Drakis shook his head and tried again. “What I was saying-for as long as I can remember. .”
“Exactly!” Jugar shouted enthusiastically. “You’ve been on this campaign for, what, one or two weeks?”
“Three, but that’s not. .”
“Three weeks? That’s a long time without House Devotions,” the dwarf sounded impressed. “And how long since Field Devotions at that portable altar of your most noble Tribune?”
“Four days,” Drakis replied, squinting at the dwarf. “What is your point?”
“The point is that I can tell you a great secret that, I’m sure, is entirely new to your experience.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me, dwarf.”
“Oh, but I can,” smiled Jugar. “I can tell you about that song you have whirling about in your head. Better still, I can tell you with absolute certainty that everything you remember-every kiss, every hurt, every victory and every failure that happened to you prior to four days ago-is a lie.”
“My entire life-a lie,” Drakis scoffed.
“Up until four days ago,” the dwarf said in a husky whisper, “none of it was real.”
Drakis leaned down, his face so close that his breath shook the large drip forming at the end of the dwarf’s nose. “The only lie here is your foolish stories-but you’re about to learn how real your own life has become, Fool.”
While every tribune was capable-indeed, required-to create folds during the battle for the warriors in their command, it was the Imperial Folds that brought the Tribunes and their armies to the battle itself. These networks of larger folds had the enormous power to compress distances leagues long and large enough to march the Centurai of the Legions through them four abreast and still never touch the sides. Five of these opened directly to the plain just to the east of the encampment, each one a major tributary to the nexus of Imperial military might.
Stepping through to the other side of these folds would take the warriors to one of many widely separated staging areas near the Hyperian and Chaenandrian borders. These marshaling fields had tributaries of their own, smaller folds each of which led to other smaller and smaller tributary rally points until the final, narrow warrior folds of individual elven neighborhoods or settlement communities. These final folds were always located in a small temple well outside the walls of the individual House strongholds-the last step in the long journey home.
For the War of the Ninth Throne, the honor of bringing these warriors into battle-of planning the placement of the folds, setting up the fold platforms, linking them to the magical conduits of the Aether Wells, and administering the folds through an organization of Foldmasters-had been granted by the Imperial Will to the Order of the Myrdin-dai. These “Guardians of the Well” vied with another Order, the Occuran, for control of the Aether-that magical force that was the foundation of the Rhonas Empire. Their appointment to this calling had set many tongues of the court to wagging, whispering in the halls of power that the Occuran may, at last, have fallen from the Imperial Favor.
The Myrdin-dai responded to the Imperial nod enthusiastically and erected a network of folds that drew Impress Warriors from each House of the Rhonas Empire and delivered them to the field of battle with swift efficiency.
Returning them from the field of battle, however, was another matter.
“I don’t care who you are, what your orders say, or who gave them,” snorted the manticore standing in front of Drakis. A weathered sash that once may have been red was draped across his broad, furry chest. He thumped his big fist against the sash once more for emphasis. “I’m the field marshal here, and I’ve got seven Centurai to process before I can even think about letting you near one of my folds. Get back with your Centurai and wait to be called!”
“Marshal Korang,” Drakis said, his patience nearly spent, “As I told you before, our Centurai is still at the front. We’re just one Octian, but we’ve been ordered back to our master’s House now. We’ve been through three folds already today just to get to this rally field, and we’ve got four more to go before we get back to House Timuran. The Myrdin-dai approved it, and the Foldmasters know all about it. All we need is to bring five of us through the Stellamir Fold-not an entire Centurai-just five of us through and we’ll be no further problem for you.”
“It’s irregular,” Korang rumbled.
“I agree,” Drakis replied. “Nevertheless, those are the orders.”
“I’m warning you,” Korang said, his eyes narrowing. “I’m going to check on all this with the Foldmasters! They won’t like it if you’re lying.”
“Fine!” Drakis shot back. “Just get it done!”