Song of the Dragon

by Tracy Hickman

  Outrage and fear surged through him, blasting strength again into his muscles. He snatched his right arm free and began flailing blindly about.

  Mother dead in the wars . . . her body never returned . . . New mother and new father . . . false family remembered . . . brother . . . where is my brother?

  The Guardians released him, their hands reaching at once for their weapons. Drakis fell heavily to the floor.

  Beaten . . . sold . . . beaten . . . sold . . . no lesson taught in each beating, the point being not to teach him but for the sheer joy of inflicting pain and humiliation on the human boy . . . sold again to Sha-Timuran because the elf girl was spoiled by her father and thought the human boy was pretty and Sha-Timuran could use another warrior . . .

  He rolled over, kneeling on the ground, curling tighter into a ball.

  Tenicia . . . his first betrothal . . . his first wife . . . he had forgotten her . . . he had forgotten so many . . .

  The sound of blades crashing together cut through his avalanche of thoughts, replacing them with the single, clear voice of the dead ChuKang come back to him.

  “To stand still on a field of battle is to invite death to find you.”

  Drakis pushed himself up, leaping to his feet, and closing at once with the nearest of the elven Guardians. Instinct and training took over, pushing the maddening thoughts to the side as he concentrated on the moment before him and the enemy that he barely recognized as one of his own household. He gave himself to his instincts, not wanting to think or consider the consequences of his attack. He blocked the elf’s frantic blow, arrested his sword arm, and, in a single, fluid move, wrested the blade from the horrified elf’s grasp.

  Drakis swung the blade, rotating the grip with his wrist. The elf backed up, baring his teeth beneath his blank, black eyes.

  Drakis did not hesitate. He feigned a blow to the right and then, with lightning skill, curled the blade over his head and sliced it into his opponent on the left. He drew the blade back and then thrust it forward, burying it deep into the elf’s gut and then turning it with a violent rotation of both hands on the hilt.

  Blood gushed over his hands from the gaping wound, but Drakis maintained his grip on the hilt, jerking it free and reeling backward slightly from the effort.

  It saved his life. A blade flashed downward in front of his face. He stepped back on his right foot, planting it for balance as he raised his own blade to deflect the downward cut away from him. He spun to confront his next attacker.

  Don’t think . . . just survive.

  He locked his eyes with those of a taller Guardian for a moment, but it was enough. A massive fist, its fur already caked with blood connected with the elf’s head from the left, driving it with such force into the garden wall next to them that Drakis heard the skull crack over the screaming chorus around them.

  “Help me!” roared Belag. “Help me!”

  Drakis turned to look at Belag. His golden eyes were fixed open, darting suddenly here and there. The human saw something he had never seen in any manticore before: fear filled the flat feline features of his countenance. He reached out with his bloodied, huge hand, feeling toward Drakis as though he could not see him.

  A terrible sound, like a thunder that would never end, surged down around them. Drakis looked up.

  The avatria was falling. Bereft of the power of the Aether Well, the elegant floating home of the Timurans first leaned to one side and then dropped straight down, smashing down onto the tall garden wall of the subatria with crushing force. Hundreds of alabaster tiles crashed down into the garden from the hemispherical underside of the structure, knocking many of the terrified household members to the ground. Several of the braziers lighting the garden fell over, their coals igniting a fire. Drakis watched in amazement as several subatria slaves, cackling as they danced, began pouring oil from amphorae on the fire, causing it to erupt robustly, its smoke obscuring the scene. As Drakis watched, an enormous crack opened up along the curved foundation that threatened to collapse the entire structure on them at any moment.

  Training and instinct. Training and instinct.

  The human grabbed Belag’s forearm.

  “Gather the Warriors,” Drakis heard himself say, although his own voice sounded detached from him—a thing apart. “Tell those who can to meet outside at the totem hilltop southwest of the House . . .”

  “Outside!” Panic rose in the manticore’s voice. “We’ve no permission to . . .”

  “Belag! I am Master of the Centurai now,” Drakis shouted, his face pressed close, filling the vision of the manticore. In the back of his mind he knew how utterly ridiculous his words were. There were no masters any more . . . no Centurai. “Get any warriors you can and meet me outside . . . west of the Warrior Gate at the hilltop totem!”

  Overhead, an overwhelming cracking sound shook the hall. Drakis glanced up fearfully. The amount of debris from the collapsing avatria above them was increasing at an alarming rate.

  “Belag!” Drakis shouted. “Obey!”

  The manticore’s eye slits suddenly narrowed into focus. “Aye!”

  Drakis glanced around as the huge lion-man turned and bolted off to his right. The garden was barely recognizable. Flames shot up from several large fires, their flickering light illuminating the shattered base of the avatria that threatened imminent collapse. Silhouetted or illuminated, everywhere there seemed to be figures moving through the haze of the smoke.

  A single name came to him.

  “Mala,” he murmured.

  He felt panic rise within him again. She had been on the other side of the garden watching him just moments ago.

  Drakis leaped over the body of an elf Guardian, trying to circle the garden around to the right, but almost at once he ran into a group of slaves who blocked the way. Several of them lay still in a spreading pool of their own blood, but more than a dozen others—wild eyed and screaming—were tearing at something they had dragged to the ground. Their hands and arms were covered in blood as they pulled away chunks of flesh, tossing it behind them.

  He turned at once down one of the garden paths. It took him farther under the ominous rain of wreckage from the shattered structure above, but he dared not stop as he ran past insane tableaus: An old servant he recognized from the House knelt on the ground, his eyes fixed as he gathered up shards of the shattered Aether Well and tried to piece them back together in his badly lacerated hands; Jerakh, his own Octian brother, standing in the midst of several elven overseers, his short sword in his hand as he screamed joyfully and gave chase to a fleeing overseer who had previously escaped his attentions; several slaves pressing their hands against the broken altar, desperate in their own way to forget the nightmare around them.

  A tall chimerian leaped into his path, its four arms brandishing a senseless assortment of weapons: a broken branch, a bent brazier stand, and a pair of cooking ladles. The fact that all four were bloodied made less of an impression on Drakis than the look on the creature’s face.

  “Thuri!” Drakis said. “Come with us! Join us outside . . .”

  The chimerian charged at once, shouting as he did. “Freedom! Vengeance and Justice!”

  Drakis parried the first two blows in quick succession. “No, Thuri! Stop!”

  But the chimerian did not hear or see him. He seemed to be fighting a battle in some other place or time. “I won’t go back,” he cried out. “You can’t make me go back!”

  One of the ladles connected solidly with the side of Drakis’ head, driving him to the ground. He rolled quickly, the brazier slamming into the dark ground where moments before his head had been. Then he struck out with the sword, slicing at the back of the chimerian’s foot.

  Thuri howled with pain and toppled backward to the ground as Drakis got to his feet. White slabs of polished ceramic tile fell around him, shattering into dust as they smashed against the stones of the garden. He turned again and saw the path clear before him to the far side of the garden. He lunged forward.
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  “You cannot kill us all!” he heard Thuri’s voice receding behind him. “You cannot kill . . .” Then the words were cut short by the sound of a massive foundation stone slamming into the ground.

  Drakis did not look back. Impress Warriors were fighting everywhere—some with each other, some with a group of Guardians who had somehow managed to form a circle near the Hall of the Past to defend themselves, while others methodically moved among the slaves and overseers, slaying both indiscriminately. Drakis felt as though his legs were pushing him through water, that time itself was flowing against him and somehow he would not reach his beloved before his world fell completely down upon him.

  Then, with a suddenness that shocked him, she was there.

  Mala knelt on the ground before him, her eyes fixed forward. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting long, dark furrows in the dust-caked skin.

  Drakis crouched down in front of her. A great groaning sound was coming from the stones above them. The foundation was giving way. He took her by both shoulders and stared into her eyes.

  Training and instinct.

  “Mala,” he said firmly.

  She did not move at all. Her eyes remained unfocused. A small trickle of blood stained her lips.

  “Come with me,” he said as kindly as he could. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  She shivered under his touch.

  She had shivered at his touch before . . . or was that another woman? Stop! Was she dying? Don’t think . . . act!

  “Please,” he said shaking her slightly. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Her eyes suddenly focused on him and she blinked.

  She started to giggle. “Take me?”

  Drakis drew back. Sanity had left the woman’s eyes.

  “Take me?” Mala began to laugh. She threw her head back and started howling with laughter, hysterical and uncontrolled.

  Don’t think . . . just act!

  He drew her up with him to stand, but her legs were unsteady beneath her. He leaned over and picked her up, draping her over his shoulder as he considered the way back toward the chakrilya portcullis and the Warrior’s Gate beyond. He adjusted the grip on his sword one last time and then charged forward, trying to concentrate on getting free, on getting out into the open air and then, maybe then, he could try to make sense of the terrible nightmare his own memories had suddenly become.

  At his back, the hysterical laughter had changed to dreadful, soul-shattering sobs.

  Drakis now knew the truth—but he did not know how he would live with the knowledge.

  CHAPTER 15

  Flight

  DRAKIS STRUGGLED to reach the crest of the hill, then, stumbling, fell to the ground. Mala tumbled from over his shoulder, falling heavily onto the grass of the knoll with a groan. The totem at the crest of the hill was dark, its inner glow vanished and its ever-watchful eyes now dark and useless.

  Don’t stop . . . don’t look . . .

  But he did look. He dragged his feet back under him and, standing on quivering legs, turned to gaze on the House of Sha-Timuran.

  It was twilight, and the ruin stood out harshly against the dim glow of the horizon beyond. Flames had engulfed nearly all of the subatria, the brilliant tongues of orange and yellow boiling up around the fallen avatria. The oncefloating structure had fallen and was now leaning obscenely to one side, the petals of its exterior curves now broken and crumbling under their own weight. A great crack split the structure from the flames about the subatria wall to the shattered lattice of its peak. The avatria itself was burning, too . . . the ornate polished woods of its interior quickly giving themselves over to the flames. Black, greasy smoke rolled upward, staining the deep blue of the evening sky and blotting out the stars as they tried to appear.

  Drakis’ gaze was drawn across the horizon. Other columns of smoke drifted into the sky.

  The House of Timuran was not alone in its fall. Tajeran, too, was burning and at least a half dozen other Houses beyond.

  Someone behind him spoke. “They’ll be coming soon.”

  Drakis started at the sound, wheeling around as he instinctively readied his blade.

  The shapeshifter held up two of his hands, their palms out in a sign of submission. “Relax, Drakis . . . I’m Ethis.”

  Drakis squinted. A tall chimerian stood facing him, his blank features lit by the orange, shifting light of the burning mansion.

  “Who?” Drakis blurted.

  “Ethis,” the chimerian continued, his voice sounding oddly calm against the chaos of the burning ruins beyond. “We fought together—I was in your Octian.”

  “Yes . . . Ethis,” Drakis repeated the name as though trying to convince himself that he knew it. Part of him recalled the chimerian as a trusted and valiant comrade in arms who had served with him for many years—but he also knew that was a lie. Drakis had no real memory of Ethis before three weeks ago. Yesterday he had trusted this creature with his life—now he knew him a stranger he could barely trust at all.

  “How did you know where . . . ?”

  “Belag,” the chimerian answered quickly. “He told me where we were to meet.” Ethis held a squat figure firmly by its collar with a third hand. “I also found an old friend of ours that I thought you might want to talk to before he skulked off—but I would not recommend spending a lot of time in conversation.”

  Ethis shoved the dwarf forward, his newly shaved skull glistening with sweat by the light of the conflagration.

  “Jugar.” Drakis spat the name as though it carried its own venom.

  “This most noble chimerian warrior is certainly correct, Drakis,” Jugar began talking at once with an earnestness that left Drakis feeling both amazed and disgusted at the same time. “Our lives depend upon staying ahead of the news of our escape. As soon as those most dreaded hunters of the Empire—the Iblisi—learn of what happened here, they will descend upon us like winged death. We must travel far and fast . . .”

  Nine notes . . . Seven notes . . .

  Children hear the calling song of dreams.

  Return to past longings . . .

  Then, pushing through the song, other voices and visions, too, from inside his head rising suddenly into his conscious mind, drowning out the music in his mind.

  . . . Se’Djinka’s face snarled at him. “You’re barely worth the food to keep you alive . . .”

  “. . . Sure, Drakis, your father came from the northlands beyond the dwarves,” his mother said as they washed their master’s clothes. His feet dangled from the edge of the stone shelf. “Must I tell you again of how we were freeborn in the wilds . . . ?”

  “. . . Run!” screamed the voice behind him. “Run or we’re all dead! . . .”

  “. . . Hello, Mother . . .” he heard his younger self say, but now he could see it was a different place and a different mother . . .

  “. . . Forget it, Dre,” the tall boy said smiling down at him as they worked under the sunshine in the fields. “It’s too far to walk no matter how long . . .”

  Drakis let go of his sword, pressing his hands hard against his ears. The blade dug into the earth then fell onto its side. Drakis growled at the ghosts suddenly occupying his head. “Go away! Stop it!”

  He thought that he might be going mad. He was certain that others had—he had seen it in the hall; slaves from all the races suddenly plunged into a living insanity in which they had experienced things, seen things, and said things that . . .

  “Drakis, my Lord!”

  The human opened his eyes at the roaring of his name, uncertain he had heard the words properly.

  Belag, his slave’s tunic shredded and his fur matted in places with both his own blood and that of others, now lay prostrate on the ground before Drakis, face against the ground with his massive hands laid out wide in front of him. Different races, Drakis had heard Se’Djinka say time and again, show their submission in different ways. Humans usually kneel facedown and bow before their conqueror. Chimera show their open hands and si
t back on their haunches. Manticores, however, were said to submit when they lay facedown, exposing their back to attack. Drakis thought it only a lie as no manticore he had ever known would allowed himself to live long enough to submit to anyone. Yet now tears streamed from Belag’s eyes as he lay prone, gazing with a fixed, wondering stare at Drakis.

  It shocked the human to see his fellow warrior in such a state. Nor was he alone in his astonishment as a human and another manticore were standing behind Belag gaping at the humbled lion-man as well.

  “Please . . . Belag, in the name of all the gods, get up, will you?”

  The manticore quickly got to his feet, towering a full head above the human. Drakis remained stunned; was Belag actually smiling?

  “I have brought two more to join us,” Belag said, his words rushed with excitement. “I hope that I honor you by presenting them in your service.”

  Drakis stared at the two newcomers. One was a small human female whom he recognized at once as the Lyric. She still wore the gold collar around her neck although it was now stained with dried blood—whether her own or someone else’s Drakis could not say. The manticore he knew: Ruukag, the former gardener of House Timuran, stood quivering in the evening air, his massive fingers clenching and unclenching at the air around them.

  Drakis shook his head. “Belag, I told you to gather the warriors!”

  The manticore turned his head, gazing at the burning household as he spoke. “They were all that were left, Drakis . . . all that would come. We’re the only warriors who have kept our minds. But now that I see who you are . . . I knew we would need a Lyric to chronicle your deeds and a second manticore to witness your coming to the manticorian elders in Chaenandria.”

  Kept our minds? Drakis thought, staring at the manticore. How does one cope with a manticore warrior who has so obviously lost his wits? Drakis took in a long breath, then spoke quietly. “I . . . I don’t understand, Belag.”

  “We . . . my brother and I . . . we searched for you,” Belag huffed through quick, excited breaths. “We had learned the stories from the Wise Ones deep in the forgotten wilds of Chaenandria. They spoke of you—of the day of your coming and of the power you would bring to the justice of the world!”