Draig

The Wyrm

Siles' eyes glittered as he regarded his master. Master. He tried not to sneer as he thought the word. He lowered his eyes quickly, knowing the former Majister would read his derision. Modric, Arcantor of the Conclave, its architect, had not built his empire without understanding those who served him. The man was no fool, no matter what else he was. Fat, balding, dissolute and greedy. He certainly was all of those things. But he was not a fool.

"You can defeat the others in the lists?"

"Of course, your grace. I will have the new Essences at my disposal. They cloud the mind and dull all responses. I will also have several of our most promising and devoted Cantors assisting my efforts. A snapped bridle here, a bad fall there. I shall easily pass through the challenges."

"And the next phase?"

"Strategy, my lord? I think you know my talents."

"The stones board does not lie, you must defeat each opponent and some of them are shrewd. Choose your partners well. Who shall you choose?"

"I have already chosen, milord. I believe Prince Hector will be a fit second. It will give me a chance to test his mettle."

"And if his mind is clouded by wine and he fails, you will lose," said Modric. His left cheek twitched in a tic that Siles had learned meant the man was struggling to control an urge for violence. "No. You shall choose Sir Titus. He is of all the contenders the most devious. "

Siles pursed his lips. He didn't like anyone, not even Modric, making choices for him. "What of de Clelland?"
"Last seen in Siarad. Now the curse is broken, we shall barrage the isle with Shadowborn, keeping the Majisters distracted. Bury them in battles while we spin stories to discredit them. We have already begun. The Majisterium must gather themselves and 'twill buy us some time, though how much time we have is undetermined. I shall be working to discredit them throughout court while agents move through the countryside. By the time they descend to intervene, it must be too late. I don't expect de Clelland to attend. However if the girl should succeed in warning him..."
Modric's voice trailed as he considered the threat.
"The girl will be dead within a few days."
"You could use her. Let her lead you to the upstart and make an example of her."
"And if the Majisterium protects her?"
"The Majisterium is a group of hidebound, proud and heartless fools!" Modric roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Blind sorcerors stuck in an age that has progressed without them. Their Cyntae are bound, their Storm King powerless. Do not fear them. Heedless and heartless they always were and helpless they shall be. " His lips thinned and curved up, a ghost of a smile dancing on them as if he had shared a joke.
"Send in the shadowborn. The wights, the goblins, the boggles and the water-leapers. Send forth the trolls and the giants. Blame this activity on their arrival. It is time for us to defend what we have taken. Prove your worth and you shall be rewarded. Your true test of strategy shall not be on the stones board. Remember that. They must burn crops and ravage daughters. The more despair we generate, the sooner the approach of the Last Day. Dissonance must rise."

"What of the Forge? It has been rekindled. Their sung steel must not be sent throughout the Weldes."

"Amass the shadowborn there as well. Dwarves were ever superstitious, greedy and temperamental. We shall let our shadowkin feed and besiege the North before they can send forth their blades."

"And if it doesn't stop them?"

"Plague. Plague stops everyone. Fear not my son."

Modric smiled, his face a parody of virtue. "Where there's a will, there's a way. You have your orders. Dismissed."

Siles bowed just low enough to avoid insolence and swept from the room.

***

Modric's smile faded as Siles retreated. He barred the door behind the insufferable jackdaw and rolled up the voluminous sleeve of his robe, exposing his pasty white left arm. A serpent tattoo encircled it, colors gleaming. The serpent slithered off of his arm, taking shape as it writhed and slipped down onto the table. It grew in size as it detached.

Modric fell to the floor, prostrate before it, groaning.

"Master Doran."

His voice wheedled, begging for favor. Modric hated himself, hearing it, but he could not bring himself under control. Doran, the Wyrm, terrified him. He terrified anyone who understood what he was. Cyntae. One of the first voices, the first tools used to form the Song, now dedicated to the unmaking of all things.

The massive snake filled the room, rustling as it coiled and turned its head to observe Modric. Its head was hooded like a cobra's. Its underside was red.

Doran's ancient gaze burned him with such intensity, the cleric feared his blood might boil. His voice, sibilant as it sang, sent Modric into an ecstasy that grew to become perfect, exquisite pain.
It stopped. Gasping, Modric sagged in relief and wiped the drool from his chin.

Have I been screaming?

"Siles grows ambitious and plots for himself. Do not be a fool. You must plan for his betrayal and his failure. Teach him the folly of disrespect."

"You refer to his machinations with the Pryf?"

"I do," hissed the Wyrm. "The plan pleases me. You shall allow it. But send him a message else he shall undo our victory with his own pride."

"Yes, Master."

"The Majisters worry you." Doran's gaze flattened, along with his tone. His body swayed as if blown by an unseen breeze as he spoke. "You have nothing to fear from them. Our hosts are greater."

Modric knew better than to protest or argue with his master. He simply nodded, trying to keep the sneer of contempt from creeping back across his face. "Tis a stones game, my lord. We position our forces on all sides and crush them. They may only guess at our plans, and by the time they see the trap, it will be too late."

"Take heed. In all the Song there is ever a wild thread that moves and shapes events without our understanding. You will learn to recognize it. Watch and wait, Modric. Your wild thread approaches. Take heed you do not miss it. You must pluck it out before it takes root. "

Modric bowed.

"Word has come that the last majister is on the move. We may not have much time," Modric gasped.

Doran laughed, his booming voice filling the chamber.
"Let the games begin."