ChuKang was yelling at him. “Standing still on the field of battle is an invitation for death to find you.”
Drakis pushed his feet under him, dragging his sword from the sand and taking a defensive stance though what he saw astonished him. The Sondau raiders were crouched down, prepared to meet the enemy, but it was Jugar who was commanding the cyclone.
The vortex was spinning along the shore, dancing before the short, upstretched arms of the dwarf. Jugar’s face was nearly beet-red with the effort as he stood with his feet pressed hard against the sand and the Heart of Aer in his left hand shining with a purplish light that made Drakis uneasy just to look at it. Jugar glanced at Drakis, saw that he was once more on his feet, and flicked the wrist of his extended right hand.
One of the Iblisi shot from the vortex, spinning with frightening speed directly toward Drakis. The human warrior’s trained muscles reacted before the thought entered his mind; he raised the blade over his head and stepped into the onrushing target. The whirling target did most of the work against the keen edge of the blade, nearly dividing the elf in two across the abdomen. As the target fell squealing to the ground, Drakis quickly reversed the blade in his hands and plunged it down directly into the creature’s heart.
“Three,” he counted. As he turned to stand, more movement caught his eye. “Jugar! More! On the ground!”
The dwarf shifted at once. The vortex collapsus, tossing the suddenly freed Iblisi into the jungle trees. Drakis heard with satisfaction the elf slamming into a tree trunk with the sound of a smashing melon. Instantly, this was followed by an enormous wave drawn up from the bay. Its sea-foam face rose higher and higher, shimmering in the light of the burning village as it arched over and crashed down upon the advancing reddish robes. The waters flowed on into the village and over the fires, snuffing out a wide swath of the flames and filling the air with dense smoke.
Through the smoke leaped four more of the robed horrors—one of them soaring directly toward the dwarf, its Matei staff pointed at his heart.
The dwarf turned toward his attacker, but the Sondau chose that instant to rise up. Three of them intercepted the Iblisi charging Jugar, physically knocking the magic-wielding elf down as he approached the ground. The Iblisi obliged them, countering with his staff in a blur of moves, killing the three of them where they stood around him nearly at once. More of the Sondau had joined in the fray but they, too, were faring no better.
Drakis ran to the dwarf. “Jugar!”
“I’m nearly done, boy,” the dwarf said as he tried desperately to catch his breath.
“Get up! We’ve got to keep moving!”
“We can’t hold them,” the dwarf grimaced. “Back, Drakis! We’ve got to get back to the boats!”
Drakis dragged the dwarf to his feet. The Sondau line of battle was literally evaporating into a bloody mist before the power of the Iblisi magic.
They turned toward the boats that were still hovering near the shore, still struggling to load people aboard.
They ran, knowing that the Iblisi would be right on their heels. They had tried to purchase enough time for the ships to get away, and they knew they had failed.
Soen strode through the village, a circle of frost crackling around him wherever he stepped. His footfalls froze the fires beneath them, snuffing them out in a swath behind him.
As he walked he became two . . . walking side by side with a duplicate of himself.
Then he became four, then eight, sixteen, thirty-two.
Each laid frost in his wake, turning the fires of the village cold, their light extinguished with each step.
They broke ranks, dozens of Soens moving through the burning paths of the village, drawing cold darkness behind them.
Occasionally one of their number would happen upon an Assesia and beckon him to follow. Twice different Soens of their number came upon Codexia, all of whom were astonished to see him but followed as well. Slowly, the members of the Quorums were being drawn into the center of what remained of the village.
It was only a matter of minutes before one of them encountered the Inquisitor who was leading the raid.
“Drakis? What is it?”
The warrior stood looking down the beach and then along the line of the still burning homes nearer the water’s edge. “They’ve stopped! They’re moving back into the village.”
“We’ve beaten them?” the dwarf said doubtfully.
“No, they never give up,” Drakis said as he considered. “But ChuKang used to say if the gods are offering you gift in the middle of a battle, you take it! Everyone! Fall back to the boats! It’s time to leave!”
“Who here has countermanded my orders!” screamed the Inquisitor as he strode into the small village square, still burning brightly in places around what had once been a green but was now trampled and utterly spoiled. Around the square, ten red-robed Iblisi stood silently watching and listening. “The rebel Drakis is known to be harbored here. This village and everyone in it is an offense to the Imperial Will, and by decree its utter destruction is ordained! Who ordered this withdrawal? Who ordered you here?”
“I did,” a voice answered from atop the stairs that once led to the now burned-out lodge.
The Inquisitor looked up and then, through a tight smile, drew out the name as he spoke as though tasting blood in each syllable.
“Soen.”
“Yes,” Soen replied as he carefully descended the steps, his hood drawn back, his black eyes shining in the light of the fires. “I thought perhaps you and I should talk this out before you carelessly murder anyone else on your little crusade, Jukung. It is Jukung, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Jukung replied, pulling back his own hood. The burn-scarred tissue drew his lips back hideously from his teeth, and one of his eyes had gone a flat gray. “Sorry, I’ve no more time for you.”
“That always was your problem,” Soen continued, pushing past the robed Iblisi around the square. “Always in such a hurry, always wanting to smash things and get it over with so you could move one more step higher in the eyes of the Keeper.”
“And your problem,” Jukung sneered, “was always one of insufferable arrogance. Some of us, however, prefer action over talk.”
Jukung raised his hand. The robed elves around the square lowered their Matei staves, leveling them directly at Soen.
“Wait! There’s something you need . . .”
“Good-bye, Soen. I’ll convey your regrets to Keeper Ch’drei.”
“But you don’t know . . .”
Jukung dropped his hand.
Instantly, the Matei staves of all ten of the surrounding Iblisi flashed rods of incredible blue, pulsing as they converged directly on the Inquisitor. Soen raised his own staff but too late; he was engulfed by the power of the magic. His flesh turned to ash on his bones, his black eyes ran momentarily as a black liquid down his crumbling cheeks. What once had been Soen, Inquisitor of the Keeper and Envoy to the Imperial Courts, collapsus into an unrecognizable pile of ash and bone smoldering in the center of Nothree’s village square.
Jukung grinned as he swaggered back to the center of the square. “How sad that you had to come to such an end, Soen. But take comfort that I have taken your place . . . and that it was I who taught you the last lesson of all.”
He reached down to pick up the skull of his vanquished rival . . .
. . . and his hand passed through it.
“What . . .”
Jukung’s own skull was suddenly pulled backward, pain overwhelming him as a blade slid across his exposed neck, cutting deeply across his windpipe and vocal cords. He gasped reflexively for breath, but his lungs were filling quickly with his own blood.
A voice spoke into his ear.
“This is your final lesson,” Soen said as he kicked away the Inquisitor’s Matei stick while still holding him from behind. “Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Just be grateful that I am in a hurry, Jukung. You’ll die quickly. I had wanted to let you bleed to death s
lowly, but I just haven’t got the time for such amusements.”
Gasping, Jukung glanced at the surrounding Iblisi.
All of them were pushing back their hoods.
Each of them was the image of Soen.
“They’re all away!” Urulani shouted. “Now it’s our turn! Are we ready, Master Ganja?”
“Aye, Captain!” the tall Sondau warrior called back from the prow. “Anchors are all in!”
“Six men over the bow,” Urulani called. “Everyone else aft! All ready, Master Ganja—NOW!”
“Aye! Put your shoulders into it, men of Sondau!” Ganja shouted.
Three men on each side of the bow pushed back and up, raising the prow from the sand.
“Push for your lives, men of Sondau!” Ganja shouted.
The bow shifted and the ship rolled slightly.
“Sooner would be better, Master Ganja,” Urulani called.
“Aye, Captain! Push! Push!”
With agonizing slowness, the shore reluctantly relinquished its grip on the hull. In moments she was drifting slowly away from shore.
“Board those men at once, Master Ganja!” Urulani called out then stepped quickly to the tiller. “Everyone to your duty! Quickly!”
The six Sondau who were standing waist deep in the water by the drifting bow were quickly hauled aboard.
“Oarsmen!” Urulani called. “Out with the sweeps!”
The Sondau men pushed the oars out the ports on both sides of the ship.
“WAIT!” came the shout from the beach.
Drakis, standing with Mala and Jugar on the afterdeck, looked up sharply at the sound. “Belag? It is! Urulani, wait! There’s someone on the beach!”
“Oars down!” the captain cried.
The manticore was running down the beach, holding something in his hands.
The Lyric!
“Please,” Drakis said to Urulani, “we can’t leave them here.”
“The Iblisi could return at any moment, Drakis, I can’t . . .”
“They are my people,” Drakis said.
Urulani peered into him as though she were trying to look into his soul. He matched her stare for stare until she turned away. “Oarsmen . . . HOLD! Master Ganja, get those two aboard at once!”
Speed won over grace. Both the Lyric and the now soaked manticore were hauled over the side as though they were the catch of the day and dropped unceremoniously onto the foredeck.
“Now if there is nothing else?” Urulani snapped at Drakis.
“Let’s leave,” he said.
“Aft . . . PULL!” the dark woman shouted and the Sondau raiders responded at once. The Cydon surged backward so quickly that Drakis nearly lost his footing on the deck. The ship glided backward into the deeper waters of the bay.
“Port Aft—Starboard Fore . . . PULL!” Urulani called from the tiller, and the oarsmen responded, turning the great ship around its center.
“PULL!” the captain called again, and the prow of the ship had nearly swung to point at the harbor passage.
“All together, Fore . . . PULL!” Urulani called, and this time the Sondau men responded with their full strength, all pulling back on their oars at once. The ship fairly leaped forward now, her sleek prow cutting smoothly through the night waters of the bay.
Drakis and Mala leaned against the aft gunwales near where Urulani stood at the tiller. His arm was around her as they watched the village—and so much more—burn.
Neither of them spoke. Mala shuddered under Drakis’ protecting arm but could not bring herself to look away. A single tear carved a furrow down Drakis’ soot-darkened cheek.
“There’s someone else on the beach,” Jugar said quietly to Drakis as he pointed. “And not a passenger, I’ll wager.”
Drakis looked up and saw a single robed figure silhouetted against the fires run down to the edge of the beach and stop. He could not be certain, but there was something familiar in his stance, as though they had met somewhere before, but it was far too dark and too far for him to be certain.
One thing Drakis was certain about was that the figure was one of the Iblisi . . . and that they, too, were hunting him because of this nonsense about a legend. They had murdered a city of the Hak’kaarin and, had they been able, would have murdered all the Sondau as well. They had taken from him the one place he had ever hoped for happiness.
“Shorten the sweeps!” Urulani shouted from the helm. The twenty Sondau men at the oars complied at once, pulling the oars halfway inboard on both sides. The Cydron slid out between the harbor pillars, the last of the Sondau ships to leave. Within moments, the twisting passage obscured their view of the beach and snuffed out Drakis’ hope once more.
“We’ve the wide Thetis Sea before us,” Urulani said to Drakis. “The ships of Nothree will go west along the Forgotten Coast and gather at an anchorage about ten leagues to the west of here. But I’ll tell you, Master Legend-man, I’ve got a provisioned ship and a good crew, little stomach for you and what you brought down on my people, and the deep desire to hurt something. What do you suppose I should do?”
Drakis looked up at her. “I know exactly what you should do. How far will this ship travel?”
“As far as I take her,” Urulani replied.
“Beyond Nordesia? Beyond the Straits of Erebus?”
Jugar looked up in surprise.
“Why?” Urulani asked.
“Because beyond the Straits is the land of this prophecy,” Drakis replied.
“So now you are this legendary hero?” Urulani scoffed.
“Please!” he sneered. “Of course not—not that anyone will believe me. We’re going to go there—beyond the northern ocean into the lands of these myths. We’re going to see this place for ourselves, and I’m going to prove once and for all that I am not this legend that everyone wants to believe that I am.”
“What are you saying, boy,” Jugar asked.
“You’d like to prove that I’m a fraud,” Drakis continued talking to Urulani. “And I want you to prove it . . . because until you do, people are going to keep dying for a dream that doesn’t exist.”
Urulani thought for a moment.
“Well?” Drakis asked.
Urulani smiled. “Prove you a fraud? That would be worth the trip.”
“For both of us,” Drakis replied.
“Then we go north.”
Book 4:
THE SIRENS
CHAPTER 46
Do Dwarves Float?
URULANI SET two of the Cydron’s three sails after clearing the passage and set her course north from Sanctuary Bay toward Pilot Island, a nasty piece of rock that jutted up from the Thetis Sea. The island offered nothing beyond a place for the merfolk of the deep ocean to occasionally sun themselves and a point of navigation for the Sondau corsairs. By the light of the stars, Urulani caught sight of its southern shore sometime after the midpoint of the night, took her bearings, and after putting the ship on a more western course turned the tiller over to Ganja. Then she found a spot on the deck on which to sleep.
Watch by watch, the Cydron held its course across the Thetis Sea. The winds were not entirely in their favor, coming at them from three points off the port bow, so their progress was slower than the captain might have liked. It took another full day and night before the dark profile of Point Kontantine came into view off their port bow as the morning rays were spreading across the sea.
Beyond the point was the open Charos Ocean, a vastness that had yet to be tamed. Urulani chose not to make landfall at the Point—she would only say that they would not be welcomed there and that some things in the world were best left undisturbed—then turned their tack more north by northwest, laying on more sail. Now the quartering wind was to their advantage; the Cydron heeled over slightly and cut through the waves with vigorous speed. The sunlight was just failing by the time the ship eased toward the gentle slope of Cape Caldron and made anchor in a small protected harbor.
It had been a journey of just over one h
undred and eighty leagues. . . and to Urulani it seemed that the dwarf had talked the entire way.
“Where’s the manticore?” Drakis asked as he pulled himself up on the deck. “I thought he was down below.”
“Aye, my boy, and I can certainly understand why you would have thought to look there first,” the dwarf said, beaming his wide-toothed smile. He sat on the afterdeck, its planks sloping forward gently toward the galley benches just forward, a piece of driftwood in his hands. A small pile of shavings was growing next to his crossed legs as he carved the wood with a thick-bladed knife. “Indeed, our friend Belag does not seem to have taken to this travel by sea as so many of the rest of us have. Captain Urulani has expressed her concern for him on a number of occasions, and I have personally assured her that manticores are perfectly capable of sea travel. There are many stories—both ancient and in times nearer our own—in which seagoing manticores have figured prominently and acted most bravely. This does not seem to apply to friend Belag, however, who was most anxious to get off of ‘this barge’ as he put it and feel the ground under his feet for a while.”
Drakis was only half listening to what the dwarf was saying. He stood with a wide stance on the deck and looked about. “So where is Mala?”
“There you have the collision of both stories, for she went ashore as well,” Jugar continued. “I believe the captain called it ‘provisioning,’ and she seemed most anxious to do so regarding water stores. Apparently the next leg of our trip is a rather lengthy one, more than a week at sea or longer still even should the winds prove themselves favorable.”
“Belag won’t much care for that,” Drakis laughed. “So why didn’t you and the Lyric go ashore as well?”
“So I did earlier, but in truth I found it rather dull,” the dwarf shrugged, shaving another curling piece from the driftwood. “I attempted to enliven the conversation with the captain by regaling her with stories of famous shipwrecks—trying in the interest of better relations to build some sort of rapport with her—but she did not seem to appreciate the subject matter as much as I had hoped.”
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