Song of the Dragon (48 page)

“It is difficult,” Harku pressed on, “but you must tell us.”

Mala's lower lip began to quiver.

“Tell us!” Harku commanded in a firm voice.

Shasa's face was full of warning for his brother, but Mala suddenly began to speak.

“We were at House Devotions,” she said, her words coming out in a rush. “Everything was happening just as it always had before. Lord Timuran and his wife and daughter were near the House altar. I had already had my Devotions from the altar and was standing to one side of the subatria. Then Drakis—I don't know what happened, but Drakis was yelling and fighting the House Guardians on the far side of the Aether Well. He didn't want to take his Devotions. I couldn't understand why . . . we had just spoken earlier in the day, and we had such great hopes . . . but there he was, fighting the Guardians, and . . .”

Mala stopped talking, her eyes still fixed far away.

“And what, child?” Shasa urged.

“And then the Aether Well came apart . . . like shattering crockery only so much quicker and with a terrible noise. That's when I knew.”

“Knew what?” Kintaro asked.

“That's when my memories returned to me . . . and I knew that my life was over.”

“He is the fulfillment of a prophecy laid down in the most ancient of times.” Belag stood tall in the center of the lodge, the crest of his growing mane nearly touching the rafters of the ceiling overhead. He spoke with conviction, his eyes bright in the torchlight. “He freed me from the enslavement of the Rhonas sorceries and showed me the way to life and peace. He is the embodiment of the promises made of old. He
will
journey to the north countries, commune with the gods, and return in power to wreak vengeance and doom upon the Rhonas Imperium. He is the one that my brother sought beside me . . . and for whom he gave his life.”

“And how do you know this?” Harku demanded. “How do you know he is the one?”

“My brother gave his life for him,” Belag affirmed. “He is the one!”

“. . . now, Drakis, he knew that the Iblisi were after us after we had spent the night at Togrun Fel, and he was determined that those slippery elven bastards would not lay a hand on us. He also knew the Song of the Dragon that was calling him along, giving him the knowledge of what was to come, that if we had stayed there but another hour, those very demons of the Imperial Corruption would be upon us. So, he stood before us and led us westward through the entire length of the Hyperian Plain—where the gods favored him by laying all manner of food and drink in our path. I tell you, Elders of the honored Sondau Clan, that the gods themselves granted powers to that boy that are beyond explanation!”

“Thank you, Master Jugar,” Shasa said for the fourth time.

“Wait! There's so much more to tell! Take, for example, that time when we were passing the Hecariat—that terrible, doomed tower on the plains of Hyperia! The spirits of the mountain came down among the stones as we passed . . .”

“We shall take your statements into account as we deliberate,” Harku said emphatically. “You may go.”

“Oh, but there is so much more!” the dwarf offered cheerfully. “The Miracle of the Faery Halls! The Miracle of the Hak'kaarin! The Miracle of the . . .”

Elder Kintaro groaned.

“THANK YOU!” Shasa said too loudly.

It was late by the time RuuKag was led out of the lodge. As the manticore was led from the room, Urulani moved to one of the guttering torches at the side of the room.

“He is hiding something,” Kintaro said a few moments after the door closed behind RuuKag.

“He is afraid,” Shasa replied. “Fear can make anyone do foolish things.”

“He doesn't believe in Drakis,” Kintaro said.

“He says he does not know, but, then, he doesn't really believe in anything,” Harku observed. “Which is of no use to us.”

Urulani pulled the fluttering torch from its mount and snuffed it out in the pot filled with sand sitting on the floor below it. “You will not need the others.”

“How so?” Harku asked.

Urulani pulled a new torch from a second holding pot and lit it on one of the other torches. “Because one is a Lyric who no longer knows herself—or finds it too painful to be herself. In either case, examining her will not help you.”

“And the other?” asked Kintaro.

“The other is a chimerian,” Urulani answered as she placed the new torch in the wall bracket. “It has been rightly said that a chimerian once told the truth—and was executed on the spot for heresy.”

“I do not like your tone,” Shasa said, “but I agree that we cannot in this matter trust the word of a chimerian. They see the world through their own eyes . . . and have no love or regard for us.”

“Then it is time we dealt with this prophecy directly,” Kintaro said.

“I agree,” Harku responded.

Shasa nodded. “Urulani?”

“Yes, Elder Shasa.”

“Bring us this man Drakis.”

“What is your name?”

“Drakis, my lords.”

“Of what clan?”

“I do not recall. I may have been too young to remember—and my memories are still disjointed, especially of my youth. But I believe that my family came from one of the clans near here.”

“The white clans were hunted to near extinction,” spoke the gray-haired man.

“It was obviously many years ago,” Drakis replied, “but I recall my . . . my mother . . . I believe it was my true mother . . . telling me about our family to the north. She always spoke of going north and family at the same time.”

“And your father?”

“I do not recall my father, my lord.”

“Any other family?” the balding man asked.

“I . . . I had a brother,” Drakis paused, looking away briefly and then, blowing out a quick breath, continued. “I had a brother whom I recall as being quite close to me. He, uh, he died—beaten to death by one of our masters. I may have had a sister . . . but I cannot say with certainty whether she was my actual sister or some relationship our masters concocted for us.”

The bearded one spoke next with impatience. “What caused you to rebel in your master's House?”

“I . . . I don't know what you . . .”

“Where did it start?” the balding man urged. “What brought you to the point of breaking the bonds of the Devotions?”

“Well,” Drakis thought. “I guess it all started with the song.”

The bearded man's eyebrows arched up. “What song?”

“Well, it's not really a song, I suppose . . . I'm sorry, my lords, let me answer your question. I suppose in a way it started with the dwarf . . .”

“Wait,” the balding man said, holding up his hand. “Tell us about this song.”

Drakis looked puzzled. “Well, it's something that seems to be running in my head all the time. It wasn't always there, but the dwarf calls it . . .”

“The Song of the Dragon,” the bearded man finished.

“Well, the Dragon Song actually, but . . .”

“Enough. Drakis . . . come with me.” Shasa stood up from his chair and stepped in front of Drakis, crossing to the right side of the room. He took a torch from the wall and then stepped down to the corner of the lodge, beckoning Drakis to follow.

“Look here,” Shasa said, pushing the torch closer to the wall.

Drakis leaned forward, gazing at the relief carved into the wood planks. It was crude by elven standards—almost primitive—but the figures were unmistakably human.

“This is our story of what
will
be,” Shasa said, as he moved slowly down the wall with the torch. “The other walls tell of our past and our present but this wall. . . here . . . tells us the story that is yet to come. It is the story of the man who will be a slave but will break his own bonds. It is the story of the man who will come out of the south and journey across the waters to the ancient home of our people now lost to us, hidden beyond the clouds. It is the story of the man who will bring back the glory of humanity that was lost and destroy the oppressors of the land. Look here!”

Drakis drew himself closer to the carvings, following Shasa's pointing finger.

“Here is this warrior-prophet being called home.”

“What are those creatures calling him?” Drakis asked.

“Dragons, brother. They are dragons calling to the souls of the chosen to come to them and find their destiny. Many have heard the dragon song, but none before you have followed the path of the story.”

Drakis looked into the face of the Elder.

“Are you this Drakis, son,” the Elder asked. “Are you this warrior-prophet who will free us all?”

Drakis drew in several breaths before he responded.

“Elder Shasa . . . I truly do not know.”

“W
ELL, DRAKIS, what are you thinking?”

Drakis smiled. “I was just thinking how beautiful this place is, Elder Shasa.”

Drakis walked side by side with the large, balding Elder down the wide path on the right-hand side of the village square. Small children ran about their feet, chasing one another with concentration in their delight that was oblivious to the adults around them. The square itself was lined with stalls filled with a dizzying variety of goods—fruits and vegetables from the farms that terraced the hillsides surrounding the village as well as pottery, tools, weapons, shields, and any number of other crafts. Many of the goods were obviously made by the Sondau, while many others had quite obviously been looted during previous raids. Everywhere Drakis looked there were dark-skinned men and women, young and old, all freely engaged with one another. Three huge and powerful men stood together at the corner of the green speaking to each other in quiet tones but with large gestures, their eyes filled with the passion of their argument. Ahead of them, two women walked past, their arms filled with large fruits. They both turned to look at Drakis as they passed, then broke into giggling laughter as they walked on.