair to reveal two ears pointed like leaves that Vasham realized he was faced with one of the elder blood.

"An elf!" he breathed, too softly for a human to hear.

"A half-elf," the half-elf corrected, and ended the girl's dance with a wave. The half-elf eyed Vasham skeptically. "What do you want?"

"You are Ertham's man," Vasham said simply. "As am I. Vasham is my name, and my father is Mirhan, of the line of Mardavi."

The half-elf considered him with a slight frown, and Vasham found himself disappointed as well. The half-elf was too young. Vasham himself was still half a youth, and this half-elf was younger still. He had expected a hardened mercenary, or perhaps a wily cutthroat who knew the city like the back of his hand. This half-elf from out of town was... unpromising.

"Sit," the half-elf commanded. "I expected you at sundown. You would have been better served to be earlier or later in coming. Later, I could be finished with her," he dismissed the dancing girl with another wave, "and earlier I never would have been distracted by her at all. But never mind. Speak, what is your need?"

Vasham misliked the man's tone. He spoke the local tongue well, though still with enough of an accent to mark his as a foreigner, even if his eyes and ears did not. He dressed like a southerner as well, in a padded doublet, high riding boots, and trousers. But despite the half-elf's youth, there was a confidence to him that gave Vasham some hope that he had not wasted good money on the matchmaker.

"I was... delayed," Vasham began. "I am followed through the streets whenever I go out, and took a longer path to lose any pursuers." He looked over his shoulder toward the door and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"What sort of pursuers?" demanded the half-elf, pouring the rest of his wine into a mug. He drained the cup without offering any to Vasham, then snapped his fingers at a passing serving maid. "More!" he demanded, and then beckoned for Vasham to speak.

"Cutthroats, perhaps," the nobleman said slowly, his eyes on the empty bottle. "Certainly none of a respectable sort. Spies, for sure."

"Why do spies and cutthroats want with you?"

"I am a close companion of the king," Vasham answered. "A new member of his guard. But... this city is strange. Something sinister lurks here. I can feel it close, always, but none other than myself seems to notice. I hear of things... disappearances, strange deaths, noise in the night. But my every effort to investigate is stymied by my enemies at court. The other night, I heard a scream from the king's gardens. I dashed out to investigate, but found the king's chancellor there with his servants. They denied having heard anything and mocked me as a hashish smoker, a drunk, a madman... But there was an evil presence in the air. I could feel it. I still feel it even now."

Vasham paused. His companion seemed not to care, his eyes searching the crowd for the serving wench and the wine. Vasham's hope in Ertham was fading fast.

"What's your name?" Vasham asked. The half-elf's strange green eyes flicked back toward him.

"I am Aranthir," he said simply.

"Aranthir," Vasham repeated. "Who is your father? Who are your people?"

"I have no people," Aranthir replied. "I am of two people, mortals and immortals, and thus I am of none. It is freeing," he said with a laugh that sounded as bitter as anything Vasham had ever heard before. "I walk the world as a free man, and my travels have brought me to you. So tell me, Vasham, son of Mirhan, of the line of the Mardavi, what is it you wish of me?"

Vasham reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a sheer bit of cloth. He laid it upon the table and Aranthir cocked an eyebrow.

"I returned to the garden in the morning," Vasham said quietly with another look over his shoulder. "I found this under a bush."

Aranthir picked up the cloth between two fingers and recoiled with a curled lip of disgust. It was no cloth at all.

"Snakeskin!" he hissed and let the skin drop.

"Aye," Vasham nodded grimly. "From a great serpent. I believe this to be the source of the great evil."

Aranthir said nothing and picked up the skin again. He held it contemplatively before his strange eyes. Vasham frowned. Was there something the half-elf was not telling him? He again wondered if Ertham had brought him the right man. Aranthir reached out and idly plucked at the dagger embedded in the table. It twanged like a taut bowstring, and the sound brought a smile to the half-elf's face.

"What do you think?" Vasham asked.

Aranthir's eyes flicked over Vasham's shoulder as he caught sight of something in the crowd.

"I think Ertham made more than one match tonight," he replied.

Before Vasham could wonder what that meant, Aranthir tore the dagger from its rest in the table and lunged at him with the blade in hand. Vasham felt his eyes fling open. He threw himself backwards to avoid the attack, but Aranthir flashed past him instead.

His heart pounding, Vasham turned and saw Aranthir bury his dagger in the chest of a cloaked man who had crept up behind him. The other man gasped dryly and let fall his own dagger which clattered to the floor. He coughed as Aranthir twisted the blade, then slid backward and hit the floor with a thud.

"You owe the matchmaker another visit," Aranthir sneered. The other patrons were taking notice of the slaying, and gasps of surprise suddenly turned to horror. Looking down, Vasham was shocked to see the dead man was not a man, but a monster with the head of a giant serpent!

Evil dead eyes stared up at him, its emerald scales dripping with black blood from the mortal wound in its chest. Patrons scrambled away over the tables, upending cups and platters in their horror. Aranthir coldly looked down at the dead thing, then through the scattering crowd to the door.

"More of them!" he snapped. "Accomplices by the door! Come, we'll find your serpents tonight!"

He snatched his pack off the table and charged away through the crowd, leaving Vasham to blunder through his wake.

---

Aranthir was carefully ensconced in the doorway of a weaver's shop when Vasham finally caught up with him. Night had long since fallen, and the dusty streets were deserted except for a black cat that darted from door to door in search of prey. Aranthir crooked a smile at the cat. It would serve itself well to be careful, lest it find a whole new manner of beasts in search of prey of their own.

He was dressed for battle now. His doublet was covered by mail and he had donned his helm. The bowcase and quiver hung from his belt along with the empty scabbard and dagger. His saber and shield he held at the ready as he watched the brick entrance to an old cellar across the street, thinking over the events of the still young night.

Serpentmen.

An ancient legend. Campfire tales. An evil memory from the Long Dark. A kindred thought long dead, even by the elves.

And now, a horrible reality. A vile pack of shapeshifters who hid in plain sight, preying on the mortals who never suspected their existence. Aranthir wished he had not taken the treacherous matchmaker's offer. He would rather be upstairs with the dancing girl instead of crouched in an alley outside a serpentman lair.

Vasham crept up behind him, his own sword in hand.

"What do you see?" the nobleman asked in a hoarse whisper.

"They went into that cellar there," Aranthir said. "And the air smells foul."

Vasham sniffed at the air, but the confusion on his face told Aranthir that the human's nose was no good.

"Trust me," Aranthir said over his shoulder. "It smells foul."

"Are you going in there?" Vasham asked with some concern. Aranthir nodded, the helm's camail jangling as he did.

"That's where they went. That's where we will find more of them."

"How many more?" asked Vasham. Aranthir smirked to himself.

"Are you a craven, Vasham, son of Mihran, of the line of the Mardavi?"

He heard the nobleman bristle. Noblemen were so easy to rile up.

"I am no craven, though neither am I a fool. There are only two of us, and we do not know how many are in there. We are the only ones who know that there is a lair of the monsters in this city. We should go to the city constable, or to the king himself."

"And let the constable's thugs have all the glory?" Aranthir sneered. "No, let us kill the monsters ourselves. Come on."

He darted across the street without waiting and peered over the lip of the cellar stairwell. The wooden door at the bottom was shut and lit by a solitary lantern hanging above. No guard waited there, but a worn stool before the door told of his presence. Aranthir slipped over the lip of the stairwell and descended the brick stairs to the door.

"Be cautious!" hissed Vasham from above. "We don't know what's down there."

"There's only one way to find out," Aranthir replied. He doffed his helm and put his ear to the door. For a moment, he heard nothing but the soft crunch of Vasham's shoes on the dusty stair. Then he heard a low distant chanting. To his ears, it was no different from any other chant heard through a few walls and a door. But to his soul, his mind's eye, it was a reverberating, evil thing that would have shaken an older and wiser man.

Aranthir tried the door. It was locked.

"Keep a watch," he said over his shoulder. "I'll open the lock."

"How?" asked Vasham, and Aranthir answered his question by producing a set of lockpicks from his pack. He pointed to the top of the stair and Vasham reluctantly crept up to the street and peered out into the darkness.

"No one's coming," he whispered back.

Aranthir was already at work. He inserted the first lockpick and twisted, searching for the door's latch.

"We look like common thieves," Vasham complained bitterly. Aranthir had to smirk.

"How many thieves wear mail and a helm while they work? Anourah must have a vicious breed of burglar indeed."

"That's not what I mean."

"Of course not. But worry no more." The door clicked. "We're in."

He pushed open the door a slight way and turned a triumphant smile to Vasham.

"Now we look like plunderers ready to slaughter all within and make off with their valuables. Much better, no?"

He shoved the door the rest of the way open and entered the cellar. It was a simple affair, crowded with barrels and jars and lit by only one lantern, just like outside. But on the opposite side from the door was what had been a cunningly concealed door to another stair, now carelessly left open by whoever had just run through it. A stair of sandstone descended into the earth below.

"I don't like this," Vasham muttered, but Aranthir merely shrugged.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he said with a mocking smile. Again, he did not wait for an answer and plunged into the narrow stair. It coiled around itself in its descent, lit sparsely by torches in the wall. The stair was steep, and the pair of them found themselves descending faster and faster. At first, they did so because the stair was steep, but the speed converted itself into excitement, and then they ran for its own sake instead. Aranthir could not wait to see what lay below.

In their eagerness, they ran unexpectedly into a guardsman coming up the stair. The man was just as surprised to see Aranthir and Vasham as they were to see him. His mouth dropped open, his hand dropped to his sword, but Aranthir was the quicker. He caught the man by the throat and strangled his warning cry, then smashed the man into the brick wall headfirst. Stunned, the unfortunate guard sagged to his knees. Aranthir cocked his swordarm and swung the saber in an overhead blow, splitting the man's face open and laying him low.

"Hopefully they didn't hear that," he muttered and stepped over the corpse to continue on. Vasham paused in shock a moment, but mustered himself and followed down the stair.

The stairwell at last debouched into a wide hall held up by carved pillars. At one end sat a plain altar of sandstone overlooked by a great stone serpent with gemstone eyes. The altar was bare except for a large bronze statue of a snake and the rust-red stains of countless victims who had met their end here over unknown centuries. Great bronze braziers burned to either side of the altar, illuminating the whole hall far more than they had any right to, and in the dim shadows above, Aranthir glimpsed the slithering coils of a lurking monstrous serpent that at last chilled his ardor for blood and battle. Still, he crept forward from the doorway and took shelter behind one of the tall pillars before he cast his eyes about the hall.

At the hall's center were the two men he had seen peering in the Camel's door when the assassin had met his end. They huddled together, cowering in fear before the altar and the giant snake. Behind them stood another guardsman, his hand on his sword.

From the rear of the hall, a tall serpentman, still attempting a semblance of a disguise in long robes, slithered its way across the floor toward the two men.

"What isss it?" the serpentman hissed in obvious annoyance. Its forked tongue flicked between ivory fangs, its tail twitching behind as it approached. The two men fell to their knees before the monster, hands outstretched and faces on the floor.

"Apologies and ill tidings, O Great One, priest of the Almighty! The Pure One you dispatched failed."

"Failed? What?! How? Ssspeak, weaklingsss. Explain your pathetic wordsss."

"There was another there, at the inn."

"One of the elder blood. He spotted the Pure One and slew him."

"Like lightning, he was! One moment, sitting, the next, burying a blade in the Pure One's heart."

"Elder blood?! We are of the elder blood, foolsss! You speak of elves? Pah! Usurpersss, dogsss, thievesss... Vermin. Warmbloodsss with stolen sorcery and false godsss. They are no match for the Pure Onesss."

"But he was, High Priest," the taller of the two men babbled. He lifted his head to nod fawningly at the serpentman, hands clasped together before his throat. "The elf slew him, and then came for us."

"Came for you?" the priest hissed, craning its head back in rage. "Followed you?!"

The two men realized too late their error. The shorter man sputtered uselessly while his taller companion knelt speechless before his doom.

"Foolsss!" hissed the priest. "You led them right to usss! Now die, pitiful wretchesss!"

The serpentman's head lashed forward and bit the taller of the two men on his forehead. At once, the wounds turned black and smoked, burning loudly as the venom ate away at its victim. The man shrieked horribly, clutching uselessly at his wounds and succeeding only in transferring the burning of the venom to his hands.

His companion backed away unconsciously, staring wide-eyed in horror at the dying man, then at the priest who had bitten him. The serpentman gestured to his lone guard to venture up the stairs and turned his own attention to the condemned minion.

"O Great One, I beg of you! Have mercy!"

"Mercy?" the priest snarled. "Mercy is weakness! Come, my pet!" he cried the last words in his dry, raspy voice and was immediately answered. An enormous serpent head lashed down from the shadows and crushed the man between its jaws. A muffled scream echoed from its terrible maw, two orphaned legs kicking from between its lipless fangs. The serpent swallowed and the man was gone. The priest turned his attention toward the stairwell door.

"Ssslay them all, the sssanctuary mussst be protected!"

The guardsman approached the door as if oblivious to the horrible scene behind him, and in his wake the giant snake slithered forward. Its hideous, unblinking eyes locked onto the door, but its black tongue flicked out before it, sniffing the air. Ten paces from the door, it stopped and cocked its head to one side.

"Now is when we should run for help," Vasham offered in a whisper, but Aranthir only snorted. From his belt, he lifted a small vial of indigo spice and tore out the cork with his teeth. He poured the contents into his mouth and shuddered as the sorcerous energies coursed through him. He now saw clearly with his mind's eye. Strands of magical energy coursed around him--through him--and he was ready.

"A sorcerer..." Vasham gasped in terrified awe. Aranthir ignored him.

"I've studied swordsmanship with the finest blademasters and warfare with the most skilled captains of the world. Do you know what they say to do when you are outmatched?"

Vasham shook his head and Aranthir grinned. His eyes shone deep blue beneath the green.

"Attack!"

He rounded the column and lunged at the guard. The unfortunate man was as unaware as his colleague on the stairs had been, and his mail shirt and peaked helm proved insufficient protection. Aranthir split him from ear to ear in a flash, leaving only himself and the monstrous snake.

The giant serpent paused its terrible advance as Aranthir came into view. It drew its head back, brushing the tall ceiling as it looked down on him. The hideous tongue flicked again and somewhere behind it, its master exhorted it again to slay the intruders. Aranthir's saber dripped with the fresh blood of the guard, but he hungered for more. His blade held high, he charged. The terrible scaled head watched him rush forward, poised to strike, but Aranthir kept his eyes locked on it. He had never seen a snake of this size, but knew enough of the common variety that he was sure he could spot the signs of a strike in time to avoid it.

The abomination met his gaze with its evil eyes of red and gold. The eyes grew wider and the world around them darker. They seemed to drink him in, and he dimly felt his pace slow. His arms fell to his side. Somewhere far away, he heard an unfamiliar voice call out his name.

"Why?" it asked. "Why do you revolt against your betters?"

Aranthir felt himself halt. He could hardly feel anything now. He swayed on his feet as if in a deep dream. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that he was in danger, but he could not make the thought felt enough to muster any reaction to it. Instead, he stared dully into the mesmerizing eyes of the giant serpent and waited for the deathblow to fall.

"Do you not know your place, little rat? The world does not belong to you. This was our world, and it will be again."

Aranthir felt his mind wander far from his body, back to the Colleges of Ildranon. Once again, he was roaming the narrow paths beneath tower shelves in its library, the air thick with the smell of aged scrolls and worn leather. In his mind's eye, he saw a heavy tome faced with snakeskin. A clasp of brass held it shut, but unseen hands unlatched it and turned over the first page.

Distantly, he heard someone cry out behind him. The great looming serpent head turned its terrible eyes away from him for just a moment, and Aranthir felt the dream fade a little, but then the distant cry died away and the eyes turned back on him.

"Yes," the voice purred. "Know your place, wretched slave. You live and die at the whim of your betters. And your insolence in profaning this place requires penance."

He felt the dread coils draw nearer, slithering along the stone floor. His skin crawled, but he could not shake his stupor. As the monstrosity encircled him, he withdrew into his mind's eye.

The voice followed him. He felt it invade his mind with ease, felt it crawl over the invisible barriers that guarded his innermost thoughts. He raised another barrier, just as he had been taught at the Colleges of Sorcery, but it was no use, and his enemy smashed it aside. It drew itself all around him, closing in as he retreated deeper and deeper into the depths of his soul. He shuddered, for the presence in his innermost thoughts revolted him beyond description.

"You cannot hide," it taunted. "I see your every thought, your every memory. I make them mine with a touch. Soon, nothing will be left to you. You will be a slave in mind and body."

Aranthir did not resist now. In the temple hall, the monster slithered closer now, the serpent coils closing in about him all while that great head loomed above and the evil red eyes shone down upon him. Aranthir cast about his mind for his salvation. The touch of the scales on his skin sent shivers down his spine.

He felt its evil breath on his face. He heard the crackle of its scales in his ears. He could see nothing but the darkness around him and the few fleeting memories that he held most dear. The touch of the evil voice seemed to corrupt them, twisting the treasured memories into evil ones and branding him with those that he wished to forget.

"You are at your weakest now," the voice purred with delight. "There is nothing left for you to do but submit."

Aranthir reached out. For a few brief moments, he felt the soothing touch of old memories, but they quickly turned sour as his enemy slithered over them. It poisoned his memories of his youth, his time at the Colleges. He saw through his own eyes the Library of Sorcery at Ildranon, with its shelves that rose to the high vaulted ceilings. He walked again down its aisles in search of ancient lore, accompanied by the students who had been his friends, his rivals, his lovers.

The memory twisted, the books turned to ash, the shelves to dead, gnarled trees, the other students to hateful demons baying for his blood. He saw his father again, the garden where had played as a child, the yard where he had first wielded a sword, and the first horse he had ever ridden. Again, the invisible foe polluted these. His father threw him aside, the garden boiled and broke into a nightmarish wilderness of carnivorous plants, his sword turned to a serpent and bit him, and his horse became a mere skeleton yet still ran endlessly under sorcerous power.

He ran through his childhood home as it burned, crawling over corpses--his tutor, his maid, his mother. Aranthir cried out into the pitiless void and he heard the voice laugh.

He ran. He did not know where to, only thinking to run until he could run no more. The voice pursued him, laughing and taunting him with each stride.

His long strides were calming. He realized he was not tiring. He thought of his horse between his knees, the open road, and a far horizon before him. He smiled in his mind and slowed to a halt. Somewhere far off, a light appeared. It grew stronger, slowly at first, but undeniably so. Aranthir turned to face the way he had come. The voice still lurked there close by, but he felt it pull back when he took a step toward it. He took another step and it retreated again.

The corruption retreated. His memories were his own again.

"What is this?" the voice hissed in annoyance.

Aranthir smiled.

"You are in my mind," he said, and felt the voice draw back. There was nothing but silence, but in that silence, he heard confusion. "Here I am at my strongest."

In the darkness of his mind, a sword sprang into being. It shone brilliant white in the black void, shedding burning light in all directions. Somewhere, just beyond the edge of that infinite light, he felt the voice lurking in the shadow. He sent the blade forth into the darkness, driving back the voice into the endless void.

It retreated slowly at first, but as his blade gained speed the evil presence withdrew faster and faster until it was in full flight. Aranthir followed, hurtling through the depths of his mind in pursuit until he overran his own barriers and found himself not defending an incursion into his mind, but perpetrating an invasion of his attacker's mind.

"Get out!" the voice cried, and Aranthir was at once assailed with a hail of evil memories. He saw naked slaves torn apart on altars, the miserable living driven deep into the mines by barbed whips, and the towering temple-palaces of the serpent kings. Enormous statues of their dark gods were raised high over the cities, and from the tops of towers, mighty kings gazed out over domains that stretched far beyond the distant horizons.

"You are not welcome here!" the voice cried again, but Aranthir's pursuit did not relent. The enemy fled into the most secret, most secure parts of its mind and Aranthir followed with blood on his mind. His foe raised barriers against him in desperation and the white sword crashed against them, struck, hewed, and at last broke through them to continue the chase. He was assaulted by constructs of memory, the products of a mind wicked beyond imagination, but the sword hewed and stabbed and they were each defeated in turn.

"This is a sacred place!" the voice wailed pitifully. Aranthir broke apart another barrier in the mind and saw that he had laid bare his foe's center. The invisible voice cowered before him. He raised his sword up high. "Why do you not kneel?" it whimpered, and Aranthir struck.

At once, he was in the real world again. The monstrous serpent coiled around him, its evil eyes staring into his own. Its jaw hung slack in the still air. Then it twitched as the white sword struck home. Its coils loosened, then tightened, and its head snapped back and forth.

It wailed, a pitiful sound from such a massive monster, and it thrashed back and forth with its whole body. Behind it, he saw the serpentman priest narrow its eyes in confusion. Aranthir's saber and shield sprang into position.

"What have you done?!" the priest hissed, and Aranthir lunged for the giant monster's jaws. His saber flashed and black blood sprayed from the monster's throat. It screamed now and its thrashing intensified. Aranthir struck again, his blade biting through the softer scalers on the monster's underbelly to draw sable blood once more.

"No!" cried the priest, hastening forward. Its eyes were now wide and it hissed in fury as Aranthir lashed out at the dying snake again and again. Each blow hewed open another bubbling wound in the monster, striking faster than a serpent's jaws and retreating to strike again with equal alacrity. The hot blood covered him and he did not care, so great was his fury as he hacked the beast apart.

There came another cry from behind him and Vasham rushed to his aid, his own straight blade plunging into the monster's bleeding belly. Vasham tore a gash three feet long, then twisted his blade and drove it in to the hilt. The priest snarled with fury, its body snapping forward to carry it over the thrashing coils of the mortally wounded monstrosity toward Aranthir and Vasham.

Its serpentine face was twisted with rage, and its clawed hands spread to either side. It hurtled over the dying giant to attack him with fang and claw, but Aranthir was too quick for it. He darted aside and it flashed past him to snap uselessly at the air. In reply, Aranthir swung his saber down onto the priest's scaled back.

His saber tore through the thick robes and bit into the scales but did not draw blood. The priest howled, buffeted by another wild spasm of his pet snake, and whirled on Aranthir faster than the half-elf thought possible. Claws lashed out and Aranthir caught them on his round shield.

Behind the priest, Vasham tore his blade free, having carved a deep circle in the monster's belly and left it to ooze dark blood onto the stone floor. The monster flailed about in its death throes, smashing its giant head against a stone pillar and then flopping to the floor. The crash against the pillar dislodged some piece of masonry above, and a piece plunged from the shadowed heights toward him.

Aranthir cried out and conjured a shield; a shimmering dome around him that caught and shattered the falling stone, and thwarted the serpent priest's lashing jaws as well. The serpent head slammed into the shield and bounced off, a comical sight that brought a laugh to Aranthir's lips. The shield faded, the priest's rage somehow grew more furious, and Aranthir saw that the impact had broken one of its fangs.

"You will pay for that!" it hissed. Aranthir, his face dripping with sweat and snake blood, grinned a wolf's grin, dismissed his shield, and struck back. His saber flashed in the light of the braziers, and the priest slashed the blade aside. Its eyes flamed with hate and it lashed forward with its sole remaining fang again.

Aranthir backed away from the snapping jaws, which caught him in the chest and thankfully did not pierce his mail. The needle-like tip of the fang became momentarily ensnared in a mail link, and Aranthir quickly drove his saber into the abomination's unarmored belly before it could extricate itself.

The serpentman screeched with pain. It thrashed about, freeing its trapped tooth, and drew back. Black blood dripped from the wound, which to Aranthir's disappointment was deep but not mortal. The serpentman crouched for another strike.

Vasham stabbed it from behind. He put the full weight of himself behind the blow and drove his sword into the priest's back. The sword point bit deep, piercing the thick scales, but like Aranthir's stroke it did not prove immediately deadly.

It did, however, prove both very painful and infuriating. The priest, who had spent the entire battle in a state of rage, rounded on Vasham and struck with its claws a half dozen times in the blink of an eye. His blade wrenched from his grasp by the lightning quick about face, Vasham was defenseless against the attack.

Aranthir felt his eyes widen as the furious blows drew blood, ripping through Vasham's padded tunic to bite deep into his flesh. Vasham cried out and staggered back, but the priest fell upon him like a starving wild animal. In a few short moments, he would no doubt rip the king's guardsman to shread.

Aranthir pounced. He discarded his shield and seized Vasham's sword with his free hand, driving it into the priest's back up to the hilt while at the same time delivering a vicious blow to the monster's neck with his saber. He felt Vasham's sword point plunge all the way through the monster's body, strain against the scales on the far side, and then burst through in a rush of black blood. Meanwhile, his own blade tore through the monster's shoulder and cut its throat.

It spasmed and died, whereupon it fell upon Vasham. He groaned in pain again, and Aranthir saw his tunic darken with more blood. The man's wounds were likely fatal.

"It got me," Vasham whispered. His voice was weak, but he was not afraid. "This is a good death, but there are still things undone."

"Indeed," Aranthir replied, "And this is no time for you to give up on me. Hold still while I mend you."

"Mend?" Vasham wheezed as Aranthir bent over him and closed his eyes.

"And don't talk," Aranthir chided. He reached deep into his reserves of sorcerous power and wove strands of life. He called them forth and bid them enter Vasham to bind his wounds. The man gasped as the magic took effect, not with pain but with renewed vigor. Aranthir next bid that his blood return to his body and saw the man's tunic lighten. Vasham blinked in disbelief, then sat up.

"I cannot believe it," he gasped, panting for air. "I was surely bound for Kanaron's halls."

"Elven magic," Aranthir offered in explanation. He stood up, trying to hide his sudden fatigue.

"I have never seen such sorcery. I have seen healers. One healer brought my feverish grandfather back from death's door over two weeks, but to do... that? You must be a mighty sorcerer indeed. And so skilled with the blade as well! And so young!"

"These things come more easily to those of the elder blood," Aranthir replied easily. He calmly reached into his pack and drew out a rag with which he wiped off the thick black blood that covered him from head to toe.

Vasham lay panting, watching him.

"How did you learn to fight like that?" he marveled. "You are unlike anything I have ever seen before. And the sorcery..."

Aranthir laughed grimly, wiping serpent ichor from his brow.

"Some of it is my tutors, some is the Colleges of Sorcery at Ildranon, and some is natural talent. But the most important thing is that you must be totally unafraid of death. When you fight without fear, you cannot lose."

"I hoped that was the wine talking," Vasham muttered, and Aranthir laughed again. He turned his attention to the two great gems that made up the eyes of the stone serpent over the altar. He stepped over the corpse of the serpent priest and approached, but Vasham called after him.

"The dead monster wears a badge belonging to a great man of the city. I know this man, the ikhshid Divashtich!" Vasham exclaimed. He held up a small bronze badge emblazoned with a silver hand and decorated with peacock feathers. Aranthir looked back at him over his shoulder and shrugged.

"This does not concern you?" Vasham pressed. "One of the king's closest supporters is involved with these monsters!"

"The serpentmen are shapeshifters," Aranthir replied. "That dead thing on the floor may be the ikhshid himself. They ruled these lands long ago and still cling to power where they can."

"We should take this to the city magistrate, if not to the king himself."

"What will your magistrate do?" Aranthir asked, his eyes on the gems high above. "He is a fat, indolent man who cares more for taking bribes than anything else."

"He is a loyal servant of King Sogdai," replied Vasham. "If we present him with the head of this dead thing, he will help us."

"Hm," was Aranthir's only reply. "Perhaps once I have these gems."

The stone head loomed some twenty feet above the altar, but Aranthir was undeterred. He produced a length of rope from his pack and threw it up to find purchase atop the head, then began to climb. Vasham watched in bemused exasperation.

"We have uncovered an ancient conspiracy of monsters living in our very midst, and you think of nothing but gems?"

"The rot in this city concerns me little," Aranthir said as he reached the first eye. Holding the rope with one hand, and stabbed his dagger into a gap between the eye's setting and began to pry it loose. "I knew it was rotten beyond help from the moment I stepped through the gates. If the disease becomes too much to bear, I'll just mount my horse and ride somewhere else." The gem came loose and he held it up with a smile that soon turned to disappointment.

"Just a bit of colored glass," he muttered. "They really are a people in decline."

He sighed and stuffed the glass eye into his pack. It would still be worth something. Before climbing over the head to pry out the other gem, he stopped and turned to Vasham, far below him on the floor.

"We never discussed my payment," he said thoughtfully.

"You want to discuss payment? Now?" the nobleman asked incredulously. Aranthir again shrugged.

"Now seems as good a time as any, before this goes any further. This isn't my city or my fight. My sword has its price."

"Very well," Vasham said with a sigh. "I've only so little money, but would ten dirhams suffice for this night's work? I mean to bring this to the magistrate and any further employment will likely be paid for by him or the king."

"Ten dirhams will suffice," Aranthir replied. It was more than the treacherous matchmaker had promised him, and he reminded himself to repay his debt to the double-dealer before departing Anourah. He swung himself over the other side of the stone head and pried out the second glass eye before descending the rope to the floor.

Vasham had occupied himself with studying the carvings on the hall's pillars. They were old and worn. Where once they had been painted, now they had faded to the dull yellow of the sandstone they were made of, but the scenes on them could still be made out.

They showed an empire of serpentmen at its height, with the mortal kindreds living beneath their lash. Serpentmen drove their slaves to the mines, the altars, and the charnel pits with glee, exulting in their mastery of the world. The scenes proceeded up the pillars in bands and Aranthir wondered if they had been made to allow their audience to slither up the pillars to the ceiling and read them in passing. High above him, he could see a depiction of the fall of their empire, where elves and humans tore down their temples and slaughtered them by the thousands. That brought a smile to his face, though sadly his ancestors had left the job incomplete.

"Let's find the magistrate," Vasham said with a shudder. "The sooner we organize an attack against these monsters the sooner we will be rid of them."

Looking around, Aranthir saw nothing else worth taking, except the head of their defeated foe. With two quick blows, he severed the head of the serpent priest and stuffed it into a spare sack for travel. The hideous thing revolted him and Vasham alike, and he hoped it would have the same effect on the magistrate, enough to spur him into action. Their bloody work finished, they began the long climb up the stairs to the street again.

---

"Serpentmen, ha!" the magistrate laughed. Aranthir could not help but roll his eyes. Even Vasham's invocation of the king's name had not spared them the long, drawn out arguing with the magistrate's majordomo. At long last, they had been let into the luxuriously furnished parlor, only to find that the magistrate still did not believe them.

"Old wives' tales, nothing more," the fat man continued. He sat slouched on his divan, his silk robe spilling open to show his hairy chest. He picked at his beard, the only hair on his round head, and muttered something under his breath about foreign troublemakers. He beckoned to one of his many servants for a drink and spilled some of it onto his chest as he drank. He belched, beckoned for more, then continued. "You two have been drinking too much. Really, this disturbance at this hour is too much. His Grace will hear of this, Vasham..."

"Magistrate Sithek," Vasham tried again, though with considerably less patience than before. "If you would simply hear us out..."

"Hear you out? Why, I had never thought to see such nerve. You barge into my house in the middle of the night, spouting these wild tales... I've half a mind to throw the both of you into a jail until the king can see you. You won't be in his guard much longer if you carry on like this. Out drinking at night with a half-blood... this is most unbecoming of one of your lineage."

Aranthir lost his patience and threw the sack onto the thick carpet, where it spilled open to reveal the severed serpentman head. Its scaly jaws hung open, its eyes staring blankly ahead into the parlor fireplace.

The magistrate and all his many servants recoiled in horror. Thick black gore dripped into the carpet. Sithek scrambled up on his seat, his face contorting and his lips curling.

"By the gods... that's..."

"Your old wives' tale, sir," Aranthir sneered. A serving man arrived with more drink, and Aranthir snatched a cup from his tray and drank it in one draw, watching the thick black blood soak into the magistrate's carpet. He smirked.

"I... I have never seen such a thing before," the magistrate stammered. "You found this where? In a cellar by the Cloth Market?"

"Indeed," replied Vasham.

"A deep cellar that has been there a long time," added Aranthir.

"I must call the guard," said Sithek. "Stay here. Tell no one. We must not spread panic through the city. But we will find these things and root them out."

"We should question the ikhshid first," Vasham declared.

"In time, in time. But the king must be told. Wait here while I make the arrangements. You there, gather up the head. Before it ruins my carpet anymore than it already has."

The magistrate and his servants hurried from the room, leaving Aranthir and Vasham alone in the parlor.

"At last," muttered Vasham. "I feared we would never convince him."

"He fears for his own position," Aranthir said. "He will never confront the ikhshid."

"Then we will go to the king," Vasham replied and Aranthir said nothing. Vasham paced the room, avoiding the dark, wet spot on the carpet. They waited in silence for the magistrate to make his preparations.

They waited still. Vasham started and stopped his pacing twice. Aranthir sat motionless of the divan, long since out of wine.

"What is taking him so long?" Vasham wondered and Aranthir still sat silent.

His ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Bare feet. His hand dropped to his dagger. The door handle turned, the door crept open, and in walked a beautiful serving girl with a tray of two wine cups.

She was young and slender, with long brown hair in a braid to her waist and little breasts hidden under a pair of silver cups that made up her brassiere. Besides her brassiere, she wore only a silken cord around her waist from which hung a pair of gauzy sheets between her shapely legs. Aranthir was immediately reminded of the dancing girl in the Spitting Camel that he had had to leave behind. The girl stepped onto the carpet, bowed her head, and presented the tray.

"My master apologizes for the delay. His guardsmen have gone to bed for the night and must be roused before he can leave. He offers these drinks by way of recompense."

"What is in them?" asked Aranthir, he let his hand slide off his dagger as he stood from the divan. The girl raised one finger, its nail painted a dark green, and pointed to the cup.

"Hippocras, sir, spiced with ginger and nutmeg. It is from his own reserves."

Aranthir sniffed the cups and indeed detected the scent of ginger and nutmeg. He still felt heady from all the wine he had drunk while waiting for Vasham to appear at the Camel, but the smell called to him. He took one cup for himself. The girl bowed.

Vasham cast a disinterested eye over the wine.

"How long before your master is ready?" he demanded. The girl bowed again.

"He fears it will be some time. He must muster men from their homes as well. He sent me to entertain you while you wait."

"Entertain us?" asked Aranthir. "How?"

The girl smiled and set aside her tray. She knelt before him to make her meaning clear and Aranthir quaffed the hippocras. He picked up the other cup and looked to Vasham.

"If you're not going to drink, do you mind if I do?"

"I want a drink," Vasham declared. He strode over and took the drink from Aranthir's hand. He and Aranthir toasted, the latter with his empty cup, and turned their eyes on the pretty girl kneeling before them. "What's your name?" asked Vasham, and the girl giggled.

"Azahr," she replied, and pulled off her top. She freed two little breasts from the silver cups, each less than a small handful and crowned with delicious nipples of light brown. "May I suck your cocks, sirs?" she asked sweetly and Aranthir could not imagine refusing.

He unlaced his trousers to free his cock. Vasham did the same and their cocks fell out in unison. Azahr grinned gladly and took them in her hands, stroking them with unrestrained glee.

"What magnificent cocks you have, sirs," she giggled, then set her lips to them. She sucked Aranthir first, staring up into his eyes with wonder as they glittered in the salon's lamplight. She stroked him again, lowering her eyes to his cock as she savored the moment. Then she embraced him with her lips, then her tongue, and lastly her full mouth and throat, sinking herself to the base on his cock until her nose touched his belly.

Aranthir exhaled with satisfaction. He closed his eyes to drink in the moment, the feeling of having a woman suck his cock that he had been thinking of since he first laid eyes on the dancing girl in the Spitting Camel. Even when battling the monstrous serpent in his mind, he felt as if he had always been half thinking of a girl sucking his cock.

Azahr's tongue caressed his cock while her soft hands stroked both him and Vasham. They both watched her take him to the base again, then she drew off him. She trailed spittle from her mouth to the fortunate cock in a long, wet string, smiling as she turned her head up to stare at Aranthir again. he returned her smile, and in response she took Vasham in her mouth to the base as well. The young nobleman gasped in appreciation, his hands winding through her dark hair. Her fingers played with them as she sucked, her dark green fingernails scratching teasingly at their soft skin where she could. Vasham tightened his grip on her hair and pulled.

The girl moaned around Vasham's cock, and the nobleman laid a comradely arm across Aranthir's shoulder. They exchanged a look and a nod, and the girl switched cocks again.

Both men were hard already, and Aranthir was impatient to be inside her. He shed his other clothes, interrupting his sucking as he stepped out of his boots and trousers and she deftly switched to pleasure Vasham. Aranthir threw aside the last of his clothes to stand naked, then hooked a hand under Azahr's armpit and hauled her to her feet.

She did not eagerly abandon Vasham, and giggled as Aranthir pulled her to a divan and settled her in his lap. His hard cock stood upright, straining to reach her wet sex just above it. Aranthir lay back against the velvet cushions and clasped Azahr by her waist.

The girl threw a look over her shoulder at Vasham, still fighting to extract one foot from his trouser leg, then lowered herself onto Aranthir's cock. The both gasped with pleasure as he entered her and her legs swallowed his member to the base. She rested atop him and stared into his eyes for a long moment before she at last began to ride.

She bounced slowly at first, gaining speed as she progressively succumbed to the throes of passion. Aranthir succumbed as well, his hands closing tighter about her waist, then sliding around her until he wrapped her in his arms and crushed her against his chest. They kissed, her little nipples brushing against his with each motion of her hips and now he began to thrust his cock hungrily into her welcoming cunt. Azahr moaned again, her eyes rolling back in her pretty little head, and Aranthir grabbed handfuls of her hair. He fucked harder, slapping his hips into her with force that echoed about the lavish salon and was surely heard beyond.

Azhar broke from Aranthir's grasp and sat up tall on his cock, the rising and falling of her little tits on her taut chest mesmerizing to his eyes. Behind her, Vasham at last finished stripping and climbed onto the divan beside her. He stood with his cock about at level with her bouncing mouth, demandingly holding it out for her with both hands. Azahr grinned and stuck out her tongue, the tip of his lapping against his cock as she rose and fell, but never fully embracing him with her mouth.

Vasham grinned at her teasing, then seized her by her braid and pulled her in close. Azahr squealed in feigned protest, but when his cock entered her mouth she swallowed him to the base with glee. Vasham tugged on her braid as she sucked him, his toes curling on the soft cushions beneath his feet.

The girl bounced on Aranthir's cock, complicating his efforts to suck her nipples, though he would never complain. His hands roamed her flanks from her wide hips to her little breasts. Azahr bobbed her head back and forth on Vasham's cock, one hand stroking him as the other steadied herself on Aranthir's shoulder. Aranthir's cock throbbed for release inside her and he slowed her riding before he came.

"I want her," Vasham growled, and Aranthir shoved the girl off. Vasham dropped to a seat on the couch and quickly settled Azahr into his lap. She resumed her vigorous riding, now taking Aranthir in her mouth as he stood on the couch cushions. He too took her by her braid and held it like a horse's reins as she pleasured him with hand and tongue. Her moaning grow more passionate and she shuddered as she came on Vasham's cock, her slender legs spasming and little fists beating at the cushions in orgasm.

It was too much for Vasham, who now begged for a break. He pulled his cock out of Azahr before he could come, and the girl stared up at them with pouting eyes.

"Here," Aranthir commanded, and pulled the girl to her knees. He bent her over the divan, ass in the air and head just over the edge, then stuffed his cock in her mouth. She took to him once again and twitched her hips invitingly at Vasham. The nobleman lay on the couch watching and stroking his cock to soothe it, but the sight of her hungrily sucking Aranthir's cock quickly stirred him back to action.

He mounted Azahr from behind. With both hands he pinned her to the divan as he fucked, his muscular hips pumping his cock into her wet sex. Aranthir held her by the hair and stared into her eyes as she lavished his cock with her long, deft tongue.

Again, her moaning grew in intensity. Aranthir felt her pulse pounding and she screamed as she came once again. Her whole body quivered now and she stopped sucking his cock to scream into the divan. Vasham could not control himself either and now he came inside her. Aranthir saw his cum bubble up out of the girl's sex and drip onto the cushions below.

What a delight it is to make a mess out of this magistrate's lavish home. Blood on the carpets and cum on his divan... what else can we ruin here?

The sight of Vasham spending himself in the girl ignited in Aranthir the desire for her cunt. He reached over her to grab her by the legs, then flipped her ass over head, legs flailing in the air, until he had her sex before his cock. She squealed with delighted surprise, then again as he thrust himself into her wet and sticky purse.

Azahr moaned, her pretty brown eyes rolling back into her head as Aranthir thrust himself into her up to the base of his cock. He fucked her furiously, both hands gripping her tits. He growled, feeling Vasham's hot and sticky cum all around his cock. It only made him want her more, and his hips pounded faster and harder. The slapping of naked flesh against naked flesh echoed around the luxurious parlor, hardly dampened by the thick tapestries and carpets. Azahr screamed again, and Aranthir knew for certain that the noise would be heard elsewhere in the house.

The magistrate should not mind, he thought, for why else did he send her in here half-naked and with offerings of wine if he did not intend for us to fuck her. A corrupt and largely useless man he is, but he knows how to show hospitality.

With a proud smile, Vasham lifted Azahr's head and shoulders and settled her in his lap, his slackening cock resting against her cheek. Her eyes exhibited desire for him again, but Aranthir's lustful assault on her sex left her without the capacity to anything more than look at his member.

Aranthir bent her legs back and pinned them to her shoulders, opening her slit up for deeper penetration. She squealed in delight, and Vasham caressed her pretty little head in his hands. Aranthir lacked such tenderness in him, and could now only think of fucking her until his heart gave out. He wanted wine, but there was none within reach and he could not bear to tear himself away from the delicious girl to find some.

She giggled again, throwing him a crooked smile as her right hand played with Vasham's limp cock, and Aranthir could hold himself back no more. He came inside her, his hot cum mingling with Vasham's own, then spurted again, and then again. He sagged over her, exhaustion coming quickly in the wake of his orgasm. His breath was shallow, his legs ached, his cock throbbed, but he was too overwhelmed with pleasure to care.

Aranthir collapsed to the floor, his cock flagging as the rest of him did. Azahr lay in Vasham's lap, smiling giddily up at him. The pair of them kissed, a tender moment amid the furious fucking, and they exchanged smiles. All three of them sat panting with exertion, the two men watching Azahr's little tits rise and fall with each breath that came to her.

There came a noise from the hall, and Aranthir paused as the sound of approaching booted feet reached his ears.

"Your master returns," he said. "With company."

The door flung open and in marched the fat magistrate, preceded by five guardsmen.

"Kill them!" Sithek shouted, emphasizing his order with the point of a thick finger.

His guards, mailed and with blades drawn, rushed forward with murder in their eyes while their master lurked in the doorway to watch.

Vasham froze, still holding his cock in one hand and Azahr's braid in the other. The girl screamed and tore herself from his grasp to cower in a corner. But Aranthir wasted no time and bolted toward his weapons where they lay on the floor.

"They're defenseless!" screamed the magistrate. "Faster, kill them now!"

It all happened so suddenly. Aranthir leapt over a divan and dove for his weapons as his foes' blades bore down upon him. He tucked into a roll, snatched up his saber and tore it from its sheath to meet the swiftly descended toward him.

His steel rang against theirs in a spray of sparks and he heard Azahr shriek again. Aranthir returned the first stroke and caught his foe in the shoulder, but the mail turned a disabling strike into a mere annoyance, and his foes fought on. Without armor of his own, Aranthir knew he was at a severe disadvantage. Fortunately, the guardsmen confounded themselves in the narrow room, allowing him to fight them one against one. He parried a stroke, then another, then ducked and snatched up his shield. He blocked a blow with it, then punched his attacker in retaliation. The shield connected its rim with the man's jaw, and Aranthir was rewarded with the familiar jolt through his arm and a spray of blood and teeth. He staggered back and nearly dropped his sword, but then rallied and came on.

But the guardsmen fanned out to surround Aranthir now, their blades flashing in the lamplight. He parried with shield and saber, yet the five of them quickly hemmed him in.

Aranthir's veins still coursed with spice, and he channeled the sorcerous energies into a blast of flame that he directed into the faces of two foes. The flames struck home, and the men fell away with screams and flailing hands as their blades clattered to the floor. They thrashed about in agony, one already missing three teeth before being set aflame, and three remained. One man came at Aranthir high, and on the far side, another stabbed low, aiming for Aranthir's bare legs.

Aranthir took the high blade on his shield and turned the other aside with his saber, but had only two arms and nothing to answer the third man, who held his blade to exploit his predicament. Aranthir saw the man cock his arm back. His eyes fixated on Aranthir's naked chest, specifically on his heart. The man's arm muscles flexed visibly beneath his mail and the sword began its deadly thrust. Occupied parrying the other two men, Aranthir had no defense.

Suddenly, the man went limp, and there was a horrible clash of steel. Vasham brought his blade down on the man's high helm, denting it so much that it nearly split open under the two-handed blow. The man staggered aside, clutching his helm, and Aranthir struck back.

He bolted to one side and his saber lashed out at the man who had gone high. He felt the jolt through his arm as the blade caught his enemy in the face. The saber bit deep, bone cracked, blood sprayed, and the man died on his feet. He fell to the floor in a crash of mail and a rattling of his shield, and only one remained standing.

Vasham dispatched the staggering man with a quick thrust to the throat, and the last guard now backed into a corner. Sithek stared speechless from the doorway at the sudden unraveling of his plan, then turned and fled. The guardsman raised his sword and shield in surrender and Aranthir mercilessly ran him through.

Before he had even hit the ground, Aranthir dashed off in pursuit of Sithek. The magistrate fled wailing through the halls of his great house, throwing open tall, heavy doors before him and neglecting to close them behind him in his haste. He bowled over a serving wench with an armload of fresh laundry, then trampled her underfoot in his desperate flight. She had barely recognized what was happening when Aranthir, still naked, leapt over her prone form in pursuit.

The magistrate stumbled into his grand dining hall and spilled to the floor. Now he recognized that his end was upon him. He turned over, his robe again falling open to show a soft, hairy chest--exposed dangerously to Aranthir's wrath.

"Mercy, please!" Sithek begged.

"Mercy?" Aranthir's lips curled as he slowed to a halt above the man. He laid the bloody tip of his saber against the magistrate's fleshy throat. "As you no doubt would have shown me?"

"I--I had to! To allow you to reveal the Pure Ones' secrets would have been... too great a failure to bear."

"Well, you will bear it now," Aranthir replied. "At least for the moment."

He ran the magistrate through. From behind, the fallen serving wench screamed in horror. Aranthir turned around, leaving Sithek dead in an expanding pool of blood that dripped through his soaked robe. Once again, his blood ran down through a thick, expensive carpet on the floor. Aranthir smiled with black humor.

He strode back down the hall to the salon, sending the terrified maid fleeing from his approach. He paid her no mind, for she was merely a maid, but found Vasham in the salon with his bloody blade at Azahr's throat. Behind him, the wounded guards had all been dispatched, likely a welcome end to their agony.

He held the girl against the wall where she had been cowering, his hand around her neck while his sword dripped blood onto her breasts.

"You lie!" he snarled. "You plotted with them to kill us!"

"No, sir!" she squealed, her voice thin and choked. She saw Aranthir as he returned and cried out to him, one hand extending pitifully in his direction. "Please, sir elf! He only told me you were mercenaries he wished to hire! I was to induce you to work for him at a low cost! I meant you no harm!"

"She is lying," Vasham growled. "You see it too, don't you?"

"Kill her if you really wish, but she is only a slave. It was not her choice. But whatever you do, do it quickly. We should leave."

"Aye," agreed Vasham. He threw Azhar to the floor and the girl ran from the room naked and sobbing. "To the king."

"To whichever gate has the cheapest captain," Aranthir countered. "We've slain a magistrate. By morning they will be fitting us both for nooses and I mean to be far down the road by then. Perhaps I'll go to Khoraz Rhudin, for I've longed to see the great Star Tower of Sahkandar."

"We cannot leave the city," protested Vasham. "My lord and monarch Sogdai is living in a nest of serpents. It is my sworn duty to protect him and he must know that his own magistrates are in league with these monsters."

"If they've corrupted a magistrate, they are likely within his court and guard as well. The king is as good as dead now, and it's just as well for I hear nothing good about him anyway."

"You agreed to do my bidding for the night," Vasham reminded him. "Ten dirhams was your price. Now that the king is in danger, I will offer twenty."

"It is too late to undo your healing?" Aranthir wondered sourly, but as he began to dress himself, he reconsidered. Twenty dirhams was a good night's work, and the road to Sahkandar was long. There was no telling how deep the corruption in the royal court ran, but Erek was a small kingdom. And to have a king in his debt would be useful no matter how small the kingdom was.

"Very well, get dressed."

---

The screams of the servants woke the house, but by the time the servants had dressed themselves--Vasham in stolen guardsman's mail--and come to see what all the commotion was about, Aranthir and Vasham were gone. They made quickly for the king's palace, where Vasham convinced the majordomo to grant them an audience with the king.

King Sogdai was not easily roused from sleep, and the old man glared through heavy-lidded eyes as they entered his throne room. The king slouched on his throne, his gnarled old hands clutching the armrests of his throne for support. Aranthir could hear the ancient man wheezing softly with each breath as the pair of them were escorted in.

Eight guards lined the approach to the throne, staring impassively at the pair of them from behind their masks of mail.

"Now, what's the meaning of this?" the king growled. "Why have you come to my hall in the dead of night."

Vasham set down the bloody sack they had retrieved from the magistrate.

"Your Majesty, within this sack is the head of a monster I discovered within your city tonight. It is a shapeshifter, able to take the form of a man, though its true form is that of the serpentmen."

The king's eyes narrowed. His aged hands tightened their grip on the throne.

"I brought this to the attention of the magistrate Sithek, who sent his guards to kill my companion and myself. And on this monster, I discovered the badge of the ikhshid Divashtich. I believe that the ikhshid or his household are taken over by these monsters, along with the magistrate. And some of these monsters may lurk within your court itself!"

Aranthir turned an eye to the guardsmen, wondering which of them might be serpentmen as well. He and Vasham were alone in the chamber, surrounded by the king, his chamberlain, and eight guardsmen. How many of them could he take on, he wondered?

King Sogdai studied them with a foggy gaze. He turned to one side and whispered to his chamberlain, who stood straight and still beside the throne. The chamberlain pursed his lips in thought, then turned to whisper back to the king. Sogdai nodded.

"Show me this monster," he commanded, and Vasham lifted the serpentman head from the sack. The king shuddered, his chamberlain's face went taut, but none of the guards moved a muscle. Sogdai's brow furrowed and Aranthir saw him clench the throne in his hands. He lowered his head and muttered something into his chest. The chamberlain leaned in and whispered in his ear again.

"This requires swift action, my king," Vasham pressed. "If we act now, we might take the ikhshid's palace while he sleeps and get to the bottom of this immediately."

The was no royal reply. The king hunched low on his throne, his rheumy eyes fixed upon them. He folded his hands before him and whispered "Guardssss, sshut the doorsss"

"Oh, fuck me..." Vasham groaned, but Aranthir only smiled and drew his blade.

The king and all eight of his guardsmen shimmered, then revealed their true selves. Hideous serpentine visages stared down at Aranthir and Vasham from all sides, readying their swords.

Arathir did not wait. His saber sprang into his hand and he lashed at the nearest guardsman. The monster was taken by surprise, and the blade split its scaly face to the bone. The serpentman hissed a death wail and fell.

Bedlam engulfed the throne room. The chamberlain ran for the nearest door and behind him the seven remaining guards fell upon Aranthir and Vasham in a furious melee. The king remained on his throne, clawed hands clutching its dark wood armrests while he watched the battle through slitted eyes.

The first serpentman to reach Vasham went down immediately as the former fellows in arms traded blows. Vasham knew his foe well and seemingly exploited a flaw in his foe's technique to create an opening through which he drove home his blade. The monster thrashed its long tail and died, but none of the others paid it any mind for there was death to be dealt.

Aranthir plunged into the roiling melee with abandon. He took the brunt of the serpentmen's attack to keep Vasham safe, for the human with his slower reflexes would not last long against two or three serpentmen at once. Three serpentmen struck at him at once and through sword, shield, and sorcery he defeated all their blows. Channeling the remainder of his spice through him, Aranthir fought with fury, striking madly and trusting in his armor to keep himself safe. Despite their numbers, the serpentmen fell back in awe of his ferocity, but there were many of them.

Vasham felled the fleeing chamberlain with a hurled dagger to the shoulder blades, then turned his attention to the others. He and Aranthir now fought two against six, and for all his talents at swordplay, Aranthir found himself hard pressed. He was in a cage of iron, for his every movement was checked and parried by a rain of blows. While he had his foes on the back foot, they were skilled, handpicked swordsmen who would not fall easily.

His ferocity began to wane as the guardsmen weathered the assault. Behind them, he could see the old king on his throne, leering down at the battle in expectation of a swift and bloody victory. No concern was spared for the two of his guards who had already fallen, nor any more for the more that would soon die.

Three guardsmen struck at Aranthir at once, three more tried at Vasham. Aranthir parried and dodged, but found himself running out of room to evade. The rogue guardsman danced back from their thrusts, one catching him across the belly of his stolen hauberk, and avoided injury. Aranthir lunged forward hoping to slay an enemy with a quick saber blow, but his foe snapped back, away from the strike.

He was now dangerously exposed, and the serpentmen seized their opening. Four blades rained down on him, threatening to burst the links of his mail under the force. One blade caught his along the left arm and rode down to his hand, where it tore open a slice all along the edge of his palm. Aranthir grunted in suppressed pain. The serpentman who had struck him hissed in anticipation of a triumph.

Aranthir whirled on the creature, his saber flashing in the light of the throne room. It crashed into the monster's face in an explosion of blood and bone. Scales flew, the monster shrieked, and tumbled away. Its long tail whipped back and forth, knocking the legs out from under Aranthir.

He toppled to the floor and landed on his back with a crash. Five monstrous faces loomed over him, clawed hands clutching swords ready to strike. With a cry, Vasham threw himself back into the melee in a desperate attempt to draw attention from Aranthir.

One serpentman turned toward him. The other four pounced on Aranthir. They fell on him in a fury of claws and swords, ignoring his armored chest to slash wildly at his legs and exposed face. His head he defended, but his thighs were torn open and he felt pain surge through him. His vision blurred with white-hot pain, his hands clenched around his sword and shield, and he roared through clenched teeth.

But through it all, he saw an opening. In their hunger, the serpentmen had left themselves open to a counterstroke. Aranthir's saber lashed forward and struck a mighty blow against the neck of one foe. He heard a crunch and a snap, and the monster fell limp to the floor. The others stopped their slashing frenzy, momentarily stunned by their companion's demise.

Aranthir did not waste the moment. Summoning as much of the spice's power as he could, he poured fresh life energy into his legs and saw his wounds knit over before his eyes. His legs still throbbed with agony, but he was confident he could stand--if only his attackers would let him.

His shield held overhead, he pulled his legs under him and tried to rise. But his attacker's shock had faded now. Regaining their senses, all three of his attackers attacked at once. Aranthir was battered back down to his knees. Three hideous faces snarled at him. Fangs gleamed in open maws, and Aranthir summoned the last of his magical energies.

He lit up the whole room with a blazing flash. The serpentmen hissed dryly in pain and the king on his throne screamed. Vasham cried out as well, but Aranthir was on his feet to defend his companion while his eyes cleared. They now stood two against four, and Aranthir felt the tide had turned.

His wounds throbbing, Aranthir poured magical power into his saber and split a serpentman from crown to collar; helm, scale, mail and all. Now he saw true terror in their alien faces. They gripped their blades tighter, held their shields closer to their bodies, and fought not to kill, but to survive.

That would be their downfall, Aranthir knew. Abandoning their attack left them no choice but to defend, and even three against two they would eventually make a mistake.

Soon enough they did, and Vasham slew another. He cut under a timid strike, then plunged his blade upward into the scaled belly of a serpentman to reach the monster's black heart. Thick blood pumped over the scales and mail, and the monster fell to the floor, thrashing in its death throes.

Its demise had the effect Aranthir had long hoped for, and his foes' will was broken. The remaining two fled in terror, their long, sinuous bodies carrying them swiftly toward the door even as their king screamed at them to fight in his defense.

But they could not flee swiftly enough. Vasham skewered one from behind with his blade and Aranthir hewed down the other. His saber flashed and bit, spraying black blood across the grand throne room accompanied by scale and bone. It hissed and writhed, then twitched its last, and only the king remained.

He coiled on his throne like a rat in a trap, too old and terrified to make the same doomed run for safety that his guards and chamberlain had made and failed. He shuddered at Aranthir's pained approach.

"Gold," Sogdai hissed, shrinking back against his throne. "Women, power, accolades. Anything you want, it will be yours."

Aranthir smiled though his agony.

"I know it will."

He stabbed the king in his throat and twisted the blade. The king coughed a dry cough and his dead yellow eyes latched onto Aranthir. He twitched, one clawed hand clutching at the saber that slew him. Then, slowly, his eyes closed and he slumped over on the throne.

Aranthir smiled in satisfaction and looked around. His wounds were fading and Vasham was alive and seemingly unhurt, while all around them was death and blood. The throne room was the scene of a massacre, and should anyone else discover them, it would only get worse.

"We should go," Aranthir said, not for the first time that night. He wiped his saber clean on the dead king's silken robe and descended from the throne.

"I cannot believe he was one of them," Vasham gasped, leaning against a carved pillar. "And my brothers in arms... all of them? How could I have been so blind? I knew something was amiss, but... this?"

"You were fortunate not to see before tonight. If you had unveiled them any earlier, they surely would have killed you."

"What do I do now?" Vasham wondered. "I was his sworn guardsman. Surely they would see me off or worse even if I was not involved in his death. But this... I don't know what I will do."

Aranthir shrugged.

"Do what you wish. Call a council of the great lords and elect a new king or crown yourself, I don't care. Though you would do well to rid yourself of any more serpentmen before you do."

"What will you do?"

"I am going to find some new trousers and help myself to the king's treasury," Aranthir replied casually. "Then his wine cellar, and perhaps his harem. But I will be out of the city by sunrise, and I suggest you do the same. The king is dead, and when the great lords see his throne is empty, they will ensure that his is not the last blood that will be spilled tonight."