by Paul Cook
“What of it?” she said, shrugging. “We’ve enough meat now to last all winter, and when we take Arku-peli, we’ll have even more.”
“A wise hunter doesn’t pluck a bird he hasn’t caught yet.”
She scowled, shifting in her litter. “You’re a gloomy bird yourself, Hoten. Don’t you believe in the might of our master and the skill of my son?”
Hoten put down the quartz shard he used to mark the bark strip and rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. “There’s no doubt of either,” he said evenly. “Our master is powerful, and Zannian is a great warrior.”
Rowdy laughter in the center of the camp abruptly died. Hoten stood to see what had quelled the men’s high spirits.
“What is it?” Nacris pushed herself up with her hands.
He frowned. “Looks like some of our men have come back bested.” He hurried away, leaving Nacris cursing and calling for her absent bearers.
Hoten pushed his way through the drunken raiders. Two horses had ambled into camp with riders tied facedown across their backs. Both men had been stripped of clothing and weapons. One was dead with a cracked skull, but the other was only groggy from his long ride upside down.
Hoten sent a runner to find Zannian and ordered the live man released. The rawhide bindings were swiftly sliced. He fell heavily to the ground. Some of his comrades laughed.
“Shut up,” Hoten snapped. “Oswan, what happened to Siwah? Where’s Takanu?”
The man couldn’t say. The dead one, Siwah, was brought over to Hoten for inspection. He had a strange sort of hat on his head. In the fading light it glinted like metal.
Hoten jerked the object off Siwah’s head. It was metal, a thin, curled sheet.
Cursing loudly, Nacris and her bearers bullied their way through the throng. When she spotted the object in Hoten’s hand, she uttered an oath of surprise.
“Give that to me!” she demanded.
Hoten handed the strange metallic token to her just as Zannian arrived.
“What’s going on?” the chief asked.
“Someone beat three of our scouts,” Hoten said. “That thing came back on Siwah.”
Nacris had been turning the burnished metal object in her hands, trying its hardness with her thumbnail, even sniffing it.
She snapped, “Where did this come from, Oswan?”
He shrugged. “It was just there — on Siwah — when I woke up.”
“Summon the Master.”
“What is it?” Zannian asked his mother, reaching for the object.
She yanked it out of his reach and cried, “Summon the Master! Now!”
The raiders knew Nacris did not invoke the green dragon lightly. They whispered among themselves uneasily, as Zannian ordered Hoten to fetch Greengall.
“Takanu’s dead,” Nacris declared, putting the metal leaf on her lap. “These two were sent back as a warning.”
“How do you know?”
“This, boy!” She waved the metal at Zannian. “Wait till the Master sees this!”
Soon, Hoten returned with Greengall. The crowd of warriors melted away, making a path for the towering creature. A few bowed their heads. Most just sought to avoid the gangling monster’s eye.
“Why do you summon me?” Greengall said irritably.
“Look at this, Master!” Nacris held up the metal leaf in both hands.
Greengall’s vertical pupils contracted to black slits, making his eyes appear even larger than usual. He took the leaf from her.
“What is this?”
“A scale, Master.”
“I know it’s a scale!” he bellowed, swatting her across the face with it.
The sharp edge cut deeply into Nacris’s cheek. She bore her hurt in silence as the hardened warriors drew back in a body, fearful of Greengall’s rage. Nacris dabbed at the blood running down her face and looked up to her harsh master again. She laughed. The low, cheerless sound drew all eyes.
To Zannian’s surprise, Greengall, who hated the sound of human merriment, chose to ignore the transgression instead of punishing it. Clearly the mysterious fragment was important.
“Who brought this here?” Greengall asked, looking around. No one spoke.
Zannian alone had not retreated. Handing his bleeding mother a scrap of doeskin to press to her wound, he said calmly, “Oswan, step forward and tell the Master your tale.”
Trembling as much from new terror as from his recent ordeal, Oswan fell to his knees before Greengall. In halting words he told how he and his comrades had spotted the runaway calf and given chase, how a strange, powerful man had appeared and unhorsed them. That was all he remembered.
“A man, you say?”
Swallowing audibly, Oswan replied, “Yes, Master.”
“Does this look like the skin of a man?” He flung the scale to the ground. It rang musically against a rock. “He is near! My old friend, the plaything of my youth, has come to seek me out!”
Zannian was puzzled. “Who, Master?”
Nacris said exultantly, “The bronze dragon, Duranix!”
She resumed her perverse cackling. The raiders muttered and shifted uncomfortably. Greengall, catching Nacris’s mood, started giggling, his green mane lifting as his chortles rose in volume.
“It was only a matter of time before dear little Duranix paid us a visit,” he said. To the raiders, he shouted, “Why do you fear? I slew this lizard’s mother eight hundred years ago, and Amylyrix was thrice the dragon Duranix will ever be! It was inevitable he would take the field against us. I will deal with him. You have only to slaughter his foolish herd of humans, and your task will be done.”
“Having an enemy dragon on the plain will make our task harder,” said Zannian.
Greengall thrust his hideous face close to the young chiefs. “Is that a complaint, rodent?”
With remarkable aplomb, Zannian stood up under the monster’s baleful gaze and replied, “No, Master. An observation.”
“Good.” Greengall grinned, showing tight rows of sharp, conical teeth.
He picked up the scale and tucked it under his unnaturally long, green arm. “Continue as before,” he ordered. “Sweep the savanna clean of all nomads and game animals. That will prevent the villagers from getting news or fresh meat from outside their valley. Once that’s done, we’ll make our advance on Arku-peli.”
The raiders cheered, but it sounded forced. Greengall departed, his grotesquely long legs bowing out as he walked away.
Several paces distant, he stopped. Turning back, he added, “Oh, yes. Hang that one.”
Oswan blanched and held out his hands. “Spare me, Master!” Oswan wailed. “I did no wrong!”
“You let the enemy get the better of you,” Greengall replied. His face contorted in a wide, wicked grin. “Hang a while, and consider your failure.”
Hoten signaled, and Oswan was seized by comrades and dragged off, screaming his loyalty and innocence. Greengall, ordinarily very fond of hangings, ambled back to his tent, idly licking the bronze scale. Zannian hesitated a moment between his bleeding mother and his freakish master, then followed Greengall.
“Master!” he called, as the latter was about to enter his tent.
Greengall turned, taking the scale from his lips.
“Why not spare Oswan? If the men were ambushed by a dragon, they had no chance to win anyway.”
“I know.”
Zannian blinked. “Why kill him? We’ll need every man for the battle ahead.”
Greengall lifted the flap of this tent. “Hanging him will encourage the others.”
Greengall ducked inside and reclined on his couch of rotting leaves. Zannian hovered near the flap, wishing his master would light a lamp. He heard a scrabbling in the peat and leaves, followed by a muffled crunching. Greengall must have found a rat or roach.
The dragon swallowed and said, “Don’t hover there like some cautious bat. Come in!”
Zannian stepped forward and let the flap fall.
“It’s time your scouts
were given their special spears. Make sure the potion is applied to the bronze tips.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Take no more prisoners until Duranix is found. Any man your riders meet might be the dragon in disguise, so kill any humans you find until I tell you to stop.” Greengall belched loudly. A horrible stench filled the tent. “One other thing, Zannian.”
“Yes, Master?”
Greengall stretched and scratched himself, his talons scraping loudly against his leathery skin. “The human female you once desired is not far away.”
Heat flared in the young warrior’s breast. “Beramun? Where is she?”
“Arku-peli.”
Zannian’s heart raced. Greengall might be lying — he certainly had a black sense of humor — but what if he wasn’t?
“She couldn’t have escaped if I hadn’t allowed it,” Greengall continued smugly. “She is where I wished her to go. Through her, Arku-peli will fall. She’s my egg in little Duranix’s nest.”
“When the valley is ours, I will have her?” Zannian asked, with undisguised yearning.
“That is up to you, little Zan. If the fight does not consume you both, she may yet be yours. When the village is in ruins and the Lake of the Falls is saturated with the blood of Duranix and his nest of rodents, you may claim whatever you want from the remains.”
Greengall dismissed Zannian, and the young man withdrew, his head spinning. He was filled with new zeal, new purpose. If it meant finding Beramun again, he would tear down the mountains with his bare hands. He’d been stricken from the time he first saw her, and her escape had made his desire for her grow unbearably. Now that he knew she was in Arku-peli, he couldn’t wait to lead his men into battle.
Thoughts of fighting and the black-haired girl put a swagger in Zannian’s step. He walked back to the firelit camp humming happily, not even noticing the body of Oswan swinging from a tree.
Chapter 13
The sounds of the night abruptly ceased. Frogs, crickets, owls, and other denizens of the dark fell silent. The sudden silence stirred Duranix from his nap. He opened one eye.
He spotted a line of horsemen riding in single file along the southern horizon. From the gear they wore, he deduced they must be from the same band as the other three he’d fought. Evidently his message to Sthenn had been ignored.
Duranix crawled from his resting place. Rocks tumbled away as he straightened his stiff legs. Noise carried far on the savanna, and the column of riders halted, hearing the clatter.
The dragon sprang into the open, expanding to his true shape as he hurtled into the air. Landing at full stretch, he spread his wings, threw back his head, and sent a bolt of white-hot lightning blasting from his throat.
The raiders reacted strangely to the terrifying display. Instead of galloping away, they broke formation and charged. Nonplussed, the dragon watched as the small party surrounded him, spears leveled.
Duranix swiped at the nearest rider. Rearing up on his hind legs, he exhaled his fear-inducing breath at the rest of the men. To his immense surprise, the men and horses did not bolt. Both men and beasts wore masks over noses and mouths, and the leather masks were smeared with some kind of oily paste. Duranix knew Sthenn dabbled with herbs and potions. Apparently he had prepared his forces for this type of attack.
A sharp pain flared in Duranix’s right leg. He’d been so astonished by the failure of his fear-breath that he’d failed to notice the last rider in line. The fellow had worked in behind and pricked the dragon’s right rear leg with a bronze-tipped spear. With a roar, Duranix whirled on his attacker.
The dragon’s claw shot out and plucked the raider from his horse. The man was a brave fellow and didn’t scream, even when the dragon bit his head off.
Duranix hurled the body at the raiders, then spat the man’s head at them for good measure. Still they did not flee, but merely circled out of reach.
The dragon tried to pull the spear from his hip, but the flimsy shaft snapped, leaving the bronze head embedded. Bellowing, he lunged at the nearest rider. The human’s pony pranced sideways, narrowly avoiding Duranix’s talons. The raider had the temerity to jab at the dragon with his spear.
Once more Duranix was taken aback. These insane humans were trying to fight him! Humans always fled when he attacked. These raiders, mounted on fleet horses, could have galloped away at any time, but instead they maneuvered around him, making menacing thrusts with their puny spears.
Puny but painful! Duranix’s hip wound burned. The pain was so abnormal he had a terrible moment of insight. He leaped backward several paces and groped in the wound to find the spearhead. He shuddered in agony, but persisted and found the jagged triangle of bronze. With the tips of two talons, he teased it out and gave the point a quick sniff.
Poison. The smell was pungent and fetid — Sthenn’s personal blend.
Six of the raiders marshaled themselves and charged. Duranix feigned a greater hurt than he felt and awaited their attack, head hung low. At the last moment, he launched himself over the charging horsemen, vaulting above their heads and alighting behind them.
Their comrades shouted warnings too late. With two wide sweeps of his claws, Duranix cut the men to pieces. Foreclaws dripping gore, his eyes flashing with fury, he faced the remaining three raiders.
“Flee!” cried one. “We’re outdone!”
“Stand fast!” bellowed another. “Remember Oswan! If I’m to die, let it be fighting a great beast, not kicking at the end of a rope!”
So saying, he gave a full-throated battle cry and charged. A heartbeat later, the other two kicked their mounts into action as well.
With pain singing through his leg, Duranix had no patience left. His mouth gaped, and a lightning bolt issued forth. Three riders, their horses, and a goodly patch of savanna were reduced to cinders in the twitch of an eye.
As the smoke rose into the starry sky, Duranix sank to the ground, panting. Numbness gripped the muscles around his wound, and when he tried to stand, the useless limb would not support his weight. Hobbling to the dead raiders he hadn’t incinerated, he stripped off their chaps and tore the leather into strips. With these he made a tourniquet to restrict the spread of the poison from his leg.
It scarcely helped. The weakness was spreading rapidly up his haunch, toward his wing. When he tried to fly, he was so badly off balance he tumbled headfirst to the ground.
After four such spills, he gave up, exhausted. The numbness now encompassed his right leg and wing, and was creeping across his lower back.
The dragon raged at his own stupid complacency. He’d known these humans were allied with Sthenn, and yet he’d let them get close enough to stick him with their primitive weapons. He pondered gnawing off his poisoned leg, to keep the toxin from reaching his heart. The limb would grow back eventually, but until it did he would be a helpless cripple, easy prey for Sthenn or his bold human minions.
Duranix limped eastward, moving awkwardly on three legs. Keeping to creeks and gullies, he avoided showing himself, in case other raiders were tracking him.
As the white moon set and the deep stillness of late night settled over the plain, he was reduced to crawling. His right rear leg and right wing were completely useless, and his left leg had begun to tremble under his weight, Duranix had to pull himself forward with his foreclaws, occasionally assisted by thrusts of his weakening left leg. He kept this up for some time, putting more and more distance between himself and the raiders.
The rustle of wings overhead was followed by a ground tremor, as something heavy alighted nearby. By this time, Duranix was so dazed with pain and fatigue he hardly noticed.
“Dear, dear,” said a simpering voice. “What a sight!”
Duranix pushed himself up with his forelegs and lifted his heavy head. “Sthenn!” he rasped. “Where are you, you wretched lizard?”
“Behind you, dear friend, as always.”
Duranix looked back. Sthenn’s silhouette blotted out the stars. With great effort, the b
ronze dragon hauled himself around to face his adversary.
Sthenn watched his struggle with amusement. “It’s been a long time, little Duranix.”
“Not long enough. Come to finish me off?”
Sthenn blinked his dark-veined eyes. “Finish you? Certainly not. That would be too easy. You’ve a long way to go yet. All the way back to Arku-peli.”
Duranix stretched his jaws wide and loosed a bolt of lightning large enough to split a mountaintop. Sthenn leaped into the air, his desiccated wings flapping just enough to keep him aloft, and the bolt flashed harmlessly beneath him. Duranix quickly corrected his aim and another blast blazed forth. Sthenn rolled to one side, dodging easily.
“A merry game!” he declared. “I wonder which of us will tire of it first?”
The second bolt left Duranix prostrate. Sthenn landed nearby and approached with wings folded. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down on his helpless foe with enormous delight.
“Be still, little one,” the green said soothingly as Duranix tried to rise. “I won’t harm you further… yet.”
“What do you want?”
“Can’t you guess? Your land, your humans, your lair, your life. I’ve spent centuries planning your destruction. There’s no hurry. My beautiful plot is still playing out.”
Duranix clenched his eyes shut, summoning all his strength, then he began to crawl away. Sthenn watched avidly, enjoying every agonized movement
“Shall I tell you my plan?” he asked. “I am quite ingenious, you know. The first step was to create the yevi. I thought I could rid the plains of wandering humans with them, but you interfered more directly than I expected.” Sthenn’s amused expression darkened. “When you recruited the two-legged rodents to serve you, I had to do the same. How do you stand the smell of them?”
“You get used to it,” grunted Duranix as he dragged himself forward.
“You never were as sensitive as I. Still, my humans have been useful to me. They’re more vicious than the yevi and a good deal more clever. The boy Zannian has a great talent for bloodshed. While waiting for your favorite pet to age, I groomed my own to be a conqueror.”