Brother of the Dragon

Chapter 9

Tiphan spent a full day collecting samples of the spirit stones. When darkness came, he returned to camp laden with the stone chips, uncharacteristically beaming.

Mara had remained in camp with Elu. Since Penzar had vanished into his stone tomb, she could not bear to go near the monoliths. She bore Tiphan’s indifference in silence for two days, but as he sat, sorting the rock chips by size and color and placing them in hide bags, she decided she’d finally had enough.

“Tosen,” she said. “We must leave here.”

“We will leave when I’m done,” he said firmly.

“No! Tonight! This place is cursed!”

“Nonsense, girl. The stones attack only when they’re struck by metal. I’ve chipped off scores of samples with the stone hammer we brought from Yala-tene, and I’ve suffered no ill effects at all.”

“Then what about the elves? Won’t they be returning to find out what happened to their fellows?”

“How should I know? Shall I abandon this great find to a threat that may never appear?”

“Yes!”

He put down an angular gray nugget. “You disappoint me, Mara. Where is your faith? We’re in this wondrous place on the dragon’s business, trying to bring power and glory to our village, and you want to abandon it all?”

She didn’t want to weep again, but the tears started anyway. “I was thinking of Penzar,” she whispered brokenly.

“Penzar was a good lad. I’m sorry he was lost,” Tiphan said with some feeling. His blue eyes narrowed. “He was also loyal and obedient. Will you dishonor his memory?”

As Mara stared back at the man who’d dominated her days and a goodly portion of her nightly dreams over the years, a strong new emotion flared in her breast. Disgust. In spite of his words, she saw no remorse in Tiphan. How could she ever have thought she was in love with him? He cared nothing for her, nothing for Penzar. They were simply tools, beasts of burden like the selfless centaur he called a savage.

She shivered suddenly. “I’m going home tomorrow,” she stated flatly. “Without you, if I must.”

“I won’t permit it!” Tiphan retorted. “It isn’t safe for you to travel the plains by yourself.”

“Elu will go with me.”

Tiphan jumped to his feet. “You will not leave!”

Up to this point, the centaur had been standing behind Mara, arms folded. As the argument progressed, however, Elu’s attention was drawn away. Mara and Tiphan went back and forth, angry and adamant for several minutes before realizing the centaur had gone.

“Now where did that savage run off to?” Tiphan snapped.

Mara pulled a burning brand from the fire and held it high. She got a glimpse of Elu’s russet-colored hindquarters moving away from them in the high grass.

“There,” she said, dropping the brand back into the fire and starting after him.

Tiphan caught her arm and spun her around rather abruptly. Mara slapped him hard across the face. It was hard to say which of them was more shocked by her action, but it was Tiphan who recovered first.

“Get hold of yourself, girl!” he said, shaking her hard. “I know Penzar died horribly. I was there! But there are greater matters at stake here. If Yala-tene is to grow and survive, we must gain the secret of the spirit power! Can’t you understand that?”

He was shouting at her now. Dazed, she turned her face away and said nothing.

“You’re a fool,” Tiphan said, letting her go. “I made your life too easy. You know nothing of sacrifice.”

The injustice of his words sent her anger soaring again. “I’ve served you loyally for more than half my life!” she exclaimed. “Penzar died in your service, and you care nothing for us! All you care about are your own selfish ends!”

Mara ran after the centaur. It was deeply dark on the savanna, with no moons yet risen and the stars veiled by layers of clouds. Tiphan muttered an oath, checked to make certain he was wearing his bronze knife, and set out after his wayward acolyte.

Mara followed the clear trail Elu had made, her heart still pounding from the argument. When the trampled grass suddenly ended with no sign of the centaur, she halted, puzzled and frightened.

“Elu?” she whispered. Something rustled in the grass. She gripped her throwing stick. “El — oh! ” A rough hand grabbed her leg, pulling her down in the high grass. The hand came up to cover her mouth, and she realized it belonged to the centaur.

“Quiet. Elves.”

Mara’s green eyes widened in astonishment at hearing him speak. He removed his hand from her mouth and pointed. She turned.

A long way off, half a league or more, sat a figure on horseback. His dark cloak and hood rendered him almost invisible against the night horizon. If Elu hadn’t pointed him out, Mara knew she would never have noticed him.

“There are more,” whispered the centaur. “Four hands.” Twenty. Centaurs counted by fives, as in five-fingered hands.

A swishing in the grass announced Tiphan’s arrival. “What are you doing down there?” he asked, too loudly. Mara waved furiously for him to be quiet.

“Get down!” she hissed. “Elves!”

Tiphan dropped to his hands and knees and crawled toward them. Mara told him what Elu had observed, omitting that the centaur had spoken their language.

“Are they looking for their comrades?” Mara wondered.

“Maybe, or they may simply send out patrols to keep track of intruders,” Tiphan murmured. He glanced back at their own camp. Their fire, which had always seemed so tiny, now looked like a bonfire, lighting up the sky. “We must get back to camp and safeguard my stones.”

No one objected to putting more distance between themselves and the elves. They crept back down the same path Elu had first made. Elu stomped out the campfire and covered the embers with dirt. The night was still quiet. There were no signs they’d been detected by the Silvanesti.

“I suppose we must go,” Tiphan murmured. “If the Silvanesti catch us…”

Draping their sparse gear around their necks, they stole away. Tiphan insisted on carrying the many bags of stone chips himself, though he could hardly stand upright under their combined weight. Elu tried to take some from him, but the Sensarku leader brushed his hands away with a sharp word.

The centaur took the lead. He kept his torso low. Mara followed in a crouch, and Tiphan brought up the rear, bowed down as much by his weighty load as from caution. The path led down a slight hill to a dry creekbed lined on each side with pines. As the tops of the black pines hove into view, a screech owl gave forth its weird laughing call. The clouds parted, and the white beams of Soli split the darkness.

Without warning, a rush of armed, shouting figures erupted from the trees. Moonlight glittered on bronze spear points. Mara screamed and threw off her burdens to flee. Tiphan would not abandon his precious rocks. He slung the heavy bags into the brush and dived after them.

Elu straightened, a hefty stone in each hand. He hurled them at the oncoming elf warriors, knocking down two at the front of the closely packed ranks. Eight Silvanesti on foot attacked the lone centaur, jabbing at him with their light javelins. Elu fought them off with his club, wielding the stout stick with considerable skill. He connected solidly on one elf’s shield, sending him sprawling into three others. When the Silvanesti found they couldn’t simply overwhelm Elu in a rush, they drew back and cast javelins at him. He dodged or batted aside all but the last two. One took him low in the side, near where his human torso met his equine body. He bellowed, dropped his club, and snapped the shaft with his bare hands. The second spear slashed across his neck, opening a wound that bled copiously. Rearing, Elu shoved the stump of the javelin through his side and plucked it out from behind. The elves rushed again, and he lashed out with his hooves, laying out one after another.

The valiant centaur retreated up the hill, bleeding from his grievous hurts. He threw back his head and shouted the centaurs’ distress cry — a strange ululating call designed to summon any of their kind within hearing distance. The Silvanesti knew the sound well, and they hesitated, unsure whether more centaurs would appear.

None did, but Mara rose up from her hiding place and threw her bird stick. She was behind the elves, and her weapon caught one below his brazen helmet. In the dark, his comrades did not see the slender stick or who threw it. All they saw was one of their number throw up his hands and fall facedown in the dirt. This disconcerted them more, and they fell back to the line of dark pines.

Mara ran to the staggering Elu, bolstering him up by slipping her shoulder under his blood-drenched arm.

“Come on,” she said. “Stand up! We must get away!”

“Club… spear…” Elu said.

Mara recovered his weapon and armed herself with an elven javelin.

They stumbled up the hill, crashing noisily through the high grass. When they reached the crest of the hill, instead of open land ahead, they saw a troop of Silvanesti cavalry, waiting patiently.

Mara’s knees failed at the sight, and she slid to the ground.

“Stand, Mara,” Elu said, leaning on his club. “Better to die on your feet, even if you do have only two of them.”

He held out a hand to her. She could see his teeth gleaming in a smile. She let him pull her up.

Soli broke through the clouds, bathing the savanna in chill white light. The elves swung their spears down in one motion and advanced.

Elu squeezed the girl’s hand, which had gone cold in his grasp. “Afraid?” he asked.

She licked her dry lips. “Yes.”

“Don’t be. If we die well, our enemies will speak of us, and our spirits will live in their memories!”

Clatter from behind heralded the return of the Silvanesti foot soldiers. Mara wrapped both hands around her captured javelin.

“Elu,” she whispered, never taking her eyes off the oncoming riders, “why did you stay silent so long? You speak our tongue better than Chief Miteera.”

“You can learn more by listening than by talking,” he explained. He winced, and his left foreleg buckled slightly. Gasping, he drew himself up again and grinned. “Not so dumb for a savage, yes?”

“Good-bye, Elu.”

At forty paces, the mounted elves charged.

Tiphan groveled in the sod, hugging the sacks of stones to his chest. He heard the clash of arms, followed by shouts and the terrible cry of the centaur. He shuddered. If Elu was dead, then the girl was too. It was time to save himself and get his treasure back to Yala-tene.

He worked open the drawstring on one bag and groped inside. These fragments were taken from a particular standing stone, situated in the center of the field. Unlike the other boulders, which were granite or sandstone, this monolith had been streaked with gold. Tiphan knew from his Silvanesti manuscripts that gold had a special affinity for spirit power. That was why the elves used it for priestly instruments and amulets.

He removed from the bag a large piece of stone flecked with the yellow metal and pressed it between his palms. His knowledge of conjuring was rudimentary, but he was desperate.

He heard movement in the grass nearby. The elves were coming! He closed his eyes and sent his plea to the spirit stone.

Save me! Save me! By the power of this stone, save me from my enemies!

Nothing happened. Tiphan repeated the silent, heart-felt plea again and again. Yells from the surrounding grass sent spasms of fear through his gut. He clenched the stone until it cut into his skin. Blood seeped out between his fingers, staining the grass where he lay curled into a tight ball.

A rumble, as of distant thunder, signaled the approach of mounted Silvanesti. In spite of his terror, words suddenly broke through his clenched teeth, resounding in the darkness: “Take me to Yala-tene! Save me! Take me to Yala-tene!”

A strange sensation spread over his hands. Though hot with sweat and sticky with blood, his extremities suddenly felt cold as ice. At the same time, Tiphan felt a glow on his closed eyelids. He cracked his eyes open and saw the shard in his hands exuding the same blue-white light he’d seen in the spirit lightning.

What was happening? Had his plea been heard?

Holding the stone in one hand, Tiphan scooped the other bags into his arms. Just in time, as the cold light grew larger and larger, finally engulfing him. His terror evaporated in triumphant joy. The charging elves faded into the now dazzling blaze. Tiphan exulted. Success! The power was in his hands at last! He’d done it!

As the open plain faded before his vision, Tiphan heard the sound of laughter.

The days following Duranix’s departure were mild and sunny. The ice in the fields melted, and the planters waited anxiously to see whether the orchard would survive. Layers of hay and smudge fires helped, but the final proof would be evident soon. Either green shoots would rise from the soggy fields, bringing with them the hope of a new crop, or they would not. Dead seedlings, like dead bodies, remained buried in the unforgiving ground.

Amero busied himself laboring on the wall. News that the Silvanesti were on the move again put new urgency into the work. He kept Duranix’s vague fears of a western threat to himself. He saw no reason to frighten his people with a menace too shadowy to name.

The best stone for the wall was quarried from the cliff face between the village and the mouth of Cedarsplit Gap. It was dense gray-white granite, speckled with black. The method of building, which had evolved over many seasons’ work, was simple but effective. The blocks were dragged on huge travois from the quarry to the base of the wall. Long ramps of packed earth rose along the inside and outside of the wall. Timber supports kept the ramps stable while building proceeded. The ramps were paved with smooth cobblestones taken from the abundant supply washed into the lake by the waterfall.

Looking back now over the length of finished wall, Amero marveled at how many of the heavy stones had been moved over the years. It was punishing work. Many times Amero passed his nights at Lyopi’s house, where she patiently wrapped his battered hands with strips of soft doeskin soaked in mint and other soothing herbs. There he slept like a dead man, yet awoke every morning eager to continue the arduous task. There was something very satisfying about raising the great wall around Yala-tene.

After eight days of community labor, the northern gap was finally closed. The new stretch of wall was as yet only head-high, but a continuous ring of stone enclosed the village at last. To commemorate the accomplishment, a celebration was declared for the next evening.

On the morning of the feast, firepits were dug and cords of hardwood laid for a hot, ashy fire. The air filled with sweet smoke as oxen began to roast. Food stores in the long tunnels hollowed out of the mountain were relieved of dried fruit and vegetables, stored there since the autumn harvest. That evening, when all was ready, the builders saluted their success. Though wine flowed freely, it was not a riotous gathering. Most of the people were too tired to celebrate too strenuously.

Songs were sung and tales told. The stories were of the old life on the plains, of endless wandering and life at the mercy of nature, great hunts, pursuits by fierce animals, deadly storms, floods, and marvels encountered on the open savanna. As the words were spoken, Amero watched the faces of his people. The young listened to the old tales closely, enthralled by the everyday hardiness of their ancestors. The elder villagers, many of whom had lived the nomadic life, reacted to the tales in different ways. A few smiled, but many sat with eyes downcast or with a far-off look that spoke of memories at work. Several wiped away tears.

As he listened, Amero’s own memories stirred. His thoughts were not of the wandering life, but of Duranix and Yala-tene. He’d lived more than half his life in this valley with these people. What a long way we’ve come, he thought.

Talk died as the work of many days caught up with the villagers. Snores became plentiful. Some of the crowd tottered away to sleep in their own beds. Others just put their heads in any convenient lap and dozed.

Amero, fuzzy with wine and fatigue, watched the flames in the firepit burn down to a glowing pool of embers. Lyopi was curled up beside him. Looking down at her fondly, one hand idly smoothing her chestnut hair, he gradually noticed something strange was happening. The flames in the firepit were slowly dying, yet light bathed the banquet scene — a bluish-white shine like Soli’s glow, but more intense and pervasive. The strange light, Amero realized, was coming from inside the town.

He stood gently so as not to wake Lyopi. Others in the crowd were still awake, and they had noticed the strange light, too.

“Arkuden,” said Udi, the beekeeper’s son, “what can it be?”

“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.

“It’s coming from the Offertory,” Hulami said.

Indeed it was. Amero set off for the enclosure, followed by a dozen townsfolk. From four houses away, he could see the source of the light was indeed the Offertory. The eerie glow filled the street, washing the color from everything it touched.

When they reached the entrance to the Offertory, they found the Sensarku assembled in the courtyard, kneeling before the high cairn. Atop the stone platform stood an elongated, pear-shaped ball of light, so dazzling it hurt the eyes.

“What is this?” Amero blurted. The reverent acolytes nearest the entrance held fingers to their lips and shushed Amero. Irritated, he strode into the courtyard. The acolytes tried to stop him, but he kicked them off roughly and called, “Konza! Konza, what is going on?”

The old man, crouching by the altar, stood up. “Quietly, please, Arkuden!” he said, voice taut with emotion. “Do not insult the Omen!”

Konza sidled through the ranks of his followers and took Amero aside. “It appeared after sunset,” he whispered. “The boys were washing the cairn when this… spirit-omen arrived.” He looked up at the bright mass with wonder on his face. “It must be a sign from the dragon!”

Amero was doubtful. Duranix had many abilities, but Amero had never known the dragon to do anything like this.

He went to the footholds cut into the front of the cairn. More Sensarku protested, but Konza quieted them with a look. More curious than afraid, he climbed toward the orb. Up close, it gave off no heat and made no sound, but the light was truly blinding, and Amero had to shield his eyes. It seemed to be spinning rapidly, like a child’s top.

Listening intently, Amero became aware of a faint, massed whispering, as though scores of voices were murmuring at once. The voices seemed to echo, as though coming from a hollow place, like the deep interior of a cave. Amero strained to make sense of the words, but could not.

Questions burned in him as brightly as the strange light. He wanted very much to touch the brilliant object, to know what it was made of. He drew his bronze Silvanesti dagger. It was a span long, with an oilwood handle. He extended the point at the orb. The whispery, distant voices increased in volume as his blade approached. They grew so loud that Amero winced in pain, but he still couldn’t understand them or pick out a single voice from all the chaos. It seemed clear the voices didn’t like the dagger.

“Do you hear that?” he shouted over the din.

Konza was just a few steps away. He said, “Hear what, Arkuden?”

Setting his jaw, Amero shoved the dagger forward. Voices and light merged into a clap of thunder. All Amero had time to do was fling an arm over his eyes before his feet left the platform. He landed hard on his back, the impact driving the wind from his body.

Breath and sight slowly returned. Amero was on the ground, propped up by a pair of acolytes. They were patting his face and rubbing his hands. Their faces wore definite “I told you so” expressions. He brushed the youths aside and rose, grunting from the pain in his back.

Three steps away, Tiphan lay in the midst of a chattering circle of young Sensarku. He looked more than strange. Every bit of color had been bled out of him. He appeared to be clad in snow-white buckskins. His long blond hair and eyebrows had also turned white. His eyes were open and the look on his face positively beatific.

“Tiphan, son, can you hear me?” Konza was saying, hugging the young man desperately. “Say something! Can you speak?”

Amero pushed through the flock of gawking acolytes until he stood over the dazed Tiphan. He broke Konza’s hold on his son, seized the young man by the front of his shirt, and dragged him to his feet. Beneath him lay a number of small leather bags, likewise bleached of color.

“Where have you been, Tiphan?” Amero demanded, shaking him like a child. “Where are Mara and Penzar?”

Tiphan’s limp neck stiffened. He raised his head and looked Amero in the eye.

“Arkuden?” he said hoarsely. His eyes, still brilliant blue, took in his surroundings, and he smiled. “Home.”

Pulling free of Amero, Tiphan climbed atop the altar where all the Sensarku and townsfolk below could see him.

“People of Yala-tene!” the colorless man cried, flinging his arms wide. “I have come home!”