Song of the Dragon (19 page)

“How did you know where . . . ?”

“Belag,” the chimerian answered quickly. “He told me where we were to meet.” Ethis held a squat figure firmly by its collar with a third hand. “I also found an old friend of ours that I thought you might want to talk to before he skulked off—but I would not recommend spending a lot of time in conversation.”

Ethis shoved the dwarf forward, his newly shaved skull glistening with sweat by the light of the conflagration.

“Jugar.” Drakis spat the name as though it carried its own venom.

“This most noble chimerian warrior is certainly correct, Drakis,” Jugar began talking at once with an earnestness that left Drakis feeling both amazed and disgusted at the same time. “Our lives depend upon staying ahead of the news of our escape. As soon as those most dreaded hunters of the Empire—the Iblisi—learn of what happened here, they will descend upon us like winged death. We must travel far and fast . . .”

Then, pushing through the song, other voices and visions, too, from inside his head rising suddenly into his conscious mind, drowning out the music in his mind.

. . .
Se'Djinka's face snarled at him. “You're barely worth the food to keep you alive . . .”

Drakis let go of his sword, pressing his hands hard against his ears. The blade dug into the earth then fell onto its side. Drakis growled at the ghosts suddenly occupying his head. “Go away! Stop it!”

He thought that he might be going mad. He was certain that others had—he had seen it in the hall; slaves from all the races suddenly plunged into a living insanity in which they had experienced things, seen things, and said things that . . .

“Drakis, my Lord!”

The human opened his eyes at the roaring of his name, uncertain he had heard the words properly.

Belag, his slave's tunic shredded and his fur matted in places with both his own blood and that of others, now lay prostrate on the ground before Drakis, face against the ground with his massive hands laid out wide in front of him. Different races, Drakis had heard Se'Djinka say time and again, show their submission in different ways. Humans usually kneel facedown and bow before their conqueror. Chimera show their open hands and sit back on their haunches. Manticores, however, were said to submit when they lay facedown, exposing their back to attack. Drakis thought it only a lie as no manticore he had ever known would allowed himself to live long enough to submit to anyone. Yet now tears streamed from Belag's eyes as he lay prone, gazing with a fixed, wondering stare at Drakis.

It shocked the human to see his fellow warrior in such a state. Nor was he alone in his astonishment as a human and another manticore were standing behind Belag gaping at the humbled lion-man as well.

“Please . . . Belag, in the name of all the gods, get up, will you?”

The manticore quickly got to his feet, towering a full head above the human. Drakis remained stunned; was Belag actually smiling?

“I have brought two more to join us,” Belag said, his words rushed with excitement. “I hope that I honor you by presenting them in your service.”

Drakis stared at the two newcomers. One was a small human female whom he recognized at once as the Lyric. She still wore the gold collar around her neck although it was now stained with dried blood—whether her own or someone else's Drakis could not say. The manticore he knew: Ruukag, the former gardener of House Timuran, stood quivering in the evening air, his massive fingers clenching and unclenching at the air around them.

Drakis shook his head. “Belag, I told you to gather the warriors!”

The manticore turned his head, gazing at the burning household as he spoke. “They were all that were left, Drakis . . . all that would come. We're the only warriors who have kept our minds. But now that I see who you are . . . I knew we would need a Lyric to chronicle your deeds and a second manticore to witness your coming to the manticorian elders in Chaenandria.”

Kept our minds?
Drakis thought, staring at the manticore.
How does one cope with a manticore warrior who has so obviously lost his wits?
Drakis took in a long breath, then spoke quietly. “I . . . I don't understand, Belag.”

“We . . . my brother and I . . . we searched for you,” Belag huffed through quick, excited breaths. “We had learned the stories from the Wise Ones deep in the forgotten wilds of Chaenandria. They spoke of you—of the day of your coming and of the power you would bring to the justice of the world!”

Drakis stared back at him.

“I know it all by heart,” the lion-man spoke with pleading tones. “ ‘He will come with power to throw down the pillars of the oppressor's might . . . ' and you
did
, Drakis, you released us from our bondage.”

“Wait, Belag,” Drakis said, shaking his head, “that's not true,
I
didn't . . .”

“The Northern Prophecies?” Jugar interrupted, stepping in front of Drakis as he spoke. “Those legends of the masters of the Desolation who once commanded the monsters of the world and would return again?”

“Aye!” Belag replied quickly. “In the final days of the world, when hope was lost and darkness held the plains of Chaenandria in their grip, a warrior-king—a
hoo-mani
of the ancient days—would come again out of the north country, beyond the Straits of Erebus, a living man from the land of the dead. He would walk the face of the world for a time, hidden from the eyes of the sharpest watchers, and then—then he would make his great journey of conquest in the name of light, bring down the darkness, and usher in ten thousand years of peace!”

“I hate to disturb this reverent scene,” Ethis said with both sets of hands folded across his chest, “but unless we get far from here very quickly, we won't be enjoying anything
like
ten thousand years of peace. The dwarf is right about one thing—we have to stay a step ahead of what happened here or it's all over for us.”

Drakis pulled his gaze away from the wild-eyed manticore with difficulty. “Yes . . . we have to get away from here. The quickest way would be to use the folds . . . with most of the Centurai not yet returned, we may be able to get through some of them.”

“And then what?” Ethis asked at once. “Do you have a plan, or do we just wander about the countryside pillaging until the odds catch up with us?”

Drakis considered the chimerian for a moment before he answered. He suddenly realized that while he was surrounded by those he knew . . . several of whom he had this morning counted as more dear to him than his own life . . . he really didn't know any of them at all.

“We go north,” Drakis said, his words defying anyone to contradict him. “We make our way as far as we can passing through the folds, and then we set off on foot.”

“Such a wise choice, Master Drakis, a wise choice indeed,” chirped the dwarf. “I know those lands well. and, leaving all modesty aside . . .”

“An easy task,” Ethis sniffed.

“. . . I can tell you that no creature who breathes today can help you pass through those wide, untamed lands safer than Jugar Dregas, King of Jesters and Jester to kings! You won't regret it . . . not one bit!”

“I'm already regretting it,” Drakis replied, “but as none of the rest of us have any idea about the world beyond the totems of Timuran, we'll just have to bring you with us.”

“North?” Ethis said, raising one hairless brow. “Why north?”

“Because it pleases me,” Drakis replied.

“How far north?” Ethis pressed.

“As far north as we must,” Drakis snapped, then turned to Belag. “So this is all there is then?”

“Aye,” Belag nodded his great head. “Many are dead . . . many more have lost their minds . . . others deny their own thoughts and can imagine no other life. We are all who have come.”

“Then it will have to be enough,” Drakis turned, but the large hand of the manticore turned him back around.

“Please,” Belag said, his huge, yellow eyes peering into Drakis' face. “Tell me . . . I have to know . . .”

“Belag, we've got to move now while . . .”

“Please,” the manticore said, gripping the human by both shoulders. “I have to
know
. . . are you the One?”

Drakis let out a quick, short breath.

Jugar spoke from behind somewhere at his back.

“Yes,” the dwarf said with words deliberate and carefully spoken. “Tell us: Are you the warrior-king of the prophecy?”

Drakis glanced at the flaming ruin across the hilltop.

“Belag,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. “That depends.”

The manticore gazed at him, his eyes puzzled for a time, and then he nodded slowly as he turned away. Belag gathered the still-shaken RuuKag and the Lyric to him and then moved with them down the hill following the line of darkened totems. Ethis considered for a moment and then gathered the cloth at the back of the dwarf's neck into one of his strong hands. The two of them followed the manticore and his charges down the slope.

Drakis watched them for a moment and then turned and bent down, offering his hand to the woman with whom he had hoped for so much earlier that same morning.

“Mala, it's time to go.”

The young human woman sat on the ground, her face turned toward the flames. She spoke, but it was not for anyone's ears. “I liked it here. It was . . . terrible and . . . unspeakable . . . but at least I didn't have to know about it. Now I'll have to carry it with me . . . and I don't want the burden. Was it so bad, really, just to love you and hope for something better . . . even if it would never come . . . rather than to
know
it could never be?”

“It was a lie, Mala,” he said softly.

“But it was a lovely lie,” she sighed.

He drew her up from the ground. The others had already started down the slope, following the now-dead totems, their lights extinguished, back toward the Fold Temple. He turned away from the ruin of his former life and led her by her hand down the slope.

Mala followed, her eyes looking back all the way.

S
OEN TJEN-REI, Inquisitor of the elven Order of the Iblisi, stepped through the delicately inlaid twenty-foot tall doors, grateful for the warmth of the radiant sun that thawed his chill bones. The grand reception hall had been unbelievably cold—undoubtedly someone's interpretation of the Emperor's Will—which even his layers of ceremonial robes were of little help in keeping at bay. It might have felt warmer to him, he reflected, if he had had any real interest in the proceedings. Imperial audiences were, it was true, generally convoluted and complex as the centerpiece of the game of Imperial politics should be. And yes, there was an occasional death and even moments of honest surprise to be had, but this was a game for the Ministers and Masters of the Orders to play . . . not an elf like him.

He was an Inquisitor of the Iblisi, and his province was the truth—something generally unknown and unwanted in the Imperial audiences.

He stood at the railed edge of the Emperor's Cloud Palace and surveyed the enormous city arrayed below him. The palace was currently facing west toward the setting sun. Its rays reflected off the thousands of gleaming avatrium that hung over the city like glorious lilies floating on an invisible pond. Many of those closest to the Emperor's own floating palace were of extraordinary grace and size, an obvious display of power and wealth that required no further word to be spoken on the subject. That they grew smaller and, in his eye, more reasonable the farther they were situated toward the horizon was yet another indication that he was standing at the very center around which the entire world revolved.

At least for today,
he thought with a frown.
For today.