Nine notes. . Seven notes. .
The Dark Prize in sight. . the Dark Prize is light. .
Five notes. . Five notes. .
Drakis took a few gingerly placed paces down the slope, as much in an attempt to leave the song behind him as to bring himself to with a few steps of the twelve-foot-tall Sentinel. It was one thing to let loose the warrior horde on the enemy, but otherwise the herd must be controlled. The Sentinels were the totems that defined the boundaries of each slave’s world. The face details were obscured by the soft, violet glow emanating from within the crystal, and there was something about each of them that grew more repellent and loathsome the closer one approached.
They marked the rightful limits of a slave’s world, and each knew that to pass between Sentinels unbidden was to die.
Drakis took in a deep breath. “Drakis Sha-Timuran.”
There passed an uncertain moment, and then the light within the Sentinel flashed from violet to pale yellow.
Drakis started breathing again and stepped quickly across the line between the Sentinels and continued down the slope.
It would take him half an hour just to make his way through the soaked army to his own Centurai. He knew he needed to get moving faster, but his audience with Se’Djinka made him uncertain and hesitant.
He shook with sudden violence in the rain.
It wasn’t just that he had been outside the Sentinel’s protection and control.
It was Se’Djinka’s news that he and his Octian were being afforded a great honor.
Drakis shook again.
There was definitely something wrong.
“Hey, Drakis!” Thuri shouted, standing up slowly from where he squatted next to the sputtering fire. “How is life among members of the higher estates?”
“Better than it is down here,” Drakis shot back as he slogged toward them through the ankle-deep mud between the tents, “but when was that ever any different?”
“Why the summons, Drakis?” Belag was sullen and testy. The lost of his brother weighed heavily on the towering manticore.
Drakis stopped and took a deep breath. His eye was caught by the wet flapping of the Centurai’s battle flag from atop a tall pole planted angrily into the ground nearby; elven symbols intertwined around a pair of crossed swords. What had once seemed so bright and inspiring now looked tarnished and old.
He glanced around at the milling warriors all about him, then motioned Belag and the two chimera closer to him.
“We’re going home,” he said factually, keeping his voice low. “Se’Djinka has ordered us back to House Timuran. We have an hour to secure our gear, resupply the packs if you can, and get the dwarf ready for accounting at Hyperian Fold number four.”
“An hour?” Thuri scoffed.
“Drakis,” Ethis shrugged, “we can’t possibly get the entire Centurai ready to leave that soon. We’re still missing three Octia. We have heard that they came back from the dwarven halls, but they haven’t reported. .”