Song of the Dragon

by Tracy Hickman

  “No, some lived,” RuuKag said though his voice sounded hollow.

  “Yes, some lived,” Belag agreed, reaching down again with his cupped paw and feeling the water fall between his fingers. “But the story is that only those who fled the battle . . . who did not charge when the order was given but turned and ran . . .”

  “No, that’s not true,” RuuKag said too loudly. “You can’t know. You weren’t there!”

  Belag stood up and faced RuuKag. “It’s all right, RuuKag. We’ve all remembered things we want to forget. Come, you’re tired. Lie down here in this clearing. The others have gone upstream in search of food, but they will be back shortly. I’ll watch over you.”

  RuuKag stepped farther into the glade. They had run through the night, and he was so tired. He could barely lift his legs now. He gratefully lowered himself to the ground, pressed his body against the warm, soft grass and sighed.

  “You won’t leave me?” RuuKag asked.

  “No, I won’t leave you,” Belag replied.

  RuuKag closed his eyes and slept.

  “Drakis!” Belag called out between his cupped paws. His voice was nearly hoarse from shouting the past hour. He stopped and tried to be as still as possible for the expected reply.

  “Here, Belag!” came the distant reply. “We’re over here! Where are you?”

  The manticore drove both fists upward and roared in frustration; then he turned in the direction he believed he had heard the voice and charged again through the mist-obscured tree trunks. Ever since he had pushed Drakis ahead of him into the trees, the gods had seemingly deserted him. He had stepped around a tree expecting to find Drakis on the other side, but he had vanished—swallowed, it would seem, by the strange morning fog that permeated these woods. He had called out to him, tentatively at first and then with increasing fervor as the voice in reply seemed to his ears to get farther away each time he called out.

  He was tired. The forced march the night before had taken much out of him, and he knew it. He had somehow believed that all they had to do was to cross the border into the faery lands and they could rest, recover, and prepare for whatever else lay ahead of them. But now he had lost everyone—even Drakis, who had been barely an arm’s length away from him when they entered these cursed woods.

  Belag bent over, placing his paws on his wide knees and closing his eyes. He had failed again . . . as he had so often failed before.

  “Belag?”

  The manticore looked up, a wide smile splitting his feline face. “Drakis! At last.”

  “Are you all right?” Drakis stepped up to Belag and lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “I am now,” Belag replied straightening up. “Where are the others?”

  “Not far from here,” Drakis answered. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  The human turned and started walking back among the trunks and undergrowth. Belag quickly followed, determined not to lose Drakis for a second time.

  “Belag, we’ve got to talk—while it’s just the two of us,” Drakis said as he walked though he spoke without turning his head. “We’ve been through a great deal together, old friend. I’ve fought by your side through many campaigns—many of which I am only now starting to remember and appreciate.”

  “It is the same with me,” Belag agreed as he followed behind. The human seemed unusually spry for having traveled such a great distance the night before. “I, too, am having to deal with the thoughts and remembrances that are both new and old to me at once. Much is still confusion in my mind.”

  “To all of us,” Drakis agreed as he continued to walk ahead, apparently intent on the trail before them. They were following the bottom of a gully now with a clear stream running beneath their feet. “But there’s been something I’ve wanted to ask you, Belag, if you don’t mind.”

  “I serve you, Drakis,” Belag intoned, though he was beginning to wonder why it was so hard to breathe in this small canyon.

  Drakis did not look back but spoke clearly. “Belag, how do you know that I’m the one who was prophesied to return?”

  Belag replied at once, “Because I know it. My heart speaks the truth of it to me. I know it because I believe.”

  Quite suddenly, they stepped out of the mists. Belag caught his breath.

  Before them was the most beautiful glade the manticore had ever seen. Sunlight shone across the surface of a small pool situated at the edge of the clearing. The pool was fed by the gentle cascade of water down a small rock face, and its water was so clear that Belag could make out the shapes of the smooth rocks that lined the bottom of the pond. At the edge of the pond, soft sand rose in a bank up to the grasses of the glade, warmed by a shaft of sunlight shining down through an opening in the forest canopy overhead.

  Belag longed to warm himself on the sands next to the pool, to close his eyes under the sun and find a moment’s peace.

  Drakis stepped into the glade and sat down in the grass, crossing his legs under him. “It’s all right, Belag . . . we’re safe here.”

  Belag took a hesitant step into the glade.

  “What is it?” Drakis asked, concerned.

  “I . . . where are the others?”

  “Others?”

  “The Lyric . . . Mala . . . RuuKag . . .”

  Drakis laughed. “Are you sure you really want to know where RuuKag is?”

  “I won’t be heartsick if he gets himself lost . . . or that dwarf . . . or the chimerian for that matter . . . but where are . . .”

  “You needn’t worry,” Drakis said, leaning back on his elbows in the sunlight. “They’ve gone upstream to forage for our lunch. They wanted me to stay behind to make sure you got here.”

  Belag smiled and stepped across the soft grasses of the glade to the pool. He stretched out on the sands, feeling their warmth soak into his muscles and bones.

  “So, tell me,” Drakis continued. “What led you to me?”

  Belag’s eyes closed, and he frowned slightly as he spoke. “I was raised Khadush Clan, both me and my . . .”

  The manticore paused.

  “What is it, Belag?” Drakis asked.

  “My brother.” He sighed the last word as though with a final breath. “We both believed strongly in your legend—the prophesied return of the Northern Lords. Our clan holds that all manticores are cursed for their betrayal of the Drakosian Kings of the hoo-mani and that only by offering our lives to the rightful heir of the human empire will we absolve ourselves of our complicity in their downfall. We were so sure—both of us—in our faith that we vowed to find you. We became pilgrims, Karag and I, devoted to finding you and freeing our race from its shame and curse. We set out west across the northern slopes of the Aerian Mountains, hoping to make our way into Vestasia to the northwest. We heard there were humans in that region and thought that they might be able to direct us to you.”

  Belag rolled over in the warm sand and thought for a moment before continuing. “We were taken before we reached the border by an elven slaver party though we put up quite a fight and cost them the lives of three of their group before we were taken. Everything after that . . . well, you know too well. We were forced to forget it all . . . everything that made us who we truly were . . . we even forgot why we had come in the first place as we were passed from Rhonas House to Rhonas House as Impress Warriors. I have thought much on this since, Drakis, and I know that it was the wisdom of the gods, because by enslaving us—even in our forgetfulness—we were brought to you. And even when my brother . . .”

  Belag turned his face away, lying back on the sand once more.

  “Go on, friend,” Drakis encouraged.

  Belag closed his eyes again, basking in the warmth of the sun shining down on him from above. When he spoke, his voice was unusually heavy. “Even when my brother died that day on the Ninth Dwarven Throne defending you . . . even though he did not know who you were because of the terrible veil of forgetfulness cast by the evil of the elves . . . even then the gods smiled down on my brother and showed
him how his death would have meaning.”

  “I understand,” Drakis said in words barely heard above the splashing water nearby. “It’s my turn to watch over you, now. Rest for a while . . . and I’ll watch out for both of us.”

  With a great sigh, Belag relaxed into the warm sands and drifted into a deep and contented sleep.

  Drakis, sword drawn, walked with cautious step between the towering trunks of trees stretching above him into the mists. He had thought Belag was right behind him, but, impossibly, the huge manticore had vanished into the dim, fog-blurred shadows of the forest, and he found himself quite alone.

  A sobbing sound caught his ear off to his left. Drakis adjusted the grip on his sword and followed the weeping as it grew louder with each step.

  He rounded a tree and stopped, letting his sword arm swing down to his side.

  “Mala?”

  The human woman turned toward him, tears still cutting marks down the smudges on her face. She ran to him, her arms quickly wrapping around him as she buried her face in his chest.

  A smile flashed across Drakis’ face. He felt suddenly awkward. With the sword in his right hand and the scabbard on his left side he was left to comfort Mala by putting his left arm around her and trying not to nick her with the blade he still held in his right. “Mala . . . I’m here now, it will be all right.”

  “I didn’t think I’d find you,” she said, looking up into his face, her eyes large and still watery. “I was so worried . . .”

  “I’m fine,” Drakis said, pulling away from her. “Have you seen anyone else?”

  “Oh, yes!” she smiled. “They’re not far from here . . . they’re waiting for us. They’re all out looking for you now, but I found you and we’ll be together again soon.”

  Drakis smiled again. “That’s excellent, Mala. If we are going to have any hope of getting through the madness of this wood, we’ll have to stay together. Where are we meeting?”

  “It’s not far from here, just down a nearby stream a bit,” she said, taking his hand. “I can show you. Belag says we can rest, replenish, and get our bearings—whatever that means. And . . . and . . .”

  “And what, Mala?”

  “Oh, Drakis, I’m so frightened and tired,” Mala said. “Will you please just tell me where we’re going . . . and why we’re going there?”

  “I’m not sure it will make much sense, Mala,” Drakis replied. “It’s got something to do with a song.”

  “Really?” Mala said, puzzled, and then started pulling at his hand. “Then promise you’ll tell me all about it when get there.”

  “Get where?”

  “It’s not far,” she said without turning her head, “and it’s the most peaceful glade you’ve ever seen.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Three Truths

  CH’DREI TSI-AURUUN, Keeper of the Iblisi, sat in stillness on her newly settled throne, now placed before the fountain at the heart of Togrun Fel. Its beauties were, for the moment, entirely ignored by her; Ch’drei’s only movement was a slight quivering of her hand as she gripped the top of her staff with a pale fist.

  Her acolytes, who had carried her heavy throne through every fold gate from the Imperial City to the far reaches of northern Ibania—a seemingly endless succession through increasing carnage—had never complained about its weight or the length of the journey. Her personal guard had made no utterance regarding the open danger to which the Keeper was exposed. Each of them took their orders and performed their duties in unquestioning silence.

  Now, her throne situated before the bone-white fountain inside the Togrun Fel—a pretty little dwarven tomb about as far removed from every benefit of civilization as could be found—Keeper Ch’drei alone could afford to be as loud as she liked.

  “How is it possible,” Ch’drei barked in a shrill voice that seemed to shake the very stones of the great, crafted cavern around her, “that the Keepers of All Truth . . . the sharpest eyes and ears of the Imperial Will . . . cannot even find one of their own?”

  “My Keeper,” replied Master Indexia Charun from where he half bowed in front of the throne, “we followed the trail to a small fold gate to the west. That led us across the Hyperian Plain . . . beyond the Hecariat Pillar. We have eight Quorums searching now. It is only a matter of time before . . .”

  “I do not care if it takes another hundred Quorums,” Ch’drei yelled, spittle flying from between her long, sharp teeth. “I haven’t traveled over two hundred leagues into the wilderness just to wait for three days in this . . . this grave for your report of a stunning lack of news.”

  “Keeper Ch’drei,” Charun said, looking away from her as he spoke, “the Assesia who have returned to report tell us that the trail moves in the direction of the Murialis Woodlands. It is entirely possible that Soen and the rest of his Quorum may be dead.”

  Ch’drei nearly choked on her laugh. “Dead? Soen?”

  “Yes, Keeper Ch’drei.”

  “He wouldn’t dare die without asking my permission first!”

  “That being true,” came the raspy voice from the entrance to the tomb, “then perhaps . . . perhaps I might ask your permission now . . . in advance. I would hate to . . . disappoint you.”

  Ch’drei’s head jerked up toward the voice. “Soen? Is that you, my son?”

  Soen stepped from the dark opening onto the broad flagstone of the tomb’s floor. The black of his robes was lost under layers of dust, mud, and stains. He swayed slightly, his balance uncertain. His narrow jaw hung open as he sucked in the moist air. “Yes, Keeper . . . your loyal servant has returned with news of a great victory . . . or, what will be a great victory once we deal with a few awkward realities.”

  Soen shuffled forward, casting a tired smile at the Indexia. “Ah, Charun is here to save me. How considerate of him to be so concerned about my welfare, but, as you can see, I am not so much lost as I am delayed.”

  “Soen,” the Keeper said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the anger out of her voice. “I left the Citadel to meet you among the marshaling fields in Ibania.”

  “So your Assesia informed me.” Soen stepped around the throne to the tree fountain in the center of the great hall. He sat at the edge of the pool and removed his boots. “Poor Jukung . . . so young and so ambitious. Also, sadly inexperienced although, in all honesty, even my own two Codexia didn’t see the danger—no offense intended, Charun.”

  Soen eased his feet into the cool waters and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  “You’ve lost them all, then?” the Keeper said with a dangerous purr in her voice.

  Soen, ignoring the remark for the moment, turned to face Charun. “My deepest thanks for your concern, Master Indexia, and the efforts of all those under your charge on my behalf. Perhaps now, however, would be an excellent time for you to recall your searching Quorums as, clearly, I have been found.”

  Charun stiffened slightly, but one glance at the Keeper and he knew it was time to retreat. With a bow he turned and quickly stepped across the stones to the exiting tunnel and disappeared into its blackness.

  Ch’drei waited a moment before she spoke again. “What happened, my son?”

  Soen smiled to himself, then reached down with both long hands and scooped up water from the pool. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing the water vigorously over his face, then plunged his hands back into the water.

  “Soen,” Ch’drei spoke in dark tones, “there are limits to my love.”

  The Inquisitor stopped and then turned toward her. “So I have observed.” He looked up at the cascading fountain. “It is rather magnificent, although its effect would be ever so much better were it moved out of this cave and into the light of day. When our Imperial Legions finally managed to break the seals on this place, I was one of the first called in to evaluate it. There was considerable discussion at the time about how we should dismantle the entire thing and transport it as a trophy back to the Imperial City, but ultimately the idea was abandoned . . . it was just too much effort.
Rather fortunate for you, however, that we left it here. The sound of its waters rather conveniently obscures close conversations from more distant ears.”

  Ch’drei remained silent for a time, her black eyes fixed on him. “This is why you drew me to this place? You knew that I would choose it?”

  “I think it much more pleasant to say, rather, that I counted on the tactical and political good sense that has made you a legendary Keeper of the Iblisi,” Soen replied, leaning back on his elbows as he faced her.

  Ch’drei spoke just loudly enough over the hiss and roar of the elaborate fountain for Soen to hear her words. “The Quorum then?”

  Soen took in a long breath before he continued, his own voice pitched just for the Keeper’s ears. “My two Codexia are dead—those that came with me, that is. The borders of Murialis have always been in some dispute with neither side pressing for exactly where to draw that line. It seems that Queen Murialis decided of late to expand her perception of what constitutes her territory. I expected the faery line but not nearly as soon as we came upon it. I had sent both Qinsei and Phang ahead to envelop our prey before the bolters reached the line, but they were both taken before they could get into position.”

  “And the Assesia?” Ch’drei asked quietly.

  “I brought him back, but I do not know how much use he’ll be to you now. Water Nymphs attacked him when he crossed the faery line. He may live, but I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for him if he doesn’t. I tried to warn Jukung when we came upon the line . . .”

  “But he crossed anyway,” Ch’drei sniffed and then shrugged. “Foolish boy. Well, I suppose that’s the end of it then. Sorry to have put you to such trouble, Soen.”

  Soen stood up, stretching. “Who spoke of endings, my Lady?”

  “You chased those bolters from one end of the Hyperian Plain to the other only to herd them all to their deaths,” Ch’drei said. “It’s over. Now we may never know what brought down those Wells in the Provinces . . . and it all seems like such a waste.”

  “Quite the contrary, Madam Keeper; this investigation grows more fascinating with each passing moment. We know three very important truths now—truths that are best kept to ourselves,” Soen said, his black eyes shining. “First, I must report that while those august members of my Quorum who were with me at the time were, indeed, utterly destroyed by the denizens of the Murialis Woods . . . the bolters, on the other hand, were left entirely unscathed.”