Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 11

The closer he got to Yala-tene, the more Duranix grew disturbed. Something was terribly wrong, and it wasn’t all due to that fool Tiphan’s dabbling with forces he couldn’t control. The sense of menace he’d detected before leaving the village was still building like invisible thunderheads, foretelling a storm of terrible magnitude. Though still too vague to identify, the signals were stronger than before — stronger and closer.

Duranix landed on the cliffs above the village, where years before he’d fought the rebel nomads of Hatu the One-eyed and Nacris. He inspected the sleeping town. Though the starry night seemed peaceful, the chill he felt throughout his massive body confirmed the worst: The malign presence had come to Yala-tene. It would have to be found and expunged as quickly as possible.

He flew into his cavern, shaking off the waterfall’s momentary deluge as he always did. The dying embers of a fire and the smell of roast elk told him someone had eaten recently. His heat-sensitive vision picked out a single warm body, sleeping by the hearth. Amero was home.

Duranix stalked across the cave and exhaled a small bolt of lightning into the firepit. Flames blazed up. Familiar surroundings and the nearness of his human friend raised Duranix’s spirits.

He pushed his head close to the sleeping mound and boomed, “Wake up, boy! I’ve much to tell you!”

The sleeper jerked upright. With a start Duranix realized it wasn’t Amero, but a female with long black hair. Her mouth opened, and she screamed, scrambling around the hearth away from him. She kept on screaming, face contorted by utter panic.

“Cease that noise!” he roared.

Like a judicious slap in the face, his command worked.

The girl’s jaws worked in silent horror, then she shouted, “You’re the dragon!”

“How brilliant you are! Who are you?”

She pulled herself together and replied in a calmer tone, “Beramun. I’m Beramun. You… you’re Duranix, aren’t you?”

“I am, and this is my home. Why are you here?”

“Amero brought me — ”

“Did he?” His eyes narrowed. “Where is the hospitable Amero?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking around rapidly. “He was here when I went to sleep.”

Duranix circled the hearth. Beramun scampered away, maintaining her distance. “Are you the female he’s been tending in the village?” the dragon asked.

Her face colored. “No! I only arrived in the valley yesterday.”

“Then why did Amero bring you here? It’s not his custom to lodge strangers in our home.”

Beramun stood up, tugging at her twisted clothing. “I came to Yala-tene to warn him, to warn everyone,” she said, untying the braided hide belt at her waist and smoothing her kilt.

“Warn them of what?”

“Zannian’s raiders.” Beramun had to loosen the wraparound shirt in order to unbind her arms. When she did, the shirt fell away from her shoulders, exposing the green mark high on her chest.

Duranix’s pupils expanded. Without warning, he sprang through the fire. She had no time to dodge, but did let loose another bloodcurdling scream as his bronze talons enveloped her.

“You are his!” Duranix bellowed.

“Let me go!” she shrieked. “Let me go, monster! Let me go!”

He reared up on his hind legs, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he meant to dash her against the cave wall. Instead, he carried her to the largest opening, the one directly behind the falls.

“You belong to him,” Duranix said coldly, his great voice carrying easily over the rumble of the water. “Did he send you to destroy me?”

“Destroy you?” Beramun’s voice was shrill with terror. “Belong to who? I don’t know what you mean!”

He thrust her out of the cave. Hundreds of paces above the ground, she now clung to Duranix as fiercely as she had fought his grip a moment before.

“Why did you come here?” he bellowed.

She screamed the words as fast as she was able. “To warn the people of Yala-tene about Zannian and his raiders — ”

“Lies!” Duranix leaned farther out and pushed Beramun into the edge of the plunging stream of water. At its heart the waterfall had sufficient force to break bones and tear hair out by the roots. Even here, the torrent forced Beramun’s head down and pounded her back. She choked until he hauled her in.

“Why did you come here?” Duranix demanded. “What is your purpose?”

“I told you — ”

He extended his foreclaw toward the water again.

Tears streaming down her drenched face, she cried, “No! No! It’s the truth! I swear by my ancestors! It’s the truth!”

A shout came from behind. Turning his broad head, Duranix saw Amero vault out of the basket and rush toward them.

“Stop it, Duranix! Don’t hurt her!”

“Are you mad, boy? She is one of Sthenn’s creatures!”

“No! She came here to warn us about Sthenn!”

Duranix examined the limp, bedraggled girl in his grasp. His brazen lip curled in disgust, and he tossed her to Amero. The latter managed to catch her, staggering backward under the unexpected burden.

“What’s gotten into you, Duranix?” Amero said, lowering Beramun to the floor. “I’ve never seen you mistreat a human so!”

The dragon’s ribs worked hard as he inhaled and exhaled, calming himself. Finally he said, “She wears Sthenn’s mark! She is his creature, no less than the yevi that killed your parents.”

“His mark?”

“See for yourself. High on the left side of her chest.”

Amero gently parted Beramun’s sodden hair and peeled back the wet doeskin. The green triangle stood out plainly. He touched it lightly with a forefinger. The mark was smooth, the edges flush with the girl’s skin.

Beramun came out of her daze and pushed weakly at his hands. “What’re you doing? Don’t touch me!”

“What is this mark?”

She held her shirt tight to her neck. “I don’t know. A bruise!”

“Have you always had it?”

“No. I noticed it after my escape from Almurk.”

Amero quickly recounted to Duranix her story of capture by Sthenn’s raiders and her escape.

The dragon listened, motionless and silent, but when the tale was done he said, “This is the shadow I sensed coming, Amero. This is the danger that threatens us all. She was marked by Sthenn. She is his creature. Better she dies now, before she can do his evil here.”

Beramun gasped and stood on shaky legs to run. She looked about wildly, realizing she was hopelessly trapped in the cave. Duranix made no move toward her, but Amero stepped between the dragon and the girl.

“There’s no proof she’s here on Sthenn’s behalf. Maybe the mark is just a bruise.” Even to his own ears, it sounded weak, and Duranix was not likely to be wrong about such a thing.

“I smell Sthenn all over her,” the dragon told him, crouching low and coiling his powerful legs beneath him. “I sensed his presence a hundred leagues away. Now I know why — he sent this girl here.”

“But why? She has warned us about his plots!”

“You don’t understand the poisonous subtlety of Sthenn’s mind. If he sent her here, there is a black reason behind it.” Amero folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t let you harm her.”

Silence ensued, heavy and tense. Amero knew he was no match for the dragon, but he honestly could not imagine that Duranix would hurt him. Though he was still a strange and oft-times unfathomable creature, Duranix had been Amero’s friend too long for the dragon to disregard him.

Finally, Duranix relaxed his attack stance. “Very well,” he said calmly. “Shield her if you must. There’s no understanding the irrational feelings humans have for each other.” Amero breathed more easily, but the dragon’s next words troubled him anew. “I warn you though, by all that’s passed between us — this female is doing Sthenn’s work, and we will all come to grief if you let her live.”

Amero looked over his shoulder at Beramun. “Go to the hoist,” he said quietly. “Wait there for me.”

She obeyed immediately. The dragon’s eyes followed her every step.

“There are other dangers here,” Amero said, hoping to divert Duranix. “Tiphan returned yesterday by means of some kind of spirit power. He claims to have mastery over it.”

“I feared as much.” Now it was the dragon’s turn to tell Amero about his findings. He described what he had discovered on the plains — the remains of a bloody fight, the residue of power, the spirit stones, and the dead centaur.

Amero shook his head sadly at the loss of Miteera’s gallant warrior. “Tiphan’s changed — or been changed by these stones,” he said solemnly. “Even his appearance is altered.”

“He seeks to imitate the elf priests. He would become like Vedvedsica.”

“He must be stopped!” Amero declared. “That power is as wrong for humans as it is for elves. Just look at the evil done by Pa’alu all those years ago with a simple amulet!”

Pa’alu had been a nomad warrior who’d been in love with his chieftain, Amero’s sister, Nianki. When she failed to return his affection, he had made a deal with the Silvanesti priest Vedvedsica for an amulet to compel Nianki’s love. A terrible accident had occurred. The amulet had indeed caused Nianki to fall in love, but that love was directed along unnatural lines, toward her brother. Much sorrow had ensued, leaving Pa’alu dead, Yala-tene wrecked by the rebellious nomads, and Nianki driven into self-exile with her band of loyal followers.

“I’ll search for this Zannian,” Duranix declared. “You’ll have to deal with Tiphan for now.”

“Konza may still have some influence over his son. I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

Amero intended to say more, to smooth over their confrontation over Beramun, but it was not to be. Having spoken his mind, Duranix stalked to the rear of the cave. It was obvious he was still angry, and Amero’s heart was heavy as he returned to the hoist.

Beramun stood in the basket regarding him nervously. Somehow, his many burdens seemed to lighten when he looked at her, and he smiled.

“Is all well?” she asked.

“Well enough,” he said, climbing in and pulling the slip knot. The basket sank toward the ground.

She wrung water from her long hair. “It was brave of you to defend me,” she said quietly.

“I was in no danger. Duranix would not hurt me.”

“He’s a beast. A very great beast, but not human. Can you be sure of him?”

“Very sure.” Amero looked into her black eyes. More sure than I am of you. He kept that thought to himself.

The basket bumped into the pile of sawdust Amero used to cushion the landing. He climbed out first, then helped her jump down. His hands were still around her waist when she skidded in the sawdust. He held on to keep her from falling.

After a few seconds, she said, “You can let go now.”

Amero released her. He was thankful the dark night hid the blood burning in his face.

“Thank you, Arkuden.” She clasped his hand lightly. It was a simple gesture of gratitude, nothing more, but the fleeting contact set his heart racing.

By lamplight the stones looked very ordinary: mottled gray chips of varying sizes. A few had streaks of gold in them, but only a few. Konza sat at the table in his simple house, the pile of stones before him. Across from him sat his son, his appearance so strangely altered by his recent journey. Konza had begun to believe the alterations ran even deeper than mere appearance.

“You see, father, these stones are the key to power,” Tiphan said, running his hands over the dusty pile. “According to my elven manuscripts, they contain a portion of the power of a mighty spirit confined to the stone in ages past.”

“These bits of rock?”

“Yes. Here is a treasure greater than all the bronze in Silvanost!”

Tiphan was sorting the stones by size and weight. Even the bits that flaked off them were pushed carefully into a tiny heap. Konza watched this peculiar process with a plainly skeptical expression.

“How did Penzar and Mara die?”

“What?”

Tiphan’s blue eyes, seemingly all the brighter for the white lashes now framing them, lifted from his work to stare at his father. “Elves killed them. I told you that. We were set upon by more than a hundred Silvanesti warriors. Penzar was slain, then Mara, and the centaur. It all happened so quickly, I couldn’t help them. The only reason I survived was because of the stones.”

“I see.” The older man drummed the tabletop with his fingers for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No, I don’t. How? How were you able to command the power of the stones?”

Tiphan smote the table with his fist, causing his father, the stones, and the small lamp to jump. “Questions, questions! What troubles you, old man? Aren’t you happy to have me back alive — and in possession of such enormous power?”

“Yes, Tiphan, I am.”

His tone was so sincere, Tiphan felt guilty. He sat back with a deep sigh. “Very well, father. I’ll show you how I was able to master the stones.”

Rising, he went and removed the loose stone that hid his secret cache. He poked his arm into the hole and felt around for his scrolls. He found the longest parchment roll, drew it out, and unrolled it a span.

“Here,” he said, showing the Silvanesti book to his father. “This is The Way to Bind the Sun, a book compiled by elf priests. It describes the stones of power and how a practiced artisan can use them.”

Konza didn’t even glance at the scroll. “You know I can’t read,” he said.

“You could learn! I’ve studied every scrap of Elvish script that’s come into this valley and talked to wanderers and traders who know the Silvanesti. This book tells of an ancient war among the spirits and how the victors and the defeated chose to remain on this mortal world, locked in stone for all time. Whole, these spirits are too willful for man or elf to control, but a small fragment can be called upon to release its power!”

Konza was plainly impressed with his son’s erudition, but his expression was troubled as he asked, “What will you do with this power?”

Tiphan gestured broadly. “Help Yala-tene, of course — in a hundred ways! The power is directed by my will, so whatever I wish can be done. Think of the deeds I could do! Instead of sweating long days to break stone and haul it to build the town wall, I might be able to command the stone blocks to rise and fly themselves into place! I could call forth rain in a drought, or sunshine during a deluge. If the harvest was poor, I could command the gardens to flower and grow heavy — ”

“Ah!” Konza struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “The orchard! I forgot!” As Tiphan rolled up the Silvanesti scroll, the old man explained how the late icefall had ruined the spring planting.

“The villagers were very angry with you,” he said. “Amero spoke to the Protector, and he told the planters you had misinterpreted his words when you claimed he said winter was over. If you’d been here, I think they would’ve torn you to pieces!”

Tiphan smiled thinly. “But I wasn’t here. Isn’t that proof the power seeks me as surely as I desire it? Why else would I have had such an overwhelming urge to leave Yala-tene on that particular day?”

Konza was taken aback. Tiphan had always thought well of himself, but since his return he was acting as though he, and not the great dragon, was the protector of Yala-tene. He didn’t even grieve over the deaths of his acolytes. When he spoke of the Arkuden, his tone now was openly arrogant.

“Son, you must make amends,” the old man insisted. “Somehow you must help the planters.”

Tiphan had returned the scroll to its niche. Turning slowly, he said, “You’re right, Father. That’s a fine notion.” He scooped up a single stone from the table. “I’ll do just that!”

He draped a sheepskin robe around his shoulders and raced out the door. Konza had to scramble to catch up.

The night was bright, the air crisp and cold. Their exhalations formed clouds around their heads.

“If you want to see the orchard, shouldn’t we wait for daylight?” Konza panted, pushing himself to keep up with Tiphan’s brisk stride.

“There’s no time to lose. The next sunrise will shine down on a new orchard, and a new village!”

They crossed Amero’s bridge, their sandals thumping loudly on the planks. It was quiet in the upper valley, still too cold at night for frogs and crickets to serenade. By the time they arrived at the upper end of the orchard it was just after midnight. Lutar was chinning itself on the horizon, and a vague pinkish light colored the scene before them.

Tiphan stopped so suddenly Konza bumped into him.

“Now what?” asked the old man, shivering despite his robe.

“Watch, and say nothing,” was his son’s portentous warning.

In truth Tiphan wasn’t at all sure he could invoke the power of the stone he held tightly in his hand. His escape from the elves might have been an accident, sparked by desperation. Still, Konza was watching. Better to test his technique before his own father than a crowd of skeptical villagers.

Tiphan pressed his palms together, the stone wedged between them. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he concentrated.

Power of the stone, hear me! he intoned silently. Bring forth the bounty of the soil! Raise up these wasted seeds into thriving, abundant trees! He repeated the wordless command over and over.

Nothing happened. The night remained very still and cold. Tiphan felt a trickle of sweat run down his temple.

“Never mind, son. Let’s go home.”

His father’s gentle, pitying tone infuriated Tiphan. “Don’t interrupt!” he snapped. Speaking made him remember an important fact: He’d rescued himself from the elves by speaking the words aloud!

“Power of the stone!” Tiphan intoned in a loud voice. “Hear my plea! Hear my command! Bring forth the bounty of the soil! Raise up the withered seedlings from waste and death! Come forth in life and plenty! Release your power! Come forth! Come forth!”

The air around them shimmered. They felt a whisper of heat on their faces. The stone in Tiphan’s hands grew warmer. Very quickly, it became painfully hot.

Raising both hands high and never ceasing to shout his invocation, Tiphan hurled the stone at the straw-covered field. As it flew through the air it left behind a visible trail of golden sparks.

When the fragment hit the ground, there was a noiseless burst of white light. Konza turned away, hands over his ears, believing a thunderclap would follow. None did, but a lengthy wash of warm air enveloped them.

“Tiphan!” Konza gasped. “What’s the matter?”

His son had fallen to his knees and was shaking violently. Konza took him by the shoulders, thinking to aid him. However, the old man recoiled sharply when he saw his son’s face.

Tiphan was laughing. Paroxysms of mirth shook him from head to toe.

“Now do you see, old man?” Tiphan sputtered. Savage laughter continued to wrack him until tears ran down his cheeks. “ Now do you see? ”

Konza looked at the ice-ravaged orchard. Something was indeed happening. Releasing his hysterical son, who collapsed onto his hands and knees, Konza walked into the frosty field. Where once the ground had been covered with damp hay, there was a now a fine green fleece growing from the foot of the far cliff down to the water’s edge.

Konza knelt, brushing tentative fingers over apple and walnut trees, burltops, and more. Tiphan hadn’t simply repaired the seedlings killed by ice. He’d covered the entire expanse of ground in finger-length sprouts of all type and description.

A hand fell on Konza’s back, and he flinched.

“Isn’t it wondrous?” breathed Tiphan.

“It’s terrifying!” said Konza honestly.

Here was power to rival the great spirits. As his eyes roved over the dense mat of seedlings, Konza knew that such power wasn’t meant for ordinary men. He looked at his son nervously. Tiphan’s thoughts were obviously running along different lines.

“The land will yield everything to us,” the younger man said, spreading his arms wide and inhaling deeply. “The world will be our garden! Nothing can resist my power!”