Song of the Dragon

tattered dress, a look of fierce determination in her eyes as she held a sword before her with conviction. Drakis could not imagine where she had gotten that blade.

“We are the Octian of Oblivion!” the Lyric said with conviction, her short, wispy hair standing away from her head in odd angles.

“The. . what?” the Tribune demanded.

“Aye,” Ethis said, turning back to the Tribune as he responded with confidence. “We are the, uh, Octian of Oblivion. . specialized warriors in the service of Lord Tajeran. He asks only that, if possible, we be held in reserve. . behind the main line of defense as he considers us valuable warriors of his Cohort and. .”

“You’ll serve where I tell you,” the Tribune snarled in grating, dangerous tones. “You’ll go to the front of the line at once!”

“But my Lord’s instructions. .”

“I take no instructions from ‘your Lord,’ ” the Tribune bellowed. “Marquen!”

“Aye, Tribune,” came the response from a squat manticore with a long scar running up from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore the chevrons of a Cohort master.

The Tribune smiled to herself as she spoke. “Get this-this Octian-up through to the front of the defensive line!”

“But, Tribune!” Ethis protested.

“Stick him if he gives you any trouble, Marquen,” the Tribune continued. “Let’s let someone else spill their blood for a change.”

The short manitcore only grunted and then started shoving Ethis, Drakis, and the rest of their group forward.

“My master shall hear of this!” Ethis shouted back angrily at the Tribune as he walked toward the line, then turned and grinned smugly at Drakis walking next to him.

Marquen’s bellows were sufficient to get the troops arrayed in front of them to reluctantly part, and within a few minutes they were standing at the front of the defensive line. In the darkness before them, the rhythmic chanting of their own former brothers in arms-now insane-was rising in tempo and sound.

“It will be by your word,” Drakis said to the warrior manticore.

Belag nodded, then spoke to their companions, “When I shout, that’s when we run.” The manticore warrior drew in a deep breath and then crouched down, preparing to spring.

Drakis grabbed Mala’s hand. “Jugar, you have the Lyric?”

“Aye,” said the dwarf as he shot a worried glance at the woman next to him staring blissfully out over the field. “Are you ready, lass?”

Drakis noticed only then that she had dropped her sword somewhere. The girl looked down at him and smiled sweetly beneath her unfocused eyes.

“That will have to do,” Jugar coughed as he spoke.

The manticorian warrior bellowed and then charged away from the line of warriors, angling directly toward the woods. Drakis ran after him with Mala behind him struggling to keep up. Jugar charged forward as well with the Lyric as Ethis and RuuKag followed behind.

Surprise won over discipline for only a few moments, but it was enough. By the time the astonished warriors realized what had happened, Drakis and his band were already crashing into the underbrush of the woods to the right of the line.

The darkness of the woods panicked Drakis for a moment. His eyes had been used to the globe-torches illuminating the fold platform and were not yet accustomed to the darkness. Mala fell behind him, and he stopped, picking her up.

Then the ground started to shake.

The mad warriors were charging at last in the clearing next to them. Drakis stood, holding Mala in the darkness as the sounds of crushing pain and agonizing death permeated the air around them. He wanted to shield her from it, protect her from the horror that was taking place only yards from where they stood. His arms enfolded her head, pulling it to his chest.

And he was again aware of the insistent tugging on his garments by the dwarf.

“Master Drakis,” Jugar growled under his breath. “Follow me. We must get through the portal at once.”

“Why?” Drakis said, his arms holding Mala tighter still.

“Because the battle here will soon be ending,” Jugar said in the darkness. “And those left will be looking for something else to kill.”

With each fold passage, the carnage increased. Thanks to the confused rush of the armies to return home, the warriors of the fallen Houses had been spread unevenly throughout the complex system of fold portals, a cancer that erupted suddenly seemingly everywhere at once. Where the greater concentrations of warriors were found, the destruction was even more savage. That the warrior madmen were no longer restricted by the totems became an even greater problem as in some places they were able to overwhelm the forces of the other Houses and spill into the countryside.

In those places, death was the rule.

It was the silence that shocked them.

Not total silence. The Lyric was humming a tune whose quiet notes drifted with the smoke that lay like a thin veil over the field. Mala whimpered as she shook behind Drakis. The others were grim and silent.

RuuKag broke the crystal stillness, his voice dry and cracking, startling them despite his care. “Which way do we go now?”

“Now you’re in a hurry?” Ethis whispered.

“Anything to get out of this place,” RuuKag croaked.

Drakis held the sleeve of his tunic across his nose and mouth, desperate to separate his senses from the stench that permeated the air around them. There were several portals that he could see still operating at the far perimeters of the marshaling field. He remembered this field as being one of the largest-the nexus of seven portals originally although now only five of them were functioning. The bulk of Timuran’s forces must have been bottled up here when everything changed. Now, two of the portals were dark and useless. . but the others. .

“That one,” Drakis said, pointing beyond a slight rise in the center of the field. “That one leads farther on.”

“How many more of these portals do we have to pass?” Mala murmured, her voice shaking. She could not take her eyes away from the moldering death blanketing her view to the horizon. “Can’t we. . can’t we just leave?”

“We’ve got to keep going,” Drakis insisted. “The portals are the fastest path for us to get as far as possible.”

“But for how long?” RuuKag asked through a sigh. “The Emperor will not tolerate such rebellion. He will bring the weight of his Imperial Will down with a vengeance to regain control of the folds for the Myrdin-dai. It isn’t a question of if but when.”

“He’s right,” Jugar nodded. “The Armies of the Emperor will return order and soon. Face it, lad; we have to get off this path at some point.”

“Not yet!” Drakis shook his head. He knew the dwarf was right-that they were all right-but he could not yet face leaving the confusion and horror of the portals. The thought of turning from the roads previously so familiar to him and striking out into lands unknown terrified him worse than the carnage and battle of the portal road. Drakis, warrior of House Timuran, was afraid of getting lost.

More than that, he realized, he was afraid of being alone with his thoughts. Being driven from terror to terror had the advantage that there was no time to reflect on the raging animal of his own memories still kept at bay in the back of his mind.

But they were right. He could not run forever.

“Two. . maybe three. . more portals,” Drakis said. “Then we’ll abandon the portals and strike out on foot.”

“Two,” the dwarf said. “Two. . if we can make it.”

“Why two?” Ethis asked through the inscrutable mask of his face.