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.”
CHAPTER 7
Drakis tugged self-consciously at his tunic as he stepped from the command tent of Tribune Se’Djinka in one final, hopeless attempt to straighten it into a presentable state. He had managed to leave most of his badly mismatched armor with Thuri in the encampment, but three weeks of campaigning had left him looking very much the worse for wear. He also suspected that his smell had been increasingly offensive to the elven Tribune with each passing minute of his report-though after the numerous campaigns Drakis had fought down the years of his service he scarcely noticed it himself.
Still, when dealing with the elves it was best to remember such things-and to have a sense about when one’s masters were pleased. Though nothing in the elven Tribune’s words or countenance gave any sign of trouble, their orders were extraordinary.
It all felt wrong.
Now he stood once more outside the field tent of the Tribune, glowering at the cold, wet wind blowing from the west. A miserable storm had moved in earlier in the day. The Tribunes of the Imperial Legions made their encampment outside the enclosure of the common slave herd that made up their Legions, finding a location that was both dominant and secure, looking on the battle from afar and remaining untouched by it. For this last of the Dwarven Campaigns, they had found a place from which they could lord over their warriors from a comfortable distance. Each Tribune, for that matter, considered the placement of his personal command tent just another part of the strategy of war-a strategy that extended not only to the enemy but to the combative politics of the elves among their own kind. Se’Djinka, Tribune of House Timuran, had outmaneuvered the two hundred and forty-three other Tribunes, placing his great tent so that it sat at the crest of the rise on the Hyperian Plain, its entrance commanding a view that overlooked the seven league wide valley to the north that ended in the abrupt and spectacular rise of the Aerian Range-granite peaks that stabbed the sky eight thousand feet above their base in some places. It was an advantageous position, putting the other Tribunes-not to mention a great number of the tents of the various Guilds and Orders of the Imperium-at a disadvantage.
That a Tribune in charge of a single Centurai in such an obscure House as Timuran should be able to place his tent in such a position was just another of the numerous mysteries about Se’Djinka. It was best, Drakis thought, to not think too long on questions to which the answers might be both painful and dangerous.
He had trouble enough of his own without inviting more.
Standing beneath the leaden sky, Drakis watched as the dark clouds hid the tops of the distant mountains and spat chill, intermittent rain and mist at him. He had to admit that he preferred it to the oppressive opulence of Se’Djinka’s tent. Perhaps it was something within the elves, he pondered, that caused them to always go beyond what was needed. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing was a creed that the elves followed with pride. They always seemed to press beyond all boundaries, he thought, whether those of good taste or those of their conquered territories.
Drakis preferred an honest, chill rain.
He looked down from his Tribune’s tent onto the enclosure of the Legion. The rambling clusters of warriors huddled together against the constant cold drizzle or crowded into the few lean-tos they had hastily erected for themselves out of scavenged supply crates. Their misery extended well into the valley below, a panorama of spent fury, their fitful fires continuing to struggle against the drizzle.
All around the perimeter stood the encircling totems of the Iblisi-the crystalline Sentinels of the Imperial Legions.
Drakis took a few gingerly placed paces down the slope, as much in an attempt to leave the song behind him as to bring himself to with a few steps of the twelve-foot-tall Sentinel. It was one thing to let loose the warrior horde on the enemy, but otherwise the herd must be controlled. The Sentinels were the totems that defined the boundaries of each slave’s world. The face details were obscured by the soft, violet glow emanating from within the crystal, and there was something about each of them that grew more repellent and loathsome the closer one approached.
They marked the rightful limits of a slave’s world, and each knew that to pass between Sentinels unbidden was to die.
Drakis took in a deep breath. “Drakis Sha-Timuran.”
There passed an uncertain moment, and then the light within the Sentinel flashed from violet to pale yellow.
Drakis started breathing again and stepped quickly across the line between the Sentinels and continued down the slope.
It would take him half an hour just to make his way through the soaked army to his own Centurai. He knew he needed to get moving faster, but his audience with Se’Djinka made him uncertain and hesitant.
He shook with sudden violence in the rain.
It wasn’t just that he had been outside the Sentinel’s protection and control.
It was Se’Djinka’s news that he and his Octian were being afforded a great honor.
Drakis shook again.
There was definitely something wrong.
“Hey, Drakis!” Thuri shouted, standing up slowly from where he squatted next to the sputtering fire. “How is life among members of the higher estates?”
“Better than it is down here,” Drakis shot back as he slogged toward them through the ankle-deep mud between the tents, “but when was that ever any different?”
