Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 20

Zannian withdrew his men from the pass, leaving a score of Jade Men and yevi to make sure the villagers didn’t reoccupy the heights. When the sun rose, the majority of the band was drawn up on the western plain: nine hundred twenty-two warriors on horseback, another forty without mounts, and just under two hundred slaves and prisoners.

Nacris, Hoten, and the lesser captains sat crossed-legged on the ground in a semicircle, listening to their chief. He stood before them next to a framework of willow upon which was stretched a soft, tanned sheepskin. Drawn on the skin was a crude map of the valley, as deduced by reports from their scouts and information forced from their prisoners.

“Here is our goal,” Zannian said, pointing to the center of the map. “Arku-peli itself lies here, between the eastern shore of the lake and these cliffs. There are only five entrances to the valley, and three of them lie on the eastern side — Bearclaw Gap, Cedarsplit Gap, Northwind Pass. On our side there are two — the pass we know, which the villagers call the Plains Gap, and this unnamed canyon, impassable to us.”

“Why impassable, Zan?” Hoten asked.

“It’s only a few paces wide, and the river fills it completely.”

Zannian picked up a clay dish of red ocher, the same pigment his men used to paint their faces. He dipped a well-chewed willow twig in the thick paint and snaked a red line through the Plains Gap to the river.

“Half the band will ride to the spot where the bridge once stood and hold the mud-toes there.” He drew a line down, parallel to the riverbank. “The rest will ride south and take the gardens where the villagers grow much of their food.”

“We destroy the gardens?” asked one of the captains.

“No,” Zannian replied. “We live on their food, weakening them and strengthening ourselves.”

The men nodded, murmuring approvingly. Nacris ended the optimistic mood by asking, “What about the bronze dragon?”

The circle fell quiet. Zannian folded his arms. “The Master has seen to him.”

“How?”

The chief bristled. Failure in battle and the sight of Beramun still out of his reach put him in no mood for sharp questions, even from his mother.

“The Master has lured the bronze dragon away. He won’t be a factor in our fight.”

“Then neither will the Master.”

Zannian glared at her. “We don’t need him to defeat these mud-grubbers! They’re clever, they’ll resist for a while, but they can’t stop us!”

Some of his more zealous underlings got up and shouted, fiercely echoing their chiefs sentiments. One by one the other captains stood, vowing death and destruction to the villagers. Only Nacris and Hoten remained seated — she by necessity and he by choice.

When the shouting subsided, Hoten asked carefully, “What is our next step?”

“Capture the gardens,” Zannian told him. “If you take any prisoners, I want them alive. We’ll put the slaves to work tending the crops. I’ll lead the rest of the band to the river to keep the villagers in place.”

“What about the Jade Men?” Nacris wanted to know.

“Keep them close but out of sight. They’re our secret dagger, and when the time comes, they’ll be the first across the river.”

Zannian collected the four hundred best horsemen in his band and led them into the pass. On their heels came Hoten with the balance of the raiders, including the men who’d lost their mounts. Next came the slaves and prisoners, dragging heavy burdens of weapons and supplies.

Nacris and the remaining Jade Men were the last to go. Standing silent and immobile in the hot morning sun, the Jade Men’s green face paint and green clothing made them look like an orchard of weird, man-shaped trees.

Nacris looked them over proudly. “Sons of Greengall,” she said loudly, “our master has gone away to do battle against the beast whose range we have invaded. With the bronze dragon gone, there is nothing between us and victory but a few hundred hut-dwellers who think they can defeat us with tricks and traps and piles of stone. But we know better!”

One of the Jade Men raised his spear in salute, then plunged its head into the ground.

“No retreat!” he vowed. “We will not leave this valley without victory!”

“No retreat!” echoed his comrades. “Greengall! Greengall!”

Nacris let them chant a while, then held up a hand for silence. They quieted.

“We will make the river run red with our enemies’ blood!” she said. Leaning forward in her litter, she added, “But there is one villager you must not kill. I speak of Amero, called Arkuden, the headman of Arku-peli. The Master has given this man to me to use as I will. When the battle joins, I will point him out to you. Mark him well.” Her flinty eyes raked over the ranks of green men. “In my hands it will take him many, many days to die, and from him I will have the answer to my final vengeance. No one, not even my son, will deny me my due! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Green Mother,” they replied as one.

At her nod, they picked up their weapons and marched into the steep pass, the last of the invaders to quit the plain.

Despite their initial success, it was clear to the villagers they hadn’t won the war. All day, while they worked feverishly to strengthen their defenses, they knew they were being watched. Zannian’s band remained out of sight, yet from the crags above the swift river to the shadowed crevices beyond the ruins of the fallen bridge, a thousand hidden eyes saw everything being done on the open floor of the valley. Work stopped periodically as nervous villagers stood and stared at the far shore, trying to catch sight of the invisible menace. Calmer heads, like Huru or tough old Jenla, had to scold or cajole them back to work.

On Amero’s instructions, the east bank of the river was covered with obstacles to hinder the raiders. Stakes were pounded deep into the sandy loam and long vines were strung between them, creating tangle-traps. Though his people were exhausted from the night’s battle, Amero kept them working. Busy, they had less time to be afraid.

He walked among them tirelessly, offering encouragement, settling disagreements, helping out whenever any difficulties arose. He hammered stakes, braided vines, and even helped comb the shoreline for bodies and weapons washed up during the night. While working on this last task, he came across Beramun piling up raider spears and leather breastplates in heaps. A score of dead raiders lay nearby, stripped of arms. Some villagers were preparing a pyre for them.

“Greetings,” Amero said to the girl. “Are you well?”

“Well enough,” she replied. She threw two boiled cuirasses on the growing pile.

“I saw you on the bridge tower last night. You fought like a panther.” Beramun did not reply, but stood staring down at the debris of battle, arms folded. “I mean that as a compliment,” Amero explained awkwardly.

She shook her head, dismissing his words, then kicked the heap of stiff leather armor. “I helped make these,” she said. Tears welled up in her jet eyes. “There was another prisoner, a woman named Roki, my friend — ” A sob interrupted her words. “She and I escaped together, but she…”

Her misery made his heart ache, but Amero didn’t dare take her in his arms. He settled for taking her hand. The moment was fleeting. She noticed the others were watching them and freed her hand, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

Hulami the vintner arrived with a caravan of travois loaded with food and drink.

“Arkuden!” Hulami called.

Without another word, Beramun slipped away. Amero drew a deep breath and let it sigh out.

“How goes the work in the village?” he asked the vintner.

Hulami handed her chief a skin of wine. “Well, thanks to the dragon, the north and south entrances are sealed, but the western baffle still has a gap. I asked Montu to organize a gang to finish the job, but the other elders in the village are protesting. They say if the last opening is blocked, everyone outside will be trapped if the raiders cross the river.”

“Blast them! We’ll see about that!” Amero shoved the wineskin back into Hulami’s hands. He named Huru to command in his absence, then stalked back to Yala-tene.

The western entrance was just as Hulami described, partially open. The filled section looked fine. Duranix had torn up boulders the size of small huts and wedged them into the gap between the baffle wall and the main wall. A hundred men pushing at once could never dislodge such mighty stones.

On the other side of the baffle, two villagers stood casual guard, leaning on their spears. One of them was Lyopi.

“Why isn’t this gap closed?” Amero demanded as soon as he was within earshot.

Taken aback by his bluntness, Lyopi replied, “The elders chose not to. How wall you and the others get back inside if there’s no opening?”

“If we fail out there and the wall stands open, the raiders will ride right through,” he snapped. “I won’t have the town’s safety endangered by stupid half-measures!” He cupped hands to his lips, calling, “Montu! Montu, where are you?”

“Calm down,” Lyopi said. “I thought the raiders had been turned back. Why so angry, Amero?”

“Many good people died last night to keep our village safe! Their deaths mean nothing if the village falls from carelessness!” Red-faced, he shouted for Montu again.

Since reason had no effect on his bad temper, Lyopi shouted back, “You’ll find the elders at the Offertory, Arkuden! Go and rant at them, not me!”

Without another word, he did just that.

The town was nearly empty, with so many people at the river camp or manning the walls. The Offertory felt especially abandoned. Before they’d left, the Sensarku had put everything neatly away. Their communal houses were closed and shuttered. The walls of the Offertory were as clean and white as ever, but windblown sand had drifted through the opening in the sanctuary wall, marring the spotless inner courtyard.

When Amero approached the cairn, a flock of crows rose squawking from the top, scattering ash and burned bones. Amero circled the cairn and found Montu and the remaining elders sitting on the sand. Slabs of roast were piled between them. Open pots of wine and cider lent their acid bite to the air. The elders were dining heartily on elk meant for the dragon.

“Greetings, victorious Arkuden!” cooper Montu hailed him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Amero demanded. They regarded him blankly. “Why didn’t you finish closing the western baffle?”

Adjat the potter said, “Arkuden, if we close that last opening, no one can get in.”

“That’s the purpose of the wall, idiot!” Amero shouted.

Stunned by his unusual harshness, Adjat said, “But you’re outside, with so many of our friends and kinsmen — ”

“And fourteen of our friends and kinsmen died last night to keep the enemy at bay! I won’t have you endangering the town out of misguided feelings for me or anyone else. Close the baffle at once! This very morning. Do you hear?”

“The Protector’s gone, and there aren’t any young men left to do the heavy work,” Montu protested.

“Then do it yourself!” he shouted. “Turn out every soul left in Yala-tene — the old, the young, the sick, the lame — and let them carry stones. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Arkuden,” said the cooper meekly. “Yes. We’ll begin right away.”

They put aside their meat and filed out of the Offertory. Following them, Amero added, “If you need ready stone, pull down these walls.”

The elders halted in a body, aghast. “Pull down the Protector’s place?” said Adjat.

“The Sensarku won’t protest,” Amero said coldly. “Leave the cairn if you must, but take all the stone you need from the Offertory walls.”

“Very well, Arkuden.”

Sentinel horns blared. Amero cast about wildly, seeking the source of the alarm. The horns were too close to be the lookouts on the cliffs. They must be on the town wall.

He raced through the streets to the western entrance, irrationally fearing that the raiders had somehow jumped the river and were advancing on the wide-open town. As he ran up the ramp, he spied Lyopi among the crowd and worked his way to her.

“What is it?” he demanded, out of breath.

“Look there.” She pointed. Dust was rising from the orchard and gardens across the lake.

Everyone stared, crestfallen, but Amero said, “This was bound to happen. They failed to overwhelm us last night, so now they’ll try to get around us. They’ll try to land at different points along the lake and river. We don’t have enough people to defend the whole shoreline.”

“Will Duranix come back in time to stop them?” Lyopi asked.

Everyone atop the wall looked to Amero, waiting for his answer. He realized he couldn’t lie to them. “Duranix flew away to fight the green dragon,” the Arkuden said. “That means we’re on our own, but so are the raiders.”

There was complete silence for several heartbeats, then an elderly woman spoke up. “Can we win, Arkuden?”

“We’ll win.” He managed a smile. “Those savages fight only for lust and loot. We fight for our homes, our lives, and the lives of all who come after us. They are many, and ruthless. We are few, but determined. We’ll win because we must.”

No one cheered, but several heads nodded in agreement.

The crowd slowly dispersed. Lyopi turned to go back to her guard post, but Amero caught her by the arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what? Shouting at me? I’m not a child. I’m not going to cry because you raised your voice to me.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry for more than that. I’ve been acting like a fool half my age.”

He saw a teasing light glowing in those familiar brown eyes. “Half what age, Amero? You never stopped being a boy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said ruefully. “I feel like a lost child right now. Duranix is gone, Beramun cares nothing for me, and I need all the friends I have left.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. Lyopi turned her face slightly and he kissed her cheek.

“Go,” she said, giving him a none-too-gentle shove. “If we’re both still alive at midsummer, we’ll be friends again.”

She was right, of course, he thought ruefully. His boy’s heart was still there, inside the breast of the desperate headman.

As he was leaving, Amero spied Montu leading a long line of villagers toward the last gap in the wall. Each carried a sizable rock in his or her arms. When he saw that, he finally believed his own proud words. They would win. They had to.

Hoten stood at the water’s edge below the orchard. While his horse drank from the lake, he took in the distant view of Yala-tene. This was the broadest part of the lake, but he could easily make out features of the village in the distance. There was the wall, and a white peak that looked like some sort of altar above the yellow sandstone defenses, and beyond it was the tumbledown heap of stones and timber that served as the village foundry. Between the southern edge of the wall and the great waterfall was an open stretch of rocky beach a quarter-league long. Some obscure wooden structures were clustered at the foot of the falls.

Looking up, Hoten eyed the high cliffs behind the town. That was the place to be! From there, one could rain fire and death on any part of the village. If the raiders could gain those heights, Yala-tene would be forced to surrender. Unfortunately, because of the intervening mountains, lake, and waterfall, the only route to the eastern cliffs involved leaving the valley and journeying far to the south, through a lower pass, then north again through the eastern foothills. Such a trip would take many days, through territory infested by centaurs, elves, and the warlike human nomads of the east — not a practical strategy.

Hoten started back to the old bridge site to confer with his chief. On his way through the orchard he found eight of his warriors standing idly around the base of a young apple tree. He demanded to know why they were lazing about.

“Hoten, look at this!” one man exclaimed. He snapped off a slender green stem from one of the apple tree’s low-hanging branches. He thrust the sprig into the dirt, directly in front of Hoten’s horse, then stood back, arms folded.

“What are you playing at, Kej?”

“Wait! Just wait!”

A minute passed. The men kept looking from the twig to Hoten and back, and grinning broadly.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on — now!” Hoten demanded.

“Look here!” Kej pulled the twig out of the ground. It wasn’t a twig any longer; a thin tangle of roots hung from the broken end.

“Eh?” Hoten dismounted and took the twig from Kej. “That’s impossible!”

The men pulled up other twigs they’d planted before he arrived. Each had a tuft of fine new roots. Hoten reluctantly accepted the evidence of his eyes.

“This is some rich soil!” Kej said, laughing.

“Shut up. There’s something strange at work here.” Taking the rooted stem with him, Hoten mounted his horse. “You men get to work,” he ordered. “Zannian will be here soon, and I don’t want him to see you idling around watching plants grow!”

He rode away. At the bridge site, the standoff was still going on. Raiders rode to the water’s edge, yelling and shaking their spears. Across the river, a block of villagers, drawn up on the facing slope, stood stolidly behind their cowhide shields.

Zannian slumped on his horse, chewing a strip of venison.

“Zan, the gardens are ours,” Hoten reported, “but there’s something you need to see.”

He held out the twig and explained what he’d observed. Zannian listened but didn’t believe it any more than Hoten had at first.

The chief held out a hand. Hoten put the tiny apple tree sapling in it. Not bothering even to look at the twig, Zannian threw a leg over his horse’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground. He shoved the tender shoot into the grainy sand by the water’s edge.

“I’ll make you a wager, Hoten. If this sprig grows noticeably by tomorrow, I’ll give you the pick of any horse in the band.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Zannian’s grin was feral. “You get the honor of leading the first attack across the river.”

An honor indeed. Zannian knew the initial attack would be the bloodiest fight in the valley.

“Well, what do you say?”

“I don’t need a new horse, hut there is a wager I’ll make with you.” His chief nodded for him to continue. “If that sprig is larger by tomorrow, I want your mother for my mate.”

Zannian couldn’t have been more surprised if Hoten had asked to mate with the green dragon.

After staring at him for several startled moments, the chief burst out laughing and said, “I’ll take that bet, but I won’t call you father if you win!”

“And I won’t call you son,” Hoten replied.

There was no disputing the outcome of the bet. By the next morning, the tiny sprig was a sapling a pace tall and as thick as Hoten’s thumb. Zannian was fascinated. He waved aside Hoten’s sincere thanks for Nacris’s hand, then called for more shoots to be cut from the orchard and transplanted to the bridge site.

“Why plant more?” asked Hoten. “We have the whole crop abandoned by the mud-toes.”

“I don’t want them for food. I have another use for them.” Zannian explained, and Hoten’s eyes widened in surprise.