Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 23

Two raiders, well muscled and hard of mien, threw their prisoner at Zannian’s feet. The young villager, caught in Bearclaw Gap east of Yala-tene, had been cruelly treated. He was the sixth scout the raiders had found.

“Well?” said Zannian. “What did he tell you?”

“Same story as before — the Arkuden sent him and seven others to find Karada.”

Zannian burst out laughing. “So it’s true! They seek a ghost!”

Nearby, Nacris was working on a tally of the animals they’d captured in the valley. She heard the hated name and put down the willow twig she was using to scratch the count in the dirt.

“Karada again?” she asked sharply.

“It’s nothing,” Zannian said, waving a dismissive hand. “The Arkuden pins his hopes on a dead woman.”

“There’s more, Zan.” The bearded interrogator prodded the unconscious scout with the same stick he’d used to beat him. “If Karada herself wasn’t found, he was to bring back any of her warrior band he could find.”

“Well, a few old wanderers are no threat to us,” he said. “Take this fool out and stake him like the others. When we get all eight, the mud-toes will certainly give up.”

The bearded fellow made no move to leave, but exchanged a significant look with the other raider.

Zannian saw it and snapped, “What else?”

“He said one of the scouts is that black-haired girl, the one you offered the bounty for.”

Zannian leaped to his feet and took hold of the bearded raider’s tunic. “Are you sure?”

“He told us the names of all of them. Her name is Beramun, right?”

Zannian shoved the man away. “Get my horse,” he snapped. “Round up forty men and have them ready to ride!”

“Aye, Zan!” The two raiders picked up the unconscious youth by the heels and dragged him out. Zannian and Nacris were left alone.

“Any objections, Mother?” Zannian’s expression dared her to criticize.

She scratched a few random lines in the dirt. “Should I object?”

“Aren’t you going to say something about me wasting my time chasing that crow-haired wench?”

“No, Zanni. You’ve been sulking in this tent too long. Polish your sword, get on your horse, and go do something.”

Though he knew the childish nickname was meant to tease him, he merely grinned unpleasantly and said, “That I’ll do!”

“One thing,” she said, all jesting gone. “If there are survivors of Karada’s band out there, they’re not to be discounted. Any one of her warriors could whip ten of your yevi-spawned hirelings.”

“Pah!” he spat. “Karada died long ago. The Master told me so himself.”

“You’d be wiser not to believe everything the Master says.”

Zannian paused at the tent flap, unsure. His mother’s advice had lately proven valuable. He was inclined to listen to what she said.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“The Arkuden is seeking allies. So can we.” Nacris traced invisible lines on her palm with the willow twig. “I’ve been thinking about just such a move for a while now. There are some warriors I know who would not find Arku-peli’s wall much of an obstacle.”

“Who?”

“Ogres.”

Zannian uttered a single loud oath. “You’re mad! Bring ogres into our fight?”

“Why not?” was her cool response.

“Why not?” Zannian clapped a hand to his head. “Have you forgotten the ancient war between men and ogres? They nearly wiped out our ancestors! And you want to invite them here, to fight alongside us? By all the spirits! What’s to stop them from killing us?”

“We’re not weak, and ogres respect strength.”

“We’ve lost a quarter of the hand so far. How strong will we be when the last battle is fought?”

“There’s the Master too,” Nacris said.

Mention of Sthenn calmed Zannian. “True enough,” he replied, “but he’s far away, battling the bronze dragon. We have no idea when he’ll return.” He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s too risky. I forbid you to have any contact with the ogres. We will conquer by our own hands or perish in the attempt.”

Nacris was silent for a time, then said, “As you wish, Zanni. You’re chief of this band.” She smiled. “Now go! You have wild game to catch, don’t you?”

“Aye! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, brimming with newfound enthusiasm.

As soon as he’d gone, Nacris’s fingers closed on the willow twig, snapping it in two. The Arkuden’s desperate plan to find Karada did not worry Nacris. In fact, she wished his plan every success. She hoped Karada was alive and could be found. Let Karada ride headlong to her own destruction!

Nacris raised herself with her crutch and hobbled outside. She made her way slowly to the river’s edge. A gang of slaves was washing clothes, preparing food, and repairing broken weapons. She scanned those guarding the busy captives, looking for one face in particular.

“Where is Harak, Siru’s son?” she called out. The slaves kept their heads down and continued their labors.

“Horse corral,” replied an emaciated woman.

The raiders had set up a temporary corral to hold their spare horses and the goats and oxen taken from the village. Nacris had no problem finding Harak. The young raider was exercising a sable mare injured in one of the earlier attacks on Arku-peli.

She watched Harak closely as he rode. He was not hard to look at. His long hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was the same color as the sleek mare he rode. The early morning sunlight cast his chiseled features into sharp relief.

Work before pleasure, she mused, and called, “Harak! Come here!”

He pulled the reins sharply, bringing the mare around in a tight turn. The horse approached Nacris at a trot. Five steps away, Harak swung a leg over the animal’s neck and slid to the ground.

“Greetings, Mother,” he said pleasantly.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your mother.”

“As mother to our chief, aren’t you mother to us all?”

“Mind your tongue, hoy, or the chief will have it out.” Nacris limped on her crutch to the shady side of the pen and sat on a convenient slab of rock. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”

Harak folded his lean body gracefully, and propped an elbow on the stone, close to Nacris. His expression was calculatedly winsome, and because he was so handsome and so obvious, she found herself smiling at him.

“How long have you been in my son’s bad graces?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

His pleasant expression didn’t alter. “You know very well. Since the captives broke free during our march across the plain.”

“The escape wasn’t your fault.”

He shrugged. “Tell your son that.”

“Zannian distrusts you.” Harak feigned surprise. She chuckled, saying, “Yes he does, and you know it. He’s afraid you’re smarter than he is, and he resents your prowess on horseback.”

“I am as my ancestors made me,” said Harak with blatantly false modesty.

“So you are,” Nacris retorted dryly. “Well, I have need of you. I want you to be my man, Harak.”

His dark brown eyes widened. “You flatter me. I thought you were Hoten’s mate.”

Nacris backhanded him. An old warrior herself, she had plenty of strength in her arms. The blow sent the insolent young man sprawling.

“Don’t banter with me, boy! I’ve known men who were worth ten of you, as warriors and as lovers. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”

Harak picked himself up. Brushing away dirt, he knelt again, this time out of her reach. His tanned cheek bore the red imprint of her hand.

“All right, Nacris. I’m listening. What do you want of me?”

“I want you to go on a journey. A secret journey, kept even from Zannian. Are you interested?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Power. Wealth. What else? You know I am favored by the Master. I have free access to his lair in Almurk. He’s collected many treasures in a thousand years of life. Do this task for me, and you’ll also be doing it for him. He will reward you.”

“What sort of treasure?”

“Bronze, copper, gold, rare ointments and poisons, and weapons of spirit power. Any of these can be yours for the asking.”

“Your word as a plainsman?”

Nacris put out her hand. “My word as a plainsman.”

Harak gripped her forearm briefly, sealing the bargain. “Where am I going?”

“Do you know the mountains that border Khar land on the northwest?” He nodded. “I want you to go there and seek out a certain chieftain named Ungrah-de.”

His handsome face drew down in a frown. “That’s no plainsman’s name.”

“No indeed. Ungrah-de is an ogre.”

She waited for him to exclaim or laugh. He did neither. By his silent wariness, Nacris knew she’d chosen the right emissary.

“You’re not afraid of ogres?” she asked.

“I serve a green dragon. Why should I fear ogres? What do I say to this Ungrah-de?”

“I’ll instruct you on the message. You will leave today. Take a horse and plenty of provisions. You must be back by Moonmeet. Do you understand?”

Harak rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “That’s not much time.”

“You’re the best rider in the band. That’s why I chose you.”

He laughed. “You chose me because I hate your son and will keep your secrets from him.”

It was nothing more than the truth, and Nacris let the matter drop. She patted the rock beside her. “Sit here,” she invited. “I’ll teach you the message I want you to deliver.”

The air was still and cold. Since sunrise, Duranix had been flying at extreme heights, trying to spot Sthenn. During the night, the green dragon had eluded him after they crossed the coast of a large continent, hundreds of leagues northwest of their homeland. Sthenn had vanished among the dark hills and heavy forest of the unknown land below.

Day arrived, bright and cloudless. Duranix could see for many leagues in all directions. The continent so far was featureless, except for a low mountain range he’d followed since arriving. It ran north-south, dividing the sandy coastal wastes from greener territory inland.

The bronze dragon glided in a great circle, head sweeping from side to side as he searched for his enemy. Sthenn was down there somewhere. Duranix could sense him. Hiding was just another ploy to aggravate him. The treacherous beast wanted Duranix to waste time and strength while Zannian’s raiders savaged the Valley of the Falls.

He descended in a slow, wide spiral. The country below was vast. Past the mountain range were few distinctive landmarks — no rivers, no settlements. Dropping lower still, Duranix felt strong and ready, and was anxious to put an end to this ridiculous chase.

A break in the trees caught his eye. On the crest of a high ridge he spotted an area of blighted trees, their normal verdant foliage gone brown as though a huge shower of mud had fallen on them. Duranix studied the dying trees. The stain was not mud. Leaves had shriveled and died on the branches. It might have been due to some arboreal plague but could just as easily have been caused by the poisonous breath of a green dragon.

On guard, Duranix landed on the blighted ridge. The top was barren of trees and covered with fractured limestone boulders, some of enormous size. The sea had once washed this pinnacle as part of an ancient shoreline.

Constantly checking above and behind, Duranix advanced down the slope on foot.

A few paces along, he stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead was an open pit, partially covered by vines. The creepers had been disturbed recently, though they were still green and growing.

It was a ridiculously obvious trap. Girding himself for whatever he might find, the bronze dragon leaped feet-first into the hole. He plunged through the thin veil of vines and was swallowed by darkness.

After dropping more than twice his height, Duranix hit a stone ledge. His powerful hind legs took up the impact, and the ground trembled with the force of his landing. He expected an immediate ambush. When no attack came, he took a better look at his shadowy surroundings.

He was in an enormous cave, hollowed out of the limestone ridge by centuries of rainwater filtering down through the rocks. The air was heavy with moisture, cold and clammy. The cave was cluttered with stalactites and stalagmites in fantastic shapes, and blacker than Sthenn’s rotten heart.

Just the sort of place a green dragon might hide, Duranix thought. He pierced the chilly gloom with his powerful senses, seeking Sthenn in the depths of the cave. He saw and heard nothing of his foe, but he had an overwhelming sensation of the green’s proximity.

Lowering himself to his belly, Duranix slid forward, eeling around the limestone protrusions. The floor of the cave was coated with hardened lime. It looked like a frozen cascade of milk shot through with orange and yellow mineral swirls. Small creatures, pale and eyeless, scurried away from the slithering dragon.

Duranix followed the passage down until it arrived at a three-way split. He had no distinct feeling as to which way Sthenn had gone.

“A pretty choice, isn’t it?”

Duranix kept still. The green dragon’s words echoed through the cavern, a directionless whisper. The old wyrm was a master at throwing his voice.

“Which tunnel will you choose, little friend?”

Duranix let his barbels trail over the glassy concretions on the floor. He searched for minute cracks in the mineral that might reveal where the heavy green dragon had trod. He found none.

“I am fog, little Duranix. I am the veil of mist arising from every forest glade. I walk on thin air and dwell wherever death and decay hold sway.”

Braggart, Duranix thought at him. Do you think you can frighten me with words?

“Choose a path. Come find me. I will wait for you.”

Ah! Vibrations in the stone floor gave Sthenn away. The vile creature always had talked too much.

Hugging the floor, Duranix hurtled down the center passage. It was a narrow tunnel, and he fit only by furling his wings tightly and pulling in his broad shoulders. Sthenn’s words faded as he charged through the darkness. Something shone in the murk ahead, and the reek of the green dragon’s breath drew him on. Putting on an extra burst of speed, Duranix broke through a flimsy screen of stalagmites into a much larger chamber.

There was Sthenn, curled up amid gleaming bone-white columns of stone.

“Now!” Duranix roared. “Meet my justice!”

Rearing up, he threw himself at the quiescent Sthenn. Just as he was about to get his ancient enemy in his talons, Sthenn slithered sideways, out of reach. Duranix crashed into a hedge of sturdy stalagmites that had been hidden by the dragon’s body. The tapering columns rang from the collision but did not break.

Sthenn gushed foul poison into the cave, drenching Duranix. The greenish gas stung the bronze dragon’s eyes. Outraged, he returned a blast of blue fire.

The bolt smashed into the cave wall, and the mountain above them heaved. Long limestone stalactites fell from the ceiling like spears, followed by man-sized shards of rock and limestone chips. The tunnel entrance collapsed, and debris filled the chamber opening.

“I have you!” Duranix declared. “This is one hole you won’t escape!”

“Nor you, it seems. Shall we rend each other to bits while the mountain comes down around us?”

“Why not? You call yourself Deathbringer. How ready are you to face death yourself?” A great bronze claw closed around an intact stalagmite and snapped it off at its base.

Wielding the stalagmite like a club, Duranix advanced on his foe. Sthenn backed away until his spine was pressed against the cave wall.

“It isn’t just we who will die!” the green dragon sneered. “Think of all the rodents in Arku-peli who will perish without you to protect them! The lake will run red with their blood. And your man, your darling pet — do you know what will happen to him? I’ve given him to Nacris. She has many, many tortures planned for him. And when he finally dies, Zannian will take his skull as a drinking cup.”

Duranix hurled the stalagmite at Sthenn. It shattered above his head, throwing sharp, milky fragments over him.

“Cease your filthy raving, old wyrm! This time you’ve miscalculated! Did you think I would panic at being buried here with you? I fear nothing you can do to me! Do you think I won’t give up my life to take yours? Your death would be the greatest gift I could give to humankind!”

Roaring deep within his chest, Duranix tore through the hedge of stone. Sthenn let out a high, keening screech and flung his decrepit bulk against the wall. Desperate to escape, he continued to hurl himself against the unyielding wall until Duranix’s foreclaws raked down his neck and left foreleg. Rancid black blood welled from the gashes.

Maddened by pain, the green dragon threw himself headfirst against the brittle limestone. With a loud crack, the wall finally gave way, and he plunged through.

The honeycomb of tunnels crumbled under the force of their battering. Rock and dirt poured over Duranix, swiftly burying his feet in a flood of heavy debris. Shafts of sunlight appeared through rents in the cavern roof. By this fractured light he saw Sthenn struggling through an avalanche of his own. Leaner and longer than the muscular bronze, Sthenn put his nose in a crack no wider than an ox’s shoulders and snaked through.

Duranix roared with frustration. The last thing he saw before a torrent of earth closed around him was the tip of the green dragon’s tail disappearing skyward.

In moments, Duranix was completely encased in stone and loose soil. The ridge ceased to tremble as the upper regions of the cave filled. When all was quiet, the dragon opened his eyes.

Black dirt pressed against his face, and the pressure on his body was enormous. Coiling his muscles, he thrust his right foreleg upward, opening his claws as he moved. Closing his talons on the broken soil, Duranix used his grip to drag himself forward. He worked his left foreclaw out, seized a boulder locked in the dirt, and used it to haul himself toward the surface. He repeated this agonizing maneuver until at last his questing claw broke through. With a final tremendous heave, he threw aside half the hilltop and rose, gasping, into the open air.

As he filled his lungs and shook lime chips from his eyes and nostrils, a dry, mocking laugh descended from on high.

“Well done, little Duranix! I knew a mountain couldn’t keep you down. Too bad the ground here is so soft! I dropped far less on your mother, and she died slowly, so slowly, but that was good hard stone.”

Duranix threw back his head and bellowed with rage. The green dragon, circling a few hundred paces overhead, hastily changed direction and flew away. The bronze dragon vaulted into the sky. Though his muscles twinged with pain from the bruising avalanche, he climbed aloft in a frenzy.

Filling his mighty lungs, Duranix bellowed, “Sthenn! I’ll never give you up! The sun may grow cold and the seas dry to dust, but I will catch you and kill you!”

Birds rose in huge flocks from the forest, whirling around him in a cloud of feathers. He slashed through them, gaining speed. The pursuit was on again.

The plain shimmered under the merciless glare of the sun. Having left the cool uplands, Beramun shed her heavy clothing. Her single gourd of Yala-tene water was already gone. Despite this, she was happy. For the first time in many, many days she was roaming the savanna again, unencumbered by raiders, villagers, yevi, or dragons.

To conserve her provisions, she foraged as she walked, eating berries and green shoots. High summer on the plain was a time of abundance. She could last a long time on the bounty at her fingertips.

The country teemed with game of every description. Amero had said the Silvanesti had driven the centaurs out of this region, and most of the humans, too. With no hunters to chase them, the animals were flourishing. The lack of humans also meant Beramun would have to go far to find help.

At midday she rested in the slender shade of a pine tree, dozing in the stifling heat. Now and then she started awake at any sound of movement, but it was always rabbits or deer, not raiders or elves.

As she drowsed, she dreamed of fighting. The shouting in her nightmares woke her, and she realized the noises hadn’t all been dreams.

Far-off calls and whistles traveled easily in the hot, still air, making Beramun’s heart hammer. To the west, six leather-clad horsemen were approaching at a walk, poking and prodding the tall grass with their spears.

Raiders.

With night a long way off, she’d have to run for it. She moved in a crouch, keeping the slender pine between her and the hunters. The plain ahead was as flat and featureless as a lake, offering no place to hide. Fortunately the raiders hadn’t seen her. They came on at a casual pace, laughing and talking, and she soon left them behind.

The afternoon wore on, and clouds piled up on the southern horizon, offering the tantalizing promise of rain. The storm was a long way off though and probably wouldn’t arrive until sunset.

Running in the heat had given her a raging thirst, but Beramun found no water until late in the day. The first creek she came across was almost dried up, but the muddy rivulet looked as fine to her as the clearest mountain brook. Stretching out on a warm boulder, Beramun lapped the brown water greedily.

Sighing in relief, she looked up from the water, and her eye fell upon a pair of human feet sticking out of the grass a few paces away. Beramun froze. The feet were bare and blistered, hardly those of a mounted raider. She approached carefully on all fours.

The feet belonged to a man lying facedown in the weeds. She rolled him over.

“Udi!”

It was her fellow scout, the beekeeper’s son. He had dart wounds in his right arm and thigh, and though he was weak from thirst and exhaustion, he was alive. She wet his lips with a trickle of muddy water from her gourd.

Udi’s eyes opened and immediately widened in silent fear.

“It’s all right,” she told him. “It’s Beramun. What happened?”

“Raiders,” he murmured hoarsely. “Chasing me for days… for sport.”

She looked back in the direction of the men she’d seen earlier. They must be the ones tracking Udi. She knew now why they hadn’t noticed her. The injured man was leaving a clear trail, and they were having a good time following it. They weren’t bothering to look for other tracks.

“I’ll help you,” she said.

“No.” He shook his head weakly. “Leave me.”

“I won’t!”

“I can’t go any farther. You go, Beramun. I’ll draw them away.”

“Don’t be stupid! I’ll not leave you!”

“You must. For Yala-tene. You and I are the last scouts left!”

Beramun sat back on her haunches, stunned. “How do you know?” she asked.

“I saw Anua taken. Later, I heard these raiders talking. They said they’d captured six villagers and knew there were two left.”

Beramun was horrified. The fate of the entire village hung on Udi and herself. There was little time to absorb the shock. The voices of Udi’s tormentors drifted across the sultry landscape. They were drawing closer, laughing as they called to each other.

Udi was right. She had no time to waste. “I’ll go on,” she said, “but you must try to evade them, Udi! Promise me that!”

“I’ll try.”

She helped him stand. “I’ll lead them downstream,” he gasped, pointing southeast. “You go that way.”

Northeast. She nodded and released him. He swayed for a moment but didn’t fall.

“Farewell, Udi.”

“Peace to you, Beramun. Tell my father — ” He stopped abruptly, then shook his head. Turning away, he hobbled painfully downstream.

Tears stung Beramun’s eyes. Silently cursing Zannian, his raiders, and his filthy master, she dashed off into the high grass.

Before sunset that day, Beramun heard the distant sound of rams’ horns. The raiders were celebrating the end of a successful hunt.