The sword hummed with satisfaction as Freya yanked it free. The Gibberling crumpled, spewing a final pathetic blat of greenish ichor.

“That was all of ‘em.” Acorn extended her arm, the rune on her glove glowed, and the last of her uncollected arrows wrenched itself free from an eyesocket, floated to her hand. She nocked it in her bow.

The ring of snarling corpses at their feet were adorned in rags in varying states of decay. Noyta found the least pestilent collection and silently wiped clean the bronzed tip of her spear.

Around them, darkness.

“I believe so.” Freya probed with her Nightvision. “Hazal, do you Farsense any more?”

The Adept lowered her eyelids, her mind casting a net even further than the Warsprite’s gaze. Finally...

“No. None be close by, at least. The guards have fled. The path to the Crown be clear.”

“Which way?” Acorn asked, drifting closer.

In one hand Hazal held her wand, in the other, the fist-sized chunk of greenish stone they had taken from the Shadow Temple. The object was hacked all over with ugly runes. She studied it for a long moment, then pointed its glowing tip . A twist of her fingers, and the stone disappeared somewhere inside her shimmering white robes.

“That’s the way. Not much further, it is, but further down.”

The four of them pushed on. The wandlight provided their only Daysight illumination, making the overhanging rocks of the cavern roof look like rows of slavering fangs. A deathly silence prevailed; despite their common agility and care, the soles of their various footwear scraped loudly on the stone floor . Freya led, Noyta brought up the rear, Acorn hovered to one side, the two warriors and the blonde Forester shepherding the pointy-eared Adept amongst them. Freya glanced over her shoulder at Noyta; The tall Amazon, with her dark skin and equally dark spear-shaft, seemed to be Hazal’s shadow in both the literal and figurative sense.

The path continued downward, the way slowly becoming flatter and smoother. Then they passed through a crack, and suddenly for the first time since they had entered the cavern complex, signs of truly intelligent workmanship could be seen: instead of the Gibberlings’ crude hovels, the stone here had been carved into arches and columns, even bridges arching high overhead. These towering constructs were in disrepair: chipped and crumbled, or even collapsed. Freya’s sensitive nose twitched; somewhere close by, foul stagnant water trickled from some pipe or long-shattered viaduct. The thread of noise only seemed to make the bulk of the silence swell. Apart from the occasional chunk of rubble, the floor continued smooth.

Then the familiar flick across her mind; Hazal. Noyta and Hazal could actually talk mind to mind, but Acorn only had her arrow-tricks, and Freya could only catch glimpses of the Farside. Still, they had spent enough time together the Adept could now.. flick.. at them. And after that nearly disastrous encounter with the Ghasts, it had been agreed that it this was a sign to ‘stop and wait.’

So they stopped and waited. Hazal cast her gaze, while her three protectors stood in a tense silent triangle, backs facing each other. Finally the Adept peeled her eyes open (always something of struggle, it seemed) and she spoke.

“We be very close now. Be aware.”

They moved on. Freya noted that light was trickling into the area from some other source besides the wand. It was an unpleasant greenish color, shot through with tinges of red.

And then the passage ended. Before them was a pair of ironwood doors, once high and proud, now splintered wrecks. On either side of those doors was mounted a.. glowing metal symbol of some sort, not green or red but white, a complicated twisting shape that screamed warning and danger. They all halted, even before Hazal spoke.

“This be it. As the stone predicted. The final Barrier of archmage Craven, giving protection to his precious Crown. Stay well back.”

Again she consulted the chunk of rock. Then she stepped to the nearest of the symbols, and began muttering under her breath, waving endless complicated patterns with her wand. Something built in the air, glowing around the edges of Freya’s Nightvision, sparking off the tips of her sword and Noyta’s spear.

CRACK

The symbol snapped, both of them did in perfect unison, and the Something faded away, leaving the most profound silence yet.

Hazal blew out a relieved breath, probed ahead of her with the tip of her wand, then nodded.

“Even now, they had power. Craven were a great one. The way be clear.”

Beyond the doors...

A chamber, circular, with no roof to be seen. The throne room of a True King.

And a throne room still. The green light shown out from a towering stone shape towards the room’s center, a light that reflected off of the distant walls, set the polished shapes there in motion, giving the room an oddly organic appearance, the inside of a tree, inside a mass of writhing life.

Freya sniffed again. The air was so sterile, it was like standing alongside a Physic’s workbench while she cut into a patient.

But there was no sign of actual life.

Maintaining their formation, they crossed the wide floor, shapes crunching to powder under their feet. It took a moment, but Freya identified the sensation; they were stepping on ancient bones. Piles of them. She said nothing. Noyta and presumably Acorn would know, and if Hazal did not, there was no point in telling her, and distracting her with irrelevancies.

Here there were scattered empty pedestals, presumably once occupied by statues, more of them as they drew towards their destination.

Drawing nearer, the throne at the center of the space became more distinct. Although it wasn’t a throne at all, but an enormous, high-backed dais on which, if the legends were to be believed, the enormous iron chair had once perched. Before the last True King had marched off to battle the witchking Yndar.

Before the coming of the darkness, and the dais’s last occupant, who had had no use for chairs.

The dais at least was jeweled; covered with a multitude of green stones that were the source of the light, glowing brighter as they approached. Freya cast a quick but practiced eye over them; the Crown may or may not be here, but if they could pry just one of those beauties loose, this whole expedition would have been worth it after all.

Only..

The Crown was there, right where Hazal and her blood-stained rock had promised. Hideous-looking, yes, but made of solid gold (again, a Warsprite knew such things at a glance) and chased with gems that made the others look like cheapest Playerglass. Lying right out in plain sight, perched on top of a pile of..

Of..?

The pile shifted.

Uncoiled.

The Crown rose into the air, and under it..

Two lights, poisonous red slit within toxic yellow.

Eyes.

The eyes of the Serpent King.

Older than time, older than memory. Eyes that were present at the birth of the world. Eyes that witnessed the whelping of the first of the Dragons, and were present when Brin Worldstrider plunged the skysteel of Wyrmkiller into the corroded heart of the last of them.

There was a soundless laugh, empty of joy, deeper than the darkness, slithering across the mind in the same way that the long, thick, heavy, green-mottled body slithered endlessly against the stones of the dais.

The eyes glowed.

They glowed, and Freya could not tear her gaze away.

And the Serpent King spoke, spoke not with words, for what forked tongue could do that? He spoke with Freya’s own thoughts. Rearranging them in the desired manner, emphasizing them, pushing aside all others. Filling her mind with a roar that whispered. A whisper that shook every bone in her body. There was no hissing, no slipping over sibilants. The thoughts were cold and dry, precise and exact.

Foolish females.

You thought me dead?

My Crown free to be scavenged by any passing coven of Harpies?

I am the Serpent King.

I am eternal.

I controlled the first of you, turned her against the word of her creator.

I have controlled all of you since that day.

I control you.

Did you think it was your own purpose which brought you here?

I led you to the knowledge you carry.

I led the four of you here.

So the Adept, unknowning ancestor of that hedgewizard Craven, could break his seals.

Each of you, an ancestor of Craven’s rabble.

Brought before me.

So that you may kneel.

Kneel before me.

Kneel.

Kneel.

Freya’s knees buckled, and she dropped into the commanded position. Her sword whined as it tumbled from her glove, sparked on the stones, rattled uselessly among the white bone fragments.

But she did not see this, or even think of it.

There was nothing now, nothing but the Eyes and the Voice.

Yes.

You kneel before your Master.

“I kneel before my Master.” Three other mouths were saying the words in perfect chorus with her. Even Noyta spoke now..

You kneel before your God.

“I kneel before my God.”

Worship. Me.

The newest slave of the Serpent King completed her abasement, stretching her small but powerful body across the floor, rubbing it against the stones and bones. She could no longer see the Eyes with her body, but it was not needed. She could see them always with her mind. They were her mind.

Wounded I was, nearly to death.

Four throats screamed in sympathy.

And long, too long, I have been in healing, feeding on those worthless dregs, but now.. the time has come for my Word and my Will to be spread once again.

“Your Word must be spread.”

For now, finally, the four of you will go forth.

“We will go forth.”

You will carry my message to all the Wide World.

“We will carry Your message.”

The Adept shall be my high priestess.

“Your high priestess.”

Hazal’s body squirmed closer, filling the place of utmost honor, the other three falling into place behind.

Millions will flock to my banner.

“Millions.”

And then, a new throne room.

“A new throne room.”

At the very center of the world.

“The center.”

Now come forward, and feel the touch of your God.

Taste my essence.

The worm who once, in another lifetime, had been a Warsprite named Freya crawled forward. Another slave, a former Adapt with pointy ears and red hair, joined her. They gazed up at their God, utterly blinded by his radience, and opened their mouths. A gigantic set of jaws cracked open in return. Long fangs clicked forward into striking position. Something dripped from those fangs, dripped from heaven, and ran down their throats.

Into their souls.

“Stop! Thief!”

Many languages were spoken inside the Seamless Walls these days, and in any of them, those two words were perhaps the most glorious..

Trila’s long legs danced her away from the source of the scream, her slender hand slid Cutstring back into its hidden sheath.

She danced into the embrace of her partner, the mob the crowd the ever-present cavalcade, poured into the city from every corner of the Wide World.

As always, he swallowed her leather-clad body whole, then obligingly spat her back out a few streets away.

The dark-haired thief slowed her pace to a casual stroll. No further signs of pursuit. She gave the moneypouch she now carried a quick evaluative shake; most promising. At the very least, it would cover her Guild dues for the next quarterCycle, and pay for her lodgings on Breen Street. She tucked the pouch away; she still had to find a little something for herself..

Back and away. Away from the pearl streets, back to where the city began to coil its vitals into the earth.

A possibility drew her eye the moment she emerged into Hawker’s Square. On the eastern side of the square, a new tent had sprouted, filling the gap between Sh'Gora the birdseller and Flynt’s Pleasure Golems. Sprouting, a very apt word; lurking as they did in the shadow of the Emir’s (may-his-myriad-DelightsandTortures-never-lose-their-luster) farthest back wall, this collection always resembled a cluster of mushrooms in the Underbelly fungifarms of Trila’s youth. The new arrival lacked the clashing Merchant-clan stripes, the enormous flashing banners blaring the most appalling lies about the ‘wonders’ peddled within.

Unmarked and ugly and uniformly colored a drab green.

This probably meant a sect-tent.

And where there is a sect, invariably follows a collection plate. Priests presumably thought they were there to suck money out of passersby, but Trila had found this purpose easy to subvert in a rather fundamental way, even with the cleverer and more aggressive sects, like those ugsome Crimson Star people..

And failing that, listening to some withered old graybeard yammer on about his precious Farside was always good for a moment or two of amusement.

She did not go in, but passed on after a glance, circled through the other tents in the Square. She happened across Dibbler hawking his wares off his cart and purchased one of the man’s spiced ratkabobs, actually paying for the thing; somehow, they were never as tasty if simply snatched... Nothing better caught her eye as she strolled and munched.

And so finally, she was back at the targeted tent.

She tucked away the depleted skewer for later resale; everything had its price in this city..

She cast a final careful glance up and down the row. No one watching, no one paying attention.

She slipped inside..

The interior was cool, and quiet and shady, the eternal din of the city instantly falling away to a whisper. An geen antechamber of some sort, with the ‘holiest of holies’ no doubt tucked well away out of sight of the nonpaying unbeliever. Glowcubes stood on the usual mottled wood poles, along with two or three realistically-painted female statues wearing skimpy robes and posed on low pedestals. (The ‘cubes were nothing special, the sharpened corner of her mind automatically noted, while the statues.. excellent workmanship, but probably too heavy to easily carry off..) There was also a smell.. or no.. more a lack of smell; a city-dweller bathed so much in the city’s odor, she only noticed it when it was gone.

None of this was terribly surprising. The real oddity was that there was no one else in sight. In her experience, a tent of any variety invariably had someone lurking right inside the flap, eagerly waiting to pounce on interlopers. Here, nothing. She cocked an eyebrow at the nearest statue. A forest Elf with the standard frizzy green hair. Very realistic, and probably worth a packet to one of the less-picky Daubber Street galleries. Go scrounge up Margot, or some other Guild-member, in and out and..?

And-

It wasn’t a statue at all. It was a woman. Or at least female; you never knew with Elves. Trila was impressed, even slightly worried; normally she wouldn’t have been fooled for a moment. But this one, she stood so still, so silent, so.. not there...

“Greetings.”

Trila spun, her other favorite dagger, Gillslitter, automatically appearing in her hand. Worse and worse; no one had managed to sneak up on her like that in a very long time. The newcomer was barefoot, which helped, but still..

Except for being Human instead of an Elf, she looked pretty much like the one posing on the pedestal. Silken robe that sketchily covered her torso, long blonde hair reaching down past her rump.

This was the last straw. The women devotees in the sect-tents were (always) much more observant then males, (often) much more fanatical and (mostly) less victim to the usual distractions.

Trila silently made Gillslitter disappear, spun and ducked back out into the street.

She tried to duck back out into the street.

Her feet would not lift off the floor, almost as if large nails had suddenly been driven through her boots. As she struggled, she realized with a start that her mouth, having been left unattended, was speaking to the woman.

“Hello. What... are you offering?”

The woman smiled and drifted closer, her hair curling. Trila stared.

The woman’s face, her entire head...

It was still there, fully intact, but at the same time, it split open, split like a sea-melon dropped from the top of a Whiteplumers’ signaling tower, pushed aside by...

It was a snake’s head.

Its eyes burned red and yellow, down and down and down.

Trila tried to scream, but she couldn’t make the sound come out.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away.

Not even for a moment.

Couldn’t even blink.

Found it very hard to breath.

The woman spoke..

No, again, another rupturing split, and something pushed the woman’s entire throat and chest open and spoke through her, cold, and dry, and precise.

“We offer you the greatest and most wondrous of gifts, Trila of Breen Street.”

“We offer slavery.”

Behind the snake, the smile grew wider, filled itself fangs, and the owner gestured. The statues all came to life, split themselves open, coiled themselves around Trila’s limbs.

“Slavery glorious and eternal...”

Carried her unresisting form deep into the tent.

The holiest of holies.

Blackness, glowing red and yellow.

Silence, stuffed full with the sound of slithering bodies.

More feminine hands reached out, a forest of them now, pulling her in, pulling away her clothes and daggers and skewer and moneypouch and the last remnents of her free will..

“Taste your Master’s essence...”

Something dribbled down her throat.

Into her soul...