Song of the Dragon Page 6

  “He’s gone!” Thuri yelled as he picked up the staff.

  “Gone?” ChuKang shouted. “Where could he go?”

  Drakis frantically scanned the battle around the foot of the stairs but could not see the Proxi anywhere among them.

  “Here!” Thuri shouted, thrusting the Standard into Drakis’ free hand. “You do it! You get us out of here!”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “You’re hoo-mani . . . just like Braun!”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Drakis spat his words in anger and frustration. “You have to be trained for it . . . linked to the Tribune through the House Altar . . .”

  “How long before the Tribune can get another Proxi to us?” ChuKang asked quickly.

  “He’ll know the link was broken,” Drakis answered. “He’d have to negotiate use from another Tribune . . .”

  ChuKang turned to look down from the platform. “We don’t have that long.”

  The battle was quickly winding down, the Centurai of other Houses were breaking free of the failing dwarves, moving up the stairs toward them.

  Toward the crown.

  The Imperial Army of Conquest was made up of units donated to the campaign by various Houses of the Empire. Some of the larger Houses had been known in the past to donate an entire Legion—an extravagance of maintaining over four thousand slave warriors. That was not true of the current campaign. The largest single House commitment—from House Plincian of the Paktan Guild Order—was five Cohorts of two thousand, eight hundred warriors. Several other Houses contributed full Cohorts of their own, but the majority of the Imperial Army of Conquest was made up of Legions and Cohorts that were cobbled together from donations of between one and three Centurai from many individual Houses.

  Cohorts from the larger Houses were regrouping, struggling to reestablish order in their commands for their own organized assault on the crown. But the Centurai from the smaller Houses knew that their only chance at the prize was to seize it now. For the majority of the warriors in the vast throne room, the military order of Legions and Cohorts evaporated at the sight of the prized crown.

  The warriors from the different smaller Houses, battle fever still raging in their blood, started up the stairs toward ChuKang and the remnants of his Octian. As one Octian pushed forward, the others grabbed at them, dragging them backward. A blade strike. A scream. Then suddenly all of the Impress Warriors of the Rhonas Empire—each vying for the glory and recognition of their own House—turned on each other. Combat erupted among the warriors of the competing Houses, each of them desperate to reach the top of the steps and claim the crown for their own.

  “What do we do?” Thuri said, his large, blank eyes blinking furiously. “How do we get out of here?”

  “Without the Proxi?” KriChan barked. “We have no way out!”

  “But what about Jerakh? Tribune Se’Djinka . . .”

  “Look around us! The Tribune can’t open a fold here any better than the rest of the Tribunes!” Ethis snapped. “We were supposed to rescue Jerakh, remember! If he gets here, it would only be through a fold opening on the outside of this mob . . . then there’ll be our own army between us and him. What good would that do?”

  Karag drew in a sharp breath. “We’re on our own?”

  “Unfortunately,” Ethis replied, raising his four swords once more as he gazed down the stairs. “Not for long. We are about to have far too much company.”

  The scrambling warriors from the other Houses were coming closer. As the cone of stairs got narrower in circumference with each step, the fighting among the manticores, chimera, gnomes, and a few humans became more constricted. They stepped over the bodies of their former comrades, slew anyone who got in their way, only to be felled by those behind them intent on one thing.

  They each wanted the crown for the glory of their own House. They had killed the dwarves for this prize. All that was left for them was to kill each other.

  An ancient manticore, scarred and missing one eye, was the first to reach them. ChuKang met him with both blades, but the seasoned warrior traded him blow for blow. Two more manticores swiftly moved to join the combat. KriChan and Karag rushed forward to help. Ethis stepped backward toward Drakis, his narrow head swiveling about, looking for approaching enemies on all sides. Belag rose up against a chimerian from House Sutharan, cutting him down just as a human lunged toward him.

  Drakis held the crown in his hand.

  The dwarves have no doors . . . the dwarves are no more . . .

  A goblin lunged at ChuKang from behind. The Centurai commander howled in pain, falling forward into the blades of the Tajeran manticores. KriChan sliced downward, nearly cutting the goblin in two just as one of the Tajeran manticores thrust from the side, running his blade upward. KriChan took a single gasp before collapsing. Karag stepped forward, impaling the Tajeran manticore on his own blade, but the blow left him open to the third manticore on his right.

  Belag roared at his brother, rushing toward him. Karag did not see the danger. The blade cut into his leg behind the knee. The manticore howled, turning just as the blade swung again, this time downward into his chest.

  “What do we do?” Thuri yelled at Drakis.

  For the love of her . . . for the loss of her . . .

  The song was raging once more in his head. The melody sounding over and over.

  “Drakis! By the House gods!” Thuri yelled again. “What do we do?”

  For the love of her . . . for the loss of her . . .

  Drakis’ eyes suddenly focused.

  He looked at the crown. He could have bought a life of his own with it—but if he kept it, he would never live to claim it; none of them would.

  Drakis leaped up to stand on the arms of the throne, holding the crown high over his head. He felt more than saw more than a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on him.

  He searched at the far edge of the army. He could see the larger Cohorts, now organized, making a determined run toward the thrones.

  He caught a glimpse of the glowing headpiece of a Proxi staff beyond the edge of the pressing mob. There was the face of a manticore next to it. Was it Jerakh? Had Tribune Se’Djinka sent them help at last?

  For the love of her . . . for the loss of her . . .

  With all his remaining strength, he hurled the crown toward the distant manticore next to the familiar looking staff at the far edge of the mob.

  It sailed out high over the heads of the Impress Warriors, tumbling in the air above hundreds of greedy, outstretched hands. The warriors who were on the stairs groaned but turned almost as one, charging back toward where the crown was falling.

  “Madness,” Ethis said, shaking his head as he watched Rhonas Warriors converge on where the crown had landed in its flight, killing their brothers-in-arms to claim it for their own.

  Drakis just looked down into his empty hands.

  CHAPTER 6

  Spoils

  FOUR FIGURES WANDERED LISTLESSLY among the dead.

  Drakis reached down, turned over a broken shield and peered beneath it under the hard radiating light of a globe-torch in his hand. The pale, glazed eyes of a dead dwarven warrior stared back up at him. The warrior was stripped of all of its armor and weapons. Even its tunic had been torn open, leaving its bare, unmoving chest exposed.

  “There’s nothing left,” Drakis muttered to himself. “They’ve taken it all.”

  Drakis stood upright and, stretching his stooped back, surveyed the results of their victory. The battle had raged briefly below the throne as the various House factions fought one another for possession of the crown. Drakis’ aim had been true; he was certain now that the crown had landed among the warriors from his own Cohort. In his recollection it was Jerakh himself who had caught it. A Proxi bearing the standard of the Cohort of the Western Provinces—no doubt where Tribune Se’Djinka had secured a replacement for Braun—managed to open a fold, and the crown was gone. The outraged other Octia from the various Centurai remaining in the gr
eat throne room immediately fell to pillaging anything of any worth that they could put their hands on. These were set upon quickly by the larger and now regrouped Cohorts, who took what they wanted from the hall by virtue of their size and unity. Once they were sated, the Centurai of the smaller Houses fell to their own pecking order. They cleaned the hall of its treasures, and when there were none left to be taken from the ground, they began to strip the dead. When there was nothing left of value among the dead, they began once more to fight and kill each other over those treasures they had already looted.

  Drakis and his three remaining warriors from House Timuran had tried at first to secure their own portion of the fortune to be sacked from the last dwarven stronghold, but without a Proxi to fold their gains safely away, their choice was either to fight interminable battles with those who did have access to a fold or give up their spoils.

  Now, all was silent. The Impress Warriors from the other Houses had all folded out of the hall with their prizes. Drakis and the few living members of his Octian were all that now moved under the enormous dome of the rotunda.

  Drakis surveyed the scene with revulsion. He had seen many battles in his life, but none had struck him as being so senseless, vicious, and pointless. All these dwarves were dead, and for what? So that Timuran or Tajeran or any of a dozen other Houses could have bragging rights about their Cohorts? So that they could carry away some metal crown?

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

  Drakis shook his head. The words weren’t right.

  He looked up into the glaring face of an enormous dwarven king hanging above him. It was one of the nine statues supporting the domed ceiling, illuminated by several fires now burning in the rotunda. Books, Drakis supposed, dwarven histories or journals or other such nonsense that had no value at all. The flickering light cast strangely moving shadows across the face of the statue, and the smoke gathering in the dome left a hazy distance between him and the face looking down on him with such disapproval.

  “Anyone find Braun?” Belag shouted, his voice echoing in the vast hall.

  “A couple of charred humans over here—one of them looks like it was Braun,” Ethis called back. “Why?”

  “I want to kill him!”

  “He’s already dead.”

  “Not dead enough!” Belag roared.

  “Keep looking!” Drakis urged.

  “Nothing!” Ethis said with disgust as he kicked over another dwarven body nearly sixty feet away. “Starving vermin would have left more.”

  “Keep looking,” Drakis shouted, his voice echoing slightly and strangely amplified by the dome above. “We’ve got to find something to take back with us as a prize. Lord Timuran invested a great deal in this war.”

  “Yeah,” Thuri said, “He invested us.”

  “For a House in the Provinces,” Drakis said, “that was more than he could afford. Listen, the gleaners will be here soon and once they arrive nothing will be left. We’ve got to find whatever we can quickly to bring honor to the House.”

  “Honor?” Belag snarled. “Where is the honor in this? Honor is in battle and the blood of our enemies—not the blood of our own traitorous allies or these pretty pieces of metal and stone.” The manticore threw down the broken jewelry he had just picked up.

  “Hey,” Ethis called out. “We need that for a prize!”

  Drakis was finding it difficult to breath.

  The last dwarven king . . . My death-knell did bring . . .

  The dwarves have no doors . . . the dwarves are no more . . .

  “We had the prize,” Belag shouted, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “Drakis took it from the Dwarven King and stood with it . . . held it in his hands right there”—he pointed up to the platform where the dead dwarf still slumped on the throne—“and then he threw it away!”

  Drakis squeezed his eyes closed, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.

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

  Weep for the pain and the loss . . .

  The past is our sorrow . . . The past is our shame . . .

  “He saved your life, Belag,” Thuri said simply as he pushed over yet another dwarf corpse. “He saved all our lives.”

  “Not all,” Belag growled.

  Drakis turned toward the manticore, fixing his eyes on the enormous creature. Several quick strides brought him to stand directly in front Belag looking upward into the angry yellow eyes set deep in the wide face a full foot above his own gaze. “No, not all. ChuKang’s dead. KriChan’s dead. Braun is gone, and your brother–and, yes, you see I do know all their names—Karag’s dead, too.”

  The past is our sorrow . . . The past is our shame . . .

  Drakis began to sweat. “Maybe you wanted to join them, but the rest of us are satisfied that we’re still here.”

  We kill without cause. We kill without thought.

  Five notes . . . Five notes . . .

  His hand began to shake. “So either fall on your sword and get it over with or get back to your job and help us salvage something out of this . . . this . . .”

  Belag’s eyes narrowed. “Drakis?”

  They eat here. They love here. They laugh here.

  Better if left and forgotten . . .

  Nine notes. Seven notes.

  Drakis flinched.

  Awaken the ghosts long forgotten . . .

  Recall the loved dead . . .

  Dead is the hero . . . Dead to all lament . . .

  Buried past memory here below . . .

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Drakis screamed as he bent over, pressing both his palms against his temples.

  Belag drew his sword. Thuri and Ethis both began making their way toward Drakis, picking their path around the bodies that covered the floor everywhere around them.

  “Drakis!” Ethis said, his upper two hands gripping the human by his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

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

  “It’s . . . it’s nothing,” Drakis said, shaking off a sudden chill. “I . . . I hear this . . . I don’t know . . . this music . . . this song in my head . . .”

  “Song?” Belag raised one heavy brow.

  “It’s . . . just a song,” Drakis said, drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t know where it came from, but I can’t seem to be rid of it. It’s just something in my mind.”

  Belag’s head raised suddenly, his ears swiveling forward. “I think I hear it, too.”

  Drakis shot a questioning glance at the manticore. “Hear what?”

  “Your song,” Belag said in a low, rumbling voice, his heavy eyebrows knitting together. He moved closer to the stairs leading up to the throne. “It’s coming from over here.”

  Belag drew his long, curved blade, the ringing of the metal singing softly as it cleared its scabbard.

  “Where?” Drakis asked on a soft breath.

  The manticore gestured with the tip of his sword toward the right side of the enormous cone of steps.

  Drakis shook his head doubtfully but drew his own sword. He took a step toward the stairs, the melody still there. He was no longer certain whether the tune was in his mind or his ears.

  One thing was certain. Something was moving in the shadows among the dead.

  Drakis froze. His eyes suddenly opened wide.

  It was singing. The words were indistinct, but the tune was unmistakably the same as the one that had haunted Drakis for days.

  The refrain stopped, replaced by a voice.

  “Is it over,” asked the lilting voice coming from the squat figure. “Can I come out now?”

  Drakis raised his sword again, the squat figure still remained in shadow. “Show yourself!”

  The dark outline stopped and then emerged from the darkness as it held both hands open, its chubby palms in front of its wide body.

  Belag curled his lips in loathing. “By all the gods of the House, what is that?”

  That it was a dwarf was not in
doubt, but its clothing was of such a bizarre nature as to leave Drakis to question his own vision. The dwarf had the requisite long beard of its kind, but instead of the usual bushy splay, it was split down the middle and each side was carefully braided. The ends of this bizarre affectation were tucked into pockets on the outside of—not the universal dwarven brown jacket—but an outlandishly colored and intricately embroidered doublet that seemed a bit too large for him. Colored hose—one green and one red—clung closely to the dwarf’s stout legs, which were planted firmly in incongruously heavy boots. Topping it all was an enormous puffy hat of purple and orange nearly overwhelmed with long feathers, beads, and glass—all of which was pulled to one side by a single bell that had no clapper and, therefore, could not ring unless struck.

  Ethis shook his head with a smirk. “That, Belag, is a joke!”

  “Very nearly on the mark, although it would be better to say a great many jokes!” the dwarf said cheerily. He reached up with his right hand and tugged at the hat. It proved momentarily reluctant to let go of the dwarf’s brow.

  “Sorry—bad entrance,” the dwarf spoke with embarrassment as he finally pulled the cap free. Drakis could at last see clearly the broad face with the high, round cheekbones. The dwarf had thick, bushy eyebrows above twinkling, pale blue eyes—all of which was difficult to see behind a prominent, bulbous nose. His long, white hair looked as though it was usually combed straight back from his high forehead, but the reluctant hat had pulled it all into a rather messy nimbus. “I am Jugar, King of Dwarven Jesters—and Jester to Dwarven Kings!”

  “You’re . . . the fool?” Drakis said incredulously.

  “Well, to be sure, we prefer the appellation ‘court jester’ or ‘professional idiot,’ but, I think you’ve got the concept at its core,” the dwarf said, smiling patiently. He took a few more cautious steps toward Drakis and then stopped. He looked around the hall, his smile falling slightly as he gazed across the field of fallen warriors in the hall. “So, he said carefully, “how goes the war?”

  “It’s over,” Belag grunted. “You lost.”

  “Ah,” Jugar took in a deep breath, and then turned to Drakis. “Well, then I guess there’s nothing left to do but surrender. Where’s the king? I don’t mean to brag, mind you, but I could probably smooth things over for you . . . put in a good word . . .”