The manticore warrior moved silently away from him and the others of their group lying close together at the top of a small hill. He stood apart, tall and proud, his eyes searching the horizon as he watched over them.
Drakis stood up and moved to stand next to the lion-man. The manticorian clans hailed from Chaenandria, a land far to the north and east of the Rhonas Empire. Drakis wondered if Belag had ever walked its legendary plains and then realized that Chaenandrian lands might look remarkably like the land over which they traveled now.
The human turned to gaze at the Hecariat. The strange obelisk of mountain stone lay to the southwest still; it seemed to be at a great distance, but Drakis could make out details of its cliffs during the day. In the dark of night, however. .
“What do you suppose that strange light is at the summit,” Drakis asked idly.
Belag frowned. “I do not know. It shifts about the peak. It is an ill omen. We pass well to its north. I shall see that you are kept safe from its curse.”
“Thank you,” Drakis said, his smile unseen in the darkness.
“It is my honor, Drakis,” the manticore replied solemnly. “You are the chosen one, the incarnation of our hope and the prophesied savior of us all. You shall unite the clans-bring to pass the restored Empire of the north and cast doom upon the elven oppressors.”
The great warrior turned toward him in the darkness.
“You are meaning to our existence.”
Drakis said nothing but kept his eyes fixed on the strange lights dancing about the crest of the Hecariat. Belag, it seemed, was clinging to his faith in Drakis as some sort of hero of the gods. It was not true-or, at least, Drakis had to admit that he didn’t remember it being true-but the one thing the human warrior was certain of was that an insane manticore would easily spell the death of them all. Better to let him believe whatever kept him calm for the time being.
“By Thorgrin’s beard and all the jewels of Bardak,” Jugar muttered in a tone more nervous than angry. “Where do you think you’re leading us, lass?”
Murialis, Queen of the Fae, looked down her nose at the fuming dwarf. “Your impertinence shall be forgiven, master dwarf, but I must warn you against trying my patience. We are not amused by your antics, fool, and your disrespect in this hallowed place. We have come to pay homage to your betters, and I would thank you not to interfere in that which you do not fully comprehend!”
Drakis cleared his throat. They were much closer to the Hecariat than he had hoped, but the Queen had insisted that they divert more southerly and could not be persuaded otherwise. The tower of rock itself was still perhaps three or four leagues to the south, but its brooding presence unnerved him.
Worse, the plain surrounding the Hecariat was strewn with rock, blasted with great black stains. Most of the stones were nondescript pieces of shattered granite, but occasionally one side of the boulders showed carvings of strange, winged animals or of figures in warrior pose.
The Lyric-or Queen or whoever she was-had not given them any trouble since they had left Togrun Fel, but that in itself gave Drakis cause for worry. The woman had walked for over a week now westward across the plains with regal step and imperious demeanor. However, for someone, who claimed to have been a slave of the Empire for many years she showed no signs whatsoever of the same memory trauma from which the rest of them were suffering. Perhaps it was an effect of her being of the faery-if, in fact she even was faery-but her very lack of problems troubled him.
The Lyric turned from the dwarf and strode with casual step among the boulders. From time to time she would stop, stoop slightly and examine the rock before straightening back up and moving on.
“What is she looking for?” RuuKag snarled, his eyes darting about.
“I don’t know,” Drakis answered in exasperation. “We’ve been wandering this stone field for most of the morning and I still don’t know.”
“I cannot exhort you in stronger terms,” the dwarf spoke with emphasis but was careful to pitch his voice so that the Queen would not hear him. “The Hecariat-that very mountainous pillar to which we have unwisely turned our backs-never sleeps. The lights that play upon its summit herald the doom of any who awaken the spirits that still strive within its cursed halls. I am but a humble dwarven fool, but wise would be the soul who could convince this ‘Queen’ to move her royal court to a safer distance. . where is she?”
Drakis, distracted by the anxious Jugar, looked up.
The Lyric had vanished.
The Lyric lay asleep under a twilight sky.