Brother of the Dragon tb-2

by Paul Cook

  “Hail, Sthenn!” they cried in unison. “Hail, Deathbringer!”

  “Charming,” said the altered dragon. “I like their color.”

  Nacris allowed herself a brief, triumphant glance at her son, then snapped, “Spears up!”

  A hundred weapons rose as one. At her command, the first rank, ten warriors, raised their shields and approached, marching through the line of torches. They halted. Not only were their weapons painted green, all their exposed skin was too.

  “They walk beautifully,” Greengall said acidly. “Now, let’s see them fight.”

  “Fight who?” Nacris asked.

  “Why not Zannian?”

  “Master, you can’t mean that!” Nacris protested. “He’ll be killed!”

  The monstrous face regarded her with total calm. Nacris bowed her head and looked at her son. The young man’s face was like stone, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. Without a word of resistance, he pulled the bone-and-leather hood down over his head. Drawing a bronze elven sword, he stood ready to receive the spears of the Jade Men.

  “Fight to the death,” Greengall said calmly. “Give the order.”

  Nacris opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her lined face twisted with indecision.

  Greengall smiled. “Give the order, or I’ll tear your other leg off.”

  “Jade Men, attack!” she cried.

  The spearmen spread out and tried to box Zannian in. He didn’t wait for the ring to close but charged the nearest warriors. He beat aside one’s shield and ran him through. The green-painted warrior fell, clutching his side. Zannian dueled briskly with two other attackers as his first victim struggled to regain his feet. There were no war cries or oaths as the men fought. Their silent dedication was total.

  Zannian broke two more shields with his metal blade before the first spear points began flashing past his chest and face. He sidestepped the fast thrusts, giving ground until he was backing up the slope of the hill behind him. Two Jade Men combined to harry Zannian at the same time. He beat one, lopping off the flint head of his spear, but the other delivered a resounding crack to Zannian’s thigh with the shaft of his weapon. Down went the raider chief. The green-painted warriors crowded in for the kill, and only then did the Jade Men make noise: a thready whistling, as they sucked air excitedly through their sharply filed teeth. Nine spears rose high, ready for the final thrust.

  Greengall said, “Enough.”

  “Hold!” Nacris shouted.

  The Jade Men obeyed, but their eyes remained intensely focused on their foe. Even the wounded man, supported by a comrade, was still staring at Zannian.

  The raider chief got up, a sheen of sweat on his bare arms. “They fight well,” he said.

  “Good,” said Greengall, nodding. “For what use do you intend them?”

  The crippled woman bowed her head. “Any task you choose, Master. They will run until they drop, fight until killed, and slay without mercy anyone you order slain. They live to serve only you.”

  It was the simple truth. The Jade Men had begun as one hundred babies, stolen from their murdered parents and raised in Almurk to become Sthenn’s invincible, unquestioning band of killers. The oldest of them was now sixteen. Nacris had trained them to worship the green dragon as father and master. She herself was the closest thing to a mother any of them would eyer know.

  “They seem like useful little rodents,” Greengall said mildly. He asked Zannian, “What do you think of them?”

  “Their fighting skills are great,” the raider chief replied honestly, “but there’s no good in being fearless. A warrior should fear failure.”

  Greengall laughed loudly, the upper half of his head tilting backward from the hinge of his oversized jaw. “There’s one other thing all your warriors should fear,” he chortled. “They should tremble before me, for I am Death.”

  The sky was painted from zenith to horizon with many thousands of stars, all silently lighting the land beneath. They were Beramun’s guideposts. She had walked a long way from the Edge of the World, passing the many days in solitude.

  The high plain was usually teeming with life — herds of oxen and elk, bands of plainsfolk following the herds on their yearly route from south to north and back again. This spring, she had encountered few animals and even fewer people. She caught glimpses on the far horizon, but all fled from her before she could reach hailing distance. Rabbits and other small game also gave her wide berth.

  Reduced to eating roots and grubs, she stumbled onward, guided by some inner voice that kept her face pointed toward the rising sun. She lost track of the days and of her location, until late one night she came to a broad river, flowing from south to north. She knew this river, if not the exact spot where she stood. This was the Great Plains River that divided the world she knew into East and West.

  The slow-flowing water was no obstacle to her, and she descended the riverbank to the water’s edge. There she stumbled upon a small ox herd, sheltering by a copse of laurel trees. The beasts stirred from their sleep and began to low loudly. She murmured soothing words at them, but the animals seemed unusually alarmed by her presence. Powerful bulls rolled their eyes and pawed the ground at her approach. The oxen nearest her jostled their comrades hard to avoid her.

  “Stupid beasts,” she muttered. She would have loved to spear one and feast on beef, but she had no weapon. Reaching the water’s edge, Beramun paused to tie back her long hair with a strip of hide, and she saw a flash of fair doeskin in the deep shadows beneath a nearby tree.

  “Who are you?” the stranger said sharply. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Just a wanderer, passing by.”

  “What are you doing to my beasts?” demanded the woman. “You’re one of those raiders, aren’t you?”

  “No! I’m just a plainsman. I escaped the raiders myself not long ago.” Beramun advanced a few steps, only to have the sharp end of a herding stick presented to her chin. Beramun slowly held her arms out from her sides. “I mean no harm,” she insisted.

  “Let me see your face!”

  Beramun backed away from the shadows until starlight fell full upon her. This placed her closer to the oxen, and they grew restless again, bawling and milling about.

  “Where are you bound?” the herder asked.

  “The village of Yala-tene. Do you know it?”

  “Everyone knows it.” The woman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You don’t look like a villager.”

  “I’m not. I go to warn them about the raiders. They’re coming to attack the village.”

  The oxen grew more and more distressed. Hemmed in by the closely growing laurels behind them, they splashed into the river, working their way through the shallows, away from the young woman on the riverbank. The herder backed away with her animals. “How do you know what the raiders do?”

  “I told you, I was their prisoner.”

  “Maybe you’re their scout!”

  “No!” Beramun shouted, stamping her foot in frustration. At this the frightened oxen gave way completely. They were only fourteen strong, but they stampeded right at the lone herder. The woman let out a yell and dropped her stick, fleeing ahead of the churning beasts. Horrified, Beramun rushed to help. The oxen put on a frenzied burst of speed at her approach, as if the green dragon himself were after them. The herder yelling and the animals bawling, they disappeared around a bend in the river.

  Cursing the stupidity of oxen, Beramun went back to the tree where she’d first met the herder. She found the woman’s hide cape and provisions bag. The bag held an apple, a few dried mushrooms, and a hunk of smoked fish. Beramun devoured the food greedily.

  After she’d eaten, she drank deeply of the cool river water, then washed the mud and filth from her face. When she tugged her torn shift out of the way to douse her neck, she saw a dark blot on her chest. She peered at the strange mark. It was smooth, almost shiny when the river water ran off it. It wasn’t sore, and it felt no different than the rest of her skin. She h
ad no recollection of how she got the strange mark. A bruise perhaps, or a bite from some virulent forest insect? Since it wasn’t painful, she paid it no more mind.

  Beramun rolled the hide cape and tied it in a bundle on her back with a leather thong, then slipped into the water. The river was wide and the current modest, so she made good progress. Halfway across, she heard a thin, distant shriek from the shore behind her. Treading water, she looked back. The western horizon was alive with an orange glow, like an enormous grass fire. Huge shadows moved against the flickering backdrop of flame. A sudden flash of memory came over her. Her family’s tents burning in the night, the screams of her kinfolk, and the excited shouts of the raiders mingling in a horrible din.

  Fear raked her like a knife in her stomach. Turning away, Beramun swam hard, slapping the water in her haste to get across. She dragged herself out and collapsed in the gray mud, breathing hard. She raised her head and saw the firelight on the horizon was gone. Only starlight remained.

  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 warri
ors, 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.