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Head of the Serpent – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Head of the Serpent

Evan Dicken

Tahlia Vedra glared at the mist-shrouded crags, wishing she were just about anywhere else. Hammerhal’s Prime Commander, Katrik le Guillion, had described it as a routine patrol: a quick jaunt past Coronus Citadel, then down the Caustic Peaks, looping back towards Hammerhal Aqsha. A month, perhaps two, chasing rumours of a rising Darkoath war chief.

Time enough for things to calm down back home.

‘What brings Tahlia Vedra all the way out here? Don’t you have a parade to lead?’

A raspy voice caused Tahlia to half-turn, her scowl deepening as she recognised the speaker. Time had cast a webwork of new scars across Jesha Fairweather’s gaunt face, but her eyes remained sharp as knapped flint. Tahlia noted the captain’s slash on Jesha’s Wildercorps greys and raised an eyebrow.

Jesha returned an ugly grin. ‘No one else wanted the job.’

Tahlia fingered her marshal’s sash. ‘Lot of that going around.’

‘Still, First Marshal of Hammerhal out reconnoitring the ridges?’ Jesha ambled up, taking care to give Infernadine a wide berth. The manticore had spread himself upon the rocky scarp, wings folded, scorpion tail tucked in close.

‘You must have bruised some Conclave egos,’ Jesha said.

‘I executed four of them.’

Jesha let out a low whistle. ‘That’ll do it.’

‘They were traitors.’

‘No doubt.’ The Wildercorps captain’s grin belied her agreement.

Tahlia’s knuckles whitened on Parchtongue’s drakehide-wrapped hilt. She had taken the blade from the cooling corpse of Zanta Faloria, archmage of Hammerhal’s Collegiate Arcane. When the boiling shakes had broken out in the Bulwark Districts, Faloria had delighted in scourging entire neighbourhoods – infected or not. If she closed her eyes, Tahlia could still see shacks burning, wild shadows backlit by flames as folk tried to flee the conflagration.

We must cauterise, before the wound festers, Faloria had told the Conclave.

There had been objections, but the Conclave’s Azyrite majority were concerned the shakes might creep into Old Town. Thousands had perished so hundreds might live. Then again, Azyrites always did get it the wrong way round.

‘Save your claws for the bluebloods, Lioness.’ Jesha stepped away, hands raised. ‘Only us dusty Parchers out here.’

With a pained smile, Tahlia released Parchtongue. She might dislike Jesha, but the scarred captain led the only scouts this side of Coronus.

‘What do you know of Lady Fade?’ Tahlia asked, changing the subject.

‘Every few years the tribes get their blood up for some rabid warlord.’ Jesha shrugged. ‘Most never make it out of Peaks.’

‘And the Darkoath?’

‘Quieter than usual.’ Jesha gave a raspy chuckle. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

Tahlia glanced back towards Coronus. Although the great beacon tower was little more than a fleck of brilliance on the horizon, a citadel of that size required farms and steadings. Marauders had long crept down from their wretched lairs amongst the Caustic Peaks to pick at the edges of civilisation.

Tahlia had been sent to wave the Hammerhal flag, march up and down the border like a Cometsday parade. The Darkoath did not care about pageantry. All they understood were battle and death. And Tahlia meant to give them a fistful of both.

‘I would learn more about this “Lady Fade”,’ Tahlia said. ‘What is the closest Darkoath tribe?’

Jesha sucked her teeth. ‘Kraka’s Brood, as the crow flies, but the Hounds of Mourn are a quicker march – if you don’t mind clouds of choking fog.’

‘I grew up in Cinderfall District.’ Tahlia chuckled. ‘A little smoke puts me right at home.’

Jesha narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean to go in after them?’

‘The Conclave gave me a regiment,’ Tahlia replied. ‘I plan to use it.’

‘When you find a fire ant mound, you go around.’ Jesha shook her head. ‘You don’t climb inside.’

‘Just point me towards the Hounds of Mourn,’ Tahlia said. ‘Then you can skulk away, like always.’

Jesha crossed her arms. ‘Still refighting old battles, Tal? As if we didn’t have enough new ones.’

‘We lost a lot of good soldiers at Blazing Gate,’ Tahlia replied, prodding the Wildercorps commander in the chest. ‘To an ambush you knew about.’

‘So I’m to be a sorcerer now? Sending messages on the wind?’ Jesha slapped her hand away. ‘My scouts would have never made it past the Goretide lines.’

‘You could have at least tried.’

‘Some of us don’t have the luxury of great cannons and fusil volleys.’ Jesha reddened, scars pale against the flush that crept up her neck. ‘Out here, we look after our own.’

Hands tight at her side, Tahlia glared down at Jesha, but before she could reply Infernadine gave a massive yawn.

The manticore stretched, the Throne Memoriam upon his back shifting with a rattle of banners and harness chains. Tahlia glanced towards the massive throne, the heads of the traitorous delegates spiked atop its crest. Zanta Faloria down at her, empty eye sockets almost mocking in the afternoon shadow.

Like steam from a venting boiler, the anger bled from Tahlia.

‘Just lead us to the Hounds.’ Her voice was soft but firm. ‘That’s an order.’

‘As you command, First Marshal.’ Jesha gave a mocking salute, then stalked back towards camp. Tahlia watched her go with a mix of irritation and regret.

‘That one will be trouble.’ She glanced to Infernadine. ‘Keep an eye on her, will you?’

The manticore yawned again, tongue lolling between daggerlike teeth. With a rumbling growl, he turned away, head tucked under one paw.

Tahlia grinned despite herself, moving to scratch behind Infernadine’s ear. The manticore gave an appreciative chuff, but did not stir.

Inevitably, Tahlia’s gaze crawled across the low foothills towards the hazy peaks beyond. Somewhere within the mists, monsters dwelt. Tahlia could understand Jesha’s fears, just as she understood Katrik’s. It would be safer to simply wave the flag and go home. But Tahlia was a soldier – no matter where they sent her, she would fight for Hammerhal. She could handle fear, just as she could handle exile.

The one thing Tahlia could not abide was feeling useless.

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