KriChan opened his mouth to speak, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Yes, Captain,” Drakis inserted quickly before the manticore could speak or, worse, act. “I’ll take care of him.”
Nine notes of the dwarven kings laughing in the darkness. . Seven notes in his screaming as his world falls in glittering shards five notes at a time to the ground. .
I’ll take care of him, Drakis thought, if I don’t unravel first.
Drakis drew in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to breathe slower. The armor he wore was mismatched and pinched him. He fought the panicked urge to tear at the straps and cast off the torturous steel tomb-and tomb it was, his mind screamed at him-and run blindly away to anywhere but here in the darkest heart buried far beneath the Aeria peaks. He considered praying to the gods of the House but then stopped.
There was nothing special in him that the gods might want to save, he thought. He was a human-a defeated and moderately rare race-talented with a sword, perhaps, but otherwise unremarkable. He was of only average height for his kind. Broad shoulders and a strong body, perhaps, but the skin of his face was pocked, and a small scar at the corner of his lips gave him the affectation of a crooked frown; not handsome in the way of the gods but of average looks for a warrior of his race. The campaign had done nothing to improve his appearance either, as the tattoo brands on his scalp-usually shaved cleanly bald before the daily Devotions of House Timuran-were now slightly obscured by a fuzz of dark brown hair that had pushed its way through his scalp over the last three days. No, he realized, there was nothing remarkable enough about him to command the attention of the gods. All he had was himself and his brother warriors from his Octian to keep him alive for one more day.
Drakis squeezed his wide-bladed short sword tighter, desperately willing the strength of his hand to overcome the sweat and dark dwarven blood that coated the grip. He did not dare close his eyes, tempting as it was to banish the walls closing in around him.
He had won victory in many battles, slain many enemies in the service of the Rhonas Empire-may his allegiance and loyalty to his elven masters ever be on his lips-and the glorious House of which he longed to be a part.
He was only a warrior-slave of House Timuran-as he had always been, as the gods had made him.
Nine notes rolled around Drakis on shattered shields, a chorus of screaming slaves all singing in madness. . Seven notes drew him back, running from the flames burning down his life. .
“It’s here! The last judgment of the gods!” Braun shouted. The Proxi suddenly knelt down in the corridor, planting the steel-spiked base of his staff against the glowing symbols in the paving stones and leaning forward. A blue glow grew within the crystal fixed in the staff’s headpiece.
“This is it!” ChuKang shouted. “Drakis! First Octian stand to the sides of the fold! Jerakh! Murthas! Second Octian leads those on the right! Third Octian leads the rest on the left”
Drakis tried to ignore the notes turning through his mind in an unending circle as he stepped back, pushing his back against the corridor wall. Nine notes. . Seven notes. . Five. . Five. . It was his sanity that rotated on a melodic wheel careening across an endless plain toward a dark tower atop a pillar of stone. .
The Proxi staff’s crystal flared with brilliant light. The air in the corridor before the Proxi twisted, flattening into a vertical disk that cut across the width of the corridor. Space itself contorted, collapsed, and compressed. Dark hallway, rock, stone, passages, walls, lit rooms, dark halls-all rushed forward inside the magical oval whose edges writhed with arcing light. Just as quickly the rushing motion stopped. The sounds of battle rang out through the magical fold, and Drakis could see clearly a huge underground plaza lit by hundreds of burning torches. An enormous statue filled a rotunda just beyond the plaza around which a line of screaming, enraged dwarven warriors were charging toward them.
“For the glory of House Timuran!” ChuKang roared as he and the rest of the First Octian stood aside, pressing their backs against the walls. They would be the last to enter the battle.
“For the glory of the Emperor!” Drakis shouted in chorus with the rest of the Centurai around him.
Second and Third Octia rushed forward as though charging to collide where the glowing oval from Braun’s staff bisected the wall between them. Drakis felt the brush of armor and whiffed the stench of drying blood as the Second Octian rushed past him, followed immediately by the Fourth and Sixth.
“Keep moving, you slave bastards!” ChuKang shouted. “Win me enough room to kill some dwarves!”
KriChan continued to roar. “For the Emperor and his Imperial Will!”
The ranks of warriors surged forward like a confluence of rivers, leaping into the vertical glowing disk on both sides as though in collision. . but the folded space of the elven war-mages and their Proxi obeyed a reality that was uniquely dictated by the power of Aether magic. Drakis watched as the converging warriors dashed headlong into the magically wrenched space, and, from where he stood, he could see that those entering from his side were rushing into the distant illuminated plaza and engaging the charging dwarves. He knew from experience that those warriors charging in the opposite direction were rushing from the opposite side of the fold into that same plaza.
The screaming Impress Warriors of Timuran continued their charge through the blazing mystic portal until the four remaining members of the Octian Dista-all of them goblin archers-leaped through to the other side.
All that remained were the warriors of the First Octian-Drakis’ brothers in combat for as long as he could remember. ChuKang, the Captain of the entire Timuran Centurai, was at the heels of the goblin archers, roaring in battle rage, a massive sword in each hand as he turned and pushed through the portal. Ethis-a four-armed chimerian with the wonderfully durable physical structure of his kind-leaped through. He was followed by TsuRag and GriChag, both manticores from the Southern Steppes of Chaenandria as were ChuKang and KriChan. Behind them came Megri, the goblin with quick eyes and quicker fingers. He flashed a bright, sharp-toothed smile at Drakis before hopping through the fold.
KriChan hung back a moment, turning his narrowed eyes on Drakis. “Is the Proxi still good?”
Nine notes singing of the Dwarven Thrones. . Seven notes ringing of the Octia losing one. .
Drakis’ head hurt, and he was not sure he heard the manticore correctly. “Master?”
KriChan wrapped his massive paw around the back of Drakis’ neck. The human could feel the sting of the great warrior’s claws pushing against his skin, and KriChan drew him closer. “I have no time or patience to waste on you, Drakis! You are hoo-mani. . Braun is hoo-mani. Tell me now! Is the Proxi broken?”
Braun knelt next to them, watching them both with bemused interest even as he still held the fold open with sweat pouring down his face from the effort. “Tell him, Drakis! Tell the big, pet cat that he need not get his fur up. I’ve never felt better in my life, Drakis! I’ve never seen the world so clearly! Layers of cloth have been unwinding from my eyes, and for the first time, I’m beginning to see just what a lie we’re all living.”
KriChan growled as he suddenly turned on the Proxi, baring his teeth menacingly.
Braun’s blissful smile fell only slightly, his eyes suddenly focusing and his words tinted with menace. “Of course, if you kill your Proxi, who will extract your hide from this farce of a battle then, eh?”