Song of the Dragon (31 page)

“Yes,” Murialis responded. “And we shall bear them, too.”

“Lyric?” Drakis called carefully. “Uh, Murialis?”

Mala nudged him, then whispered. “Listen!”

Weeping.

They found her lying across a great stone half buried in the plain. A carving of a woman, her face broken and now missing, lay beneath the Lyric's embrace. The Lyric sobbed, tears running down her cheeks and washing streaks across the blasted stone.

“Tianya!” she cried. “My sister and darling! That your tragic love should have brought this doom upon all your people! Was it not enough to break your heart? Did you have to break the hearts of the mothers and daughters of your ruined kingdom, too! May the woodland spirits curse a passion that should cause such pain!”

Drakis leaned toward the dwarf. “What is she talking about?”

Jugar shook his head. “Lad, I have no idea.”

The sky was dark. Rain clouds had gathered in the afternoon. Lightning flashed to the south, rolling thunder in their direction.

Drakis, his beard thickening along with the ragged hair on his head, stepped wearily toward the chimerian, who squatted on the ridge at the top of a narrow hill. They had left the Hecariat and its terrible pillar five days behind them, and yet still his gaze was drawn to it off to the southeast. He felt sometimes that it was calling him back to his death.

“How much farther do you think we have to go?” he asked.

Ethis didn't look back, didn't turn. “We can't stop and rest, Drakis. We have to continue the march tonight.”

Drakis blinked. “What?”

Chimera were difficult for Drakis to read even in the best of times. Their pliable faces and shape-altering bodies and limbs made it impossible to judge their moods. Still, there was something in the way Ethis spoke—those few times he
did
speak—that stood the hairs up on the back of Drakis' neck. Something was different about Ethis, and, as every warrior knew, what a fighter doesn't understand can kill him.

“We're within fifteen—perhaps twenty—leagues southeast of the border,” Ethis said casually. “We can pick up the River Galaran to the north and follow it all the way up to the Weeping Pool.”

“Wait,” Drakis said, cocking his head to one side. “How do
you
know about . . .”

“The banks of the river will be our guide in the darkness,” Ethis continued. “It's the surest way we have of getting there, and we haven't a moment to spare.”

“That's not possible,” Drakis felt his anger rising. “Mala was a House slave. She's in no way prepared or trained for the rigors of a forced march. Besides, we all need rest. We're nearly there now, why not just . . .”

Ethis turned his head toward the human. “We are being followed, Drakis.”

“We're . . . followed?”

“For a week now, perhaps longer,” Ethis replied.

“And you didn't tell . . .”

“There was only one of them then. I could keep track of him. But now there are four, and we are in real danger,” Ethis continued. “Our best hope now is to run—all night and tomorrow—as far and as fast as we can toward Murialis' realm.”

“What do I tell them?” Drakis asked. “What can I say that will get them moving again?”

“Tell them they are being hunted.”

T
HE GRASSLANDS ROSE STEADILY before them as they moved northward, making the going more difficult. A growing black belt of trees—the fringes of the Hyperian Forest—split the horizon to the northwest, a dark line growing wider with each step. Yet it was not so much the hope beckoning before them as the fear at their backs that drove Drakis and his companions on.

It was an hour past sunset when they reached the steep banks of the River Galaran that Ethis had promised would guide them. Belag bounded down the ten-foot embankment, reaching the riverbed first, his keen eyes reconnoitering both up and down the length of the dark, murmuring water before him.

“You call this a river?” Drakis said to Ethis, his voice hoarse with exertion as he hurriedly made his way down the precarious slope, struggling to steady both himself and Mala at the same time. He had seen many of the great rivers in his time—including, he suddenly recalled, the majestic Jolnar, which ran through the heart of the Empire—but this shallow bed only twenty to thirty feet in width barely qualified as a stream by those standards. “A child could cross it! What good is it for defense?”

“It isn't a fortress, Master Drakis—it's our road,” the Lyric replied, her nose lifted in haughty displeasure as she stepped quickly across the smooth rocks and knelt next to the stream, the long fingers of her left hand scooping up the water and letting it run through her fingers. “This is the lifeblood of our nation that you so casually dismiss. You would be wise to remember that and be grateful for our largesse.”

“How much farther,” RuuKag groaned, rolling his wide head as he rubbed his neck.

“Not far,” Ethis said, “Seven, maybe eight leagues.”

“Eight leagues!” RuuKag bellowed.

Belag hung his head, shaking his growing mane.

Jugar coughed. “May I suggest that we take a different course? We must head north at once! This western track will plunge us into dangerous lands that can only . . .”

“We follow the river,” Ethis asserted as though to a child. “That is the plan.”

“
You
follow the river, chimerian,” RuuKag snarled, his large, furry hand sweeping in a dismissive gesture before him. “It's all well and good for you grand warriors! You're no doubt used to walking your feet off crossing the length and breadth of the Empire and all its conquests, but
some
of us are House slaves! By the gods, look around you; you're wearing campaign sandals of the Legions and we've been crossing open country in these household sandals. Have you even taken time to notice that Mala's feet are blistered—that she's had to repair her sandals every day for the last three days and wrap her feet in whatever cloth she can tear from the hem of her wrap? No . . . you've been too busy looking to the sunset to see what's at your own feet. Well, that may be
your
life, warrior, but it isn't
mine,
and I'm not taking another step until . . .”

Drakis turned from Mala, his short sword ringing slightly as he deftly pulled it from the scabbard at his side. In two quick steps he closed the distance between himself and RuuKag. With his left hand, he reached up and, before RuuKag could react, closed his fingers in an iron grip on the manticore's right ear.

RuuKag howled in pain, rearing back, but Drakis, jaw set, held fast and twisted the manticore's ear farther backward. RuuKag's head moved involuntarily back with it, trying desperately to relieve the pressure and the pain that so suddenly overwhelmed him.

Drakis pressed forward, the sword pointing upward between the two of them, its tip centered on the exposed throat of the lion-man still in his grip. RuuKag staggered backward, falling at last against the wall of the embankment. RuuKag clawed at Drakis, but the warrior responded at once by twisting the ear harder and sliding the tip of his sword up to rest against the manticore's throat.

RuuKag suddenly held very still.

“That may have
been
your life, RuuKag, but not any more!” Drakis said in as definite tones as his raw throat could muster. “Yours was a proud race who ran as such a tide across the Chaenandrian Plains that their war cries and footfalls brought fear to the thunder itself—but you,
you've
become a pet of the elves, tamed and groomed, fed and obedient so that you might be patted on your shaved head by your masters. Well, not any more, RuuKag! That may have been your life before, but you're in
my
life now! No one is going to carry you, coax you, coddle you, or drag you—least of all me. So, you've got just two choices: die right here and now by my hand or say ‘Yes, sire,' and
move
.”

“I swear,
hoo-mani
, one day I'll . . .”

Drakis tensed, the sword tip cutting slightly into the soft throat before him.

“Yes . . . sire,” RuuKag said.

Drakis shot a steel-cold glance at the dwarf. “And you?”

Jugar looked down intently at the ground.

Drakis relaxed slightly, stepping back. He extended his hand to Mala. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she took his hand and stood painfully.

“Let's go,” Drakis said.

He kept his sword drawn.

Three robed figures stood next to the River Galaran looking on as a fourth knelt inspecting the riverbank.

“How long?” Jukung asked.

“One hour, certainly no longer,” Soen said as he stood. “So, they're following the river. They are impatient and prone to mistakes. We must trap our prey while we can.”

“Surely they cannot escape us,” Jukung boasted. “The glory of their capture shall be ours.”

“We are far indeed from the Imperial Majesty where such glory is tallied, Assesia,” Soen observed in dry tones. “There is a border not far from here which few of our Order have trod and fewer still have returned to report. The faeries occupy that forest. Our prey has no doubt decided it is better to hope for life in a place from which no soul has ever returned than to face our justice. We must take them before they can find such dubious sanctuary.”

“Then we shall return to the Keeper, as agreed,” Jukung said with an oily arrogance that he no longer bothered to disguise. “You have much to answer for, Inquisitor.”

Phang cleared his throat.

“Indeed,” Soen replied with serenity. This boy was a fool after all, he thought. Soen knew with calm surety that he could plant this boy's cold body just about anywhere in this wilderness and live the rest of his life in absolute confidence that Jukung would never be found. Still, there was something about the youth's overconfidence coupled with so little prudence that he found entertaining in a sad, tragic way. Perhaps that was why he let him live; it amused him to do so. “Perhaps, I could answer for it now and save you the trouble later.”

“This is not the appropriate time or place to . . .”

“Oh, but I think it is,” Soen said through a sharp-toothed smile. He started pacing in a circle around the Assesia as he spoke. “Let me anticipate you, young Jukung. You would ask before the Council of the Iblisi Disciplines why I broke up the Quorum. Answer: It was necessary—in order to secure the Timuran household—to assign most of the Assesia of the Quorum to continue the work in the Western Provinces while the remainder of the Quorum pressed the pursuit of the bolters who caused the fall of the Aether Well. No, you assert; you meant why did I break up the Quorum at the Field of the Dead and send each of us through separate folds? Because, as I said at the time, we needed to pursue all four directions at once. But, you will counter, I did not return. Of course, I will reply; I found evidence that our bolters were fleeing our justice, could not risk losing their trail, and knew that the rest of my Quorum would follow. And I will point out that I
did
leave a trail of fold glyphs that brought you all to my location when the prey were cornered at last . . . saving
you
, my little Assesia, the trouble of having to walk for weeks across the Hyperian wilderness.”