Song of the Dragon aod-1

by Tracy Hickman

  “No!” Soen whispered as loudly as he dared. “Jukung, stop!”

  Whether the Assesia heard him or not, Jukung continued forward, intent on garnering his prize and honor to his name. The Matei staff shifted in his hands. Jukung stopped just short of the line and pointed toward the crest of the ridge on the other side of the pool.

  Soen turned and gaped. Two robed figures-Qin and Phang-rose up along the crest on the far side of the pool and began moving toward the rock face, their own Matei staffs swinging unnaturally before them-as though they were marionettes whose strings were being badly pulled.

  “NO!” Soen shouted, springing out from behind the boulder, running toward Jukung.

  The bolters at the edge of the pool leaped back in alarm. The human woman screamed, her shrill voice echoing off the rocks of the cascade.

  Jukung leaped toward his prey, his Matei staff thrust in front of him, its crystal flaring with power. “By the Will of the Emperor, I command you to. .”

  Jukung stepped across the line before Soen could reach him.

  The waters of the river exploded upward with a crashing like ocean waves, but the water did not fall back into the riverbed; instead, it shifted and broke into hands, arms, fingers, and bodies. Hair of froth cascaded off of heads of incredible beauty whose transparency gelled more solidly by the moment.

  Jukung stepped back, turning toward the monstrous multitude rising from the water at his side. The Matei stick flared, pulsing in waves at the onrushing tide of horror. The figures were battered by its force, twisted, wrenched, and shattered, only to re-form.

  Soen stopped at the edge of the patterned line, his own Matei staff held uselessly in front of him.

  The bolters backed away into the pool. They, too, could see the robes of the Codexia on either side of the waterfall’s crest. The human male held his sword at the ready, but even from here Soen could sense the panic of the surrounded and cornered prey.

  Soen opened his mouth and raged in anger, his howl tearing through the air around the pool. There was nothing he could do. Too late he had seen the faery line-the pattern in the ground demarking the unquestioned realm of the fae and their power. Murialis had been busy on the frontier and had claimed more land than the Emperor had taken notice of.

  Jukung screamed. The water nymphs had reached him at last, tearing the Matei staff from his hands. They pulled him over the pool, clawing at his robes, his hair, his flesh. They twisted him back and forth as though he were being tossed upon the waves of some unseen storm at sea.

  The Assesia tumbled through the air. Tossed by the water nymphs, he slammed back-first against the ragged stones that formed the wall of the ravine. His body fell heavily to the ground. Jukung lay screaming incoherently just at the edge of the faery line.

  For a moment, Soen moved to stretch his own Matei staff in to where Jukung lay but, cursing, stopped himself. The faery line would almost certainly discharge his staff the moment he pushed it across the line just as it had rendered Jukung’s staff useless.

  Soen gazed down at the screaming Assesia. He could see terrible welts ballooning on Jukung’s tortured face: acid burns from the touch of the angered nymphs. Unchecked, it would literally melt the face from the Iblisi.

  Soen frantically looked about him and then saw it: a thick branch jutting out from the tree growing at the upper edge of the ravine. At once, he pointed his Matei staff upward and uttered the words. A column of brilliant light flared upward, severing the branch. It crashed downward, nearly knocking the Inquisitor off his feet.

  The nymphs had regrouped in the water and were surging again toward where Jukung lay.

  Soen wrapped his arms around the thick branch, thrusting it past the faery line as he yelled. “Jukung! Take it! Hold on!”

  The Assesia felt the hands of the nymphs wrap around his feet and ankles. His hands flailed in panic, falling on the branch and gripping it fiercely.

  Soen braced his feet where he squatted and then in a single motion used his legs to push away from the faery line, applying all the strength he had to pull Jukung free.

  The nymphs were not prepared. Their prey slipped from their grasp in a single lurch, tumbling back over the faery line and falling atop the now prone Inquisitor. Soen rolled the elf off of him, the cloying smell of sizzling flesh filling his nostrils. He quickly picked up his staff and pointed it at the Assesia.

  The agonized Iblisi fell with sudden silence into a deep and gratefully dreamless sleep.

  Soen lowered his staff and stood upright just short of the faery line, turning to stare at the man he knew was called Drakis.

  The human stared back at the elven Inquisitor as he crouched uncertainly with his sword in hand and a human woman behind him. He protects her, Soen observed. He has something to fight for.

  At the top of the falls, the bodies of Qinsei and Phang tumbled forward, rebounding off the stone face of the falls before falling among the wet rocks. Neither moved. Soen had no doubt that they had been dead since before he arrived at the pool.

  The manticore and the chimerian fled first up the far slope. The two women followed them, urged on at last by the dwarf as all disappeared among the dark trees of the Murialis Woods. Only the tall manticore remained, pulling at the human to follow.

  “Drakis,” Soen called as cold and still as death. “Wait.”

  The human stopped in shock and turned.

  Soen spoke in a calm voice that carried across the waters.

  “Do you still hear the song. . the song in your mind?” the elf asked casually.

  Drakis blinked. “How did you know?”

  But then the tall manticore pulled forcefully at the human, and they both fled into the woods.

  Soen, standing at the edge of the faery realm, took in a deep breath under his dark glare, turned, and picked up the tortured form of the Assesia called Jukung and made his way back down the stream.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Glade

  Ruukag slid to a stop, his wide feet skidding across the rotting leaves that blanketed the forest floor. He fell at once into a crouch, his head swiveling quickly around as his wide eyes tried desperately to pierce the mist-laden spaces between the vertical tree trunks surrounding him like bars. The manticore could not take in enough air, could not rein in his fear. Panic circled around him like a predator that he could not see or smell but knew was waiting to pounce upon him if given the slightest opportunity.

  RuuKag bared his fangs, growling at his own panic even as he shivered. He wanted to go back; was desperate to go back to the blissfully forgetful life that had been his comfort and his redemption.

  Now he was alone, and he hated that more than anything. He had fled into the woods along with the others, but somehow they had all gotten separated in the mists. He knew that he should call out to them, find the reassuring sound of their voices regardless of who it was, and find some comfort in numbers, but he feared that the circling panic would hear his call and take him down under its terrible darkness.

  A bush shook behind him. RuuKag spun about.

  Another manticore stood before him, his wide paws open and extended out to the side.

  RuuKag relaxed slightly.

  “I couldn’t find you,” Belag said, his voice a low rumble among the trees. “Are you injured?”

  “No. . no thanks to that hoo-mani.” RuuKag shuddered and then stood upright. “Where has he led us now?”

  Belag raised his furry chin, his feline face looking slowly about. “The Murialis Woods. . a magical forest and a dangerous one by all accounts. It is not wise for us to be alone. Follow me and I’ll take you to the others.”

  “We should leave them,” RuuKag sneered. “They are unworthy of us.”

  “You do not believe in the Drakis Prophecies?” Belag asked in a steady voice.

  “Stories told to cubs so that they might sleep at night,” RuuKag replied at once. “Lies perpetrated by the elders to keep themselves in power.”

  Belag accepted the remark cas
ually then turned, making his way between the mist-shrouded trees. RuuKag followed a moment later, his own steps close on the heels of his brother manticore.

  “I was of the Khadush Clan,” Belag said as he pushed aside a thick fern in his path.

  They were descending a gentle slope. RuuKag could hear the murmur of a brook somewhere nearby.

  “Khadush?” RuuKag said. “I’m of Shakash Clan.”

  “Then we both are brothers in a greater cause,” Belag said in conversation, though he never turned his head from the path before them.

  The mists seemed to be thickening, making it difficult for RuuKag to see his companion. He quickened his steps to close the distance between them. “What greater cause?”

  Belag stepped around a moss-covered tree whose trunk stretched above them to vanish in the gloom. “We are both from clans in rebellion against the Manticas Assembly. We have broken with the Chaenandrian Lords to continue the war against the traitorous Rhonas elves.”

  RuuKag gave a single, derisive guffaw. “They called it a rebellion! Our elders fled the just decrees of the Assembly and dragged their women and children out onto the Northern Steppes. They filled our heads with songs and stories of the old days and promised us glorious futures of honor and strength. . but we were nothing more than raiders and thieves.”

  “So how is it you know of the old days?” Belag asked, still walking ahead and not turning his head as he spoke. They were climbing again now, the obscuring mists growing thicker with each step up the densely wooded hillside.

  “Know of them? I was there,” RuuKag spat the vile words with distaste. “I stood at the front in the Battle of the Red Fields with the rest of the fools.”

  “You must have been young then,” Belag spoke in quiet, even tones.

  “Too young,” RuuKag said. He was finding it difficult to breathe again. His arms felt heavy, and his feet felt as though they were lifting stone weights. He followed Belag between a pair of trees and stopped.

  With breathtaking suddenness, they had come upon a forest glade of magnificent beauty. Light filtered down through an opening in the forest canopy, its dappled rays illuminating the clearing with soft light. Gentle grasses carpeted the soft soil on either side of a clear brook that cut through its center as it danced across the rounded stones of its bed. It was a place of peace and warmth in the midst of the gloom, and RuuKag longed to lay down on its verdant expanse.

  “Too young indeed,” Belag said as he stepped to the center of the glade and turned to face RuuKag. “I know the Battle of the Red Fields, RuuKag. The story has been carried far of the young manticore warriors-untrained children-who were shamed into joining the desperate battle. Even I have heard of the charge that day and the. .”

  “Stop!” RuuKag said, stepping into the glade. The warm soil beneath his feet felt more luxurious than anything he had known before.

  Belag stooped down, scooping up some of the clear, cold water from the brook and tasting it. “It’s all right, RuuKag. I understand. It was a foolish, prideful order that called for the charge that day. Every manticore that heeded that command died that day, cut down by the Rhonas Legions and the terrible power of their Aether weapons. Thousands of them, tens of thousands, charging across the Northern Steppes, and none of them. . not one survived to claim their honor or victory.”

  “No, some lived,” RuuKag said though his voice sounded hollow.

  “Yes, some lived,” Belag agreed, reaching down again with his cupped paw and feeling the water fall between his fingers. “But the story is that only those who fled the battle. . who did not charge when the order was given but turned and ran. .”

  “No, that’s not true,” RuuKag said too loudly. “You can’t know. You weren’t there!”

  Belag stood up and faced RuuKag. “It’s all right, RuuKag. We’ve all remembered things we want to forget. Come, you’re tired. Lie down here in this clearing. The others have gone upstream in search of food, but they will be back shortly. I’ll watch over you.”

  RuuKag stepped farther into the glade. They had run through the night, and he was so tired. He could barely lift his legs now. He gratefully lowered himself to the ground, pressed his body against the warm, soft grass and sighed.

  “You won’t leave me?” RuuKag asked.

  “No, I won’t leave you,” Belag replied.

  RuuKag closed his eyes and slept.

  “Drakis!” Belag called out between his cupped paws. His voice was nearly hoarse from shouting the past hour. He stopped and tried to be as still as possible for the expected reply.

  “Here, Belag!” came the distant reply. “We’re over here! Where are you?”

  The manticore drove both fists upward and roared in frustration; then he turned in the direction he believed he had heard the voice and charged again through the mist-obscured tree trunks. Ever since he had pushed Drakis ahead of him into the trees, the gods had seemingly deserted him. He had stepped around a tree expecting to find Drakis on the other side, but he had vanished-swallowed, it would seem, by the strange morning fog that permeated these woods. He had called out to him, tentatively at first and then with increasing fervor as the voice in reply seemed to his ears to get farther away each time he called out.

  He was tired. The forced march the night before had taken much out of him, and he knew it. He had somehow believed that all they had to do was to cross the border into the faery lands and they could rest, recover, and prepare for whatever else lay ahead of them. But now he had lost everyone-even Drakis, who had been barely an arm’s length away from him when they entered these cursed woods.

  Belag bent over, placing his paws on his wide knees and closing his eyes. He had failed again. . as he had so often failed before.

  “Belag?”

  The manticore looked up, a wide smile splitting his feline face. “Drakis! At last.”

  “Are you all right?” Drakis stepped up to Belag and lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “I am now,” Belag replied straightening up. “Where are the others?”

  “Not far from here,” Drakis answered. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  The human turned and started walking back among the trunks and undergrowth. Belag quickly followed, determined not to lose Drakis for a second time.

  “Belag, we’ve got to talk-while it’s just the two of us,” Drakis said as he walked though he spoke without turning his head. “We’ve been through a great deal together, old friend. I’ve fought by your side through many campaigns-many of which I am only now starting to remember and appreciate.”

  “It is the same with me,” Belag agreed as he followed behind. The human seemed unusually spry for having traveled such a great distance the night before. “I, too, am having to deal with the thoughts and remembrances that are both new and old to me at once. Much is still confusion in my mind.”

  “To all of us,” Drakis agreed as he continued to walk ahead, apparently intent on the trail before them. They were following the bottom of a gully now with a clear stream running beneath their feet. “But there’s been something I’ve wanted to ask you, Belag, if you don’t mind.”

  “I serve you, Drakis,” Belag intoned, though he was beginning to wonder why it was so hard to breathe in this small canyon.

  Drakis did not look back but spoke clearly. “Belag, how do you know that I’m the one who was prophesied to return?”

  Belag replied at once, “Because I know it. My heart speaks the truth of it to me. I know it because I believe.”

  Quite suddenly, they stepped out of the mists. Belag caught his breath.

  Before them was the most beautiful glade the manticore had ever seen. Sunlight shone across the surface of a small pool situated at the edge of the clearing. The pool was fed by the gentle cascade of water down a small rock face, and its water was so clear that Belag could make out the shapes of the smooth rocks that lined the bottom of the pond. At the edge of the pond, soft sand rose in a bank up to the grasses of the glade, warmed by a shaft of sunlight sh
ining down through an opening in the forest canopy overhead.

  Belag longed to warm himself on the sands next to the pool, to close his eyes under the sun and find a moment’s peace.

  Drakis stepped into the glade and sat down in the grass, crossing his legs under him. “It’s all right, Belag. . we’re safe here.”

  Belag took a hesitant step into the glade.

  “What is it?” Drakis asked, concerned.

  “I. . where are the others?”

  “Others?”

  “The Lyric. . Mala. . RuuKag. .”

  Drakis laughed. “Are you sure you really want to know where RuuKag is?”

  “I won’t be heartsick if he gets himself lost. . or that dwarf. . or the chimerian for that matter. . but where are. .”

  “You needn’t worry,” Drakis said, leaning back on his elbows in the sunlight. “They’ve gone upstream to forage for our lunch. They wanted me to stay behind to make sure you got here.”

  Belag smiled and stepped across the soft grasses of the glade to the pool. He stretched out on the sands, feeling their warmth soak into his muscles and bones.

  “So, tell me,” Drakis continued. “What led you to me?”

  Belag’s eyes closed, and he frowned slightly as he spoke. “I was raised Khadush Clan, both me and my. .”

  The manticore paused.

  “What is it, Belag?” Drakis asked.

  “My brother.” He sighed the last word as though with a final breath. “We both believed strongly in your legend-the prophesied return of the Northern Lords. Our clan holds that all manticores are cursed for their betrayal of the Drakosian Kings of the hoo-mani and that only by offering our lives to the rightful heir of the human empire will we absolve ourselves of our complicity in their downfall. We were so sure-both of us-in our faith that we vowed to find you. We became pilgrims, Karag and I, devoted to finding you and freeing our race from its shame and curse. We set out west across the northern slopes of the Aerian Mountains, hoping to make our way into Vestasia to the northwest. We heard there were humans in that region and thought that they might be able to direct us to you.”