Richard Knaak - Scales of the Serpent

Without warning, a sensation of familiarity struck him so hard that, for a moment, the angel veered off course. Inarius corrected his flight instantly, then immediately turned about.

He had thought it her at first, but her presence was already known to him. No, this was another.

Inarius felt what to a human would have resembled a fast pounding of his heart. First Lilith…and now one once nearly as close to the angel as she had been.

Above the cathedral again, the glorious figure paused to survey the dark lands surrounding him. Yet, a thorough survey of every direction revealed nothing. The brief glimmer was the only hint of this new return.

BUT, THEN, HE IS CLEVER, EVEN IF EVER MISGUIDED…AFTER ALL, HE MAY BE OF HER CREATION…BUT SO, TOO, IS HE OF MINE …

The resurrection of yet another old—and apparently living —memory would change nothing, however. As Inarius descended into the chamber and the ceiling began realigning itself, he already knew that, when the time came, he would treat the other just as he intended his former lover.

Even if it was his errant son.

Uldyssian rose from the simple blanket upon which he slept to a sea of new faces staring apprehensively in his direction.

“I couldn’t get them to stay any farther away,” Serenthia apologized as she came on his right. Her dark hair was bound back and she walked more like a soldier than a merchant’s daughter. Despite her growing proficiency with her powers, she continued to carry her spear in an aggressive grip.

“It’s all right, Serry,” he replied automatically, only afterward realizing that he had slipped back to her childhood name.

Her expression tightened and moistness appeared around her otherwise stern eyes. Only three people had consistently called her by that name once she had grown up. Two of those were dead, the last Achilios.

Rather than try to correct his error and likely compound the situation, Uldyssian focused on the newcomers. They were of all castes and ages and, as he knew would be the case, there were many children with them. The last greatly concerned Uldyssian just as it had when the Parthans had brought along their own offspring. Children had already died and those deaths more than any tore at his heart.

Yet, no matter his entreaties against such, families still joined him.

I should be better able to protect them , he thought bitterly. If not for the children, then who most am I doing this for?

He never delved deeper into that question, for the answer ever revolved around him . He did this for those who followed his path, true, but also because of outright vengeance. There was no denying that at all, no matter how base such a reason was.

And that made seeing the new children only worse.

Straightening, Uldyssian accepted a water sack from Serenthia. He drank some of the cool liquid, then poured more of the contents over his head in order to wake himself up. Uldyssian did not care what the newcomers thought of his actions; if such a little thing turned them from him, then they were not ready.

But no one left. They all stood patiently waiting. He hid a frown, having secretly hoped that some of the parents would take their young and ease his guilt a little.

“You all come to me for the same reason, I hope,” Uldyssian declared. “You know what the gift means…”

Several heads bobbed up and down. Uldyssian estimated more than a hundred newcomers. They filled most of the clearing where he slept. His own followers had blended back into the jungles, watching both hopefully and warily. Each convert was to the others a new miracle.

He saw no reason to waste more time with speeches. He had promised the Councilor Senior that he would take his followers away from Toraja, and Uldyssian had always been a man of his word.

The son of Diomedes stretched forth a hand to the nearest, an older woman whose head was protected by a multicolored scarf. Uldyssian sensed her wonder and fear warring with one another and realized that she had come here alone.

“Please…” he murmured, recalling his own long-dead mother. “Please come to me.”

She did not hesitate, which was a credit to her more than him. The woman was thin and had a pinched face, but her eyes were a beautiful brown and he suspected that in her youth she had been quite alluring.

No one questioned what an elderly person was doing among the rest. Age did not seem to matter much when it came to the gifts, save that those below ten years seemed to take longer to develop any sign of success. Possibly this was some natural factor to keep them from harming themselves or others, as could sometimes be noted with some animals.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mahariti.” Her voice was strong. She did not want others to consider her a foolish old crone unworthy of this moment.

Nodding his approval, the former farmer took her left hand in his. “Mahariti…open your thoughts to me, your heart to me. Close your eyes, though, if you wish…”

She left them open, as he had expected. Again, Mahariti rose in his estimation…

A peculiar buzzing filled the air.

Uldyssian had but a single breath to react. He glared at empty air.

A moment later, three spinning objects converged on his location—and crashed against an invisible barrier as if against walls of iron. The deadly objects tumbled to the ground, where they were revealed as arced pieces of metal with small, glittering teeth all along the edges. Had they struck Uldyssian, he had no doubt that he would have been dead in an instant…and possibly with his head lying unattached to his body.

From among the waiting figures burst two unkempt, insignificant-looking men. Yet, as they charged Uldyssian, their forms shifted and they became Peace Warders.

From nowhere, one produced a short lance that he threw at the son of Diomedes. The sharp tip had an odd red tinge to it. At the same time, the second cast another of the savage metal weapons.

But before Uldyssian could act, the whirling weapon abruptly turned and headed back to its wielder.

It caught him in the chest, cutting through the metal breastplate, then the cloth, flesh, and bone underneath. The Peace Warder went flying back among the Tarajians, who just managed to avoid his bloody body before it crashed in an ghastly pile.

Uldyssian concentrated on the lance, but although it slowed, it did not stop. The red tip could only be demonic in origin. Serenthia leapt forward, using her spear to knock it off course. It went spinning past him.

Before the other Peace Warder could do anything else, some of the new Torajians seized him. He let out an oath, which turned into a cry of pain as the crowd began to tear him apart.

This was not what Uldyssian had in mind. This was not battle, but butchery. “Stop!”

As he spoke, he used his abilities to gently move aside those holding the Peace Warder until only the villain himself remained. The Peace Warder tried in vain to regain his limbs. He stood at an angle that should have made him fall on his back, only Uldyssian keeping that from happening.

The warrior’s every muscle strained as Uldyssian loomed over him. One hand twitched and the son of Diomedes noted that a dagger hung near the fingers.

“I can let you take that dagger, if you like,” he said without emotion. “But it’ll do you no good.”

Yet, still the man struggled for the feeble weapon. With a sigh, Uldyssian straightened the Peace Warder, then let the one arm move.

The hand immediately grasped the blade. The Peace Warder raised the dagger up—and to Uldyssian’s startlement, slashed his own throat.

A hush fell over the throng, but as Uldyssian—stupefied by the suicide—let the bleeding man drop, he saw that they assumed that their leader had caused the warrior to slay himself. They thought that the fatal strike had been Uldyssian’s punishment and proof of his power over such assassins.