“Is he still talking?” Urulani was pulling herself up over the side of the ship. The water shone on her dark skin, pooling at her feet on the deck. Drakis found himself staring at her muscular figure as she pushed the water out of her hair. “By the Ancients, how do you ever get him to stop?”
“I don’t . . . but I’m open to suggestions.”
“Well . . . do dwarves float?”
“We could find out,” Drakis agreed.
“Now, both of you just stop that kind of talk right now!” Jugar said, his face becoming red at once as he pointed the tip of his broad knife at them in turns. “That is a poor jest at my expense . . . especially as I’m an important and critical member of this expedition whose knowledge will be invaluable in the days ahead! Threatening me with a watery grave . . .”
“It would appear,” Drakis commented to Urulani, “that dwarves are not entirely fond of bathing.”
“Which is easily discerned if one remains upwind of a dwarf,” Urulani added.
“Why, I’ll have you both know that dwarves consider their hygiene to be of the highest personal priority in all levels of their society!” the dwarf sputtered.
“I never doubted it,” Drakis said bowing slightly.
“You’ll be granting me a far greater measure of respect once we reach the Desolation of the North!” Jugar said, wagging his wide fingers at the two humans. “There, at the end of the River of Tears, in the far reaches of the Sand Sea we’ll find the God’s Wall . . . from which mountain peaks the dragons issue their mournful call! And who will interpret the ancient words for you then, eh? The power of the ancient magic of the Aesthesian dragon warriors rivaled that of Rhonas itself, and who will protect you from the ravages of its pent-up forces if it isn’t this humble fool of a dwarf, eh?”
“Humble fool of a dwarf?” Drakis said looking down his nose with suspicion. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that ever since Nothree. This ‘humble fool of a dwarf’ was spinning some rather impressive magics of his own that night.”
“Oh, well, not really as impressive as it seemed at the time,” Jugar said at once, his countenance shifting with remarkable swiftness from belligerent to shy. “It really was mostly the Heart of Aer that was impressive. I just used it to conjure a little trick or two.”
“ ‘A little trick or two?’” Drakis said, his words slower and with more consideration. “You bested not one but four or possibly five Iblisi with those ‘little tricks.’”
“It is most kind of you to say so, but, in all fairness it was only with your most able and impressive aid that such a feat was accomplished,” the dwarf said smiling once more.
Drakis was not convinced. “You’re a wizard, Jugar. When were you going to tell us . . . ?”
“It was a terrible battle, indeed, my boy, but at least we are rid of that chimerian Ethis,” Jugar continued as though he had not heard the man. “I dare say that each of us sleeps better at night knowing that he has gone on his way. I do not say that I wish the fellow harm—never let it be said that Jugar would be so cruel—but there was something about him that I did not trust. True, it is most likely that he is a fallen comrade lying scorched and broken among the ruins of Nothree, but, tragic as such an end may be, it has brought us to this fine ship and furthered us on our very honorable journey in search of your destiny.”
Urulani just shook her head. “Unbelievable! How does he do that?”
“Listen to me, dwarf,” Drakis said, squatting down on the deck before Jugar, but the dwarf continued to look down at the wood he was working in his hands. “You’ve been making me out to be this legendary hero to everyone we’ve met since the fall of House Timuran. It kept Belag sane when he might have fallen into madness . . . and I’m glad for that. It even managed somehow to bluff us through the Faery Kingdom although I find it hard to believe that Queen Murialis didn’t see through the lie from the first. It got us fed on the Vestasian Savanna . . . and it seemed like just a convenient little lie then.”
The dwarf continued to look at his hands as they worked the wood.
“But now people are dying,” Drakis continued. “The city of the Hak’kaarin is filled with the dead—and RuuKag with them—because of that lie. All of Nothree was burned to the ground and who knows how many of the family and friends of this crew may be dead for all we know—certainly all of them now homeless—because of that lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” Jugar huffed.
“I am not the man,” Drakis said each word with emphasis.
“You could be!” Jugar shouted.
Drakis stood up.
“How do you know?” The dwarf continued as he, too, stood, turning his face up so that their eyes could meet. “You’ve lived your entire life so far as you recall under the thumb of your pathetic elven masters—masters, they call themselves! They stomp about the world taking what they want, bleeding the world pale just to satisfy their whims while the rest of us die for them. They destroyed your people, Drakis . . . they hated humanity so much that they killed as many as they could and enslaved those that remained not because you were such prized slaves or warriors but because they wanted every day . . . every day, Drakis . . . to see the evidence in the flesh of their superiority over conquered humankind. When the dwarves wouldn’t bow to them, they destroyed them, too—oh, yes, they took them apart throne by throne until only the Ninth Throne stood, and even then they would not bow to the Imperial Whim. They paid for it with their last blood!”
“But you!” the dwarf said, taking a step toward Drakis, “You can change all that. One man alone is worthless . . . but a legend? A legend can forge a new destiny, Drakis. A legend can change the world! You—me—we’re nothing—lumps of flesh who just wander the world for a few years before we return to the ground that spawned us. But a legend lives forever, boy! A legend has a destiny beyond the life of anyone!”
“I’ve seen the fruits of this legend you’re so pleased about,” Drakis said in a voice that barely carried across the deck. “So far it has motivated hundreds—maybe upward of a thousand—very inspired deaths.”
“You’re missing the grander picture, my boy,” the dwarf replied not unkindly.
“Nonsense,” Urulani interjected. “I’d say he’s got a rather clear understanding of the situation.”
“This from a corsair! A woman whose people subsist on the scraps they can steal from their neighbors while they hide in coves along a coast that no one wants!” Jugar suddenly changed his gruff tone after the look on the captain’s face conveyed her sudden desire to test her dwarf-floating hypothesis. “My apologies, good Captain, it was an ill-advised phrase that I used in the heat of the argument. I should have suggested—and, indeed, do suggest—that the perspective of the Sondau Clan should be broadened beyond their pressing and immediate concerns. Rhonas is at war with the entire world and has brought it to heel.”
The dwarf turned back to Drakis. “The one thing that survived the fall of humanity was this legend—this tale of the great dragon warrior who turned his back on the world and would return again to save it in its hour of most desperate need. The hope of this redemption—this story of justice to come—has found its way in one form or other into every nation and race from the Charos beaches of Mestophia to the breaking waves of Chaenandria’s Lyrac shores. They all look to the north—and wait for the legend to fulfill his destiny and bring peace to their lives. The sands have fallen again and again through the glass of time, our need has grown more desperate with each passing year, and still he has not come.”
“But now you’re here, Drakis,” the dwarf poked the human with the tip of his knife. “Mortals do not get to choose their fates . . . their fates choose them. You’re going to be the Drakis . . . that’s your fate.”
Drakis gazed down at the dwarf and shook his head. “When we get to these God’s Wall Peaks you keep talking about, then we’ll find out whether I choose my fate or it chooses me. There is only one way to be absolutely sure.”
“Ind
eed?” the dwarf asked.
“Yes . . . the same way one can be absolutely sure as to whether a dwarf floats or not.”
CHAPTER 47
One Among Us
MALA WATCHED Cape Caldron fall astern as the Cydron sailed northwest from the anchorage, her eyes never leaving the coast until it vanished at last below the horizon under a brightening morning sky.
As the sun crossed the tops of the masts, shore again was sighted to the east, this time the Westwall Cliffs rising through the haze on the eastern horizon. This, Urulani informed Drakis, was the farthest western end of Nordesia. Their conversation was somewhat disjointed, however, as Jugar was constantly interrupting with some prattle about the giants that lived in the Westwall Cliffs and who occasionally waded out into the ocean to capture and play with boats that passed too close to the shore. Urulani scoffed at the “child’s tale” as she stood at the tiller, but Drakis quietly noted to himself that she nevertheless kept the ship far from those shores.
It was perhaps two hours later that Urulani pushed the tiller over slightly and the ship’s bow responded, changing their course perpendicular to the falling sun. They were heading truly north now. The Straits of Erebus lay far to the east—that body of water that separated the Lyranian and Drakosian continents. Their course, however, would take them directly north across the eastern expanse of the Charos Ocean as that was the course the song in Drakis’ head seemed to dictate to him.
There was nothing now between them and the sirens that called to Drakis but the open sea.
Drakis stood on the afterdeck of the Cydron, his hand on the tiller as he watched the bow and, more importantly, the stars beyond.
From where he stood he could see the length of the middeck below him. The oars—sweeps, he corrected himself—were pulled in and stored beneath the galley benches. The night had been a clear one and remarkably warm with the trade wind blowing from the southeast off of Nordesia. Urulani had instructed the crew to strike the canvas that they had spread days earlier like a tent over the middeck. There was a lower deck to the Cydron where the crew could bunk among the stores—and where poor Belag had elected to spend most of the voyage, miserable in his seasickness—but tonight most of the crew elected to sleep on the deck beneath the gentle breeze and the great dome of the star-filled night sky. He could see them as shadowy figures on either side of the elevated decking that ran the length of the ship between the port and starboard ranks of galley benches and around the masts, ending at the forecastle deck at the bow.
Come to the shores of the sorrowful . . .
Come to the Northerly Lands . . .
Come on the ocean . . .
Come with devotion . . .
Drakis was fancying himself something of a corsair. There was something about the water, its freedom, and the motion of the ship beneath his feet that called to him like the song that still ran through his head. The seas were relatively calm this night and the breezes generally favorable as they made their way northward. Urulani had instructed him on how to man the tiller and steer a course directly north by keeping the bow directed toward a particular place about which all the heavens overhead revolved. She kept a critical eye on him for some time and then, at last satisfied that he would not be a danger to the ship or her crew, she sat with her back against the aft bulwark, folded her arms, and drifted off to sleep.
One is the Guardian of our hope . . .
One is the poison we drink . . .
Pity the last one . . .
Keep the course true on . . .
Since leaving the Westwall Cliffs five days before, everyone aboard had settled into a comfortable routine and, being in such confined quarters, got to know to each other quickly. Ganja, the ship’s master, was next in command on board, a tall and powerfully built man of Sondau who kept his tightly curled hair cut close to his scalp. Drakis knew that the man was deeply distrustful of both him and his companions, but he also sensed that he was unswervingly devoted to his captain. He often would take a watch at the tiller—as did Kendai and Dakran, the two sailing loremasters aboard. Then there were the eight men on each side who manned the oars whenever Urulani found the wind not to her perfect liking and tended to other duties aboard when the sails were full. Yithri, Kwarae, Gantau, Djono the Giant, Zinbar, Lukrasae, whom all the rest kidded about his diminutive height and whom Jugar had taken to defending—Drakis was coming to know them all as they worked shoulder to shoulder on the ship.
He looked down at Mala, who lay on a bedroll he had prepared for her, curled tightly under a blanket, her back turned against the breeze. Her hair had completely covered the tattoo atop her head that had branded her—and branded Drakis and so many of his companions—as slaves to the House of Timuran. Now her auburn hair fluttered slightly in the night breeze, and he realized how beautiful it had become to him—more beautiful with each passing wave of the ocean below.
Nightmares and dreams are for dark of night . . .
Sometimes we sleep while awake . . .
Tears for our sorrow . . .
Weep for the morrow . . .
Perhaps, he reflected, that was what he liked about the corsair ship—that here on the open waters he was far from the cares of the Rhonas or the fear of being brought into bondage. He had tasted the free air of the sea and felt the ship beneath his feet go wherever his mind willed his hands to take her. This was what a man was meant to be . . . to master his fate, to be his own . . .
Drakis froze.
A tall, robed figure stood silhouetted at the bow. Its face was in darkness, but its form was all too familiar to him.
And the magical Matei staff, its headpiece glowing a painful blue, was unmistakable.
“ALARM!” Drakis screamed, letting go of the tiller at once and charging down the central decking as he reached for his sword. “ALARM! ALARM! ALARM!”
He could hear the crew around him struggling up from the depths of their sleep. The deck beneath his feet rocked with the motion of the Sondau warriors clambering to get their feet under them. Their shouts grew, and the sound of their weapons being gathered filled the air.
“Hold, Drakis of Timuran!” the figure shouted at him, as the glowing head of the staff shifted.
Drakis realized there were two figures on the forecastle.
The Lyric! The lithe woman stood quivering in front of the Iblisi, her back turned toward him and his left hand on her throat. The blue glow of the Matei staff cast shadows across her frightened face.
Drakis came to a stuttering halt, his feet sliding awkwardly across the planking. The Sondau warriors hesitated as well, looking aft toward their captain. Drakis glanced back as well and saw Urulani, now standing silently on the afterdeck with Mala at her side.
“Well you should pause to consider, corsair,” the Iblisi called down the length of the ship. “One poor decision on my part could tear this ship from stem to stern—and I know that it is too far from land to swim, even for the much-storied Sondau.”
Jugar struggled up from belowdecks, his ax in hand. “Where’s the fight?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Drakis said quietly.
Urulani stood so still that Drakis could not tell if she were breathing. “What do you want?”
“What I have always wanted,” the Iblisi snapped, his voice cracking. “What I have crossed continents and oceans to achieve. What has caused death and destruction everywhere in its wake. I want to speak with the slave Drakis!”
Urulani raised her hand. The Sondau drew back slightly. “You’ve come a long way to speak with a slave, friend. Who are you?”
Mala quickly made her way down the central deck to where Drakis stood. He tried to reassure her with a thin smile as she came to his side.
“Come far? I have come too far,” the Iblisi stated in contemptuous tones. “And my name is Soen . . . just Soen.”
“What do you want . . . Soen?”
“You, Drakis,” Soen replied from the folds of his hood. “You and your bolters ha
ve eluded me far better than any have before, I will grant you that, but I have found you at last.”
“Found us? You didn’t find us at all!” Jugar shouted. “You were led to us, you lying bastard elf! You would never have discovered us without traitorous assistance.”
“There is no shame in accepting help . . . especially if the help is so very willing.” The Iblisi said casually as he released the Lyric, letting her fall with a heavy sound to the deck at his feet. “I’ll admit that I was nearly lost when you left Nothree without me . . . until I discovered this.”
Soen reached his right arm inside his cloak and pulled out what appeared to be a small ball of mud about the size of a pea. “It is a beacon stone, a magical object that calls me to it, dropped by one of your closest companions along the way so that I would not be left behind on your journey. This particular one was the most useful to me . . . because to my surprise I found it at Cape Caldron. That’s what led me to you here . . . and the end of your run, bolters. It’s time to come home.”
Drakis gripped his sword and glanced around him. Miles from shore and only the boat beneath their feet.
“Peace, friend,” Soen said in even tones.
“Peace is not what I have in mind,” Drakis said, his breath coming quicker.
“Peace, friend,” Soen repeated.
“What?” Drakis did not understand what the elf meant.
Next to him, Mala took her arms from around his waist, and started walking toward the Iblisi.
“Mala! No, stand back!” Drakis cried.
“Please?” Mala said in a quivering voice. “Please, take me? Please take me home?”
The Lyric looked up in astonishment at Mala from where she lay on the forecastle.
“Mala!” Drakis called, tears blurring his vision. “No! Come here!”
“Please take me home?” Mala’s voice grew stronger with every step, her hands reaching out toward Soen. “I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve gone with them and followed them and been with them . . . I’ve eaten with them, slept with them, smiled at them . . . I’ve done all that the demons have spoken from the dark dreams. I looked for you, longed for you to come.”
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