Tracy Hickman
Song of the Dragon
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We all stand on the shoulders of giants and all are worthy of thanks but to two women especially I owe public acknowledgment: Laura, my wife and partner without whose muse I would have no tale to tell nor song to sing; and the brilliant Sheila Gilbert, who showed us where to find the fire beyond the smoke.
Book 1: THE JESTER
CHAPTER 1
The song would not leave him.
Nine notes. . Seven notes. . Nine notes. . Seven notes. . Five notes. . Five notes. .
Circles in circles, endlessly spinning through his mind, filling its space with an endless melodic wheel. It pulls at him, calls to him, drawing him into a whirling vortex of music that engulfs his thoughts, his actions. .
“Drakis! Wake up!”
Drakis, Impress Warrior of the House of Timuran and Leader of the First Octian, shook his head and tried frantically to focus his eyes in the stark light.
The enormous, broad face of ChuKang, Captain of the Timuran Warriors, swam in front of him. ChuKang was a manticore-a lion-man from the Chaenandrian Steppes-and was therefore forced to bend his towering, eight-foot tall form down to face the human. ChuKang’s lips curled back on his flat, fur-covered face as he spoke, exposing his sharp fangs. “Drakis! Do you have the count or not?”
Nine notes. . Seven notes. .
Drakis found it hard to catch his breath in the stifling heat of the narrow corridor. The stone hall was barely twenty feet wide and packed shoulder to shoulder and wall to wall with his brother warriors as far as he could see in both directions. Their faces stared back at him, cast in the stark and unnaturally cold light of a number of globe-torches distributed among them. They were mostly made up of towering manticores mixed with nearly an equal number of four-armed chimera and the occasionally emerging face of an impatient Mestophian goblin. Each of their heads-shaved from the top of their foreheads running back to the base of their necks-was marked with the sinque tattoo branding every one of them as the property of House Timuran.
Each warrior-slave knew his place-just as Drakis well knew his own. He was the third of eight warriors that made up the First Octian, first of the ten Octia that made up House Timuran’s eighty-warrior Centurai. Timuran’s Centurai had been attached to five more from neighboring Houses on the Imperial Frontier to form the Second Cohort of the Western Provinces-just short of five hundred warriors-which in turn was united with seven other Impress Cohorts, an additional War-mage Cohort, plus a Warlord Cohort creating the four thousand and eight hundred strong Legion of the West. Three such Legions made up the army grandly named ”Blade of the West,” which was then joined with two other such armies-“Emperor’s Blade” and “Blade of the Marches”-to fill out the enormous Imperial Army of Conquest.
Over forty-three thousand Impress Warriors bringing their bright-edged steel against the last bastion of Dwarven Mighty-and Drakis was but one among them.
Nine notes spun through his mind, sounding hollow as they fell into a vast, surging sea of blood. . Five notes singing of his insignificance drowned out by the nine notes that dragged him downward into an abyss of sound. His dying breath made no impression on anyone else at all. .
“Drakis!” ChuKang roared.
“Captain! I have the count!” Drakis blurted out, his eyes focusing on the captain. “First Octian through Fourth Octian are at full strength with eight warriors each. Seventh Octian has combined with the Sixth and are now reporting seven warriors strong. Eighth and Ninth Octia are also at full strength of eight warriors each. Archers of Octian Dista are answering with four.”
“What about Fifth Octian?” KriChan growled. He was a fierce-looking manticore with a long scar running from just above his right eye across his face-and also second-in-command of the House Timuran Centurai after ChuKang.
“Fifth Octian does not report,” Drakis answered. He was sweating profusely now. “I think we lost them just before the last fold.”
“Lord Timuran will not be pleased,” KriChan said quietly. “Committing the entire Centurai in this campaign was more of a gamble than an investment. . and we’ve yet to garner a single prize.”
ChuKang gave a warning glance at his Second. “Without a prize of honor it might be better if we all came back on our shields. We need to get into the fight. Braun! What’s taking so long?”
They all turned to the only other human present, the sole Proxi for the remaining warriors of House Timuran’s Centurai. He was a short man with a stocky build, easily distinguishable by his large, hooked nose and piercing, dark eyes. Like most of the Timuran warriors, he wore a hodgepodge of protective armor, but instead of a weapon he carried the Proxi staff of the Timuran Centurai-a tall wooden shaft with an onyx claw headpiece gripping an Aether crystal at its top. As the Proxi, he was the connection between the elven Tribunes who ran the battle from their hilltop thousands of feet above and many leagues distant from the combat underground. The Tribunes experienced the war from a command tent filled with the breezes of an open sky, their bodies far removed from the blades of the enemy. Bound by the power of Aether magic, the Proxi was the projected presence of the War-mage Tribunes at the battlefront. What Braun saw, his Tribune saw. What Braun heard; his Tribune heard as well. More important still, Braun and all other Proxi were an extension of the Tribunes’ magical powers wrought from the Aether, the conduit for the Tribunes’ spells. Thus their elven masters leagues away could experience and contribute to the battle through the Proxi in nearly every aspect except one: In agony and death a Proxi was always alone.
Braun cocked his head to one side, as though he were listening to the rocks overhead. He flashed a crooked smile, but his eyes were fixed on a scene far beyond the close walls around them. “Can’t you hear it? Don’t you see? The dancers and the puppets are all moving across the stage, each one playing his little part, just as we are-our own little part! And now we’re coming to the great finale-the headlong rush into death itself. It’s all going exactly as the masters have promised it would be. Death, blood, and glory all threshed like fall wheat with our deaths and our blood as dross and the glory all neatly gleaned for House Timuran. Smell the applause!”
“What in the name of all the gods. .” KriChan began.
Five notes. . Five notes. .
Drakis drew in a deep breath. “Captain ChuKang, Braun is not-Captain, it’s been three days since his last Field Devotion.”
It’s been three days since my own devotions, Drakis thought. Three days of this song rolling through my head. .
“Three days for any of us,” ChuKang snapped. “What of it? Is that a problem, hoo-mani?”
KriChan’s eyes narrowed as he stared first at Braun and then back at Drakis.
“He’ll do fine, Captain,” Drakis said, his own eyes focusing on the scowling face of ChuKang. “I’ll see to him.”
“You had better see that he doesn’t break, Drakis,” the Centurai commander grumbled while shooting a glance at KriChan. “His folds got us into this and, by the gods, his folds had better get us out! Proxi’s minds always break first in battle. We’re too deep under this mountain to have our Proxi snap like some dry twig.”
“Deep?” Braun said, crouching on the fitted stones that formed the floor of the corridor. He reached down to the paving stones at his feet, his fingers brushing against a pattern of interlocking rings etched into the stone. The symbol glowed faintly at his touch. “Yes, we are deep and far from home. See the gate symbol here? They have been growing weaker with every fold farther from the Aether Well of House Timuran. What shall save us if the way is shut? The cords that bind us to the House of our master unravel, and does not our future unravel along with our past?”