Agyrimithras lounged, sprawled on a gilded palanquin held aloft by six of his strongest slaves. Bone-headed dullards all, but they were pliable, easily trained like hounds.

  He peered around himself as he was carried forth. It was eight, eight slaves. He did not care particularly, but it was important to remember the details.

  He had been bathed this morning, and he was feeling so gloriously relaxed. A considerable improvement over the sudden fury that had overcome him in the aftermath of the incident at that small hamlet. Of course, this meant some dozen or so slaves would die of dehydration before they reached the river. But it was worth it to feel his scales so supple, so clean.

  The sun’s kiss was all the better for this cleanliness, but he knew lounging around was making him complacent. The little things were slipping by; the number of slaves carrying his palanquin, the number of miles to the river, the reports he’d been receiving from his inferiors.

  He sighed, stretching his limbs as he rose up upon his coils. It was important to remember the details, as the Master always reminded him. Damn the Master and his details. Without them he would not be here, without them he would be free.

  Thoughts for another time, he mused. He never could tell when the Master was scrying. He would run no risks, even with his thoughts.

  He looked down to his immediate inferior. He did not care enough to remember the thing’s name, but he recognised its face. It was a sizable creature, for its kind, wrapped in armour, bar one arm that bore the brands of the Master’s blade. It carried itself as though it still had dignity. Remarkable after everything it had suffered.

  They were still a slave, of course, but less pathetic than the others. With strength enough to command the rabble in his absence, or at least the absence of his attention. He snapped his fingers, leaning forward over this marching creature.

  The palanquin halted and the creature stopped. “Bring the subjects,” Agyrimithras hissed with deliberate slowness. He was speaking to a simpleton after all. “I would hear them now.”

  Without a word the creature nodded, bowed, and retreated into the throng beyond his sight. He heard it calling out in the tongue of the slaves, summoning to him those who were literate and intelligent enough to feed him information.

  The serpent barely had enough time to clear the fog from his mind, flex his four limbs and recline more regally upon his own coils before there was a small mob before him.

  One stood out from the gaggle of insects cowering in the dirt: wrapped in tattered robes that flapped about its body in the desert wind, revealing its scales to be mottled with creeping corruption. The Weaver had returned.

  Agyrimithras’ eyes narrowed as he regarded him. The thing’s demeanour gave enough away; the downcast eyes, the low-sloped shoulders, the squirming fingers. Still, he should interrogate him all the same. There may be some entertainment to be had.

  “You return,” Agyrimithras hissed, tongue darting and rolling as he spoke. “Sooner than expected.”

  “My lord. My…my master!” the Weaver scrambled; his pronunciation messy.

  He quailed under the serpent’s gaze, refusing to look Agyrimithras in the eye. “My news is…grave,” he whimpered, biting down on his tongue to create the correct, hissing inflections of his better’s tongue.

  “You come here alone,” Agyrimithras hissed venomously, his own tones clipped, precise and perfect as could be. “That much is apparent.”

  The Weaver winced, lowering to his knees. “T-the beast! The beast has been successful! The prey, that commander! It h-has killed one of his companions, he w-will soon be c-c-consumed!” By the time he had finished, blood was flicking from his lips.

  Agyrimithras’ lips peeled back into a snarl. “How many slaves escaped that hovel?” he spat, rising from his coils and looming over the weaver, who whined and babbled before squeaking out an unintelligible number. “Thirty-seven! That is more than half the slaves we took! Yet your beast, of which you sang such high praises, has barely managed to kill one insolent, dust-trudging, cretin!”

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  “He was the most dangerous one!” the Weaver squealed, before dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And soon it will be within the walls.”

  Agyrimithras’ eyes wandered as he thought, watching as blood trickled from the creature’s broken teeth to drool onto the sand below. The abomination the Weaver had pulled forth may yet still be of some use, the Weaver however had yet to absolve himself

  He raised upon his coils, slithering forth until their faces were almost touching. He hissed straight into the Weaver’s ear, tone dripping with venom. “What of our master’s gifts? The protector? The slaves? They seem to be…. absent. Quarter of our throng was given in gift and it is absent.”

  There was a whine, a high-pitched whimper bottled up, only escaping from the corners of the Weaver’s mouth. “Legionaries!” it squealed, holding up crumbling fingers in supplication. “Legionaries in the desert! Freeing slaves!”

  Agyrimithras paused for just a moment before slithering his way around the weaver in a full circle. “Ah…and you engaged them. You fought an army and you were slaughtered.” He tutted, his tone twisting deep and grave. “Your little incantations have begun to rot your brain it seems. As for some time we have had express purpose from our Master to avoid field battles. We have burned every village. We have enslaved all we find. We have slaughtered any who escape. All so that when we arrive, we will be but myth to the locals. You may not have noticed, but the dead and chained cannot scream to soldiers for help.”

  “They make for Balanzar! The choir sings it so!” the Weaver screamed now, his tone pleading, arms outstretched. All the while his body was engulfed from the waist down in serpentine coils.

  Agyrimithras’ lips pulled back into a snarl, baring his fangs as he loomed large. “Then you have proven a greater liability than I could have ever predicted. Despite all your powers you are little more than an animal, and remain just as useful.” He hissed venomously, eyes narrowed. “Dare I even let you justify your pitiful existence? Or shall I just mete out your punishment now?” he mused aloud.

  Realisation seemed to dawn in the Weaver’s eyes. It’s features slackened, before resolve flared in the pits of its sad, sunken eyes. Hands fell to its sides, clenching void-touched digits into tight fists, claws digging into its own palms and drawing beads of dark ichor.

  The serpent’s brow raised. There was a spark of defiance flickering in there. That was a shame, he had hoped to entertain himself with torturing the creature until they arrived. Instead, he would have to snuff it out before the spark blazed into full-blown rebellion.

  A moment passed. The Weaver raised its hands toward its master, in supplication or attack none would ever know. The instant the Weaver moved, Agyrimithras followed suit, and the serpent was far faster than the lizard.

  A yelp escaped the Weaver’s lips as layer upon layer of serpentine muscle engulfed it, twisting its surprise into a strangled scream as the coils squeezed and squeezed.

  All Agyrimithras had to do was tense, a casual flexing of his muscles. There was a sickening crack and a number of wet squelches, before bright crimson oozed between his coils.

  In the blink of an eye, the Weaver was little more than splintered bone, pulped organs and an annoying stain on Agyrimithras’ scales.

  The serpent slithered back upon his palanquin, releasing a gentle sigh as he reclined upon his gore-streaked coils once more. “I’m going to need another bath,” he declared, letting his annoyance bleed through the words. Now he was going to have even fewer slaves by the time they reached the river. At least there were always more of the dull lizards to be acquired, he thought.

  He stared at his supplicants. Their eyes were all fixed on the flecks of bone and smears of blood covering his body with wide, horror-filled eyes. Mumbled half-words and terror-fuelled babbling rolled out from their irritating mouths. No doubt any reports they had to give were now forgotten.

  Their fear was delightful, but it was stale. A vintage he had supped from far too many times before. His new prey on the other hand, he had been a different flavour entirely. His eyes rolled, and he flicked one of his wrists dismissively as he retreated into his own thoughts.

  Armed legionaries making for Balanzar, armed legionaries that now knew of his little escapades in the desert. That posed a problem, but not an insurmountable one. This creature within the walls could be relied upon to cause a little havoc, but without the Weaver there was little hope of controlling it.

  The gaggle of slaves were still stood there, gawking at him. He needed time to think, and these pathetic creatures weren’t helping his mind work.

  “Draw me another bath!” he snapped. “Bring together our host while you’re at it. It will be earlier than I had hoped, but we must commit ourselves.”

  His inferior looked up at him, hiding his own fear well though the scars that pock-marked his face. He nodded and pushed through the throng. At least somebody here was trying to be of use to him.

  Agyrimithras snarled as he leaned back, two of his hands massaging his temple. He was surrounded by nothing but insolent idiots and terrified weaklings. He really needed that bath.

  So what if a few dozen slaves had to die?