Song of the Dragon Page 8

  “I see,” Jugar said quietly, his smile becoming more affected by the moment. “Slaves no doubt are not as valuable as dwarven plunder, eh?”

  Drakis chuckled darkly. “The value of each House’s slaves is already counted to them; but the spoils of war have to be tallied and accounted to the honor of each House. It’s the elven way of power—this counting of honors. Your precious jeweled armor and Heart-stone . . .”

  “Heart of Aer,” Jugar corrected with quiet politeness.

  “Whatever it is called,” Drakis shrugged, “it all belongs to the Greater Glory of House Timuran now.”

  “But it is actually being sent to this House Timuran of yours, isn’t it?” The dwarf’s voice was urging—a strange pleading quality somewhere under all the words. “I understand that this has long been the elven way of it. This same House of your elven lord to which we all shall be going?”

  “Of course,” Drakis said evenly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

  “Oh, just a dwarf’s curiosity,” Jugar smiled back, his white beard sagging under the weight of the water it carried and what remained of his hair flat against his head. “I thought I might be able to work it somewhere into my act, you know, when you present your lord—pardon me, our lord—with all the glorious trophies you have secured in your battles. After all, I am one of those trophies, and I want to make a good impression—right there along with all the other treasures. Of course, it’s going to be difficult making myself presentable tied as I am to this pole. I’m curious as to why you feel the need to bind me?”

  “You’re the one treasure we’re bringing back with quick legs and a quicker tongue. I just want to make sure you stay with me.”

  The dwarf smiled again. “But where would I go? Your Iblisi totems keep you and me both safely confined to this damp and overcrowded field along with the rest of the slaves.”

  Drakis’ eyes narrowed. “You know about the totems?”

  “But of course.” The dwarf shifted slightly around the pole so that he could better face the warrior. “We dwarves have something very like them, which we use to pen our livestock and hogs. I’ve often wondered why the slaves of the elves never escape their captivity . . . but as a vaunted warrior, such thoughts may never have come to you. Still, you should untie me; you see I don’t want to escape. I just want to be a part of the glory of House Timuran and my . . . rather, its treasures.”

  “Uh-huh,” Drakis was unconvinced. “Jugoo . . .”

  “Jugar,” the dwarf corrected helpfully.

  “Jugar, then,” Drakis continued, “I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but there are two conditions for slaves of the Elven Empire . . . obedient and dead.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” the dwarf grinned, showing wide-spaced teeth that were perfectly even. “Heroes die, kings die, monsters and villains . . . they all die. No one ever kills the fool!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Drakis said quietly. “I watch fools die every day. For as long as I can remember . . .”

  “Now that is an interesting point!” Jugar interrupted.

  Drakis shook his head and tried again. “What I was saying—for as long as I can remember . . .”

  “Exactly!” Jugar shouted enthusiastically. “You’ve been on this campaign for, what, one or two weeks?”

  “Three, but that’s not . . .”

  “Three weeks? That’s a long time without House Devotions,” the dwarf sounded impressed. “And how long since Field Devotions at that portable altar of your most noble Tribune?”

  “Four days,” Drakis replied, squinting at the dwarf. “What is your point?”

  “The point is that I can tell you a great secret that, I’m sure, is entirely new to your experience.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me, dwarf.”

  “Oh, but I can,” smiled Jugar. “I can tell you about that song you have whirling about in your head. Better still, I can tell you with absolute certainty that everything you remember—every kiss, every hurt, every victory and every failure that happened to you prior to four days ago—is a lie.”

  “My entire life—a lie,” Drakis scoffed.

  “Up until four days ago,” the dwarf said in a husky whisper, “none of it was real.”

  Drakis leaned down, his face so close that his breath shook the large drip forming at the end of the dwarf’s nose. “The only lie here is your foolish stories—but you’re about to learn how real your own life has become, Fool.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Myths, Legends, & Nonsense

  WHILE EVERY TRIBUNE WAS CAPABLE—indeed, required—to create folds during the battle for the warriors in their command, it was the Imperial Folds that brought the Tribunes and their armies to the battle itself. These networks of larger folds had the enormous power to compress distances leagues long and large enough to march the Centurai of the Legions through them four abreast and still never touch the sides. Five of these opened directly to the plain just to the east of the encampment, each one a major tributary to the nexus of Imperial military might.

  Stepping through to the other side of these folds would take the warriors to one of many widely separated staging areas near the Hyperian and Chaenandrian borders. These marshaling fields had tributaries of their own, smaller folds each of which led to other smaller and smaller tributary rally points until the final, narrow warrior folds of individual elven neighborhoods or settlement communities. These final folds were always located in a small temple well outside the walls of the individual House strongholds—the last step in the long journey home.

  For the War of the Ninth Throne, the honor of bringing these warriors into battle—of planning the placement of the folds, setting up the fold platforms, linking them to the magical conduits of the Aether Wells, and administering the folds through an organization of Foldmasters—had been granted by the Imperial Will to the Order of the Myrdin-dai. These “Guardians of the Well” vied with another Order, the Occuran, for control of the Aether—that magical force that was the foundation of the Rhonas Empire. Their appointment to this calling had set many tongues of the court to wagging, whispering in the halls of power that the Occuran may, at last, have fallen from the Imperial Favor.

  The Myrdin-dai responded to the Imperial nod enthusiastically and erected a network of folds that drew Impress Warriors from each House of the Rhonas Empire and delivered them to the field of battle with swift efficiency.

  Returning them from the field of battle, however, was another matter.

  “I don’t care who you are, what your orders say, or who gave them,” snorted the manticore standing in front of Drakis. A weathered sash that once may have been red was draped across his broad, furry chest. He thumped his big fist against the sash once more for emphasis. “I’m the field marshal here, and I’ve got seven Centurai to process before I can even think about letting you near one of my folds. Get back with your Centurai and wait to be called!”

  “Marshal Korang,” Drakis said, his patience nearly spent, “As I told you before, our Centurai is still at the front. We’re just one Octian, but we’ve been ordered back to our master’s House now. We’ve been through three folds already today just to get to this rally field, and we’ve got four more to go before we get back to House Timuran. The Myrdin-dai approved it, and the Foldmasters know all about it. All we need is to bring five of us through the Stellamir Fold—not an entire Centurai—just five of us through and we’ll be no further problem for you.”

  “It’s irregular,” Korang rumbled.

  “I agree,” Drakis replied. “Nevertheless, those are the orders.”

  “I’m warning you,” Korang said, his eyes narrowing. “I’m going to check on all this with the Foldmasters! They won’t like it if you’re lying.”

  “Fine!” Drakis shot back. “Just get it done!”

  “Oh, I will!” the manticore roared. “And until I have, you go back and wait with the rest of your Centurai until I return!”

  “But I’m
not with my . . . oh, just go and ask the Foldmasters!” Drakis snapped. “Then you come and find me. I’ll be on the east side of the clearing—you do know which way is east, don’t you?”

  Korang growled menacingly but only turned away.

  Drakis turned as well, stalking off through the crowded field. The sun had vanished beyond the western horizon, leaving only a rich twilight illuminating the clear skies overhead. Jolnar, the wandering Star of Destiny, was just appearing in the sky. Drakis considered it for a moment.

  Jolnar is seen from woeful lands of pain

  But also from far-off shores.

  Where call seas of sand . . .

  Where winds of soft lament . . .

  The music filling his mind now seemed to come from a place far away and barely imagined; a better and softer place. He hated the star in that moment—because in its alluring promise he felt a vague sadness and dissatisfaction with his life that he had not felt before.

  Drakis lowered his eyes to the more immediate concerns of picking his way through the milling warriors crowding the large meadow, each one waiting his turn to pass through the next fold and come closer to home. This place, he thought, may have actually been beautiful once: a great grassy expanse surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. He could imagine it a quiet place filled only with soft sounds in a gentle breeze.

  The coming of the marshaling field changed all that. The Myrdin-dai had decided on this place as a rally point, the confluence of several smaller folds to bring Impress Warriors from other marshaling fields together, consolidating their force to move into a single fold to the next field. Since then an army had trodden down the once-soft grasses and the delicate flowers as first they came and now they left. The leaving may even have been the worst of it, for masses of troops were coming through the large fold, and it was taking time to sort them into the appropriate smaller folds to send them correctly on the next part of their journey. Unfortunately, the Myrdin-dai had underestimated the area required for this marshaling field and had placed their totems in too small a circle. Worse yet, earlier mistakes required sending units back through the folds, which caused further delays. The result was that many of the warriors had settled into crowded encampments awaiting their turn to move on, filling what had once been a meadow with listless, uncomfortable, and quarrelsome warriors.

  At last he came to the edge of the meadow and a small hollow just short of the tree line and the ever watchful crystal Sentinel totems. A campfire burned in the center of a circle of stones, illuminating the small group gathered around it.

  “Well, it’s going to be a while, my brothers Sha-Timuran ,” Drakis said as he approached.

  “Why?” Belag asked, straightening up from tending the blaze. “What is it this time?”

  “Would you be surprised to hear I found someone incompetent in charge?”

  Belag laughed deeply. “Among the Legions of the Emperor? I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t!”

  Drakis smiled back at the manticore. “The field marshal has gone off to find one of the Myrdin-dai to ask about our special arrangement—and he’s the second one today to do that. With four more folds ahead of us, I don’t know how long this is going to take. It might have been faster just to come back with the rest of the Centurai.”

  “Maybe they’ll pass us on their way home?” Belag shrugged.

  Drakis nodded with a laugh and then turned toward the chimera. Both were leaning comfortably against small stacks of their field packs. Drakis pointed toward the dwarf sitting between them on the ground. “Uh, don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

  Thuri and Ethis each held separate ropes around the bound hands and feet of the dwarf. A gag was tied tightly over his mouth.

  Ethis considered the prisoner for a moment before replying. “No, it seems a reasonable precaution.”

  “Why? What did he do?” Drakis said.

  The chimera looked at each other, their blank faces considering for a moment.

  “He kept promising not to escape,” Thuri answered at last.

  “He promised not to escape,” Drakis asked, his brow furrowed with the puzzle, “and so you tied him up?”

  “He wouldn’t shut up about it,” Ethis replied, his large eyes blinking indignantly. “He kept going on and on about how we could trust him and how he had nowhere to run and how he was glad it was us who took him as a slave captive of the war.”

  “It was unnerving,” Thuri finished.

  Drakis shook his head. “Fine, keep his hands and feet bound if you must but we’ve got to feed him. We need him alive—if only to explain to Lord Timuran why the prize we sent to him is a valuable treasure.”

  Thuri shrugged and reached over with his second right hand to tug at the knot. After a few moments struggle—the knot had been tied rather tightly—it gave way. Thuri yanked the gag clear.

  “Oh, thank you, Master Drakis . . .”

  “No master,” Drakis replied flatly. “Just Drakis. We’re all slaves here—and you had best remember that includes you.”

  “Of course, forgive me,” Jugar nodded vigorously. “Brothers together, bound in war and circumstance—slaves are we all to the fates. Jolnar himself looks down upon us, does he not . . . an omen of our merging destinies?”

  Belag and the chimera all glanced up into the deepening blue of the sky, the wandering star shining above the darkened silhouette of the treetops.

  Drakis did not look up, but considered the dwarf. “You know of the gods?”

  “Oh, I know much of the gods,” Jugar smiled, his eyes shining. “We are on good terms; all fools are watched over by the gods. Jolnar, Tsajera, Mnera . . . even Rhon himself look favorably upon fools. But most of all Qin.”

  “The Wise One?” Ethis scoffed. “Why would Qin favor a fool?”

  “Oh, Qin values fools most of all,” Jugar said, tilting his head to one side as he spoke. “He trusts the fools to live and learn. In them he holds his trust to remember the things that were forgotten. Of the time when the plains of all Chaenandria shook beneath the mighty armies of the manticores, the armor of their fathers and their father’s fathers shining in the bright sun as they ran to war, singing to the spirits that ran with them and made their armor bright and their weapons keen. Their manes were long, flying behind them, and they ran into glory in defense of their clan-prides. Their might was great and the prides were free to make war as they saw it. Their ships sailed the Sea of Benis and their justice was feared. This was long ago—long before the Rhonas elves came to Palandria and made it their own.”

  Belag snorted. “You are a fool; Rhonas conquered Chaenandria to civilize the manticores. We were a backward, violent race, destroying everything we touched. Becoming a part of the greater Rhonas Imperium brought justice to my race.”

  Jugar considered the manticore before he spoke. “Of course, so say the Rhonas, and thus it must be so. I am only a fool telling the tales of a fool, but that is how the gods have made me and so I must be. Qin himself would tell you of an ancient time—long before the elves had formed more than tribes—when manticores, chimera, and dwarves . . .”

  “Dwarves?!” Thuri laughed in surprise.

  “Yes, and dwarves,” Jugar nodded earnestly as he continued. “Together they built a great civilization of their own. Its name is difficult for us to pronounce and lost to the knowledge of the Rhonas, but its name meant ‘the peace of reasoned thought,’ and it ruled in glory for nearly three hundred years. The Rhonas have torn down its towers and walls until all evidence of its existence has vanished from its conquered lands, but in the wild lands beyond the Rhonas Imperium its glories are said to be found still!”

  “An ancient lost empire of invisible buildings?” Ethis scoffed, poking at the fire with a long stick. “How convenient.”

  “Yet that was nothing compared to the humans,” Jugar said in hushed tones, leaning forward toward the fire, its light playing on his ancient, craggy face. “It was the humans who created the greatest empire ever seen on the face
of the world. It was they who fought the dragons of the north and won their respect. They alone stood up against the expansion of Rhonas, for their empire was mightier than the dwarves, manticores, and chimera combined!”

  Jugar paused for effect, taking in a deep breath.

  The silence was broken suddenly by outraged laughter.

  “Humans? A great empire?” Belag roared, his large hands grasping at his belly as he laughed uncontrollably.

  “Ooh! Fear the terrible two-armed beast!” Ethis hooted, throwing his four arms up in mock alarm. “The brittle-boned warrior in his might!”

  “Hey, stop it,” Thuri said through an irrepressible grin that broke into laughter as well. “It’s not . . . it’s not that funny.”

  “Their empire is probably invisible, too,” Belag snorted loudly, his side beginning to hurt. “The gods know their hordes of humans are not to be seen!”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Jugar shouted into the hilarity that swirled around him. “I can prove it to you! I can show you . . .”

  “Show us your invisible kingdom?” Ethis nearly choked.

  “We’re probably in it right now, eh, Thuri?” Belag shook with laughter. “What a fool!”

  Jugar sighed and caught sight of Drakis.

  The human was not laughing, but rather staring angrily back at the dwarf.

  “I can show you,” Jugar said emphatically to Drakis, his words nearly buried by the laugher that still rang around him. “Believe me, I can show you!”

  But Drakis just turned and walked into the complete darkness that had finally fallen over the meadow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mala

  THE LIGHTNING EDGES of the fold flashed as Drakis stepped through onto the floor of the small temple. It was a minor community fold that served the local Houses of the Icaran Frontier—the farthest reaches of the Imperial Western Provinces. Three weeks and a lifetime ago, Drakis had marched into this same fold with over eighty of the House Timuran Centurai.

  Now he stepped down the wide treads again onto the same tall grasses and low undulating hills. The gentle, early morning breeze drifted across the slopes, rustling the young wheat in the fields that surrounded him. Drakis drew in a deep breath, taking in the familiar smells of the dewy earth and the faint tang of the seashore to the south that lingered in the air. His field pack was suddenly lighter.