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  The lava, however, continued to pour from above, rolling in a devastating torrent over the remaining warriors and into the entire Cohort behind it. The warriors of the Second Cohort broke ranks, running back down the causeway directly toward Drakis and his comrades, but the river of lava was rapidly overtaking them.

  Drakis glanced at his feet. The fitted cobblestones of the causeway had been formed with a slight trough in the middle—the perfect channel for a river of molten rock.

  “Back!” ChuKang shouted. “Back down! Now!” His commands were pointless as those behind him were already trying to move. But the causeway was packed now with other Centurai from the Imperial Army who had appeared behind them. Those closest to the front started shouting and pushing at those behind. Panic rose like a tide among the warriors. Drakis plunged into the fray, trying desperately to get away from the onrushing death. He heard the screams of several warriors as they were pushed over the edge by their terrified companions.

  The deadly tide hissed menacingly behind him as the mass of warriors compressed around him. The air was being pressed out of his lungs.

  A massive hand grabbed the back of his breastplate and pulled him back. He felt himself swinging wildly, his head banging against his own shoulder plate, and then suddenly he was spinning through the air. His scream was cut short as his back slammed against stone and he tumbled down a rock face.

  His fall was only a few feet down from where he impacted, but it felt as though he had fallen much farther. Still panicked, he scrambled backward, clawing at the ground until he reached the wall. Only then did he take in his surroundings.

  He was sitting on a rock outcropping above the causeway. The other members of his Octian were there as well, a few of them a little bruised but otherwise intact. ChuKang was pulling himself up the cavern wall to join them.

  “You toss well for a hoo-mani,” Ethis chuckled.

  Braun was shivering, curled up in a stone niche at the back of the outcropping. Ethis was looking intently over the edge. KriChan was helping pull ChuKang up to the ledge.

  There were two younger manticores on the ledge who were almost identical, as well as another chimerian.

  “Belag! Karag! What are you doing here?” Drakis asked. “I thought you were in the Sixth Octian with S’Kagh.”

  “We were, Drakis,” Belag answered at once. “But we’re both just as glad to be with you, considering the alternative.”

  “And you, warrior!” Drakis tried to stop his hands from shaking as he turned toward the chimerian. There was something familiar about him, but the memory would not push past the music. “What’s your name?”

  “Thuri,” the chimerian said evenly. “Fourth Octian under Ophas.”

  “Well, you’re all First Octian now,” Drakis said and turned toward the captain.

  “Should have foreseen this,” ChuKang said with a rumble in his voice as he gazed toward the gate. “A waste of warrior-flesh.”

  The ledge shook. A great slab of stone sheered away from the rock face under the ledge, crashing down into the magma with a shower of molten rock. The heat rolling up the face toward them was blistering. “We can’t stay here,” KriChan roared.

  “Captain!”

  Drakis turned toward the sound, faint over the roaring of the magma flowing below their ledge.

  “Look!” Karag shouted as he pointed across the glowing flow below. “On that rock pillar!”

  Drakis saw them.

  It was Jerakh, the manticorian leader of Timuran’s Second Octian. Half a dozen other warriors from their Centurai had joined Jerakh in climbing to their own cramped haven atop a broken stalactite on the far side of the causeway.

  “They’re trapped like we are,” Ethis yelled over the din. “If the molten river on the causeway does not kill them, then it must be at least three hundred feet to the floor of the cavern.”

  Drakis was finding it hard to breathe.

  “Well, Drakis, trapped at last,” Braun said with a sick smile. “I guess no one is going to know why you fought after all.”

  Five notes . . . Five notes . . .

  Mala will forgive . . . Mala will forget . . .

  “We’re not trapped!” Drakis shouted as he picked up Braun with both hands, dragging the Proxi to his feet. “Can you propagate a symbol far enough to reach that pillar?”

  Braun shook violently in his hands, his eyes refusing to focus.

  “CAN YOU?”

  “Of course,” Braun drooled slightly, his words slurred. “I’ll have to draw a gate symbol here first.”

  “Do it!” Drakis spat, releasing the Proxi with a slight but emphatic shove.

  The ledge shook again. KriChan leaped back just as a section of ledge gave way under his foot.

  ChuKang grabbed the human warrior’s shoulder. “What are you doing, Drakis?”

  Drakis turned. “Those warriors don’t have a Proxi. They cannot fold off that stone pillar without one.”

  “Then they’re lost . . .”

  “No!” Drakis shouted perhaps too emphatically. “We have our Proxi make a gate symbol here on our ledge then propagate it across to that ledge where Jerakh is sheltered. We get the Tribune to fold us all over to that other rock and then all of us fold out from there.”

  “There isn’t much room over there,” KriChan added, his heavy brow furrowed.

  “They’ll make room . . . or cook.”

  ChuKang nodded and turned to the Proxi. “Make it happen, Braun.”

  But the Proxi was already finishing the inscription of three interlinking rings in the stone of the ledge. Sweat was pouring from his brow and he looked up with unfocused eyes, but the arc of bright light flew from his staff and fell with precision exactly in the center of the stone pillar on the far side of the molten causeway.

  “Now, Braun! Call on the Tribune!” Drakis shouted in his face.

  Braun’s eyes suddenly focused. He shoved Drakis away, knelt down, and jammed the end of his staff into the stone of the ledge, sweat pouring down his face. The terrible cries of the dying on the ledge below him receded farther from his mind as he connected with other thoughts . . . other powers.

  “So we rescue our brother warriors . . . then where do we go?” Thuri gripped his four blades in his hands once more.

  “Does it matter?” Drakis shouted, drawing his own short sword. “We’ve come this far . . . how can the day get any worse?”

  The air twisted in on itself, then suddenly tore apart. ChuKang did not wait to see what was on the other side. He shouted, and everyone jumped through the opening just as the outcropping crumbled beneath their feet, eaten from under them by the continuing stream of lava.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Last Throne

  THEY EMERGED IN CHAOS.

  The fold collapsus behind them, but the sound was swallowed in the cacophony of battle that raged before them.

  “By the gods!” ChuKang roared. “Where are we now?”

  KriChan turned on Braun, grabbing the edges of his breastplate with both fists. “Where have you taken us? Where are Jerakh and the rest of the Centurai?”

  “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Why did you bring us here?” KriChan shouted in the Proxi’s face.

  “Not me!” Braun yelled back at the manticore. “I didn’t bring us anywhere! It’s the Tribune . . . he’s the one who determines where the folds connect, not me! He sent us here!”

  KriChan shoved Braun to the ground, his lips curling up around his fangs in disgust.

  “Wait!” Drakis shouted above the noise. “I know where we are! This is it . . . the Ninth Throne of the Dwarves!”

  Every available Cohort from almost two full Legions—perhaps six thousand warriors in all—had folded into the room just ahead of them, a charging army of warriors who could smell impending victory in the air and taste the final fall of the dwarven kingdoms. Their influx gushed into the vast space as though they were a torrent from a swollen river, flooding into the rotunda and the last stand of
dwarven might.

  The elite Warriors of the Ninth Throne were there to meet them, their axes already wet with the blood of their enemies. This was the last throne, where all of the dwarven kings came to council with one another. It was the most honored place in all the Nine Kingdoms under the mountain and home of the greatest of the dwarven kings—whose name was not known.

  “What about Jerakh and the rest of our Centurai?” KriChan swore. “Damn the Tribune!”

  “Or may the gods bless him,” ChuKang replied. “Braun?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “You say the Tribune knew about Jerakh and the rest of our warriors?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Then he’ll bargain for another Proxi to get to them and bring them here,” ChuKang said. “The Tribune wants us in on the end—wants a prize that will bring honor to our House. That’s why we came!”

  Five notes . . . Five notes . . .

  I fight for a life . . . I fight for my wife . . .

  The throne room was enormous, the hollowed out core of the Stoneheart nearly a hundred yards in diameter. The domed roof was supported by nine enormous statues of dwarven kings, each carved out of the native stone as though they supported the weight of the mountain on their shoulders. In the center of the room was the elevated platform at the top of a truncated cone of stairs where the dwarven kings once met in council. Now all the Impress Warriors could see the Last Dwarven King sitting on his throne, his crown shining in the explosive light of the invading army. Scattered about the room was the last of the wealth gathered from all of the Nine Kingdoms, but it was the crown that riveted the eyes of every Impress Warrior smashing against the dwarven circle of defense.

  Drakis realized that they had arrived late—by moments only, but that was enough. The converging Impress Warriors of the Rhonas Empire had already swarmed down on the dwarven defenders, shattering their forward lines in what must have been a horrific collision. Now all lines between the defending dwarves and the Rhonas warriors were blurred into a confused, seething mass of blood and blind rage.

  “Is that it?” KriChan shouted, pointing toward the throne even as he began charging toward the writhing slaughter around the base of the steps.

  “Yes!” ChuKang snarled through his clenched, bared teeth, running alongside him. “We take it and we go home!”

  “Home? How?” KriChan exclaimed.

  “All the other Centurai are trying to hold their formations together,” ChuKang smiled with relish as he spoke. “There’s no one left to hold us back! Just don’t stop!”

  The crown was the prize above all others coveted by the elven Houses that had engaged in this war. Any House that returned with the crown would be lifted beyond its previous status, possibly even elevated in its caste among the Estates. Every Tribune directing the battle from the distant command tent on the plain knew it—and made doubly sure that every Impress Warrior knew it, too.

  Drakis was running as fast as he could just to keep up with the manticores. “We’ll never make it! Someone else is going to fold right to the top, and it will all be over!”

  “No! We have a chance. Look!” Ethis ran next to him, pointing with his third arm. “Look!”

  All around the throne folds erupted, but even as each sprang into existence, another fold would appear too close by. The tearing of space collapsus, and the folds shredded each other.

  “Greedy bastards, our Tribunes,” Thuri shouted through a wide grin splitting his otherwise featureless face. “Pushing each other out of the way now that the end is in sight.”

  “All we need is to get our Proxi up there to etch a gate symbol. That will anchor our fold, and it’s all over,” KriChan shouted from behind them. “Drakis! Take Braun and follow ChuKang! Don’t stop!”

  “This is it, Braun!” Drakis shouted. “Let’s go! Follow me!”

  “Of course, Drakis,” Braun answered cheerfully as he picked up the Standard staff in his hand, “as far as the ghosts will allow.”

  ChuKang charged into the battle with a wide-bladed sword in each of his massive hands, but he did not stop to engage any of the enemy. He continued his run, weaving between the warriors engaged in battle, his great blades occasionally striking out at any dwarf that moved to engage him, then dashing past.

  Drakis followed, keeping his eyes fixed on the Sinque—the Devotion tattoo on the broad back of his manticorian commander’s shaved head. He was only dimly aware of the other warriors of his Octian weaving their desperate way near him in pursuit of their leader. Flashes of battle caught his eye as he ran: a manticorian warrior from another Centurai being dragged to the ground screaming under a rush of dwarven axmen; a human, his face covered in blood plunging his sword downward into a dwarf prone at his feet; a chimerian, shifting in size to nearly nine feet, swinging a pair of curved-bladed swords against three dwarven dart-men while trying to stanch the bloody stump of a severed arm with his remaining free hand. Their cries receded in his ears, echoing in his mind as from a distance, replaced by the torturous melody that ran through his mind to the rhythm of every running step that he took.

  “Keep going!” KriChan’s shout sounded far away, behind the wall of music in his head. “Up! Go up!”

  Drakis tripped over the body of a fallen dwarf, breaking his stride and threatening to bring him crashing down to the bloody floor beneath him. He lurched forward, desperate to get his feet back under him.

  ChuKang’s blades flashed again through the thicket of combat as Drakis lunged after him.

  They were through. The curving stairs rose before them to the dwarven thrones above.

  ChuKang roared, rushing up the stairs with KriChan and Belag already behind him. Drakis followed without hesitation, his own battle cry in his throat. He glimpsed Thuri to one side as he rushed up the stairs ducking past the still erupting and collapsing folds.

  The dwarven defenders, distracted by a threat on the far side of the throne, were too late to regroup for ChuKang’s sudden assault. They tried to release the cauldron vents beneath the topmost step so they could pour a molten cascade down on their enemies, but they were too late. ChuKang’s blades cut into them as the remaining dwarves of the King’s Guard, all in ancient dwarven armor, tried desperately to push the manticore off the platform of the Nine Thrones. KriChan entered the battle next to ChuKang as did Belag, and in moments they had engaged the last stand of dwarves in mortal combat.

  Drakis then saw the Dwarven King, the crown fixed to his battle helmet.

  Drakis, sword drawn, rushed forward.

  The Dwarven King’s long beard hung down over a shining breastplate of ancient design. He held a shield on his right arm fixed to his bracer, and his left hand gripped a sword. The jewels on the crown flashed in the light of the magical bolts still being cast through the hall. The helmet itself was fabulously ornate–sharp dragonlike wings extending backward on both sides and a faceplate molded into a fearsome countenance.

  Drakis grinned. He always preferred it when the faceplate was down; somehow it made the killing easier.

  Drakis made a few probing thrusts, studying the Dwarven King’s reactions. Time seemed to be slowing around him, and the world contracted until all that existed for him was the armor-encased dwarf in front of him. Parry. Parry. Thrust. Slash and parry.

  Drakis bared his teeth in a savage smile.

  The king was skilled . . . but not skilled enough.

  Drakis lunged forward, his blade flashing in a series of blows. The dwarf quickly parried, backing from the onslaught. Their swords locked, Drakis pressing downward until both their blades smashed against the dwarf’s shield.

  Drakis reached down, pulling his dagger from his belt.

  The human pushed away from the dwarf but not quite far enough. The king lashed out quickly, cutting just under Drakis’ breastplate, his blood welling into his tunic beneath. Drakis cursed but knew it was a risk he had to take. He needed to remain close.

  Drakis parried the next blow and then again pressed a s
avage set of blows against the dwarf, pressing him against one of the thrones. He was tiring quickly and the pain shooting across his chest was distracting, but the thought flashed through his mind that at least the song was leaving him to his work. He swung high and downward, again crashing both their swords down on the shield arm, then suddenly spun, the dagger in his free hand cutting through the air.

  It found its mark between the helmet and the breastplate. Drakis turned the blade and felt the warm, sticky wetness gush over his hand.

  The Ninth—and last—of the Dwarven Kings released his grip on his sword.

  Drakis let go of his dagger. The dwarf slumped back onto the throne.

  Drakis reached over and pulled the Crown of the Ninth Throne from the helmet of the Dwarven King, his voice shouting with unparalleled joy, “We’ve done it! We’ve won!”

  ChuKang straightened to stand with his stained blades in both his hands. The last of the King’s Guards had fallen before them. “Well done, Drakis! A triumph!”

  “Lord Timuran will honor us all!” Thuri nodded.

  “Perhaps even a Sixth Estate?” Belag purred. “Surely, ChuKang, you are due to be so honored.”

  “We’ll brag ourselves into glory later,” ChuKang said, shaking his head with pride. “Let’s get out of here before anyone realizes . . . where’s Braun?”

  “He was behind me,” Drakis said as he turned. “He should be . . .”

  Drakis’ eyes fixed on the Standard of the Timuran Centurai. The staff lay abandoned on the ground at the foot of the dwarven throne.