Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 12

Duranix had searched from the mountains to the Plains River, detecting no trace of Sthenn or his minions. This troubled him. There had been a far greater odor of the enemy back in Yala-tene, Duranix reflected, emanating from that black-haired girl.

Thinking of Beramun made the dragon angry. He was certain she was up to no good, though how she fit into Sthenn’s machinations wasn’t clear.

He turned south, crossing the landmark river. There were always plainsmen on its shores, watering their animals or traveling by raft or canoes. Nomads were keen-eyed and alert to any danger. He resolved to question any he could find about Zannian’s band. For that, he would need to take on human shape, since the wanderers would flee at the sight of his natural form.

He landed in a grove of cherry trees. Hidden by clouds of pink blossoms, he shrank to a stocky, broad-shouldered, brown-haired man who vaguely resembled Amero. The disguise would not only allow him to approach any nomads he might meet, but would also serve to muffle his presence to Sthenn, if the green dragon was in the vicinity.

Duranix emerged from the cherry trees and began to run. Human form or no, he ran faster than any other creature on the plain, surpassing even the astonishing speed for which the panther was famed. By noon, he was gazing down from a hilltop on the distant silver band of the river’s southern fork, and he’d encountered neither raiders nor plainsmen. He found the lack of customary nomads extremely disturbing. This time of year the savanna should have been dotted with many small bands moving south behind migrating herds of elk and oxen.

Duranix stretched his senses wide, drinking in the faintest whiffs of auras and aromas. There was a sizable herd of oxen within range. He made note of that. A fat ox or two would be a fine antidote to the enormous hunger he’d built up after many leagues of running.

Before racing off after his dinner, he caught another scent that put an end to his thoughts of food. Humans, two or three at most, with horses. At last, he had found the nomads he sought.

A shrill whistling filled his sensitive ears. He quickly spotted the source of the sound. A bawling ox calf galloped through the widely spaced trees. Behind it was a trio of humans on horseback, whistling and shouting. They had long spears and were obviously trying to bring down the runaway beast.

Duranix loped down the hill, angling to intercept the galloping calf. His sudden appearance on the beast’s left spooked the calf, and it veered away. Between the dust and flower petals from nearby trees, the riders didn’t see the calf change direction. They thundered straight ahead, whooping, until the one on the far left spotted Duranix. He reined up and shouted something to his comrades, who likewise slowed to get a look at the stranger.

In the space of a few heartbeats, Duranix realized these fellows weren’t simple herders chasing a stray calf. They carried no ropes but were armed with flint-tipped spears and wore weird leather hoods decorated with animal bones, teeth, and vivid stripes, swirls, and splotches of paint. That much of the girl Beramun’s story was true. There were raiders on the plains.

Followers of Sthenn weren’t likely to respond to polite queries, so Duranix took a more direct approach. He charged the center rider. The man’s horse shied violently, rearing on its hind legs. The rider, taken by surprise, fell and hit the ground hard. He rolled twice and lay still.

The other two riders drove in, spears leveled. Duranix sprang at the nearest one, whose hood bore a wide stripe of bright red paint. The dragon grabbed Red Stripe’s spear shaft in both hands and yanked. The man flew off his horse and landed in the dirt.

With no time to dodge the third human’s attack, Duranix hurled the captured spear at him. Backed by a dragon’s muscles, the long spear drove all the way through the last rider. His hands flew up, and he toppled backward off his animal.

The first two men were senseless, so Duranix went over to the one he’d speared and hauled him to his feet. He tore the fearsome hood from the rider’s head, revealing him to be a young man with shaggy black hair and only the thinnest sprouts of beard on his chin.

“Speak,” Duranix said roughly. “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

The raider coughed blood. His eyes roved wildly, taking in the unmoving lumps that had been his comrades. “Takanu,” he gasped, “from Almurk.”

The disguised dragon recognized the latter name from Amero’s recital of Beramun’s escape. “Is your chief named Zannian?” he demanded.

The raider nodded feebly. Duranix dragged him to where his horse waited, cropping the spring grass a few paces away. Faint surprise registered in the dragon’s mind as he noted that all three horses had remained nearby. Unlike most of their kind, they didn’t seem alarmed by his dragon aura.

He held the reins of Takanu’s horse with one hand and, with the other, threw the raider onto the animal’s back.

“I’m going to spare you, Takanu, to go back to your chief and deliver this message — stay away from Yala-tene or face certain, swift death. Do you understand?”

The raider didn’t reach for the dangling rawhide reins. He sat slumped in his saddle, one hand clutching his wounded side, shaking his head.

Duranix repeated the message more loudly, adding, “Now go!”

“I can’t,” the raider groaned.

“Why not? Your wound isn’t fatal.”

“I can’t return defeated, spared by an enemy,” the raider insisted. “I’ll be punished. Better to die now.”

What kind of savages was he dealing with? “Then tell them you fought me and I ran away,” the dragon said with some asperity. “Tell them whatever you like, so long as you deliver my warning.”

Takanu slipped a hand into his shirt. When he brought it out again, there was an obsidian dagger in his fist. Quicker than thought, he stabbed himself in the stomach and slid sideways off his horse.

Deeply vexed, lightning snapping around his head, Duranix rolled the raider over. Takanu was dead. His hard landing had driven the dagger deep. Another messenger would have to be found.

The disguised dragon stripped the two unconscious men of their clothes and weapons. He retrieved their horses and lashed the raiders facedown across their mounts’ backs.

To make certain Sthenn knew exactly who was sending the message, Duranix reverted to dragon form and searched his body for a loose scale. He found one on the back of one knee. Tearing a long strip of buckskin from a raider’s shirt, the dragon tied the scale in place over the man’s face. He sent the horses on their way with slaps on their rumps.

Satisfied he’d made his point, Duranix turned his attention back to his voracious appetite.

Jenla could not believe her eyes. The day before, she and Tepa had found nothing in the orchard but muddy hay. This morning, the field was alive with thousands of tiny green seedlings, so densely packed she could barely see ground between them. Falling to her knees in the dirt, she touched the tender shoots with her fingers, hardly believing they were real.

“Believe what you see.”

Jenla’s head snapped around toward the unexpected voice. There stood Tiphan, looking strangely colorless in the golden light of morning.

“It’s amazing,” she said, breathless. “How could such a thing happen?”

“I did it.”

Her wordless shock seemed to please him. “I have acquired the spirit power previously known only to the elves.” With a beneficent smile Tiphan added, “Since our great protector misled us about the weather, it seemed only right that I repair his mistake.”

Though she knew his version of events wasn’t accurate, Jenla didn’t argue. Tiphan frightened her. What with his arrival in the Offertory in a flash of light and his strange new appearance. “Well,” he said, “aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Thank you, Tosen.” Frowning at the seedlings, she muttered, “These will have to be thinned, or they’ll choke each other out.”

“You’re welcome, Jenla. Peace to you.”

He wandered away, still smiling. Jenla dismissed the unfathomable Sensarku from her mind, her thoughts returning to the task before her.

She plucked out a handful of apple seedlings to make room for the others to grow. Tossing them over her shoulder, she loosened the soil with a sharp wooden stick. Tearing out more seedlings and throwing them behind her, she created a neat row where none had existed. After she’d worked down a few steps, she glanced back to survey her handiwork. What she saw stopped her cold.

The discarded seedlings, torn from the soil, were growing! They had already put down roots and were even now righting themselves. The thick mass of plants turned their leaves to the sun.

Unnerved, she dropped her stick and shouted, “Tepa! Udi! Tana! Come here!”

From other parts of the fields her friends came running. When close enough to behold the restored orchard, they halted abruptly, and their jaws dropped. At her impatient urging, they approached again, their eyes fastened on the writhing carpet of seedlings.

Jenla related Tiphan’s claim to have “repaired” the damage done by the too-early planting.

“He can do that?” asked Udi, awestruck.

“The proof is here,” Jenla said. “The seedlings are alive — unnaturally so! Torn out, they keep growing!” She gestured at the pile. “We have to find a way to thin them.”

Tepa pondered the problem. “Burn the unwanted ones,” he said. “That should take care of them.”

All around they could hear a faint but steady scratching sound. Astonished, they realized it was the sound of the orchard growing.

“Get help!” Tepa told his son. “Hurry! If we wait too long we’ll need axes to thin the saplings!”

Udi ran to the next vale to recruit the villagers working in the vegetable gardens. Tepa scrounged twigs and dry grass and started a small fire. They began thinning the seedlings and tossing the unwanted ones on the fire. Soon enough, the fire had grown to considerable size.

Across the lake, Amero noted the rising spiral of smoke and wondered what was burning. He was overseeing repairs of the foundry while waiting for Tiphan. He’d sent runners throughout the town, seeking the Sensarku chief. Tiphan finally arrived with a full entourage of acolytes, all starry-eyed and awestruck by their leader.

Outwardly calm, Amero inwardly seethed. He didn’t want the young, impressionable Sensarku present when he upbraided their leader. Sitting on a stone bench outside the ruined foundry, he pointedly did not rise when Tiphan reached him. Instead, he continued whittling a cedar stick with practiced nonchalance. Tiphan halted, and his acolytes spread out on each side.

“Welcome, Tiphan,” Amero said. “I hope you’re recovered from your journey?”

“Quite recovered, Arkuden.”

“Send your people back to the Offertory, please. This doesn’t concern them.”

The Sensarku leader spread his arms wide. “I have no secrets from my children.”

Disgusted by his turn of phrase, Amero almost cut through the aromatic stick with a single stroke. Recovering, he said, “Let me speak plainly. I’m concerned about you, Tiphan. You left here as one person and returned as another.”

“Is that wrong, Arkuden?”

Amero met his eyes. “No, but you brought something with you I cannot tolerate in Yala-tene.”

“What would that be?”

“Spirit power.”

Tiphan smiled broadly. “It’s no secret I have acquired the power known to the priests of the Silvanesti,” he said. “I have said so publicly.” The joy on the faces of his acolytes reflected his own. “What an elf can do, now I can do. What arts they master, I can master, too.”

“No one can control the spirits. To try is folly. You’re like a man who juggles flaming brands — as long as you catch the cool end, you’re fine, but sooner or later you’re bound to burn your fingers.”

Tiphan’s smile vanished. “I never thought to hear such craven words from you, Arkuden. You, who have lived with a dragon and wrested metal from the very rocks beneath our feet? Why should you fear this power? It exists, stored in stone, for the wise to use, just as your metal lies hidden in ordinary rock. You dig it out to help us, to make life in Yala-tene better. My goal is the same.”

The scrape of feet behind him made Amero glance over his shoulder. His workmen were crowding the windows and door of the foundry, listening to Tiphan speak. From their faces, it appeared the Sensarku was winning his point.

“There’s a grave difference between copper and spirit power,” Amero countered, standing at last. “Metal, once smelted, is just metal. It neither harms nor helps, but does the will of the hand that wields it. This power you crave is not like that. Using it is like setting a wild beast loose from a trap. It may run away, or it may turn and bite you. There’s no controlling it. If you try to use it, it will destroy you, Tiphan, and may very well destroy Yala-tene, too.”

Tiphan shook his head sadly. “You’ve grown old, Arkuden, old and cautious. I’ve called upon the power twice already, and both times reaped the benefits.” He pointed across the lake. “My power has insured a bountiful harvest for seasons to come by saving the frozen seedlings. It also saved me from the elves, who attacked me on the plain.”

Amero folded his arms to stop them trembling with anger. “Attacked you?” he said coldly, “Mara, Penzar, and Elu were attacked, too. How is it this great power of yours couldn’t save them?”

“Have all your schemes borne fruit? Did they come without cost?” Tiphan retorted. “How many died when the storage tunnels were being dug? What about the people injured in your experiments? What was the final tally of dead after the nomads were welcomed into the valley?”

The smug look on the face of the Sensarku leader was suddenly too much for Amero. Furious, he started at Tiphan, but was stopped by the young believers who rushed between him and their leader. Fists clenched at his sides, he glared at the eight or so acolytes blocking his path.

“Stand clear, Tiphan, if you want to insult me!”

“You see our wise Arkuden,” Tiphan said loudly, addressing the rapt workmen in the foundry’s windows. “Outmatched in words, he has no other remedy but fighting.”

“You must give up the stones you collected!” Amero shouted.

“I will not.”

“Duranix will return soon and compel you to do so!”

All eyes turned to Tiphan. He pursed his lips and lowered his head, looking thoughtful. “I will always obey the will of our great protector,” he said solemnly, “but I have the right to make my case to him in person.”

Amero sneered. “That will be a song worth hearing!”

A new group of acolytes arrived. They hailed their leader and brought out a gift they’d made for him: an ankle-length mantle of the best white fox fur. They draped it over his shoulders and cheered. Satisfied he’d made his point, Tiphan led his large group of followers away.

Fuming, Amero turned his back on them. The sight of his workmen, standing idle as they witnessed Tiphan’s little spectacle, made him even angrier.

“Well?” he snapped. “Furnaces don’t mend themselves!”

Sheepishly, the men returned to work. He was about to join them when Lyopi and Beramun arrived.

“I heard you shouting as soon as I stepped out of my house,” Lyopi said. “I knew Tiphan couldn’t be far away.”

Amero took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of his ire. “He has a talent for baiting me.”

“And you have a talent for letting him.”

Lyopi’s comment sounded accusing to his ears, but before Amero could reply, Beramun spoke up.

“You should thrash him,” she said. “Disrespect to a headman shouldn’t be tolerated.”

Lyopi raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know our Arkuden. He talks his foes into submission far more often than he beats them.”

Again Amero felt stung by her tone. Why couldn’t she be more supportive, like Beramun?

Turning to the girl, he said, “Are you lodged comfortably?” He had asked Lyopi to keep Beramun out of the dragon’s sight.

“Yes, Arkuden. Lyopi has shared her home with me.”

“I always do my best for the lost and strayed,” Lyopi said wryly.

Amero ignored her bait. “Duranix has gone out to investigate your story. He’ll search the western plain for signs of Zannian’s band. If they’re out there, Duranix will find them.”

“You’ll dine with us tonight, Amero?” asked Lyopi, taking Beramun by the arm and drawing her away. She noted with a frown how closely Amero’s eyes followed the girl.

His answer was slow in coming, but finally he shifted his gaze from Beramun to Lyopi. “Yes, I will,” he said at last.

“Then bring a brace of rabbits, or a deer haunch,” Lyopi snapped. “I’m not your mother, to wait on you hand and foot.”

The women departed, leaving a surprised Amero wondering what had put steady Lyopi in such a bad temper.

Sunset arrived red as blood. Scouts came in tired from their daylong rides, their throats dry as the dust that coated them from head to toe. Stolen wine flowed freely. Zannian let the thirsty scouts drink their fill, and the camp grew loud with intoxicated boasts of warrior prowess.

Some had returned with loot and new captives — a few head of oxen or goats, or families swiftly rounded up as they tried to sneak across the plain. All captured humans were herded past an old oak stump by the river. Sitting on this stump was Hoten, son of Nito. He was in charge of tallying the new acquisitions, scratching marks on strips of bark to record the chattel — beast or human — taken by the raiders. Behind him sat Nacris, keenly watching from her litter.

After the latest pair of oxen were driven away, Nacris announced, “That makes six score and seven oxen taken. Not bad.”

“Five-score and nine of those came from the single herd we took six days ago,” Hoten replied. “Since then, only eighteen oxen have been brought in. Word has spread. The wanderers are keeping out of our reach.”

“What of it?” she said, shrugging. “We’ve enough meat now to last all winter, and when we take Arku-peli, we’ll have even more.”

“A wise hunter doesn’t pluck a bird he hasn’t caught yet.”

She scowled, shifting in her litter. “You’re a gloomy bird yourself, Hoten. Don’t you believe in the might of our master and the skill of my son?”

Hoten put down the quartz shard he used to mark the bark strip and rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. “There’s no doubt of either,” he said evenly. “Our master is powerful, and Zannian is a great warrior.”

Rowdy laughter in the center of the camp abruptly died. Hoten stood to see what had quelled the men’s high spirits.

“What is it?” Nacris pushed herself up with her hands.

He frowned. “Looks like some of our men have come back bested.” He hurried away, leaving Nacris cursing and calling for her absent bearers.

Hoten pushed his way through the drunken raiders. Two horses had ambled into camp with riders tied facedown across their backs. Both men had been stripped of clothing and weapons. One was dead with a cracked skull, but the other was only groggy from his long ride upside down.

Hoten sent a runner to find Zannian and ordered the live man released. The rawhide bindings were swiftly sliced. He fell heavily to the ground. Some of his comrades laughed.

“Shut up,” Hoten snapped. “Oswan, what happened to Siwah? Where’s Takanu?”

The man couldn’t say. The dead one, Siwah, was brought over to Hoten for inspection. He had a strange sort of hat on his head. In the fading light it glinted like metal.

Hoten jerked the object off Siwah’s head. It was metal, a thin, curled sheet.

Cursing loudly, Nacris and her bearers bullied their way through the throng. When she spotted the object in Hoten’s hand, she uttered an oath of surprise.

“Give that to me!” she demanded.

Hoten handed the strange metallic token to her just as Zannian arrived.

“What’s going on?” the chief asked.

“Someone beat three of our scouts,” Hoten said. “That thing came back on Siwah.”

Nacris had been turning the burnished metal object in her hands, trying its hardness with her thumbnail, even sniffing it.

She snapped, “Where did this come from, Oswan?”

He shrugged. “It was just there — on Siwah — when I woke up.”

“Summon the Master.”

“What is it?” Zannian asked his mother, reaching for the object.

She yanked it out of his reach and cried, “Summon the Master! Now!”

The raiders knew Nacris did not invoke the green dragon lightly. They whispered among themselves uneasily, as Zannian ordered Hoten to fetch Greengall.

“Takanu’s dead,” Nacris declared, putting the metal leaf on her lap. “These two were sent back as a warning.”

“How do you know?”

“This, boy!” She waved the metal at Zannian. “Wait till the Master sees this!”

Soon, Hoten returned with Greengall. The crowd of warriors melted away, making a path for the towering creature. A few bowed their heads. Most just sought to avoid the gangling monster’s eye.

“Why do you summon me?” Greengall said irritably.

“Look at this, Master!” Nacris held up the metal leaf in both hands.

Greengall’s vertical pupils contracted to black slits, making his eyes appear even larger than usual. He took the leaf from her.

“What is this?”

“A scale, Master.”

“I know it’s a scale!” he bellowed, swatting her across the face with it.

The sharp edge cut deeply into Nacris’s cheek. She bore her hurt in silence as the hardened warriors drew back in a body, fearful of Greengall’s rage. Nacris dabbed at the blood running down her face and looked up to her harsh master again. She laughed. The low, cheerless sound drew all eyes.

To Zannian’s surprise, Greengall, who hated the sound of human merriment, chose to ignore the transgression instead of punishing it. Clearly the mysterious fragment was important.

“Who brought this here?” Greengall asked, looking around. No one spoke.

Zannian alone had not retreated. Handing his bleeding mother a scrap of doeskin to press to her wound, he said calmly, “Oswan, step forward and tell the Master your tale.”

Trembling as much from new terror as from his recent ordeal, Oswan fell to his knees before Greengall. In halting words he told how he and his comrades had spotted the runaway calf and given chase, how a strange, powerful man had appeared and unhorsed them. That was all he remembered.

“A man, you say?”

Swallowing audibly, Oswan replied, “Yes, Master.”

“Does this look like the skin of a man?” He flung the scale to the ground. It rang musically against a rock. “He is near! My old friend, the plaything of my youth, has come to seek me out!”

Zannian was puzzled. “Who, Master?”

Nacris said exultantly, “The bronze dragon, Duranix!”

She resumed her perverse cackling. The raiders muttered and shifted uncomfortably. Greengall, catching Nacris’s mood, started giggling, his green mane lifting as his chortles rose in volume.

“It was only a matter of time before dear little Duranix paid us a visit,” he said. To the raiders, he shouted, “Why do you fear? I slew this lizard’s mother eight hundred years ago, and Amylyrix was thrice the dragon Duranix will ever be! It was inevitable he would take the field against us. I will deal with him. You have only to slaughter his foolish herd of humans, and your task will be done.”

“Having an enemy dragon on the plain will make our task harder,” said Zannian.

Greengall thrust his hideous face close to the young chiefs. “Is that a complaint, rodent?”

With remarkable aplomb, Zannian stood up under the monster’s baleful gaze and replied, “No, Master. An observation.”

“Good.” Greengall grinned, showing tight rows of sharp, conical teeth.

He picked up the scale and tucked it under his unnaturally long, green arm. “Continue as before,” he ordered. “Sweep the savanna clean of all nomads and game animals. That will prevent the villagers from getting news or fresh meat from outside their valley. Once that’s done, we’ll make our advance on Arku-peli.”

The raiders cheered, but it sounded forced. Greengall departed, his grotesquely long legs bowing out as he walked away.

Several paces distant, he stopped. Turning back, he added, “Oh, yes. Hang that one.”

Oswan blanched and held out his hands. “Spare me, Master!” Oswan wailed. “I did no wrong!”

“You let the enemy get the better of you,” Greengall replied. His face contorted in a wide, wicked grin. “Hang a while, and consider your failure.”

Hoten signaled, and Oswan was seized by comrades and dragged off, screaming his loyalty and innocence. Greengall, ordinarily very fond of hangings, ambled back to his tent, idly licking the bronze scale. Zannian hesitated a moment between his bleeding mother and his freakish master, then followed Greengall.

“Master!” he called, as the latter was about to enter his tent.

Greengall turned, taking the scale from his lips.

“Why not spare Oswan? If the men were ambushed by a dragon, they had no chance to win anyway.”

“I know.”

Zannian blinked. “Why kill him? We’ll need every man for the battle ahead.”

Greengall lifted the flap of this tent. “Hanging him will encourage the others.”

Greengall ducked inside and reclined on his couch of rotting leaves. Zannian hovered near the flap, wishing his master would light a lamp. He heard a scrabbling in the peat and leaves, followed by a muffled crunching. Greengall must have found a rat or roach.

The dragon swallowed and said, “Don’t hover there like some cautious bat. Come in!”

Zannian stepped forward and let the flap fall.

“It’s time your scouts were given their special spears. Make sure the potion is applied to the bronze tips.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Take no more prisoners until Duranix is found. Any man your riders meet might be the dragon in disguise, so kill any humans you find until I tell you to stop.” Greengall belched loudly. A horrible stench filled the tent. “One other thing, Zannian.”

“Yes, Master?”

Greengall stretched and scratched himself, his talons scraping loudly against his leathery skin. “The human female you once desired is not far away.”

Heat flared in the young warrior’s breast. “Beramun? Where is she?”

“Arku-peli.”

Zannian’s heart raced. Greengall might be lying — he certainly had a black sense of humor — but what if he wasn’t?

“She couldn’t have escaped if I hadn’t allowed it,” Greengall continued smugly. “She is where I wished her to go. Through her, Arku-peli will fall. She’s my egg in little Duranix’s nest.”

“When the valley is ours, I will have her?” Zannian asked, with undisguised yearning.

“That is up to you, little Zan. If the fight does not consume you both, she may yet be yours. When the village is in ruins and the Lake of the Falls is saturated with the blood of Duranix and his nest of rodents, you may claim whatever you want from the remains.”

Greengall dismissed Zannian, and the young man withdrew, his head spinning. He was filled with new zeal, new purpose. If it meant finding Beramun again, he would tear down the mountains with his bare hands. He’d been stricken from the time he first saw her, and her escape had made his desire for her grow unbearably. Now that he knew she was in Arku-peli, he couldn’t wait to lead his men into battle.

Thoughts of fighting and the black-haired girl put a swagger in Zannian’s step. He walked back to the firelit camp humming happily, not even noticing the body of Oswan swinging from a tree.