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missing.”
    Drakis turned. Braun stood nearby, still smiling at him with the same strange grin.
    â€œThe Centurai is assembled up ahead,” KriChan said. “Are you ready to go?”
    Drakis shuddered.
    â€œMore than ready.”

CHAPTER 4
    Firefall
    T HE TIMURAN CENTURAI had lost nearly a third of their number by the time they emerged from the dwarven avenue. Regrouped and organized, their well-ordered phalanx emerged shoulder to shoulder onto a courtyard that was completely engulfed in hot, steaming mists.
    Their carefully ordered and classic formation suited the plans of the Ninth Throne Death-dealer Dwarves well—who waited for the Centurai to emerge from the avenue and then set upon them from both sides simultaneously. Hot, wet mists swirled in utter blackness around them, illuminated by the frequent, diffused flashes of blue and red in the distance, each flash painting silhouettes of slaughter in the mists. In the confusion of the vapor, the carefully ordered Centurai collapsus again into frantic and desperate fights with an enemy who kept appearing out of nowhere and vanishing just as quickly as they came.

    Drakis adjusted his grip and pushed his way into the battle once again. He needed to bring order to his Octian. If he could rally them, then he might use them to bring order to other Octia in the Centurai, but that couldn’t happen until he could find his own brother warriors. He was blind in the thick vapors around him.
    He waded into the milky conflict, killing before being killed and struggling to keep his footing on the blood-slick stones.
    â€œThere is a place that calls my soul home.” Unbidden, Drakis’ lips began to move with each blow of his sword, and through his chattering teeth he began hesitantly to sing. “North far beyond horizons . . .”
    He cut his sword deep across the gut of the dwarf before him.
    â€œTo my place of resting . . . of testing . . .”
    He drew the blade out just in time to parry an ax blade from his right.
    â€œCenturai! Centurai Timuran!” The call to rally was shouted unmistakably by ChuKang—yet his words sounded strangely muffled, their direction and distance diffused through the steaming fog. One after the other, the leaders of each Octian were being summoned to rally to their leader. “Centurai!”
    Drakis thrust his sword into an ax-wielding dwarf, then, looking up, caught a glimpse of several large figures running past him, their dark outlines illuminated by flashing pulses of light against the steaming mists. The first two were manticores—judging by their size and the enormously broad shoulders—followed closely by a lithe shadow with four arms.
    â€œHey, GriChag! TsuRag! Ethis!” Drakis called out as he dragged his blade quickly from the quivering body of his last opponent. His own Octian at last. So long as he had his Octian brothers with him, he was invincible. His eyes remained locked on the shadows as they quickly stopped and turned in the sticky fog.
    â€œYes, Warlord?” Ethis said flatly as he came closer.
    Warlord was the title reserved for the master of the combined Legions and ludicrously beyond what any human could dream to attain. Drakis frowned. “Knock it off, Ethis. GriChag, where’s Megri?”
    â€œWith ChuKang and KriChan,” the manticore said quickly. “And Braun?” Drakis urged.
    â€œYes, he’s with them, too.” GriChag turned his massive head away in disgust.
    Drakis gave a sudden, violent shake. The steaming fog was unnerving him. “Then let’s form the Octian on ChuKang. You show us the way, GriChag.”
    The manticore curled his lip, barring his fangs, but he turned and obeyed, followed by TsuRag and Ethis. Drakis’ own feet stumbled on the uneven ground, but he knew that both the manticores and the chimerian could see far better than he could in these conditions. Better to keep his gaze fixed on them and risk a few