Children of the Plains

Chapter 9

It didn’t take long for Duranix to discover he was being followed. This did not mean Pa’alu and Pakito were clumsy stalkers, merely that the dragon’s senses were far more perceptive than any normal prey. He heard their footfalls behind him within a league of leaving Karada’s camp. Once he knew they were there, it was easy to spot them. The warm blood in their veins gave their silhouettes a dull luminosity against the cooler background of trees and grass. After ascertaining his trackers numbered only two, he moved on.

Duranix could have reverted to dragon shape and taken to the air, leaving the humans far behind, but that wouldn’t have been nearly so interesting. Instead, he began to walk faster and faster until he was covering ground in huge bounds. His pursuers faded in the distance. Once his lead was comfortable, Duranix searched for a convenient spot to turn the tables on the plainsmen.

He found what he wanted in a field of boulders. Hundreds of upright stones littered the grassland, most of them slabs of black granite. Their regularity, and the fact that no other outcroppings of similar stone occurred in the vicinity, puzzled the disguised dragon. The stones appeared to have been arranged purposefully, but who could have done such a thing? They were well outside elf territory, and the backward local humans lacked the means to move so many heavy boulders.

Duranix stopped at the edge of the field of standing stones. His run across the savanna hadn’t winded him. A quick glance behind failed to reveal Pakito or Pa’alu in sight.

The dragon entered the outer circle of stones. He trailed his fingers over the rough surface of one angular boulder. His senses tingled strongly. Surprised, he pressed first his palm, then his cheek against the cold granite. The stone fairly hummed with contained force. There were hundreds more stones around him. He touched those nearest him and found them charged as well. Much power had been expended here in the distant past — power greater than a hundred dragons. The stones radiated it invisibly, like heat stored up from a hot summer day.

The deeper he went into the formation, the more disturbed Duranix became. He’d been looking for a spot to stage a playful ambush. Instead, he’d stumbled across a place of vast, captive spiritual energy. It was neither benign nor malign in flavor, but the sheer amount of power pent up in these stones made Duranix’s mock-human skin crawl.

He’d wasted enough time with these savages. He resolved to get out of this strange forest of stones, resume dragon form, and fly back to his lake. On his way out, he heard movement among the standing stones — a jingle of metallic links, the flex of heavy leather.

A tiny blue spark appeared in the air before him and rapidly grew into a spinning globe of light three spans wide. It was harmless, Duranix knew, merely a source of illumination, but it meant someone mortal was drawing on the power of this place.

Folding his arms, Duranix said loudly, “You’ve made yourself known. Who are you, and what do you want?”

Two-legged figures emerged from behind the stones — more than a dozen in all. Duranix readied himself to fight or flee. Some of the hidden watchers gathered under the blue light, and he saw they were elves, not humans. They surrounded Duranix with a ring of bronze-tipped javelins.

Eleven were dressed in warrior garb. The twelfth was visibly older than the rest, wore a long blue robe embroidered with arcane hieroglyphs, and had a feathery mustache and beard. Duranix was intrigued by this last detail. Elves did not possess facial hair. They regarded beards as a bestial human trait. Sparse though it was, this bearded stranger could not be a full-blooded elf and, surprisingly, he chose to flaunt the fact.

He leaned on a tall, stout staff, studded with raw, unpolished gems. “I am Vedvedsica, high sage to my lord Balif, first warrior of the host of our great master, Silvanos.” Vedvedsica raised his staff, pointed it at Duranix, and declared in ringing tones, “You are not what you appear to be!”

“Who is?” said the dragon pleasantly. “What brings you so far from your native forest? Aren’t you afraid of the plainsmen?”

“I am well protected,” the robed elf replied, with a nod to his escort.

Piercing the night with his dragon’s eyes, Duranix perceived each of the armed elves was weighed down with a pair of hide bags draped across their shoulders. The bags were obviously heavy and clinked when the elves moved. Vedvedsica himself had a small drawstring bag around his neck.

“You’ve been prospecting,” Duranix surmised, “chipping fragments from the standing stones.”

One of the warriors shifted nervously, saying, “He knows our business, Master. Shall we silence him?” The other elves tensed, ready to strike with their javelins.

“No!” the priest said sternly. “This is no wandering barbarian! Keep still, or he may slay us all!”

Duranix had to smile. “You’re wise for one so small.”

A shrill whistle split the air. Half the elves turned about, scanning the ill-lit stones for the source of the noise. A similar whistle rose from the darkness on the other side of the stone field. The senior warrior snapped commands, and four elves ran off into the shadows to investigate.

Duranix stood very still. He detected motion above and behind him. His peripheral vision discerned someone jumping from the top of one standing stone to another. The elves hadn’t noticed.

“What will you do with them?” Duranix asked as the drama unfolded around them.

“Do with what?” Vedvedsica asked, frowning. There was something unnatural about his eyes. With those whiskers under his nose, he had the face of a panther.

“Those stones.” A second shadowy figure leaped across the high rocks on Duranix’s right. Still the elves saw nothing. “The ones you and your retainers carry.”

The priest fingered the little bag hanging down on his chest. “These will make powerful amulets,” he said. “The high lords of Silvanost will reward me richly for them.”

Just then a fist-sized rock hit the warrior nearest Duranix in the face. He went down hard, blood spurting from his nose.

The rest of the elves exploded into uncoordinated action — running, yelling, trying to minister to their fallen comrade. One angry elf ported his javelin and tried to shove Duranix back against one of the boulders.

The dragon felt he had been more than patient, but his forbearance was wearing thin. He grasped the offending javelin with one hand and snapped it in two places with a twist of his wrist The astonished elf leaped back, clawing for his bronze short sword. Duranix blew lightly in the warrior’s face. The elf dropped his sword and ran screaming into the outer darkness.

Duranix turned his attention to the priest’s light orb. With a sweep of his hand he shattered the fiery blue ball into ten thousand sparks, which winked and went out. Night engulfed the scene.

Someone large and heavy landed in front of Duranix. He grabbed the intruder by the front of his buckskin shirt.

“It’s me — Pakito!” his captive said.

“So it is.” Duranix hoisted Pakito off his feet and flung him at the group of elves guarding Vedvedsica. They all went down in a flailing, cursing heap. Pakito recovered first and laid about him with his massive fists.

“Pa’alu! Brother, I’m here!” he shouted. Duranix couldn’t tell if he was calling for help or asking Pa’alu to join the fun.

The priest, seeing his guards scattered, turned to run. He was preternaturally fleet, but Duranix was on him in two long bounds. The disguised dragon snagged the elf priest by the back of his robe. Suddenly, there was a choking aroma of flowers, as if Duranix had been buried under a mountain of roses and lilacs, and he found himself holding an empty robe.

The smell was overwhelming. Coughing, Duranix threw down the robe and tried to find the fleeing priest. His eyes swept the horizon but saw nothing.

Pakito had subdued five of the elves by sitting on them. When one struggled to escape, Pakito whacked him with the butt of a javelin. One brave elf charged out of the dark with his weapon leveled. Duranix stepped in front of him. The bronze spearhead struck the dragon square in the chest, and the elf thrust hard. His javelin bent double, leaving Duranix unharmed. Uttering a terrified oath, the warrior dropped his weapon and fled.

Quiet descended. Pa’alu joined them, casually wiping blood from an elven sword.

Pakito looked up from his awkward position atop the unconscious elves. “Well, dragon-man,” he said genially, “I’m glad we didn’t try to take you back at camp!” He told his brother how the elf’s spear had hurt Duranix no more than a soggy reed.

Pa’alu listened intently then shoved his sword through his belt and surveyed the area. “Lucky thing we happened along.”

“Luck? You two have been trailing me since I left Karada’s camp.”

“Not us!” Pakito insisted, but his open expression easily betrayed the truth of the matter.

The dragon shook his head. “No matter. What concerns me most is the elf priest who escaped.”

“We first thought you came here to meet them,” Pa’alu said. “It wasn’t until we heard you talking that we realized you were as surprised as we were to find them here.”

“What is this place, anyway?” asked Pakito.

“I’m not certain,” said Duranix. “It feels like… a graveyard.”

Pakito jumped to his feet. The elves he’d been sitting on groaned but remained quiescent. “Who’s buried here?” the big man asked, eyes wide.

“No one.”

Pa’alu ran a hand lightly over a nearby stone. “What do you mean?”

“This formation is not natural,” Duranix told them. “These stones have stood for untold years, yet they still resonate with great power.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Pa’alu said, lowering his voice, “tales of the days before men and elves. It’s said the spirits fought a great war over who would rule the world.”

“True enough,” Duranix said.

“Maybe these are some of the losers.”

The dragon was struck by the plainsman’s surprising acumen. He knew from his hatchling days of the All-Saints War, when the spirits aligned themselves with Good or Evil, or tried to remain neutral. After some defeats, the forces of

Good and Neutrality allied themselves and defeated — hut did not destroy — the forces of Evil. What greater punishment could there be for defeated spiritual beings than to be confined to the material world, imprisoned for eons in a matrix of unfeeling stone?

Pakito broke the silence. “What about them?” he asked, gesturing toward the limp pile of bodies.

“Take their metal and leave’em,” Pa’alu said, squatting by his brother’s unconscious victims. “It’s a long walk back to the forest. Maybe a wolf or panther will get them on the way.”

“Karada should know they were here,” Pakito insisted. “There aren’t supposed to be any elves this far north. What if there are more?”

“What indeed?” Duranix shook off the oppressive aura of the stones. “Your chief should be warned. This was a small party, but if a sizable band of elves is about, your people could be trapped between it and the force ascending the Thon-Thalas.”

“Who’ll warn Karada?” Pakito wondered, looking confused. “We were ordered to follow you.”

“I return to Yala-tene. One of you can come along; the other can go back and warn Karada.”

The brothers saw the sense in this. Pakito, knowing his brother’s feelings for their chief, offered to go with Duranix. Pa’alu declined.

“I haven’t been to the mountains since I was a boy,” he said. “I’ll go with the dragon-man.”

“But — ”

“Go on, Pakito. You’re the only one who can carry all this metal back anyway.” He filled his brother’s arms with elven javelins, swords, greaves, and helmets. “Start now. You’ll reach camp before noon.”

Pa’alu hung a few extra waterskins — taken from the elves — around his hulking brother’s neck and, with a hearty slap on his back, sent him on his way. While the brothers were parting, Duranix went to where Vedvedsica’s robe lay. A dense odor of flowers still clung to the empty garment.

Pa’alu approached. “Find something?”

“I’d hoped to find the bag of stone chips he carried,” said Duranix. “It appears he took them with him.”

“How are such things done?”

“It’s a talent, and a rare one among flimsy creatures like yourselves. I think the priest has somehow learned to tap the latent power of the stones. It’s a dangerous ability for savages.”

Duranix stood, tossing the robe aside. When he did, a single small stone fell from the folds. Pa’alu picked it up. It was a smooth, heavy nugget, no bigger than a walnut, and of a richer yellow color than bronze.

“Heavy,” said the plainsman, handing the stone to Duranix. “What is it?”

“Gold.” What felt like cold stone to the plainsman almost burned Duranix’s hand. The nugget was saturated with power.

To Pa’alu’s bewilderment, Duranix put the yellow nugget in his mouth. Without further explanation, he struck out due west for Yala-tene, leaving Pa’alu hurrying on his heels to keep up.

*

Smoke poured from the mouth of the tunnel. Amero and his chief digger, Mieda, stood back from the opening with strips of wet birch-bark over their noses and mouths. Deep inside, they could see a red flicker of flame. More diggers emerged, coughing and soot-stained. When they reached open air, they doused themselves with handy buckets of cold lake water.

“How goes it, Farun?” Amero asked anxiously.

The digger, his face blackened by soot, coughed and said, “It’s still burning, but no one can stay in there long.”

“That’s all right,” Amero replied. “As long as we can run in and feed the fire, there’s nothing else to do right now.”

Fire had been Mieda’s idea. The storage tunnels had progressed well as long as there was sandstone to burrow through, but when the diggers found a strain of hard black stone, the project stopped dead. They tried various tools on the black stone, including shovels fashioned from the dragon’s cast-off scales, but nothing made an impression. Then one morning Amero found Mieda by the shore of the lake. He’d built a small twig fire and was watching it intently.

“Catch a fish?” Amero asked.

Mieda tapped the black object in the fire with a stick.

“What’s that?”

“Black stone, like in tunnel.” Mieda’s command of the plainsman’s language wasn’t complete. Many villagers still thought he was slow-witted because he didn’t talk much. Amero knew better.

“You’re cooking a stone?”

“Yes.” Mieda remained cross-legged on the sand, staring at the fire.

Amero dropped down on the other side of the flames. He said nothing for a long time, then impatience stirred his tongue.

“What are you doing, Mieda?”

“Learning to break rock.” He leaned forward and spat on the black stone shard. Satisfied with the hiss that it produced, Mieda dipped his hands in the lake and dumped the water squarely on the stone. Smoke and steam rose. The little fire sputtered and died.

“What did that accomplish?” Amero asked.

Mieda raised his stick — a limp pine branch, plucked green from the tree — and struck the black rock smartly. To Amero’s amazement, the rock cracked and fell apart.

“How did you do that?” he exclaimed.

Mieda smiled. “Seen it before. Cooled fast, hot stone breaks.” He met Amero’s eyes. “Understand?”

“Yes! We can do this in the tunnel!”

So they did. It wasn’t as easy as cooking a rock on the beach. The tunnels filled with smoke when the first dry pine boughs were set alight. The diggers ran out for fresh air, but someone had to go back at intervals to feed the flames. Every bucket, gourd, and bowl in Yala-tene was filled with water, ready to throw on the heated rock face. Normal work in the village came to standstill as everyone waited to see if Mieda’s technique worked as well in the large scale as it did in the small.

The fire had been burning all morning. Farun reported the heat inside the tunnel was unbearable. Amero looked to his chief digger.

“What do you say, Mieda?”

“Water.”

Amero held up his hands. “Take the water now! Two at a time, go!”

He and Mieda were the first to enter. Still holding soaked bark to their faces and waddling under the weight of full buckets, they entered the smoky passage. The heat was overwhelming. Sweat coursed down Amero’s face as they neared the fire. In addition to the pine boughs, the diggers had stacked oak wood against the wall. The hardwood had burned down to a glowing drift of coals.

Mieda dropped his mask and picked up his bucket in both hands. He flung the water high, so it would run down the rock face. Amero did the same, then both men retreated, coughing hard. As soon as they were out, the next pair ran in, and the next, until forty pails had been dumped on the fire.

Amero, Mieda, and the diggers stood around the mouth of the tunnel, wrapped in steam and smoke. A gentle breeze helped clear the mist away.

“Now, we’ll see.” Amero started for the opening. Farun held out a long-handled stone mallet. Amero smiled and rested the heavy tool on his shoulder.

The others trooped in behind Amero. The carved stone floor sloped downward, so the farther they went the more standing water they encountered. By the time they reached the black stone wall, water, ashes, and rock dust had combined to make a soupy black mud. Some of the men slipped and fell. A few others snickered. Amero let the mallet hit the floor, and the resulting clunk silenced the crowd at his back.

“Give it a whack,” said Farun.

“It ought to be your honor,” Amero said, offering the handle to Mieda.

The dark-skinned man pressed the mallet back into Amero’s hands. “Honor’s yours,” he said. He gestured to Farun and the others. “My life, their lives, are owed to you. You hit.”

Amero swung the hammer high and brought it down smartly on the obstinate wall. The hammer head was granite, and many granite tools had been broken on the black stone before, but this time the obstruction shattered. Grit flew, and hand-sized flakes fell to the muddy floor. The diggers roared with satisfaction.

Outside, the waiting villagers heard the cry of success and echoed it. Men ran out of the tunnel calling for baskets to haul away the debris. More mallets were brought, and soon the cliff side rang with the blows of stone on stone.

Amero and Mieda stood outside and watched a continuous line of diggers emerge bearing baskets full of broken rock. These were emptied on a large pile of leavings that rose by the side of the lake. As more black stone was thrown on top of the sandstone debris, tiny avalanches cascaded down the pile into the lake.

“We’ll have to find a better place to dump that,” Amero mused. “We don’t want the lake tainted with rock dust.”

A young woman emerged from the tunnel with a basket on her back. Amero quickly lost interest in the rock pile when he recognized Halshi, eldest child of Valka, one of the first plainsmen to settle by the lake with his family. Halshi had jet-black hair, smooth, tanned skin, and a ready smile. Amero had hinted to Valka he was interested in becoming Halshi’s mate, but with one thing and another, this task and that, nothing was ever settled between them. Still, Amero always found himself watching her whenever she was around.

Halshi added her burden to the pile. She’d started for another load when Amero called to her.

“How goes it?” he asked. “Are they breaking through?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, hitching her basket on her hip. “The rock’s flying apart now. You did a good job, Mieda.”

The chief digger acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Amero found himself wishing he’d earned Halshi’s praise.

A scattering of red glints in the rock pile caught his eye. Amero squinted to see them better. It wasn’t a trick of the light. As he drew nearer, he saw the debris was flecked with hundreds of small red beads.

“What’s this?”

He knelt and picked a larger nodule out of the pile. Roughly globular, the bead was shiny and hard, like Duranix’s scales, though a different color.

“That stuff?” said Halshi, looking down at him. “I don’t know, but the pit’s full of it.” She returned to the tunnel.

Amero found himself intrigued by the strange red beads. He dug through the coarse slag with his hands and found most of the black stone was dotted with them. Even odder were the larger slabs of rock that had red beads oozing out of them.

A shadow fell across Amero. Mieda had come to see. “Ever seen this stuff before?” Amero held up a handful of red beads.

Mieda examined the pellets closely, holding them up to the light, even putting one between his teeth and biting on it. At last, he replied, “It’s copper.”

“What’s copper?”

“It’s strong. It’s — ” Mieda groped for a word the plainsman would recognize. “The dragon, his hide is like this.” He made two fists and banged them together. “Strong. Hard. This is copper.”

“Metal? It comes from rocks?” asked Amero, amazed.

“I’ve lived long, been many places, seen it before. I never saw it made. It makes tools and pretty things, if you have enough of it.”

Amero was lost in thought. “There were no beads in the black stone before the fire,” he muttered to himself. “Somehow the fire sweated the copper out of the rock.”

His mind was racing. For years he’d sought to make use of Duranix’s cast-off scales, but aside from bending or sharpening them, he’d found no way of changing their shape. All his experiments with fire had failed to melt a single bronze scale. If a substance with scale-like hardness could be extracted from the earth around them, couldn’t it be worked into more useful forms, into any form they wanted?

He set a gang of children to work sifting through the tunnel slag. All the red pellets were to be collected and saved.

By sunset the tunnel had been extended five paces deeper into the mountain. They’d planned to go twenty paces in each tunnel. That would guarantee cool, safe storage for a long time. The villagers were tired but happy with their success.

Amero was too excited to sleep. He had a basket full of copper beads and a head full of ideas. Other tunnels could be extended through the black stone blockage using Mieda’s heating method. If each one yielded similar amounts of copper, Amero would have enough raw material to begin experimenting with it. He wished Duranix were here to advise him. The dragon found the human predilection for toolmaking amusing, and he was a fount of useful ideas.

Thinking of the dragon raised a new question: Where was Duranix? His flight to and from the east should have taken only one day. The sun was now setting on the dragon’s second day away.

Amero realized Duranix might have been diverted by any number of things. Who could know what would interest a dragon? Still, he found himself staring at the eastern range, a frown on his face, as the setting sun turned the sky at his back crimson. He kept hoping for a glimpse of the dragon flying home, but the darkening sky remained empty