Song of the Dragon (13 page)

“So you
did
return to me after all,” she said, turning her face up to look into his eyes again. “I prayed to all the gods each day that they would bring you back to me.”

“All of the gods?” Drakis smiled at her through the squared openings of the portcullis.

“Well,” she admitted, her small mouth twisting mischievously, “perhaps not
all
of them—but certainly each of the House gods. You pray to all the gods and you're bound to offend one of them. So . . . are we to be paired?”

Drakis choked slightly. “What? I just came through the gate and . . .”

“You said before you left that if the campaign was successful, Lord Timuran would look favorably on mating the two of us,” Mala said matter-of-factly, her eyes taking on a look that Drakis always considered dangerous. “The plunder was brought by the caravan porters yesterday, and you're here before any of the rest of the Cohort so—you must have honored the House, am I right?”

“Mala,” Drakis said, pulling back a little as he spoke. “I don't think that's why we're here.”

“Oh, but wouldn't it be wonderful if it were?” she said with a gentle smile. “You, honored by Lord Timuran and the two of us paired? Maybe even ascending to the Sixth Estate. We'd no longer be slaves and could contribute to the Imperium on our own!”

“Yes, it would be wonderful, but I don't think . . .”

“I'm not saying that it
will
happen, you know that, don't you, Drakis?”

“Of course, beloved, but . . .”

“It's just that it's such a wonderful dream.”

Drakis held her hand tightly for a few moments, uncertain what to say as he looked into her eyes. She had a lovely heart-shaped face with a small chin. Her cheekbones gave her face a sharp beauty. Everything about her he found desirable, but it was her eyes in which he always lost his thoughts and his heart to her. How could he tell her that things had gone terribly wrong in the campaign . . . that he was not even certain whether he had won the prized crown or not.

“Yes, they are wonderful dreams, Mala—and I'm very pleased to hear that the plunder arrived,” Drakis reluctantly let her go. “The Tribune has sent us back here to present the treasures to . . .”

“What is
that?
” Mala interrupted, pointing toward the somewhat worse-for-wear pile of flamboyant clothing shuffling toward her.

“Oh,” Drakis said. “This is a dwarven fool—in more ways than one, I suspect. He's part of our spoils. We'll present him tonight for House Devotions.”

“Greetings, good woman,” Jugar said, bowing as deeply as his restraints would allow. “My new companion, Drakis, has given me only the most glowing reports of your beauty and your sagacious and erudite conversational skills, and I see now that he has portrayed them to me with crystalline accuracy! I am charmed and gratified to make your acquaintance.”

Mala stared at the dwarf.

The dwarf answered her with a broad-toothed smile.

“Does he always talk like this?” Mala said to Drakis from the corner of her mouth.

“Only when he's quiet,” Drakis sighed.

In the distance above them, a chime sounded twice.

“I must go,” Mala said at once, pulling her hands back through the bars and quickly moving down the sweeping curve of the corridor that led from the chakrilya toward the central garden of the subatria. “Will they pair us tonight? After Devotions?”

Drakis smiled and called after her. “If it is the Emperor's Will.”

“And why should it not be?” Mala said brightly before dashing down the polished stones on her bare feet. “What should the Emperor have against me?”

Drakis smiled and turned, to find the dwarf gazing up at him thoughtfully.

“You have a problem, dwarf?” Drakis was feeling suddenly annoyed with his diminutive trophy.

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” Jugar replied thoughtfully. “She seems like the absolutely perfect woman.”

“She is perfect,” Drakis said with pride.

“Then I'm very sorry for you,” Jugar said.

“What did you say?”

“Ah, well,” the dwarf continued, “you can't make a country without cracking a few heads, eh? Perhaps you should tell me something about this ceremony tonight. I wouldn't want to make a mistake and embarrass you. That reminds me, how are you feeling now, Drakis?

“Fine,” the human shrugged and then stopped.

He did feel fine.

The song was completely gone from his head.

“S
O HOW LONG did they say it would take?” Jugar asked nervously through chattering teeth. The naked dwarf squatted with his back wedged into the corner of the dim room, holding a large, brass ladle firmly in front of his manhood and appearing resolved never to move it. An iron grating overhead allowed square columns of light to fall into the room, casting the dwarf and the human in shadows of stark relief.

Drakis stood naked on the stone platform surrounding the circular trough in the center of the room. Clear water constantly overflowed its edges, splashing down over the stones before falling through a metal grating in the floor. He held his own ladle in one hand, scooping water from the trough and, pouring it over his head, cascading it down his powerful body. He then set the ladle down and picked up a pumice stone from the floor, lightly scraping at the dirt on his broad chest and forearms.

“How long for what?” Drakis asked casually.

“You know for what!” the dwarf's voice almost broke in his nervous exasperation. “How long before that woman brings our clothes back!”

“Oh, that?” Drakis smiled to himself. He did not know much about dwarves beyond the easiest way to kill them and how they reacted in battle. He had imagined a great many things about them, but being prudish was not one of them. He was finding this fool of a dwarf to be most entertaining. “Essenia said that she would have them cleaned at once and bring them when they were fit to wear—although she appeared to have her doubts about getting your costume presentable. But, then, she had her doubts about
you
getting presentable either.”

Jugar glowered back at the human in silence for a time, then his features softened slightly. “Wait! Hold still for a moment.”

Drakis turned toward the dwarf. “What is it?”

“Turn back around . . . a little more,” the dwarf murmured, his eyes fixed intently on Drakis. “Now lean forward just a little . . . there.”

“What are you up to, dwarf?”

“Hold still, please.”

The sound of the water murmured across the silence.

“May I finish now?” Drakis ask impatiently.

“Yes,” the dwarf responded thoughtfully. Several heartbeats passed before he spoke again. “Those scars on your back . . . how did you get those?”

Drakis poured another ladle of water over his head, brushing the remaining grains of pumice from his skin as he spoke. “Which scars?”

“Those rather nasty looking scars on your back,” Jugar replied. “Who gave those to you?”

“I'm an Impress Warrior, dwarf,” Drakis scoffed. “We
all
have scars.”

“So I have observed,” Jugar continued. “But these are particularly nasty looking. I would venture to say that such scars would be most memorable indeed. So, when did you get them?”

Drakis absently reached his right hand around his side, running his fingers along the ridges of his skin. “Why, I . . . isn't that something? I don't remember.”

“Have you ever seen them?” Jugar said through his still chattering teeth.

“Seen them? Now how would I see them? They're on my back.”

“You don't know your own past, Drakis, my friend.” Jugar's eyes squinted as he considered them. “So perhaps you'll believe me if I tell you something about your future. Your beloved Lord Timuran has not called you back to gratefully accept your bountiful conquest but to take out his rage on you.”

Drakis set the ladle down slowly, the features of his face hidden in shadows. “That is no prophecy, dwarf. I could have told you that. I will be shamed before him.”

“You will be more than shamed, Drakis,” the dwarf continued, his gruff voice firm and sure. “He will strike you, lay open your flesh to agonizing pain and all your tears, and protest, and pleadings of your love for him will be soundless in his ears. He will not stop.”

Drakis stalked over toward Jugar, the silhouette of his muscular frame looming over where the dwarf crouched. “The foolish curse of a dwarven fool! My master has never so much as touched me in anger!”

The dwarf looked up, the softened look of his eyes framed in the square of light from above.

“He would kill you if he could, Drakis, this very afternoon. But someone will intervene on your behalf—and will save your life, though in doing so you will wish that you had died.”

“Only gods can know the future,” Drakis said flatly.

The dwarf shrugged. “That which has happened before will happen again. You've only forgotten. Remember my words, Drakis, and maybe then, my friend, you will come to me and know the truth.”

Drakis thought for a moment and then shook his head violently, sending particles flying from his shaved head. “So you're back to that again. Now I'm supposed to have forgotten nearly dying. Well, one thing
you
should not forget: that Essenia and I will throw you into this trough personally if you don't get over here and scrape off some of that dwarven stench.”

“Dwarves do
not
bathe!” Jugar grumbled emphatically.

“That I most certainly believe,” Drakis replied easily, “but in this case you may want to make an exception. We're being summoned before Lord Timuran himself, and he takes no more delight in the smell of dwarven slaves than any other conquered race.”

Drakis and Jugar stepped into the Warrior's Courtyard. The Impress Warrior felt renewed after the bath despite the dwarf's bizarre and gloomy predictions; bathing was a ritual that was so basic among the elves that it made him feel a part of the Empire that he so fervently wished to join. The tunic that he wore was that of a slave, but it was clean, and in that he felt a sort of purity, elevated somehow above the commonplace.

He strode quickly across the packed dirt floor and through the open portcullis with the garishly dressed dwarf struggling to keep up. They passed under the tall archway and onto the darkly stained sands of the small arena floor.

“Our lives to the Imperial Will!” came the echoing call from across the arena floor.

Drakis smiled as he looked to the far side of the arena. “Jerakh! How did you get back so soon?”

“I have you to thank, brother warrior,” the manticore replied as he crossed toward the human. “Our master's eagerness to see you has left the folds in complete disarray. The Foldmasters in their haste to comply have been moving any units from House Timuran they can find.”

Drakis could see warriors straggling in behind Jerakh. He shook his head. “So the victorious Centurai of House Timuran is home at last, eh?”

“Hardly,” Jerakh said with disdain. “I managed to come through with three Octia, but the rest of the Centurai is spread all through the fold system. It's a mess that will take days to unravel.”

“I'm sure you'll manage it,” Drakis said.

“I'm sure the only thing I'm going to manage is a bath,” the manticore returned, a playful edge to his smile as he passed the human. “
You
can straighten out the Octian . . . you're the Centurai Master now.”

“Well, if that is so, then I'm turning over this dwarf to you,” Drakis said, gesturing toward Jugar.

“Excuse me, Captain Drakis,” the dwarf sputtered, “but I'm . . .”

“Drakis, just Drakis,” he sighed. “I've not been appointed captain yet, dwarf.”

“But, Drakis, I've not been presented to your master as yet! As part of your rightful treasure which you so valiantly liberated from the dwarven realms . . .”

“You'll be presented with the rest of the prize treasure tonight at House Devotions,” Drakis said, interrupting the dwarf. “Before then, Jerakh here is going to see that you get properly shaved and branded for the slave you have become.”

“He's full of words,” Jerakh said with disdain.

“Which is why I'm turning him over to you,” Drakis said flashing a tight grin. “I've been summoned.”

Jerakh gripped Jugar's shoulder tightly enough to elicit a grunt from the dwarf. “I'll see it's done.”

Drakis turned away, taking several steps before he stopped and turned back toward the manticore. “Oh, Jerakh . . . I was glad to see you at the Ninth Throne. It was getting a little close up there, and I needed a friendly face in the mob. We'd have never gotten away with the prize without you. You saved our honor.”