Song of the Dragon

CHAPTER 5

They emerged in chaos.

The fold collapsus behind them, but the sound was swallowed in the cacophony of battle that raged before them.

“By the gods!” ChuKang roared. “Where are we now?”

KriChan turned on Braun, grabbing the edges of his breastplate with both fists. “Where have you taken us? Where are Jerakh and the rest of the Centurai?”

“I. . I don’t. .”

“Why did you bring us here?” KriChan shouted in the Proxi’s face.

“Not me!” Braun yelled back at the manticore. “I didn’t bring us anywhere! It’s the Tribune. . he’s the one who determines where the folds connect, not me! He sent us here!”

KriChan shoved Braun to the ground, his lips curling up around his fangs in disgust.

“Wait!” Drakis shouted above the noise. “I know where we are! This is it. . the Ninth Throne of the Dwarves!”

Every available Cohort from almost two full Legions-perhaps six thousand warriors in all-had folded into the room just ahead of them, a charging army of warriors who could smell impending victory in the air and taste the final fall of the dwarven kingdoms. Their influx gushed into the vast space as though they were a torrent from a swollen river, flooding into the rotunda and the last stand of dwarven might.

The elite Warriors of the Ninth Throne were there to meet them, their axes already wet with the blood of their enemies. This was the last throne, where all of the dwarven kings came to council with one another. It was the most honored place in all the Nine Kingdoms under the mountain and home of the greatest of the dwarven kings-whose name was not known.

“What about Jerakh and the rest of our Centurai?” KriChan swore. “Damn the Tribune!”

“Or may the gods bless him,” ChuKang replied. “Braun?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“You say the Tribune knew about Jerakh and the rest of our warriors?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Then he’ll bargain for another Proxi to get to them and bring them here,” ChuKang said. “The Tribune wants us in on the end-wants a prize that will bring honor to our House. That’s why we came!”

Five notes. . Five notes. .

I fight for a life. . I fight for my wife. .

The throne room was enormous, the hollowed out core of the Stoneheart nearly a hundred yards in diameter. The domed roof was supported by nine enormous statues of dwarven kings, each carved out of the native stone as though they supported the weight of the mountain on their shoulders. In the center of the room was the elevated platform at the top of a truncated cone of stairs where the dwarven kings once met in council. Now all the Impress Warriors could see the Last Dwarven King sitting on his throne, his crown shining in the explosive light of the invading army. Scattered about the room was the last of the wealth gathered from all of the Nine Kingdoms, but it was the crown that riveted the eyes of every Impress Warrior smashing against the dwarven circle of defense.

Drakis realized that they had arrived late-by moments only, but that was enough. The converging Impress Warriors of the Rhonas Empire had already swarmed down on the dwarven defenders, shattering their forward lines in what must have been a horrific collision. Now all lines between the defending dwarves and the Rhonas warriors were blurred into a confused, seething mass of blood and blind rage.

“Is that it?” KriChan shouted, pointing toward the throne even as he began charging toward the writhing slaughter around the base of the steps.

“Yes!” ChuKang snarled through his clenched, bared teeth, running alongside him. “We take it and we go home!”

“Home? How?” KriChan exclaimed.

“All the other Centurai are trying to hold their formations together,” ChuKang smiled with relish as he spoke. “There’s no one left to hold us back! Just don’t stop!”

The crown was the prize above all others coveted by the elven Houses that had engaged in this war. Any House that returned with the crown would be lifted beyond its previous status, possibly even elevated in its caste among the Estates. Every Tribune directing the battle from the distant command tent on the plain knew it-and made doubly sure that every Impress Warrior knew it, too.

Drakis was running as fast as he could just to keep up with the manticores. “We’ll never make it! Someone else is going to fold right to the top, and it will all be over!”

“No! We have a chance. Look!” Ethis ran next to him, pointing with his third arm. “Look!”

All around the throne folds erupted, but even as each sprang into existence, another fold would appear too close by. The tearing of space collapsus, and the folds shredded each other.

“Greedy bastards, our Tribunes,” Thuri shouted through a wide grin splitting his otherwise featureless face. “Pushing each other out of the way now that the end is in sight.”

“All we need is to get our Proxi up there to etch a gate symbol. That will anchor our fold, and it’s all over,” KriChan shouted from behind them. “Drakis! Take Braun and follow ChuKang! Don’t stop!”

“This is it, Braun!” Drakis shouted. “Let’s go! Follow me!”

“Of course, Drakis,” Braun answered cheerfully as he picked up the Standard staff in his hand, “as far as the ghosts will allow.”

ChuKang charged into the battle with a wide-bladed sword in each of his massive hands, but he did not stop to engage any of the enemy. He continued his run, weaving between the warriors engaged in battle, his great blades occasionally striking out at any dwarf that moved to engage him, then dashing past.

Drakis followed, keeping his eyes fixed on the Sinque-the Devotion tattoo on the broad back of his manticorian commander’s shaved head. He was only dimly aware of the other warriors of his Octian weaving their desperate way near him in pursuit of their leader. Flashes of battle caught his eye as he ran: a manticorian warrior from another Centurai being dragged to the ground screaming under a rush of dwarven axmen; a human, his face covered in blood plunging his sword downward into a dwarf prone at his feet; a chimerian, shifting in size to nearly nine feet, swinging a pair of curved-bladed swords against three dwarven dart-men while trying to stanch the bloody stump of a severed arm with his remaining free hand. Their cries receded in his ears, echoing in his mind as from a distance, replaced by the torturous melody that ran through his mind to the rhythm of every running step that he took.

“Keep going!” KriChan’s shout sounded far away, behind the wall of music in his head. “Up! Go up!”

Drakis tripped over the body of a fallen dwarf, breaking his stride and threatening to bring him crashing down to the bloody floor beneath him. He lurched forward, desperate to get his feet back under him.

ChuKang’s blades flashed again through the thicket of combat as Drakis lunged after him.

They were through. The curving stairs rose before them to the dwarven thrones above.

ChuKang roared, rushing up the stairs with KriChan and Belag already behind him. Drakis followed without hesitation, his own battle cry in his throat. He glimpsed Thuri to one side as he rushed up the stairs ducking past the still erupting and collapsing folds.

The dwarven defenders, distracted by a threat on the far side of the throne, were too late to regroup for ChuKang’s sudden assault. They tried to release the cauldron vents beneath the topmost step so they could pour a molten cascade down on their enemies, but they were too late. ChuKang’s blades cut into them as the remaining dwarves of the King’s Guard, all in ancient dwarven armor, tried desperately to push the manticore off the platform of the Nine Thrones. KriChan entered the battle next to ChuKang as did Belag, and in moments they had engaged the last stand of dwarves in mortal combat.

Drakis then saw the Dwarven King, the crown fixed to his battle helmet.

Drakis, sword drawn, rushed forward.

The Dwarven King’s long beard hung down over a shining breastplate of ancient design. He held a shield on his right arm fixed to his bracer, and his left hand gripped a sword. The jewels on the crown flashed in the light of the magical bolts still being cast through the hall. The helmet itself was fabulously ornate-sharp dragonlike wings extending backward on both sides and a faceplate molded into a fearsome countenance.

Drakis grinned. He always preferred it when the faceplate was down; somehow it made the killing easier.

Drakis made a few probing thrusts, studying the Dwarven King’s reactions. Time seemed to be slowing around him, and the world contracted until all that existed for him was the armor-encased dwarf in front of him. Parry. Parry. Thrust. Slash and parry.

Drakis bared his teeth in a savage smile.

The king was skilled. . but not skilled enough.

Drakis lunged forward, his blade flashing in a series of blows. The dwarf quickly parried, backing from the onslaught. Their swords locked, Drakis pressing downward until both their blades smashed against the dwarf’s shield.

Drakis reached down, pulling his dagger from his belt.

The human pushed away from the dwarf but not quite far enough. The king lashed out quickly, cutting just under Drakis’ breastplate, his blood welling into his tunic beneath. Drakis cursed but knew it was a risk he had to take. He needed to remain close.

Drakis parried the next blow and then again pressed a savage set of blows against the dwarf, pressing him against one of the thrones. He was tiring quickly and the pain shooting across his chest was distracting, but the thought flashed through his mind that at least the song was leaving him to his work. He swung high and downward, again crashing both their swords down on the shield arm, then suddenly spun, the dagger in his free hand cutting through the air.

It found its mark between the helmet and the breastplate. Drakis turned the blade and felt the warm, sticky wetness gush over his hand.

The Ninth-and last-of the Dwarven Kings released his grip on his sword.

Drakis let go of his dagger. The dwarf slumped back onto the throne.

Drakis reached over and pulled the Crown of the Ninth Throne from the helmet of the Dwarven King, his voice shouting with unparalleled joy, “We’ve done it! We’ve won!”

ChuKang straightened to stand with his stained blades in both his hands. The last of the King’s Guards had fallen before them. “Well done, Drakis! A triumph!”

“Lord Timuran will honor us all!” Thuri nodded.

“Perhaps even a Sixth Estate?” Belag purred. “Surely, ChuKang, you are due to be so honored.”

“We’ll brag ourselves into glory later,” ChuKang said, shaking his head with pride. “Let’s get out of here before anyone realizes. . where’s Braun?”

“He was behind me,” Drakis said as he turned. “He should be. .”

Drakis’ eyes fixed on the Standard of the Timuran Centurai. The staff lay abandoned on the ground at the foot of the dwarven throne.

“He’s gone!” Thuri yelled as he picked up the staff.

“Gone?” ChuKang shouted. “Where could he go?”

Drakis frantically scanned the battle around the foot of the stairs but could not see the Proxi anywhere among them.

“Here!” Thuri shouted, thrusting the Standard into Drakis’ free hand. “You do it! You get us out of here!”

“I can’t. .”

“You’re hoo-mani. . just like Braun!”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Drakis spat his words in anger and frustration. “You have to be trained for it. . linked to the Tribune through the House Altar. .”

“How long before the Tribune can get another Proxi to us?” ChuKang asked quickly.

“He’ll know the link was broken,” Drakis answered. “He’d have to negotiate use from another Tribune. .”

ChuKang turned to look down from the platform. “We don’t have that long.”

The battle was quickly winding down, the Centurai of other Houses were breaking free of the failing dwarves, moving up the stairs toward them.

Toward the crown.

The Imperial Army of Conquest was made up of units donated to the campaign by various Houses of the Empire. Some of the larger Houses had been known in the past to donate an entire Legion-an extravagance of maintaining over four thousand slave warriors. That was not true of the current campaign. The largest single House commitment-from House Plincian of the Paktan Guild Order-was five Cohorts of two thousand, eight hundred warriors. Several other Houses contributed full Cohorts of their own, but the majority of the Imperial Army of Conquest was made up of Legions and Cohorts that were cobbled together from donations of between one and three Centurai from many individual Houses.

Cohorts from the larger Houses were regrouping, struggling to reestablish order in their commands for their own organized assault on the crown. But the Centurai from the smaller Houses knew that their only chance at the prize was to seize it now. For the majority of the warriors in the vast throne room, the military order of Legions and Cohorts evaporated at the sight of the prized crown.

The warriors from the different smaller Houses, battle fever still raging in their blood, started up the stairs toward ChuKang and the remnants of his Octian. As one Octian pushed forward, the others grabbed at them, dragging them backward. A blade strike. A scream. Then suddenly all of the Impress Warriors of the Rhonas Empire-each vying for the glory and recognition of their own House-turned on each other. Combat erupted among the warriors of the competing Houses, each of them desperate to reach the top of the steps and claim the crown for their own.

“What do we do?” Thuri said, his large, blank eyes blinking furiously. “How do we get out of here?”

“Without the Proxi?” KriChan barked. “We have no way out!”

“But what about Jerakh? Tribune Se’Djinka. .”

“Look around us! The Tribune can’t open a fold here any better than the rest of the Tribunes!” Ethis snapped. “We were supposed to rescue Jerakh, remember! If he gets here, it would only be through a fold opening on the outside of this mob. . then there’ll be our own army between us and him. What good would that do?”

Karag drew in a sharp breath. “We’re on our own?”

“Unfortunately,” Ethis replied, raising his four swords once more as he gazed down the stairs. “Not for long. We are about to have far too much company.”

The scrambling warriors from the other Houses were coming closer. As the cone of stairs got narrower in circumference with each step, the fighting among the manticores, chimera, gnomes, and a few humans became more constricted. They stepped over the bodies of their former comrades, slew anyone who got in their way, only to be felled by those behind them intent on one thing.

They each wanted the crown for the glory of their own House. They had killed the dwarves for this prize. All that was left for them was to kill each other.

An ancient manticore, scarred and missing one eye, was the first to reach them. ChuKang met him with both blades, but the seasoned warrior traded him blow for blow. Two more manticores swiftly moved to join the combat. KriChan and Karag rushed forward to help. Ethis stepped backward toward Drakis, his narrow head swiveling about, looking for approaching enemies on all sides. Belag rose up against a chimerian from House Sutharan, cutting him down just as a human lunged toward him.

Drakis held the crown in his hand.

The dwarves have no doors. . the dwarves are no more. .

A goblin lunged at ChuKang from behind. The Centurai commander howled in pain, falling forward into the blades of the Tajeran manticores. KriChan sliced downward, nearly cutting the goblin in two just as one of the Tajeran manticores thrust from the side, running his blade upward. KriChan took a single gasp before collapsing. Karag stepped forward, impaling the Tajeran manticore on his own blade, but the blow left him open to the third manticore on his right.

Belag roared at his brother, rushing toward him. Karag did not see the danger. The blade cut into his leg behind the knee. The manticore howled, turning just as the blade swung again, this time downward into his chest.

“What do we do?” Thuri yelled at Drakis.

For the love of her. . for the loss of her. .

The song was raging once more in his head. The melody sounding over and over.

“Drakis! By the House gods!” Thuri yelled again. “What do we do?”

For the love of her. . for the loss of her. .

Drakis’ eyes suddenly focused.

He looked at the crown. He could have bought a life of his own with it-but if he kept it, he would never live to claim it; none of them would.

Drakis leaped up to stand on the arms of the throne, holding the crown high over his head. He felt more than saw more than a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on him.

He searched at the far edge of the army. He could see the larger Cohorts, now organized, making a determined run toward the thrones.

He caught a glimpse of the glowing headpiece of a Proxi staff beyond the edge of the pressing mob. There was the face of a manticore next to it. Was it Jerakh? Had Tribune Se’Djinka sent them help at last?

For the love of her. . for the loss of her. .

With all his remaining strength, he hurled the crown toward the distant manticore next to the familiar looking staff at the far edge of the mob.

It sailed out high over the heads of the Impress Warriors, tumbling in the air above hundreds of greedy, outstretched hands. The warriors who were on the stairs groaned but turned almost as one, charging back toward where the crown was falling.

“Madness,” Ethis said, shaking his head as he watched Rhonas Warriors converge on where the crown had landed in its flight, killing their brothers-in-arms to claim it for their own.

Drakis just looked down into his empty hands.