“Is it. . is it possible?” Drakis whispered.
“We came to find out,” Ethis said. “It must be four. . maybe five leagues to the base. We could make it before dark, but we’d have to make camp and return in the morning.”
“You want to make camp. . with dragons?” Urulani asked.
“Do dwarves float?” Drakis asked as he started down the road, which ran straight toward the base of the mountains.
Drakis stared up at the dragon.
The dragon’s dead, stone eyes stared back at him.
Drakis stood on a wide, black marble platform. The surface had been pitted and scarred by the blowing sands over time, scuffed to a dull finish. Fixed to it, the great carving of a dragon rose above him, its neck craning downward until its chin also rested on the pedestal. Enormous wings, also of stone, rose high above them nearly one hundred feet into the sky, brightly cast in the red light of the sunset. The front and back claws clutched enormous crystals in their talons that were embedded into the marble base. The crystals looked dark and common, but the dragon carving was intricate and detailed with pictograms of people now long dead and fallen to dust pursuing great deeds that were now otherwise forgotten.
Drakis considered the statue in silence.
“I. . I’m sorry, my boy,” Jugar said next to him. “More sorry than I can say.”
Drakis started to speak, considered for a moment, and then continued. “It’s hollow. Can you see it? The head cavity all the way up the neck and into the body is entirely hollow.”
“Yes, lad,” Jugar said sadly.
Behind him, the rest of their party stood in the sand or sat on the edge of the pedestal. The Song of the Dragon rose and fell around them, a mournful, hollow sound. As far as they could see down both directions of the range, duplicates of this same statue stood on their own pedestals. Each of them in turn was making the same music across the Sand Sea to the south.
“The wind,” Drakis continued dispassionately, pointing toward the head. “It blows here constantly through that hole in the dragon’s mouth. I saw a musician once who played an instrument by blowing into it. It looked about the same size as that hole. You know, there must be some mechanism in the head that varies the pitch so that the song can be played over, and over, and over, and over. .”
“Come, lad,” Jugar said, pulling at Drakis’ arm. “A little supper, perhaps, and a story or two. .”
“There it is, dwarf!” Drakis shouted. “There’s the great destiny of humanity! There are no dragons to save us, just these lovely, marble dreams we created for ourselves. All myths and stories and lies we tell ourselves to comfort us and make us think there is some meaning to what we do. Well, here they are, dwarf! Here are the dragons that I’m supposed to raise from the storybook past and make war with on the elves! Here’s the source of the song that calls me back to a dead land filled with dead dragons! Here are your Sentinels-the sirens of the desolation-watching over us with stone eyes and weak songs!”
“Please, my boy,” Jugar tugged at the human’s belt. “Enough of this.”
“Enough?” Drakis’ laugh had a hysterical edge. “This weak, windy song? Let’s make a decent noise of it! Let’s call the whole world up here to see just how hollow this legend of yours is!”
Drakis turned back to the dragon’s head, drew in a deep breath and blew as hard as he could through the hole.
A thunderous blast of sound shook the ground, raising a pall of dust two feet high. Drakis staggered back from the statue, his hands clasped to his ears.
Mala stood up, her jaw dropping in wonder.
The crystals under the statue’s talons flared suddenly to life, brilliant light radiating outward, then curving back in on itself, forming a ball on the platform directly beneath the statue.
Ethis turned, his eye widening.
All down the range the other statues were answering in kind. Ethis watched as the bases of each, as far as he could see, were being illuminated by crystals as well.
Jugar’s cheers were entirely engulfed in the sound.
The progression of the song began, note after overwhelming note-Nine notes. . Seven notes. .shaping the globe beneath the dragon statue until it flashed once and stabilized.
The Lyric smiled.
Five notes. . Five notes. .
Drakis staggered back off the platform just as the song concluded, its final chords echoing off the sunset-glowing mountain peaks to the north.
He took his hands from his ears.
The song had stopped. . it was gone from his mind.
“It’s a fold!” Ethis shouted.
The sphere of light beneath the dragon had become a portal. It was ancient-certainly older than any known in Rhonas. Beyond it was a land of dense green forests and bright towers in the distance.
Mala screamed.
Drakis looked up.
The peaks of the God’s Wall range suddenly began to move.
Drakis’ legs lost their strength.
As far as he could see, from every crag and mountaintop, dragons had awakened. . and were filling the skies.
They answered the call.
They were coming for him.
CHAPTER 50
The old elven woman had all the credentials of a Court Adjudicator of the Ministry of Occupation-a wizened post well suited to her age. If anyone looked more closely as she traveled the Northmarch Folds, they might discover that she bore the name of Liu Tsi-Feing, Third Court Adjudicator of the Arikasi Tjen-soi Prefecture and a Sight-maiden of the Paktan Order. Liu would tell you that she was a devout follower of Kiris, the elven Goddess of Light and Dark and that her mission on behalf of her master Arikasi dealt with trade disputes in the northern territories.
All of it was perfectly correct.
None of it was true.
The elven woman stepped uncertainly from the fold portal, gripping her walking stick tightly. The fold itself was guarded on both sides by rather impressive Warriors of the Nekara Order with a single Occuran Foldmaster sitting with his feet over the edge of the platform.
Young, the old woman thought, on his first posting for the Order and wondering if there was any part of the Empire more distant from all he wanted than this one.
The woman struggled forward, her staff dragging against the stone of the platform. The day was pleasantly cool. She could smell the breeze coming off the bay beyond the mud and stone walls of the town below. There was music rolling over the walls, and she could hear happy shouts and laughter punctuating the music drifting up the slope.
The Occuran Foldmaster did not bother to stand. He only turned to see who had come through and, seeing no one of importance, turned back to his idle consideration of his own importance.
The old woman would not be put off, however.
“Young Foldmaster,” she said in a quavering voice. “What town is this?”
“Yurani Keep,” the youth replied, though the effort seemed to pain him. “That stack of mud buildings is the capital city of this region.”
“They seem to be celebrating,” the woman noted. “Do you know the cause? Is it a holiday?”
“I do not know the cause. . nor do I care.” The youth stretched at the aching in his limbs. “They have given us three days of rest and peace from their constant trafficking of their wares through this fold, and that is as good a cause as any to celebrate so far as I am concerned.”
The old woman smiled and nodded as she hobbled down off the platform and wound her way toward the city gates. The Foldmaster was typical of elven youth: spoiled, proud, lazy, whining, and lost in his self-importance.
She silently put him on her list.