DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  “Retreat!” yelled Jomar to the men.

  “No!” cried Lorelyn. “It’ll follow, and kill us all. It will spit fire on us from the air! We must kill it here, on the ground.” And she remounted and spurred her snorting stallion toward the entrance of the tomb, toward the waiting eyes.

  The desert horse of the Mohara had the blood of Elei steeds in its veins, and it obeyed her command, though its ears were laid back on its skull and its eyes rolled. Lorelyn gripped her sword. There was a chance, if she could get in a mortal blow before the beast could draw its breath to expel a flame . . . Then there was a roar, and with the speed of a striking snake a huge shape sprang out of the entrance. Lorelyn pulled up, staring. This was no ebon-armored firedrake, but a Loänan, its wings and scales red as the rock on which it stood.

  “Mandrake!” she cried, brandishing the adamantine blade. It flickered with blue flame. “It’s you, isn’t it—Mandrake! Come on and fight us then!”

  Jomar shouted, “Lori! You can’t fight him!”

  But she only waved the burning blade again, and urged her horse directly toward the red dragon.

  He crouched, then hurled himself into the air even as she charged. Seeing this, she tried to pull her horse up, but her speed was too great. As she plunged on into his shadow he furled his wings and dropped. One foreclaw raked the stallion’s hindquarters, making him rear; then the tail swept forward, knocking his hind legs out from under him. Lorelyn leaped clear as the stallion fell screaming onto his side, hooves beating at the air. At once Jomar was there, charging in so that she might be protected by the iron sword’s sphere of power. Again the dragon lunged skyward, evading the iron, then circled within the walls of the gorge before diving low. Jomar swung up at him as he swept over their heads, but he was beyond the blade’s reach.

  And now the enemy was upon them, as they were ambushed in turn. Scores of fighters poured out from the entrance of the great tomb. Several of the figures who stepped forward had strange, misshapen features: goblins who flung fiery bolts toward Jomar. But the sorcerous fires died away as he raised the Star Sword. Then one of the other Moharas yelled and threw himself in front of Jomar as a Zimbouran soldier unloosed an arrow at him. The man fell, pierced through the upper chest. It was Unguru.

  “No!” Lorelyn screamed. She ran to the fallen man, throwing down her weapon, cradling his head. His own sword was still clenched in his hand. His eyes opened, focused on Jomar, who had dropped to his knees beside him.

  “Zayim,” he rasped. Then his head fell back, heavy against Lorelyn’s arm.

  “Unguru!” she whispered, staring down into the dark eyes that gazed upward, yet did not now see her. She was dazed, unbelieving at the speed with which the spark of his life had been extinguished.

  The red dragon roared, high in the sky. Passing low overhead once more, he banked on one wing and flew off in the direction of Yanuvan.

  “Which of you is Damion Athariel?” demanded one of the Zimbouran soldiers, pulling his sword from its sheath.

  “He isn’t with us—” Jomar began, when another soldier gave a shout.

  “He lies! There, that one—that is he! The slave girl knew him, and spoke his name! I heard.”

  Jomar turned to stare. The soldier was pointing at Lorelyn. “That is Damion,” the man declared. “The warrior with hair like gold.”

  “Are you blind?” shouted Jomar. “That isn’t—”

  “No, Jo!” interrupted Lorelyn. She stood, faced the soldier. “It’s true. I’m Damion.”

  The Zimbouran grinned. “Not much of a warrior after all, are you? You’re nothing but a boy.”

  Jomar watched in desperation. These Zimbouran soldiers had never seen a woman like Lorelyn before: she was as different from the little, timid, shawl-shrouded Zimbouran women as day from night. Nor would the goblin-creatures likely know the difference. And her coloring was the same as Damion’s. Now Lorelyn was actually encouraging them in their error—but why? How long did she think she could keep up such a charade? Was she hoping they would kill her on the spot, and so save the real Damion?

  “That isn’t Damion,” he argued, stepping forward. “I tell you he’s not with us.”

  “Are you Damion or not?” demanded the soldier of Lorelyn.

  Her eyes never wavered. “Yes.”

  “No!” Jomar bellowed, at the same time.

  He staggered as the soldier turned and struck him across the face. “Liar! Try to protect him, would you?”

  “Enough,” said another voice. It was General Gemala, striding forward through the ranks of his men. “Bind them all, and take them to the king. As for the dead man, let him be buried here. He is of the enemy, but he served his master well. And he did us this favor: he named that master with his last breath, so that we know who he is.” His eyes settled on Jomar. “We have caught the leader. The Zayim.”

  INTO THE THRONE HALL they were all led in chains, Lorelyn and Jomar grim, Marjana sobbing, the rebel Moharas subdued. On his throne Khalazar sat with his eyes black and expressionless as an adder’s. Mandrake stood at his side, clad in a red robe.

  Gemala glowered at him. “Since you could not be troubled to join us in battle, Prince, it was left to me and my troops to take the prize. We have the Zayim, and also the one on whom you say the Tryna Lia dotes: Sir Damion.”

  “My congratulations to you and your men, General,” said Mandrake. “I am sure it took all of your courage and daring to capture that girl.”

  Gemala blinked. “Girl? What do you mean?”

  “That is a woman, you fool, not a man. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  “Sir Damion is a woman?” gasped a soldier.

  Mandrake raised his golden eyes to the ceiling. “No! Damion is not here.”

  “What!” Khalazar roared, his face flushing with wrath. He flung himself on the luckless guards, beating and berating them. “Brainless curs—witless dolts! Always you fail me!” He swung around to face Lorelyn and Jomar, breathing hard. “I will have this Damion—do you hear? I will have him if I must execute every man, woman, and child in the city! As for you two”—he paced close to them, black eyes glaring—“I will have your heads for my gateposts!”

  Marjana gasped, then burst into tears. He struck her savagely and she sank to the floor in a swoon. “Take her back to the harem, and put all the captives in the dungeons—all but these two. They die now!”

  “No,” said Mandrake.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “Your Majesty needs them alive. They know where Damion is. Find him and you will have Ailia, too, in your grasp. As for you, Jomar and Lorelyn, I advise you to tell them where Damion is.”

  Lorelyn met his eyes with her own clear blue ones. “I will not.”

  “They will torture you, you young fool.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’ll get nothing out of us,” added Jomar. His guard hit him, with such force that he staggered sideways and fell to the floor. He fell heavily, unable to catch himself with his shackled hands, and Lorelyn rushed to kneel at his side.

  Mandrake turned to go. “Keep these two alive, King, and keep them from harming themselves, even if you have to bind them hand and foot. They must live to tell what they know.”

  “You dare to tell me what I must do!” Khalazar raged. “I, who am your master!”

  Mandrake looked at him coldly, filled with a disgust so strong that he knew he could no longer conceal it. Gods above, but he was weary of this! “Follow my advice, King, or you will surely live to regret it,” he said curtly. “I will return now to my own place.” He swung around in midsentence and swept from the room.

  Khalazar glared after him, and for a moment he considered calling for the executions to show his power. Then, seeing that the goblin-mages had surrounded the huddled figures of Lorelyn and the Zayim, he thought better of it, and ordered both the prisoners to be taken to the dungeons with their fellow rebels.

  MANDRAKE WALKED SWIFTLY along the grand entrance hal
l. The shadows of evening were beginning to settle in its corners and behind its mighty pillars, and servants were lighting the oil lamps on their long chains. Sentries stood on guard, the iron of their weapons throbbing sickeningly, yet he barely registered their presence, his mind a welter of conflicting emotions.

  What pathetic figures those two were: Jomar so unrelentingly stubborn, Lorelyn wrapped in her dreams of chivalry. Not even the threat of death would make them talk, Mandrake knew. Lorelyn in particular had plainly decided to be a martyr: the Paladins were always so pitifully certain of their reward in Heaven. No Zimbouran could imagine facing Valdur the Terrible without fear; but the Paladins believed their god to be good and loving, and death held no terrors for them. Mandrake suddenly felt depression settle over him. Why was he still affected by the fates of humans, after all this time? Their lives—and deaths—must run their own course, and had nothing to do with him . . . why was his mind so full of death, all of a sudden?

  Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not sense the danger soon enough. The figure that sprang from behind caught him almost off-guard. An arm came up across his throat, and as he grabbed at it with both hands the dagger that sought his heart glanced off a rib. The blade roared with iron in his mind: a mental sound that might have warned him of its wielder’s approach, had it not been masked by that of the other iron weapons. He wrenched himself free, his cry of mingled pain and fury and alarm bringing the palace guards running, and even Khalazar and his courtiers emerged from the throne hall.

  General Gemala stood motionless, the iron-bladed dagger still in his hand. Mandrake stood with one hand clasped to the ragged wound in his chest, the red robe torn around it: the other hand was raised and crooked like a claw as he confronted his failed assassin.

  “You!” cried Khalazar. “I should have known!”

  “Your Majesty,” the grizzled old warrior began, “I had my reasons. When have I not served you well? I have been with you from the beginning. Hear me. This man is no spirit, but only an evil sorcerer—he is here to serve not you but his own ends. I saw how he dared to dismiss your command, just now! He means to murder you and take your place. I procured this dagger of cold iron days ago, waiting my chance. I intended to lay his lifeless body at your feet as proof of my claim. I have failed to slay him, but, Majesty, look!” He held out the bloodstained blade. “Did you ever hear of a spirit that bled?”

  “General, I admire your courage and devotion to your king,” hissed Mandrake through his teeth. “But I’m going to kill you nonetheless,” he added, stepping forward.

  “No, his fate is mine to decide!” snarled the king. “Guards, take the general to the dungeon! He dies tonight—slowly, in torment. No, Mandrake, unhand him! I say he dies slowly!”

  “Majesty, I entreat you,” Gemala shouted as he was dragged off.

  Mandrake strode away. Through the throbbing pain that clouded his mind he felt a rising disgust. Assassinations and machinations! He was sick of it all. And now he had come near to losing his life, and would bear this iron-inflicted wound even if he shifted shape.

  Had he courted danger on purpose, he wondered, warding off boredom with its heady spice? If so, he would do so no more: he had grown careless, and it had nearly proved fatal. What worse intrigues might await him in this accursed land? Let the goblins watch over Jomar and Lorelyn, and seek for Damion in the wastelands. He had a realm and a people of his own to deal with, and an even more dangerous foe who had not yet been found.

  It was long past time for him to return to Nemorah.

  16

  The Forbidden Palace

  AILIA HAD NOW SPENT TWO NIGHTS at the inn and, she reflected, had slept better in the tree. The din from the common room below seeped up through the cracks in the warped and knotty floorboards, along with chinks of lamplight and the reek of smoke and ale. The troll guard was evidently kept very busy, from all the shouts and the sound of bodies being hurled down the front steps. She felt herself grow tense every time a heavy tread ascended the stairs and went past her door. Twidjik was as edgy as she, one set of eyes watching the door and the other the window.

  In the evenings she helped Mai to serve food to patrons in the main room, or joined Mag in the kitchen while Twidjik followed her about like a dog, frequently getting underfoot. At last Ailia convinced him to withdraw underneath the table.

  “I can’t understand it,” said Mag. “Those little two-heads are supposed to be the most timorous creatures alive. I never heard of one hanging about with humans before. They’re usually terrified of anything bigger than themselves.”

  “I suppose I’m not very frightening,” Ailia said. Privately she felt grateful that no one here could understand amphisbaena speech. Twidjik might have let slip the fact that he clung to her because of the magical protection she offered.

  As she worked Ailia pondered her next move. There were clearly no sky-faring vessels here: she had asked, discreetly, and received only blank stares from those she questioned. Only the dragon-folk, she was told, knew of such things, and they had not been seen for years and would have nothing to do with ordinary humans in any case. Could she find and confront Mandrake’s minions, perhaps, and somehow compel them to help her? But what if the prince himself were with them? The Loänei she might hope to defeat, but Mandrake was another matter. He had centuries of experience in fighting any number of formidable enemies, and she had never been trained in any sort of combat. No doubt she would have been, eventually. Had the Loänan had their way, she would probably not have faced Mandrake for many more years. What should she do? Flee him, or fight him?

  I defeated him once before, she told herself on the evening of the third day.

  Not you, an inner voice replied. You were on your own world then, and its power and the Stone’s drove him away. You’ve no Stone with you this time, and you’re on his ground, his world.

  I couldn’t have brought the Stone with me. I couldn’t risk it falling into his hands. He would use it for a symbol, to pretend to the Valei that he really is their god.

  True—but now you haven’t got its power. You are alone.

  Alone . . . The word reverberated through her mind. Auron and Taleera did not know where she was, and poor Twidjik was not much of an ally now that he had fulfilled his role in bringing her to Loänanmar. Ailia drew on her magic, tried to feel its presence within her, a vast reservoir of untapped energy. She had power, even without the Stone—but not the practical skills she needed to fight for her life.

  She walked out into the courtyard, where Mag was cooking food over a small earthen pit near the hot spring. It steamed just like a boiling pot, and next to it was a smaller, bubbling pool in which dishes and pans were scouring. The glare of both suns filled the courtyard, but it no longer seemed so hot. A breeze was blowing, stirring the ferny fronds of the little trees, and clouds scudded across a sky the clear green shade of spring leaves.

  “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” said Mag. “It changed so suddenly last night.”

  Ailia murmured a reply. Her gaze was fixed on the fortress atop the volcanic hill, looming above the roofs of the city. No road climbed the sheer rock face below it, and no gate pierced its walls. It could be reached only from the air, according to Mag, though a cave in the hillside was believed to be an entrance to its cellars. The opening sent forth a continuous steam, like smoke from a firedrake’s mouth, and no one dared enter it.

  “By the way,” Mag went on, “I’ve aired your bedding for you, and put another old gown of mine in your room. It’s a mercy we’re nearly the same size: however did you manage to leave home with only the clothes on your back? I’m afraid I can’t repair that yellow undergarment of yours, though; it’s in tatters. A pity. Such lovely weaving, fine as mist: I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Undergarment? Ailia suddenly recalled the Alfaranian chiton: she had not been able to hide it in the bare little room, and now Mag had gone in and found it. The older woman’s face looked too curious for her liking. She forced a smi
le and a nonchalant tone. “Oh, thank you, Mag, but it can be thrown out.”

  “Throw it away! It’s too fine for that, even torn. You’ll find nothing like it here in the city. Give it to me, I’ll make something out of it.”

  “Well—you might turn it into cleaning rags, I suppose.” She tried to keep her voice light and careless, afraid to excite Mag’s interest. She really should have discarded the garment . . .

  The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you! But if I’m not mistaken, it’s much too good for rags. You can keep my old gown, if you like. But you’ll need to get more clothing, somehow.”

  “Thank you,” said Ailia. “But I don’t think I shall be staying in the city after all. I think I’ll return home.” At the word home she felt a sharp twinge of yearning—for her father, for Halmirion, for her friends, to whom anything might now have happened. And how could she hope to leave this planet? She could not keep a little tremor out of her voice as she spoke, and felt a sudden mad longing to tell this sympathetic woman everything—the whole truth, rather than elaborate lies. Oh, to share her real burdens with someone!

  “Now how about a bite to eat?” Mag continued, getting up and brushing the dirt from her knees.

  Before Ailia could reply there was a swift movement in the sky overhead, and she glanced up sharply, shielding her eyes. To her relief she saw only a bright-plumaged bird circling hawklike against the green. Its wings shone bright as beaten gold in the sunlight, flashing on each downstroke. To her surprise Mag had gone as pale as her bronze-colored skin would allow. “Did you see that? Did you see?”

  “I saw a bird,” said Ailia, puzzled.

  “That was no bird, it was he. One of the many forms that he takes is a gold-plumed bird. There’s no other like it in all the world.”

  “He?” asked Ailia with a little stab of fear.

  “The Dragon King. Once in a while he flies out of that steaming cave in the side of the hill, transformed into that shape: the golden bird. My mother told me about it, long ago when I was a little girl. It’s a sort of sign, his way of saying that he’s watching us. If I ever saw such a bird, she said, I should show it reverence—for it would be he. This means he has come back!”