Hadran the Northern Prince's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The climb took two days. Hadran and Tiroc rode into the northern mountains, where the peaks rose in jagged rows against a gray sky. Snow deepened. The trail of dead grass gave way to blackened ice. Near the summit they found the lair. Spikes of blue ice framed a dark cave mouth. Green vapor bled from the opening and stained the snow. "I don't know what it is," Hadran said. "Or how to kill it. My sword failed against the servant. This is worse." "Then we ask someone who knows." Tiroc pointed his hammer down the ridge. A figure walked up through the storm, untouched by the wind. Hadran had met him once before, at the edge of a healed grove. The old elf whose body was split down the middle. One half of his face shone white and living. The other half was black and shriveled, an eye lit with cold fire. Demetri leaned on a wooden staff and studied the cave without fear. "You came far to die," Demetri said. "We came to end the rot," Hadran said. "Tiroc says the source is in there." Demetri nodded. "A serpent. Once it guarded these peaks. The blight took it and never let go." He raised his dark hand. "Your steel means nothing to it. His fire will hurt it. But burning it only scatters the rot into the ground. You'd poison the mountain for a hundred years." "Then how?" Hadran said. "You don't kill the rot. You move it." Demetri drew a seed from his robe. "Hold the beast still. Tiroc burns a wound in it. I pull the blight out through the wound and pour it into this. The seed holds the balance. The serpent dies clean." Hadran gripped his sword. "How long must I hold it?" "Longer than you'll want to." They entered the ice. The serpent uncoiled from the dark, wreathed in frost, its dead eye burning green. It lunged. Hadran met it. He drove his blade into its jaw and shoved with all his weight, pinning the great head against the ice. The cold ate through his gauntlets. His arms shook. "Now!" he shouted. Tiroc swung the burning hammer into the serpent's throat. White fire opened a wound. Demetri stepped close and pressed his dark hand to the burn. Black smoke poured from the beast into the seed in his palm. The serpent thrashed. Hadran held. His boots slid on ice. He held. The green light in the serpent's eye faded to gray. Its body slackened and fell still against the stone. Hadran let go and dropped to his knees, breathing hard. The seed in Demetri's hand had swelled, dark and pulsing. "It's done," Demetri said. "The rot leaves your lands now." Hadran looked at the dead serpent. He had his beast. But the imposter who wore his colors still walked free, and no severed head would answer for that.