Song of the Serpent

by Hugh Matthews

  "If we don't go soon," Raimeau said, "we won't be going at all."

  "Right," said Krunzle. He mopped away a flood of sweat from his brows and drew the short sword. "Pull it aside."

  "No," said the thin man, "I will go first."

  Brond said nothing, but moved, shouldering aside Krunzle then pushing Raimeau away from the entrance. The latter kept his grip on the blanket frame, pulling it out of Gyllana's hands. A blast of overheated air flowed into the cavern. The thief felt the sweat on his face dry in an instant, and when he touched a fingertip to his cheek, the skin was like old parchment.

  The dwarf said, as if to himself, "I'll go for their knees." Then he hefted his morningstar and stepped through the gap.

  The fight outside seemed to have reached its most desperate pitch. But now the commotion beyond the cave mouth abruptly ceased. Krunzle heard a sound of iron scraping on rock. The light from the bonfire dimmed. Someone was raking the fire aside, and the thief could scarcely remember a more luxurious sensation than the cool night air that riffled down the passageway.

  Brond had stepped back, and the four of them stood expectantly, though with weapons in hand. Dim light from the remnants of the bonfire faintly illuminated the passageway, then it dimmed further as someone entered and made his way down to the cave—someone who filled the passageway that was wide enough for two orcs; someone that had to twist his shoulders sideways to fit through the entrance into the cavern, and had to stoop a little to keep from banging his head on the stalactited ceiling. When he was in, he took up most of the small space. The dark shape of his huge head moved as he examined the three humans and a dwarf, who had backed against the far wall.

  "This is my cave," said the troll. "I smoked out a she-bear to get it." Then he laughed a troll's laugh, which none but a troll finds pleasant to hear, and said, "But you're welcome to stay for supper."

  Krunzle stepped forward. "It's very kind of you, Skanderbrog," he said, "but we've already eaten."

  The young troll sniffed the air. "Oh, it's you," he said.

  "And me," said Raimeau. "You remember me. We helped free you."

  "And," said Krunzle, "told you how you could settle scores with those two troll neighbors ...what were their names?"

  "Grunchum," said Skanderbrog, "and Brugga."

  "And how are they faring?" the thief said.

  "They are no longer troubled by the weight of their heads on their shoulders," said the troll. "I have put them in niches above the door to my cave."

  "Well, then," said Krunzle. "How nice."

  The troll quirked a corner of his mouth around one of his lower canines. "I suppose I shouldn't eat you," he said. "Or you." This with a head flick toward Raimeau. "My mother always said that a favor deserves a favor in return."

  "A wise she-troll," said Krunzle. "I would like to meet her." He indicated Gyllana and Brond. "These are friends of ours," he said. "I would take it as a great favor if you didn't eat them either."

  The troll's expression warned him that he was pressing his luck. "I've come a long way and I'm hungry," said Skanderbrog. "You work up an appetite, killing orcs." He was looking around the cave, his eyes glinting in the dimness.

  "Have you lost something?" Gyllana said.

  "The last thing my mother gave me when I left home."

  Krunzle remembered. He stooped and came up with the deer's shoulder bone that he had used to throw dirt on the fire. "Is this it?"

  Skanderbrog took it tenderly—for a troll, that is—and there was emotion in his voice as he said, "I seem to keep owing you favors." He cocked his head toward the passageway. "I suppose I could eat one of those orcs. One of them was fairly young."

  "I have some salt and seasoning in my wallet," said Krunzle.

  "That would help," said Skanderbrog. "They're gamy, even the young ones." He turned and wriggled his way through the opening. The others followed.

  Krunzle and Raimeau reassembled the scattered remains of the bonfire and built it up again, a little distance from the cave mouth. They dragged the orcs' corpses off a distance, except for the young one the troll had selected. Again, Skanderbrog used the long iron chisel as a spit. He had brought his hammer, too, and used it to drive a couple of branches into the earth, then positioned the chisel and its gore-dripping burden so that it would sear without charring. The aroma of roasting orc began to permeate the air. The four travelers sat upwind.

  "This is the third batch of orcs I've killed in the past two days," said the troll, turning the orc's cold side toward the flames. "The mountain is thick with them. My mother said you have to kill orcs as soon as you find them, otherwise they'll breed you out of house and home."

  "We met quite a few down the hill there," said Krunzle. "They were surprisingly well organized."

  "The ones I met did seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere," Skanderbrog said.

  "What direction were they going?"

  The troll moved his head to indicate the slopes of the volcano. "Up there."

  "Tell me, Skanderbrog," Raimeau said, "have you had any unusual dreams lately?"

  "Trolls don't dream," Skanderbrog said. He turned the orc again. "I don't know why."

  Krunzle said, "Did you see any trace of a man? He'd be wearing black."

  "I did," said the troll. "He went the way the orcs were going, until I interrupted their journey. He left a lingering smell on the trail. I didn't like it."

  "What kind of smell?" the thief said.

  The troll's snout wrinkled and he spat. "I've smelled something like it before, but not up here, in the world. It smelled like snakes, but not exactly. It is like the faint odor that lingers in some of the deep places where my mother said that someone used to do magic, long, long ago. But this is stronger. Ranker."

  Chirk, Krunzle said inwardly, are you listening to this?

  Yes.

  What do you make of it?

  It stirs something. I think I may be getting close to where the memory is buried.

  What is the magic that troll was talking about? the thief said.

  Old magic, I think, ordered by the old gods—the really old, old gods.

  You may have forgotten, Krunzle said, that you're some kind of a snake, yourself.

  A temporary condition, I'm increasingly sure, Chirk said. I don't think I've been in my present shape for more than a few centuries. Ten at the most.

  What were you before?

  I am still working on that.

  But you're old, said Krunzle. Are you really old, old?

  I think I might be, said the snake.

  Do you dream? the thief asked.

  I thought I didn't. Now I suspect that I do nothing but.

  You promised a talk before we slept.

  I think, said the voice in Krunzle's mind, that the time for talk has passed.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The four travelers slept in the cave while Skanderbrog lay beside his fire. When, in the morning, they looked for the horses, they saw that the animals had broken their tethers and fled from the orcs. But when Brond put two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle, his long-maned horse came trotting up and out of a distant depression in the alpine meadow. Moments later, the three horses came after. The beasts wouldn't come near Skanderbrog, but when the travelers carried their saddles and blankets out to where the horses stood, stamping and whinnying, they were able to calm the creatures down. Once they were mounted, they found the animals would tolerate the troll, so long as he did not come too close.

  "Would you care to come along with us?" Krunzle said. A troll could be useful in woods full of orcs.

  "Where? Up there?" Skanderbrog looked up at where the black cone of the mountain sent up wisps of smoke against the pale blue sky. "My mother told me about volcanoes—rivers of burning rock, boulders that fall out of the sky."

  Brond said, "My geothermic engineers say there's very little chance Mount Sinatuk will explode in our lifetimes."

  "If it explodes," said Skanderbrog, "that will be
the end of all our lifetimes."

  "Point taken," said the dwarf, "but it almost certainly won't go off in the next few days."

  The troll twisted up his face in indecision, and Krunzle said, "I'll be blunt. You're a very useful troll."

  Brond made a half-suppressed noise and the thief turned toward him questioningly. Raimeau said, quietly, "Dwarves and trolls don't usually get along."

  Krunzle addressed himself to the Noble Head. "Skanderbrog is an exceptional troll. As an exceptional dwarf, you should be able to overlook old prejudices."

  "You are right," said Brond. To the troll he said, "You are a valuable member of this company. You have my respect."

  "That is kindly said," said Skanderbrog, "but I cannot eat your respect. And while I don't mind killing orcs where I find them, my mother advised me never to go looking for trouble."

  "Good sense," said the dwarf, "but let us consider what a little trouble might be worth to you." He thought for a moment, then said, "The hammer and chisel are all very well, but have you thought about what you could do with a really good sword?"

  Skanderbrog held out a hand, fingers spread, wide as a bushel mouth. "Can't find one to fit," he said.

  "My smiths could make you one to scale. And of the best steel, not iron."

  The troll's snout wrinkled and one canine gleamed. "Steel? My mother said steel was dangerous."

  Krunzle entered the conversation. "And so it is," he said, "though it makes a big difference which end of the sword you're looking at." The troll conceded the point with a grunt. "In the hands of an intelligent, ambitious young troll, a good steel sword might open up a whole new world of opportunities."

  Skanderbrog looked at the thief sideways and chewed one corner of his mouth. "Such as?" he said.

  Krunzle made an airy gesture. "I am a stranger in your land. So I couldn't say how long has it been since there has been a troll king in these parts."

  The troll's brows drew down. "I don't know. Long time, would be my guess."

  "I imagine, and I'm just saying, a troll who became king would make his mother awfully proud."

  Skanderbrog turned to Brond. "You have smiths up there at the mine?"

  "And steel," said the Noble Head.

  The troll looked at the smoke wisps rising from the truncated peak. "And it won't go off?"

  "I promise."

  The troll collected his chisel and hammer. He wound the deer's shoulder bone into his hair. "I'll bring along a leg of orc to chew on," he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Tunnel

  Through the morning, they crossed the alpine meadowlands, the fields scattered with outcrops of broken stone and occasional pools of clear water. Krunzle surveyed the land ahead and saw that they were ascending toward a ridge of bare rock. Brond said the far side plunged down into a wooded valley with a stream of black water that the dwarves called Odrigg. Over the river, they would be at the bottom of Mount Sinatuk itself.

  "There is a bridge—we built it—some distance that way," the bald one said, gesturing to the east. "It meets the road that runs from Grimsburrow to the mine works, but I have a strong feeling that we might encounter orcs if we go that way."

  "Someone wants to stop us—or at least some of us—from getting there," Raimeau said. "I would like to know why."

  "I would like to know who," said Krunzle. He looked at Gyllana, who had been keeping her thoughts to herself. "Berbackian?" he said.

  Her face said the question pained her. "To me, he was just a dashing Blackjacket officer with a romantic plan to ..." She knitted her brows. "It all made perfect sense when he explained it; now I can't even remember what he said. It's like ..."

  "Like a dream," Raimeau finished for her. "Is it possible your spirited cavalier was a spell-spinning wizard who wove a net of fancies to snare you in?"

  "It must be so," she said, "though I thought I would know a mage close up." She shook her head.

  "Perhaps," said Krunzle, "he wields a species of magic that you're not familiar with. Or any of us, for that matter. Mordach said there was an odor to it that he could not recognize."

  Skanderbrog was striding ahead of the horses, but a troll's hearing can be sharp. "Snake magic," he said.

  "You said that before," said Raimeau. "Can you smell magic?"

  "No," said the troll, throwing the words back over his shoulder. "But a troll never forgets an odor. When my mother was teaching me, she took me down into the deep underworld, along tunnels and down sheer cliffs where no light has been shed for thousands of years. There are places down below—halls and chambers, altars and thrones—where old magic was once done. A stink still lingers there." He looked back at the travelers. "That smell is the one I scented from the tracks of your man. I could not mistake it. Nor would you if you'd ever smelled it."

  Skanderbrog's gaze settled thoughtfully on Krunzle. "At first I thought there was a whiff of it about you, too," he said, "but it's just that metal thing around your neck." He paused to remember, then added, "That man who had his arms burned off—it was strong on the stumps."

  "I cannot vouch for the object around my neck," the thief said. "I did not come by it voluntarily." He looked to the gray-haired man. "Raimeau, you've read books. Know anything about snake magic?"

  "If it's what I think it is," said the thin man, "it's not really snakes that our trollish friend is talking about. Something older than snakes, much older than men or dwarves or even orcs."

  "Long dead, then," said Krunzle. "That's a relief."

  "Well," said Raimeau, "there's dead, and then there's dead."

  "It comes in different strengths?" said the thief.

  Raimeau's expression would have fit a professor of philosophy at one of the universities in Almas. "In a manner of speaking. Before the gods created mankind and the other races with whom we share Golarion, there were ...precursors. Children of other gods, or wanderers who came here from other planes. We do not even know what they called themselves.

  "Some of them built civilizations, empires, that warred against each other. They are supposed to be gone now, but they may live on in the deepest caverns of the Darklands. The thing is, they were different from us, had different powers—powers that were as natural to them as your ability to reach out a hand and seize a piece of the world is to you, powers that we would call magic.

  "And their gods, or whatever made them, gave them different qualities of ...being."

  "You sound as if you're not sure of what you're talking about," said Brond.

  "I'm not sure," Raimeau said. "Krunzle asked me what I had read. All I can do is relate what was in Captain Hdolf's library. There was a legend of snakelike beings—oddly enough, they were described as having heads ‘something like lilies', whatever that means—and their wizards wielded great powers. Powers that are now long forgotten."

  "What has this got to do with the smell on our missing Blackjacket?" Krunzle said.

  Raimeau shrugged. "Maybe nothing. But some of these creatures, these lily-heads or whatever they called themselves, may still be with us, buried in a kind of half-life deep within the lightless regions far below the earth we walk, yet still able to reach out and touch the minds of lesser creatures, bend them to their will."

  The gray-haired man looked up at the slopes of Mount Sinatuk. "They liked to entomb themselves beneath mountains—volcanoes, too. If a lily-head was looking for a place to lie low for a few thousand years, this is just the kind of neighborhood it would choose. And, if it wanted to accomplish something in the world, they could reach out and send dreams that would turn around a Berbackian or a passel of orcs, as easily as you or I would lace up our boots."

  Brond's face had grown paler. "I would not like to think," he said, "that my life's work has been merely to fluff the pillows of some ancient snake with an oddly shaped head."

  "Nor would I," said Raimeau. "Yet here we are."

  Krunzle said, "My dreams are of my own making. Snakes do not enter into them." But he felt Chirk stir in t
he back of his mind, though the snake said nothing.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The dwarves' bridge was east of where they met the river; Berbackian's horse's tracks went toward the crossing, but the three humans, the dwarf, and the troll turned west and soon found a place where they could ford the rushing cold water on some boulders that formed a natural weir. Skanderbrog led the way. Not much farther on was a deep-riven gully. "Beyond here, the horses will not serve you," the troll said. "We will have to climb." But he promised they would encounter no orcs.

  They set the animals free. From here on they would carry only their weapons and basic provisions. Skanderbrog slung the charred orc's leg from a thong over his shoulder. They began to ascend the slope, which soon rose steeply, its sides closing in, like a long, thin scar in the mountain's flank. In places, they had to scramble over loose slopes of gray, gritty scree; in others, they scaled near-vertical walls, the rock so new to the air that it had not yet weathered and so offered them plenty of toe- and finger-holds.

  It grew cold as they climbed higher, the sun doing little to cut the mountain chill. The same sour-smelling wind came whiffling down the gully, making their faces feel stiff. They did not talk. Krunzle kept his thoughts to himself. They centered on blue diamonds and the options that might come open to him once Wolsh Berbackian had been dealt with, the stolen item returned, and Chirk removed from his neck and his mind. He might return to the northern shore of the Inner Sea, find a congenial city, and set up a training academy. A wallet well filled with rare gems would buy him a senior position in a rogues' guild. His colleagues would clamor to have him educate their children in his imitable techniques, and the fees could be whatever he wanted them to be.

  With these pleasant considerations to ward off the chill and take his mind off the disagreeable labor of climbing Mount Sinatuk, Krunzle followed Skanderbrog until the young troll led them up a last low cliff and delivered them onto a sloping trail carved into the volcano's side by dwarven steel.