Song of the Dragon (25 page)

Jukung slid to a stop next to the Inquisitor, eyeing the dead Tribune. The smell of rotting flesh was overpowering. “Master, we must be going . . .”

“Pause for a moment, Jukung, and honor a fallen hero,” the Inquisitor said, gesturing toward the dead elf sagging against the wall before him. “This is Se'Djinka—hero of the Benis Isles Campaigns among a dozen others. He was a general back then, and I only personally saw him twice. He lost favor in the Imperial Courts, however, and vanished from the official histories. Now we find him as a dead Tribune in this obscure, ambitious House.”

“This place is unsafe, Master,” Jukung urged, gagging even as he spoke. “We must hurry . . .”

“Don't you think this is odd, Jukung?”

“I . . . what, Master?”

“That the Guardians of the House had all formed together in the entrance to
this
hall,” Soen said, speaking aloud his thoughts as he considered them, his eyes fixed on the corpse before them. “It doesn't lead anywhere except to one of the access towers, but the avatria had no doubt fallen by the time they made their defense. This hall would have been a dead end. Yet here we see their Tribune. Why would a Tribune—and especially a successful and brilliant tactician by all accounts—put himself and his force in such a precarious position unless . . .”

Soen reached forward, gripping the Tribune's armor behind his neck and pulling the body suddenly forward. It made a sticky, ripping sound as it separated from the wall and collapsus to the floor. Soen stepped over the body to the wall, gave it a cursory look, and then pressed against it.

The flat stonework shifted inward slightly and then swung back toward the elven Inquisitor. At once, Soen stepped back, pulling open the hidden door.

“Unless he was protecting something,” Soen finished as he stepped into the doorway and then stopped.

The room was uncomfortably small and completely devoid of decoration or furniture. It had never really been intended for use but had been part of the original plans, and no one had bothered to make the alterations necessary to delete it. Yet the Tribune knew it was there—and so, at last it had served its purpose.

A single figure stooped shivering in the corner of the room.

Soen reached his hand out with care.

“Tsi-Shebin?” he asked softly.

The elven girl looked up, her black eyes wide, though whether with anger or fear, Soen was not sure. She remained as she was, however, her arms locked around her knees. The room stank of her.

Soen knelt down with agonizing slowness, then spoke. “Shebin . . . my name is Soen. We are here to help you. We will take you away from here. You will be safe again. Do you hear me?”

The girl jerked her head in two short nods.

Soen drew in a deep breath, watching her carefully.

“Who did this, Shebin?” he asked.

She blinked and then her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, and when she spoke, her words came in croaking sounds so harsh that he was unsure he understood her.

“Did you say a slave?”

“Yes,” she rasped. “A slave . . . a
hoo-mani
slave! You have to catch him . . . bring him back to me . . . let me kill him . . . I have to kill him.”

“What slave?” Soen asked. “What is his name?”

“DRAKIS!” she screamed.

“B
Y ALL THE GODS! It's getting worse!” Belag bellowed, raising his sword instinctively.

Drakis grimaced, setting his teeth, and pressed forward, gripping his cutlass until the blood fled from his knuckles. The curved blade of the sword was thick and strong, but the edge was already starting to dull.

He heard Mala moan behind him. She had long since grown weary of her own screaming and had subsided into a shocked daze. She now stayed behind Drakis, trying desperately to avoid any and all weapons with murderous intent that came anywhere near her. Her presence distracted Drakis, who found himself trying not only to maneuver against his attackers but simultaneously to protect her as well. He realized that he had been foolish: Because he had been trained in the arts of combat, he had blithely believed that every other slave had been as well. Now, as they were once again pressed to defend themselves, he felt how ill-prepared they were as a group. Of the six he had brought with him, only two were warriors, not counting the gods-cursed dwarf.

It didn't help that they were often fighting warriors of their own former Centurai.

Every fold they had passed through led to another marshaling field filled with unique forms of horror and chaos. The first had been bad enough—two members of their own Cohort had gone mad when Timuran's Well was destroyed and the Devotion Spell—or whatever it was called—collapsed. By the time Drakis and his companions passed through the fold, the Myrdin-dai had already abandoned their posts beside the portals and were fleeing the murderous warriors from a host of Houses. The warriors of the Houses who remained enthralled by their own Devotions were slow to take up arms without the direction of their own Tribunes and were scattering as well either to the limits of the totems that contained the herd or through any convenient fold portal that offered escape. The Guardians who remained engaged the newly murderous warriors in direct combat, and the phosphorescent blasts in the center of the carnage were accompanied by the screams of both the rebellious and the loyal caught in the blasts.

Combat was not Drakis' objective; flight was. He led his companions around the perimeter of the totems and soon discovered that they were no longer bound by any of them. They quickly circumnavigated the marshaling field, ducked back inside the totem perimeter near the fold portal from which warriors were still passing, and slipped unnoticed through the portal to the next marshaling field.

Each subsequent passage through the next fold portal brought them farther from their home and deeper into the breaking madness and death. By the sixth portal they passed through, the Tribunes were reacting to the carnage, releasing their warriors against these suddenly dangerous and insane warriors from all across the Western Provinces.

Now Drakis and his companions had stepped through the eleventh portal only to find themselves at the rear of a defensive circle raggedly set up just a dozen yards from the fold platform onto which they had just stepped. The Tribunes—too few remaining for the number of warriors present, Drakis noted at once—were nearly hoarse with screaming at the Impress Warriors on the line. Beyond them, in the darkness, Drakis could vaguely make out movement, but everyone present could hear all too clearly, and the sound sent a chill up his spine. His insane fallen brothers were wailing and banging their swords together in an increasing tempo.

“Where are we?” Belag bellowed.

“This is the third Ibanian marshaling field,” Ethis answered, perhaps a little too quickly for Drakis' liking. “We're north of Lake Stellamir. It should look familiar; we were here only two days ago. Is that of any help?”

“None,” Drakis spat the word sharply. There was something about the chimerian now that made the back of his neck itch. He was a stranger with far too great familiarity. “It doesn't matter yet where we are . . . what matters is where we find the way out!”

“What? Again?” RuuKag groaned. “You're supposed to be saving our lives, not leading us from one hopeless, bloody battle to the next hopeless . . .”

“Oh, please spare us yet another chorus of this same old song!” Jugar said in a booming voice as he exaggerated the rolling of his eyes. “Next, if you remain true to form, comes your plea for us to return to the embrace of the Imperial Will—may the gods put his Imperial Will where it would be the most discomforting.”

“We haven't done anything . . .” RuuKag growled.

“That's true,” Mala agreed, her words fast on the heels of RuuKag's. “Maybe we don't
have
to run . . .”

“The master and his family are dead and their home burned to the ground,” Ethis said with a sniff that sounded almost bored. “I doubt that the Iblisi will care whether we were the ones who actually held the torch or not.”

“Not if they have to hunt us down!” RuuKag said. “The longer we run, the worse it's going to get for us. Can't you see that this—this
hoo-mani
—is taking all of us for fools!”

“Shut up!” Drakis shouted, turning on the fat manticore, the tip of his sword causing a small indentation in the creature's abdomen. “You want to stay and wait for the Iblisi's renowned mercy, then stay—or come and have some hope of seeing another sunrise. But either way, shut up!”

“Drakis!” Jugar had been tugging at the hem of his tunic for some time. “We've no time for this!”

Drakis glanced across the defensive line. The screams from the darkness had reached a fevered pitch.

The human warrior shoved RuuKag back in exasperation, then turned to the other manticore. “Belag! I seem to remember a line of trees just outside the totems on the right side. The portal we want is closer on that side anyway. We've got to push through this defensive line from behind—they're not looking in this direction, and it should be easier to get out than in. Rush the line from behind, then down into the trees.”

“Wasn't that ChuKang's plan to get the dwarven crown?” Ethis asked at once.

“What of it?” Belag snarled.

Ethis shrugged. “It didn't work out very well is all.”

“So you have a better idea?” Drakis' head was beginning to pound again. So far the danger, constant activity, and adrenaline had kept the shadows of his mind at bay, but he could feel them lurking in the corners of his thoughts, ready to tear at his mind.

Ethis considered for a moment, and then his blank face split into a wide grin. “I believe I do.”

The chimerian turned at once, jumping from the platform and striding toward the right side of the line. He raised one of his right arms and then started calling with loud insistence. “Tribune! Tribune!”

Belag's eyes went wild. “What is he doing? He'll get us all caught!”

Drakis jumped down off the platform, clearing all of its steps at once, his legs churning as he tried desperately to catch the chimerian and stop him. The human could hear the other members of their fugitive band scrambling after him as well.

It was too late; a Tribune had already heard his calls and turned her angry, grim countenance toward Ethis. Drakis, only steps away, raised his sword preparing to attack the Tribune, part of his mind knowing it was an act of suicidal insanity.

The chimerian reached back with one hand and pushed the blow aside. With a free hand, Ethis formed a fist and slammed it into his chest in salute to the Tribune.

“Mistress Tribune!” Ethis said as he stood tall. “We are an Octian of House Tajeran. Our Lord commands us to answer the call of the Myrdin-dai to add to the glory of your Order by defending this fold portal against the enemy.”

Drakis' feet slid across the loose dirt beneath his feet as he came to a halt. The rest of the fugitives fell in behind in disarray.

“House . . . Tajeran?” The Tribune's black eyes narrowed, whether in distrust or disdain Drakis could not tell.

“Aye!” yelled a squeaky voice from the back of the group. “We are the most fearsome warriors in all the Empire! Ogres tremble at the sound of our name, and the heathen elves of Museria dare but whisper it.”

The rest of the fugitives had turned to stare in wonder at the Lyric. The lithe woman was standing tall in her tattered dress, a look of fierce determination in her eyes as she held a sword before her with conviction. Drakis could not imagine where she had gotten that blade.

“We are the Octian of Oblivion!” the Lyric said with conviction, her short, wispy hair standing away from her head in odd angles.

“The . . . what?” the Tribune demanded.

“Aye,” Ethis said, turning back to the Tribune as he responded with confidence. “We are the, uh, Octian of Oblivion . . . specialized warriors in the service of Lord Tajeran. He asks only that, if possible, we be held in reserve . . . behind the main line of defense as he considers us valuable warriors of his Cohort and . . .”

“You'll serve where I tell you,” the Tribune snarled in grating, dangerous tones. “You'll go to the front of the line at once!”

“But my Lord's instructions . . .”

“I take no instructions from ‘your Lord,' ” the Tribune bellowed. “Marquen!”

“Aye, Tribune,” came the response from a squat manticore with a long scar running up from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore the chevrons of a Cohort master.

The Tribune smiled to herself as she spoke. “Get this—this Octian—up through to the front of the defensive line!”

“But, Tribune!” Ethis protested.

“Stick him if he gives you any trouble, Marquen,” the Tribune continued. “Let's let someone
else
spill their blood for a change.”

The short manitcore only grunted and then started shoving Ethis, Drakis, and the rest of their group forward.

“My master shall hear of this!” Ethis shouted back angrily at the Tribune as he walked toward the line, then turned and grinned smugly at Drakis walking next to him.

Marquen's bellows were sufficient to get the troops arrayed in front of them to reluctantly part, and within a few minutes they were standing at the front of the defensive line. In the darkness before them, the rhythmic chanting of their own former brothers in arms—now insane—was rising in tempo and sound.

“It will be by your word,” Drakis said to the warrior manticore.

Belag nodded, then spoke to their companions, “When I shout, that's when we run.” The manticore warrior drew in a deep breath and then crouched down, preparing to spring.