Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 22

Three times the raiders tried to storm the walls of Yala-tene. Each attempt ended in bloody failure.

First, they tried to scale the walls with their bare hands. Next, they tried throwing deer-antler grappling hooks over the walls in a vain attempt to pull down the thick masonry. Their third attempt was the most dangerous: swarming over the relatively low western baffle, a few daring raiders managed to get on top of the wall before being knocked down by villagers. Nacris offered to send the Jade Men against the walls, but Zannian decided they’d wasted enough lives for the time being and refused to allow it.

The raiders withdrew to the south end of the old bridge. There, they built a large camp and set up a towline across the river to ferry rafts of men, horses, and supplies back and forth more easily. As high summer arrived, a lull fell over the valley, though it was a tense, menacing calm.

Through it all, Amero remained in Lyopi’s house, recovering from his wound. Elders came daily to consult with him. As he had long suspected, the raiders, accustomed to making lightning-fast strikes against inferior foes, had no idea what to do when faced with thick walls and staunch defenders. The fight for Yala-tene had cost them many men and horses, and events seemed to be at an impasse. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t leave to seek easier prey.

Some elders came to believe they could strike a deal with Zannian, arguing that since he couldn’t take Yala-tene by force, perhaps he could be bought off. Lyopi backed the suggestion, so Amero agreed to try. Weak and unable to go himself, the Arkuden asked for volunteers. Healer Raho’s brother Tehu offered to go. Bearing a leafy willow wand (an old trail sign used by the plainsmen to indicate a parlay), Tehu walked out to speak to Zannian.

His head was thrown over the walls the next day.

A week after Tehu’s death, Amero was conducting a council flat on his back in Lyopi’s house. Though his leg was healing, he still couldn’t stand.

“I’ve been pondering our enemies, and I think I see their weakness,” he said. “They do no useful work at all. If they can’t carry something off, they destroy it. Our gardens won’t be enough to feed them for long. They’ll have to forage outside the valley. Zannian’s authority has to be the only thing holding them together. If they get too bored and hungry, the band may fall apart.”

Lyopi took a soft scrap of hide from Amero’s forehead, rinsed it in cool water, and replaced it.

“We can’t afford to wait and hope they go away,” she put in. “Even if the band breaks up, some of them may remain in the mountains, robbing and killing. We’ll never get rid of them.”

“The Protector can clear these savages out,” said Montu stoutly. “We only need to hold out until he returns.”

“And how long will that be?” Lyopi asked. “Ten days? Ten times ten days? Suppose the next dragon to appear in the valley is not our Protector, but the green monster who leads the raiders?”

Her words ignited a spirited discussion. Duranix had been gone for so long some despaired of his ever returning. Half the elders supported Montu’s wait-and-see notion. The rest were swayed by Lyopi’s argument for action.

Amero let them wrangle. Not only did they need to vent their frustrations, but their various arguments helped him see all sides of the issue. Finally, he held up his hand for silence.

“I agree it’s dangerous to wait,” he said. “Though I believe with all my heart Duranix will defeat Sthenn, we can’t know when that will be. And if he destroys the green dragon but perishes in the fight, we’ll be left on our own.”

“Then what can we do, Arkuden?” asked Adjat the potter.

Amero rubbed his tired eyes. “I had a dream a few nights ago after drinking one of Raho’s herb brews. I dreamed of my sister Nianki. Most people believe she died fighting the Silvanesti. I believed it myself until Miteera told us how his people were saved when the elves were diverted by reports of Karada’s warriors to the east. Whether my sister lives or not, her band may still exist somewhere in the east. I propose we send scouts to find Nianki’s people and ask them to help us.”

No one spoke, but several elders exchanged unhappy looks. “Arkuden,” Adjat finally said, “what if your sister is dead, and her nomads are no better than Zannian’s raiders?”

“Then we’ll have to think of something else.”

“Do we have time for all that?” Lyopi wondered.

“I think it’s a good idea!” Tepa said suddenly, and everyone stared. The old beekeeper had fallen into a deep melancholy since the loss of his friend Jenla. Speaking now, his usually gentle face flushed with fury. “I remember the Arkuden’s sister well. With a hundred followers — with fifty! — Karada could settle this Zannian and his pack in no time.” He stood up. “Arkuden, I’ll go. I’ll find your sister and bring her and her people back here!”

Udi put a hand on Tepa’s arm. “No, father. The Arkuden needs you here. I’ll go.”

“So will I.”

They all turned to see Beramun standing outside Lyopi’s door. The girl wore a hooded calfskin cape to keep the drizzle off. A long spear leaned against her shoulder.

“May I come in?” She addressed her question not to Amero or the elders, but to Lyopi. The older woman waved Beramun in.

“You know the danger,” said Amero. “Hunting humans on foot is what the raiders do best, and they have yevi to help them.”

“Is it any safer here?” Beramun replied grimly. “When the food runs out and we’re all too weak to wield a spear, what will become of us then?”

“You’re not one of us,” Lyopi said. “What’s to stop a nomad like you from gaining the open plain and never coming back?”

“Lyopi!” Amero exclaimed.

“If I wanted to run, I could have left any night,” Beramun said. “As for this scouting trip, you’ll need more than just Udi and me, but I know six or seven others who’re ready to go as soon as you give the word.”

One by one, they all turned to Amero. He looked away, lost in thought for a moment, then held out his hands.

“Help me up.” Lyopi and Montu boosted him to his feet. His wounded thigh burned unmercifully, but he gritted his teeth and kept himself upright.

“Udi, pick eight in all. Choose good runners over good trackers this time.”

“Aye, Arkuden.”

“Let Beramun be one of the eight.”

The young woman, who’d matured considerably since the night her family had been killed, smiled at Amero.

“Don’t look so grim,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll find your sister, and we’ll be back.”

Udi and Beramun left to collect the rest of their expedition. Beramun waved jauntily as she disappeared into the evening rain.

“I’m sending her to her death,” Amero murmured.

Lyopi rolled her eyes. “Nothing short of a mountain falling on her can kill that girl,” she replied tartly.

Amero swayed, his face growing even whiter, and she slipped her shoulder under his to prop him up. “You should worry about yourself and the rest of Yala-tene. Beramun can take care of herself.”

He shifted his weight off his bad leg. Lyopi’s arm around his waist steadied him. In the face of her calm good sense, Amero felt very weak and foolish. Like the ache in his leg, his futile love for Beramun seemed to fade only when Lyopi was near.

Clouds closed in, filling the valley with heavy, wet fog. Everything became damp. Leather softened and stretched, wood swelled, and a coughing sickness spread among the idle raiders. To boost morale, Nacris had a score of stolen oxen slaughtered and the meat distributed to the men. The hides she ordered sewed into a large tent for her son, who held nightly revels there with his captains amid heaps of fresh fruit, vegetables, and beef from the stolen stocks of Yala-tene. No matter how many war stories were told or how much wine was drunk, conversation always returned to the same subject: how to take Yala-tene.

“Fire’s the way,” one of Zannian’s young roughnecks stated. “Tie tufts of dry grass to our darts, light them, and fling them over the wall!”

“If you can find any dry grass in this valley, I’ll eat it,” said another raider as water dripped from every seam in the tent. “Besides, our darts can’t make it over the walls.”

“Fear’s what will do it!” said an older warrior. “I say we line up all the prisoners we’ve taken and chop their heads off, one by one, until the mud-toes give up.”

“Idiot,” Hoten growled. “Why would they give up when they see how harshly we treat our captives?”

“To save the lives of their kinsmen!”

“Idiot.”

Slumped on a pile of furs, Zannian toyed with the bones left on the trencher in front of him. His black eye was now greenish-yellow, the healing remnants of the bruise caused by Amero’s blow. His head still ached periodically, and large draughts of wine didn’t help. The stalemate in the valley gnawed at him. They had beaten the mud-toes in pitched combat more than once, yet the villagers wouldn’t give up. How could he deal with such stubborn, impudent enemies?

His war captains were bereft of inspiration. He listened to them argue — silent, disappointed, dispirited.

“Sometimes I think you’re the best man here,” he muttered to Nacris, seated on his right.

“I am the best man here,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”

“What do you think we should do?” asked Hoten, resting his rough hand on hers.

“Nothing.”

“Well, my men are surely good at that,” Zannian said sourly.

“A certain kind of nothing,” she said loftily. “I’ve given our plight some thought. Have you ever hunted mink?”

He shook his head. “They taste like rats.”

She leaned over and rapped her knuckles on the side of his skull. Zannian snarled a warning. None of the assembled raiders so much as snickered, but Nacris wasn’t intimidated.

“You hunt mink for the fur,” she said. “You can’t spear them, or you’ll ruin the pelt. The way to take mink is to trap them in their burrow.”

Hoten was intrigued. “Go on,” he said.

“There are always two holes to their burrows, sometimes more if the mink has kits. You stop up all the holes but one, and there you wait.”

“And gig the nasty creatures when they come out,” said Zannian, bored.

She smote the arm of her litter with her fist. “No! I told you that would spoil the pelt. You make a sliding noose of elk hide, and when the first mink pokes its head out, you snag him! They have wicked teeth, so you keep your distance and keep the noose tight, until the mink stops fighting.” Nacris lifted a clay cup of Hulami’s purloined wine to her lips. “Then you wring their necks.”

“What has this to do with Arku-peli?” Zannian asked.

“We must encircle the town completely and cut them off from everything outside their walls. What keeps us out will also keep them in.”

“We don’t have enough men for that,” said a raider scornfully.

“Listen, blockheads,” Nacris said more loudly. “We don’t have to ring the town with a living hedge of riders. We stay out of reach of the villagers inside, and with mounted patrols we cut off any hunting parties or scouts they send out. Before summer’s end, they’ll be like the mink in the noose, tired and choked. And then we wring their necks.”

After more half-drunken debate, Nacris’s stratagem was grudgingly approved. Zannian ordered detachments of raiders sent to block the three passes on the east side of the valley. Nothing would be allowed in or out. Once the eastern passes were closed, the ring around Arku-peli would be as tight as an elkhide noose.

“With men in the eastern passes, why not also seize the heights overlooking the town?” asked Hoten. “From there we could do as we like to the people below, walls or no walls.”

“I was in Arku-peli twelve years ago, before the wall was built,” Nacris said. “The mud-toes have tunnels deep in the mountain. They’ll fight hard to deny us the heights, like a mink biting the hunter unwise enough to shove his hand in the den. If we did take the cliff tops, the villagers could take shelter in the caves. We’d spend a lot of blood for little advantage.”

Hoten gave way, and Nacris’s plan was begun. A double column of riders rode around the north end of the village that night, past the thick walls. By daylight they would be in position, and the invisible noose would begin to tighten.

Seven young villagers and Beramun stood at the foot of the ramp leading up to the north wall. Their faces were blackened with ash and mud. None carried spears or shields. Each was provided a flint knife, a shoulder-bag of provisions, and a water gourd.

“Remember — you’re not to fight if you can help it,” Amero told them in hushed tones. He was leaning heavily on a staff. His wound still oozed blood when he tried to walk, but he insisted on bidding farewell to the scouts. “If you encounter raiders, steal away as quietly as you can. Do you have your maps?”

Eight young heads nodded assent.

Amero took out a square scrap of goatskin, identical to what each scout carried. “Your maps are copied from the one Tiphan had of the eastern mountains and plains. His was drawn by the Silvanesti, and it worked well enough for him to find the place of spirit stones.” He pointed out the symbols for mountains, rivers, and plains, then finished by saying, “If you get lost, align the rising or setting sun with its picture on the skin, and the drawing will show you where you are.”

Earlier, the scouts had drawn colored pebbles from a bowl to determine what route each would take. None of them knew the route drawn by his fellows, so none could betray the others if caught.

First to go, Tepa’s son vowed, “I will bring back such a horde Zannian will faint with fear!” Udi clasped hands with Amero, then ran up the ramp in quick, light steps. Using a single rope, he went over the top of the wall and vanished into the mist-soaked night.

The other scouts followed after bidding Amero good-bye. Among them were Adjat’s son Bassk and Jenla’s great-niece Anua. The last to leave was Beramun.

Amero held out his hand in a hunter’s farewell. The girl regarded him for a moment, then leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. It was a chaste peck on his bearded cheek, but it was nearly his undoing.

“Peace to you, Amero,” she said. “We will meet again.”

“Fare you well,” he replied hoarsely.

She vanished over the wall. Amero hauled up the rope when it went slack. He was glad there was no one else near just then. A man his age did not like for others to see him weep.

Beramun had drawn the highest and least-used path out of the valley, Northwind Pass. Nearly everyone entering or leaving the Valley of the Falls from the east used Cedarsplit Gap, the pass nearest the village, and also the widest and easiest to traverse. North of it was Bearclaw Gap, densely wooded and mostly frequented by foresters in search of timber. Northwind Pass was due north of Yala-tene. Narrow and rocky, it was also extremely steep. These factors Beramun considered assets. No horseman could ride into Northwind Pass.

The valley was filled with low clouds, mist, and light rain. It was hard to make out landmarks, so she made her way to the cliffs, fixed them on her right, and worked her way north. This would take her across the mouth of both Cedarsplit and Bearclaw Gap, but that couldn’t be helped. She didn’t want to lose her way before she even left the valley.

She had to hide when mounted raiders passed nearby, and the distinctive yelps of yevi sent her scrambling into a juniper bush. Four of the shaggy gray beasts trotted back and forth. Their senses were keen enough to pierce the night and rain. The smell of juniper covered her scent, but she couldn’t remain in the bush all night. Lying on her belly, she put her knife in her teeth and started crawling. When she’d gone some distance, she got up on her knees and listened. All she heard was the constant patter of the rain.

She crossed a deep path worn into the turf, scored over the years by heavy trees dragged down the gap to the village. Rainwater that collected in the ruts soaked her feet. She skirted the logging trail and crouched behind a bank of earth. After listening and hearing nothing, she sprinted for the nearest trees. Pausing, back pressed against a pine tree, she listened once more. All was still.

Northwind Pass lay ahead. Beramun slipped through the brush, confident she had evaded her enemies. The north end of the valley was still wild, as few villagers had any reason to go there. She felt more at ease in the sparse woods and underbrush than she had in the open valley. Here was country she understood.

The mouth of the pass was only sixteen paces wide, and it narrowed farther in. She recognized the two spires of white sandstone that her map said marked the entrance. When she saw those white columns glowing faintly in the dark, she wanted to cheer.

The pinewoods ended well short of the pass. Instinct made Beramun pause before leaving the cover of the trees. There was no sound, either human or animal. The rain had slowed, and its soft dripping was all she heard. Yet something was making the hair on the back of her neck bristle.

Her eyes picked out dark shapes standing between her and the pass. She’d taken them for stones at first, so rigidly unmoving were they, but when a pair of them walked away, she realized they were actually men in dark clothing guarding the pass.

She circled right, keeping behind the bracken. She was both puzzled and worried. Her way was blocked by a band of twenty men, standing in the open, not talking and moving very little. Their faces and hands did not shine in the dark and so must be darkened like hers.

Finding a small stone, Beramun tossed it to distract them. When it landed, the formation of silent watchmen broke apart. In pairs, the men darted into the darkness, seeking the source of the sound. Though she couldn’t see the glint of weapons in their hands, she heard the metallic whisper of bronze blades being drawn.

Beramun ducked her head, astonished. They moved so swiftly and quietly!

Suddenly, she remembered the strange, green-garbed youths commanded by Zannian’s crippled mother. Jade Men, they were called. How could she evade such well-disciplined troops?

With great care she lifted her head again. Four men were still visible in the narrow opening of the pass. Worse, the others were lurking in the shadows, seeking the source of the sound they’d heard.

Beramun tossed another pebble, this time aiming behind them. Like bats on the wing, the dark sentinels split into two pairs and advanced on the spot where the stone had landed. Their backs were to Beramun now.

Halfway to the unguarded pass, her left foot skidded on a wet stone. Though the sound was barely audible in the falling rain, the sentinels turned instantly, facing her. She froze in horror, and the four dark men advanced.

Beramun drew her knife, then remembered Amero’s orders to flee rather than fight. She sprinted away. Without a word, her pursuers broke ranks and ran after her. One caught her by the arm well before she reached the sandstone spires.

Beramun whirled, slashing at his chest. Her flint blade cut a long gash in the man’s green leather breastplate, but the hide was thick, and he wasn’t injured. Quite strong, the Jade Man forced her wrist down and relieved her of her knife with ridiculous ease.

Before she could recover, her other arm and both legs were seized. Since there was no longer a need for stealth, Beramun gave voice to her outrage. Her curses rang in the night.

“Let me go!” she said, fighting hard.

“Kill it,” whispered the one holding her right foot.

“Yes,” said another. “The Master expects it.”

“It may know answers to questions,” murmured the third, her left arm transfixed in his rock hard grip. “We should return it to the Mother to be examined.”

More of the green-clad fanatics returned from the shadows, curious to see what their comrades had snared.

The clouds and fog were parting, and by the faint starlight Beramun saw the Jade Men were young, her own age or even younger. There was a blind fierceness in their eyes totally at odds with their deft and silent manner. She had no doubt they could gut her like a rabbit and never feel the slightest remorse.

Unable to overcome their implacable grips, Beramun went limp. Her garments were well soaked from the rain, and slick. She felt one leg slip just slightly. Bursting into motion, she jerked the leg free and kicked the nearest Jade Man in the face. The other three were knocked off balance. She yanked herself free and fell to the ground.

A bronze blade flashed by her nose. It raked lightly down her ribs, snagging the lacings of her buckskin shirt and pulling them loose. The garment fell off one shoulder.

She rolled over on her belly and tried to crawl away. Instantly, many hands seized her again. One of the Jade Men grasped her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. A sharp point buried itself in the soft flesh under her chin. Her heart contracted to a small, tight knot.

The next thing she knew, she was free. The shock of this sudden change was so great she staggered slightly, then whirled, expecting a stab in the back. It never came. The Jade Men had formed a square around her and made no move to recapture her. They watched her closely with cool, expressionless, painted faces.

“You bear the Master’s mark,” said one.

“Mark?”

The one who had spoken bared his left breast. Starlight illuminated the shiny triangle on his skin. As Beramun stared, one after another they revealed identical green triangles.

“You bear the Master’s mark,” the Jade Man said again. He was little more than a boy, judging by his smooth, hairless chest.

“What does it mean?” she demanded.

“You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.”

Beramun flushed and opened her mouth to deny it hotly — opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap.

“You’re right,” she said, sidling away from the eerie band. They didn’t try to stop her. “I am doing the will of the Master. You will tell no one about seeing me — not Zannian or anyone else.”

“The Master’s will is our will.”

As one, the Jade Men intoned, “Greengall. Greengall…”

Beramun turned and ran. The path was steep and treacherous, lined with loose gravel and thorny brush. She fell several times but continued to run until the valley vanished behind her.

The night was more than half gone. She needed to be well into the mountains before daybreak.

She paused only once, at a promontory a league from the mouth of the pass. Her hands and legs were smeared with the green paint worn by Sthenn’s boy troop. It smelled awful, like rancid oil, so she halted by a puddle of rainwater and scrubbed herself hard. Even after the paint was gone, she felt unclean where the Jade Men had touched her.

You hear the Master’s mark. You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.

Denying it in her head but fearing it in her heart, Beramun took to her heels again.

When day broke, the villagers received a shock. Their lookouts on the eastern cliffs saw bands of raiders gathered near the north wall. The lookouts sounded the alarm and sent word to Amero that the enemy was up to something.

Much worse was to come. As the sun rose over the eastern cliffs, the raiders set up two stakes in view of the village lookouts. To these stakes they tied two of the scouts who’d been sent to find Karada’s nomads. The runners, captured during the night, weren’t dead — not yet, not quite.

The news sent a chill of horror through the village. “Two lost already,” Lyopi mourned. “And now Zannian knows we’ve sent for help.”

“Two lost means six got through,” Amero said grimly. “They knew the dangers. They also know they carry all our hopes with them.”

Rain and mist clung to the mountains for two days. It was driven away at last by a rising wind that tore the clouds to shreds. Strange portents followed the wind — booming thunder from a clear sky, cold whirlwinds scampering through the side canyons, flashes of green and blue light in the eastern sky at dusk.

Through all these disturbances, Amero kept a solitary vigil atop the Offertory. He watched as one runner after another was captured and staked out below the walls of Yala-tene. Two, then three, then five distant figures hung limply on posts in plain view.

Amero suffered for each one, having known them all their lives, but as much as he grieved for them and their families, he kept the summit of his anguish locked away, waiting for the unbearable moment when Beramun would join them.