Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Have you forgotten this?” he hissed, gesturing at his own face. “My mate and children burned to death at Mount Ibal in the fire his soldiers started!”

  “Those Silvanesti were commanded by Tamanithas, not Balif,” Pakito said.

  The elf general Tamanithas had long pursued Karada with fanatical fury. His soldiers had set fire to the dry grass on the slopes of Mount Ibal, killing over half her band eight years ago. Tamanithas did not long enjoy his victory. He perished in personal combat with Karada, two years to the day after the fiery destruction he’d inflicted.

  “Balif is no better!” Kepra insisted, his voice rising. “Cut off his head, I say! You’ve spoken of doing just that many times!”

  During the debate, Balif had sat quietly at the center of the emotional nomads. He now asked if he could speak, and Karada gave him leave.

  “In the plan of life it matters little whether you kill me or not. The Throne of the Stars will continue, and Speaker Silvanos will find a new servant to carry out his will.”

  The humans around him muttered and swore.

  “That said, I must admit I do not want to die.”

  His declaration was followed by loud suggestions the elf lord be mutilated or blinded. Beramun noticed that for all his seeming calm, Balif’s pallid face grew even whiter as he listened.

  Karada let her people rant a while, then said, “A hunter does not injure an animal on purpose. She kills it or lets it go. There is no third way.”

  “I could be ransomed,” Balif said. The word meant nothing to the nomads, so he explained. “Send word to Silvanost of my capture, and demand payment in exchange for my freedom. I’m certain the Speaker will barter for me, if the price is not too high.”

  Nomads greeted the notion with enthusiasm. Once more there was much noisy wrangling, this time over what to ask for. It wasn’t lost on Balif that Kepra and a good number of other nomads remained silent, staring at him with unconcealed hatred.

  Karada called again for silence. “As I am chief of this band, so your life belongs to me,” she said to the elf lord. “Eight years ago I was in your place, and you spared my life —”

  “No!” many nomads shouted, interrupting her. “Kill him!”

  “Ransom! Ransom!” chanted others.

  The tumult died down, and Karada’s gaze bored into Balif s. “You won’t know the day you’re meant to die. That will be my choosing. Until then, we shall see if your great lord Silvanos values you as much as you say he does.”

  Balif nodded solemnly.

  “Take any four of the well-born captives,” Karada told Pakito. “Give them clothes to cover their backsides, a skin of water each, and a strip of jerky. Tell them to return to Silvanost with this message: Lord Balif will live only if I receive five hundred bronze swords, five hundred fleet horses – mares and stallions in equal number – and five hundred pounds of purest bronze.”

  Gasps arose at the huge price named. None of them had ever seen so much metal, and the band had never had five hundred horses at one time before.

  “Will they be able to pay it?” asked Bahco, awed.

  “They will pay or receive Balif’s head in a pot of salt,” said Karada flatly. Her bloodthirsty remarks did not seem to worry Balif as much as the silent anger of Kepra and those who sided with him. In fact, the elf lord smiled at Karada. She turned brusquely away.

  “It’ll take time to gather such wealth,” Pakito said. “We’re riding west. How will we ever get the ransom, if the great elf chief agrees?”

  Karada pondered for a moment. Her eye fell on Kepra, scarred inside and out by fire.

  “We will give them one year’s time,” she said. “Let the Silvanesti meet us then on the south slope of Mount Ibal. There the ransom will be given over... if Balif still lives.”

  The last four words were added in a mutter, but the elf lord agreed with surprisingly little rancor. Four noble elves were cut loose to deliver the message. At first they were reluctant to present such shameful words to the Speaker of the Stars, but Balif convinced them. They were given their meager supplies and sent off. The hoof-beats of their mounts faded quickly into the night.

  The nomads dispersed to make preparations for night camp. Soon Karada and Beramun were alone with the captive elf lord.

  Balif sat down on the ground. “Congratulations, Karada,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “You are treating with the mightiest ruler in the world,” he said, almost bemused. He looked past the nomad chieftain standing over him, focusing his gaze on the starry sky. “By doing so, you and your people cease to be a band of scavengers and vagabonds. Now you are a nation, like mine.”

  “Like yours?” she said, spitting the words. “Spirits preserve us from such a fate.”

  Chapter 3

  At first, the flashes in the clouds below puzzled him. They couldn’t be lightning. When a bronze dragon was aloft, any lightning in the air would naturally collect around him, not far beneath in some broken clouds. If not lightning, then the flicker of fire in the air had to be something else, something unnatural. This possibility filled his tired limbs with new energy.

  Duranix had been airborne eleven straight days, keeping on the trail of his mortal foe, Sthenn. More than a thousand leagues had passed beneath his hurtling shadow: ocean, islands, continents, and more ocean. His days had been a grim routine of flying, eating on the wing, and straining his senses for clues.

  Some five or six days into the chase, Sthenn had switched to a spear-straight course due west, no longer dodging and doubling back to confuse his younger adversary. Just as Duranix was adjusting to his foe’s headlong flight, the aged serpent tricked him again. Losing the trail completely, Duranix wove north and south for several days, seeking remnants of the green dragon’s passage.

  There were a few signs – a small blasted area in a dense forest, the half-eaten carcass of a whale floating in the ocean, an errant smell of decay on the high winds – yet never an actual sighting.

  Sthenn’s new elusiveness was disturbing. Until now the green dragon had been careful not to lose Duranix. By keeping him on the chase, by leading him farther and farther from the Valley of the Falls, Sthenn was clearing the way for Zannian to destroy Yala-tene.

  Duranix accepted those risks – the possibility of his own death and that of Amero – in order to sink his claws and teeth into his ancient enemy.

  Now, thousands of leagues from Amero, Duranix sensed Sthenn’s purpose had changed. Perhaps the ancient creature was growing tired. Maybe he thought enough time had elapsed for his human minions to ravage Duranix’s territory. Whatever the reason, the green dragon was no longer leading Duranix astray, offering tantalizing glimpses of himself and leaving obvious markers to his passage. He seemed genuinely to be trying to evade his pursuer.

  Scarlet and yellow flashes rippled through the lower clouds again. A distant boom arrived a little later. Duranix knew the air was too dry and cold to birth a thunderstorm. Perhaps he’d found Sthenn at last.

  Shortening the spread of his wings, he dropped swiftly through the clouds. White lines of surf were visible to the north, evidence of a beach. Sunlight slanted through the tattered clouds, illuminating the tossing waves. The sea was shallow here, shallow and green as emerald.

  Duranix emerged from the lowest level of clouds and found himself buffeted by searing flashes and loud claps of thunder. Heat flashed over his metallic hide.

  Slitting his eyes to shield them, he saw the sea below was thick with boats, like the canoes made by humans but larger and more elaborate. Some were very long, with many slender oars protruding from the sides. They resembled giant centipedes. Other craft, shorter and blockier, pushed through the frothing waves propelled by a paddle wheel on each side. The centipede ships were roofed in timber and painted with stripes of red and black. The paddle-wheelers were sheathed in bronze plates. Duranix couldn’t see what sort of creatures were operating the craft, but they were fighting each other, centipedes versus paddle
rs.

  The strange thunder and lightning came again, and he immediately saw the source of the fury: machines, mounted on platforms atop the paddle vessels, were hurling pots of fire at their foes. When a pot hit a black-and-red centipede boat, it burst apart with a loud report and the craft, burning, sank.

  There was no sign of Sthenn here, so Duranix pointed his nose west again. His wings had not flapped three times before the ocean exploded behind him. He thought it was more of the sea battle until he heard a reptilian shriek of fury. Craning his long neck around, he spotted Sthenn protruding from the waves. Water streamed from his neck and tree-trunk sized nostrils.

  Got you! Duranix exulted. The craven Sthenn had tried to hide by lying submerged in the shallow, green waters, but had misjudged Duranix’s position and emerged too soon. Now he was caught!

  Duranix came diving back, chin barbels whipping in the wind. He thrust out his foreclaws and let his mouth gape wide. Too often on the chase Sthenn had managed to dodge Duranix’s energy bolts. He’d always been airborne, able to maneuver. Now he was chest-deep in wind-tossed waves, standing on the sea bottom. Duranix let fly.

  The sizzling blue bolt caught the green dragon squarely in his ancient, withered throat. He erupted in a howl of pain. Heat from the blast caused the water around Sthenn to steam. Slowly, like a great tree falling, he toppled backward into the waves.

  Duranix flashed over the spot so low his wingtips flicked saltwater onto his back. He sped past a line of black-and-red boats, which back-oared frantically to avoid him. The paddle-wheelers hoisted pennants and closed in to finish their opponents off.

  Duranix turned and strove hard to gain height. Strange, there was no sign of Sthenn. He couldn’t possibly have succumbed to a single strike... but then, the green dragon had been traveling hard, and he was not as young or strong as Duranix.

  The sea battle continued to rage beneath him, but Duranix ignored it. He had no time for anything but the destruction of his enemy.

  The water was a perfect cover for the green dragon. Cursing his inadequate vision, Duranix tried to probe the surging depths with his other senses, but the scene was too confused.

  Just as Duranix banked left, Sthenn reared up in the midst of the paddle craft. The green dragon had a deep wound in his chest that bled black ichor into the sea. Bilious jets of toxic fumes billowed from his mouth. The poison couldn’t kill Duranix, but it did mix with the clouds to form a murky vapor. What effect it had on the creatures in the boats Duranix didn’t know

  Sthenn reached down with both foreclaws, grasped the nearest boat, a flag-decked paddle-wheeler, and hoisted it into the air. The paddles on each side of the tubby hull continued to turn, water sluicing from them. Wheezing with pain, Sthenn hurled the vessel at Duranix.

  The bronze flapped vigorously for altitude. The boat tumbled end over end as it came. Duranix dodged, and the craft plummeted back to the sea. When it landed a huge spout of green water was thrown up, and the battered boat rapidly sank.

  A curious thing happened next. The boats ceased battling each other and attacked the dragons! Not just the paddle-wheelers but the centipede vessels as well – scores of craft turned their attention to the giant beasts in their midst. The centipede boats were equipped with sharp metallic prows, which they tried to ram into Sthenn. He swatted the craft aside while spewing poisonous breath over them.

  The paddle-wheelers tossed firepots at Duranix. He twisted and turned, keeping his vulnerable wings away from the exploding pots. He had no quarrel with these unknown beings, but they were hampering his more important contest. Without the strength to loose another bolt of lightning, he directed his repelling force against the firepots arcing toward him. The pots rebounded, falling among the very ships that had launched them. Two of the craft were shattered by the ensuing blasts, rolling over and plunging beneath the waves. The remaining paddlers scuttled away.

  By this time Sthenn had waded free of the sea battle. Striding laboriously on his hind legs, the green dragon rose higher and higher out of the water.

  “Sthenn!” Duranix bellowed. “Stay and fight!”

  The old beast continued his plodding progress toward land, still more than a league away. “Not today, little friend,” he wheezed. “Not... today!”

  Duranix tore after his fleeing foe. So intent was he on the chase that he didn’t notice a second fleet of paddle craft just below his right wing. At a range of a hundred paces, eight vessels flung their firepots. On converging courses, the pots collided directly beneath the bronze dragon.

  The shock of the blast flipped him upside down. Sulfurous fumes filled his chest. He plunged to the water and struck hard, headfirst.

  The impact stunned him. He was conscious for a few moments, feeling something encircle his neck, sensed he was moving through the water, being towed. Then he blacked out.

  Time passed. The sun climbed higher, its heat thinning the early morning clouds. Blue reclaimed the wide sky. Sea birds, leery at first of the enormous creature beached on their turf, slowly came out of hiding and began to wheel and dive for food again.

  Duranix awoke slowly, slitting his eyes against the blinding brightness of sky. He lay on his back in the surf, wings extended but buried in wet sand. His tail drifted side to side with the motion of the tide. Cold seawater gurgled in his ears.

  He raised his head, and the web of fiber lines wound around his neck snapped and fell away. Having stunned him, the paddle crafts had wrapped him in a stout net, towed him ashore, and hastened away. Why they didn’t try to harm him further he couldn’t guess.

  The ocean was dotted with wreckage – broken timbers, oars, the shattered remains of boats. Underneath the pervasive smell of sulfur and niter was the tang of burned flesh. Whether his, Sthenn’s, or that of the warring creatures on the boats, he couldn’t tell.

  Rolling onto all fours, Duranix shook off the netting and damp sand. A look up and down the beach showed him Sthenn was gone, so he set about putting himself to rights so he could resume the chase.

  Each wing had to be preened of sand. If the sand was allowed to work its way under his scales, it would cause painful sores. The preening was a cautious operation, requiring concentration. His claws and horns were hard and sharp, and his wing membranes were delicate.

  When he was finished, Duranix spread his wings a bit to dry them. He strode up the shoreline to the highest dune. From this vantage, he saw a green line of trees inland. More importantly, he saw Sthenn’s narrow, three-toed claw prints. The old dragon had come ashore here, and his prints led directly toward the distant forest. He must have been hurt if he wasn’t flying – or could this be another of his endless tricks to put Duranix off guard?

  It scarcely mattered. Duranix had no choice but to follow his tormentor’s mincing tracks. The trees were still a long way off when he found the ancient stone marker.

  It stood in the midst of the dunes, a sandstone column carved flat on four sides. It was old and weathered, and its base was askew, causing the tall column to lean. Strange figures were carved in deep relief on all four faces.

  Duranix started to walk around the column but paused. The carvings caught his attention.

  The reliefs showed a crowd of two-legged beings (vaguely like humans or elves) swarming ant-like up the side of a mountain. They toppled large round objects – boulders perhaps – off a cliff while others of their kind fought a pair of large, four-legged creatures with long, serpentine necks.

  Duranix stared hard at the worn images. Were those wings folded on the creatures’ backs? Was he looking at some kind of memorial to a battle fought against dragons?

  The shrieks of gulls spiraling overhead broke his contemplation. With Sthenn still roaming free, this was no time to puzzle over artifacts. The green dragon’s trail led without deviation to the forest; he must be seeking the kind of cover he knew best.

  Duranix flexed his wings experimentally. They were dry and free of sand. He leaped into the air.

  From this height, he could
see the woods were wide and dense, separating the beach from a series of cliffs beyond. The escarpment was composed of a light blue stone, making it hard to distinguish from the hazy sky.

  When he reached the trees, Duranix spread his powerful senses wide in search of Sthenn. Immediately, he picked up the scent of a dragon – but, surprisingly, it wasn’t Sthenn.

  The old wyrm exuded a putrescence Duranix knew as well as he knew the smell of Amero (poor soft-skinned humans could never get truly clean). This new scent was certainly draconic, but metallic and clean. There was something else, a difference he couldn’t quite fathom. The closer he came to the escarpment, the more pronounced the distracting scent became.

  Extending his rear claws, Duranix landed on a ledge of blue stone. It was a pretty species of slate, only slightly darker than a summer sky. He put his back to the plateau and studied the forest below. He had an excellent view of the land, and in that position he remained, unmoving as the stones around him, while the sun passed its zenith and began its descent.

  Many animals and birds passed beneath his gaze, but not Sthenn. Puzzling. The green dragon’s presence should have disturbed the local animals greatly, yet he saw little sign of it. Predatory birds circled in the warm air. Tree-climbing rodents cavorted among the leafy branches. Clouds of insects swarmed over the narrow stream flowing through the heart of the woods. The largest beast Duranix saw was a kind of long-legged pig, with a ruff of stiff, white fur around its neck and a pair of vicious-looking tusks. About half the size of a wild ox, the ruffed pigs left the shade of the trees in twos and threes to dip their long snouts in the stream. If Sthenn was around, he was being extremely discreet. The pigs looked completely untroubled.

  They also looked quite tasty. Duranix’s stomach rumbled. His last meal had been a school of leaping sailfish two days ago, and he found his attention fixed by the prowling pigs.

  Then came that feeling again, the sensation another dragon was near. A broad shadow flashed overhead. Acting purely on instinct, he sprang straight up at the shadow. He had only a glimpse of bright scales and slender wings before he slammed into the belly of another dragon.