The flat stonework shifted inward slightly and then swung back toward the elven Inquisitor. At once, Soen stepped back, pulling open the hidden door.
“Unless he was protecting something,” Soen finished as he stepped into the doorway and then stopped.
The room was uncomfortably small and completely devoid of decoration or furniture. It had never really been intended for use but had been part of the original plans, and no one had bothered to make the alterations necessary to delete it. Yet the Tribune knew it was there—and so, at last it had served its purpose.
A single figure stooped shivering in the corner of the room.
Soen reached his hand out with care.
“Tsi-Shebin?” he asked softly.
The elven girl looked up, her black eyes wide, though whether with anger or fear, Soen was not sure. She remained as she was, however, her arms locked around her knees. The room stank of her.
Soen knelt down with agonizing slowness, then spoke. “Shebin . . . my name is Soen. We are here to help you. We will take you away from here. You will be safe again. Do you hear me?”
The girl jerked her head in two short nods.
Soen drew in a deep breath, watching her carefully.
“Who did this, Shebin?” he asked.
She blinked and then her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, and when she spoke, her words came in croaking sounds so harsh that he was unsure he understood her.
“Did you say a slave?”
“Yes,” she rasped. “A slave . . . a hoo-mani slave! You have to catch him . . . bring him back to me . . . let me kill him . . . I have to kill him.”
“What slave?” Soen asked. “What is his name?”
“DRAKIS!” she screamed.
CHAPTER 20
Bolters
“BY ALL THE GODS! It’s getting worse!” Belag bellowed, raising his sword instinctively.
Drakis grimaced, setting his teeth, and pressed forward, gripping his cutlass until the blood fled from his knuckles. The curved blade of the sword was thick and strong, but the edge was already starting to dull.
He heard Mala moan behind him. She had long since grown weary of her own screaming and had subsided into a shocked daze. She now stayed behind Drakis, trying desperately to avoid any and all weapons with murderous intent that came anywhere near her. Her presence distracted Drakis, who found himself trying not only to maneuver against his attackers but simultaneously to protect her as well. He realized that he had been foolish: Because he had been trained in the arts of combat, he had blithely believed that every other slave had been as well. Now, as they were once again pressed to defend themselves, he felt how ill-prepared they were as a group. Of the six he had brought with him, only two were warriors, not counting the gods-cursed dwarf.
It didn’t help that they were often fighting warriors of their own former Centurai.
Every fold they had passed through led to another marshaling field filled with unique forms of horror and chaos. The first had been bad enough—two members of their own Cohort had gone mad when Timuran’s Well was destroyed and the Devotion Spell—or whatever it was called—collapsed. By the time Drakis and his companions passed through the fold, the Myrdin-dai had already abandoned their posts beside the portals and were fleeing the murderous warriors from a host of Houses. The warriors of the Houses who remained enthralled by their own Devotions were slow to take up arms without the direction of their own Tribunes and were scattering as well either to the limits of the totems that contained the herd or through any convenient fold portal that offered escape. The Guardians who remained engaged the newly murderous warriors in direct combat, and the phosphorescent blasts in the center of the carnage were accompanied by the screams of both the rebellious and the loyal caught in the blasts.
Combat was not Drakis’ objective; flight was. He led his companions around the perimeter of the totems and soon discovered that they were no longer bound by any of them. They quickly circumnavigated the marshaling field, ducked back inside the totem perimeter near the fold portal from which warriors were still passing, and slipped unnoticed through the portal to the next marshaling field.
Each subsequent passage through the next fold portal brought them farther from their home and deeper into the breaking madness and death. By the sixth portal they passed through, the Tribunes were reacting to the carnage, releasing their warriors against these suddenly dangerous and insane warriors from all across the Western Provinces.
Now Drakis and his companions had stepped through the eleventh portal only to find themselves at the rear of a defensive circle raggedly set up just a dozen yards from the fold platform onto which they had just stepped. The Tribunes—too few remaining for the number of warriors present, Drakis noted at once—were nearly hoarse with screaming at the Impress Warriors on the line. Beyond them, in the darkness, Drakis could vaguely make out movement, but everyone present could hear all too clearly, and the sound sent a chill up his spine. His insane fallen brothers were wailing and banging their swords together in an increasing tempo.
“Where are we?” Belag bellowed.
“This is the third Ibanian marshaling field,” Ethis answered, perhaps a little too quickly for Drakis’ liking. “We’re north of Lake Stellamir. It should look familiar; we were here only two days ago. Is that of any help?”
“None,” Drakis spat the word sharply. There was something about the chimerian now that made the back of his neck itch. He was a stranger with far too great familiarity. “It doesn’t matter yet where we are . . . what matters is where we find the way out!”
“What? Again?” RuuKag groaned. “You’re supposed to be saving our lives, not leading us from one hopeless, bloody battle to the next hopeless . . .”
“Oh, please spare us yet another chorus of this same old song!” Jugar said in a booming voice as he exaggerated the rolling of his eyes. “Next, if you remain true to form, comes your plea for us to return to the embrace of the Imperial Will—may the gods put his Imperial Will where it would be the most discomforting.”
“We haven’t done anything . . .” RuuKag growled.
“That’s true,” Mala agreed, her words fast on the heels of RuuKag’s. “Maybe we don’t have to run . . .”
“The master and his family are dead and their home burned to the ground,” Ethis said with a sniff that sounded almost bored. “I doubt that the Iblisi will care whether we were the ones who actually held the torch or not.”
“Not if they have to hunt us down!” RuuKag said. “The longer we run, the worse it’s going to get for us. Can’t you see that this—this hoo-mani—is taking all of us for fools!”
“Shut up!” Drakis shouted, turning on the fat manticore, the tip of his sword causing a small indentation in the creature’s abdomen. “You want to stay and wait for the Iblisi’s renowned mercy, then stay—or come and have some hope of seeing another sunrise. But either way, shut up!”
“Drakis!” Jugar had been tugging at the hem of his tunic for some time. “We’ve no time for this!”
Drakis glanced across the defensive line. The screams from the darkness had reached a fevered pitch.
The human warrior shoved RuuKag back in exasperation, then turned to the other manticore. “Belag! I seem to remember a line of trees just outside the totems on the right side. The portal we want is closer on that side anyway. We’ve got to push through this defensive line from behind—they’re not looking in this direction, and it should be easier to get out than in. Rush the line from behind, then down into the trees.”
“Wasn’t that ChuKang’s plan to get the dwarven crown?” Ethis asked at once.
“What of it?” Belag snarled.
Ethis shrugged. “It didn’t work out very well is all.”
“So you have a better idea?” Drakis’ head was beginning to pound again. So far the danger, constant activity, and adrenaline had kept the shadows of his mind at bay, but he could feel them lurking in the corners of his thoughts, ready to tear at his mind.
Ethis considered for a moment, and then his blank face split into a wide grin. “I believe I do.”
The chimerian turned at once, jumping from the platform and striding toward the right side of the line. He raised one of his right arms and then started calling with loud insistence. “Tribune! Tribune!”
Belag’s eyes went wild. “What is he doing? He’ll get us all caught!”
Drakis jumped down off the platform, clearing all of its steps at once, his legs churning as he tried desperately to catch the chimerian and stop him. The human could hear the other members of their fugitive band scrambling after him as well.
It was too late; a Tribune had already heard his calls and turned her angry, grim countenance toward Ethis. Drakis, only steps away, raised his sword preparing to attack the Tribune, part of his mind knowing it was an act of suicidal insanity.
The chimerian reached back with one hand and pushed the blow aside. With a free hand, Ethis formed a fist and slammed it into his chest in salute to the Tribune.
“Mistress Tribune!” Ethis said as he stood tall. “We are an Octian of House Tajeran. Our Lord commands us to answer the call of the Myrdin-dai to add to the glory of your Order by defending this fold portal against the enemy.”
Drakis’ feet slid across the loose dirt beneath his feet as he came to a halt. The rest of the fugitives fell in behind in disarray.
“House . . . Tajeran?” The Tribune’s black eyes narrowed, whether in distrust or disdain Drakis could not tell.
“Aye!” yelled a squeaky voice from the back of the group. “We are the most fearsome warriors in all the Empire! Ogres tremble at the sound of our name, and the heathen elves of Museria dare but whisper it.”
The rest of the fugitives had turned to stare in wonder at the Lyric. The lithe woman was standing tall in her tattered dress, a look of fierce determination in her eyes as she held a sword before her with conviction. Drakis could not imagine where she had gotten that blade.
“We are the Octian of Oblivion!” the Lyric said with conviction, her short, wispy hair standing away from her head in odd angles.
“The . . . what?” the Tribune demanded.
“Aye,” Ethis said, turning back to the Tribune as he responded with confidence. “We are the, uh, Octian of Oblivion . . . specialized warriors in the service of Lord Tajeran. He asks only that, if possible, we be held in reserve . . . behind the main line of defense as he considers us valuable warriors of his Cohort and . . .”
“You’ll serve where I tell you,” the Tribune snarled in grating, dangerous tones. “You’ll go to the front of the line at once!”
“But my Lord’s instructions . . .”
“I take no instructions from ‘your Lord,’ ” the Tribune bellowed. “Marquen!”
“Aye, Tribune,” came the response from a squat manticore with a long scar running up from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore the chevrons of a Cohort master.
The Tribune smiled to herself as she spoke. “Get this—this Octian—up through to the front of the defensive line!”
“But, Tribune!” Ethis protested.
“Stick him if he gives you any trouble, Marquen,” the Tribune continued. “Let’s let someone else spill their blood for a change.”
The short manitcore only grunted and then started shoving Ethis, Drakis, and the rest of their group forward.
“My master shall hear of this!” Ethis shouted back angrily at the Tribune as he walked toward the line, then turned and grinned smugly at Drakis walking next to him.
Marquen’s bellows were sufficient to get the troops arrayed in front of them to reluctantly part, and within a few minutes they were standing at the front of the defensive line. In the darkness before them, the rhythmic chanting of their own former brothers in arms—now insane—was rising in tempo and sound.
“It will be by your word,” Drakis said to the warrior manticore.
Belag nodded, then spoke to their companions, “When I shout, that’s when we run.” The manticore warrior drew in a deep breath and then crouched down, preparing to spring.
Drakis grabbed Mala’s hand. “Jugar, you have the Lyric?”
“Aye,” said the dwarf as he shot a worried glance at the woman next to him staring blissfully out over the field. “Are you ready, lass?”
Drakis noticed only then that she had dropped her sword somewhere. The girl looked down at him and smiled sweetly beneath her unfocused eyes.
“That will have to do,” Jugar coughed as he spoke.
The manticorian warrior bellowed and then charged away from the line of warriors, angling directly toward the woods. Drakis ran after him with Mala behind him struggling to keep up. Jugar charged forward as well with the Lyric as Ethis and RuuKag followed behind.
Surprise won over discipline for only a few moments, but it was enough. By the time the astonished warriors realized what had happened, Drakis and his band were already crashing into the underbrush of the woods to the right of the line.
The darkness of the woods panicked Drakis for a moment. His eyes had been used to the globe-torches illuminating the fold platform and were not yet accustomed to the darkness. Mala fell behind him, and he stopped, picking her up.
Then the ground started to shake.
The mad warriors were charging at last in the clearing next to them. Drakis stood, holding Mala in the darkness as the sounds of crushing pain and agonizing death permeated the air around them. He wanted to shield her from it, protect her from the horror that was taking place only yards from where they stood. His arms enfolded her head, pulling it to his chest.
And he was again aware of the insistent tugging on his garments by the dwarf.
“Master Drakis,” Jugar growled under his breath. “Follow me. We must get through the portal at once.”
“Why?” Drakis said, his arms holding Mala tighter still.
“Because the battle here will soon be ending,” Jugar said in the darkness. “And those left will be looking for something else to kill.”
With each fold passage, the carnage increased. Thanks to the confused rush of the armies to return home, the warriors of the fallen Houses had been spread unevenly throughout the complex system of fold portals, a cancer that erupted suddenly seemingly everywhere at once. Where the greater concentrations of warriors were found, the destruction was even more savage. That the warrior madmen were no longer restricted by the totems became an even greater problem as in some places they were able to overwhelm the forces of the other Houses and spill into the countryside.
In those places, death was the rule.
It was the silence that shocked them.
Not total silence. The Lyric was humming a tune whose quiet notes drifted with the smoke that lay like a thin veil over the field. Mala whimpered as she shook behind Drakis. The others were grim and silent.
RuuKag broke the crystal stillness, his voice dry and cracking, startling them despite his care. “Which way do we go now?”
“Now you’re in a hurry?” Ethis whispered.
“Anything to get out of this place,” RuuKag croaked.
Drakis held the sleeve of his tunic across his nose and mouth, desperate to separate his senses from the stench that permeated the air around them. There were several portals that he could see still operating at the far perimeters of the marshaling field. He remembered this field as being one of the largest—the nexus of seven portals originally although now only five of them were functioning. The bulk of Timuran’s forces must have been bottled up here when everything changed. Now, two of the portals were dark and useless . . . but the others . . .
“That one,” Drakis said, pointing beyond a slight rise in the center of the field. “That one leads farther on.”
“How many more of these portals do we have to pass?” Mala murmured, her voice shaking. She could not take her eyes away from the moldering death blanketing her view to the horizon. “Can’t we . . . can’t we just leave?”
“We’ve got to ke
ep going,” Drakis insisted. “The portals are the fastest path for us to get as far as possible.”
“But for how long?” RuuKag asked through a sigh. “The Emperor will not tolerate such rebellion. He will bring the weight of his Imperial Will down with a vengeance to regain control of the folds for the Myrdin-dai. It isn’t a question of if but when.”
“He’s right,” Jugar nodded. “The Armies of the Emperor will return order and soon. Face it, lad; we have to get off this path at some point.”
“Not yet!” Drakis shook his head. He knew the dwarf was right—that they were all right—but he could not yet face leaving the confusion and horror of the portals. The thought of turning from the roads previously so familiar to him and striking out into lands unknown terrified him worse than the carnage and battle of the portal road. Drakis, warrior of House Timuran, was afraid of getting lost.
More than that, he realized, he was afraid of being alone with his thoughts. Being driven from terror to terror had the advantage that there was no time to reflect on the raging animal of his own memories still kept at bay in the back of his mind.
But they were right. He could not run forever.
“Two . . . maybe three . . . more portals,” Drakis said. “Then we’ll abandon the portals and strike out on foot.”
“Two,” the dwarf said. “Two . . . if we can make it.”
“Why two?” Ethis asked through the inscrutable mask of his face.
“I know that place well,” Jugar said. “There are friendly caverns not far from the gallant—if ultimately tragic—marshaling fields through which we have been touring. It should provide us respite and, might I add, comparative safety for a time. I might even be persuaded to perform one of my more cheery and delightsome tales, if it would help.”
“It might,” Drakis said as he once again surveyed the gore-laden field of fallen warriors, searching for a path through the piles of dead. He reached back for Mala’s hand. She clasped his quickly. “Listen, there are field packs everywhere . . . and no one here is going to ever need them again. Everyone keep an eye out for a pack—the more provisions the better—and follow my steps. Let’s go.”
Song of the Dragon Page 18