The chimerian reached back with one hand and pushed the blow aside. With a free hand, Ethis formed a fist and slammed it into his chest in salute to the Tribune.
“Mistress Tribune!” Ethis said as he stood tall. “We are an Octian of House Tajeran. Our Lord commands us to answer the call of the Myrdin-dai to add to the glory of your Order by defending this fold portal against the enemy.”
Drakis’ feet slid across the loose dirt beneath his feet as he came to a halt. The rest of the fugitives fell in behind in disarray.
“House. . Tajeran?” The Tribune’s black eyes narrowed, whether in distrust or disdain Drakis could not tell.
“Aye!” yelled a squeaky voice from the back of the group. “We are the most fearsome warriors in all the Empire! Ogres tremble at the sound of our name, and the heathen elves of Museria dare but whisper it.”
The rest of the fugitives had turned to stare in wonder at the Lyric. The lithe woman was standing tall in her tattered dress, a look of fierce determination in her eyes as she held a sword before her with conviction. Drakis could not imagine where she had gotten that blade.
“We are the Octian of Oblivion!” the Lyric said with conviction, her short, wispy hair standing away from her head in odd angles.
“The. . what?” the Tribune demanded.
“Aye,” Ethis said, turning back to the Tribune as he responded with confidence. “We are the, uh, Octian of Oblivion. . specialized warriors in the service of Lord Tajeran. He asks only that, if possible, we be held in reserve. . behind the main line of defense as he considers us valuable warriors of his Cohort and. .”
“You’ll serve where I tell you,” the Tribune snarled in grating, dangerous tones. “You’ll go to the front of the line at once!”
“But my Lord’s instructions. .”
“I take no instructions from ‘your Lord,’ ” the Tribune bellowed. “Marquen!”
“Aye, Tribune,” came the response from a squat manticore with a long scar running up from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore the chevrons of a Cohort master.
The Tribune smiled to herself as she spoke. “Get this-this Octian-up through to the front of the defensive line!”
“But, Tribune!” Ethis protested.
“Stick him if he gives you any trouble, Marquen,” the Tribune continued. “Let’s let someone else spill their blood for a change.”
The short manitcore only grunted and then started shoving Ethis, Drakis, and the rest of their group forward.
“My master shall hear of this!” Ethis shouted back angrily at the Tribune as he walked toward the line, then turned and grinned smugly at Drakis walking next to him.
Marquen’s bellows were sufficient to get the troops arrayed in front of them to reluctantly part, and within a few minutes they were standing at the front of the defensive line. In the darkness before them, the rhythmic chanting of their own former brothers in arms-now insane-was rising in tempo and sound.
“It will be by your word,” Drakis said to the warrior manticore.
Belag nodded, then spoke to their companions, “When I shout, that’s when we run.” The manticore warrior drew in a deep breath and then crouched down, preparing to spring.
Drakis grabbed Mala’s hand. “Jugar, you have the Lyric?”