Children of the Plains tb-1

by Paul Cook

  Together they walked to the enlarged altar. The villagers, with the help of Nianki’s band, had nearly tripled its size. Where once it had been a rectangular pile, it was now square, and over twenty paces to a side. When the rocks had kept tumbling down the sides, someone had thought to use the gray mud from the lake bed to hold the rocks in place. Soon the all the outer layer of rocks were stuck together with mud, which coupled with the yellowish sandstone, lent the altar a distinctly speckled appearance.

  Konza and his eldest son, Tiphan, hailed Amero and the dragon as they neared the altar. They were an odd-looking pair. Tiphan had fashioned coats for his father and himself from cast-off bronze dragon scales. He had punched holes in the upper edge of the scales and, using hide strips, attached them in overlapping layers to two long cloaks. Though their demeanors were grave, both men clanked as they walked, and Duranix found the effect comical.

  “They look like a pair of beetles,” Duranix observed in a low voice. Amero had to stifle a laugh; the description was apt.

  “You’re walking again, Arkuden? That’s excellent,” Konza said. Tiphan, only sixteen, stood to one side looking grave. It was an expression difficult to maintain since Duranix kept exhaling gently on him, just to make his coat of scales clatter in the resulting breeze.

  “Thank you, Konza,” Amero said, studiously ignoring the dragon’s actions. “I want to get back to work as soon as possible. I have many plans to discuss with you and the other elders — ”

  “There are no other elders,” Tiphan said.

  “What?”

  “What my son means is, while you were ill, the surviving fathers and mothers of the village met and chose me to be their representative to you and our great protector.” Konza smiled widely. “We all felt the old way of council meetings and arguments was too slow and awkward to deal with the dangers of this new life of ours. From now on, you can tell me what you want done, and I will tell the villagers.”

  Amero was astonished. “Tell you? But I don’t want to — ”

  Duranix unfolded one wing just enough so that it came between Amero and Konza. “Arkuden shouldn’t be out in this weather,” Duranix announced grandly. “He’s still recovering. He’ll return shortly.”

  Amero couldn’t reply with a mass of wing pressed against his face, but before he could free himself, Duranix whisked him into one claw and spread his wings to their fullest extent.

  Without further warning, the dragon launched himself into the air, leaving Konza and Tiphan staring upward in awe and not a little confusion.

  When they were aloft and heading for the cavern, Amero demanded, “What was that? And since when do you call me Arkuden?’”

  Duranix ducked through the waterfall and landed on the cave floor. He used his wings skillfully to shield Amero, so not a drop got on him. The dragon threw several logs on the hearth and fanned the faint coals with his breath. Watching Duranix’s cheeks bulge as he blew stirred an idea in Amero’s agile mind — but he shook his head to clear his thoughts and returned to the issue at hand.

  “What do they mean, I’ll tell them what to do? I wouldn’t feel right telling people twice my age what to do.”

  “You’re so conservative,” chided Duranix, basking in the warmth of the blazing fire. “When this settlement began, you were just thirteen years old. None of the elders wanted to listen to you then, but they did, mostly because they feared me. Now you’re twenty-four. Many of the fathers and mothers who originally followed you here from the plains are gone. The younger ones have only known Yala-tene and you, and now they want you to lead them.” Duranix brought his tail around closer to the fire to warm it. “I think you should.”

  “How can I? What if I make mistakes? People’s lives are at stake!”

  “When Hatu came back to destroy the village, you fought back, even killed people. Why?”

  “To save those I care about,” he replied.

  “So!”

  The fire crackled loudly. The hot yellow flames highlighted Amero’s drawn face, making the lines of worry etched in his countenance seem even deeper. The silence between them stretched on. Amero kicked at some pebbles.

  “I guess I can try it Konza’s way. I’ll work hard, and find others to guide and counsel me,” he said finally.

  “Your dedication is almost dragonlike,” Duranix replied.

  Amero sat down on the hard stone floor and stretched out his tired legs. Despite the burden being placed on his shoulders, and the imminent departure of his sister, he couldn’t stop smiling. He knew the dragon had just paid him the ultimate compliment.

  It took two days for Nianki’s band to pack their gear. Every inhabitant of Yala-tene insisted on providing the nomads with enough provisions to get them to the northern plains, where there would still be abundant game to hunt. In addition to their remaining fifty-three horses, Nianki’s band was given six tamed wolves, ten oxen, and nineteen goats. The oxen were harnessed to five large travois laden with dried fruit, vegetables, and clay jugs of Hulami’s best wine.

  More surprising was the fact that ten villagers chose to go with Nianki. They were all young men and women whose families had perished in the battle. Starting anew in the valley of the falls was too painful for them, and they had asked to be taken into Karada’s band.

  “You are welcome,” she told them, “though we have no horses for you.”

  Young Valka, grandson of Amero’s old friend of the same name, said, “It’s as well. We don’t know how to ride your animals.” He grinned and added, “Yet!”

  It was on a clear, cold day that Nianki formed her people at the foot of Amero’s bridge. The snow of two days past was only a light dusting, a harbinger of heavier falls to come. The trees and houses were covered with silver frost, and a blanket of mist rose from the lake.

  Duranix joined the crowd of villagers who gathered to see the nomads off. He was in human shape, the first time he’d taken the form since breaking his wing. Konza and Tiphan were there in their coats of scales, though beneath them they wore furs to keep out the chill.

  “Do you have enough food to get you past the Plains River?” asked Amero, looking over the heavily loaded travois.

  “If we had any more, the oxen couldn’t drag it,” Nianki said. “Be at ease, brother. You’ve done right by us. More than right.”

  Pakito was to lead the nomads who traveled on foot. With much genial shouting, the amiable giant stirred his small band into motion. There were many farewells as the villagers who had joined Karada’s band marched away, their tidy clothes and short hair marking them as different from their long-haired nomad cousins.

  Samtu rode up in answer to Nianki’s call. Her belly was beginning to swell with Pakito’s child. She had been the object of much teasing, as nomads and villagers alike warned her that if the baby took after its father, she had a lot more swelling yet to do.

  “Take the riders out,” Nianki told her. “Once across the river, split into two columns. I want one to ride on each side of the walkers, to shield them.”

  Samtu nodded. “What track shall we follow, Karada?” she asked.

  “Follow the river. It will lead us where we want to go.”

  Samtu whistled through her teeth, and the riders mounted their horses. Only Targun remained behind with Nianki.

  “Well, dragon, you’ll have more peace in your valley from now on,” she said, leaning down from horseback to offer her hand to Duranix.

  He clasped her hand. “I doubt it, Karada. Many people know about the valley of the lake now, including all the nomads who fled the fight Nacris lost. And there’s Vedvedsica. He was here the night of the Moonmeet feast, prowling around for some reason.”

  Duranix had finally told Nianki that Vedvedsica was the one who’d fashioned the amulet for Pa’alu. Now, at his mention of the cleric’s name, she frowned, recalling flashes of her bizarre dream about the city of elves. Then Targun, sitting on a horse by his chief, spoke, and she banished the images with a shake of her head.

&n
bsp; “Do you think Silvanos will move against you?” Targun asked.

  “I don’t think so. There’s little for him to gain here,” Duranix said. “The elves will keep an eye on us though, I’m certain.”

  “I wish we knew happened to Nacris and that one-eyed wolf, Hatu,” Amero said. “They worry me more than the elves.”

  Duranix arched one eyebrow and touched a finger to his forehead. From behind his back, he produced a small bundle, wrapped in a scrap of leather, and gave it to Nianki. She queried him with a look.

  “A gift,” he said. “To be opened once you’re away from Yala-tene.”

  With that, his human face actually reddened slightly. He bade them good-bye and walked away. The rest of the villagers drifted away as well, until only Targun, Nianki, and Amero were left by the foot of the bridge.

  “Go ahead, Targun,” she said. “Watch after Samtu, will you? She looked like she might lose her breakfast at any moment.”

  “Aye, Karada.” The elder plainsman gave Amero a silent, smiling nod and rode away.

  Finally, it was just the two of them: Nianki on horseback, her white wolfs fur robe rippling in the breeze, and Amero, his leggings and sleeves stained with the soot of his hearth.

  “Will you ever return?” he asked quietly.

  “The world is a big place,” she told him. “When I’ve ridden all the way round it, I may get back here.”

  “Might take a long time.”

  “I think it will.” Nianki leaned down with her hand out, as she had done to Duranix. “You’re a good brother, Amero. Oto and Kinar would be pleased.”

  He took her cold, callused hand. The mention of their parents brought a lump to his throat. He swallowed hard, and said hoarsely, “There is always a place at my fire for you, Nianki.”

  She abruptly pulled free and slapped her horse’s neck with the reins. She cantered across the bridge, which swayed from side to side as they went. Nianki soon caught up to Targun and took her place beside him. Amero leaned against the last tall piling of the bridge and watched the nomads until they disappeared around the bend of the river.

  Though he watched until she was lost from sight, Nianki never looked back.

  Duranix, still in human form, found Amero hunched over the hearth that evening. He seemed to be shaking gently, rocking back and forth.

  The disguised dragon put an awkward hand on Amero’s shoulder. “It will be all right.”

  His friend raised his head. He hadn’t been shaking with grief as Duranix had thought, he’d been busy blowing on a bed of glowing coals.

  Accustomed as he was to Amero’s strange ways, Duranix still had to ask, “Why are you doing that?”

  “It makes them hotter,” he announced triumphantly. “I think I’ve found a way to melt bronze at last!”

  Amero, Duranix decided, would be fine.

  The nomads camped ten leagues from Yala-tene that night, not quite on the open plain but sheltered from the icy night wind by a pair of low hills. Tents were pitched, and the old rhythm of the wandering life slowly resumed. They could feel it inside, like the pulse of a second heart.

  The stars were out, so numerous and so bright Nianki could see all the way back to the snow-clad mountains, or ahead to the flat, endless savanna. The Winged Serpent, the sign of Pala, was in his place in the heavens, as was Matat, the stormbird.

  Dragon, Nianki corrected herself. Matat was a dragon. Like Duranix.

  Alone by a campfire, she opened the leather-wrapped gift Duranix had given her. When she saw what was in it, she smiled briefly and tossed the whole bundle onto the burning wood.

  Flames slowly ate into the square of oiled leather, curling around the traitor Hatu’s black eyepatch. Duranix’s parting gift to her was a little peace of mind about the safety of her brother and his people.

  In a flicker of silent orange flame, the gift turned to ash.

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  Document creation date: 06.09.2012

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