Song of the Dragon

Four figures wandered listlessly among the dead.

Drakis reached down, turned over a broken shield and peered beneath it under the hard radiating light of a globe-torch in his hand. The pale, glazed eyes of a dead dwarven warrior stared back up at him. The warrior was stripped of all of its armor and weapons. Even its tunic had been torn open, leaving its bare, unmoving chest exposed.

“There’s nothing left,” Drakis muttered to himself. “They’ve taken it all.”

Drakis stood upright and, stretching his stooped back, surveyed the results of their victory. The battle had raged briefly below the throne as the various House factions fought one another for possession of the crown. Drakis’ aim had been true; he was certain now that the crown had landed among the warriors from his own Cohort. In his recollection it was Jerakh himself who had caught it. A Proxi bearing the standard of the Cohort of the Western Provinces-no doubt where Tribune Se’Djinka had secured a replacement for Braun-managed to open a fold, and the crown was gone. The outraged other Octia from the various Centurai remaining in the great throne room immediately fell to pillaging anything of any worth that they could put their hands on. These were set upon quickly by the larger and now regrouped Cohorts, who took what they wanted from the hall by virtue of their size and unity. Once they were sated, the Centurai of the smaller Houses fell to their own pecking order. They cleaned the hall of its treasures, and when there were none left to be taken from the ground, they began to strip the dead. When there was nothing left of value among the dead, they began once more to fight and kill each other over those treasures they had already looted.

Drakis and his three remaining warriors from House Timuran had tried at first to secure their own portion of the fortune to be sacked from the last dwarven stronghold, but without a Proxi to fold their gains safely away, their choice was either to fight interminable battles with those who did have access to a fold or give up their spoils.

Now, all was silent. The Impress Warriors from the other Houses had all folded out of the hall with their prizes. Drakis and the few living members of his Octian were all that now moved under the enormous dome of the rotunda.

Drakis surveyed the scene with revulsion. He had seen many battles in his life, but none had struck him as being so senseless, vicious, and pointless. All these dwarves were dead, and for what? So that Timuran or Tajeran or any of a dozen other Houses could have bragging rights about their Cohorts? So that they could carry away some metal crown?

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

Drakis shook his head. The words weren’t right.

He looked up into the glaring face of an enormous dwarven king hanging above him. It was one of the nine statues supporting the domed ceiling, illuminated by several fires now burning in the rotunda. Books, Drakis supposed, dwarven histories or journals or other such nonsense that had no value at all. The flickering light cast strangely moving shadows across the face of the statue, and the smoke gathering in the dome left a hazy distance between him and the face looking down on him with such disapproval.

“Anyone find Braun?” Belag shouted, his voice echoing in the vast hall.

“A couple of charred humans over here-one of them looks like it was Braun,” Ethis called back. “Why?”

“I want to kill him!”

“He’s already dead.”

“Not dead enough!” Belag roared.

“Keep looking!” Drakis urged.

“Nothing!” Ethis said with disgust as he kicked over another dwarven body nearly sixty feet away. “Starving vermin would have left more.”

“Keep looking,” Drakis shouted, his voice echoing slightly and strangely amplified by the dome above. “We’ve got to find something to take back with us as a prize. Lord Timuran invested a great deal in this war.”

“Yeah,” Thuri said, “He invested us.”

“For a House in the Provinces,” Drakis said, “that was more than he could afford. Listen, the gleaners will be here soon and once they arrive nothing will be left. We’ve got to find whatever we can quickly to bring honor to the House.”

“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.

The last dwarven king. . My death-knell did bring. .

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

“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.

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

Weep for the pain and the loss. .

The past is our sorrow. . The past is our shame. .

“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.”

The past is our sorrow. . The past is our shame. .

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

We kill without cause. We kill without thought.

Five notes. . Five notes. .

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?”

They eat here. They love here. They laugh here.

Better if left and forgotten. .

Nine notes. Seven notes.

Drakis flinched.

Awaken the ghosts long forgotten. .

Recall the loved dead. .

Dead is the hero. . Dead to all lament. .

Buried past memory here below. .

“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?”

Mala will forgive. . Mala will forget. .

“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?”