Song of the Dragon (34 page)

“Stop!” RuuKag said, stepping into the glade. The warm soil beneath his feet felt more luxurious than anything he had known before.

Belag stooped down, scooping up some of the clear, cold water from the brook and tasting it. “It's all right, RuuKag. I understand. It was a foolish, prideful order that called for the charge that day. Every manticore that heeded that command died that day, cut down by the Rhonas Legions and the terrible power of their Aether weapons. Thousands of them, tens of thousands, charging across the Northern Steppes, and none of them . . . not one survived to claim their honor or victory.”

“No, some lived,” RuuKag said though his voice sounded hollow.

“Yes, some lived,” Belag agreed, reaching down again with his cupped paw and feeling the water fall between his fingers. “But the story is that only those who fled the battle . . . who did not charge when the order was given but turned and ran . . .”

“No, that's not true,” RuuKag said too loudly. “You can't know. You weren't there!”

Belag stood up and faced RuuKag. “It's all right, RuuKag. We've all remembered things we want to forget. Come, you're tired. Lie down here in this clearing. The others have gone upstream in search of food, but they will be back shortly. I'll watch over you.”

RuuKag stepped farther into the glade. They had run through the night, and he was so tired. He could barely lift his legs now. He gratefully lowered himself to the ground, pressed his body against the warm, soft grass and sighed.

“You won't leave me?” RuuKag asked.

“No, I won't leave you,” Belag replied.

RuuKag closed his eyes and slept.

“Drakis!” Belag called out between his cupped paws. His voice was nearly hoarse from shouting the past hour. He stopped and tried to be as still as possible for the expected reply.

“Here, Belag!” came the distant reply. “We're over here! Where are you?”

The manticore drove both fists upward and roared in frustration; then he turned in the direction he believed he had heard the voice and charged again through the mist-obscured tree trunks. Ever since he had pushed Drakis ahead of him into the trees, the gods had seemingly deserted him. He had stepped around a tree expecting to find Drakis on the other side, but he had vanished—swallowed, it would seem, by the strange morning fog that permeated these woods. He had called out to him, tentatively at first and then with increasing fervor as the voice in reply seemed to his ears to get farther away each time he called out.

He was tired. The forced march the night before had taken much out of him, and he knew it. He had somehow believed that all they had to do was to cross the border into the faery lands and they could rest, recover, and prepare for whatever else lay ahead of them. But now he had lost everyone—even Drakis, who had been barely an arm's length away from him when they entered these cursed woods.

Belag bent over, placing his paws on his wide knees and closing his eyes. He had failed again . . . as he had so often failed before.

“Belag?”

The manticore looked up, a wide smile splitting his feline face. “Drakis! At last.”

“Are you all right?” Drakis stepped up to Belag and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I am now,” Belag replied straightening up. “Where are the others?”

“Not far from here,” Drakis answered. “Come, I'll show you.”

The human turned and started walking back among the trunks and undergrowth. Belag quickly followed, determined not to lose Drakis for a second time.

“Belag, we've got to talk—while it's just the two of us,” Drakis said as he walked though he spoke without turning his head. “We've been through a great deal together, old friend. I've fought by your side through many campaigns—many of which I am only now starting to remember and appreciate.”

“It is the same with me,” Belag agreed as he followed behind. The human seemed unusually spry for having traveled such a great distance the night before. “I, too, am having to deal with the thoughts and remembrances that are both new and old to me at once. Much is still confusion in my mind.”

“To all of us,” Drakis agreed as he continued to walk ahead, apparently intent on the trail before them. They were following the bottom of a gully now with a clear stream running beneath their feet. “But there's been something I've wanted to ask you, Belag, if you don't mind.”

“I serve you, Drakis,” Belag intoned, though he was beginning to wonder why it was so hard to breathe in this small canyon.

Drakis did not look back but spoke clearly. “Belag, how do you know that I'm the one who was prophesied to return?”

Belag replied at once, “Because I know it. My heart speaks the truth of it to me. I know it because I believe.”

Quite suddenly, they stepped out of the mists. Belag caught his breath.

Before them was the most beautiful glade the manticore had ever seen. Sunlight shone across the surface of a small pool situated at the edge of the clearing. The pool was fed by the gentle cascade of water down a small rock face, and its water was so clear that Belag could make out the shapes of the smooth rocks that lined the bottom of the pond. At the edge of the pond, soft sand rose in a bank up to the grasses of the glade, warmed by a shaft of sunlight shining down through an opening in the forest canopy overhead.

Belag longed to warm himself on the sands next to the pool, to close his eyes under the sun and find a moment's peace.

Drakis stepped into the glade and sat down in the grass, crossing his legs under him. “It's all right, Belag . . . we're safe here.”

Belag took a hesitant step into the glade.

“What is it?” Drakis asked, concerned.

“I . . . where are the others?”

“Others?”

“The Lyric . . . Mala . . . RuuKag . . .”

Drakis laughed. “Are you sure you
really
want to know where RuuKag is?”

“I won't be heartsick if he gets himself lost . . . or that dwarf . . . or the chimerian for that matter . . . but where are . . .”

“You needn't worry,” Drakis said, leaning back on his elbows in the sunlight. “They've gone upstream to forage for our lunch. They wanted me to stay behind to make sure you got here.”

Belag smiled and stepped across the soft grasses of the glade to the pool. He stretched out on the sands, feeling their warmth soak into his muscles and bones.

“So, tell me,” Drakis continued. “What led you to me?”

Belag's eyes closed, and he frowned slightly as he spoke. “I was raised Khadush Clan, both me and my . . .”

The manticore paused.

“What is it, Belag?” Drakis asked.

“My brother.” He sighed the last word as though with a final breath. “We both believed strongly in your legend—the prophesied return of the Northern Lords. Our clan holds that all manticores are cursed for their betrayal of the Drakosian Kings of the
hoo-mani
and that only by offering our lives to the rightful heir of the human empire will we absolve ourselves of our complicity in their downfall. We were so sure—both of us—in our faith that we vowed to find you. We became pilgrims, Karag and I, devoted to finding you and freeing our race from its shame and curse. We set out west across the northern slopes of the Aerian Mountains, hoping to make our way into Vestasia to the northwest. We heard there were humans in that region and thought that they might be able to direct us to you.”

Belag rolled over in the warm sand and thought for a moment before continuing. “We were taken before we reached the border by an elven slaver party though we put up quite a fight and cost them the lives of three of their group before we were taken. Everything after that . . . well, you know too well. We were forced to forget it all . . . everything that made us who we truly were . . . we even forgot why we had come in the first place as we were passed from Rhonas House to Rhonas House as Impress Warriors. I have thought much on this since, Drakis, and I know that it was the wisdom of the gods, because by enslaving us—even in our forgetfulness—we were brought to you. And even when my brother . . .”

Belag turned his face away, lying back on the sand once more.

“Go on, friend,” Drakis encouraged.

Belag closed his eyes again, basking in the warmth of the sun shining down on him from above. When he spoke, his voice was unusually heavy. “Even when my brother died that day on the Ninth Dwarven Throne defending you . . . even though he did not know who you were because of the terrible veil of forgetfulness cast by the evil of the elves . . . even then the gods smiled down on my brother and showed him how his death would have meaning.”

“I understand,” Drakis said in words barely heard above the splashing water nearby. “It's my turn to watch over you, now. Rest for a while . . . and I'll watch out for both of us.”

With a great sigh, Belag relaxed into the warm sands and drifted into a deep and contented sleep.

Drakis, sword drawn, walked with cautious step between the towering trunks of trees stretching above him into the mists. He had thought Belag was right behind him, but, impossibly, the huge manticore had vanished into the dim, fog-blurred shadows of the forest, and he found himself quite alone.

A sobbing sound caught his ear off to his left. Drakis adjusted the grip on his sword and followed the weeping as it grew louder with each step.

He rounded a tree and stopped, letting his sword arm swing down to his side.

“Mala?”

The human woman turned toward him, tears still cutting marks down the smudges on her face. She ran to him, her arms quickly wrapping around him as she buried her face in his chest.

A smile flashed across Drakis' face. He felt suddenly awkward. With the sword in his right hand and the scabbard on his left side he was left to comfort Mala by putting his left arm around her and trying not to nick her with the blade he still held in his right. “Mala . . . I'm here now, it will be all right.”

“I didn't think I'd find you,” she said, looking up into his face, her eyes large and still watery. “I was so worried . . .”

“I'm fine,” Drakis said, pulling away from her. “Have you seen anyone else?”

“Oh, yes!” she smiled. “They're not far from here . . . they're waiting for us. They're all out looking for you now, but I found you and we'll be together again soon.”

Drakis smiled again. “That's excellent, Mala. If we are going to have any hope of getting through the madness of this wood, we'll have to stay together. Where are we meeting?”

“It's not far from here, just down a nearby stream a bit,” she said, taking his hand. “I can show you. Belag says we can rest, replenish, and get our bearings—whatever that means. And . . . and . . .”

“And what, Mala?”

“Oh, Drakis, I'm so frightened and tired,” Mala said. “Will you please just tell me where we're going . . . and why we're going there?”

“I'm not sure it will make much sense, Mala,” Drakis replied. “It's got something to do with a song.”

“Really?” Mala said, puzzled, and then started pulling at his hand. “Then promise you'll tell me all about it when get there.”

“Get where?”

“It's not far,” she said without turning her head, “and it's the most peaceful glade you've ever seen.”

C
H'DREI TSI-AURUUN, Keeper of the Iblisi, sat in stillness on her newly settled throne, now placed before the fountain at the heart of Togrun Fel. Its beauties were, for the moment, entirely ignored by her; Ch'drei's only movement was a slight quivering of her hand as she gripped the top of her staff with a pale fist.