The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King

"Is he dead?" one of the women asked.

"No," Borys, Hamanu, and Dregoth said together before Dregoth hoisted his maul for another blow.

The Ravager of Giants smashed Rajaat's protuberant brow, but the answer didn't change.

"He can't die," someone said. "Not while we're alive."

No one argued.

"So, what now?" That from Albeorn, whose metamorphosis had given him an erdlulike aspect. "If we can't kill him, what do we do?"

"Lock him up someplace. Some place dark and deep," Inenek suggested.

Gallard Gnome-Bane snorted. "Fool. Shadow's the source of the War-Bringer's power,"

"When it gets dark enough, there aren't any shadows. I can think of a few places that never feel the light of day or any other light," Dregoth said with a malicious laugh.

"Put him there," Gallard countered, "and he'll use the Dark Lens to fry us all."

Borys cleaned his simmering sword and sheathed it in a scabbard that vanished against his leg. "All right, Gallard, where do you suggest?" He swept his arm wide in an exaggerated bow, but kept his head up and his eyes fixed on the Gnome-Bane's face.

"At the center of the Gray netherworld lies the Black, and beneath the Black—"

"The Gray isn't flat," Albeorn interrupted. "If there's black at its center, then there's more Gray beneath it!"

"Shut up, twerp!"

Gallard shot sorcery at his critic. The air around the Elf-Slayer shimmered with ward spells, then it shimmered around everyone else, as well. For several long moments, no one said anything. At last, Sielba lowered her guard.

"And beneath the black?" she urged Gallard to finish.

"Beneath the Black, we can make a hollow where neither light nor shadow exist, nor can exist." Borys had a question: "What about the Dark Lens?"

"Better we cut him apart and each take a piece with us," Wyan of Bodach interjected.

Hamanu stared at the Pixie-Blight. Stripped of illusion— as they all were—Bodach was a small-statured creature. He'd destroyed the smaller, defenseless race of shy, tree-worshipers not by slaying them but by turning their god-trees to sorcerous ash. While Hamanu wondered why such I a coward would suggest carving their still-living creator into bloody chunks of meat, the other champions bantered about how Rajaat should be divvied up and which part should go to whom.

The lewd conversation ended abruptly when a blue spark flickered amid the gore that had been Rajaat's face.

"He's healing himself." Borys confirmed what they'd all felt.

There was a round of curses as they each cast a warding spell over their creator.

"It won't be enough," Gallard warned. "Wards won't keep out the sun once it rises. His own bones will make the shadows. We put him beneath the Black tonight, or we'll join Pe

Pe

So many questions, but no reason to ask any of them. The champions couldn't kill their creator and couldn't let him heal himself whole. That left Gallard's Hollow beneath the Black. As little as he relished the notion of trusting Gallard's notion, Hamanu had nothing to offer in its place— nor did anyone else.

"Is there time?" he asked, breaking the silence that threatened to last until dawn.

Gallard gri

Indeed, there was only one way: follow the Gnome-Bane's instructions, stretch their powers to exhaustion scouring the heartland for reagents before dawn's light, and deliver the noxious reagents to the top of Rajaat's white tower where Gallard—and only Gallard—sat in the Crystal Steeple, waiting, enshrined beneath the Dark Lens.

After depositing a vial of fuming realgar at the Gnome-Bane's feet, Hamanu plodded down the spiral stairs. Resuming his human illusion—because it was more comfortable than his gaunt natural form—he leaned back against a crumbled wall. Champions needed sleep no more than they needed food, but even an immortal mind needed a quiet moment to reflect, this day and night.

Big Guthay had set. Little Ral was alone in a sky of a thousand stars. None shone brighter than the warding spells layered over Rajaat's body, like so many green silk veils. Hamanu lost himself in the spells' constantly changing patterns. His thoughts wandered so far that his mind seemed empty, almost peaceful. Looking straight ahead, he saw nothing until—with a jolt of returning consciousness—he saw that a black shadow had cut the warding spells in two.

He's healed. He's breaking the wards, Hamanu thought, a lump of cold terror clogging his throat.

But the shadow wasn't Rajaat's. A man crouched over Rajaat's body, casting the shadow Hamanu saw. A man who was so intent on peeling back the warding spells that he didn't hear the light tread of another champion's feet behind him, or sense another shadow mingling with his until it was too late.

"Arala!" Hamanu shouted as he seized a scrawny neck and jerked the traitor from his mischief.

Objects that might have been the War-Bringer's teeth or finger bones showered from Sacha's hands—except, the culprit wasn't Sacha Arala. In the brief moment Hamanu had before the illusion became a writhing metamorph, he recognized Wyan Bodach's face: Wyan Bodach, who'd suggested chopping Rajaat into pieces earlier.

All arms and legs in his natural form, the Pixie-Blight sprouted claws that raked through illusion to Hamanu's true flesh. The Lion roared, but held on until another champion came to investigate the furor. Unable to sort i

"And do you deny it?" Dregoth asked Hamanu.

The heavy paralysis was withdrawn. Hamanu flexed his muscles and said: "I do. Wyan said he wanted a piece of Rajaat's body earlier. It's his own deceit he describes, not mine. I thought it was Sacha Arala at first. I cried out his name by mistake."

Vapors seeped from Dregoth's nose as he looked from Hamanu to Wyan and back again.

"And where is Sacha?" Albeorn asked from far on Hamanu's right side.

He and the others had gathered quickly. Some had emerged from the netherworld, the rest strode out of the nighttime shadows. Sacha Arala wasn't among them, nor was Borys, nor, of course, was Gallard. Hamanu realized they were all looking at him, distrusting him more than Wyan because he was still the outsider. He had several long moments to wonder exactly what Borys had told them while Sielba had entertained him in Yaramuke, before Sielba's husky voice broke the silence.

"Sacha's with Borys, where else? He's got no part in this—whatever this is. And neither has Hamanu. If the Lion of Urik says Wyan was cutting off bits of Rajaat, then I believe him, and I suggest we find out why before Borys gets back here."

Sielba was right about Hamanu, though he knew he'd pay dearly for her defense. She might have been right about Sacha, too. Rajaat's sycophant might have had nothing to do with Wyan's macabre gleaning. But Wyan swore otherwise.

"It was all Sacha's plan," the Pixie-Blight insisted. "He said Rajaat has no one vital part; he can regenerate himself entirely if any living part of him is placed in the pool beneath the Dark Lens. He knew you'd keep close wards on him, so he came to me—"