The last dwarven king. . My death-knell did bring. .
The dwarves have no doors. . the dwarves are no more. .
“We had the prize,” Belag shouted, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “Drakis took it from the Dwarven King and stood with it. . held it in his hands right there”-he pointed up to the platform where the dead dwarf still slumped on the throne-“and then he threw it away!”
Drakis squeezed his eyes closed, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.
I fight for a life. . I fight for my life. .
Weep for the pain and the loss. .
The past is our sorrow. . The past is our shame. .
“He saved your life, Belag,” Thuri said simply as he pushed over yet another dwarf corpse. “He saved all our lives.”
“Not all,” Belag growled.
Drakis turned toward the manticore, fixing his eyes on the enormous creature. Several quick strides brought him to stand directly in front Belag looking upward into the angry yellow eyes set deep in the wide face a full foot above his own gaze. “No, not all. ChuKang’s dead. KriChan’s dead. Braun is gone, and your brother-and, yes, you see I do know all their names-Karag’s dead, too.”
The past is our sorrow. . The past is our shame. .
Drakis began to sweat. “Maybe you wanted to join them, but the rest of us are satisfied that we’re still here.”
We kill without cause. We kill without thought.
Five notes. . Five notes. .
His hand began to shake. “So either fall on your sword and get it over with or get back to your job and help us salvage something out of this. . this. .”
Belag’s eyes narrowed. “Drakis?”
They eat here. They love here. They laugh here.
Better if left and forgotten. .
Nine notes. Seven notes.
Drakis flinched.
Awaken the ghosts long forgotten. .
Recall the loved dead. .