Song of the Dragon (9 page)

“Honor?” Belag snarled. “Where is the honor in this? Honor is in battle and the blood of our enemies—not the blood of our own traitorous allies or these pretty pieces of metal and stone.” The manticore threw down the broken jewelry he had just picked up.

“Hey,” Ethis called out. “We need that for a prize!”

Drakis was finding it difficult to breath.

“We
had
the prize,” Belag shouted, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “Drakis took it from the Dwarven King and stood with it . . . held it in his hands right there”—he pointed up to the platform where the dead dwarf still slumped on the throne—“and then he threw it away!”

Drakis squeezed his eyes closed, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.

“He saved your life, Belag,” Thuri said simply as he pushed over yet another dwarf corpse. “He saved all our lives.”

“Not all,” Belag growled.

Drakis turned toward the manticore, fixing his eyes on the enormous creature. Several quick strides brought him to stand directly in front Belag looking upward into the angry yellow eyes set deep in the wide face a full foot above his own gaze. “No, not all. ChuKang's dead. KriChan's dead. Braun is gone, and your brother–and, yes, you see I
do
know all their names—Karag's dead, too.”

Drakis began to sweat. “Maybe
you
wanted to join them, but the
rest
of us are satisfied that we're still here.”

His hand began to shake. “So either fall on your sword and get it over with or get back to your
job
and help us salvage something out of this . . . this . . .”

Belag's eyes narrowed. “Drakis?”

Drakis flinched.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Drakis screamed as he bent over, pressing both his palms against his temples.

Belag drew his sword. Thuri and Ethis both began making their way toward Drakis, picking their path around the bodies that covered the floor everywhere around them.

“Drakis!” Ethis said, his upper two hands gripping the human by his shoulders. “What's wrong?”

“It's . . . it's nothing,” Drakis said, shaking off a sudden chill. “I . . . I hear this . . . I don't know . . . this music . . . this song in my head . . .”

“Song?” Belag raised one heavy brow.

“It's . . . just a song,” Drakis said, drawing in a deep breath. “I don't know where it came from, but I can't seem to be rid of it. It's just something in my mind.”

Belag's head raised suddenly, his ears swiveling forward. “I think I hear it, too.”

Drakis shot a questioning glance at the manticore. “Hear what?”

“Your song,” Belag said in a low, rumbling voice, his heavy eyebrows knitting together. He moved closer to the stairs leading up to the throne. “It's coming from over here.”

Belag drew his long, curved blade, the ringing of the metal singing softly as it cleared its scabbard.

“Where?” Drakis asked on a soft breath.

The manticore gestured with the tip of his sword toward the right side of the enormous cone of steps.

Drakis shook his head doubtfully but drew his own sword. He took a step toward the stairs, the melody still there. He was no longer certain whether the tune was in his mind or his ears.

One thing was certain. Something was moving in the shadows among the dead.

Drakis froze. His eyes suddenly opened wide.

It was singing. The words were indistinct, but the tune was unmistakably the same as the one that had haunted Drakis for days.

The refrain stopped, replaced by a voice.

“Is it over,” asked the lilting voice coming from the squat figure. “Can I come out now?”

Drakis raised his sword again, the squat figure still remained in shadow. “Show yourself!”

The dark outline stopped and then emerged from the darkness as it held both hands open, its chubby palms in front of its wide body.

Belag curled his lips in loathing. “By all the gods of the House, what
is
that?”

That it was a dwarf was not in doubt, but its clothing was of such a bizarre nature as to leave Drakis to question his own vision. The dwarf had the requisite long beard of its kind, but instead of the usual bushy splay, it was split down the middle and each side was carefully braided. The ends of this bizarre affectation were tucked into pockets on the outside of—not the universal dwarven brown jacket—but an outlandishly colored and intricately embroidered doublet that seemed a bit too large for him. Colored hose—one green and one red—clung closely to the dwarf's stout legs, which were planted firmly in incongruously heavy boots. Topping it all was an enormous puffy hat of purple and orange nearly overwhelmed with long feathers, beads, and glass—all of which was pulled to one side by a single bell that had no clapper and, therefore, could not ring unless struck.

Ethis shook his head with a smirk. “That, Belag, is a joke!”

“Very nearly on the mark, although it would be better to say a great many jokes!” the dwarf said cheerily. He reached up with his right hand and tugged at the hat. It proved momentarily reluctant to let go of the dwarf's brow.

“Sorry—bad entrance,” the dwarf spoke with embarrassment as he finally pulled the cap free. Drakis could at last see clearly the broad face with the high, round cheekbones. The dwarf had thick, bushy eyebrows above twinkling, pale blue eyes—all of which was difficult to see behind a prominent, bulbous nose. His long, white hair looked as though it was usually combed straight back from his high forehead, but the reluctant hat had pulled it all into a rather messy nimbus. “I am Jugar, King of Dwarven Jesters—and Jester to Dwarven Kings!”

“You're . . . the fool?” Drakis said incredulously.

“Well, to be sure, we prefer the appellation ‘court jester' or ‘professional idiot,' but, I think you've got the concept at its core,” the dwarf said, smiling patiently. He took a few more cautious steps toward Drakis and then stopped. He looked around the hall, his smile falling slightly as he gazed across the field of fallen warriors in the hall. “So, he said carefully, “how goes the war?”

“It's over,” Belag grunted. “You lost.”

“Ah,” Jugar took in a deep breath, and then turned to Drakis. “Well, then I guess there's nothing left to do but surrender. Where's the king? I don't mean to brag, mind you, but I could probably smooth things over for you . . . put in a good word . . .”

Drakis gestured up to the top of the stairs. Jugar looked up at the obviously still figure on the throne.

“I see,” he said slowly, then began to speak more quickly. “Say, how about if I surrender, eh? There doesn't seem to be anyone else around here to do it. I can offer you the whole dwarven kingdom—well, except for this hall. I like this venue, did some of my best work here. The ability of sound to carry in this space is phenomenal. Take, for example, that tune I was just . . .”

Drakis leaped forward, grabbing the dwarf by his thick throat. The dwarf stumbled backward and fell, slamming down against the steps. Drakis pressed his face closer to the dwarf, sweat breaking on his brow as he spoke through clenched teeth.

“
What were you singing-+
” he hissed at the dwarf.

A tense silence descended in the hall.

Ethis gazed questioningly at the human. “Drakis?”

But the dwarf was suddenly still. His eyes were shifting quickly, searching Drakis' face, but the rest of him lay absolutely still. “I thought . . . just some old song, really,” Jugar said quietly at last. “It's very old. Very old indeed. I can't recall right now where it is from.”

Drakis' hands began to shake once more.

“Can you?” the dwarf finished quietly.

Drakis slowly released his grip on the dwarf.

Jugar slowly sat up. “Look, I couldn't help but overhear your predicament. You need a treasure, and it appears,” Jugar said looking about at the slaughter surrounding them, “that I am out of a job. Could we strike a bargain? I ducked into a little gopher hole to stay out of the way of this war of yours. It was well hidden, and there's still some pretty interesting loot in there—including . . .”

The dwarf paused for dramatic emphasis.

“The
Heart of Aer!
”

The Impress Warriors looked at each other and then back at the dwarf.

“The what?” Drakis asked at last.

“
The Heart of Aer!
” Jugar said, this time with as much exaggerated drama as he could muster, his hands quivering as he held them out. He dropped them at once, seeing he did not impress his audience. “Oh, by Thel Gorfson! You've never heard of the Heart of Aer?”

“Who's Thel Gorfson?” Thuri asked, rubbing his forehead.

Jugar only glared at him. “The Heart of Aer is only the greatest, most secret treasure of the Nine Thrones! You could have named your price and still not come close to its value!”

“Where is it,” Belag said flatly.

The dwarf kept his eyes on Drakis. “Do we have a deal—my life for the greatest treasure of the dwarves?”

The human considered the dwarf carefully.

“I'll throw myself into the bargain as well,” the dwarf added. “Your master's new slave, eh?”

Belag rumbled deep in his throat. “Beware, Drakis. Dwarves never give a gift without being paid for it first.”

Drakis flexed his grip on his sword.

Jugar swallowed then spoke carefully. “Maybe I could remember that song for you.”

The human raised his chin.

“Drakis,” Ethis said, shaking his head, “maybe we should just . . .”

“You have a deal, dwarf,” Drakis said abruptly.

The other warriors of his Octian spoke up all at once.

“Are you mad? You don't have the authority . . .”

“You really believe that this fool, literally . . .”

“The Tribune will never allow . . .”

“Deal, dwarf!” Drakis repeated loudly, his voice cutting off further argument. “But if this is all part of your supposedly clever amusements, know that I'm a very picky audience—and that I'd just as soon take
your
heart to my master as any Heart of Aer. Now where is it?”

“You won't regret this,” Jugar grinned as he reached out for the stairs, feeling about the surface for a moment before he found what he was searching for. “If you're looking for a treasure to take home to your master's fine estate in—didn't you say you were from the Western Provinces?—and prove how great warriors you are, then you couldn't do better than this!”

A loud hissing sound erupted from the stairs, blowing dust into the air as the carefully fitted stones of several steps suddenly descended into the floor. It was an opening, but all Drakis could see beyond the obscuring dust was a glowing light from a chamber within.

Drakis glanced skeptically at the dwarf, took in a deep breath, and then turned toward the opening in the stairs. The passage behind was wide enough, but he had to crouch down to pass under its low ceiling. It was only a few steps, however, before he entered a larger, vaulted chamber directly under the Nine Thrones.

Alcoves surrounded the room, each holding ancient dwarven armor wrought of gold, silver, and platinum and decorated with jewels. There were great tablets of gold carved with writing—the ancient laws of the mountain probably inscribed by the first Dwarven King, old Brok himself. Many other glistening things lay about the room, but Drakis' eyes were fixed on the central object.

It was difficult to look at. The black multifaceted onyx seemed to absorb the light that struck it. It floated between intricately carved white lattices of what appeared to be coral, one curving down from the ceiling and the other up from the floor beneath.

It was terrible and compelling all at once. Drakis hated it—and had to possess it.

“Drakis!”

It was Thuri. Drakis had almost forgotten entirely where he was. He shouted over his shoulder, “I'm here!”

“It looks like the Tribune came through at last. S'kagh has arrived with the Sixth Octian.” Thuri's words seemed to come to him from a great distance though the chimerian could only be a few yards away. “They've got a Proxi from another Cohort, and Tribune Se'Djinka is demanding that we return at once!”

“And so we shall . . . but first, get Ethis and Belag and come in here,” Drakis shouted back. “And don't forget that dwarf.”

The onyx Heart of Aer spun before him.

Drakis smiled. “Looks like we're not going back empty-handed after all.”