Song of the Dragon (11 page)

“Of course,” Drakis said evenly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

“Oh, just a dwarf's curiosity,” Jugar smiled back, his white beard sagging under the weight of the water it carried and what remained of his hair flat against his head. “I thought I might be able to work it somewhere into my act, you know, when you present your lord—pardon me,
our
lord—with all the glorious trophies you have secured in your battles. After all, I
am
one of those trophies, and I want to make a good impression—right there along with all the other treasures. Of course, it's going to be difficult making myself presentable tied as I am to this pole. I'm curious as to why you feel the need to bind me?”

“You're the one treasure we're bringing back with quick legs and a quicker tongue. I just want to make sure you stay with me.”

The dwarf smiled again. “But where would I go? Your Iblisi totems keep you and me both safely confined to this damp and overcrowded field along with the rest of the slaves.”

Drakis' eyes narrowed. “You know about the totems?”

“But of course.” The dwarf shifted slightly around the pole so that he could better face the warrior. “We dwarves have something very like them, which we use to pen our livestock and hogs. I've often wondered why the slaves of the elves never escape their captivity . . . but as a vaunted warrior, such thoughts may never have come to you. Still, you should untie me; you see I don't
want
to escape. I just want to be a part of the glory of House Timuran and my . . . rather, its treasures.”

“Uh-huh,” Drakis was unconvinced. “Jugoo . . .”

“Jugar,” the dwarf corrected helpfully.

“Jugar, then,” Drakis continued, “I don't know what you think is going to happen, but there are two conditions for slaves of the Elven Empire . . . obedient and dead.”

“Oh, I'm not worried,” the dwarf grinned, showing wide-spaced teeth that were perfectly even. “Heroes die, kings die, monsters and villains . . . they all die. No one
ever
kills the fool!”

“That's where you're wrong,” Drakis said quietly. “I watch fools die every day. For as long as I can remember . . .”

“Now
that
is an interesting point!” Jugar interrupted.

Drakis shook his head and tried again. “What I was saying—for as long as I can remember . . .”

“Exactly!” Jugar shouted enthusiastically. “You've been on this campaign for, what, one or two weeks?”

“Three, but that's not . . .”

“Three weeks? That's a long time without House Devotions,” the dwarf sounded impressed. “And how long since Field Devotions at that portable altar of your most noble Tribune?”

“Four days,” Drakis replied, squinting at the dwarf. “What is your point?”

“The point is that I can tell you a great secret that, I'm sure, is entirely new to your experience.”

“There's nothing you can tell me, dwarf.”

“Oh, but I can,” smiled Jugar. “I can tell you about that song you have whirling about in your head. Better still, I can tell you with absolute certainty that everything you remember—every kiss, every hurt, every victory and every failure that happened to you prior to four days ago—is a lie.”

“My entire life—a lie,” Drakis scoffed.

“Up until four days ago,” the dwarf said in a husky whisper, “none of it was real.”

Drakis leaned down, his face so close that his breath shook the large drip forming at the end of the dwarf's nose. “The only lie here is your foolish stories—but you're about to learn how real your own life has become, Fool.”

W
HILE EVERY TRIBUNE WAS CAPABLE—indeed, required—to create folds during the battle for the warriors in their command, it was the Imperial Folds that brought the Tribunes and their armies to the battle itself. These networks of larger folds had the enormous power to compress distances leagues long and large enough to march the Centurai of the Legions through them four abreast and still never touch the sides. Five of these opened directly to the plain just to the east of the encampment, each one a major tributary to the nexus of Imperial military might.

Stepping through to the other side of these folds would take the warriors to one of many widely separated staging areas near the Hyperian and Chaenandrian borders. These marshaling fields had tributaries of their own, smaller folds each of which led to other smaller and smaller tributary rally points until the final, narrow warrior folds of individual elven neighborhoods or settlement communities. These final folds were always located in a small temple well outside the walls of the individual House strongholds—the last step in the long journey home.

For the War of the Ninth Throne, the honor of bringing these warriors into battle—of planning the placement of the folds, setting up the fold platforms, linking them to the magical conduits of the Aether Wells, and administering the folds through an organization of Foldmasters—had been granted by the Imperial Will to the Order of the Myrdin-dai. These “Guardians of the Well” vied with another Order, the Occuran, for control of the Aether—that magical force that was the foundation of the Rhonas Empire. Their appointment to this calling had set many tongues of the court to wagging, whispering in the halls of power that the Occuran may, at last, have fallen from the Imperial Favor.

The Myrdin-dai responded to the Imperial nod enthusiastically and erected a network of folds that drew Impress Warriors from each House of the Rhonas Empire and delivered them to the field of battle with swift efficiency.

Returning them
from
the field of battle, however, was another matter.

“I don't care who you are, what your orders say, or who gave them,” snorted the manticore standing in front of Drakis. A weathered sash that once may have been red was draped across his broad, furry chest. He thumped his big fist against the sash once more for emphasis. “I'm the field marshal here, and I've got seven Centurai to process before I can even think about letting you near one of my folds. Get back with your Centurai and wait to be called!”

“Marshal Korang,” Drakis said, his patience nearly spent, “As I told you before, our Centurai is still at the front. We're just one Octian, but we've been ordered back to our master's House now. We've been through three folds already today just to get to this rally field, and we've got four more to go before we get back to House Timuran. The Myrdin-dai approved it, and the Foldmasters know all about it. All we need is to bring five of us through the Stellamir Fold—not an entire Centurai—just
five
of us through and we'll be no further problem for you.”

“It's irregular,” Korang rumbled.

“I agree,” Drakis replied. “Nevertheless, those are the orders.”

“I'm warning you,” Korang said, his eyes narrowing. “I'm going to check on all this with the Foldmasters! They won't like it if you're lying.”

“Fine!” Drakis shot back. “Just get it done!”

“Oh, I will!” the manticore roared. “And until I have, you go back and wait with the rest of your Centurai until I return!”

“But I'm not
with
my . . . oh, just go and ask the Foldmasters!” Drakis snapped. “Then you come and find me. I'll be on the east side of the clearing—you
do
know which way is east, don't you?”

Korang growled menacingly but only turned away.

Drakis turned as well, stalking off through the crowded field. The sun had vanished beyond the western horizon, leaving only a rich twilight illuminating the clear skies overhead. Jolnar, the wandering Star of Destiny, was just appearing in the sky. Drakis considered it for a moment.

The music filling his mind now seemed to come from a place far away and barely imagined; a better and softer place. He hated the star in that moment—because in its alluring promise he felt a vague sadness and dissatisfaction with his life that he had not felt before.

Drakis lowered his eyes to the more immediate concerns of picking his way through the milling warriors crowding the large meadow, each one waiting his turn to pass through the next fold and come closer to home. This place, he thought, may have actually been beautiful once: a great grassy expanse surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. He could imagine it a quiet place filled only with soft sounds in a gentle breeze.

The coming of the marshaling field changed all that. The Myrdin-dai had decided on this place as a rally point, the confluence of several smaller folds to bring Impress Warriors from other marshaling fields together, consolidating their force to move into a single fold to the next field. Since then an army had trodden down the once-soft grasses and the delicate flowers as first they came and now they left. The leaving may even have been the worst of it, for masses of troops were coming through the large fold, and it was taking time to sort them into the appropriate smaller folds to send them correctly on the next part of their journey. Unfortunately, the Myrdin-dai had underestimated the area required for this marshaling field and had placed their totems in too small a circle. Worse yet, earlier mistakes required sending units
back
through the folds, which caused further delays. The result was that many of the warriors had settled into crowded encampments awaiting their turn to move on, filling what had once been a meadow with listless, uncomfortable, and quarrelsome warriors.

At last he came to the edge of the meadow and a small hollow just short of the tree line and the ever watchful crystal Sentinel totems. A campfire burned in the center of a circle of stones, illuminating the small group gathered around it.

“Well, it's going to be a while, my brothers
Sha-Timuran
,” Drakis said as he approached.

“Why?” Belag asked, straightening up from tending the blaze. “What is it
this
time?”

“Would you be surprised to hear I found someone incompetent in charge?”

Belag laughed deeply. “Among the Legions of the Emperor? I'd have been surprised if you
hadn't
!”

Drakis smiled back at the manticore. “The field marshal has gone off to find one of the Myrdin-dai to ask about our special arrangement—and he's the second one today to do that. With four more folds ahead of us, I don't know how long this is going to take. It might have been faster just to come back with the rest of the Centurai.”

“Maybe they'll pass us on their way home?” Belag shrugged.

Drakis nodded with a laugh and then turned toward the chimera. Both were leaning comfortably against small stacks of their field packs. Drakis pointed toward the dwarf sitting between them on the ground. “Uh, don't you think that's a bit much?”

Thuri and Ethis each held separate ropes around the bound hands and feet of the dwarf. A gag was tied tightly over his mouth.

Ethis considered the prisoner for a moment before replying. “No, it seems a reasonable precaution.”

“Why? What did he do?” Drakis said.

The chimera looked at each other, their blank faces considering for a moment.

“He kept promising not to escape,” Thuri answered at last.

“He promised
not
to escape,” Drakis asked, his brow furrowed with the puzzle, “and so you tied him up?”

“He wouldn't shut up about it,” Ethis replied, his large eyes blinking indignantly. “He kept going on and on about how we could trust him and how he had nowhere to run and how he was glad it was us who took him as a slave captive of the war.”

“It was unnerving,” Thuri finished.

Drakis shook his head. “Fine, keep his hands and feet bound if you must but we've got to feed him. We need him alive—if only to explain to Lord Timuran why the prize we sent to him is a valuable treasure.”

Thuri shrugged and reached over with his second right hand to tug at the knot. After a few moments struggle—the knot had been tied rather tightly—it gave way. Thuri yanked the gag clear.

“Oh, thank you, Master Drakis . . .”

“No master,” Drakis replied flatly. “Just Drakis. We're all slaves here—and you had best remember that includes you.”

“Of course, forgive me,” Jugar nodded vigorously. “Brothers together, bound in war and circumstance—slaves are we all to the fates. Jolnar himself looks down upon us, does he not . . . an omen of our merging destinies?”

Belag and the chimera all glanced up into the deepening blue of the sky, the wandering star shining above the darkened silhouette of the treetops.