Pavek, who'd seen Hamanu's true shape, saw the resemblance, though, in truth, the resemblance wasn't great. The talons were the same, though much larger, and the dragon's eyes were sulphur yellow. They were lidless eyes, now, covered with iridescent scales that shimmered in the light. Their pupils were sword-shaped, sword-sized. They did not seem so much to be eyes looking out as they seemed to be openings into a fathomless, dark space.
The longer Pavek looked at them, the less resemblance there seemed to be, until the dragon tilted its massive head.
"He sees us," Javed said. "Hamanu knows we're here. Go away, O Mighty One! Urik isn't your home any longer. Go fight Rajaat!"
The dragon cocked its head to the other side. Pavek was tempted—they were all tempted—to hope that something of Urik's Lion-King remained, resisting the madness that had claimed Borys's sanity for a hundred years. Hope vanished when the dragon roared and a gout of steaming grit battered the massive gate directly beneath them.
The dragon strode forward, its arms spread wide enough to seize a mekillot, ghastly liquid dripping from its bared fangs. Pavek's heart froze beneath his ribs; he couldn't keep his eyes open. The blasted, battered walls shuddered, and then there was light—brilliant, golden light that blinded him though his eyes were closed. There was a second dragon roar, and a third, with mortal screams between them. The air reeked and steamed. Pavek thought he was going to die with the others, but death didn't take him, and when he opened his eyes he saw that everyone around him remained alive, as well. Those who'd screamed had screamed from terror, not injury.
Urik's walls replied with another golden flash, and the dragon retreated.
"The Lion-Kings!" a templar shouted. "The eyes of the Lion-Kings."
The huge crystal eyes of the carved and painted portraits that marched along the city's walls were the source of the golden light that flashed a third time to drive the dragon farther back.
"The guardian," Pavek corrected as he began to laugh and shout for joy.
His celebration was contagious, but short-lived. The dragon didn't give up, and though the guardian lights drove it back every time it surged forward, the stalemate could not endure indefinitely.
And wouldn't have to. Well before midday, there was another cloud pillar spilling over the southern horizon. They speculated, exchanging the names of their enemies, until the cloud was large enough, close enough, that they could see the blue lightning seething inside.
"Tyr-storm," was the general consensus, but Javed and Pavek knew better:
"Rajaat," they told each other.
"They'll fight; the Lion-King will win, the Dragon of Urik will win," Javed continued.
"Not here," Pavek countered. "They'll destroy the city."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he'll see it coming and go south to meet it. Far enough south to save the city."
They made fools of themselves, then, while Rajaat's storm cloud drew closer, jumping up and down, waving their arms, shouting, trying to get the dragon's attention. It was mad, or mindless; it didn't understand, never looked over its shoulder to see another enemy coming up behind it.
If it—if the Dragon of Urik perceived Rajaat as the enemy. If enough of Hamanu remained within it, hating his creator. If it hadn't become Rajaat's final champion, destined to cleanse humanity from everywhere in the heartland.
The guardian was enough against a mad, mindless dragon, but not against Rajaat's conscious insanity. Pavek slipped down the tower stairs. He opened the postern door—its warding had been dispelled when Hamanu released the medallions—and began walking toward the dragon.
"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 immortaclass="underline" 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.