Song of the Dragon (43 page)

Soen gripped his staff until his fingers lost all color. Argos was a citizen of the Empire, but only just; he was considered to be of the Sixth Estate—technically a citizen by the laws of the Empire but devoid of any real rights. It was reserved largely for elves who had no social station whatever and was the last refuge of elven criminals. It was also a status held out as a reward to slaves who had performed some heinous deed for the Empire: betrayal, murder, assassination, spying, and the like. It was rarely granted to slaves—and was relatively meaningless when it was given.

“Perhaps the Caliph shall see it one day,” Soen said as evenly as he could. “But the way is long and arduous. I myself had some trouble along the way . . .”

“No! May the gods forbid!”

“The Northmarch Folds can be treacherous,” Soen advised. “And dusty, as you can see . . . but my need is great and my time short.”

“Then come at once, my friend! I shall forgive at once your ill manners to the need of haste and history—for no doubt you are on a mission that impacts both!”

Soen tried for a moment to make sense out of Argos' words but realized it was pointless. The Caliph often misspoke—a problem that had been the root cause of several assassination attempts. The Inquisitor simply took in a long breath, nodded, and walked quickly toward the short ruler with his staff in hand. “Oh great Caliph, your words are as wise as they are meaningful. You have no doubt already divined that I have come to request a boon of your eminent self.”

Argos frowned uncertainly.

“I need a favor,” Soen urged.

“Ah!” The Caliph's face brightened. “Of course! I am most anxious to assist the Will of the Emperor in all things! You have but to ask, and Argos Helm shall grant all that is in my power to give! Please . . . sit with me as brothers and we shall discuss your needs.”

The Caliph indicated three curved benches set at one side of the hall. Together they formed a broken circle—a
mychural
in the gnome tongue—which translated into “story circle.” It was where gnomes traditionally gathered to converse, discuss, and listen to stories. It was, Soen noted, the only gnomish conceit in the entire hall.

The tall elven Inquisitor sat down on one of the benches. It was, unfortunately, built to gnome specifications. Soen was more stooping than sitting. Argos took no notice of his guest's discomfiture and plopped himself down on an opposite bench.

“There!” Argos leaned forward and spoke quietly. “What favor might I do for my good friend Soen?”

“I am looking for a man,” Soen began.

“A man?” Argos interrupted, stroking his beard. “I don't know about a man. I can get you a woman—a good number of them, in fact, I should think—but ours is a backward people not as enlightened as the heart of the great Rhonas Imperium.”

“No, Argos . . .”

“Just give me a moment, friend . . . I may be able to come up with a man for you . . .”

“No!” Soen began fingering his staff once more. “I am looking for a specific man . . . a human bolter.”

Argos' eyes were losing focus. “Bolter . . . bolter . . .”

“A runaway slave,” Soen continued. “A human male. We believe he and a number of fellow travelers left the Murialis Woods and were making their way into Vestasia.”

“Murialis . . .” Argos repeated as he nodded his head vaguely. Suddenly his eyes focused, shifting to stare at the Iblisi. “Murialis?
That
Murialis? The witch west of the Southern Mountains?”

“Yes,” Soen continued. “I believe they may have been traveling north.”

“But that's over one hundred and seventy leagues from here!” Argos laughed incredulously.

“Yes,” Soen agreed, “and it is land with which I am not familiar. What can you tell me about it?”

Argos leaned back, his face turned upward as he considered the question. He began stroking his beard with his left hand as though trying to pull some answer out of it. “Ah, you believe your quarry is in the Great Savanna.”

Soen nodded. “If that is to the north of Murialis lands, then yes.”

“Difficult place, that savanna,” Argos mused. “You'll need to travel south around the edge of Gnevis Bay, then follow the Lynadio River inland until you cross at the confluence. West, beyond the river is the Great Savanna . . . filled with wild creatures and death. Perhaps you would like some men to accompany you—our finest warrior guards and at a most reasonable price! I could get you some women also, but that would be more difficult and, naturally, more expensive . . .”

“No,” Soen said, his sharp teeth grinding slightly as he spoke. “I don't need an army—just your—your most excellent advice. Have you any news of my prey? There are three humans, a pair of manticores, and a chimerian who . . .”

“A chimerian?” Argos laughed. “That sounds like the beginning of a joke.”

“I assure you it is not,” Soen snapped then drew in a breath. “Have you any word of such strangers?”

“In the savanna?” Argos chuckled. “No one cares what happens in the savanna!”

“Isn't there anyone . . . any tribes who might have seen my prey?”

“Ah, perhaps the Hak'kaarin,” Argos said with a disdainful sniff.

“Hak'kaarin?” Soen urged.

“Foolish creatures . . . you could barely call them gnomes really,” Argos shrugged. “Mud gnomes of the great savanna. Backward savages that constantly wander the savanna wastes traveling from mudpile to mudpile. They have no appreciation for property, no understanding of the finer things of the world. Uncivilized and unworthy of your attentions, my friend. They cover the savanna like a river of idiots, never stopping long enough to build anything of value. But if anyone will have seen your . . . ‘bolters' did you call them? . . . the savages of the Hak'kaarin will know of it.”

The doors were closed, and at last, Argos pulled himself back up onto his throne and sat on it with satisfaction.

The gnome Caliph relished the moment. After all, he had a family tradition to uphold. All of his Helm ancestors had been brilliant politicians and strategists, he reasoned, otherwise how could they have stayed in power so long? So he, too, had to be as masterful and cunning as his forebears.

This time he was more cunning than them all—for he would outsmart an Iblisi.

“Fon!” the Caliph yelled, and at his word a gnome guard appeared from a side door, resplendent in his ridiculous armor.

“Yes, oh great Caliph!” Fon barked.

“There is an elf awaiting word from me in the Shadow Caves—do you know them? They're in the gully north of the city.”

“I know them, oh great Caliph!”

“Tell him his friend journeys into the Great Savanna,” the Caliph grinned. “And tell him to follow the trails of the Hak'kaarin.”

The gnome bit his lower lip for a moment. “Oh great Caliph . . . how will I know I have the right elf?”

“You idiot!” Argos screamed. “How many elves are there in this province?”

“Sorry, my Caliph!” the gnome mumbled.

“Oh, very well,” Argos grumbled. “His name is Jukung. He is an Inquisitor of the Empire and will reward us for our service.”

“Yes, oh great Caliph!”

“And we must always be grateful to the Empire,” Argos sighed, then, in a flash of inspiration, turned and put his hand in a semblance of benevolence on the helmeted head of the guard. “Quickly write this down so that we can have it written on our next wall. We must always be grateful to the Empire, for without it all the gnomes would be forced to endure terrible suffrage!”

“A
YE! There he stood, Drakis the Just, atop the very throne of the dwarven kingdoms! His hands were stained with the blood of a thousand dwarves—the sworn enemies of his cruel masters—as he took the crown from the last of the Dwarven Kings!”

The dwarf's voice filled the cavernous space inside the mud gnomes' city adjacent to the main fire pit. He stood in the center of an enormous crowd of mud gnomes, all staring back at him in rapt attention. On the fringes of this congregation, however, a number of gnomes were talking excitedly and gesturing wildly. These would then fall away from the crowd and meld back into the constant stream of mud gnomes that swept past them in an unending river only to be immediately replaced with yet more gnomes who would chatter away at the fringes of the group, trying, it seemed, to catch up to events in the story before they arrived. A few of these would settle more toward the middle where the dwarf was blathering on while others fell back into the perpetual parade. It was an audience whose comings and goings seemed to have little reference to the story as it was being told. The mud gnomes might love stories, but Drakis could not be sure that any one of them had heard a single one of Jugar's tales from beginning to end. They seemed to be perpetually in motion and unable to stay in any one spot long enough for a long joke, let alone an epic tale.

At the edge of the cavern, two additional figures watched in stillness as the river of gnomes swirled around them.

“Jugar is in rare form tonight,” said Ethis, both pairs of his arms folded across his chest.

“Yes,” Drakis said in disgust. “Rare . . . almost raw.”

“You don't approve?” Ethis asked in a calm, droll manner.

“Is that meant to be a joke!” Drakis complained. “Just listen to him!”

Jugar stood, his thick arms raised above him, his head bent backward in the drama of his storytelling. The gnomes were leaning toward him now. “There Drakis stood, gazing upon the fabled crown of the dwarves—its jewels sparkling like all the stars of the winter sky—his mighty army arrayed about him, howling in their blood-crazed frenzy for
more
slaughter,
more
violence,
more
death to fill their empty souls! Drakis saw in that dwarven crown all the terrible sins of his elven masters—the pain of his fellow slaves, the loss of their dignity, and their life's blood all sacrificed on the altar of Rhonas ambition to take one more jeweled crown into the already burgeoning coffers of the elven state! What was this crown weighed in the balance against the thousands of lives he had taken to obtain it? What was this crown weighed in the balance of his own soul!”

“That's it,” Drakis grumbled, taking a step forward. “I've got to put a stop to this.”

“Just a moment,” Ethis said, reaching out with one of his left hands and restraining Drakis by the shoulder. “I think he's nearly finished.”

Jugar's voice dropped dramatically into hushed tones, drawing his eager audience even closer to him. “So what did Drakis do?”

The gnomes leaned closer still.

“He THREW the crown away from him!” Jugar shouted, reenacting the moment by swinging his arm in a wide arc over the heads of the nearest gnomes.

The gnomes gasped in astonishment.

“That's the truth of it, and may the gods strike me down otherwise!” Jugar concluded. “Drakis tossed away the riches of the elven world—a crown whose wealth would have bought him power and position even among his evil elven masters—for he saw that wealth and power were meaningless if one pays for it with one's own soul! And from that day to this, Drakis the Just, Drakis the Wise, Drakis of the Prophecy, has wandered the face of the world seeking to fulfill his destiny, destroy evil, and bring lasting peace to all!

“And now,” Jugar paused then pointed his finger directly toward the astonished Drakis. “Now he has come to YOU!”

The mud gnomes leaped up, cheering.

“Oh, no!” Drakis murmured, his eyes going wide. “No, no . . . !”

The gnomes rushed toward Drakis in a riotous wave of approval, sweeping the human off his feet.

“DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS!”

“Put me down!” he insisted to no avail. He managed to twist in the mud gnomes' collective grasp as they lifted him over their heads. “Ethis! Where are they taking me?”

“I suspect back to the feast hall,” Ethis replied through a perplexing smile splitting his malleable face.

“Again?”

“That seems to be their preferred way of showing their appreciation for a good story,” Ethis replied, pushing gingerly away from the dried mud wall of the story-cavern. “Besides, we're leaving with them in the morning, and we'd all rather do so on a full stomach. I don't see the need for any complaint. The food here is quite good, and they seem perfectly content to share it with us.”

“But it's a lie!”

“They don't seem to care,” Ethis observed as the gnomes once again carried Drakis above their shoulders and down a ramp toward their common feast hall. “If anything, they seem to prefer it.”