Song of the Dragon

“Oh, very well,” Argos grumbled. “His name is Jukung. He is an Inquisitor of the Empire and will reward us for our service.”

“Yes, oh great Caliph!”

“And we must always be grateful to the Empire,” Argos sighed, then, in a flash of inspiration, turned and put his hand in a semblance of benevolence on the helmeted head of the guard. “Quickly write this down so that we can have it written on our next wall. We must always be grateful to the Empire, for without it all the gnomes would be forced to endure terrible suffrage!”

CHAPTER 34

Traveler’s Tales

“Aye! There he stood, Drakis the Just, atop the very throne of the dwarven kingdoms! His hands were stained with the blood of a thousand dwarves-the sworn enemies of his cruel masters-as he took the crown from the last of the Dwarven Kings!”

The dwarf’s voice filled the cavernous space inside the mud gnomes’ city adjacent to the main fire pit. He stood in the center of an enormous crowd of mud gnomes, all staring back at him in rapt attention. On the fringes of this congregation, however, a number of gnomes were talking excitedly and gesturing wildly. These would then fall away from the crowd and meld back into the constant stream of mud gnomes that swept past them in an unending river only to be immediately replaced with yet more gnomes who would chatter away at the fringes of the group, trying, it seemed, to catch up to events in the story before they arrived. A few of these would settle more toward the middle where the dwarf was blathering on while others fell back into the perpetual parade. It was an audience whose comings and goings seemed to have little reference to the story as it was being told. The mud gnomes might love stories, but Drakis could not be sure that any one of them had heard a single one of Jugar’s tales from beginning to end. They seemed to be perpetually in motion and unable to stay in any one spot long enough for a long joke, let alone an epic tale.

At the edge of the cavern, two additional figures watched in stillness as the river of gnomes swirled around them.

“Jugar is in rare form tonight,” said Ethis, both pairs of his arms folded across his chest.

“Yes,” Drakis said in disgust. “Rare. . almost raw.”

“You don’t approve?” Ethis asked in a calm, droll manner.

“Is that meant to be a joke!” Drakis complained. “Just listen to him!”

Jugar stood, his thick arms raised above him, his head bent backward in the drama of his storytelling. The gnomes were leaning toward him now. “There Drakis stood, gazing upon the fabled crown of the dwarves-its jewels sparkling like all the stars of the winter sky-his mighty army arrayed about him, howling in their blood- crazed frenzy for more slaughter, more violence, more death to fill their empty souls! Drakis saw in that dwarven crown all the terrible sins of his elven masters-the pain of his fellow slaves, the loss of their dignity, and their life’s blood all sacrificed on the altar of Rhonas ambition to take one more jeweled crown into the already burgeoning coffers of the elven state! What was this crown weighed in the balance against the thousands of lives he had taken to obtain it? What was this crown weighed in the balance of his own soul!”

“That’s it,” Drakis grumbled, taking a step forward. “I’ve got to put a stop to this.”

“Just a moment,” Ethis said, reaching out with one of his left hands and restraining Drakis by the shoulder. “I think he’s nearly finished.”

Jugar’s voice dropped dramatically into hushed tones, drawing his eager audience even closer to him. “So what did Drakis do?”

The gnomes leaned closer still.

“He THREW the crown away from him!” Jugar shouted, reenacting the moment by swinging his arm in a wide arc over the heads of the nearest gnomes.

The gnomes gasped in astonishment.

“That’s the truth of it, and may the gods strike me down otherwise!” Jugar concluded. “Drakis tossed away the riches of the elven world-a crown whose wealth would have bought him power and position even among his evil elven masters-for he saw that wealth and power were meaningless if one pays for it with one’s own soul! And from that day to this, Drakis the Just, Drakis the Wise, Drakis of the Prophecy, has wandered the face of the world seeking to fulfill his destiny, destroy evil, and bring lasting peace to all!

“And now,” Jugar paused then pointed his finger directly toward the astonished Drakis. “Now he has come to YOU!”

The mud gnomes leaped up, cheering.

“Oh, no!” Drakis murmured, his eyes going wide. “No, no. .!”

The gnomes rushed toward Drakis in a riotous wave of approval, sweeping the human off his feet.

“DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS!”

“Put me down!” he insisted to no avail. He managed to twist in the mud gnomes’ collective grasp as they lifted him over their heads. “Ethis! Where are they taking me?”

“I suspect back to the feast hall,” Ethis replied through a perplexing smile splitting his malleable face.

“Again?”

“That seems to be their preferred way of showing their appreciation for a good story,” Ethis replied, pushing gingerly away from the dried mud wall of the story-cavern. “Besides, we’re leaving with them in the morning, and we’d all rather do so on a full stomach. I don’t see the need for any complaint. The food here is quite good, and they seem perfectly content to share it with us.”

“But it’s a lie!”

“They don’t seem to care,” Ethis observed as the gnomes once again carried Drakis above their shoulders and down a ramp toward their common feast hall. “If anything, they seem to prefer it.”

Early the next morning, Drakis stood outside the great mud city of the Hak’kaarin mud gnomes and waited in the cool dawn with Jugar, Ethis, Belag, and RuuKag with their traveling packs filled to overflowing in preparation for their journey.

“What are we waiting for?” RuuKag grumbled. “The sooner we get moving, the quicker we’re out of this cursed plain.”

“We’re waiting for Mala and the Lyric,” Drakis responded. “A pair of gnomes came with word that they would be late but would be along shortly.”

“Where have they been for the last three days?” Ethis asked. “I’ve seen them at the feasts, but then they seemed to disappear.”

“Oh, I know about that!” Jugar said brightly, his round cheeks bowed upward in a cheery smile. “I asked the Chief of the Day where they had taken the precious women in our company and. .

“Chief of the Day?” Drakis asked.

“Oh, yes! I assure you that these Hak’kaarin have enacted a most fascinating form of governance, really,” Jugar replied. “They have no permanent rulers but rather take turns directing things. They change out the chief pretty much whenever they feel like it. There is no set schedule, but a change in leadership usually takes place when the Chief of the Day gets tired of doing the job and gives someone else a chance. They have no interest in power or wealth as we understand it-indeed, they find the stories we tell of the acquisition of such things to be something like cautionary tales. Their civilization is entirely based on total community of property and pride taken in the whole rather than the individual. Individuals don’t ‘own’ anything as we understand it but take ownership in the whole of their society. All these gnomes coming and going take whatever burrow is available to them when they arrive, use the things in it as though they were their own-because in a very real sense they are theirs as a community-and then just leave them behind when they travel to the next mud city. For that matter, it’s one of the reasons the elves-or anyone else for that matter-have never bothered to conquer them: They don’t have anything worth taking. They live relatively simple lives, journeying constantly from