Song of the Dragon (58 page)

It was perhaps two hours later that Urulani pushed the tiller over slightly and the ship's bow responded, changing their course perpendicular to the falling sun. They were heading truly north now. The Straits of Erebus lay far to the east—that body of water that separated the Lyranian and Drakosian continents. Their course, however, would take them directly north across the eastern expanse of the Charos Ocean as that was the course the song in Drakis' head seemed to dictate to him.

There was nothing now between them and the sirens that called to Drakis but the open sea.

Drakis stood on the afterdeck of the
Cydron
, his hand on the tiller as he watched the bow and, more importantly, the stars beyond.

From where he stood he could see the length of the middeck below him. The oars—sweeps, he corrected himself—were pulled in and stored beneath the galley benches. The night had been a clear one and remarkably warm with the trade wind blowing from the southeast off of Nordesia. Urulani had instructed the crew to strike the canvas that they had spread days earlier like a tent over the middeck. There was a lower deck to the
Cydron
where the crew could bunk among the stores—and where poor Belag had elected to spend most of the voyage, miserable in his seasickness—but tonight most of the crew elected to sleep on the deck beneath the gentle breeze and the great dome of the star-filled night sky. He could see them as shadowy figures on either side of the elevated decking that ran the length of the ship between the port and starboard ranks of galley benches and around the masts, ending at the forecastle deck at the bow.

Drakis was fancying himself something of a corsair. There was something about the water, its freedom, and the motion of the ship beneath his feet that called to him like the song that still ran through his head. The seas were relatively calm this night and the breezes generally favorable as they made their way northward. Urulani had instructed him on how to man the tiller and steer a course directly north by keeping the bow directed toward a particular place about which all the heavens overhead revolved. She kept a critical eye on him for some time and then, at last satisfied that he would not be a danger to the ship or her crew, she sat with her back against the aft bulwark, folded her arms, and drifted off to sleep.

Since leaving the Westwall Cliffs five days before, everyone aboard had settled into a comfortable routine and, being in such confined quarters, got to know to each other quickly. Ganja, the ship's master, was next in command on board, a tall and powerfully built man of Sondau who kept his tightly curled hair cut close to his scalp. Drakis knew that the man was deeply distrustful of both him and his companions, but he also sensed that he was unswervingly devoted to his captain. He often would take a watch at the tiller—as did Kendai and Dakran, the two sailing loremasters aboard. Then there were the eight men on each side who manned the oars whenever Urulani found the wind not to her perfect liking and tended to other duties aboard when the sails were full. Yithri, Kwarae, Gantau, Djono the Giant, Zinbar, Lukrasae, whom all the rest kidded about his diminutive height and whom Jugar had taken to defending—Drakis was coming to know them all as they worked shoulder to shoulder on the ship.

He looked down at Mala, who lay on a bedroll he had prepared for her, curled tightly under a blanket, her back turned against the breeze. Her hair had completely covered the tattoo atop her head that had branded her—and branded Drakis and so many of his companions—as slaves to the House of Timuran. Now her auburn hair fluttered slightly in the night breeze, and he realized how beautiful it had become to him—more beautiful with each passing wave of the ocean below.

Perhaps, he reflected, that was what he liked about the corsair ship—that here on the open waters he was far from the cares of the Rhonas or the fear of being brought into bondage. He had tasted the free air of the sea and felt the ship beneath his feet go wherever his mind willed his hands to take her. This was what a man was meant to be . . . to master his fate, to be his own . . .

Drakis froze.

A tall, robed figure stood silhouetted at the bow. Its face was in darkness, but its form was all too familiar to him.

And the magical Matei staff, its headpiece glowing a painful blue, was unmistakable.

“ALARM!”
Drakis screamed, letting go of the tiller at once and charging down the central decking as he reached for his sword. “
ALARM! ALARM! ALARM!”

He could hear the crew around him struggling up from the depths of their sleep. The deck beneath his feet rocked with the motion of the Sondau warriors clambering to get their feet under them. Their shouts grew, and the sound of their weapons being gathered filled the air.

“Hold, Drakis of Timuran!” the figure shouted at him, as the glowing head of the staff shifted.

Drakis realized there were two figures on the forecastle.

The Lyric! The lithe woman stood quivering in front of the Iblisi, her back turned toward him and his left hand on her throat. The blue glow of the Matei staff cast shadows across her frightened face.

Drakis came to a stuttering halt, his feet sliding awkwardly across the planking. The Sondau warriors hesitated as well, looking aft toward their captain. Drakis glanced back as well and saw Urulani, now standing silently on the afterdeck with Mala at her side.

“Well you should pause to consider, corsair,” the Iblisi called down the length of the ship. “One poor decision on my part could tear this ship from stem to stern—and I know that it is too far from land to swim, even for the much-storied Sondau.”

Jugar struggled up from belowdecks, his ax in hand. “Where's the fight?”

“That's what we're about to find out,” Drakis said quietly.

Urulani stood so still that Drakis could not tell if she were breathing. “What do you want?”

“What I have always wanted,” the Iblisi snapped, his voice cracking. “What I have crossed continents and oceans to achieve. What has caused death and destruction everywhere in its wake. I want to speak with the slave Drakis!”

Urulani raised her hand. The Sondau drew back slightly. “You've come a long way to speak with a slave, friend. Who are you?”

Mala quickly made her way down the central deck to where Drakis stood. He tried to reassure her with a thin smile as she came to his side.

“Come far? I have come too far,” the Iblisi stated in contemptuous tones. “And my name is Soen . . . just Soen.”

“What do you want . . . Soen?”

“You, Drakis,” Soen replied from the folds of his hood. “You and your bolters have eluded me far better than any have before, I will grant you that, but I have found you at last.”

“Found us? You didn't find us at all!” Jugar shouted. “You were led to us, you lying bastard elf! You would never have discovered us without traitorous assistance.”

“There is no shame in accepting help . . . especially if the help is so very willing.” The Iblisi said casually as he released the Lyric, letting her fall with a heavy sound to the deck at his feet. “I'll admit that I was nearly lost when you left Nothree without me . . . until I discovered this.”

Soen reached his right arm inside his cloak and pulled out what appeared to be a small ball of mud about the size of a pea. “It is a beacon stone, a magical object that calls me to it, dropped by one of your closest companions along the way so that I would not be left behind on your journey. This particular one was the most useful to me . . . because to my surprise I found it at Cape Caldron. That's what led me to you here . . . and the end of your run, bolters. It's time to come home.”

Drakis gripped his sword and glanced around him. Miles from shore and only the boat beneath their feet.

“Peace, friend,” Soen said in even tones.

“Peace is not what I have in mind,” Drakis said, his breath coming quicker.

“Peace, friend,” Soen repeated.

“What?” Drakis did not understand what the elf meant.

Next to him, Mala took her arms from around his waist, and started walking toward the Iblisi.

“Mala! No, stand back!” Drakis cried.

“Please?” Mala said in a quivering voice. “Please, take me? Please take me home?”

The Lyric looked up in astonishment at Mala from where she lay on the forecastle.

“Mala!” Drakis called, tears blurring his vision. “No! Come here!”

“Please take me home?” Mala's voice grew stronger with every step, her hands reaching out toward Soen. “I've done everything you asked. I've gone with them and followed them and been with them . . . I've eaten with them, slept with them, smiled at them . . . I've done all that the demons have spoken from the dark dreams. I looked for you,
longed
for you to come.”

“NO!” Drakis screamed as he rushed forward, grabbing Mala by the arm. “You can't! Everything we have together! Everything that we were . . .”

“Pretend!” Mala shrieked, tearing her arm away from him. “You said it was pretend . . . and the demons said it, too! They said you lied and made me remember, and as long as I remember, they'll tear at me in the night. But I won't let them!”

She turned and ran forward, throwing herself at the elven Inquisitor's feet. “
You
won't let them! You'll take me back home and free me from the demons just like before! You'll send them back to the forgotten places! I did everything they said I should do, and now you've come for me! You've come to take me back!”

Soen gazed down at her with his black, lifeless eyes.

“You promised!” Mala screamed. “I gave them to you! I dropped the stones just as the demons said I should! I slowed them down! I was clever!”

Soen looked up at Drakis. The human had fallen to his knees on the deck, quaking in his agony.

Mala turned, too. “You promised to keep me away from him most of all! The demons are nothing next to his pain! He loved me! He hurt me! I want him! I hate him!” Her voice dropped to a whimper. “Please take me home! I cannot live with what he feels. I cannot live with what
I
feel. I want to never know that pain again. I want to forget.”

She began to sob. “Please take me home . . .”

“Mala,” Soen said in a soft, warm voice. “You have, indeed, done everything that you were meant to do. I am sorry . . . but the demons must stay with you.”

Mala looked up into the Inquisitor's face, her shoulders shaking as she spoke. “But . . . Master . . . you've come for me! You . . . you've come to take me home!”

“No, Mala,” Soen replied, “I cannot do that.”

“Why?”

“Because, I am not the Inquisitor whom you serve,” the elf replied. “I am not Soen.”

The robes began to shift as the Matei staff fell heavily to the deck. The black elven eyes contorted, and the flesh around them shifted. The robes collapsus into smoother forms. Two arms became four as the expressionless and all too familiar face looked up.

“I am sorry, Drakis,” Ethis said from the forecastle, where Mala lay quivering at his feet. “There was no other way.”

“E
THIS!” Jugar sputtered. “You! I have seen a number of feats of legerdemain in my time, but how is it that you have thus magically appeared on this ship?”

“In a moment, friend Jugar,” Ethis said looking toward the afterdeck. “Captain Urulani, may I suggest that a few of your crew take charge of this human woman. I believe she is now beyond doing us any further harm, but her actions, I believe, warrant some prudent caution.”

Urulani broke from her astonishment and nodded. “I agree. Zinbar and Gantau . . . go forward and take charge of her. Bind the woman hand and foot, but I don't think a gag is necessary. Make her comfortable, but I want her secure.”

“Aye, Captain!” they responded and moved forward, Zinbar picking up a coil of rope stowed next to the main mast.

Urulani raised an eyebrow as she spoke to the chimerian, “Anything else?”

Ethis bowed slightly, “It's your ship, Captain.”