Song of the Dragon aod-1

by Tracy Hickman

It was a perfectly reasonable assumption for the manticore-his faith was sure and unshakable.

  As cubs pouncing and rolling through the tall grasses of the Chaenandrian borderlands, both he and his brother Karag had lived and breathed the legends, histories, and tales of the loremasters. In the fading light of a spent day, the two of them would gather with the rest of their pride as the stars appeared and listen as the ancient dead and their deeds were brought again to life in their imaginations. Stories of the old ways and the shattering empires of men, the fall of the dragons and the desperate charges of the Chaenandrian Guardians, whose numbers were so great that the earth trembled when they ran into battle.

  But of all the legends told beneath the fading cobalt of the sky, none impressed his brother Karag more than that of Drakis Aerweaver and the Dragons of Armethia. Both of them would lie spellbound at the sound of the loremaster’s voice as he wove the tale from memory. Belag could still see in his mind’s eye those dragons that flew in their imaginations just beyond reach, weaving in and out between the stars as they appeared. He could almost picture the Northern Lords on their backs, watching over the world far beneath them. Then the loremaster came to the tragic and terrible betrayal where all the world-including many weak and covetous Lords of the Manticorian Prides-conspired in their jealousy to bring low the might of Drakosia and take on its glory for their own. In sorrow at the betrayal, Drakis removed himself from the circles of the world. Then came the mournful song of the dragons as they in turn were brought to a terrible awareness of their own guilt and began the ages-old lament even as the great cities of Drakosia vanished into the mists, never to be found again among mortal lands. The song, the loremaster told them, was still sung today by the dragons of the north country beyond the raging waters of the oceans, calling to the night stars in the hope that Drakis would hear their sorrow, accept their regret, and return once more in might and power to establish justice for all the races of Dunaea who longed once more to be free. This was the great hope of the loremaster for the Khadush Pride; for though they, too, were cursed as all the manticores for the betrayal, they had been among the prides that had broken with the Lords of the Manticorian Clans and would not allow themselves to become toothless puppets of the Rhonas oppression.

  By the crackling bonfire around which he and his brother had gathered with the rest of the Khadush Pride, Belag heard the loremaster speak of their glorious destiny: to resist the Rhonas, to free the enslaved prides, and to look for the day when Drakis-the mystical human of divine power from the north-would again take form among mortal men and, having been a slave himself, would lift the curse that held the manticorian nation in chains and awaken the power of the Khadush once more to hunt their true enemies.

  Watching the embers from the fire rise up among the stars, Belag saw the firelight shining in Karag’s eyes. His elder brother believed the words of the loremaster with all his heart. In time, Karag had even studied under the loremaster with the thought in mind of becoming his apprentice and one day perhaps even becoming the loremaster to the Khadush Pride. But in the end, Karag discovered that it was not his calling, that recitation of the lore was not enough for him; he had come to believe with unquestioning fervor that Drakis not only would come but that he had come and that the greatest thing he could do would be to leave the pride and journey into the world to find the prophesied liberator and serve him in his coming battle against the Rhonas oppressors. It would require hardship and, in the end, great sacrifice, but the glories of the songs to be sung and the stories to be told of those who served Drakis in his return would last down through the ages.

  To Belag, who lived on every word of his elder brother, the dreams and the glories that awaited them in such service were intoxicating, and any sacrifice seemed but a small matter by comparison. His brother believed and so Belag, too, believed. For him, in those early years, it was just that simple.

  So when Karag left the pride to search for the promised emancipator of the manticores, Belag went with him without a second thought. They journeyed northward because the legends said that Drakis would one day come from the north. Their track also took them somewhat westward around the northern foothills of the Aerian Mountains as Karag wished at all costs to avoid the bizarre and devious chimera of Ephindria. As they traveled, Belag learned all that his brother knew about Drakis Aerweaver and the Dragons of Armethia, committing each detail to memory. Belag could still remember the smile his brother gave him with each correct recitation or whenever Belag answered his questions correctly.

  Then came the day they were ensnared by the Rhonas slave hunters on the verge of the Vestasian Savanna-and with their first enforced Devotions all the memories of their great quest and hopes for their future vanished under an avalanche of lies and false memories.

  And so they lived for nearly four years as slaves of the Rhonas, asleep to their true natures and fighting battles for the elves in which they had only artificial loyalty and illusionary allegiance to their master’s Houses. Belag, in hindsight, now considered that time as a trial of his faith and part of the sacrifice by which the gods test their heroes. By then both he and his brother knew a human slave named Drakis, but their memories were so buried beneath the miasma of House Devotional spells that they did not even recognize the object of their quest when they saw it.

  Then Karag died in their final battle-died saving this Drakis. Belag believed that somehow Karag must have known, even through the damning House Devotions, that protecting this human was his greatest moment and the culmination of his faith. His brother, Belag now knew without doubt, was a martyr whose death atoned for the curse on the manticores of their pride’s clan.

  Then came the Awakening. Drakis utterly destroyed the Aether Well of House Timuran and freed Belag’s mind from the interwoven chains of lies, deceptions, and falsehoods that his life had become. In that moment he remembered it all-how the elven hunters had taken both him and his brother and every painful, humiliating day since. Most of all he remembered the legends of Drakis and attached them at once to the Impress Warrior that he knew so well. Especially since his brother had died defending him in the battle of the Ninth Throne.

  It was a sign. . it had to be a sign. It had to be significant. His brother had to die for a greater cause and his death had to be on behalf of his lifelong dream so that his spirit could rest among the honored dead.

  In that moment, standing amid the chaos as House Timuran tore itself apart-in that moment, Belag knew the reality of it with his entire soul. His fragile sanity hung suspended by that single, inviolable truth: This human Drakis was the embodiment of his brother’s every hope, and his life gave meaning to his brother’s death.

  Belag withdrew his face from its close proximity to the carving on the wall and shook his head, repeating his words. “They have it wrong.”

  “They see it differently,” a small voice said casually next to him.

  The large lion-man jumped slightly at the sound. Belag had not believed it possible for a human to be able to approach so near a manticore without been heard. “No, they are wrong, Lyric.”

  “Not so much wrong as you are both right in a different way,” the Lyric replied, her own gaze fixed on the carvings adorning the wall. Her hair had grown into a wild nimbus of near-white radiating from her head. Its soft strands seemed to float in the air around the crown of her head. “They do not know what you know, Belag-how could they see through your eyes?”

  Belag spoke quietly down toward the much shorter human woman. “And whom have I the pleasure of addressing today?”

  The Lyric looked up at him, her large eyes shining up from her narrow face. “Of course, you are a manticore and from a far and strange land. I wonder not that you have never encountered my kind before. Fear not, good creature, I am a beneficent spirit and mean you no ill.”

  “A spirit?” Belag furrowed his furry brow.

  “Aye,” the Lyric responded with a sad smile. “I am the ghost of Musaran the Wanderer. I am most often invisibl
e, but I show myself to those whose stories I wish to take with me. . and to those whom my stories may help. Every creature of the world has a story, and I am fated to know them all.”

  Belag let out a relieved breath. The Lyric changed her persona unpredictably, and more often than not lately she had taken to adopting strange and sometimes dangerous characteristics. Yesterday had been a challenge. She had proclaimed herself Clarinda, the throat-cutting harlot of Chargoth Bay and had everyone more than a little wary of her. A ghost of some wandering story-gatherer sounded like a good deal safer personality for all concerned. “Then you know the legends of Drakis Aerweaver.”

  “I do-and a good many more,” the Lyric said with a sad darkness in her voice. “There is one story that interests me most right now, one with which you can help me. I have the beginning and the middle right, but I do not yet have the ending.”

  “You need my help with a story?” Belag chuckled.

  “It is a story that will interest you, I think,” the Lyric replied, arching her eyebrows.

  “Thank you, spirit,” Belag replied, turning back to the carvings on the wall. “I have no need of stories.”

  “But this one involves you,” the Lyric replied. “It is the story of RuuKag, the manticore who lost his tale.”

  “Lost his tail?” Belag snorted. “He should look behind him!”

  “Not his ‘tail,’ Belag, his tale,” the Lyric said with surprising impatience. “His story, his personal legend. Every creature is the hero of his own story but RuuKag lost his. Now I fear he has gone to find it.”

  Belag hesitated. “Find it?”

  “Yes,” the Lyric replied, shaking her head. “He left yesterday late in the evening. I followed him-invisible as I was-for a long as I could. He crossed over the Cragsway Pass toward the. . where are you going? The story isn’t finished yet!”

  Belag was already throwing open the doors of the Elders’ Lodge, his pace picking up quickly toward the bay.

  “Aye, that’s a fine ship, lass,” Jugar said through his wide-toothed grin. “I’ve never seen the like!”

  “Then you’ve never encountered the corsairs of Thetis,” Urulani replied, swinging around a backstay to land on the planked deck beneath her feet. “She’s just three hands under thirty cubits in length from stern to stern, and we can pull her at a respectable speed with a crew of twenty-given a good sea. She’s the smallest of our corsairs, but I rather like her.”

  “It is a wonder!” The dwarf said, shaking his head as he gazed at the ship where it was moored to the dock. The Cydron, as Urulani called it, was a beautiful craft, its hull tapered fore and aft with such elegant lines that it looked as though it could fly across the waves with barely a feather’s touch. She was not a terribly large ship-completely unlike the large and rather ponderous galleons that the Rhonas employed against their rebellious cousins on the southern borders of the Empire-but was built for grace and speed. Three slightly angled masts gave a powerful rake to her lines. Her main deck was a single level though a raised walkway just above the level of the oarsmen’s heads connected a small enclosed forecastle and a more elevated afterdeck that held the long, ornately carved arm of the rudder. He was a dwarf and his expertise was largely relegated to the realm of stone, but he certainly could appreciate the art involved in such a fine piece of woodcraft. His eyes twinkled as he took in the lines of the ship. “How fast will it sail?”

  “She’ll cross the Bay in less than three days,” Urulani said. “We’ve raided coastal towns in Nordesia when necessary and been back in less than a week’s time.”

  “A wonder. . a marvel of our age,” Jugar nodded with appreciation. “Perhaps I will have the privilege of sailing aboard her one day. You know, Drakis is such a strange human, even seen through the eyes of his own kind, I might venture to say, that I wouldn’t wonder if he would request passage to the north. .”

  Urulani was no longer paying attention to the dwarf. “It looks as though someone else of your group has taken an interest in boats.”

  Jugar turned and was astonished-if not a little frightened-to see Belag bounding toward them, crouched over and rushing toward them on all fours. The great manticore slid to a halt on the planks of the dock, rising back on his hind legs as he spoke.

  “Urulani. . Jugar. . have either of you seen RuuKag today?”

  Jugar looked up. “No, but I would not consider that an unusual occurrence. He is, as you well know, a most reclusive individual prone to rather moody withdrawals from our company. .”

  “Urulani,” the manticore said, turning hastily to the dark-skinned woman. “Have you seen RuuKag. . the other being like me?”

  Urulani smiled slightly through her puzzlement. “I do know what a manticore is, friend Belag. . but I have not seen RuuKag since last night when. .”

  Urulani stopped speaking.

  “What is it?” Belag asked.

  “I was discussing Drakis with some of the Elders last night,” Urulani replied, her smile having fallen. “We were considering additional sentries to be posted in the Sentinel Peaks and along the Cragsway Pass. The discussion turned to whether we should have our warriors travel in pairs to watch each other.”

  “Watch each other?” Jugar said, raising his own thick eyebrows. “Why should you be concerned about your own warriors?”

  “Because,” Urulani said, stepping up from the deck onto the dock, “the stories of Drakis being spread by the Hak’kaarin and the Dje’kaarin both also now speak of incredible rewards being offered for the location of your friend and any of the rest of you. We were talking of this when your friend suddenly appeared. We changed the subject of our speech, but now I wonder if perhaps he didn’t overhear us.”

  “The traitor!” Jugar’s word’s exploded from his mouth. “He’s finally done it! We’ve got to stop him! He’ll be the ruin of us all!”

  “What do you mean, dwarf,” Belag snarled.

  “It’s him!” Jugar said, grabbing his pack and shoving at Belag to get him moving as well. “He’ll bring the Iblisi down on all of us if we don’t reach him first. . without a doubt!”

  CHAPTER 41

  The Crossroads

  The manticore stood silhouetted against the bright backdrop of the stars in a cloudless night. He was hunched over, his massive head turning furtively from side to side. The tall grasses of the savanna stretched to the south, west, and east under the starlight. To the north, the dark towers of the Sentinel Peaks stood as a great, jagged wall blotting out the stars. But here, almost exactly beneath his padded feet, two widely trampled roads came to an intersection. One curved down from the mud gnome’s city to the northwest and plunged deep into the Vestasian Savanna to the southeast. The other carved a wide path from the Tempest Bay colonies of the Dje’Kaarin gnomes to the east and wound its way to other more southern mud gnome cities to the southwest. Both roads were formed by the passage of gnomes who were in too great a hurry to stop at this singular place and who, in the depths of the night, had left the manticore entirely alone.

  The creature continue to shift nervously under the stars, first on one foot and then the other, turning from time to time to look behind him. All the while he held a small stone gingerly between the thick fingers of his right paw, tapping it nervously onto similar stones he held cupped in his right paw.

  The manticore stopped for a moment, holding perfectly still in the night, his head straining upward. He shivered abruptly though the night was far from cold, the hairs on his growing mane shaking momentarily. Then he resumed striking the small stones together once more.

  “So it is you,” a voice said from the darkness.

  The manticore wheeled around, dropping to a crouch, his legs contracted and prepared to spring.

  “Peace, friend,” the voice said, seeming to come from every direction at once around the startled manticore.

  The manticore relaxed slightly, his eyes straining at the darkness. He spoke quietly into the night. “I am a servant of the Empire!”

&n
bsp; “And you have done well,” came the voice in reply from a shadow that appeared out of nowhere before the eyes of the manticore.

  “Have we met, Master?”

  “Not before tonight,” the shadow responded. Its shape was more defined now against the stars: lithe and tall after the form of the elves. Its head was cloaked in a great hood, and in its right hand it held a long ornate staff. “Although I have followed you for some time. By what name are you known?”

  “RuuKag, Master,” the manticore answered, bowing down before the robed elf. “I was a servant in the House of Timuran and the Beacon of that House.”

  “You have done well, RuuKag,” the shadow answered. “Are the others near?”

  “No, my Master.”

  The elven silhouette stopped. “Then why have you called me, Beacon of Timuran?”

  “The stones, my Master,” RuuKag replied with evident pain in his voice. “The dwarf has discovered them. He stole most of them from me as I slept and doubtless plans to use them to confuse you, my Master. He will send them away with someone else and instruct them to mislead you-to take you farther from me. I would be lost to you, my Master. I would be. . lost. .”

  The manticore fell to the ground, burying his head under his forepaws.

  “Peace, friend,” the hooded elf said once more, his staff lowering slightly until the glowing blue gem fixed in its head shone down on the manticore.

  The groveling creature relaxed slightly and looked up. “Please, Master! Please take me back! I want to forget. I want to go back and forget everything I ever was or did. I had no part in this rebellion, I swear it! Please. . I don’t want to remember any more!”

  “In time,” the elf replied calmly. “When you have finished your task.”

  “My task?” RuuKag asked as he pushed himself up. Even kneeling his head was still nearly level with the elf’s chest. “But, Master, I have done all that was expected! I have led you to me. You have found me!”