KriChan chuckled darkly. “They ran, but not fast enough.”
“It was a blessing from the gods,” ChuKang continued. “Chasing them down showed us the way to the causeway.”
“At least we thought it was a blessing,” Megri chimed in. The goblin was grinning as he picked at his fingernails with the point of his dagger, “until we realized the Proxi had gone missing.”
Drakis turned. Braun stood nearby, still smiling at him with the same strange grin.
“The Centurai is assembled up ahead,” KriChan said. “Are you ready to go?”
Drakis shuddered.
“More than ready.”
CHAPTER 4
The Timuran centurai had lost nearly a third of their number by the time they emerged from the dwarven avenue. Regrouped and organized, their well-ordered phalanx emerged shoulder to shoulder onto a courtyard that was completely engulfed in hot, steaming mists.
Their carefully ordered and classic formation suited the plans of the Ninth Throne Death-dealer Dwarves well-who waited for the Centurai to emerge from the avenue and then set upon them from both sides simultaneously. Hot, wet mists swirled in utter blackness around them, illuminated by the frequent, diffused flashes of blue and red in the distance, each flash painting silhouettes of slaughter in the mists. In the confusion of the vapor, the carefully ordered Centurai collapsus again into frantic and desperate fights with an enemy who kept appearing out of nowhere and vanishing just as quickly as they came.
Drakis adjusted his grip and pushed his way into the battle once again. He needed to bring order to his Octian. If he could rally them, then he might use them to bring order to other Octia in the Centurai, but that couldn’t happen until he could
He waded into the milky conflict, killing before being killed and struggling to keep his footing on the blood- slick stones.
“There is a place that calls my soul home.” Unbidden, Drakis’ lips began to move with each blow of his sword, and through his chattering teeth he began hesitantly to sing. “North far beyond horizons. .”
He cut his sword deep across the gut of the dwarf before him.
“To my place of resting. . of testing. .”
He drew the blade out just in time to parry an ax blade from his right.
“Centurai! Centurai Timuran!” The call to rally was shouted unmistakably by ChuKang-yet his words sounded strangely muffled, their direction and distance diffused through the steaming fog. One after the other, the leaders of each Octian were being summoned to rally to their leader. “Centurai!”
Drakis thrust his sword into an ax-wielding dwarf, then, looking up, caught a glimpse of several large figures running past him, their dark outlines illuminated by flashing pulses of light against the steaming mists. The first two were manticores-judging by their size and the enormously broad shoulders-followed closely by a lithe shadow with four arms.
“Hey, GriChag! TsuRag! Ethis!” Drakis called out as he dragged his blade quickly from the quivering body of his last opponent. His own Octian at last. So long as he had his Octian brothers with him, he was invincible. His eyes remained locked on the shadows as they quickly stopped and turned in the sticky fog.
“Yes, Warlord?” Ethis said flatly as he came closer.
Warlord was the title reserved for the master of the combined Legions and ludicrously beyond what any human could dream to attain. Drakis frowned. “Knock it off, Ethis. GriChag, where’s Megri?”
“With ChuKang and KriChan,” the manticore said quickly. “And Braun?” Drakis urged.
“Yes, he’s with them, too.” GriChag turned his massive head away in disgust.
Drakis gave a sudden, violent shake. The steaming fog was unnerving him. “Then let’s form the Octian on ChuKang.
The manticore curled his lip, barring his fangs, but he turned and obeyed, followed by TsuRag and Ethis. Drakis’ own feet stumbled on the uneven ground, but he knew that both the manticores and the chimerian could see far better than he could in these conditions. Better to keep his gaze fixed on them and risk a few missteps than to risk falling down some bottomless shaft.
With a startling abruptness, the mists twisted, writhing in the cavern wind, shredding apart. He could see the Yungskord again, but this time Drakis was looking back to the distant promenade that the Timuran Centurai had folded away from not that long before. He had stood there and seen this place in the distance; now, thanks to the folds, he was standing here and looking back on where they had so recently been and where Braun had propagated so many copies of the gate symbol along that wide promenade. The young warrior took in a breath, for the sudden vista filled him with awe and pride; those quickly set gate symbols had borne fruit.
Drakis stood atop a cliff face looking down onto a battle the likes of which he had never before witnessed. It raged all across the floor of the enormous Yungskord cavern. A tide of Imperial Warriors-three full Impress Legions, he was sure, over sixteen thousand strong-charged from a line of folds all along the promenade and down toward the carefully prepared positions. Imperial catapults, hastily arrayed on the promenade, launched supporting balls of flame over their heads. The dwarves waited for them, dug into a series of trenches crossing the craggy ground between the raging cascades of water that were still flooding into the enormous grotto. Long torrents of magma streamed down from the ceiling of the cavern; their brilliant yellow-orange ribbons fell crashing into the flooded cavern floor and flashing into scalding steam, boiling both the water and the Impress Warriors around it. Still, the slave-army of the elves pressed their attack, led by ranks of enraged manticores, their fangs bared in their feral faces, their roars sounding before them as they charged across the field of battle. Following on their heels were chimeras and an entire Cohort of Proxi-nearly five hundred strong-in support. They were casting sheets of electrical fire over the heads of the charging manticores and into the trenches of the dwarves. Their effectiveness was lessened, however, as the Proxi, too, had to run forward or risk death literally pouring down on them from above. Their flashes of lightning and the magma cascades illuminated ghastly scene as the manticores were suffering under the withering assault of catapult fire raining death across their ranks. The great lion-men never took their eyes off their prey, however, and in a wave leaped over the battlements and into the first line of dwarven trench works.
“Drakis!” ChuKang snarled through the flat muzzle of his face.
Drakis turned at once, unquestioningly obeying his leader’s command. “Captain! I do not yet have the count. .”
“Forget that! There’s no time,” ChuKang said, pointing up along the cliff face. “Get this Octian organized and moving. . now!”
It was the causeway; the same causeway he had seen from the far end of the Yungskord, but now it lay open before them, rising along the side of the cavern, winding between the spires of impossibly large stalagmites straight to the gates of the Thorgreld-and Stoneheart just beyond.
“You heard the voice! TsuRag and GriChag-you’re the leads with swords bright! — Megri, you follow ChuKang and KriChan. Braun, you’re with me. Ethis-you watch our backs. Stay tight. Let’s go!”
ChuKang was already charging up the inclined ledge, and Drakis was finding it hard to catch up. Now in the clear, Drakis could see what remained of their Centurai emerging from the steam. They were far fewer than he had hoped, perhaps not quite forty-less than half their original strength. With the song still sounding in the back of his head, Drakis yelled, and his entire Octian yelled with him as they led in the charge.
They ran up the fitted cobblestones of the causeway as it wound its way upward following the side wall of the cavern. Their path was illuminated by their globe-torches and the increasingly frequent brilliant flashes from the battle on the cavern floor behind them. Every step up the inclined road brought them closer to the Last Gate of Thorgreld-a bastion carved into an enormous stalactite hanging from the cavern ceiling nearly a thousand feet
