Song of the Dragon

by Tracy Hickman

  They alone moved. Globe-torches lay scattered on the ground illuminating ghastly tableaus of carnage, death, blood, and gore.

  Drakis trod carefully among the dead, dreading what his tentative next footfall would find. He could see the fold portal on the far side of the field around the edge of a small knoll. If they could somehow manage to keep their sanity until then . . .

  “DRAKIS!”

  He froze. The sound had come from the top of the knoll.

  A single figure struggled to its feet at the crest of the small mound. A globe-torch at its feet threw the ghastly, blood-coated figure into stark relief. As the hideous form stood shaking, it raised its hand above its head, clutching a circular band in its hand. It was human in form and size, but it was otherwise difficult to distinguish its features. The figure’s face was swollen and its hair torn away from one side, but the voice could not be mistaken.

  “Vashkar,” Drakis murmured, barely believing the name that fell from his lips. He let go of Mala’s hand, gesturing for her to stay at the base of the knoll, uncertain about his former comrade.

  The former Cohort leader swayed slightly as he arched his back and howled at the stars overhead. “We’re free, now, aren’t we? Free!”

  “Yes,” Drakis responded, as he moved cautiously up the slope. His footing was slick and squishy. He dared not look down, keeping his eyes on his former brother in arms. “We’re free after all, Vashkar.”

  Vashkar’s eyes shone white all around the wide-open irises of his eyes. “We’ve showed them, Drakis! They weren’t expecting us to do it, but we did!”

  “That’s right,” Drakis said calmly as he took another step up the slope. “Come with us, and everything will be all right.”

  “I have it!” Vashkar giggled through the foam at his mouth. “The dwarven crown! I took it! Now Master will be so pleased. We’ll be able to buy anything, Drakis! Imagine it . . . anything we want!”

  Drakis took another step, but his mind was churning. The dwarven crown! He must have taken it while it was still in transit to House Tajeran. Maybe they could go back . . . barter the crown for their freedom. Maybe they could . . .

  “Maybe he’ll give me back my sons that he sold, eh, Drakis?” Vashkar grinned. “I didn’t remember them, Drakis, but I do now. I can see them both screaming at the slaver as he dragged them away. Such fighters! That slaver nearly clubbed one of them senseless he put up such a fight—and him only eight or so years along. What good boys! Surely old Timuran will give me my sons back for a dwarven crown!”

  Drakis stopped. He was finding it hard to breathe. He glanced down the slope and saw the others had stopped, too, transfixed by the terrible image at the crest of the hill.

  “No, no . . . I’ve got it!” Vashkar nodded as his eyes darted from side to side. “Maybe he can return my daughter. She had gone lame on the march to the Provinces. You should have seen her before, but she was always such a delicate flower.”

  Drakis took another step. “Please, Vaskhar . . .”

  The blood-soaked warrior suddenly sat down, his weight pressing down on the chest of a fallen manticore, forcing blood out of a gaping wound. Vashkar took no notice, holding the crown in front of him with both hands as he spoke. “I tried to carry her, but Timuran caught on that she was lame. He had me butcher her right there by the side of the road. Is she worth a crown, Drakis? Could it buy back her breath? I felt it leave her body.”

  “I—I don’t know,” Drakis said softly.

  “What do you think, Drakis?” Vashkar said, as he looked up with pleading eyes. “Do you think he will give me back my soul?”

  He held the broken, bloody metal ring above his head.

  Drakis took in a long, deep breath.

  It was not the crown at all, he realized. It was a jagged-edged, metal hoop torn from a small cask. It was cut in places, slivers of metal sticking out from it.

  Worthless.

  “Come with me, Vashkar,” Drakis said, extending his hand. “We’ll take care of you. Figure this out . . .”

  “THIEF!” Vashkar screamed, leaping to his feet with unholy speed, his hand reaching at once for the hilt of his blade. “You can’t have it! It’s mine! My life! Mine!”

  Drakis barely managed to avoid the blow, leaping to the side. He rolled, his body flopping over the dead, their filth covering him. Drakis tried to regain his footing, but Vashkar’s blade flashed in the light of the globe-torch. and Drakis could only scramble out of the way again. His hands reached down to stop his fall, sliding among the bodies, scraping against the broken armor . . . a small dagger handle suddenly pressing against his palm.

  Vashkar screamed above him, raising his sword as he ran wild-eyed across the slain.

  Drakis leaped toward the insane warrior, connecting so hard that it knocked the wind from his lungs, yet he held fast to the slick grip of the dagger, pressing it upward into Vashkar’s ribs.

  Both warriors collapsus atop the knoll. Drakis rolled away, pulling the dagger free but his hand was caught beneath the gasping human’s head. He tried to pull away, but Vashkar reached across with his left hand, gripping Drakis at the back of the neck and pulling him toward himself.

  “Please,” Vashkar wheezed, his lungs filling quickly from the wound. “Please, Drakis, don’t take it from me! Please . . . my sons . . .”

  Drakis grimaced, then held still. His face was inches away from the dying man. “As you will,” Drakis said. “You may keep it . . . for your sons.”

  “And my daughter . . .”

  “Surely,” Drakis looked away as he spoke. “Surely for your daughter.”

  Vashkar grinned, his teeth filling with his own blood. Then his chest fell one last time, and he was still.

  Drakis pushed the body away from him and stood, alone, at the crest of the knoll. The silence was complete and suddenly unbearable.

  “What are you staring at,” he yelled at his companions. “Everyone pick up a field pack and let’s get through that portal now. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  “It’s quiet, and the dead will not trouble us,” Ethis suggested. “We could rest here a while.”

  “No,” Drakis spoke, the words sticking in his dry throat. “No one will ever rest here again.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The Hunt

  “TWO DAYS!” Soen seethed. “Two days we’ve been going in the opposite direction of these bolters, we finally are on their trail and you want us to wait?”

  The Master Iblisi stood to the side of the fold platform, his face inches from Jukung’s long nose. His two Codexia stood to the side, their hands folded inside the sleeves of their robes, hoods drawn over their heads, leaving their faces in shadow from the late morning sun. Each watched the scene with detached amusement. Hazing the younger members of the Order was an old and established pastime . . . but it could be a dangerous game when played with one of the Keeper’s favorites.

  Jukung blanched but did not back down. He had to give the young Assesia credit, Soen thought through his rage. Jukung was a young, green blade, but he stood his ground. Ch’drei would not have chosen the whelp to spy on the Iblisi if he could not stand up against Soen’s occasional hot wind.

  “It is her order that we remain here until she arrives,” Jukung replied, his back stiffening.

  “Here?” Soen scoffed, his left hand darting out to point at the blood-soaked mounds of the field behind them. Impress Warriors moved about the battlefield, dragging the dead toward the center of the clearing where a great pit had been dug. Several Tribunes and a handful of Proxis maintained a raging fire in the pit into which the dead were being cast. The greasy, black smoke curled upward, fanning over the surrounding trees in the still air. The stench of the bodies lying under the warm sun was overshadowed by that of burning flesh.

  “I confess that I am at a loss to understand your disapproval, Master Iblisi. It is a great honor that the Keeper affords us as she rarely leaves the Keep of our Order for any purpose, let alone to travel as far as the
Western Provinces.”

  “Then you wait around and receive her honors,” Soen spat. “No doubt you’ve honored her enough times in the past.”

  Qinsei, standing next to the Inquisitor, covered her laugh with a cough.

  Jukung set his sharp jaw against the hot words that had come to his mind and spoke more delicately than he would have liked. “It is nevertheless her will that we await her coming as she is most anxious for your report.”

  “Odd that her intention should be communicated so quickly over such a distance,” Soen continued. “I should have sent you back to the Imperial City, herding slaves with the rest of the Assesia.”

  “The instructions of the Keeper were clear,” Jukung stated. “Such an act would not have served the Will of the Emperor!”

  “Don’t talk to me about the ‘Will of the Emperor,’ boy,” Soen spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone. “I’ve stood in the presence of the Emperor, and know his will far better than any of Ch’drei’s pets.”

  “Master Soen,” Phang said at once, injecting himself between the Iblisi and his Assesia before either was tempted to take their argument further. “I have spoken with the Tribunes and have something worthwhile to report.”

  Soen waited for a moment before responding. “I will hear your report, Phang.”

  Phang bowed slightly and then spoke. “Tribune Tsa’fei reports that just prior to the battle joining last night, an Octian from House Tajeran reported to her.”

  “Let me guess,” Soen said, looking down at the ground and nodding as he spoke. “Three humans—two of them female—two manticores, one chimerian, and . . .”

  “And a dwarf, yes, Master,” Phang said.

  Soen shook his head in wonder. Why take the dwarf? The creature was so obvious. It made no sense; if they were bolting, they would want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. But, he reminded himself, just how sane were they after all?

  “Did he say which way they went?” Soen asked.

  “Yes, Master,” Phang nodded. “Just after they were positioned at the front of the defending line, they ran off into the trees.” The elven Codexia raised his hand, pointing with a pair of long fingers. “There . . . near where those two trees are grown together.”

  Soen was striding across the field before Phang had finished his sentence. He took little notice of the putrefying bodies over which he stepped beyond occasionally altering his course when their bulk was otherwise unavoidable. He assumed that the remaining members of his Quorum were following behind him. Soen’s eyes remained fixed on the twin trees at the edge of the field and the forest of which they were a part.

  Soen’s pace quickened as he moved between the glowing crystal structures of the totems surrounding the field. Their magic had contained the slave herd of warriors as intended, so the bodies diminished at once as he passed them. Diminished, he noted grimly, but did not end entirely; there were other bodies beyond the totems, each of whose shaven heads bore the mark of one of the fallen Houses. The explosive failure of the Timuran Well had far-reaching effects indeed, he realized, for now they knew that the bolters that had caused all this—or any of the fallen warriors, for that matter—were no longer constrained to the strictly controlled channels of the totems and fold platforms.

  He slowed as he approached the tree, his keen eyes searching the ground. He took it all in quickly: a broken twig here, a bent blade there, patterns in the grasses around the base of the trees and the patches of exposed dirt on the slope falling away from him down toward a ravine. For him, tracking was a gift from the gods for which he was grateful each day. It had saved his life many times down the long and difficult years of his service—and brought an end to many more lives who threatened all that he served.

  He drew in a deep breath, holding his hand up in warning as his Quorum joined him from behind. He could see it all in his mind’s eye: the squat dwarf cutting a wide path across the grass, the small, deep footfalls of the chimerian and a pair of manticores crashing through the lower branches of the overhanging trees.

  They moved down the slope, slightly to the left.

  Soen followed it all in his head, moving with light, quick steps down the slope. He had the track now and knew what to look for.

  He stepped through the trees, the dappled light falling on him as he passed, and then stopped, kneeling down and staring at the ground.

  “What is it, Master?” Qinsei asked.

  “Here,” Soen pointed. “Note this. Human footprints. They stopped here, facing each other . . . very close, too. One set is deeper and larger than the other—male—while the other is smaller and lighter—female, I believe.”

  “Mated then?” Jukung offered.

  Soen stood up, placing his hands on his hips and he surveyed his surroundings once more. “Perhaps . . . a good sign, for it will slow them up. Make them easier to capture or kill. The dwarf joined them here it seems—as well as the other human woman—then they all moved off along the ridge line.”

  “They were making for the fold portal again,” Phang said with a sigh.

  “Yes, again,” Soen said.

  They followed along the path of their quarry, weaving among the trees and down into a shallow ravine. They turned with the tracks through the tall grass, traveling upward until they emerged from the tree line, as predicted, at the far end of the marshaling field near the base of the fold portal.

  Jukung trotted up the steps of the platform. The fold shimmered before him as he gazed into its rippling surface. Then the Assesia turned and sat down on the steps. He gestured back through the portal with his thumb. “More carnage, more dead. I believe it’s getting worse.”

  “The scale of this—it is almost too great to comprehend,” Qinsei said as she gazed out over the slaughter still scattered before them. “How is it possible that the fall of a single House Well could cause this much damage?”

  “It’s because the Myrdin-dai and the Occuran do not trust each other,” Soen said as he, too, gazed over the gory field.

  “They caused this?” Jukung scoffed.

  Soen ignored the implied insult. “In part. The Occuran have basked in the Imperial mandate for over a hundred years . . . maintaining the network of Aether Wells in the Provinces and the Imperial Trade Folds that held the Empire together. It has long been the center of their power—the force of Aether is diminished exponentially by distance, requiring a network of Wells and folds to maintain its strength across the Empire.”

  “You speak the obvious,” Jukung said.

  “Only because you seem to understand only the obvious,” Soen replied. “All that was upset when the Myrdin-dai got the Imperial mandate to provide the folds for the Dwarven Campaigns. For the first time the Occuran were not to be trusted transporting the Legions into war, and the insult was not lost on anyone in the First Estate. The Myrdin-dai could not trust the Occuran to provide them with the required Aether from the established system of Wells, so they were required to build their own, separate, Aether conduits linking through each of their own fold platforms. It meant having to build twice the number of fold platforms because they could not rely on any Aether being available at the other end; they had to push their own Aether through as well.

  “But when the Timuran Well shattered and caused all those House Wells across the frontier to fail—the Myrdin-dai folds were powered separately and remained functioning. And that was what caused the biggest problem. Since the Devotion spells and the Field Altars of all the Houses were passing through the still active Myrdin-dai open folds, the failure of their Wells was carried, too. The warriors of the fallen Houses fell with them wherever they were among the folds on their return home.”

  Qinsei drew in a deep breath. “The Myrdin-dai did their job too well.”

  “And that answers the question that the Myrdin-dai sent us to answer for them, but we still don’t know why the House Timuran Well shattered and caused all this in the first place,” Soen replied, walking around the base of the platform as he spoke, looking for mor
e signs of his quarry’s passing. “That, my fellow Quorum members, is precisely what we must find out. How is it possible that a handful of slaves could bring the Fist of the Imperial Will to such complete destruction . . .”

  Soen stopped, his eyes widening.

  It was too perfect, he thought. It was not possible that he should be so blessed by the gods, and yet there it lay next to the base of the fold. He reached down, allowing himself a slight smile as his fingers closed around the object tenderly, as though he were afraid that it might vanish like an apparition at his touch.

  It was several long blades of grass. He recognized it as coming from the base of the ravine they had just passed through. The blades were woven together, folded and twisted around themselves until they formed an intricate knotted pattern.

  “Master?” Phang asked. “What is it?”

  Soen slipped the woven grass blades casually inside his belt. “Nothing . . . get moving. We’ve not a moment to lose.”

  “Master Iblisi,” Jukung spoke with exaggerated patience. “Mistress Ch’drei . . .”

  “Will have to catch up to us,” Soen finished angrily. “Move!”

  “By the gods!” Qinsei exclaimed, her hand pulling the sleeve of her robes up across her mouth and nose.

  As though such a futile gesture would help, Soen thought, fighting the rebellion of his own stomach at the sights and smells everywhere around them. The flies were thick over the sea of rotting flesh stretching across the gentle undulations of the wide field. One knoll, rising above the rest, was piled high in death, difficult to see through the swarming insects.

  “Their tracks lead directly into the dead,” Soen said, nearly gagging on his words. He had seen the carnage of battle many times before and had both faced and dealt death in many forms, but nothing had prepared him for this. He glanced at Qinsei, who was trying to keep her eyes moving and focused on the distant, indistinct regions of the marshaling field. Phang was holding very still. Jukung had turned and was doubled over, contributing the contents of his stomach to the horrific aroma though its effect was negligible.