The dwarven defenders, distracted by a threat on the far side of the throne, were too late to regroup for ChuKang’s sudden assault. They tried to release the cauldron vents beneath the topmost step so they could pour a molten cascade down on their enemies, but they were too late. ChuKang’s blades cut into them as the remaining dwarves of the King’s Guard, all in ancient dwarven armor, tried desperately to push the manticore off the platform of the Nine Thrones. KriChan entered the battle next to ChuKang as did Belag, and in moments they had engaged the last stand of dwarves in mortal combat.
Drakis then saw the Dwarven King, the crown fixed to his battle helmet.
Drakis, sword drawn, rushed forward.
The Dwarven King’s long beard hung down over a shining breastplate of ancient design. He held a shield on his right arm fixed to his bracer, and his left hand gripped a sword. The jewels on the crown flashed in the light of the magical bolts still being cast through the hall. The helmet itself was fabulously ornate-sharp dragonlike wings extending backward on both sides and a faceplate molded into a fearsome countenance.
Drakis grinned. He always preferred it when the faceplate was down; somehow it made the killing easier.
Drakis made a few probing thrusts, studying the Dwarven King’s reactions. Time seemed to be slowing around him, and the world contracted until all that existed for him was the armor-encased dwarf in front of him. Parry. Parry. Thrust. Slash and parry.
Drakis bared his teeth in a savage smile.
The king was skilled. . but not skilled enough.
Drakis lunged forward, his blade flashing in a series of blows. The dwarf quickly parried, backing from the onslaught. Their swords locked, Drakis pressing downward until both their blades smashed against the dwarf’s shield.
Drakis reached down, pulling his dagger from his belt.
The human pushed away from the dwarf but not quite far enough. The king lashed out quickly, cutting just under Drakis’ breastplate, his blood welling into his tunic beneath. Drakis cursed but knew it was a risk he had to take. He needed to remain close.
Drakis parried the next blow and then again pressed a savage set of blows against the dwarf, pressing him against one of the thrones. He was tiring quickly and the pain shooting across his chest was distracting, but the thought flashed through his mind that at least the song was leaving him to his work. He swung high and downward, again crashing both their swords down on the shield arm, then suddenly spun, the dagger in his free hand cutting through the air.
It found its mark between the helmet and the breastplate. Drakis turned the blade and felt the warm, sticky wetness gush over his hand.
The Ninth-and last-of the Dwarven Kings released his grip on his sword.
Drakis let go of his dagger. The dwarf slumped back onto the throne.
Drakis reached over and pulled the Crown of the Ninth Throne from the helmet of the Dwarven King, his voice shouting with unparalleled joy, “We’ve done it! We’ve won!”
ChuKang straightened to stand with his stained blades in both his hands. The last of the King’s Guards had fallen before them. “Well done, Drakis! A triumph!”
“Lord Timuran will honor us all!” Thuri nodded.
“Perhaps even a Sixth Estate?” Belag purred. “Surely, ChuKang, you are due to be so honored.”
“We’ll brag ourselves into glory later,” ChuKang said, shaking his head with pride. “Let’s get out of here before anyone realizes. . where’s Braun?”
“He was behind me,” Drakis said as he turned. “He should be. .”
Drakis’ eyes fixed on the Standard of the Timuran Centurai. The staff lay abandoned on the ground at the foot of the dwarven throne.