Song of the Dragon aod-1

by Tracy Hickman

  “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 great 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. .”

  Drakis gestured up to the top of the stairs. Jugar looked up at the obviously still figure on the throne.

  “I see,” he said slowly, then began to speak more quickly. “Say, how about if I surrender, eh? There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around here to do it. I can offer you the whole dwarven kingdom-well, except for this hall. I like this venue, did some of my best work here. The ability of sound to carry in this space is phenomenal. Take, for example, that tune I was just. .”

  Drakis leaped forward, grabbing the dwarf by his thick throat. The dwarf stumbled backward and fell, slamming down against the steps. Drakis pressed his face closer to the dwarf, sweat breaking on his brow as he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “What were you singing-+” he hissed at the dwarf.

  A tense silence descended in the hall.

  Ethis gazed questioningly at the human. “Drakis?”

  But the dwarf was suddenly still. His eyes were shifting quickly, searching Drakis’ face, but the rest of him lay absolutely still. “I thought. . just some old song, really,” Jugar said quietly at last. “It’s very old. Very old indeed. I can’t recall right now where it is from.”

  Drakis’ hands began to shake once more.

  “Can you?” the dwarf finished quietly.

  Drakis slowly released his grip on the dwarf.

  Jugar slowly sat up. “Look, I couldn’t help but overhear your predicament. You need a treasure, and it appears,” Jugar said looking about at the slaughter surrounding them, “that I am out of a job. Could we strike a bargain? I ducked into a little gopher hole to stay out of the way of this war of yours. It was well hidden, and there’s still some pretty interesting loot in there-including. .”

  The dwarf paused for dramatic emphasis.

  “The Heart of Aer!”

  The Impress Warriors looked at each other and then back at the dwarf.

  “The what?” Drakis asked at last.

  “The Heart of Aer!” Jugar said, this time with as much exaggerated drama as he could muster, his hands quivering as he held them out. He dropped them at once, seeing he did not impress his audience. “Oh, by Thel Gorfson! You’ve never heard of the Heart of Aer?”

  “Who’s Thel Gorfson?” Thuri asked, rubbing his forehead.

  Jugar only glared at him. “The Heart of Aer is only the greatest, most secret treasure of the Nine Thrones! You could have named your price and still not come close to its value!”

  “Where is it,” Belag said flatly.

  The dwarf kept his eyes on Drakis. “Do we have a deal-my life for the greatest treasure of the dwarves?”

  The human considered the dwarf carefully.

  “I’ll throw myself into the bargain as well,” the dwarf added. “Your master’s new slave, eh?”

  Belag rumbled deep in his throat. “Beware, Drakis. Dwarves never give a gift without being paid for it first.”

  Drakis flexed his grip on his sword.

  Jugar swallowed then spoke carefully. “Maybe I could remember that song for you.”

  The human raised his chin.

  “Drakis,” Ethis said, shaking his head, “maybe we should just. .�
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  “You have a deal, dwarf,” Drakis said abruptly.

  The other warriors of his Octian spoke up all at once.

  “Are you mad? You don’t have the authority. .”

  “You really believe that this fool, literally. .”

  “The Tribune will never allow. .”

  “Deal, dwarf!” Drakis repeated loudly, his voice cutting off further argument. “But if this is all part of your supposedly clever amusements, know that I’m a very picky audience-and that I’d just as soon take your heart to my master as any Heart of Aer. Now where is it?”

  “You won’t regret this,” Jugar grinned as he reached out for the stairs, feeling about the surface for a moment before he found what he was searching for. “If you’re looking for a treasure to take home to your master’s fine estate in-didn’t you say you were from the Western Provinces? — and prove how great warriors you are, then you couldn’t do better than this!”

  A loud hissing sound erupted from the stairs, blowing dust into the air as the carefully fitted stones of several steps suddenly descended into the floor. It was an opening, but all Drakis could see beyond the obscuring dust was a glowing light from a chamber within.

  Drakis glanced skeptically at the dwarf, took in a deep breath, and then turned toward the opening in the stairs. The passage behind was wide enough, but he had to crouch down to pass under its low ceiling. It was only a few steps, however, before he entered a larger, vaulted chamber directly under the Nine Thrones.

  Alcoves surrounded the room, each holding ancient dwarven armor wrought of gold, silver, and platinum and decorated with jewels. There were great tablets of gold carved with writing-the ancient laws of the mountain probably inscribed by the first Dwarven King, old Brok himself. Many other glistening things lay about the room, but Drakis’ eyes were fixed on the central object.

  It was difficult to look at. The black multifaceted onyx seemed to absorb the light that struck it. It floated between intricately carved white lattices of what appeared to be coral, one curving down from the ceiling and the other up from the floor beneath.

  It was terrible and compelling all at once. Drakis hated it-and had to possess it.