Song of the Dragon

by Tracy Hickman

  But all along the way, the names of his companions would circle through his mind and soon merged with the cycle of the music—that dreadful music—that called to him and ran always in the back of his mind.

  Nine notes . . . Seven notes . . . Five notes . . . Five . . .

  Jugar, Lyric, Belag . . .

  The smiles of each beguiling . . .

  Whose is the false heart? Who plays the false part?

  Ethis, Mala, RuuKag . . .

  They swear their oath is telling . . .

  One is more than willing . . .

  All your lives they’re selling . . .

  Jugar, Lyric, Belag . . . Ethis, Mala, RuuKag . . .

  The smiles of each beguiling . . .

  “Drakis-ki?”

  Drakis shook himself. He had nearly fallen asleep on his feet. His eyes were trying to focus on the short figure before him. Drakis thought that he had never seen this particular gnome before but could not be entirely sure. The only thing he was certain of was the orange vest and floppy hat that signified the gnome’s august position in the mud city. Since which gnome was the Chief of the Day changed seemingly on a whim and each mud city had its own chief who was just as apt to pick up and wander to the next mud city as any other gnome, the only way to tell who was in charge was by which gnome wore this bizarre outfit. “Yes . . . uh, Chief of the Day . . . what is it?”

  “Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed deeply as he repeated the name with respect. “You honor us with the stories of your people. We thank the gods of the sky that you have come among us to brighten our thoughts and dreams.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Drakis spoke through a yawn. “I’m sorry, Chief of the Day . . . is there something you want?”

  “Drakis-ki,” the gnome bowed once more. “I have a story to tell you!”

  “Ah,” Drakis nodded, closing his eyes as he continued to trudge up the ramp. “Thank you, Chief of the Day. I would love to hear your story and I am certain that it is a really great story but . . .”

  “It is! It is a great story,” The Chief of the Day responded, enthusiastically following along next to the human. “It is the story of a human like yourself, a great warrior woman who journeys from the coastal forests, who moves in silence and shadow. She comes from a human tribe that is lost to the knowledge of the world and remains hidden from the knowledge of all except the Hak’kaarin! And most remarkable of all, in her story she is searching for you, Drakis!”

  Drakis stopped and rubbed his eyes, not entirely certain of what he had just heard. “A human woman—and she’s looking for me? Where did you hear such a tale?”

  “Oh, of course,” the Chief of the Day nodded with sage understanding. “My poor skills in the telling of the story would diminish it, and I will not do such a fine tale this injustice. Would it not be better if Drakis-ki heard it from its source?”

  Drakis look at the gnome with a frown, his awareness sharpening as the words sank into his tired mind. “It would. Is this storyteller near? I may have some questions . . .”

  “Not near,” The Chief of the Day shook his head. “Here. The woman herself is here.”

  “What? Here?” Drakis blurted out.

  “What is it?” Mala asked, concerned at the look on Drakis’ face. She and the Lyric were walking up the ramp toward Drakis with Belag, RuuKag, Jugar and Ethis behind them.

  Drakis did not answer her but continued speaking to the orange-clad gnome. “She’s here? Where?”

  The gnome grinned with all his wide-spaced teeth. “Why, Drakis-ki! She is there behind you!”

  Drakis turned at once, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.

  Above him, at the top of the ramp, stood a tall, slender woman the likes of whom Drakis had never seen before. Her skin was a deep black—as deep a black as the middle of the night and as smooth and unblemished as pure silk. Her thick, black hair was pulled back from the high forehead of her oval face and gathered into an explosion of curls at the back of her head. Her large, brown eyes gazed at him above her pronounced cheekbones, their eyelids shuttered languidly in disdain. Her lips were thick and plump around her smallish mouth—drawn slightly up at one corner as though being amused by some secret thought. She stood with casual confidence, the long fingers of her right hand resting on her hip as her head tipped upward slightly atop her long, slender neck.

  “So,” the woman spoke in a deep, husky voice, “this is what a prophecy looks like.”

  “Who are you?” Drakis asked, his eyes narrowing.

  The Chief of the Day, still standing behind Drakis, thought that was his cue for a formal introduction. “Oh, I sorrow over my lack of honor! Drakis-ki . . . I present to you Urulani-ku, Warrior of the Sondau!”

  “Urulani will do,” she replied with an amused smile. “I suppose Drakis will do for you . . . or do you have some rather more exalted title you prefer as the living fulfillment of a legend.”

  “How do you know who he is?” Mala demanded, moving smoothly to Drakis’ right side and wrapping her arm around his. Drakis muttered a curse; she was holding his sword arm.

  “How do I know who he is?” Urulani said through a hearty chuckle. She stepped toward them down the ramp, her athletic figure moving with ease. She wore an outer vest of cured leather over a loose, sleeveless shirt of homespun cloth. Drakis noted that she wore soft buckskin breeches laced tightly up both legs as well as matching boots that made no sound as she stepped. “How is it possible not to know of Drakis—the bolter from House Timuran—who is the professed harbinger of doom and salvation now sprung to life? It’s a story that’s being told and retold all across the Vestasian Savanna by every Hak’kaarin gnome with a tongue and, it now seems, by every Dje’kaarin opportunist looking to find you and turn you in for more Rhonas coin than they can possibly carry.”

  Urulani stopped just in front of Drakis, her eyes fixed coolly on him though her words were aimed at Mala. “No, I tell you, little slave princess, I’d be surprised if there were a blade of grass or a stone under all the sky from the Southern Mountains to the Nordesian Coast that doesn’t know who this Drakis is by now.”

  Drakis could hear Belag’s low growl rising behind him.

  Urulani looked up at the manticorian warrior. “I’m not your problem, big cat. In fact, I’m here to help you all, so you might think again before you decide you’d like to try and eat me.”

  Drakis drew in a breath to speak, but Mala interrupted, gripping Drakis’ arm tighter and pulling him possessively toward her. “I don’t see how you can possibly help us.”

  Urulani turned her gaze on Mala for the first time and took her in through a long stare before she replied. “You may have weathered a bit on the road, princess, but your little cherry tan and cracked lips don’t hide you. I see that the Rhonas pigs still prefer to stock their households with cloud-white, dainty human slaves who can blend in so invisibly into their marble walls.” She turned her look back to Drakis. “Until that fashion changes, the Imperial hunters have no need to bother with us. We’re ‘the Forgotten Ones’ and we prefer to keep it that way. As long as we’re forgotten . . . well, you’ll have a chance.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Drakis asked.

  “Don’t, if you’d rather not,” Urulani said with a tilt of her head. “I just happen to be the first to find you. If you like, you’re welcome to refuse my help and wait for some bounty-crazed fool or an Iblisi to find you, although I suggest that they might not present terms quite as good as I have to offer.”

  Drakis shook his head and smiled. “And, uh, just what are your terms?”

  Urulani took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. “Drakis . . . I don’t believe in you. I was raised on the stories and the legends, and I gave up on believing in them years ago. No human is going to rise up and free us from the Rhonas oppression with a wave of his mystical fingers. The only freedom we’ll ever have will be what we take for ourselves.” Urulani shrugged. “But . . .”

  “But?”
/>
  “But the Clan Elders do still believe,” Urulani continued. “They sent me here to find you, hide you from the eyes of the Rhonas hunters, and bring you before the Elders to answer their questions about you.”

  Drakis nodded, his hand slipping slowly from the hilt of his sword. “And if they don’t like my answers?”

  Urulani looked up at the ceiling as she spoke. “You know, it’s a hard thing when you’re confronted with a legend and you discover that he’s only a man after all. The faithful who are disappointed in their gods can be so unpredictable in how they will react.”

  “No,” Drakis said. “I disagree. They are entirely too predictable. Very well, but you have to . . .”

  “Drakis!” Mala said turning toward him. “You aren’t actually considering going with this . . .”

  Drakis ignored her. “But you have to take all of us. You must promise to extend your protection to all of our group, or we’ll just continue on our own way.”

  Urulani nodded. “Done. Anything else?”

  “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me that your clan is to the north.”

  CHAPTER 36

  RuuKag

  THE MUD CITY of the Hak’kaarin usually bustled with activity regardless of the time of day. The only exception was on the night of arrival, when most of the mud gnomes, exhausted from the day’s journey, retired to their newly occupied warrens and slept through the night, leaving only a few hundred or so of their number to keep watch over the city and keep the fires stoked until the mound could properly be brought back to exuberant life the next morning.

  The enormous central space of the city was, therefore, nearly deserted as RuuKag moved with contemplative, heavy steps onto the main floor space. His great head hung down from his hunched shoulders. The field pack—completely provisioned once more—did not weigh him down nearly as much as the burdens of his soul.

  The manticore looked up. The open dome of the mud city was lined with the cavelike warrens of the gnomes almost to its very summit, lit now only dimly by the flickering flames in the great central pit that had earlier been a roaring bonfire. The curling smoke rose up to the full height of the chamber, escaping through the large hole in the ceiling.

  RuuKag watched the smoke for a time. The hole through which it escaped the mud city was called the Oculei by the Hak’kaarin—the Eye of God. It watched over the mud gnomes in their pursuits and, for the most part, brought light into their lives.

  RuuKag chortled to himself. The Hak’kaarin repaid their god by blowing smoke into its eye. Perhaps, he mused, that was why god’s eye seemed so blind to the problems of the mortals in their care.

  But then another thought came to RuuKag. The blaze of the great fire pit in the center of the mud city consumed the solid wood and sent it up to the gods. Through the Oculei he could see the stars of the night sky beyond—the very realm of the gods—welcoming the smoke and freeing it from the cares of the world.

  “RuuKag-ki?”

  The manticore, startled from his reveries, looked down into the face of a young gnome. By his reckoning the creature could not have seen more than twelve years in this world. “What do you want, gnome?”

  The large, liquid eyes of the youth gazed up at him. “Your story, RuuKag-ki! I want to hear your story.”

  The manticore shrugged his field pack higher on his shoulders. “I have business to attend! Go away.”

  “You are leaving us, then?”

  “Yes,” RuuKag said at once. “I mean, no! I’ve just got to go outside for a while . . . I’ve just got something I have to do.”

  “Not with a field pack,” the gnome replied, pointing up at the manticore’s back. “You’re leaving forever.”

  “I’ve business to attend to, boy!” RuuKag said, pushing past the small gnome.

  “But you have to tell me your story!” the gnome said, the urgency in his voice making it louder.

  RuuKag turned in frustration. “Quiet! You want to wake the entire city!”

  “Just tell me your story,” the young gnome urged. “Look! We’re right next to the storytelling cavern, and there’s no one there now.”

  “I don’t want to tell you my story!” RuuKag growled.

  “But you’ll be lost!” the gnome wailed.

  “Quiet!” RuuKag said quickly. “What are you bellowing about?”

  “Your story,” the gnome replied, his eyes tearing up. “If you don’t tell someone your story, you’ll be forgotten. No one will remember that you passed through the world. Your story will be lost, and your soul will not be recognized by the other souls in the sky!”

  RuuKag looked up through the Oculei once more. The stars were looking back down on him. He felt their disapproval. “No one wants to hear my story,” he said at last.

  “I do,” replied the gnome.

  RuuKag sighed. He needed to get out of the mud city, and the last thing he needed was a whimpering, wailing gnome cub calling attention to what was supposed to be an unnoticed departure. “Fine! A short story and then I’ve got to leave.”

  “Your story,” the young gnome insisted.

  RuuKag sighed again. “Yes, my story. What’s your name little cub?”

  “Jith!” the gnome replied.

  “Well—Jith—where do we get this sorry tale over with?”

  Jith wrapped his small, long-fingered hands around the manticore’s paw as best he could though even both hands failed to encompass it entirely. He tugged at the manticore, who dutifully followed him into a round, side cavern. In its center sat three curved benches that formed a circle. “Here, RuuKag-ki! This is the storytelling place. Sit! . . . Sit! Sit! Sit!”

  The manticore squatted down on one of the benches most definitely not built for someone of his size. “Just a few minutes, Jith. I’m very busy!”

  “Yes, of course, very busy,” Jith nodded as he scampered over to one of the opposite benches and clambered onto it. He turned around, his own feet dangling from the edge of the bench and not quite reaching the floor. The young gnome leaned forward in anticipation. “But first you tell your story.”

  Yes,” RuuKag said. “Well, once between a moon long ago there was a manticore named RuuKag . . .”

  “No, that’s no way to start a story!” Jith interrupted. “You start with, ‘I, RuuKag.’ ”

  The gnome milled his hands through the air, urging RuuKag to continue.

  The manticore bared his canine teeth in frustration. “Very well then . . . ‘I, RuuKag’ . . . and then what?”

  “Tell me about your family!” Jith suggested.

  RuuKag closed his eyes. “I have no family.”

  Jith caught his breath in surprise and excitement. “What a wonderful beginning! ‘I, RuuKag, have no family.’ Why?”

  “Why . . . why what?”

  “Why do you have no family?” Jith asked. “You must have had one sometime—did you lose them?”

  “No,” RuuKag replied, looking at the wall. “They . . . well, my father threw me out of my clan. He proclaimed me dead and banished me into the savanna—the eastern edge of this same savanna, as a matter of fact.”

  “Banished!” Jith drew in a long breath. “How terrible for you!”

  “It was . . . I was heartbroken at the time,” RuuKag replied. “My father was a proud warrior who had joined the rebellion against the elven occupation, leading our clan out of our traditional lands and into the wilderness of the Northern Steppes. His name was KraChak, and his armor was ten generations old—very prestigious among our clans. He was the result of a long line of brave warriors with their own tales of bravery in battle and honors in their warfare. He taught me the use of the spear and the blade at an age when other cubs were still wrestling across the green. My mother—her name was Lyurna of Clan Khadush—was so upset with our father that day that he had to call a clan council just to get away from her for a few days! They were both proud manticores who were in a lot of pain now that I look back on it. They had lost ev
erything in the Rhonas occupation—everything but their prideful resentment. My father had lost his ancestral lands, and that was a terrible thing for him to bear. My parents could not give up the life that they once had—maybe they didn’t know how to live any other life . . .”

  There was something about talking to this little gnome that felt good to RuuKag. He had been carrying the words around inside himself for so long, never daring to tell them to anyone. He had forgotten them entirely while under the elven Devotional enslavement magic, but their burden had returned to him in force with the fall of House Timuran. He wanted desperately to return to the mindless bliss of his enslavement and to rid himself of the weight of his own decisions and consequences. But here and now, in the quiet of the night of a far-off land, he could tell those bitter words to this little gnome and somehow be rid of them.

  Soon the words started coming unbidden and in a rush, as though the story had been there all along waiting for him to tell it and be rid of it. He told of his life growing up in a clan exiled from their own nation. He spoke of the customs of the manticores and how disputes were most often settled in combat. He told of the wonders of getting up at dawn on the Northern Steppes and hunting at his father’s side. He talked of lying under the canopy of the night and listening as his mother explained the lights in the sky and how they were his ancestors looking down on his honor from above.

  As he spoke, another gnome happened by and stopped for a time. Then a third and a fourth came and sat down. RuuKag took little notice as he spoke, for he seemed lost in the telling of his tale to the large eyes of the enraptured Jith.

  “All these wonders . . . all these beautiful stories,” Jith said as RuuKag paused, “and your clan family, they are lost to you? Why?”

  “The Battle of the Red Fields,” RuuKag said, his voice breaking as he spoke the words for the first time in decades. “The Rhonas Legions were not satisfied with taking control of the government of Chaenandria, they wished to crush all possibility of rebellion once and for all. With the aid and assurances of the Chaenandrian Council, the elf Legions moved north to challenge our rebel clans directly.”