Song of the Dragon

mortal men and, having been a slave himself, would lift the curse that held the manticorian nation in chains and awaken the power of the Khadush once more to hunt their true enemies.

Watching the embers from the fire rise up among the stars, Belag saw the firelight shining in Karag’s eyes. His elder brother believed the words of the loremaster with all his heart. In time, Karag had even studied under the loremaster with the thought in mind of becoming his apprentice and one day perhaps even becoming the loremaster to the Khadush Pride. But in the end, Karag discovered that it was not his calling, that recitation of the lore was not enough for him; he had come to believe with unquestioning fervor that Drakis not only would come but that he had come and that the greatest thing he could do would be to leave the pride and journey into the world to find the prophesied liberator and serve him in his coming battle against the Rhonas oppressors. It would require hardship and, in the end, great sacrifice, but the glories of the songs to be sung and the stories to be told of those who served Drakis in his return would last down through the ages.

To Belag, who lived on every word of his elder brother, the dreams and the glories that awaited them in such service were intoxicating, and any sacrifice seemed but a small matter by comparison. His brother believed and so Belag, too, believed. For him, in those early years, it was just that simple.

So when Karag left the pride to search for the promised emancipator of the manticores, Belag went with him without a second thought. They journeyed northward because the legends said that Drakis would one day come from the north. Their track also took them somewhat westward around the northern foothills of the Aerian Mountains as Karag wished at all costs to avoid the bizarre and devious chimera of Ephindria. As they traveled, Belag learned all that his brother knew about Drakis Aerweaver and the Dragons of Armethia, committing each detail to memory. Belag could still remember the smile his brother gave him with each correct recitation or whenever Belag answered his questions correctly.

Then came the day they were ensnared by the Rhonas slave hunters on the verge of the Vestasian Savanna-and with their first enforced Devotions all the memories of their great quest and hopes for their future vanished under an avalanche of lies and false memories.

And so they lived for nearly four years as slaves of the Rhonas, asleep to their true natures and fighting battles for the elves in which they had only artificial loyalty and illusionary allegiance to their master’s Houses. Belag, in hindsight, now considered that time as a trial of his faith and part of the sacrifice by which the gods test their heroes. By then both he and his brother knew a human slave named Drakis, but their memories were so buried beneath the miasma of House Devotional spells that they did not even recognize the object of their quest when they saw it.

Then Karag died in their final battle-died saving this Drakis. Belag believed that somehow Karag must have known, even through the damning House Devotions, that protecting this human was his greatest moment and the culmination of his faith. His brother, Belag now knew without doubt, was a martyr whose death atoned for the curse on the manticores of their pride’s clan.

Then came the Awakening. Drakis utterly destroyed the Aether Well of House Timuran and freed Belag’s mind from the interwoven chains of lies, deceptions, and falsehoods that his life had become. In that moment he remembered it all-how the elven hunters had taken both him and his brother and every painful, humiliating day since. Most of all he remembered the legends of Drakis and attached them at once to the Impress Warrior that he knew so well. Especially since his brother had died defending him in the battle of the Ninth Throne.

It was a sign. . it had to be a sign. It had to be significant. His brother had to die for a greater cause and his death had to be on behalf of his lifelong dream so that his spirit could rest among the honored dead.

In that moment, standing amid the chaos as House Timuran tore itself apart-in that moment, Belag knew the reality of it with his entire soul. His fragile sanity hung suspended by that single, inviolable truth: This human Drakis was the embodiment of his brother’s every hope, and his life gave meaning to his brother’s death.

Belag withdrew his face from its close proximity to the carving on the wall and shook his head, repeating his words. “They have it wrong.”

“They see it differently,” a small voice said casually next to him.

The large lion-man jumped slightly at the sound. Belag had not believed it possible for a human to be able to approach so near a manticore without been heard. “No, they are wrong, Lyric.”

“Not so much wrong as you are both right in a different way,” the Lyric replied, her own gaze fixed on the carvings adorning the wall. Her hair had grown into a wild nimbus of near-white radiating from her head. Its soft strands seemed to float in the air around the crown of her head. “They do not know what you know, Belag-how could they see through your eyes?”

Belag spoke quietly down toward the much shorter human woman. “And whom have I the pleasure of addressing today?”

The Lyric looked up at him, her large eyes shining up from her narrow face. “Of course, you are a manticore and from a far and strange land. I wonder not that you have never encountered my kind before. Fear not, good creature, I am a beneficent spirit and mean you no ill.”

“A spirit?” Belag furrowed his furry brow.

“Aye,” the Lyric responded with a sad smile. “I am the ghost of Musaran the Wanderer. I am most often invisible, but I show myself to those whose stories I wish to take with me. . and to those whom my stories may help. Every creature of the world has a story, and I am fated to know them all.”

Belag let out a relieved breath. The Lyric changed her persona unpredictably, and more often than not lately she had taken to adopting strange and sometimes dangerous characteristics. Yesterday had been a challenge. She had proclaimed herself Clarinda, the throat-cutting harlot of Chargoth Bay and had everyone more than a little wary of her. A ghost of some wandering story-gatherer sounded like a good deal safer personality for all concerned. “Then you know the legends of Drakis Aerweaver.”

“I do-and a good many more,” the Lyric said with a sad darkness in her voice. “There is one story that interests me most right now, one with which you can help me. I have the beginning and the middle right, but I do not yet have the ending.”

“You need my help with a story?” Belag chuckled.

“It is a story that will interest you, I think,” the Lyric replied, arching her eyebrows.

“Thank you, spirit,” Belag replied, turning back to the carvings on the wall. “I have no need of stories.”

“But this one involves you,” the Lyric replied. “It is the story of RuuKag, the manticore who lost his tale.”

“Lost his tail?” Belag snorted. “He should look behind him!”

“Not his ‘tail,’ Belag, his tale,” the Lyric said with surprising impatience. “His story, his personal legend. Every creature is the hero of his own story but RuuKag lost his. Now I fear he has gone to find it.”

Belag hesitated. “Find it?”

“Yes,” the Lyric replied, shaking her head. “He left yesterday late in the evening. I followed him-invisible as I was-for a long as I could. He crossed over the Cragsway Pass toward the. . where are you going? The story isn’t finished yet!”

Belag was already throwing open the doors of the Elders’ Lodge, his pace picking up quickly toward the bay.

“Aye, that’s a fine ship, lass,” Jugar said through his wide-toothed grin. “I’ve never seen the like!”

“Then you’ve never encountered the corsairs of Thetis,” Urulani replied, swinging around a backstay to land on the planked deck beneath her feet. “She’s just three hands under thirty cubits in length from stern to stern, and we can pull her at a respectable speed with a crew of twenty-given a good sea. She’s the smallest of our corsairs, but I rather like her.”

“It is a wonder!” The dwarf said, shaking his head as he gazed at the ship where it was moored to the dock. The Cydron, as Urulani called it, was a beautiful craft, its hull tapered fore and aft with such elegant lines that it looked as though it could fly across the waves with barely a feather’s touch. She was not a terribly large ship-completely unlike the large and rather ponderous galleons that the Rhonas employed against their rebellious cousins on the southern borders of the Empire-but was built for grace and speed. Three slightly angled masts gave a powerful rake to her lines. Her main deck was a single level though a raised walkway just