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
