Drakis poured another ladle of water over his head, brushing the remaining grains of pumice from his skin as he spoke. “Which scars?”
“Those rather nasty looking scars on your back,” Jugar replied. “Who gave those to you?”
“I’m an Impress Warrior, dwarf,” Drakis scoffed. “We
“So I have observed,” Jugar continued. “But these are particularly nasty looking. I would venture to say that such scars would be most memorable indeed. So, when did you get them?”
Drakis absently reached his right hand around his side, running his fingers along the ridges of his skin. “Why, I. . isn’t that something? I don’t remember.”
“Have you ever seen them?” Jugar said through his still chattering teeth.
“Seen them? Now how would I see them? They’re on my back.”
“You don’t know your own past, Drakis, my friend.” Jugar’s eyes squinted as he considered them. “So perhaps you’ll believe me if I tell you something about your future. Your beloved Lord Timuran has not called you back to gratefully accept your bountiful conquest but to take out his rage on you.”
Drakis set the ladle down slowly, the features of his face hidden in shadows. “That is no prophecy, dwarf. I could have told you that. I will be shamed before him.”
“You will be more than shamed, Drakis,” the dwarf continued, his gruff voice firm and sure. “He will strike you, lay open your flesh to agonizing pain and all your tears, and protest, and pleadings of your love for him will be soundless in his ears. He will not stop.”
Drakis stalked over toward Jugar, the silhouette of his muscular frame looming over where the dwarf crouched. “The foolish curse of a dwarven fool! My master has never so much as touched me in anger!”
The dwarf looked up, the softened look of his eyes framed in the square of light from above.
“He would kill you if he could, Drakis, this very afternoon. But someone will intervene on your behalf-and will save your life, though in doing so you will wish that you had died.”
“Only gods can know the future,” Drakis said flatly.
The dwarf shrugged. “That which has happened before will happen again. You’ve only forgotten. Remember my words, Drakis, and maybe then, my friend, you will come to me and know the truth.”
Drakis thought for a moment and then shook his head violently, sending particles flying from his shaved head. “So you’re back to that again. Now I’m supposed to have forgotten nearly dying. Well, one thing
“Dwarves do
“That I most certainly believe,” Drakis replied easily, “but in this case you may want to make an exception. We’re being summoned before Lord Timuran himself, and he takes no more delight in the smell of dwarven slaves than any other conquered race.”
Drakis and Jugar stepped into the Warrior’s Courtyard. The Impress Warrior felt renewed after the bath despite the dwarf’s bizarre and gloomy predictions; bathing was a ritual that was so basic among the elves that it made him feel a part of the Empire that he so fervently wished to join. The tunic that he wore was that of a slave, but it was clean, and in that he felt a sort of purity, elevated somehow above the commonplace.
He strode quickly across the packed dirt floor and through the open portcullis with the garishly dressed dwarf struggling to keep up. They passed under the tall archway and onto the darkly stained sands of the small arena floor.
“Our lives to the Imperial Will!” came the echoing call from across the arena floor.
Drakis smiled as he looked to the far side of the arena. “Jerakh! How did you get back so soon?”
“I have you to thank, brother warrior,” the manticore replied as he crossed toward the human. “Our master’s eagerness to see you has left the folds in complete disarray. The Foldmasters in their haste to comply have been moving any units from House Timuran they can find.”
Drakis could see warriors straggling in behind Jerakh. He shook his head. “So the victorious Centurai of House Timuran is home at last, eh?”
“Hardly,” Jerakh said with disdain. “I managed to come through with three Octia, but the rest of the Centurai is spread all through the fold system. It’s a mess that will take days to unravel.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage it,” Drakis said.
“I’m sure the only thing I’m going to manage is a bath,” the manticore returned, a playful edge to his smile as he passed the human. “
“Well, if that is so, then I’m turning over this dwarf to you,” Drakis said, gesturing toward Jugar.
“Excuse me, Captain Drakis,” the dwarf sputtered, “but I’m. .”
“Drakis, just Drakis,” he sighed. “I’ve not been appointed captain yet, dwarf.”
“But, Drakis, I’ve not been presented to your master as yet! As part of your rightful treasure which you so valiantly liberated from the dwarven realms. .”
“You’ll be presented with the rest of the prize treasure tonight at House Devotions,” Drakis said, interrupting the dwarf. “Before then, Jerakh here is going to see that you get properly shaved and branded for the slave you have become.”
“He’s full of words,” Jerakh said with disdain.
“Which is why I’m turning him over to you,” Drakis said flashing a tight grin. “I’ve been summoned.”
Jerakh gripped Jugar’s shoulder tightly enough to elicit a grunt from the dwarf. “I’ll see it’s done.”
Drakis turned away, taking several steps before he stopped and turned back toward the manticore. “Oh, Jerakh. . I was glad to see you at the Ninth Throne. It was getting a little close up there, and I needed a friendly face in the mob. We’d have never gotten away with the prize without you. You saved our honor.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the manticore replied with a shrug of his great shoulders. “We were stuck on that pillar of rock you left us on for another six hours before a Proxi showed up to get us out. It must have been some other incredibly handsome Warrior you saw at the throne.”
Drakis’ smile waned at the thought. He turned instinctively to look up at the avatria towering above them. He pushed Jugar’s predictions out of his mind and crossed the arena to the chakrilya and his audience with his master.
Sha-Timuran sat upon the elevated throne and glared down through his black, pupilless eyes.
Drakis kept as still as the cold, marble stone on which he knelt. Since he had been ushered into the large, oval room by the house slaves, he had waited on his knees, his head bent over in submission. Even so, he felt the chill stare of his master’s blank, onyx-eyes. No slave spoke in the presence of his or her master until specifically bidden to do so. No slave looked upon the master until directly addressed.
So he had remained, with increasing pain shooting up his legs as the moments dragged into eternity.
He was keenly aware of his surroundings. The audience hall was situated within the floating avatria, its arching walls rising upward in the shape of wide, alabaster leaves whose tips cradled crystal panes, each casting columns of light from a delicate lattice overhead. Curved stairs led down into the room from two archways situated between the leaves while the throne itself floated at the far end of the oval floor.
Standing still as statues at the perimeter of the room were a number of the elves from the household, paid servants who worked in the avatria or as overseers in the subatria below. These were pressed against the curved walls well away from their master’s position in the hall. One slave, the Lyric, had little choice in the matter. A waiflike human woman clad in a loose fitting, translucent robe, she was chained by a golden collar to the throne of the master. Drakis vaguely remembered seeing her, though if she had a name, he did not know it. The Lyric squatted as far from the throne as the chain would allow. Only Tsi-Timuri, Timuran’s wife, and their daughter, Tsi-Shebin, stood next to the throne with any affectation of desire.
Everyone waited.
At long last, Sha-Timuran spoke.
“Drakissssss,” he said, his grating, high-pitched voice hanging onto the last syllable, drawing it out like the sound of a snake.
“My Master,” Drakis answered, his words sounding too loud in his own ears. He looked up.
Sha-Timuran was tall even by elven standards, making even more pronounced the narrow features of his
