Song of the Dragon (45 page)

Then there was RuuKag, a manticore whom he never liked even before his memories came flooding back. He had fought the group at every step, but recently he seemed more anxious than any of them to cross this savanna. He never explained himself either way, and his distrust seemed to breed it in everyone else.

Ethis was demonstrably not only a manipulative and deceptive creature at his heart but now appeared to be highly trained for it. Drakis still shuddered to think of how the chimerian had appeared to him in the form of Mala.

Then there was Mala herself, of course. Things had improved with her, and recently she had become almost cheerful. Her face was tanned now by their long day journeys between mud cities, and there was an almost robust health to her that was, he had to admit, an improvement over her former self. Yet he knew resentment still smoldered beneath the surface like banked coals waiting to burst again into hot hatred. Their bargain in the faery kingdom to pretend their painful past did not exist had only buried it shallowly.

He had considered the Lyric, who was unquestionably insane and changed her personality as easily and as often as anyone else might change their mind. She could be the traitor among them and not even remember it from day to day. That, he thought, would be worst of all since she was the least accountable of any of them, and Drakis felt certain he would have to kill whoever it turned out to be.

Finally, he had to admit that it could even be the dwarf, who had pointed all this out to him in the first place. The conniving little fool might have thought himself in danger of being caught and tipped his hand as a bluff just to throw suspicion off himself. The only thing Drakis was sure about regarding the dwarf was that he couldn't be sure about anything.

So he would journey through the day, receding more and more into the cycle of his siren song. Sometimes Mala would walk with him, chattering away about some innocuous memory she had of her life in the Timuran House or some previous House she had been a part of and only recently remembered. Such recollections studiously avoided the darker memories and were occasionally expurgated as she spoke—her voice stuttering slightly and stopping altogether only to restart on a completely different topic—light and breezy once more. Sometimes Belag would journey with him, speaking sonorously of the legends of the manticores regarding the afterlife, or Ethis would join him, respecting the human's silence with his own. Occasionally the dwarf would accompany him, rattling off some nonsense story he remembered that the shape of a bush they passed or some figure in a cloud above them brought to his memory.

But all along the way, the names of his companions would circle through his mind and soon merged with the cycle of the music—that dreadful music—that called to him and ran always in the back of his mind.

“Drakis-ki?”

Drakis shook himself. He had nearly fallen asleep on his feet. His eyes were trying to focus on the short figure before him. Drakis thought that he had never seen this particular gnome before but could not be entirely sure. The only thing he was certain of was the orange vest and floppy hat that signified the gnome's august position in the mud city. Since which gnome was the Chief of the Day changed seemingly on a whim and each mud city had its own chief who was just as apt to pick up and wander to the next mud city as any other gnome, the only way to tell who was in charge was by which gnome wore this bizarre outfit. “Yes . . . uh, Chief of the Day . . . what is it?”

“Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed deeply as he repeated the name with respect. “You honor us with the stories of your people. We thank the gods of the sky that you have come among us to brighten our thoughts and dreams.”

“Yes, thank you,” Drakis spoke through a yawn. “I'm sorry, Chief of the Day . . . is there something you want?”

“Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed once more. “I have a story to tell you!”

“Ah,” Drakis nodded, closing his eyes as he continued to trudge up the ramp. “Thank you, Chief of the Day. I would
love
to hear your story and I am certain that it is a really great story but . . .”

“It is! It
is
a great story,” The Chief of the Day responded, enthusiastically following along next to the human. “It is the story of a human like yourself, a great warrior woman who journeys from the coastal forests, who moves in silence and shadow. She comes from a human tribe that is lost to the knowledge of the world and remains hidden from the knowledge of all except the Hak'kaarin! And most remarkable of all, in her story she is searching for
you
, Drakis!”

Drakis stopped and rubbed his eyes, not entirely certain of what he had just heard. “A human woman—and she's looking for me? Where did you hear such a tale?”

“Oh, of course,” the Chief of the Day nodded with sage understanding. “My poor skills in the telling of the story would diminish it, and I will not do such a fine tale this injustice. Would it not be better if Drakis-ki heard it from its source?”

Drakis look at the gnome with a frown, his awareness sharpening as the words sank into his tired mind. “It would. Is this storyteller near? I may have some questions . . .”

“Not
near
,” The Chief of the Day shook his head. “
Here
. The woman herself is here.”

“What? Here?” Drakis blurted out.

“What is it?” Mala asked, concerned at the look on Drakis' face. She and the Lyric were walking up the ramp toward Drakis with Belag, RuuKag, Jugar and Ethis behind them.

Drakis did not answer her but continued speaking to the orange-clad gnome. “She's here? Where?”

The gnome grinned with all his wide-spaced teeth. “Why, Drakis-ki! She is there behind you!”

Drakis turned at once, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.

Above him, at the top of the ramp, stood a tall, slender woman the likes of whom Drakis had never seen before. Her skin was a deep black—as deep a black as the middle of the night and as smooth and unblemished as pure silk. Her thick, black hair was pulled back from the high forehead of her oval face and gathered into an explosion of curls at the back of her head. Her large, brown eyes gazed at him above her pronounced cheekbones, their eyelids shuttered languidly in disdain. Her lips were thick and plump around her smallish mouth—drawn slightly up at one corner as though being amused by some secret thought. She stood with casual confidence, the long fingers of her right hand resting on her hip as her head tipped upward slightly atop her long, slender neck.

“So,” the woman spoke in a deep, husky voice, “
this
is what a prophecy looks like.”

“Who are you?” Drakis asked, his eyes narrowing.

The Chief of the Day, still standing behind Drakis, thought that was his cue for a formal introduction. “Oh, I sorrow over my lack of honor! Drakis-ki . . . I present to you Urulani-ku, Warrior of the Sondau!”

“Urulani will do,” she replied with an amused smile. “I suppose Drakis will do for you . . . or do you have some rather more exalted title you prefer as the living fulfillment of a legend.”

“How do you know who he is?” Mala demanded, moving smoothly to Drakis' right side and wrapping her arm around his. Drakis muttered a curse; she was holding his sword arm.

“How do
I
know who he is?” Urulani said through a hearty chuckle. She stepped toward them down the ramp, her athletic figure moving with ease. She wore an outer vest of cured leather over a loose, sleeveless shirt of homespun cloth. Drakis noted that she wore soft buckskin breeches laced tightly up both legs as well as matching boots that made no sound as she stepped. “How is it possible
not
to know of Drakis—the bolter from House Timuran—who is the professed harbinger of doom and salvation now sprung to life? It's a story that's being told and retold all across the Vestasian Savanna by every Hak'kaarin gnome with a tongue and, it now seems, by every Dje'kaarin opportunist looking to find you and turn you in for more Rhonas coin than they can possibly carry.”

Urulani stopped just in front of Drakis, her eyes fixed coolly on him though her words were aimed at Mala. “No, I tell you, little slave princess, I'd be surprised if there were a blade of grass or a stone under all the sky from the Southern Mountains to the Nordesian Coast that doesn't
know
who this Drakis is by now.”

Drakis could hear Belag's low growl rising behind him.

Urulani looked up at the manticorian warrior. “I'm not your problem, big cat. In fact,
I'm
here to help you all, so you might think again before you decide you'd like to try and eat me.”

Drakis drew in a breath to speak, but Mala interrupted, gripping Drakis' arm tighter and pulling him possessively toward her. “I don't see how you can possibly help us.”

Urulani turned her gaze on Mala for the first time and took her in through a long stare before she replied. “You may have weathered a bit on the road, princess, but your little cherry tan and cracked lips don't hide you. I see that the Rhonas pigs still prefer to stock their households with cloud-white, dainty human slaves who can blend in so invisibly into their marble walls.” She turned her look back to Drakis. “Until that fashion changes, the Imperial hunters have no need to bother with us. We're ‘the Forgotten Ones' and we prefer to keep it that way. As long as we're forgotten . . . well, you'll have a chance.”

“Why should we trust you?” Drakis asked.

“Don't, if you'd rather not,” Urulani said with a tilt of her head. “I just happen to be the first to find you. If you like, you're welcome to refuse my help and wait for some bounty-crazed fool or an Iblisi to find you, although I suggest that they might not present terms quite as good as I have to offer.”

Drakis shook his head and smiled. “And, uh, just what
are
your terms?”

Urulani took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. “Drakis . . . I don't believe in you. I was raised on the stories and the legends, and I gave up on believing in them years ago. No human is going to rise up and free us from the Rhonas oppression with a wave of his mystical fingers. The only freedom we'll ever have will be what we take for ourselves.” Urulani shrugged. “But . . .”

“But?”

“But the Clan Elders
do
still believe,” Urulani continued. “They sent me here to find you, hide you from the eyes of the Rhonas hunters, and bring you before the Elders to answer their questions about you.”

Drakis nodded, his hand slipping slowly from the hilt of his sword. “And if they don't like my answers?”

Urulani looked up at the ceiling as she spoke. “You know, it's a hard thing when you're confronted with a legend and you discover that he's only a man after all. The faithful who are disappointed in their gods can be so unpredictable in how they will react.”

“No,” Drakis said. “I disagree. They are entirely
too
predictable. Very well, but you have to . . .”

“Drakis!” Mala said turning toward him. “You aren't actually considering going with this . . .”

Drakis ignored her. “But you have to take all of us. You must promise to extend your protection to all of our group, or we'll just continue on our own way.”

Urulani nodded. “Done. Anything else?”

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me that your clan is to the north.”

T
HE MUD CITY of the Hak'kaarin usually bustled with activity regardless of the time of day. The only exception was on the night of arrival, when most of the mud gnomes, exhausted from the day's journey, retired to their newly occupied warrens and slept through the night, leaving only a few hundred or so of their number to keep watch over the city and keep the fires stoked until the mound could properly be brought back to exuberant life the next morning.

The enormous central space of the city was, therefore, nearly deserted as RuuKag moved with contemplative, heavy steps onto the main floor space. His great head hung down from his hunched shoulders. The field pack—completely provisioned once more—did not weigh him down nearly as much as the burdens of his soul.

The manticore looked up. The open dome of the mud city was lined with the cavelike warrens of the gnomes almost to its very summit, lit now only dimly by the flickering flames in the great central pit that had earlier been a roaring bonfire. The curling smoke rose up to the full height of the chamber, escaping through the large hole in the ceiling.