Song of the Dragon (6 page)

“To my place of resting . . . of testing . . .”

He drew the blade out just in time to parry an ax blade from his right.

“Centurai! Centurai Timuran!” The call to rally was shouted unmistakably by ChuKang—yet his words sounded strangely muffled, their direction and distance diffused through the steaming fog. One after the other, the leaders of each Octian were being summoned to rally to their leader. “Centurai!”

Drakis thrust his sword into an ax-wielding dwarf, then, looking up, caught a glimpse of several large figures running past him, their dark outlines illuminated by flashing pulses of light against the steaming mists. The first two were manticores—judging by their size and the enormously broad shoulders—followed closely by a lithe shadow with four arms.

“Hey, GriChag! TsuRag! Ethis!” Drakis called out as he dragged his blade quickly from the quivering body of his last opponent. His own Octian at last. So long as he had his Octian brothers with him, he was invincible. His eyes remained locked on the shadows as they quickly stopped and turned in the sticky fog.

“Yes, Warlord?” Ethis said flatly as he came closer.

Warlord was the title reserved for the master of the combined Legions and ludicrously beyond what any human could dream to attain. Drakis frowned. “Knock it off, Ethis. GriChag, where's Megri?”

“With ChuKang and KriChan,” the manticore said quickly. “And Braun?” Drakis urged.

“Yes, he's with them, too.” GriChag turned his massive head away in disgust.

Drakis gave a sudden, violent shake. The steaming fog was unnerving him. “Then let's form the Octian on ChuKang.
You
show us the way, GriChag.”

The manticore curled his lip, barring his fangs, but he turned and obeyed, followed by TsuRag and Ethis. Drakis' own feet stumbled on the uneven ground, but he knew that both the manticores and the chimerian could see far better than he could in these conditions. Better to keep his gaze fixed on them and risk a few missteps than to risk falling down some bottomless shaft.

With a startling abruptness, the mists twisted, writhing in the cavern wind, shredding apart. He could see the Yungskord again, but this time Drakis was looking back to the distant promenade that the Timuran Centurai had folded away from not that long before. He had stood there and seen this place in the distance; now, thanks to the folds, he was standing here and looking back on where they had so recently been and where Braun had propagated so many copies of the gate symbol along that wide promenade. The young warrior took in a breath, for the sudden vista filled him with awe and pride; those quickly set gate symbols had borne fruit.

Drakis stood atop a cliff face looking down onto a battle the likes of which he had never before witnessed. It raged all across the floor of the enormous Yungskord cavern. A tide of Imperial Warriors—three full Impress Legions, he was sure, over sixteen thousand strong—charged from a line of folds all along the promenade and down toward the carefully prepared positions. Imperial catapults, hastily arrayed on the promenade, launched supporting balls of flame over their heads. The dwarves waited for them, dug into a series of trenches crossing the craggy ground between the raging cascades of water that were still flooding into the enormous grotto. Long torrents of magma streamed down from the ceiling of the cavern; their brilliant yellow-orange ribbons fell crashing into the flooded cavern floor and flashing into scalding steam, boiling both the water and the Impress Warriors around it. Still, the slave-army of the elves pressed their attack, led by ranks of enraged manticores, their fangs bared in their feral faces, their roars sounding before them as they charged across the field of battle. Following on their heels were chimeras and an entire Cohort of Proxi—nearly five hundred strong—in support. They were casting sheets of electrical fire over the heads of the charging manticores and into the trenches of the dwarves. Their effectiveness was lessened, however, as the Proxi, too, had to run forward or risk death literally pouring down on them from above. Their flashes of lightning and the magma cascades illuminated ghastly scene as the manticores were suffering under the withering assault of catapult fire raining death across their ranks. The great lion-men never took their eyes off their prey, however, and in a wave leaped over the battlements and into the first line of dwarven trench works.

“Drakis!” ChuKang snarled through the flat muzzle of his face.

Drakis turned at once, unquestioningly obeying his leader's command. “Captain! I do not yet have the count . . .”

“Forget that! There's no time,” ChuKang said, pointing up along the cliff face. “Get this Octian organized and moving . . . now!”

It was the causeway; the same causeway he had seen from the far end of the Yungskord, but now it lay open before them, rising along the side of the cavern, winding between the spires of impossibly large stalagmites straight to the gates of the Thorgreld—and Stoneheart just beyond.

“You heard the voice! TsuRag and GriChag—you're the leads with swords bright!—Megri, you follow ChuKang and KriChan. Braun, you're with me. Ethis—you watch our backs. Stay tight. Let's go!”

ChuKang was already charging up the inclined ledge, and Drakis was finding it hard to catch up. Now in the clear, Drakis could see what remained of their Centurai emerging from the steam. They were far fewer than he had hoped, perhaps not quite forty—less than half their original strength. With the song still sounding in the back of his head, Drakis yelled, and his entire Octian yelled with him as they led in the charge.

They ran up the fitted cobblestones of the causeway as it wound its way upward following the side wall of the cavern. Their path was illuminated by their globe-torches and the increasingly frequent brilliant flashes from the battle on the cavern floor behind them. Every step up the inclined road brought them closer to the Last Gate of Thorgreld—a bastion carved into an enormous stalactite hanging from the cavern ceiling nearly a thousand feet above the cavern floor. Beyond that, in the dim light of the battle raging below them, Drakis could see the Stoneheart—last stronghold of the dwarven kings.

The blessings of the Emperor may yet be with us today,
Drakis thought. He could see the Last Gate ahead of them as they charged up the causeway, and the way still looked open. There were no dwarven warriors on the road between them and the gatehouse. Out of over forty thousand warriors, the fates had conspired to place what remained of Centurai Timuran within reach of the greatest prize of the war.

“Hey,
hoo-mani
,” huffed the goblin as he sprinted alongside Drakis. “What is this treasure we've come to liberate?”

“It's the most important treasure of this entire war, Megri, but you're going to have a hard time finding it if you don't know what it is,” Drakis grinned. “Weren't you paying attention?”

“Yeah, dwarf barter—I forgot.”

“Can someone please tell Megri why we're here?” Drakis called back, not slackening his pace.

Ethis spoke up at once. “Destroy the last of the dwarven thrones . . . capture the Crown of the Ninth Throne . . . and return with it and any other bounty we liberate in triumph to Lord Timuran.”

“That's right,” Drakis called back, his voice starting to get hoarse from long use during the day. “We get to return with great honor and glory added to the House of Lord Timuran.”

“Maybe even a reward, eh?” Ethis chuckled. Drakis had long ago learned to listen carefully to chimera. Looking at them was useless in trying to gauge their intentions since chimera barely had a face, let alone facial expressions.

“Sure, Ethis,” KriChan, the captain's manticorian second, responded. “Se'Shei Timuran himself will give you a big kiss, pat you on the head, and elevate you to Sixth Estate just so you can join him for breakfast.”

“More likely
eat
him for breakfast!” Braun laughed. “But you shouldn't worry, friends, because we'll never have to worry about another breakfast ever again!”

Drakis eyed Braun as they ran side by side. He had known Braun all his life, but he had never acted so strangely before.

“Thick-bones—thick-head,” Ethis, snorted as he laughed. “You know the saying?
Hoo-mani
are poor at everything—great at nothing.”

Both the chimerian and the goblin laughed heartily.

“Quiet, both of you!” ChuKang growled.

Drakis grimaced. Chimera approached battle with a lot more finesse than the manticores. They weren't particularly strong, but they were fast and difficult to damage; their skeletons were telescoping plates and cartilage instead of the more rigid and brittle bones of the manticores or humans. They could change their skin color to blend into their surroundings and alter their skeletal frame at will so that they might be nearly as compact as a dwarf to nearly twice as tall as Drakis. Chimera made fine warriors but tended to be clannish and exclude others. He didn't have anything against the chimera and always remembered them as maybe a little playful but never cruel to him. But now Ethis was making racial jokes?

“We're coming to the end and the beginning all at once,” Braun huffed next to Drakis. “The whole pointless bloodletting and death dealing—all for the amusement of the elven children! We should stop . . . savor the moment . . .”

“We're almost there,” Drakis snapped. “We can't stop now.”

“You cannot run from yourself, Drakis,” Braun shook while he ran. His craggy face was sweating profusely. “The ghosts are lurking, waiting to pounce on you given any opportunity. They'll leap from their little box and bite old Timuran right in his skinny ass!”

“Shut up, Braun! The Tribune will get the wrong idea . . .”

“Do you think so? I thought I was speaking very clearly!”

“Just keep your mouth shut and we may salvage a way out of this yet. If we get hold of that last Dwarven Crown, the glory to House Timuran will be . . .”

“I don't give a damn about the House glory!” Braun spat back. “It's not
my
glory—it's not
your
glory--so why should we care . . . let alone die?”

“You know why as well as anyone!” Drakis shook his head. They had fought their way so far, lost more than forty brothers from their own Centurai in the last hour, and now their Proxi wanted to just walk away from the reward? What in the name of the gods was wrong with everyone today?

“Well, it looks like none of us are going to have to worry about the spoils today,” Ethis grumbled. “Look up ahead.”

They were rounding a towering stalagmite when they saw it. More than a hundred yards beyond TsuRag and GriChag, three full Cohorts had erupted from folds appearing on the causeway in front of them. More than a thousand Impress Warriors were now dashing madly toward the Last Gate ahead of them.

“Where did they come from?” Drakis asked sourly.

“What difference does it make,” Braun sighed, “so long as they're the ones doing the bleeding?”

“Damn you, Braun!” KriChan's golden eyes flashed in the darkness. “If you weren't our Proxi, I'd tear out your heart right here and now!”

Drakis turned toward ChuKang. “Come on! We've come this far—we can still beat them to the throne!”

“Wait! Something's not right,” ChuKang snarled.

The human stepped in front of their manticorian captain and angrily turned. “ChuKang! The lead Cohorts will break against the gate tower. Let them do the dying and then we . . .”

ChuKang was not looking at Drakis; the manticore's gold-hued eyes were fixed on something at the top of the causeway.

Drakis could feel the heat growing on his neck. He turned and drew in a sharp breath.

The front Cohorts had engaged the Thorgreld Gate; an upside-down tower suspended from the cavern ceiling down to meet the rising causeway, but the dwarves once more were anticipating them. A cascade of molten lava, held in check for uncounted centuries against this day, was loosed by the dwarven defenders from above the gate. Its brilliant, blinding stream arced out from the inverted tower's spouts and poured down on the ledge below. Flashes of blue could be seen near its base—evidence of the desperate attempts of the Tribunes to hold back the incinerating river of liquid rock through their Proxi
s
while keeping the lead Centurai still battling for the gate and the throne beyond.

The lava, however, continued to pour from above, rolling in a devastating torrent over the remaining warriors and into the entire Cohort behind it. The warriors of the Second Cohort broke ranks, running back down the causeway directly toward Drakis and his comrades, but the river of lava was rapidly overtaking them.

Drakis glanced at his feet. The fitted cobblestones of the causeway had been formed with a slight trough in the middle—the perfect channel for a river of molten rock.

“Back!” ChuKang shouted. “Back down! Now!” His commands were pointless as those behind him were already trying to move. But the causeway was packed now with other Centurai from the Imperial Army who had appeared behind them. Those closest to the front started shouting and pushing at those behind. Panic rose like a tide among the warriors. Drakis plunged into the fray, trying desperately to get away from the onrushing death. He heard the screams of several warriors as they were pushed over the edge by their terrified companions.

The deadly tide hissed menacingly behind him as the mass of warriors compressed around him. The air was being pressed out of his lungs.

A massive hand grabbed the back of his breastplate and pulled him back. He felt himself swinging wildly, his head banging against his own shoulder plate, and then suddenly he was spinning through the air. His scream was cut short as his back slammed against stone and he tumbled down a rock face.