Song of the Dragon (26 page)

Drakis grabbed Mala's hand. “Jugar, you have the Lyric?”

“Aye,” said the dwarf as he shot a worried glance at the woman next to him staring blissfully out over the field. “Are you ready, lass?”

Drakis noticed only then that she had dropped her sword somewhere. The girl looked down at him and smiled sweetly beneath her unfocused eyes.

“That will have to do,” Jugar coughed as he spoke.

The manticorian warrior bellowed and then charged away from the line of warriors, angling directly toward the woods. Drakis ran after him with Mala behind him struggling to keep up. Jugar charged forward as well with the Lyric as Ethis and RuuKag followed behind.

Surprise won over discipline for only a few moments, but it was enough. By the time the astonished warriors realized what had happened, Drakis and his band were already crashing into the underbrush of the woods to the right of the line.

The darkness of the woods panicked Drakis for a moment. His eyes had been used to the globe-torches illuminating the fold platform and were not yet accustomed to the darkness. Mala fell behind him, and he stopped, picking her up.

Then the ground started to shake.

The mad warriors were charging at last in the clearing next to them. Drakis stood, holding Mala in the darkness as the sounds of crushing pain and agonizing death permeated the air around them. He wanted to shield her from it, protect her from the horror that was taking place only yards from where they stood. His arms enfolded her head, pulling it to his chest.

And he was again aware of the insistent tugging on his garments by the dwarf.

“Master Drakis,” Jugar growled under his breath. “Follow me. We must get through the portal at once.”

“Why?” Drakis said, his arms holding Mala tighter still.

“Because the battle here will soon be ending,” Jugar said in the darkness. “And those left will be looking for something else to kill.”

With each fold passage, the carnage increased. Thanks to the confused rush of the armies to return home, the warriors of the fallen Houses had been spread unevenly throughout the complex system of fold portals, a cancer that erupted suddenly seemingly everywhere at once. Where the greater concentrations of warriors were found, the destruction was even more savage. That the warrior madmen were no longer restricted by the totems became an even greater problem as in some places they were able to overwhelm the forces of the other Houses and spill into the countryside.

In those places, death was the rule.

It was the silence that shocked them.

Not total silence. The Lyric was humming a tune whose quiet notes drifted with the smoke that lay like a thin veil over the field. Mala whimpered as she shook behind Drakis. The others were grim and silent.

RuuKag broke the crystal stillness, his voice dry and cracking, startling them despite his care. “Which way do we go now?”

“
Now
you're in a hurry?” Ethis whispered.

“Anything to get out of this place,” RuuKag croaked.

Drakis held the sleeve of his tunic across his nose and mouth, desperate to separate his senses from the stench that permeated the air around them. There were several portals that he could see still operating at the far perimeters of the marshaling field. He remembered this field as being one of the largest—the nexus of seven portals originally although now only five of them were functioning. The bulk of Timuran's forces must have been bottled up here when everything changed. Now, two of the portals were dark and useless . . . but the others . . .

“That one,” Drakis said, pointing beyond a slight rise in the center of the field. “That one leads farther on.”

“How many more of these portals do we have to pass?” Mala murmured, her voice shaking. She could not take her eyes away from the moldering death blanketing her view to the horizon. “Can't we . . . can't we just leave?”

“We've got to keep going,” Drakis insisted. “The portals are the fastest path for us to get as far as possible.”

“But for how long?” RuuKag asked through a sigh. “The Emperor will not tolerate such rebellion. He will bring the weight of his Imperial Will down with a vengeance to regain control of the folds for the Myrdin-dai. It isn't a question of if but when.”

“He's right,” Jugar nodded. “The Armies of the Emperor will return order and soon. Face it, lad; we
have
to get off this path at
some
point.”

“Not yet!” Drakis shook his head. He knew the dwarf was right—that they were
all
right—but he could not yet face leaving the confusion and horror of the portals. The thought of turning from the roads previously so familiar to him and striking out into lands unknown terrified him worse than the carnage and battle of the portal road. Drakis, warrior of House Timuran, was afraid of getting lost.

More than that, he realized, he was afraid of being alone with his thoughts. Being driven from terror to terror had the advantage that there was no time to reflect on the raging animal of his own memories still kept at bay in the back of his mind.

But they were right. He could not run forever.

“Two . . . maybe three . . . more portals,” Drakis said. “Then we'll abandon the portals and strike out on foot.”

“Two,” the dwarf said. “Two . . . if we can make it.”

“Why two?” Ethis asked through the inscrutable mask of his face.

“I know that place well,” Jugar said. “There are friendly caverns not far from the gallant—if ultimately tragic—marshaling fields through which we have been touring. It should provide us respite and, might I add, comparative safety for a time. I might even be persuaded to perform one of my more cheery and delightsome tales, if it would help.”

“It might,” Drakis said as he once again surveyed the gore-laden field of fallen warriors, searching for a path through the piles of dead. He reached back for Mala's hand. She clasped his quickly. “Listen, there are field packs everywhere . . . and no one here is going to ever need them again. Everyone keep an eye out for a pack—the more provisions the better—and follow my steps. Let's go.”

They alone moved. Globe-torches lay scattered on the ground illuminating ghastly tableaus of carnage, death, blood, and gore.

Drakis trod carefully among the dead, dreading what his tentative next footfall would find. He could see the fold portal on the far side of the field around the edge of a small knoll. If they could somehow manage to keep their sanity until then . . .

“DRAKIS!”

He froze. The sound had come from the top of the knoll.

A single figure struggled to its feet at the crest of the small mound. A globe-torch at its feet threw the ghastly, blood-coated figure into stark relief. As the hideous form stood shaking, it raised its hand above its head, clutching a circular band in its hand. It was human in form and size, but it was otherwise difficult to distinguish its features. The figure's face was swollen and its hair torn away from one side, but the voice could not be mistaken.

“Vashkar,” Drakis murmured, barely believing the name that fell from his lips. He let go of Mala's hand, gesturing for her to stay at the base of the knoll, uncertain about his former comrade.

The former Cohort leader swayed slightly as he arched his back and howled at the stars overhead. “We're free, now, aren't we? Free!”

“Yes,” Drakis responded, as he moved cautiously up the slope. His footing was slick and squishy. He dared not look down, keeping his eyes on his former brother in arms. “We're free after all, Vashkar.”

Vashkar's eyes shone white all around the wide-open irises of his eyes. “We've showed them, Drakis! They weren't expecting us to do it, but we did!”

“That's right,” Drakis said calmly as he took another step up the slope. “Come with us, and everything will be all right.”

“I have it!” Vashkar giggled through the foam at his mouth. “The dwarven crown! I took it! Now Master will be so pleased. We'll be able to buy anything, Drakis! Imagine it . . . anything we want!”

Drakis took another step, but his mind was churning.
The dwarven crown! He must have taken it while it was still in transit to House Tajeran. Maybe they could go back . . . barter the crown for their freedom. Maybe they could . . .

“Maybe he'll give me back my sons that he sold, eh, Drakis?” Vashkar grinned. “I didn't remember them, Drakis, but I do now. I can see them both screaming at the slaver as he dragged them away. Such fighters! That slaver nearly clubbed one of them senseless he put up such a fight—and him only eight or so years along. What good boys! Surely old Timuran will give me my sons back for a dwarven crown!”

Drakis stopped. He was finding it hard to breathe. He glanced down the slope and saw the others had stopped, too, transfixed by the terrible image at the crest of the hill.

“No, no . . . I've got it!” Vashkar nodded as his eyes darted from side to side. “Maybe he can return my daughter. She had gone lame on the march to the Provinces. You should have seen her before, but she was always such a delicate flower.”

Drakis took another step. “Please, Vaskhar . . .”

The blood-soaked warrior suddenly sat down, his weight pressing down on the chest of a fallen manticore, forcing blood out of a gaping wound. Vashkar took no notice, holding the crown in front of him with both hands as he spoke. “I tried to carry her, but Timuran caught on that she was lame. He had me butcher her right there by the side of the road. Is she worth a crown, Drakis? Could it buy back her breath? I felt it leave her body.”

“I—I don't know,” Drakis said softly.

“What do you think, Drakis?” Vashkar said, as he looked up with pleading eyes. “Do you think he will give me back my soul?”

He held the broken, bloody metal ring above his head.

Drakis took in a long, deep breath.

It was not the crown at all, he realized. It was a jagged-edged, metal hoop torn from a small cask. It was cut in places, slivers of metal sticking out from it.

Worthless.

“Come with me, Vashkar,” Drakis said, extending his hand. “We'll take care of you. Figure this out . . .”

“THIEF!” Vashkar screamed, leaping to his feet with unholy speed, his hand reaching at once for the hilt of his blade. “You can't have it! It's mine! My life! Mine!”

Drakis barely managed to avoid the blow, leaping to the side. He rolled, his body flopping over the dead, their filth covering him. Drakis tried to regain his footing, but Vashkar's blade flashed in the light of the globe-torch. and Drakis could only scramble out of the way again. His hands reached down to stop his fall, sliding among the bodies, scraping against the broken armor . . . a small dagger handle suddenly pressing against his palm.

Vashkar screamed above him, raising his sword as he ran wild-eyed across the slain.

Drakis leaped toward the insane warrior, connecting so hard that it knocked the wind from his lungs, yet he held fast to the slick grip of the dagger, pressing it upward into Vashkar's ribs.

Both warriors collapsus atop the knoll. Drakis rolled away, pulling the dagger free but his hand was caught beneath the gasping human's head. He tried to pull away, but Vashkar reached across with his left hand, gripping Drakis at the back of the neck and pulling him toward himself.

“Please,” Vashkar wheezed, his lungs filling quickly from the wound. “Please, Drakis, don't take it from me! Please . . . my sons . . .”

Drakis grimaced, then held still. His face was inches away from the dying man. “As you will,” Drakis said. “You may keep it . . . for your sons.”

“And my daughter . . .”

“Surely,” Drakis looked away as he spoke. “Surely for your daughter.”