by Lynn Abbey
If the War-Bringer had had more than a toehold in the substantial world, he could have crushed the black dragon as he'd crushed Borys. But he had only Tithian and Tithian's storms, which had already proved ineffective. And he lost Tithian, too, shortly after the black dragon entered Ur Draxa, when Tithian's mortal enemies from Tyr planted themselves on the rim of the lava lake and drove their erstwhile king back into the Dark Lens.
That cleared a path, which the dragon followed into the molten rock. It roared; it howled as even its tough hide was seared away by the heat. For an instant, there was thought within the agony. Rajaat's hope soared; he spun dense sorcery from the Hollow, promising to heal his wayward champion's wounds and grant his wishes.
I wish for your bones, your heart, your shadow.
The dragon leapt out of the lava, trailing fire behind him. He arched his back and dived beneath the molten surface. Beyond the reach of curse or care, he plunged to the bottom, where lava became stone, where the remnants of Rajaat's substance had formed a crystal matrix around the Dark Lens. Smashing the crystal, he gathered the shattered pieces in his arms. He left the Lens for the mortals to destroy or control, as they wished; it was merely an artifact, neither inherently good or evil. Then, with the last of his strength, he took himself into the stone heart of Athas.
* * *
Athas claimed the black dragon. It stripped him of his hard-won treasures; swallowing the War-Bringer's substance while it sealed the dragon himself in a tomb that shrank and squeezed. Then, when there was nothing left of the dragon, Athas restored Hamanu's sanity, while leaving him encased in stone. He was still immortal: he couldn't die, even without air, water, or food, with the weight of the world pressed around him.
There was no end of Hamanu, no end to his memories as Athas pummeled him and polished him, a living pebble moving slowly through the world's gut. He relived every moment of his life. He suffered. He regretted. He endured the pain and torment of the choices he'd made; then the Lion-King of Urik relived his life again.
And again until Athas was done with Hamanu and spat him out.
Hamanu was senseless when he fell from an unknown height. He landed hard on his shoulder and rolled to his side, unable for a moment to perceive his surroundings or to comprehend that he was living, not remembering.
Slowly, and with a fragility that had never been a part of his remembered life, Hamanu rediscovered the muscles, sinew, and bones of his body. He found his feet, and then his hands, which he used to steady himself as he stood. The world was smooth beneath his fingers, hard and warm and—following a jolt of consciousness that nearly cost Hamanu his balance—utterly without illusion. The flesh he felt was his own simple, vulnerable, forgotten flesh. Wherever he'd come, Hamanu had left the Dragon of Urik behind. His whims had no power and the ache in his shoulder where he'd landed couldn't be numbed with an idle thought.
Belatedly, Hamanu found his eyes and opened them; after so many stone-bound memories, he'd forgotten sight, the world that was smooth, hard, and warm was also gently luminous, casting a soft golden light onto a young man's hands, a young man's arms, legs, and torso. The surface lay a hand's depth within the light. He moved his hands through the light, seeking but not finding the gap through which
"It took you long enough."
Sound startled Hamanu and he dropped into a brawler's crouch. The ease of his movements startled him as well, but not as much as what his eyes revealed when he turned around: The glowing chamber defied easy measurement. It could have been a hundred paces square or a thousand, yet at its center, hovering higher than his head, Hamanu saw his own ostentatious, uncomfortable throne. And sitting on the throne was a figure he remembered well, a half-man, half-lion figure that his laborers had painted on his city walls, a black-maned figure with a naked golden sword at his side.
The Lion-King of Urik, who'd saved Hamanu when he was deeply disguised and blundered too close to the Black.
The guardian of Urik.
For the first time in his life—if he was alive—Hamanu was speechless. He looked from the Lion-King to his own hand, his own mortal hand returned to him through sorcery he couldn't fathom and for reasons he dared not guess. Myriad questions filled his mind; answers followed, all but one.
"Why could I never find you?"
The Lion-King descended from his throne. He seemed no taller than Hamanu, no stronger, but Hamanu remembered illusion's power and was not deceived.
"I sought my city's guardian. You could have revealed yourself," the now-mortal man complained. "For Urik, you could have revealed yourself."
"My spirit—the spirit of Urik that you engendered—was there from the beginning. I revealed myself a thousand times, ten thousand times. You were always looking in the wrong place, Manu. You became a great king—a great man—but you cherished your past and it remained with you, until you were ready to part with it."
Hamanu opened his mouth and closed it again. He was a proud man, but throughout his long life he'd cherished nothing... nothing after Dorean. He hadn't died, so he'd lived from one day to the next until Rajaat had made him a champion. As a champion, he'd won a terrible war and governed a mighty city and become the Dragon of Urik. As a dragon, he'd entombed himself in stone beneath a lava lake, and there recollected his entire life more times than he cared to count. He knew in the depths of his being that he cherished nothing.
Yet the Lion-King, the guardian of Urik, had spoken the truth, and Hamanu couldn't argue with the truth. Once again he studied his own mortal hand.
"How long?" he asked.
"A thousand years in the stone," the guardian replied. "A thousand years to understand yourself."
"A thousand years to scrape off Rajaat's curse," Hamanu countered. "A thousand years to return to the beginning, to Urik. Does my city endure?"
"Your city! Have you learned nothing, Manu? Will you go back into the stone for another thousand years?"
"A thousand years or ten thousand. What difference would it make? Regret won't change my memories; punishment won't, either. What I did cannot be undone. Leave me in the stone beside Windreaver until the sun and the wind scour our cursed bones—but answer my question: Does my city, endure?"
The guardian threw back his lion's head and laughed. "My city, Manu, my city! It was never yours. No man—not even a cursed and immortal champion—can possess a city."
Hamanu was mortal again, with no more power than he'd had long ago when he'd faced Myron Troll-Scorcher on the dusty plain. He faced the guardian as he'd faced the Troll-Scorcher, armed with only his quick intelligence and stubbornness.
"My city, because I gave it its shape. I gave it its strength to stand against what Athas had become, against what Rajaat had done through me and the others. My city, because without me you'd be the guardian spirit of an underground lake. I gave you my shape, my strength. You are me and Urik is my city." The guardian ceased laughing. He bared the Lion-King's fangs. His sulphur eyes seethed, then quieted. "You talk too much, Manu. That mouth of yours will get you killed... eventually. Our city, Manu. Our city endures. Look into the light, and see what Urik has become."
"Pass through, Manu," the guardian commanded. "There is nothing more for you to do in this world. Your destiny was fulfilled: Urik survives. Urik will survive."
He was free. After a thousand years of life and a thousand years in the stone, Hamanu had come to the end of his path. He was free to walk into the light.
There was music: a reed pipe melody. There was a woman to welcome him.
And, further on, they found a waterfall.
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