by Tim Stead
Serpentine
By
Tim Stead
Being the First Book of The Beggar’s Ride
Continuing the Tale of The Sparrow and The Wolf
© Tim Stead 2018
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.
Also by Tim Stead
The Sparrow and the Wolf
The Seventh Friend
The Bloodstained God
The Pity Stone
The Fourth Age of Shanakan
Shanakan
The Lawkeeper of Samara
Scar Felice
A Game of Three Hands
Derakwa
The Fish King
* Soon to be released
1 The Test
He awoke.
For a moment there was panic. This was a place that he did not know, a gravel road through a summer wood, birds singing, wind in the leaves. He did not remember the place, or how he could have come here. He sat up, looked around and pushed fear away. He did not remember anything, not his name, his purpose, his home. It was all gone.
There was a note in his hand, a crumpled scrap of parchment. He unfolded it and looked at it.
This is a test, the note said. If you pass the test you will be granted power beyond your wildest dreams. To succeed you must follow the path and solve the problems that you encounter on your way. You have until the sun sets.
He stood up and looked around. The path curved away from him in both directions, vanishing within fifty paces into the trees and shrubs of the wood. Checking himself he saw that he was dressed in breeches, a shirt, stout boots and a light coat. A knife was belted to his waist.
He looked at the sky. It was still morning, and early. There was a tinge of pink to the scattered clouds and the light had a fresh, new-minted quality. The air still held the night’s chill.
He had a day.
There was no apparent difference between the two directions in which the path led, so he chose one at random and began to walk. It was dull at first. The path formed a series of gentle curves through the wood. He walked quickly, alert for any danger that might manifest itself.
After an hour or so he came to a cottage. It was set back from the path about twenty paces, nestled into the trees, and a thin column of smoke rose from its single chimney. It was a small house, a single storey, just two windows and a door. There was a garden laid out between it and the path, a maze of flowers in blue and yellow and red. He stopped and looked at it. The door beckoned him to come and open it, the windows invited him to come and peer through them, but he did not approach. The note had told him to follow the path, and he was not fool enough to fall at the first trap. He turned away and continued walking.
After a short while he emerged from the woods onto an open plain. He glanced back and saw that the wood he had just passed through had vanished. All that he could see was an infinite plain, long grass waving in the wind like the sea. There was no sign that the wood had ever been there. It was a disturbing sight.
Magic, he told himself. He knew that, but did not know how he knew.
He carried on walking at a steadier pace; following the path as it wound its vague and lazy way across the plain. As he walked he noticed that his world was changing again. It grew hotter and the waving grass grew shorter. Eventually the grass vanished altogether and he was walking across a desert.
It became very hot indeed. He was not dressed for it and quickly stripped off his light coat and opened his shirt. He tied the coat around his waist, reluctant to discard it. After all, he might find himself in a snowstorm next.
What was left of the breeze died away and he began to feel thirsty. He could not help but sweat in the desert heat and he knew that it was weakening him, but this was a test and it was always, almost always, possible to pass a test. He carried on walking.
It seemed that hours passed. Judging by the sun it was getting close to mid day. All around him the desert shimmered in the heat, making it difficult to see the path more than a hundred paces ahead. The light gravel merged with the sand beyond that and created the illusion that the path moved with him, or that he was not moving at all.
As the sun began its long descent he saw something that was neither sand nor gravel, a dark imperfection in the wavering world some way ahead. He licked his dry lips and walked a little faster. It resolved into trees, a patch of dark green against the pale sand, tall and insubstantial in the hot air.
Closer yet and he smelled water. That was welcome. He had never really smelled water before, not that he remembered anyway, but then he remembered almost nothing.
He did not allow himself to run. Instead he walked steadily until he stepped into the shade of the first tree and he saw the pond. It was a beautiful thing, limpid and pure in appearance but not large. He would have guessed it was no more than ten paces to a side and, bizarrely, it boasted a fountain at its heart, a jet of crystal clear water that played across the surface of the pool making the most delicious sound. It was all he could do to restrain his steps, but he did. The pond was perhaps twenty paces from the path.
And there was a woman sitting by its bank.
She was facing the water, sitting on the grass, and he guessed from what he could see that she was a little older than he, but as he was unsure of his own age he could not be certain. She was young, though, and dressed in breeches, a white shirt and an unmarked jerkin of brown leather. Her auburn hair hung down her back, tied into a tail with a single thong.
As he stood watching her, thinking about how good the water would taste in his mouth, she seemed to sense his presence and turned.
“Thank the gods,” she said.
She was pretty, he had to admit it. He’d always liked green eyes and pale skin.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Damned if I know,” she said. “I’m supposed to be doing some sort of test, but I’m trapped here.” She pointed to the grass. He could see, now that he looked carefully, that it was wrapped around her boots.
“You can’t get free?”
“Throw me your knife,” she said.
“Why?”
“So I can cut myself free.”
He shook his head. “I was given a knife because I’ll need it.”
“I’ll give it back,” she said. “Just as soon as I get free and back on the path.”
He hardly needed a moment to make his decision. This woman had failed the test. Helping her would not only be pointless, but if he freed her he would probably be forced to share whatever prize he won. That was not the way you went about winning.
He looked once more at the water, at the fountain that he desired to touch and drink from, and he turned and walked away. She shouted after him, cursed him as he walked, but he just smiled. He was going to win and nobody, nothing, was going to pull him from the path.
To his surprise the world had changed again. Almost as soon as he stepped away from the pond he was in a wood again and there, by the side of the path, was a stream. He knelt on the gravel and drank his fill. This was confirmation, a reward for his steadfast nature, his single-minded pursuit of success. He had been right.
His thirst slaked, he walked on again. It seemed that miles passed beneath his feet and yet the time was short, the sun fell quickly from the sky and he grew anxious that he might not reach the path’s end before the light failed.
He emerged once more from the wood and yet again the world was changed. He stepped onto a wind-blown slope and looked upwards, his eye following the path as it climbed past rocks and scattered gorse towards the peak
of a stony hill.
He didn’t look back. He knew that behind him there would be nothing but the same. The wood had already ceased to exist.
He picked up the pace. He was tired, but ignored it. He strode up the path, winding between rocks and bushes, cresting false peak after false peak until at last he saw the summit and on the summit there was something built.
At first he thought it was a house, but as he drew closer he saw that it was a single wall and in the middle of the wall was a single door. The wall was dark stone and the door was iron bound oak, but it bore no sign of a handle or latch. He walked around the end of the wall and discovered that on the other side there was no door, just cold stone.
He stood before the door again, pushed at it, but it stayed firmly shut.
“Open!” he commanded, but the door ignored him. There was obviously some trick to it. He ran his hand across the wood, tugged at the hinges, struck each iron boss with the hilt of his knife, but it was all to no avail. The door stayed stubbornly shut.
He walked around the wall again, looking for a clue as to how it might open. He looked for writing, symbols, anything that might reveal the secret.
Then he saw it.
On the end of the wall, right on the thin end, there was a lever. It was the same colour as the stone and hardly protruded from the wall at all. In fact there was just enough space for him to grip it with his hand and he pulled with all his strength.
The lever moved smoothly downwards. He heard a satisfying clunk from the direction of the door. He had solved the puzzle. He ran back to the door, but to his surprise it was still shut. He pushed at it again, but it would not open for him.
He walked to the opposite end of the wall from where he had pulled the lever and sure enough there was another one here. He smiled again. That had been easy. He seized the lever and pulled. Again there was a noise that suggested some mechanism within the wall had moved.
He hurried back to the door, but yet again it was unmoved and immovable. He struck the wood with frustration. He had found the levers and the door should be open. He walked back to the first lever and found to his disgust that it was back in its original position. It must be timed in some way.
He pulled the first lever down again and as soon as it was in position he ran across to the other and pulled that, but as he pulled he could see the first lever rise again.
He cursed.
But he was not one to be beaten by a mere mechanical device. He pulled off his jacket and went back down the path a few steps. He picked up rocks, as heavy as he could find, and gradually filled his jacket with them, tying it into a rough bag. When he could hardly bear the weight he staggered to the wall and hung the jacket on the lever that was still down. That, he hoped, would hold it.
He went back to the other lever and, looking across at his makeshift sack of stones, pulled. The other level shrugged off his makeshift weight as if it were an empty jacket, rising promptly as soon as he began to pull.
The sun touched the horizon.
It dawned on him that the levers needed to be pulled simultaneously, that he needed another person to help him, and that this is what the woman at the pond had been for.
He had lost.
He looked back down the stony path. Even if he ran, even if he could find the forest and the pond again it would be too late.
The sun was slipping below the horizon and, as it went, so the land went with it. He could see the distant hills blinking out of existence, the world folding in on itself as the day ended.
As the light died his memory returned and he knew who he was and what he had lost, not least of all his life, for this was a test that demanded a heavy price for failure. Yet he had been so certain of success.
He sat by the base of the wall and looked at the disappearing world. It shrank steadily towards him until there was only the small hilltop on which he sat and the wall and the door through which he could not pass.
He struck the door with his knife. He shouted in frustration and anger. The world vanished.
2 Col Boran
Narak sat on a sloping rock and looked out over half the world. He was high above Col Boran, very high, and the climb had taken him most of the morning. For a man it would have been a hard climb, and a fall would have been fatal, but Narak had ceased to be a man centuries ago, and recently he had become even less so.
The view from his perch was spectacular. The palace, if it could be called that, sprawled across the slopes far below him. It was a series of towers and spires, buildings and terraces, constructed in a cascade down the eastern slopes of the Dragon’s Back, and made in such a way that the lower floor of one building connected to the roof of the next via arched bridges and walkways, and so it gave the illusion that half the mountain was built upon. It was made from the same dark stone as the mountain, and it was only the regular shapes of the walls and bridges that made it visible.
It was a palace of stairs, Pascha had told him, and indeed there were more stairs in Col Boran than Narak had ever seen.
A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see massive dragon wings against the blue sky. The creature banked above him and with consummate skill stalled its flight a few feet to Narak’s right and settled there, hardly disturbing a pebble.
He knew the dragon. Its name was Bane, and he counted it a friend.
“You are well?” Bane asked.
“As ever.”
Bane stared out over the plains to the east. “There is trouble in Afael,” it said.
“Trouble?”
“Civil unrest. There have been riots in the streets, and the king has not been sufficiently harsh in quelling them,” the dragon said. “Or so his peers believe.”
“And you, Bane, what do you think?”
“I am not a philosopher,” Bane replied. “And ruling is not my business.”
“But I hear an opinion in your tone. Tell me.”
“It is possible that he has been too harsh,” Bane said. “His people are demanding change and I do not think that the demand can be beaten out of them.”
“I have heard that the trouble has died down,” Narak said. “The riots have ceased.”
“For now,” the dragon said.
Narak allowed a silence to stretch out between them. Neither he nor the dragon was troubled by silence.
“What is the cause?” he asked after a while.
“Seth Yarra,” Bane replied.
“Truly?”
“So it seems. Some have learned that Seth Yarra live without any king, and think it is a fine idea that men should control their own destiny.”
“A false perception,” Narak said. “The Seth Yarra are ruled by their priesthood, which is nothing less than a many headed monarch.”
“Nevertheless.”
“It is plainly not our concern,” Narak said. “The kingdoms rule themselves and we are sworn not to interfere.”
“Even if they cease to be kingdoms?” Bane asked. “And besides, we are expected to pass judgement on criminals, and the definition of what constitutes a crime is becoming vague.”
It was an interesting problem, Narak had to admit. The dragons, all nine of them, had taken it upon themselves to sit in judgement of men, simply because they could not be lied to. This task became more difficult when kingdoms descended into turmoil. Justice tended to be flexible in wartime, especially so in civil war.
“Refuse,” Narak said. “Do not judge in political cases.”
They would have talked on, but far below them Narak heard the sound of a slowly beating drum. Looking down he could see a procession of tiny figures, the coloured cloaks of Pascha’s Durander followers, leaving Col Boran and walking towards the burning grounds.
“Another death?” Bane asked.
“Pascha and her damned tests,” Narak said.
“It is for a good cause,” Bane said. “You know what will happen if the talent is permitted to flower in the wrong person. You know where we came from.”
It was true.
The god mages had nearly destroyed the world with their wars, and dragons had been just another weapon to them. Narak understood that this was the purpose of the tests, to winnow out the human chaff, the ruthless, the over ambitious, but he doubted their long term efficacy.
“We need another way,” he said.
The dragon said nothing, but he could see that it was watching the procession, a single line of people escorting a coffin down the slope to where pyres stood ready built. It was a constant source of amazement to Narak that so many young people would risk their lives in Pascha’s trials. They had so short a life he would have thought it more precious to them.
The prize, he had to admit, was great. They sought to become what Pascha was – a god mage, so called – a man or woman with virtually unlimited power. At present Pascha was the only one. Narak, who was Pascha’s lover, was something entirely different, though he could not have said exactly what he was: part man, part wolf, part dragon, a chimera of monsters, a killing machine, and a little shy of sixteen centuries old.
“I should go down,” he said. “She will be distraught.”
Bane unfurled a wing.
“I will carry you,” he said. Narak looked at him. “You were going to jump,” the dragon said. “You know that disturbs people.”
Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was why he did it. The spectacle of Narak in his aspect plummeting a thousand feet, shattering rock where he landed and walking away unharmed would be unnerving to any of the mortal inhabitants of Col Boran who witnessed it. It would remind them that he was not human, that he was dangerous.
He shrugged and walked up Bane’s wing, taking a seat at the base of the creature’s neck. “Let’s be about it, then,” he said.
In truth he did not think it much less disturbing for folk to see him ferried down from the heights astride a dragon, and more so because he was the only one they would tolerate upon their backs. Not even Pascha was afforded the privilege.
