Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 10

Riding warm updrafts and weaving through sparse clouds, Duranix flew far out over the plain. He glided for leagues, steering by small movements of his tail. The sight of his shadow racing across the land below stirred up herds of elk and deer and the occasional wild ox, but for many days he had encountered no other creatures. The lack of wandering plainsmen made the otherwise teeming savanna seem oddly empty.

Duranix could see as well in darkness as in daylight, and the fall of night was a good time to leave his lofty vantage point and inspect the terrain in a stealthier manner. Many creatures, on two legs and four, went abroad in the night and hid by day. To spot them, the dragon landed and prowled the savanna like a panther.

He’d flown almost two hundred leagues, he estimated, since leaving Yala-tene. Such efforts emptied the belly and dried the throat. As soon as his hind legs touched the ground, Duranix’s thoughts turned inexorably to his hunger and thirst. The latter he slaked in a shallow tributary creek of the Tanjan. Meat would require a bit more exertion.

He strode through a copse of trees in the gathering dark, sniffing the wind for game. Catching the pungent scent of pig, he lowered his belly to the grass and crawled forward, nose to the trail. The only sound he made was that of his scaly hide sliding over the new green grass. He slithered right and left, following the meandering boar’s track. The smell grew stronger as he went, indicating the pig was near.

Suddenly, he glimpsed the animal’s brushy, black tail as it dug in the sod, looking for sweet roots. It never saw Duranix sweep up from behind, mouth agape. A snap, and the dragon’s daggerlike teeth made short work of the full-grown boar.

Still, it would take more than a single boar to satisfy his raging hunger. He sat up on his haunches and flared his nostrils wide, trying the air.

Lutar peeped over the horizon, enormous against the distant low hills, Its red light made the grass and trees black and gave his bronze scales a bloody cast as he searched for game.

He halted, catching wind of something quite different from elk or deer. The air carried a residual tang, almost as if lightning had struck nearby, though the sky had been clear for several days.

The only other force Duranix knew that could so singe the air was spirit power — a great deal of it. Sensing no other dragons nearby, he decided the source must be the elf priests Amero had warned him about.

The dragon noticed a path trampled through the weeds. Dropping his nose to the ground, he detected the scent of elves and horses. Since the path bore in the same direction as the scent, he followed it. Different, more familiar, aromas assailed him — human, centaur, the cold stink of metal. A piquant odor overspread all the rest: blood.

Duranix arrived at a wide area of flattened grass. Four dead horses, stripped of their tack, lay on one side of the clearing. The broken shafts of several elven javelins lay on the ground, their bronze heads having been salvaged. Scattered blankets, clay cups, and water gourds completed the scene. The aura of exhausted spirit power led off into the tall weeds a few paces away.

Before investigating further, Duranix decided to eat the dead horses. The humans had a saying: “Hungry enough to eat a horse,” meaning they were so ravenous they didn’t care what they ate. Duranix saw little difference between elk or horse.

He opened his mouth to sear the horses with a blast of fire, but halted abruptly when he saw an arm at the bottom of the heap of horseflesh. Living with Amero had given him a certain respect for thinking creatures. He couldn’t scorch the whole pile without removing the human first.

With a hungry sigh, Duranix tossed aside the top three carcasses. To his surprise, he discovered the arm belonged to a centaur. It was plain the man-horse had died hard. His body bore many wounds.

Duranix pulled the centaur’s body out of the way and roasted the horses. Once he’d eaten his fill, he incinerated the centaur. It was a small favor to a race he grudgingly admired, giving the fallen warrior a thorough cremation rather than leaving his body to the scavengers.

Picking his teeth with an equine leg bone, Duranix turned his attention to finding the locus of the spirit power he’d sensed earlier. He soon tracked it to a small clearing where the green growth of spring had been banished somehow, leaving the grass flattened and dead white, like the horse bone he held. The sensation of departed energy was amazingly strong here.

Duranix shook his head, wondering what had happened. The glint of metal caught his eye, and he retrieved from the grass a fine bronze knife. From the markings on the hilt, he recognized the weapon. It had belonged to Tiphan.

The presence of the single centaur at the battle now made sense. Amero had mentioned that Miteera sent one of his people along with Tiphan’s little expedition. The centaur had given his life in a bloody fight. What had become of Tiphan and his two acolytes?

As the dragon poked about for more clues, something stung his left rear claw. He lifted the limb, expecting to find another bronze blade in the grass. All he saw was a small, flat, stone chip, about the size of a man’s ear. The stone was dark gray granite streaked with gold and was neither hard enough nor sharp enough to penetrate his hide, yet he had he felt it intensely when he trod on it.

He picked up the stone — and immediately flung it away, shaking his claw as though burned. The mental shock he had received was intense. The tiny granite chip screamed with spirit power.

Things became clear in an instant. Tiphan was behind this. The young Sensarku, always hungering for power, hadn’t left Yala-tene on some pious quest. He’d gone in search of stones containing spirit power and had obviously found what he sought — with devastating results.

The obvious next step would be for Tiphan to return home. The fading trace of expended spirit power hinted that the human had found a quicker way home than walking or riding horseback. He’d used the power, or the power had used him.

Here was a danger far greater than the Silvanesti or hostile nomads. Foolish, ambitious Tiphan now had spirit power in his hands! The ignorant human had no idea of the damage he could cause or the danger he and his people faced from his rampant stupidity.

He could he in Yala-tene right now.

Duranix launched himself skyward, the Silvanesti threat forgotten. While he had been dawdling here on the eastern plain, snacking on boar and horse, a hideous danger was aimed at his valley, his home. If he flew as fast as he could, he could reach Yala-tene just after dawn.

If there was anything left of Yala-tene by then.

“Bad. This is very bad.”

Jenla knelt in the muddy orchard. She probed through the hay with a stick, gently lifting it to see if any green sprouts were visible. So far, she’d crawled down half a row without finding a single shoot.

“Are none alive?” asked Tepa anxiously. Without fruit trees, there’d be no blossoms. Without blossoms, his bees couldn’t make honey.

“Not yet.” She slid her damp knees forward and probed again. A slender shoot, more yellow than green, poked up through the soggy soil. “Ha!” Jenla crowed. “Apple tree!”

“That’s one.” Tepa ran a hand through his thinning gray hair, repeating sadly, “One.”

“Tiphan will answer for this.” Jenla marked the sickly seedling with a stone. “Heed my words — and watch where you step!” she said loudly, pushing Tepa away from the single live tree she’d found.

The old beekeeper wasn’t listening. He was gazing at something far away, brow furrowed w T ith effort. When she noticed his distraction, she followed his rapt gaze, shading her eyes.

“What do you see?” she asked. Though he was old, Tepa’s excellent vision was well known. His keen eyes could still track bees in flight.

He concentrated for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he finally replied. “There’s something lying on the bank below the bridge. It’s not moving.”

“Probably a dead mountain goat, washed down from a higher valley. Maybe we can salvage the hide.”

The orchard was empty of other villagers, as work this morning was concentrated in the vegetable gardens, out of their sight. In companionable silence, the two elders walked along the shore toward the object Tepa had seen.

When they’d covered about half the distance to the unknown object, Jenla asked, “Can you tell what it is yet?”

He didn’t answer, and Jenla wasn’t surprised. Tepa was a cautious man. He didn’t volunteer opinions unless he had facts to back them up.

They drew nearer, and Jenla suddenly saw movement from the object. “It’s alive,” she said.

Simultaneously, Tepa cried, “It’s a girl!” He ran the rest of the way to the prone figure. Jenla shouted hoarsely at him to wait for her.

Tepa reached the fallen figure. Skinny arms and legs stuck out from beneath a mound of piebald oxhide.

“Can you hear me, girl?” he asked. She didn’t answer. He used the tip of his staff to lift the filthy hide. A cloud of flies rose up, and Tepa flipped the hide away, exposing the fallen stranger.

She was thin to the point of gauntness, wearing a tattered shift crusted with dried mud. Her bare legs and arms were black with muck, and her waist-length black hair was matted and stiff. Tepa could see her bony ribs moving through a gash in her shift. Her eyes were closed.

Tepa dropped to one knee and gathered her in his arms. When he lifted her, her head lolled back.

“Poor little one,” the beekeeper soothed. “You’ve traveled far, haven’t you?”

Jenla arrived, panting. “Careful, old man!” she said sharply, though not without affection. “She could be a spirit, even a dragon in disguise.”

Tepa dipped his hand in the stream and let the cool water dribble across the girl’s forehead. He chided Jenla, clucking his tongue.

“This is no monster,” he said, “just a lost girl, who’s gone too long since her last meal.”

The girl’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes as black as her hair. Seeing Tepa, she began to struggle. He let her go and stood back with Jenla. The girl rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, regarding the couple warily.

Tepa asked gently, “What’s your name?”

“Beramun.” She dusted sand and dried mud from her doeskin shirt and kilt, keeping wary eyes on Jenla and Tepa.

When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, Jenla asked, “Who are your people?” The custom among plainsmen was to introduce themselves by the names of their parents.

“I have no people. I’m Beramun. That’s all.” She pointed past them to the town across the lake. “Is that the place called Yala-tene?”

“It is,” Tepa said.

Beramun sighed, her eyes closing briefly. “At last! I’ve wandered through half these mountains, looking for this place.”

She swayed a bit on her feet. Tepa stepped forward to help her, but she shrank from his proffered arm.

“When did you last eat?” he asked, stepping back.

“I don’t know.” She looked in the leather bag looped around her shoulder. From the way the limp bag hung, Tepa knew it was empty.

Beramun added, “Some days ago, it seems.”

“Well, come with us, girl,” Jenla said firmly. “We’ll feed you.”

Beramun resisted. “I must speak to your headman first!” Fear darkened her wan face. “I bring news of great danger!”

She was so insistent Jenla relented, and the three of them set off for Yala-tene at once. On the way, Tepa found a few dried apple slices in the pocket of his wraparound tunic. He offered the fruit to Beramun. She took them without hesitation but otherwise remained silent, obviously not intending to divulge her news to anyone but the headman of Yala-tene.

After a long, slow walk, they reached the village wall. Beramun had never seen such a structure. She marveled at the large stone blocks and how tightly they fit together. Inside, the town bustled with activity. Potters carried their wares to the kilns on long, ladderlike racks. Basket makers, coopers, and cobblers haggled over barter rates with the folk who gathered the raw materials — woodcutters, tanners, and the fishermen who cut rushes in their spare time.

Beramun was overwhelmed by the tumult. She had never seen so many people in one place, and everyone seemed to be going in all directions. They spoke her language but much more quickly than she was accustomed to. Here and there she saw black-skinned men and women she knew came from across the sea.

Her head swam as she tried to make sense of the cacophony. The old man, Tepa, tried to talk to her, but Jenla shushed him. Beramun gave the woman a grateful look. The teeming streets passed by in a blur, and an ache quickly bloomed behind her eyes.

At last they came to a low, rather tumbledown structure made of round rocks and slabs of bark. Fire glinted from within. In front of this building many people had gathered. Some were speaking with great heat at the top of their lungs.

Her guides led her through the crowd to where two men, one standing, the other seated, were loudly declaiming. The standing one was tall, and rather good-looking, but his hair was white, which seemed odd for one with such a youthful face. His eyebrows and eyelashes were also white, giving his whole face a very strange cast. The seated fellow was some years older. He had very short light brown hair and a closely trimmed beard, not at all like the luxuriant beards she was used to seeing on men his age out on the plains.

“… further evidence of Silvanesti plots against us,” the younger, white-haired man was saying. “My companions were cruelly slain — even the centaur Miteera sent to help us!”

The seated man looked even angrier, his face red above his whiskers. “And I say you had no right to go off on your own like that!” he countered. “Your folly cost the lives of two young people you were entrusted to guard. What did you say to their parents, Tiphan?”

White Hair replied loftily, “I said they died for the good of Yala-tene.”

His opponent scowled, drumming his fingers on his knee until he spotted Beramun in the crowd. The drumming stopped. He stood up.

“Jenla. Tepa. Who is this?” he asked.

The two villagers moved forward with the girl between them. Jenla explained how they’d found her, finishing with, “She says her name is Beramun, and claims to bring dire news for you, Arkuden.”

The name caused Beramun to stiffen. “Arkuden?” she repeated. “You’re a dragon’s son?”

He smiled, his hazel eyes filled with restored good humor. “I’m Amero, son of Oto and Kinar. ‘Arkuden’ is a name the folk hereabout call me. What news have you, Beramun?”

He had a kind face and pleasant voice, and Beramun relaxed a little. “Before Soli last waned, I was taken prisoner by raiders on the south plain. These men have horses and range all over, robbing and killing as they please. Their leader is called Zannian.” She noticed Tiphan glaring at her, obviously irritated by her interruption.

“Go on,” Amero said kindly, giving Tiphan a stern look.

“This Zannian is planning to make war on all the peoples of the plain,” she finished. “I spent some days in the raiders’ camp, making leather shirts for their warriors. I saw many, many spears being piled up.”

“We have nothing to fear from raider trash,” said a stout fellow with a reddish beard, standing nearby. “We have our wall, and we have the mighty protector, Duranix.” His words inspired many approving murmurs.

“What is Duranix?” asked Beramun.

“A dragon,” Tiphan said, looking down his thin nose at her. “Powerful in spirit, wise in counsel, mighty — ”

Beramun recoiled. “Dragon! You also serve a monster?” She was horrified. Had she come so far, endured so much, only to find herself prisoner of yet another evil beast?

The crowd jeered and called her names for insulting the one they kept calling “the Protector.” Amero quieted them. Then, his soothing tone gone and his voice edged with urgency, he asked, “What did you mean by ‘you also serve a monster?’”

“Zannian and his band have a dragon master, too!”

All talk ceased. Tiphan stared hard at Beramun, his eyes narrowing. “What dragon is this?” he demanded.

“His name is Sthenn. He’s a green dragon who lives in the forest at the Edge of the World.”

For five or six heartbeats there was no sound, then every man and woman present began exclaiming loudly and at once. They surged around Beramun like a storm-tossed sea, waving their hands wildly, pointing to the mountains, pointing to the sky.

“Sthenn!”

“- evil dragon who created the yevi — ”

“- as powerful as Duranix?”

“Duranix? Where is Duranix?”

“He must help — !”

On and on, until Beramun pressed her hands over her ears to muffle the cacophony. She closed her eyes as well, trying to shield her aching head from the tumult. Someone touched her on the shoulder. Opening her eyes, she saw it was the headman, Amero.

“Come with me,” he said close to her ear. “We’ll go some place quiet to talk.”

Trust was difficult. The news that these people were the followers of yet another dragon had shaken her badly. However, the kindness in his face and the appeal of a quiet place swayed her, and she let herself be led away from the agitated crowd.

Amero brought her through the throng to the cliff face close by. A basket made of wooden poles lashed together stood there. He climbed in and held out his hand to her.

She hesitated, and he said, “You’re safe here, Beramun. No one will harm you, least of all me. Come.”

More than the words themselves, his gentle manner reassured her. He explained that the hoist would lift them safely up. After a moment of nervous hesitation, she climbed in with him.

During the ascent, she held tightly to the sides of the basket. When the contraption finally bumped to a stop high off the ground, she tried not to look, but her eyes were drawn to the drop.

By the ancestors! The people below looked small as beetles! The thought made Beramun smile. Not so threatening from a height, the crowd did resemble a swarm of beetles roiling in the sunlight after their rotten log home had been turned over.

Amero tied off the basket and helped her climb out. The interior of the cavern was huge and dimly lit.

“You live here?” she exclaimed. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, the words coming back to her over and over. She laughed with childish delight at the effect.

“Duranix made it,” Amero explained. “He and I both live here.”

Mention of the dragon’s name killed Beramun’s playful mood. “Dragons are monsters,” she said flatly. “How can a man live with one?”

“Duranix is no monster. He’s the greatest friend a man could have. All that I’ve become, all that Yala-tene is, is due to my friendship with Duranix.”

Even through her mistrust, Beramun could hear the sincerity in his words. He went to the pit hearth and stirred the embers until they flamed. An elk haunch was on the spit there. He sliced off several generous pieces and offered them to her on the point of his knife. She hesitated only an instant before taking the knife and gnawing the meat with evident hunger.

Amero filled a leather cup from a pool of water by the cave wall. The basin was kept full by a rent in the outer cave wall that allowed water from the falls to trickle in.

He handed the cup to Beramun, then moved away, puttering in the recesses of the cave, allowing her to eat in peace.

After blunting her hunger pangs, Beramun rinsed her face and arms. When she returned to sit by the fire, Amero came back to question her about Sthenn, Zannian, and the raiders.

She told him all she knew, from the moment she’d been captured to her final escape down the river.

“Two hundred raiders or more you say, with a dragon behind them?” Amero muttered. He was standing at the entrance to the cave, frowning thoughtfully. The setting sun painted the sky scarlet beyond him.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

He nodded, and she sighed gustily, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Arkuden, if you’ll give me a quiet corner in this beehive of a village, I’d like to rest a bit. It’s been a long journey from the Edge of the World.”

“It’s better if you stay up here,” Amero said absently. “Duranix is away, and there are things going on in the village I’d rather you not get involved in.”

Beramun demanded, “Are you keeping me prisoner?”

He regarded her with a distracted expression. “You can come and go as you please. It really would be best if you stayed here, at least until Duranix returns. He’ll want to hear your story. Sthenn is his ancient enemy. They’ve fought each other before.”

Beramun chewed her lip, thinking. She hated confinement, but after many days on the run, always terrified Zannian or Sthenn would appear over the next hill or beyond the next grove of trees, she was weary beyond belief. The cave was blessedly calm and free of the hurly-burly of the teeming streets below. The constant rumble of the waterfall was actually rather soothing, and the food was better than anything she could scrounge on the plain.

Amero’s deep musings were interrupted by loud snoring. Turning, he saw Beramun leaning against the hearth, fast asleep. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. Her brief wash had removed the worst of the mud from her face, revealing her to be a pretty girl, thinned by too much hardship. Young, too. Her self-assured manner had fooled him at first, but looking at her now, he knew she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen.

Something about her arrival bothered him. He couldn’t decide exactly what, so he cut himself a helping of roast elk and sat nearby, eating quietly. Duranix’s warning about an unknown peril loomed larger than ever. They had their choice of dangers: elves on the move in the east, Sthenn and his human host reported in the southwest, and perhaps worst of all, the strange incident involving Tiphan. The facts were indisputable. Tiphan had been transformed by some unknown power, and his naked ambition to take over Yala-tene was now as shockingly plain as his newly whitened hair.

Amero suddenly felt small in the great cave, small and insignificant. He wondered where Duranix was just then. Swallowing the last bite of elk, he sat down on the hearth across from Beramun and watched her sleep.