The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King (Dark Sun: Chronicles of Athas 5)

"Rajaat," he shouted, though the words he held in his mind were the words Hamanu had written and the images they conjured. "Rajaat is coming to destroy Urik."

The dragon surged forward, arms out, reaching for Pavek. The yellow Lion-King lights drove it back.

Pavek tried again: "Urik, Hamanu—Rajaat will destroy Urik!"

Another surge, another flash.

"The fields, Hamanu! He'll destroy the fields where the green grain grows!"

This time the dragon stopped. It cocked its head, as it had before, and swiveled its long neck down to get a better look.

"Rajaat will destroy the fields, Hamanu. Winning's no good, if the grain won't grow."

A brimstone sigh washed over him. The dragon straightened and turned. It pointed its snout at the approaching storm and along the horizon, swaying from east to west, where—Pavek hoped—it saw the fields. At last the dragon roared and began walking—then running—to the south.

* * *

The blue storm raged above the black dragon and the dragon raged back. Neither fought with conscious intent, but instinct was strong, as was hatred—especially in the dragon, which moved constantly to the south, then to the southeast, as it fought. When they entered the Sea of Silt, they raised enough dust to blot out the sun for the three days they needed to reach the island where another dragon had built a city around a prison.

If the War-Bringer had had more than a toehold in the substantial world, he could have crushed the black dragon as he'd crushed Borys. But he had only Tithian and Tithian's storms, which had already proved ineffective. And he lost Tithian, too, shortly after the black dragon entered Ur Draxa, when Tithian's mortal enemies from Tyr planted themselves on the rim of the lava lake and drove their erstwhile king back into the Dark Lens.

That cleared a path, which the dragon followed into the molten rock. It roared; it howled as even its tough hide was seared away by the heat. For an instant, there was thought within the agony. Rajaat's hope soared; he spun dense sorcery from the Hollow, promising to heal his wayward champion's wounds and grant his wishes.

I wish for your bones, your heart, your shadow.

The dragon leapt out of the lava, trailing fire behind him. He arched his back and dived beneath the molten surface. Beyond the reach of curse or care, he plunged to the bottom, where lava became stone, where the remnants of Rajaat's substance had formed a crystal matrix around the Dark Lens. Smashing the crystal, he gathered the shattered pieces in his arms. He left the Lens for the mortals to destroy or control, as they wished; it was merely an artifact, neither inherently good or evil. Then, with the last of his strength, he took himself into the stone heart of Athas.

* * *

Athas claimed the black dragon. It stripped him of his hard-won treasures; swallowing the War-Bringer's substance while it sealed the dragon himself in a tomb that shrank and squeezed. Then, when there was nothing left of the dragon, Athas restored Hamanu's sanity, while leaving him encased in stone. He was still immortal: he couldn't die, even without air, water, or food, with the weight of the world pressed around him.

There was no end of Hamanu, no end to his memories as Athas pummeled him and polished him, a living pebble moving slowly through the world's gut. He relived every moment of his life. He suffered. He regretted. He endured the pain and torment of the choices he'd made; then the Lion-King of Urik relived his life again.

And again until Athas was done with Hamanu and spat him out.

Hamanu was senseless when he fell from an unknown height. He landed hard on his shoulder and rolled to his side, unable for a moment to perceive his surroundings or to comprehend that he was living, not remembering.

Slowly, and with a fragility that had never been a part of his remembered life, Hamanu rediscovered the muscles, sinew, and bones of his body. He found his feet, and then his hands, which he used to steady himself as he stood. The world was smooth beneath his fingers, hard and warm and—following a jolt of consciousness that nearly cost Hamanu his balance—utterly without illusion. The flesh he felt was his own simple, vulnerable, forgotten flesh. Wherever he'd come, Hamanu had left the Dragon of Urik behind. His whims had no power and the ache in his shoulder where he'd landed couldn't be numbed with an idle thought.

Belatedly, Hamanu found his eyes and opened them; after so many stone-bound memories, he'd forgotten sight, the world that was smooth, hard, and warm was also gently luminous, casting a soft golden light onto a young man's hands, a young man's arms, legs, and torso. The surface lay a hand's depth within the light. He moved his hands through the light, seeking but not finding the gap through which

"It took you long enough."

Sound startled Hamanu and he dropped into a brawler's crouch. The ease of his movements startled him as well, but not as much as what his eyes revealed when he turned around: The glowing chamber defied easy measurement. It could have been a hundred paces square or a thousand, yet at its center, hovering higher than his head, Hamanu saw his own ostentatious, uncomfortable throne. And sitting on the throne was a figure he remembered well, a half-man, half-lion figure that his laborers had painted on his city walls, a black-maned figure with a naked golden sword at his side.

The Lion-King of Urik, who'd saved Hamanu when he was deeply disguised and blundered too close to the Black.

The guardian of Urik.

For the first time in his life—if he was alive—Hamanu was speechless. He looked from the Lion-King to his own hand, his own mortal hand returned to him through sorcery he couldn't fathom and for reasons he dared not guess. Myriad questions filled his mind; answers followed, all but one.

"Why could I never find you?"

The Lion-King descended from his throne. He seemed no taller than Hamanu, no stronger, but Hamanu remembered illusion's power and was not deceived.

"I sought my city's guardian. You could have revealed yourself," the now-mortal man complained. "For Urik, you could have revealed yourself."

"My spirit—the spirit of Urik that you engendered—was there from the beginning. I revealed myself a thousand times, ten thousand times. You were always looking in the wrong place, Manu. You became a great king—a great man—but you cherished your past and it remained with you, until you were ready to part with it."