The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King by Lynn Abbey Read Free Book Online Page A

roaming the heartland.
    "I'll tell the whole story, in writing," Hamanu said to the rampant lions lining his balustrade. "When
he has read it through, then he can judge for himself, and if he judges favorably, the Urik guardian will
respect his plea when he calls."

Chapter Three
    Long after nightfall, when the slaves were locked in their quarters and the nightwatch templars
drowsed in the corridors, Hamanu of Urik retreated from the rooftops and public chambers of his palace
to its deepest heart, far from mortal eyes. Hamanu's midnight sanctum was a hidden cloister that
resembled a peasant village; including a well and mud-walled cottages. Mountain vistas from a greener
time were painted on the walls. A variety of common tools were available for working the vegetable
plots, but the vines had turned to sticks and straw. The fruit trees bore neither fruit nor leaves.
    The cloister's solitary door was always bolted, from the inside. When Hamanu visited his
sanctum, he entered magically, stepping out of the same Unseen netherworld where he hid his clothes.
Once inside, he sometimes opened the door, admitting Enver or another trusted person for a meal or
conversation. But most times, when Hamanu came to his sanctum, he came to sit alone on a crude stone
bench, bathed in starlight and memory.
    This night, ten nights after Hamanu had heard Eden's and Windreaver's messages, ten nights, too,
after he'd sent Enver kank-back across the northeast salt flats, the Lion of Urik shifted his bulk on his
familiar stone bench. He'd brought a battered table to the cloister. It stood before him, crowned with a
sheaf of pearly, luminous—virgin—vellum, upon which no marks had been made. An ink stone, oil, and a
curved brass stylus lay beside the vellum, waiting for the king to complete the task he'd set for himself.
    Or rather, to begin.
    Hamanu had thought it would be easy—telling his story in script, letting silent letters do the work
of mind-bending or sorcery. He'd thought he'd have it written by the time Enver returned with Pavek, his
self-exiled high templar, the earnest, novice druid upon whom Hamanu pinned such hope. He'd been
wrong, as he hadn't been wrong in a king's age or more. The words were there in his mind, more
numerous than the stars above him, but they writhed like snakes in a pit. He'd reach for one and find
another, a different word that roused a dusty memory that he couldn't release until he'd examined it
thoroughly.
    He'd thought these chance recollections were amusing at first. Then, he deceived himself into
believing such wayward thoughts would help him weave his story together. Those optimistic moments
were over. He'd shed his delusions several nights ago: Writing was more difficult than sorcery. Hamanu
had conquered every sorcery beneath the blood-red sun; the vellum remained blank. He was well along
the path to desperation.
    Six days ago, Enver had used his medallion to recount his safe arrival in the—from Enver's urban
perspective— depressingly primitive druid village of Quraite. A few hours ago, at sundown, the dwarf
had used his medallion again to recount—very wearily—that he and Pavek and half of Enver's original
war-bureau escort were nearing Urik's gates.
    Left behind, Omniscience: This Pavek is a loon, Omniscience. "Come home," I said to him,
Omniscience, as you told me to, and the next thing I knew, he was mounted and giving orders like
a commandant. He does not stop to eat or rest, Omniscience; he doesn't sleep. Four of your prize
kanks are dead, Omniscience; ridden to exhaustion. If the ones we're riding now don't collapse
beneath us, we'll be at Khelo by dawn. Whim of the Lion, we'll be in Urik by midday, Omniscience,
else this Pavek will have killed us all.
    I'll alert your sons, dear Enver, Hamanu had promised, looking east toward Khelo and the
reflection of the setting sun. Your weariness will be rewarded.
    Well rewarded. Since there was no excuse for