The dwarf shrugged. “That which has happened before will happen again. You’ve only forgotten. Remember my words, Drakis, and maybe then, my friend, you will come to me and know the truth.”
Drakis thought for a moment and then shook his head violently, sending particles flying from his shaved head. “So you’re back to that again. Now I’m supposed to have forgotten nearly dying. Well, one thing you should not forget: that Essenia and I will throw you into this trough personally if you don’t get over here and scrape off some of that dwarven stench.”
“Dwarves do not bathe!” Jugar grumbled emphatically.
“That I most certainly believe,” Drakis replied easily, “but in this case you may want to make an exception. We’re being summoned before Lord Timuran himself, and he takes no more delight in the smell of dwarven slaves than any other conquered race.”
Drakis and Jugar stepped into the Warrior’s Courtyard. The Impress Warrior felt renewed after the bath despite the dwarf’s bizarre and gloomy predictions; bathing was a ritual that was so basic among the elves that it made him feel a part of the Empire that he so fervently wished to join. The tunic that he wore was that of a slave, but it was clean, and in that he felt a sort of purity, elevated somehow above the commonplace.
He strode quickly across the packed dirt floor and through the open portcullis with the garishly dressed dwarf struggling to keep up. They passed under the tall archway and onto the darkly stained sands of the small arena floor.
“Our lives to the Imperial Will!” came the echoing call from across the arena floor.
Drakis smiled as he looked to the far side of the arena. “Jerakh! How did you get back so soon?”
“I have you to thank, brother warrior,” the manticore replied as he crossed toward the human. “Our master’s eagerness to see you has left the folds in complete disarray. The Foldmasters in their haste to comply have been moving any units from House Timuran they can find.”
Drakis could see warriors straggling in behind Jerakh. He shook his head. “So the victorious Centurai of House Timuran is home at last, eh?”
“Hardly,” Jerakh said with disdain. “I managed to come through with three Octia, but the rest of the Centurai is spread all through the fold system. It’s a mess that will take days to unravel.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage it,” Drakis said.
“I’m sure the only thing I’m going to manage is a bath,” the manticore returned, a playful edge to his smile as he passed the human. “You can straighten out the Octian. . you’re the Centurai Master now.”
“Well, if that is so, then I’m turning over this dwarf to you,” Drakis said, gesturing toward Jugar.
“Excuse me, Captain Drakis,” the dwarf sputtered, “but I’m. .”
“Drakis, just Drakis,” he sighed. “I’ve not been appointed captain yet, dwarf.”
“But, Drakis, I’ve not been presented to your master as yet! As part of your rightful treasure which you so valiantly liberated from the dwarven realms. .”
“You’ll be presented with the rest of the prize treasure tonight at House Devotions,” Drakis said, interrupting the dwarf. “Before then, Jerakh here is going to see that you get properly shaved and branded for the slave you have become.”
“He’s full of words,” Jerakh said with disdain.
“Which is why I’m turning him over to you,” Drakis said flashing a tight grin. “I’ve been summoned.”
Jerakh gripped Jugar’s shoulder tightly enough to elicit a grunt from the dwarf. “I’ll see it’s done.”
Drakis turned away, taking several steps before he stopped and turned back toward the manticore. “Oh, Jerakh. . I was glad to see you at the Ninth Throne. It was getting a little close up there, and I needed a friendly face in the mob. We’d have never gotten away with the prize without you. You saved our honor.”