Brother of the Dragon tb-2

by Paul Cook

  At this height, the sky was clear, blue, and free of clouds. Shading her eyes, Mara looked to the eastern horizon. Slender, thready clouds reached out from the edge of dawn, like long white fingers. It was snowing, possibly raining, somewhere far to the east, but she reckoned the moisture wouldn’t reach them for several days.

  The clatter of loose rocks ahead woke her from her reverie. She drew her arm back, ready to throw her stick at whatever was moving up ahead. Listening, she heard something else: the rhythmic fall of hooves.

  Mara turned and sprinted back up the trail. Topping an outcropping of rock, she spied Tiphan and Penzar in the distance and ran even harder. When she was close enough, she gasped her warning.

  “Tosen! Horses!”

  Horses meant nomads or elves. In either case, the trio was in no position to meet hostile strangers. They hastily quit the trail, taking shelter between two boulders. Penzar stood with spear ready as the others peered around the rocks to see what was coming.

  Four swarthy heads appeared, bobbing as they came. They had leathery faces and shoulder-length black hair, lank and woven through with vines and leaves. They weren’t elves or humans, and as they drew nearer, it became plain they were not riding on horses. They were horses below the waist.

  “Centaurs,” Tiphan whispered.

  The four leaders were followed by a crowd of others, all weighed down with baggage — furs, hides, bedrolls, tools, and woven willow panniers. Mara counted twenty-two centaurs in sight, with more coming over the ridge. This was no hunting party. This was an entire tribe on the move.

  The lead man-horse reached the spot where Tiphan, Mara, and Penzar had left the trail. In their haste to hide, they hadn’t obscured their tracks, and the centaur saw the signs of their passage. He held up a hand, shouted something in a guttural tongue, and the whole tribe halted. Gray-haired elders cantered forward to confer with the scout. With much gesturing of arms and stamping of hooves, the scout made his point. Bending his forelegs, he knelt and sniffed the stony ground. Slowly he raised his head until he was staring directly at the humans’ hiding place.

  “Tosen?” Penzar whispered, gripping his spear.

  “Be still. I’ll deal with them.”

  Tiphan stepped from the crevice. The centaurs spotted him and began an excited babble. Four of them galloped up, flanking the Sensarku leader.

  “Mara! Penzar! Come out,” he said evenly. “Penzar, leave your spear.”

  “But Tosen — ”

  “Do as I say!”

  Mara emerged from the cleft in the rock and stood confidently by her leader. Penzar came out more slowly, eyeing the fierce-looking centaurs with obvious suspicion.

  One centaur, whose hair was liberally streaked with gray and whose dark horse’s body was likewise dappled with silver, approached Tiphan. He scrutinized the Sensarku and uttered a short sentence in his own tongue.

  Back in the rocks, Tiphan had thought he recognized this centaur. Now it was time to test his memory.

  “Miteera?” he ventured. “Miteera?”

  The centaurs pranced and muttered, obviously startled to hear the word from human lips.

  “Miteera,” said the gray-dappled centaur. “Your face I not know.”

  “I am Tiphan, Konza’s son. Peace to you, Miteera, and to your people.”

  “Know you me… how?”

  “I know many things,” Tiphan said, smiling. “I am chief of the Sensarku, the Servants of the Dragon.”

  “Ah!” Miteera turned to his people and gave them a rapid explanation in their own tongue. To Tiphan, he said, “From Arku-peli?” Tiphan admitted they were. “Your chief Arkuden?”

  The smile faded from Tiphan’s face. He forced it to return. “Yes, the head of our village is the Arkuden,” he said. “What brings you and your people to the high mountains, Miteera?”

  The old centaur’s face darkened, his gray eyes narrowing. “Pushed out eight suns ago. By B’leef.”

  It took Tiphan a moment to realize Miteera was saying “Balif.” To be certain he asked, “The Silvanesti drove you out? The elves?”

  Miteera nodded and spat on the ground. “Old Ones with fire and metal drive Miteera people out. Many die. We go to sunset. Leave B’leef.”

  With a few more questions, Tiphan pieced together the rest of the story. For some time, the Silvanesti had been systematically driving the centaurs from of the woodland between the two branches of the Thon-Tanjan. Eight days ago, Miteera’s tribe had fought a pitched battle against Balif’s army and lost. Many centaur warriors were killed. All that remained of Miteera’s tribe was now fleeing west to escape the conquering elves.

  “Long’go, Arkuden save Miteera from yevi. Arkuden friend. We find Arku-peli this way?” asked the old centaur.

  “Yes, the high trail will take you to the Lake of the Falls,” Tiphan replied.

  “Where you go? To sunbirth?”

  Tiphan admitted they were heading east. The centaur shook his head and twitched his long, gray-streaked tail. “Bad. Bad to go,” he said. “You meet Old Ones. Meet death.” He mimed a sword thrust into Tiphan’s gut.

  “We go on the Arkuden’s business,” Tiphan said. Mara arched an eyebrow at her leader’s easy lie. “Would you lend us one of your warriors, to go with us and help us avoid the elves?”

  Miteera looked doubtful, but he put the question to his band. Several centaurs seemed willing, and the chief chose a youthful one with a russet-colored horse’s body and like-colored hair, who stepped forward from the crowd.

  “Elu,” said Miteera, “most brave and strong. He go with you.”

  “Why does he want to go?” Penzar blurted, suspicious still.

  Miteera pointed a gnarled finger at Mara. “Elu like two-leg girl. He go for her.”

  Mara blushed, and Penzar sputtered, “Tosen, you can’t — ”

  “We humbly accept your help, Miteera,” Tiphan said, silencing his acolyte with a glare. “Welcome, Elu.”

  “Him not talk,” Miteera said. “You point, he know.”

  Elu shouldered his bundle of belongings and took his place at Tiphan’s side. The rest of the centaur band trotted past the humans. Miteera remained until the last of his people was gone then bade the humans good-bye. To Elu, Miteera addressed an elaborate farewell, which involved much stamping of hooves and clasping of arms. At last, the chief cantered away. Elu raised his club in salute.

  Keeping his voice level, Penzar asked, “Tosen, why did you ask for this savage to accompany us?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? A centaur is the next best thing to a pack animal.”

  “But he has designs on Mara!”

  “Then he’ll work hard to please her.” Tiphan took the heavy packs from the acolytes and draped them over the unresisting Elu’s withers and back. The centaur’s bright green eyes widened slightly, but he accepted the new burdens without complaint.

  “Tosen, will we encounter elves, do you think?” asked Mara.

  “I doubt it. We’re not going so far east as the Tanjan woods. Once we get to flatter land, we will have to keep sharp watch for Silvanesti, I’m sure, but I don’t expect to meet them in strength.”

  Long clouds from the east overtook the sun. A cold wind rose with the shadows and teased wisps from Mara’s thick braid. She pointedly ignored the admiring look the centaur gave her.

  “Come,” said Tiphan. “We ought to reach the tree line before dark.”

  Penzar retrieved his spear, saying, “I’ll scout again.”

  “Let Mara,” said Tiphan smugly. “She can be the carrot for our centaur friend.”

  Mara was not amused, but she took the lead, and they resumed their march. Fifty paces behind her came Tiphan and Penzar. Elu, silent and strong, walked patiently at the rear, laden with the baggage.

  Amero knelt by the water’s edge and dipped his hands in the cold lake. Mud and dried blood loosened from his sore fingers, clouding the clear water.

  Across the lake, smoke rose from scores of small fires between t
he rows of seedlings. It had taken two days of back-breaking labor to clear the ice from the orchard, swathe the tender seedlings in mounds of straw, and get the warming fires going. It was too early to tell whether their efforts to save the orchard would be successful.

  Like everyone else, Amero tore at the frozen soil with his bare hands, pulling sharp shards of ice away from the delicate plants. As he looked at his cut and bleeding hands, he dreamed of metal tools for every villager — bronze that would cut through ice and frozen turf, turning hard land into garden. More than ever he knew the future of humankind lay in the mastery of metal.

  “You’ll get chilblains if you stay out here with wet hands.”

  He turned, recognizing the voice. Lyopi draped a fur cape over his shoulders and held out a steaming mug of tea. Rising, Amero took the clay cup from her hands. Its warmth against his sore palms was just the solace he needed.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I sometimes wonder how I lived so long without you to take care of me.”

  She laughed. “So do I.”

  They strolled back to the unfinished section of the town wall. Even before they reached it, Amero could hear chimes and sistra ringing inside the Offertory. The Sensarku made their instruments from Duranix’s cast-off scales. Amero considered it a waste of good metal, but the Sensarku were devoted to their ceremonies and repeated them every day.

  “I wonder what happened to that fool Tiphan,” said Lyopi with characteristic bluntness. “I didn’t think he was the type to run away because of a single blunder. He was too proud for that.”

  Amero sipped his tea. “He hasn’t run away. He’s on some quest.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Anari, who sleeps near Mara, told me Tiphan came in the night and woke Mara to tell her they were going on a journey. He also took Penzar, who’s a good tracker. They left before any of us knew about the danger to the orchards. He’s gone to the east to find something.”

  Lyopi crossed her arms, burying her hands beneath her arms to keep them warm. “Find what, do you think?”

  “Common sense, I hope.”

  Flames flickered up above the walls of the town and Offertory. Lyopi drew in breath loudly. “They’re ‘purifying’ the cairn because it was touched by your unclean self,” she said. When Amero didn’t reply she added, “Aren’t you offended?”

  “Why should I be? I don’t care what beliefs the Sensarku follow as long as they do their work and mind the village elders.”

  “Very wise,” she said, with mild irony. She knew when Amero said “village elders” he really meant “the Arkuden.”

  A new, more distant sound drowned out the chanting from the Offertory: the sound of rams’ horns blown by sentinels high on the cliff above Yala-tene. It was a danger signal, warning of an impending attack.

  Amero and Lyopi raced to her house. Whenever an alarm was raised, all able-bodied adults in the village gathered at the north end of Yala-tene armed with sword, axe, or spear. Amero found Lyopi’s injured brother Unar trying to rise from his sickbed in answer to the call.

  “Down, down,” Amero said, pushing the wounded man back on his pallet. “No one expects you to fight.”

  “But, Arkuden — ”

  “Lie still, Unar, or I’ll have your sister sit on you.”

  “Ugh, threaten me with anything but that!”

  Lyopi glared at them. “Shut your mouths, or I’ll raise lumps on both your heads!” She brandished a stone-headed axe. “I’m not so stout that you should fear me sitting on you, brother!”

  “True, you weigh less than the dragon,” Amero quipped. He found a hunting spear and tested its heft.

  “She’s more like a sturdy calf,” Unar said.

  “Quiet you, or I’ll have your other eye out!”

  Unar subsided at last. Lyopi tied a heavy leather cap around her head and went to the door.

  “Are you ready, Arkuden?”

  He shouldered the spear. “I am. Lead on.”

  Barely two score villagers had gathered by the unfinished wall. The rest were out hunting or working in the orchards on the other side of the lake. The horns continued to blow, but now they were sounding from the mouth of Cedarsplit Gap. The strangers were moving fast, right down the path to Yala-tene.

  The armed villagers chattered nervously among themselves. What sort of danger was bearing down on them? Elves? Nomads?

  “Form a circle!” Amero shouted.

  The villagers with spears presented a hedgehog of flintheads to the unseen foe. One by one the horns died away. Eventually, the sound of massed hoofbeats reached the villagers.

  “Horses!” someone cried.

  “Nomads! The nomads have come back!”

  Villagers on the extreme ends of the formation began to back away.

  Amero shouted, “Stand where you are! Stand fast!”

  The frightened folk rejoined the circle, crowding closer together.

  The noise grew louder. Dust rose from the mouth of Cedarsplit Gap. The villagers’ nervousness spread to the cattle and horses penned on each side of them. The animals milled about, neighing and lowing.

  A column of dark-clad riders burst from the pass. They thundered out a hundred paces, halted, and surveyed the scene. Amero squinted through the whirling dust. They looked like small, dark-skinned men on ponies, not rangy nomads or fair-skinned elves.

  The riders launched into motion again and came straight at the defenders. At sixty paces the dust parted enough for Amero to see who they were.

  “Raise your weapons!” he cried. “Spears up! It’s Miteera!”

  Confused but relieved, the villagers shouldered their arms. The centaur herd slowed when they saw the spears rise. Amero stepped out of the formation and held up his hands.

  “Greeting, noble Miteera!” he shouted. “Welcome to Yala-tene!”

  The gray-haired chief of the horse-men trotted forward.

  “Hail, Arkuden! My eyes weep to see you!”

  Arms wide, man and centaur embraced. Time had not dulled Miteera’s fierce smell, but Amero was so relieved that he felt like he was holding an armful of flowers.

  The remainder of the centaur tribe ambled down the ravine into the open valley once they saw there was no danger.

  “What brings you to our valley, noble chief?” Amero asked. “It’s been ten years since I saw you last.”

  “Ah, Arkuden, such evil speaking I must do! My people are driven out!”

  “Driven out? By who?”

  “The Old Ones.”

  The centaurs were rough, primitive folk, but they were valiant fighters. To dislodge the entire herd would have required -

  “A great host,” Amero muttered. “Balif?”

  Miteera nodded, frowning. “Aye, Arkuden. We could not stand before fire and metal.”

  Amero studied the warriors at Miteera’s back. Many bore recent wounds, and all looked tired and trailworn.

  “Fear not, Miteera,” he said. “You are welcome here. Will you stay and take greens with us?”

  “One night only, Arkuden.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Is word of kokusuna.” This was the centaurs’ word for “spirits.” It also meant, in a vague way, “omens.”

  Amero led the centaurs to the water troughs used by the village’s horse herd. The visitors weren’t insulted. Centaurs considered horses kin and in general held them in higher regard than humans. As the centaurs refreshed themselves, one of them spoke to his chief. Miteera clapped a gnarled hand to his brown forehead.

  “Ah, Arkuden! Your people seen on mountain!”

  “Eh?”

  Miteera explained how his band had encountered three humans in the high mountains. Through the old chiefs oblique descriptions, Amero understood the three to be Tiphan and his two acolytes.

  “Were they well?” he asked.

  “Hale, not wise.” The centaur shook his head at the incomprehensible foolishness of humans. “They go sunbirth. B’leef there.”

  Amero
was puzzled. Tiphan was headed east, toward the elves? “Did he say exactly where he was going or why?”

  “Nah. They hunt. Not say what.”

  Amero’s face betrayed his concern, and Miteera clapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Fear not! Elu I give — strong, good fighter. He guard good.”

  Amero called for fodder to be brought to the hungry centaurs. The centaurs ate the sweet grass ravenously, plunging their faces into piles of fodder and coming up with great wads of hay sticking out their mouths and clenched in both hands. They chewed noisily, slurping water to wash everything down.

  While they fed, Amero plied Miteera with questions about the elves. According to the centaur, Balif’s army had appeared in late summer, following the course of the Thon-Tanjan. They pushed into the centaurs’ homeland slowly, stopping every few leagues to erect stockades, which they filled with warriors. The two races first clashed about the time the leaves changed color. Elf cavalry wiped out one centaur warband, driving the rest of the herd into the eastern bend of the Tanjan, trapping them against the swift-flowing river. The destruction of the centaur tribe seemed certain. And then -

  “B’leef turn away,” Miteera said. “Fight old enemy. Karada.”

  Amero stepped back, thunderstruck. It could not be! The old centaur was mistaken — not Karada!

  Karada, born Nianki, was Amero’s only blood kin. He had not seen her in twelve years. She was known throughout the plains as Karada, meaning “Scarred One,” from the scars of a vicious animal attack she bore on her face and neck. Fifteen years ago she and her band of nomads had been the scourge of the Silvanesti, raiding their outposts and threatening their new settlements. Twelve years ago, after being defeated by Balif, Karada’s shattered warrior band had come to Yala-tene, where rebels in her ranks tried to overthrow her and loot the village. Together, Amero, Duranix, Karada, and her loyalists had defeated the rebels, led by Hatu the One-eyed and Karada’s blood foe, Nacris.

  With the village secure, Karada and her people had departed. Though Amero had hoped she would return, neither she nor her people had ever come back to the Valley of the Falls.