“Tsaj!”
“By the Will of the Emperor, Legate!”
“Find the runner and send him back with orders to bring up the Legions,” Xhu’chan said, his eyes still fixed on the map.
“All this way, Legate?” Tsaj asked.
“Do you have a problem hearing, Tsaj?” Xhu’chan shouted. “Yes, all this way! The entire Army of Imperial Vengeance is coming this way as quickly as the folds will bring them. Our two Legions of the Imperial East are days ahead of them all at least for the time being. Perhaps you would rather I sat around waiting for the rest of the army to catch up to us and rob us of the glory of capturing this Drakis renegade?”
“No, Legate!” Tsaj said as he bowed stiffly and backed out of the command tent in a hurry.
“If you will excuse me, Legate,” K’yeran said with a needle-toothed smile, “I must return to Rhonas Chas and deliver the truth of our investigations to the Keeper of my order.”
“Of course,” Xhu’chan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I wish you the best of luck in finding your war,” K’yeran nodded as she stepped out of the tent.
Xhu’chan barely noticed her departure. “Captain Zhan’sei! Prepare to move your command. We’ve got to press north! Much farther north!”
CHAPTER 24
Below the Horizon
URULANI STOOD ON THE WALL of the conquered subatria and gazed out over the treetops of the jungle below. Through the canopy she could make out the fires of the encampment, glittering as though she were looking down on the stars. These ranged toward the horizon as far as she could see. She could hear the sounds of laughter, music, and conversation rising from below.
The encampment had found a home.
Not a real home, Urulani thought as she frowned. She knew it could not last. After the tumult of moving all the pilgrims, their families, and their supplies on the incredible forced march from the Mistral Peninsula down the length of Ephindria, setting up camp for anything more than a single night had the feeling of permanence. Each of the various camps—from Abritas to Quabet—settled in the locations assigned them by the Council of the Prophet around the conquered subatria and its inverted Aether Well. Each camp quickly began to settle and some, for the first time in many weeks, began to talk about the wood, grasses, clay, and stone around them with an eye toward building a more lasting life for themselves and their families.
This optimism continued to grow with the successive flipping of five additional Aether Wells located in a rough perimeter between two to three leagues of the first inverted by Drakis and Braun the day before. Braun’s conjurers moved through all the camps mending items, purifying water, and using their renewed strength to lift everyone’s spirits. Now, with the coming of evening and the labors of the day completed, the rising relief overwhelmed the camp. Music, dancing, and feasting spread through each of the camps.
There was no music in Urulani. No song.
Those who comprised the Army of the Prophet would be departing from this newly settled land the next morning through the reinvigorated folds of Braun’s conjurers. Warriors would be separated once again from their families and strike once more toward battle and death.
Urulani turned and walked along the top of the subatria wall. She stopped at last facing the fading sunset to the west.
“What do you see, Urulani?” came the quiet voice behind her.
“The setting sun,” Urulani answered. The voice behind her was a familiar one although she could not place it at the moment.
“That is what is there but it is not what you see.” The voice was that of another woman, deep and slightly sad.
“One last battle,” Urulani answered, her dark, bare shoulders slumping at the thought. “There beyond the horizon lies a city and everything depends upon our taking it. The lives of all these people…”
“And so many more beyond your sight,” the woman interrupted. “The lives of all those in the city you seek to take. The lives of all those nations watching what will happen to Drakis and his warriors as they charge against the walls of Tjarlas. The lives of the elves as well as those who oppose them. There is much that you see, Li-li—but so much more beyond your sight.”
Urulani turned to face the woman. She stood on the subatria wall about four steps away from the warrior woman. She wore a dress of deepest blue covered in a hooded cloak. The woman’s face lay in shadow yet Urulani felt no distress at her presence.
“Who are you?” Urulani asked quietly.
“An old friend, Li-li,” the woman answered. “You see the battle that is to come but you do not look far enough. You see victory and you see defeat but you do not look far enough. Can you see how victories right before you often sow the seeds of a bitter fall beyond your sight? Can you take comfort when tragedies unseen, hidden from your notice have laid the foundations of a triumph you claim for yourself? The world continues on, the sun rises and sets, and the stars march their predetermined courses through the sky in that time and place beyond the victors and the fallen.”
“I don’t understand,” Urulani said.
“Look to that place, Li-li,” the woman said. “Look to a place beyond where you have seen. Your success will not be found in the battle, Li-li, but in the world you choose beyond it.”
In that moment, the woman was gone.
“Drakis,” shouted Gyorg. The human barely had any breath left in him as he ran toward the Lyric.
“Yes, General Marshal Odelm,” she replied, scrambling to her feet. She stood as tall as possible in her leather flying coat and cobbled-together armor. She had been sleeping on the ground in the shade of her dragon as she believed any good warrior of the prophecy should do among her warrior army.
“It’s the elves!” Gyorg gasped out the words between gulping breaths. “They’ve come! It must be their entire army! I’ve sent out scouts and they haven’t found any end to them, Drakis!”
The Lyric nodded with a slight pout. “It is as I have expected, Gyorg.”
“What can we do?” the General Marshal whined.
“We do what we must, General!” the Lyric replied firmly. “And stop that sobbing. It is unbecoming in an officer of the Drakis Army! I shall consult with the gods!”
“Gods?” Gyorg blurted out. “What gods?”
But by then, the Lyric had placed her hand on the dragon’s neck and closed her eyes in silent reverie.
Ephranos felt Karan—the Lyric—come into his inner world. Today he made his home in a place of endless warm sands under a warm blue sky. It was one of the dragon’s favorite places and he held it for his own enjoyment on rare occasions. For some reason be felt it appropriate to honor Karan with this place today and experience it himself again although he did not know why.
The dragon could see the voices in Karan’s mind fade away as she reclaimed herself. He craned his neck around to look at her, anticipating that she would direct a question to him. He was surprised, however, that Karan seemed to be considering something far away.
“Is it time?” she asked the wind.
Ephranos waited to hear a response but if the wind answered her, the dragon did not hear it.
“Thank you,” Karan said, her eyes welling up with tears. “I’ve seen more than I should see. I would like very much to sleep but I must finish this one last chore first.”
The wind moaned over the sands in reply.
Karan nodded and then turned to the dragon. “We have to ride into battle, my friend. I do not believe we are coming back.”
Ephranos raised the lid over his right eye in astonishment. “Our dragonkind fear no death in the world; our souls live in this place and will come again into the world of mortal men, but I fear for you, my Karan. Why must we battle?”
“For the sake of my own soul,” Karan answered with a wistful smile. “For the sake of all our souls.”
Ephranos raised his great horn-covered head. “To whom were you speaking just now?”
“And old friend,” Karan replie
d wistfully. “One who is telling me it is time to come home,” Karan replied.
“General Marshal, are the warriors prepared for battle?” the Lyric shouted from the back of her dragon.
“Well, yes, Drakis,” Gyorg answered nervously. “But there are only about seven hundred of us. You asked that the caravan continue to the north and these were all that could be spared.”
“You have done well!” The Lyric stood up in the stirrups of her flying saddle, calling out to the warriors around her. “You are warriors of legend! You are warriors of the Prophecy!”
A ragged cheer rose up from the thin ranks.
The Lyric, from her perch on the dragon’s neck, could see across the Flats toward the south. There came the advancing line of the Rhonas Legions—an army of perhaps eight thousand against her seven hundred.
Her seven hundred, and one dragon, she corrected herself.
Drakis would consider the problem from a military standpoint, she realized, and since she currently was Drakis she was determined to do likewise. The approaching army would be staffed with Proxis and the war-mages controlling them. Their combat spells were oriented toward ground battle and should not be nearly as effective against a flying target. Of course, they did not necessarily need to hit the dragon to damage it and, if the Proxis pushed enough fireballs into the air at once then their odds of inflicting wounds went up significantly.
All of this made absolute sense to her—but being without any real military experience, she had no idea what to do about it.
Except, perhaps, to reach some high ground and defend it as long as possible.
“Do you see that mountain commanding the land around it?” The Lyric pointed to the south. A low knoll rose above the plain. The Rhonas Legions were already making their way around it. It was a nameless bump on the otherwise featureless expanse. “That is where we will make our stand!”
“There?” Gyorg gulped. “It’s in the middle of the Legions!”
“We will take that mountain, my warriors!” the Lyric cried out, drawing her sword. She brandished its notched blade in the air. “There, in our darkest hour, victory will come! Today begins the battle that will cast down the mighty and bring justice to you, your families, and our generations to come. Your names will be whispered in reverence and your deeds sung in every corner of every land where people live free of tyranny! Charge, my brothers! Charge the Legions and break your shackles! Charge beneath my wings and by one name will you be united and immortal…Drakis!”
“Drakis!” came the ragged shout back.
“Drakis!” the Lyric shouted again, her sword held high as Ephranos reared back, his wings spreading in the evening light.
“Drakis!” the warriors echoed back louder still.
“For Drakis!” the Lyric cried as Ephranos clawed into the air on his enormous wings.
“For Drakis!” Gyorg cried, his blade flashing in the evening light.
“For Drakis!” roared the warriors as they began their charge southward, following beneath the dragon’s path.
The dragon climbed higher and the Lyric could see the extent of the Rhonas army. For a moment her resolve failed but then she heard again in her mind the comforting call to home and her courage returned.
She put her hand to the dragon. Ephranos responded at once, diving downward. The ground shook beneath them as they flew barely twenty feet above the plain. She could clearly see the astonished faces of the warriors on the Rhonas battle line, their ordered ranks panicking at this audacious approach.
They will close behind us like stalks of wheat before a strong wind, the Lyric thought. Perhaps we need a more permanent path.
Ephranos drew in a deep breath.
A river of fire poured from the dragon’s maw, engulfing the elven warriors in its path. Ephranos shook his head from side to side, blazing a wide swath through the warriors whose carefully arranged columns made it impossible to escape the flames.
The small knoll rose up before them.
Ephranos banked low, his wing tips nearly touching the ground. Several more spurts of flame cleared a circle around the low mound which the dragon expanded in two more quick turns.
The Lyric glanced to the north.
Her warriors were charging up the charred path Ephranos had created for them, rushing toward the hill over the smoldering grasses and burnt bodies of those elves who had not managed to avoid the dragon’s fiery breath.
The dragon vaulted skyward, twisting in the air before plunging back toward the hilltop. Gyorg was already atop the hill, the Army of Drakis setting up its defense. Pikemen on the exterior, warriors behind them, and archers back farther; they formed successive rings around the knoll.
As the Lyric watched, the flanking Rhonas Legions poured onto the charred ground, sealing off the escape of the Lyric’s warriors.
“Find the war-mages and their Proxis,” the Lyric said. “We need to deal with them as quickly as possible.”
“How long must we fight?” Ephranos asked her.
“As long as we can,” the Lyric answered.
“Then let us fight well,” the dragon roared.
“For Drakis!” shrieked the Lyric.
CHAPTER 25
Tjarlas
“DID YOU JUST TELL ME THAT I CANNOT PASS?” K’yeran glared at the Occuran Foldmaster facing her at the base of the fold platform. “Is it possible that I actually heard those words spew from your lips?”
“It is most regrettable,” stated the Occuran Foldmaster in charge of the fold shining on the temple pedestal behind him. His robes were dull with dust and the wizened elf looked as though he had not slept in several days. “But is the express Will of the Emperor that we move these final Centurai through the fold at once. There has been a misunderstanding in the transportation of this Legion and it must be cleared up before I can permit any other traffic through this fold!”
“But I am…” K’yeran began.
“I know perfectly well who you are, Inquisitor,” the Foldmaster responded. “I have no doubt that your mission is vital and that the cargo you transport is of the highest importance. I assure you that I will accommodate you as soon as possible but that will take some time. We have nearly two full Legions in the city awaiting transport from the Northreach Fold but we can only effectively operate one of the city folds at a time.”
“Why?” K’yeran demanded. “Is there a problem with the folds?”
“No, not at all,” the Foldmaster said, frustration rising in his voice. “We are experiencing a drop in Aether from the eastern Wells that is slowing our recovery. When that is corrected…”
“It’s been three days and you haven’t corrected it yet,” K’yeran shouted. “How much longer is this going to take?”
Yet another Octian in a seemingly endless series of Impress Warriors marched out from the shimmering octagonal frame of the Emperor’s Fold. One of four permanent portals within the walls of the city of Tjarlas, this ancient platform was situated just inside the Emperor’s Gate. It was linked to a series of fold platforms arrayed southward leading to Zhadras and Rhonas Chas beyond. This fold, therefore, had become the main route through which the Army of Imperial Vengeance arrived while passing northward. For nearly a week the warriors, supplies, commanders, war-mages, Proxis, and anything else associated with the Army of Imperial Vengeance had been moving through it and through the city itself until they came to the Northreach Fold on the opposite side of the city and passed through it to continue their campaign northward.
Only they had stopped leaving the city three days ago.
“I give you my oath and my honor, Inquisitor K’yeran,” the Occuran Foldmaster assured her. “I will send word to you the moment I can accommodate you and your worthy Quorum.”
K’yeran nodded in reluctant surrender. She knew this Foldmaster of the Occuran and, for that matter, this fold very well. The Iblisi Inquisitor had come to Tjarlas originally on assignment from Keeper Ch’drei, only to be called back to the Imperial City through t
his same gate. She had barely arrived in the Imperial City before she had an audience with the Keeper, who then immediately dispatched her back through this same gate northward in pursuit of the infamous Soen Tjen-rei. Having captured him quickly—a feat that still left her ill at ease—she now found herself back at this same gate trying to pass through it yet again and complete her mission.
This was the first time she was actually interested in passing through this gate throughout this entire sorry affair.
And now events had conspired to keep her from using the fold at all.
“You may get word to me at Serenity House,” K’yeran said. “It is located at…”
“I know where it is,” the Foldmaster said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Relax in the joys of Tjarlas, Inquisitor, and I’ll give you the word as soon as it is possible.”
K’yeran turned away from the elven Foldmaster without another word. She stepped from the foundation of the fold platform and onto the Vira Agrath, the wide avenue that ran from the enormous arch over the Emperor’s Gate in a northwestern direction toward the thicket of towering avatria that defined the skyline at the center of the city. She could see the walls of the Nekara Barracks rising up on the opposite side of the avenue. There were a few guards at their entrances—no doubt listless from being left to such inglorious duty—but those buildings had otherwise been emptied of their occupants. At the same time, K’yeran knew that the warriors of the Vash were piling up inside the city walls and were being billeted not just in the Vash Barracks near the Northreach Gate but in the adjoining arena and on the training grounds as well. It was a waste of resources, K’yeran thought, but the divisions between the Warrior Orders of the Imperium were too great to be bridged by anything so inconsequential as reason or practicality.
K’yeran turned and began striding up the Vira Agrath toward the grand forest of floating avatria above the center of the town. The street was packed with citizens of the Fifth and Fourth Estates as well as Impress Warriors making their way across the city. She passed the twin temples of Agrath and Wedrath on her right. She rather admired the columns that decorated them. There were a number of patrons—all of them from the Third or Fourth Estates—who were making their way in or out of the temple. The gods were not a part of her personal life. K’yeran had given up those beliefs long ago but she knew the political practicality of espousing a belief in the gods. Still, she found their buildings comforting, as they spoke to the deep roots of the elven traditions and the history of the Imperium. They seemed so solid and timeless, their stones prepared to last into eternity whether their gods were remembered or not.
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