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 . . .”
“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.
“Drakis!”
It was Thuri. Drakis had almost forgotten entirely where he was. He shouted over his shoulder, “I’m here!”
“It looks like the Tribune came through at last. S’kagh has arrived with the Sixth Octian.” Thuri’s words seemed to come to him from a great distance though the chimerian could only be a few yards away. “They’ve got a Proxi from another Cohort, and Tribune Se’Djinka is demanding that we return at once!”
“And so we shall . . . but first, get Ethis and Belag and come in here,” Drakis shouted back. “And don’t forget that dwarf.”
The onyx Heart of Aer spun before him.
Drakis smiled. “Looks like we’re not going back empty-handed after all.”
CHAPTER 7
The Way Home
DRAKIS TUGGED SELF-CONSCIOUSLY at his tunic as he stepped from the command tent of Tribune Se’Djinka in one final, hopeless attempt to straighten it into a presentable state. He had managed to leave most of his badly mismatched armor with Thuri in the encampment, but three weeks of campaigning had left him looking very much the worse for wear. He also suspected that his smell had been increasingly offensive to the elven Tribune with each passing minute of his report—though after the numerous campaigns Drakis had fought down the years of his service he scarcely noticed it himself.
Still, when dealing with the elves it was best to remember such things—and to have a sense about when one’s masters were pleased. Though nothing in the elven Tribune’s words or countenance gave any sign of trouble, their orders were extraordinary.
It all felt wrong.
Now he stood once more outside the field tent of the Tribune, glowering at the cold, wet wind blowing from the west. A miserable storm had moved in earlier in the day. The Tribunes of the Imperial Legions made their encampment outside the enclosure of the common slave herd that made up their Legions, finding a location that was both dominant and secure, looking on the battle from afar and remaining untouched by it. For this last of the Dwarven Campaigns, they had found a place from which they could lord over their warriors from a comfortable distance. Each Tribune, for that matter, considered the placement of his personal command tent just another part of the strategy of war—a strategy that extended not only to the enemy but to the combative politics of the elves among their own kind. Se’Djinka, Tribune of House Timuran, had outmaneuvered the two hundred and forty-three other Tribunes, placing his great tent so that it sat at the crest of the rise on the Hyperian Plain, its entrance commanding a view that overlooked the seven league wide valley to the north that ended in the abrupt and spectacular rise of the Aerian Ra
nge—granite peaks that stabbed the sky eight thousand feet above their base in some places. It was an advantageous position, putting the other Tribunes—not to mention a great number of the tents of the various Guilds and Orders of the Imperium—at a disadvantage.
That a Tribune in charge of a single Centurai in such an obscure House as Timuran should be able to place his tent in such a position was just another of the numerous mysteries about Se’Djinka. It was best, Drakis thought, to not think too long on questions to which the answers might be both painful and dangerous.
He had trouble enough of his own without inviting more.
Standing beneath the leaden sky, Drakis watched as the dark clouds hid the tops of the distant mountains and spat chill, intermittent rain and mist at him. He had to admit that he preferred it to the oppressive opulence of Se’Djinka’s tent. Perhaps it was something within the elves, he pondered, that caused them to always go beyond what was needed. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing was a creed that the elves followed with pride. They always seemed to press beyond all boundaries, he thought, whether those of good taste or those of their conquered territories.
Drakis preferred an honest, chill rain.
He looked down from his Tribune’s tent onto the enclosure of the Legion. The rambling clusters of warriors huddled together against the constant cold drizzle or crowded into the few lean-tos they had hastily erected for themselves out of scavenged supply crates. Their misery extended well into the valley below, a panorama of spent fury, their fitful fires continuing to struggle against the drizzle.
All around the perimeter stood the encircling totems of the Iblisi—the crystalline Sentinels of the Imperial Legions.
Perhaps that is why I am uneasy, Drakis thought to himself. I’m out where I don’t belong.
Nine notes . . . Seven notes . . .
The Dark Prize in sight . . . the Dark Prize is light . . .
Five notes . . . Five notes . . .
Drakis took a few gingerly placed paces down the slope, as much in an attempt to leave the song behind him as to bring himself to with a few steps of the twelve-foot-tall Sentinel. It was one thing to let loose the warrior horde on the enemy, but otherwise the herd must be controlled. The Sentinels were the totems that defined the boundaries of each slave’s world. The face details were obscured by the soft, violet glow emanating from within the crystal, and there was something about each of them that grew more repellent and loathsome the closer one approached.
They marked the rightful limits of a slave’s world, and each knew that to pass between Sentinels unbidden was to die.
Drakis took in a deep breath. “Drakis Sha-Timuran.”
There passed an uncertain moment, and then the light within the Sentinel flashed from violet to pale yellow.
Drakis started breathing again and stepped quickly across the line between the Sentinels and continued down the slope.
It would take him half an hour just to make his way through the soaked army to his own Centurai. He knew he needed to get moving faster, but his audience with Se’Djinka made him uncertain and hesitant.
He shook with sudden violence in the rain.
It wasn’t just that he had been outside the Sentinel’s protection and control.
It was Se’Djinka’s news that he and his Octian were being afforded a great honor.
Drakis shook again.
There was definitely something wrong.
“Hey, Drakis!” Thuri shouted, standing up slowly from where he squatted next to the sputtering fire. “How is life among members of the higher estates?”
“Better than it is down here,” Drakis shot back as he slogged toward them through the ankle-deep mud between the tents, “but when was that ever any different?”
“Why the summons, Drakis?” Belag was sullen and testy. The lost of his brother weighed heavily on the towering manticore.
Drakis stopped and took a deep breath. His eye was caught by the wet flapping of the Centurai’s battle flag from atop a tall pole planted angrily into the ground nearby; elven symbols intertwined around a pair of crossed swords. What had once seemed so bright and inspiring now looked tarnished and old.
He glanced around at the milling warriors all about him, then motioned Belag and the two chimera closer to him.
“We’re going home,” he said factually, keeping his voice low. “Se’Djinka has ordered us back to House Timuran. We have an hour to secure our gear, resupply the packs if you can, and get the dwarf ready for accounting at Hyperian Fold number four.”
“An hour?” Thuri scoffed.
“Drakis,” Ethis shrugged, “we can’t possibly get the entire Centurai ready to leave that soon. We’re still missing three Octia. We have heard that they came back from the dwarven halls, but they haven’t reported . . .”
“They aren’t coming with us,” Drakis cut him off.
“What?”
“Only our Octian is going back right now,” Drakis said, his eyes blinking.
“But what about our loot?” Ethis said. “It has to be accounted and credited . . . prepared for transport . . .”
“Already done, it seems,” Drakis said
“Already? What about the crown . . . did Jerakh get away with it?”
“I don’t know. All I was told is that all the prizes looted by every Octian of our Centurai have already been accounted, credited, and sent on to House Timuran.”
“Well . . . well that’s more like it!” Thuri said, the semblance of a smile forming on the featureless face of the chimerian. “A great honor! Perhaps that throwing the Dwarven Crown from the throne did connect with Jerakh after all!”
“Whatever the reason,” Drakis said, clearing his throat, “we’re leaving right away . . . and there will be no time for Devotions either . . .”
“Not even at the Field Altar?” Thuri groaned. “I’m getting headaches . . . I need Devotions!”
“There’s not enough time,” Drakis said emphatically. “Listen to me: We’ll get our Devotions soon enough and not from some weak Field Altar but straight from the House Altar itself.” He turned to the manticore standing next to him. “Belag, I need you to find Jerakh—he’s the Second Octian leader—and the two of you to round up the other Cohort leaders of the Centurai. Bring them here in the next half hour.”
Belag straightened, lifting his snout into the air. “Why should I?”
“Because I was third behind ChuKang and KriChan,” Drakis hung his thumbs from his belt. “They’re both dead, which now makes me the Centurai captain. That was true in battle, and it’s still true here. You are welcome to argue the point with Se’Djinka. I’m sure it would give him great pleasure to explain it to you.”
Belag’s lips curled, but by the slow slump of the manticore’s shoulders, Drakis knew he was still in charge. “Jerakh will be in charge of the Centurai after we’ve left; it will be his job to get them organized for transport over the next week—maybe twelve days depending on how crowded the Imperial Folds get. Every Cohort on the front is going to want to get home at the same time.”
“Except for the four of us?” Thuri’s voice was uncertain.
“I guess Lord Timuran must have really missed your face, Thuri,” Drakis spoke as lightly as he could manage. “He arranged for our immediate passage, and, from what I gather, the Myrdin-dai who are mastering the folds are none too happy about it. So get moving and you may be back in time for House Devotions tonight!”
Belag nodded once in deference to Drakis before turning to run between the throngs of warriors milling about, his large feet kicking clumps of mud up behind him. Ethis quickly began to douse the already nearly dead fire as Thuri collected several weapons from where they lay wrapped in an oilskin tarpaulin.
Drakis stood for a moment, uncertain as to what to do next. The damnable song had returned again. He tried to push it out of his mind with thoughts of returning to his beloved Mala.
“What about him?” Thuri said, nodding in the direction of the House Standard.
A waterlogged dwarf in outlandish costume sat with his back to the pole, his hands tied around it behind him. Water drizzled down from the leaden Timuran battle standard and directly onto Jugar’s once glorious hat. Now the dwarf’s entire outfit seemed to sag right along with him. The soaked brim flopped down over the creature’s eyes, making it impossible for him to see anything.
“Helloooo!” called the damp dwarf from under his badly sagging hat. “May I help you? I’d be delighted to direct you to the valuables, but there aren’t any here. They took them all this morning—only this sorry dwarf remains!”
Drakis huffed with irritation and strode over to where the dwarf sat in the mud. He reached down to yank the hat off the dwarf’s head, but a pool of water had gathered in its crown. As a result, the hat only came away after sending a sizable body of water splashing down on the miserable dwarf’s head.
“Sorry,” Drakis said.
The dwarf vigorously shook his head, spraying water about, which, given the conditions in the drenched field, made little difference. He blinked the water out of his eyes and then looked up. “Ah, Drakis! Splendid! As you can see, I’ve been working on a particularly remarkable escape trick for my new act. It’s not quite finished yet, but I’m hoping to have the little problems worked out before my next engagement. So, please tell me, my victorious friend, where have you put all that glorious treasure to which I so generously led you?”
Drakis shook his head then squatted down, wet dwarven hat still in hand. “You dwarves; I’ll never understand you! Here you are, tied up and sitting in the mud—a conquered slave of the Imperial Will—and all you want to know about is where we put some treasure that’s no longer yours?”
“Yes,” said the dwarf, a strange intensity behind his smile. “Exactly. So, tell me!”
Drakis leaned back casually but his eyes were fixed on the dwarf. “It’s gone, as you already pointed out. Spoils of war are the first to be sent back through the Imperial Folds.”
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