by Paul Cook
“Why didn’t you?”
He grinned widely. “I knew his mother, Amylyrix. We fought long and hard for this same territory, one thousand two hundred years ago. Neither of us could gain the upper hand until I found her nest in the Easthorn Mountains, far from here, and brought an avalanche down on her. Her clutch was buried under half a mountain, and she herself was mortally wounded. I sat atop the pile of stones and waited for her to die. It took eleven days.”
Nacris understood. She dreamed of the day she would stand over Karada’s dying body.
“I thought I had disposed of her whole brood,” Greengall continued, “but as I sat there listening to Amylyrix expire, I heard a hatchling mewling under the rocks. Curious, I dug him out. It was Duranix. His mother had shielded him from the weight of the landslide with her own body.”
“A mother’s finest deed,” said Nacris sincerely.
The grotesque creature gave her an inscrutable look. “Yes, very noble. I picked up little Duranix by his tail and told him, ‘I’ve killed your family, but I’m going to let you live. Do you know why?’ All the little scalesucker could do was puke and whimper. I rapped his skull with a stone to make sure he was listening. ‘I’m going to let you live,’ I said, ‘so I can kill you later.’”
Time passed with only the sound of dripping rain to mark it.
“Do you understand?” Greengall asked, coming out of his reverie to give Nacris a probing look.
“The bronze dragon owes his life to you, however reluctantly.” From beneath her tangled, graying hair, Nacris’s eyes glimmered like rain-flecked flint. “How he must hate you.”
“I hope so! What a waste if he doesn’t!”
Nacris settled back in her litter and closed her eyes. What a monster she was consorting with — conniving, endlessly cruel, and with a vicious sense of humor. Having Sthenn for an ally was like sleeping with a deadly viper. The question was not if it would bite you, but when.
No matter. The green dragon was simply the means to an end. To destroy a powerful, clever enemy, one needed powerful, ruthless allies.
Twelve years ago she’d lost everything. Karada had killed her mate, Sessan, then helped Duranix defeat the disaffected nomads led by Nacris, Hatu, and Tarkwa. Tarkwa perished in the fight. Hatu was hunted down and murdered by the bronze dragon. Nacris alone had survived, hurled into the lake by Duranix, her leg shattered by the fall. A clan of ox herders had rescued her from the river below Yala-tene, but her leg had been too far gone to be saved.
The herders went south to Khar land, and Nacris went with them, slowly recovering. She vowed by all her ancestors that she would one day have her revenge on Karada, the village of Yala-tene, its protector dragon, and its headman.
One bitter winter day her adopted clan was massacred by the Almurk raiders. Nacris recognized one of her attackers as Hoten, son of Nito. Bald Hoten had been part of the rebel faction she’d led against Karada. He spared his old chief and took her deep into the forest at the Edge of the World to meet Sthenn. There, her dreams of vengeance began to take a more definite form.
“I have need for one like you,” Sthenn had told her.
Grateful to be alive, Nacris promised her loyalty, saying, “I no longer ride, but I know how to lead warriors in battle.”
“Any hothead can do that. I have a different task in mind, one more nourishing to the black heart I see within you.”
He had departed as the green dragon but returned in the form she came to know as Greengall. He brought with him a dirty, disheveled boy of twelve. He had introduced the child as Zannian, then added, “Boy, meet your mother.”
It was hard to say who had been more astonished, the child or the woman. The boy spoke first.
“Mother? How come I haven’t seen you before?”
“She’s been away fighting,” said Greengall. Venomous irony dripped from his words. “Now she’s come back to raise you properly. Isn’t that right?”
Nacris stared at the ragged hoy with his rat’s nest of light brown hair. Through the caked-on dirt, she could see intelligence shining from his hazel eyes — intelligence and mistrust in equal measure — as he gazed back at her.
She glanced at Greengall. He was smiling, his horrible, too-wide grin revealing sharply pointed teeth. She voiced none of the questions that tumbled through her brain. Instead, she simply nodded. At that moment the bargain was made.
“Yes, I’ve come back,” she said to Zannian, opening her arms. “Come here, son.”
The boy let the strange woman hug him, though he didn’t return her rough embrace. After a few moments, Nacris pushed him away, brushing the matted hair from his face.
“I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing,” she said. Looking past Zannian to Greengall, she added, “You must tell me everything.”
Nacris became a mother. Later, she added to her vicious brood the orphan boys who became the Jade Men. Like Zannian, they were raised to know no right but force, no truth but fear, and no pleasure but obedience. She told herself she cared for none of them. They were tools for a task, nothing more. Why then did she feel a pang of fear when the Jade Men demonstrated their fighting skills against Zannian and yet felt nothing when a Jade Man was gravely wounded?
The rain continued to fall. Nacris imagined the cold drops washing away all her feelings and all her fears, until only pure hatred was left.
Chapter 16
At daybreak, Paharo and his five fellow scouts gathered under a cloud-shrouded sky. Dampened by intermittent drizzle, they waited for the Sensarku. When Tiphan and his acolytes arrived, the sight of them left Paharo and his scouts blinking in amazement.
They were twenty young men and women, none older than eighteen, clad in white doeskins. Their hair was plaited with spring flowers, and on their shoulders each bore a spear, its shaft daubed with white paint. Another five pairs of acolytes, also dressed in buffed doeskins and with flowers in their hair, drew five travois. The travois were heavily laden with supplies — by the look of it, enough to feed them all for twenty days.
Tiphan, walking proudly in the midst of his followers, was draped in doeskins of dazzling whiteness. His pale face was likewise coated with white paint, as were his hands and arms. Bronze dragon scales covered his chest. With his already white hair and eyebrows, he looked like a spirit in human guise. Only his eyes contained any color. They shone brilliant turquoise in the midst of his eerie pallor.
Paharo shook off his astonishment and got his scouts moving. They trotted away, spears on their shoulders, while Paharo wended his way through the immobile acolytes to speak to Tiphan.
“Tosen,” he said, glancing up at the midmorning sun, “are your people going like this? Soft clothing and bark sandals won’t last a day on the plain. Thorns and sharp stones will tear them to bits.”
The ghostly white face regarded him coolly. “All will be well, child. Believe in the power I command, as my children do.”
Paharo refrained from pointing out the Sensarku leader was only four years older than he was. Instead he said, “Very well, Tosen. We’ll scout ahead. When we reach the mouth of the valley, we’ll wait for you.”
“Thank you,” said Tiphan. At his command, his acolytes readied themselves to march.
Paharo jogged after his comrades, shaking his head. They had wasted good daylight waiting for Tiphan and his people, and when the Sensarku finally arrived, they were burdened with so much clothing and heavy supplies they couldn’t possibly make fast time. If the raiders attacked, the Sensarku would be easy prey unless Tiphan’s power actually could save them. For the sake of all Yala-tene, Paharo desperately hoped the Tosen could do the things he boasted.
*
The pit was stifling. Rain had filtered through the sod, reducing the floor of the hole to cold mud. Amero and Beramun huddled together in front of Duranix, listening to the drumming of horses’ hooves as the raiders crossed the plain searching for them.
While Beramun shivered in silent misery, Amero pressed an ear to
the dragon’s cavernous chest. Duranix’s heart labored slowly, like the muffled thunder of a dying storm.
What happened? Amero asked silently. Did you fight Sthenn?
Not Sthenn, although I saw him. One of his humans pricked me with a poisoned spear. Sthenn excels in making noxious potions. This is one of his worst.
What can we do?
Duranix exhaled hard. There was a moist rattle in his lungs. I removed the spearhead, hut the poison is in mg blood. Sthenn said it wouldn’t kill me, hut I don’t trust him. If I don’t find treatment soon, I fear the worst.
I won’t let you die! Amero laid a hand on his friend’s massive foreleg. Duranix’s scaly skin felt uncharacteristically moist and warm.
The dragon did not answer. Duranix’s eyes were closed, and his heartbeat was still abnormally slow, his breathing labored.
With nothing to do but wait, Amero and Beramun at last succumbed to exhaustion. Lying in the dirt in front of Duranix, they slept.
When Amero woke, the air was dank and hot. Drenched in sweat, he yearned for a cool breeze and a drink of water. He climbed the side of the pit until his head bumped the layer of sod covering the hole. He found a crack and managed to work his fingers through. Peering through the resulting opening, he saw the starry sky. Night had fallen.
He slid back down to the bottom again and felt around blindly until he located Beramun.
Though he tried to be gentle, she awoke with a start and cried out.
“Shh!” he hissed. “It’s me, Amero!”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to wake you quietly. It’s dark out, and I thought we could use some fresh air.”
“Oh, yes!”
She pushed past him and scrambled up the slope, bumping her head into the tangle of roots and dirt atop the pit. After a moment of fruitless struggle, she grumbled, “How do we get out of here?”
“Stay still. I’m coming up.”
He joined her at the top and found the seam again. Together, they heaved aside a triangular piece of sod. Cool air flooded over them. Both gasped in relief and shivered at the sharp temperature change.
Beramun put a foot on Amero’s thigh to push herself out, but he grabbed her ankle.
“Careful!” he whispered. She nodded curtly, climbed out, and Amero scrambled after her.
The storm had moved on, but tattered remnants of clouds periodically hid the stars. In the distance, the plain to the east was dotted with many small red flames — the campfires of Zannian’s band.
They found a brook flowing below a nearby hill. Joyously, they drank their fill, then washed the grime from their feet, hands, and faces. Amero wondered if the other boys had escaped. Beramun told him she’d sent Paharo off on a raider’s horse to warn the village, but he had no idea what had become of Udi and the rest.
Somewhere in the dark a wolf howled. Amero stood up, alert to the danger.
Beramun kept washing. “He’s leagues away,” said the girl, pouring a double handful of fresh water over her feet. “Don’t be so nervous.”
Running a hand through his damp hair, he said, “It’s been a long time since I was hunted.”
“I’ve been running since the night the raiders killed my family.”
“My family was killed by Sthenn’s followers, too, many years ago.”
“By raiders?”
“No. Yevi.” Amero sat down on the bank of the brook and told the story of his fight with the gray marauders.
“The dragon saved you,” Beramun mused, looking back toward the pit where Duranix lay. “I wonder why?”
“Sthenn’s creatures were in his territory. When he came to investigate, he found me. He destroyed the yevi pack only because he didn’t want Sthenn poaching on his territory. It was no more than that. Later, I think he saw me as an interesting animal to keep around.”
“Like we keep dogs?”
Amero smiled. “Something like that. Eventually, we became friends.”
A heavy scraping sound interrupted their storytelling. This time they both stood up, alarmed. Amero saw the dark bulk of the dragon crawling toward them. The sight of the mighty Duranix, dragging himself along on his belly with his two front limbs, stunned him profoundly.
The two humans stood by helplessly as the bronze dragon drew near. He dipped his snout into the stream and gulped loudly. While Duranix was busy drinking, Amero inspected the dragon’s wound.
“It’s festering,” he reported. “I should lance it.”
Duranix snaked his head around. “Will that help?”
“It will release the pressure.”
The dragon blinked once, eyelids clicking. He laid his chin down on the grass and closed his eyes. “Proceed.”
Amero drew his bronze dagger. Beramun exclaimed, “You’re going to cut him?”
“The poison needs to be bled out. It won’t cure him, but it may make him more comfortable.” Amero gently probed the edges of the wound with his fingers. “I ought to have a fire going, to cauterize the wound, but…” He shrugged. A fire was impossible with the raiders so close by.
Beramun took several steps back. “You’re crazy! Hurt him, and he’ll tear your head off!”
Amero ignored her. He put the point of the dagger against the sealed wound and pushed. Duranix didn’t even wince. Muscles straining, Amero worked the dagger in deeper, pressing until black blood coursed from the cut, soaking his hands. Swallowing the nausea in his throat, Amero held his place and cut deeper.
Suddenly, Duranix’s injured leg flexed backward in a powerful kick that tore a deep gouge in the turf. Amero flung himself out of the way, and the hard talons missed his belly by only a finger’s width.
Duranix raised his head. “I felt that! ” he rumbled.
“Sorry,” said Amero, flat on his back on the ground.
“Don’t be! That leg has been numb for days!” Reptilian brow furrowing, Duranix tried to lift his injured limb. Quivering with effort, it rose slowly, then fell back.
“That’s good!” Amero pushed himself up on his elbows. “Try again.”
The dragon bent back and took hold of his poisoned leg with his foreclaw and worked it back and forth. He hissed in pain as more poisoned blood surged from the wound. The grass and stream were stained by the spreading, foul pool. Holding her nose, Beramun retreated to higher ground.
“That’s better,” Duranix said. “It burns like fire, but at least I can feel it!”
“Can you walk?”
Duranix tried to stand and failed. “No. It’s still too weak.”
Amero threw handfuls of water over the dragon’s leg, washing the black blood away. As he labored, he called up to Beramun, “Do you know what larchit looks like?”
“Yes.”
“I need as much as you can find to make a poultice.” Amero rinsed his dagger in the stream and wiped it on the grass. “Here. Cut me some, please.” She took the weapon in one hand and, still holding her nose with the other, departed.
“I wonder if she’ll come back,” Duranix murmured, head down on the ground once more.
Amero finished washing the dragon’s leg. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Sthenn has marked her for his own, Amero. Sooner or later, she’ll betray you to him.”
Amero sat down by the dragon’s head. “Can’t you spare her some trust? I’ve been with her for days, and she’s done nothing wrong. Oh, she miscounted the raiders, but…” He waved a hand dismissively. “She could’ve betrayed us to them a dozen times, but she didn’t. She’s been nothing but what she seems — a girl, alone in the world, pursued by evil forces.”
In spite of his fevered exhaustion, the dragon cocked a metallic brow at his friend and teased, “Irresistible, isn’t she?”
“Oh, shut up.”
They listened to the crickets awhile, then Duranix’s nostrils flared. “I’m starving. Have you anything to eat?”
Amero looked in his shoulder pouch. “A little trail bread, some elk jerky — ”
“Give me the meat.”
The jerky was in two folded strips, each as long as Amero’s forearm. Enough to feed a man for three or four days, for the dragon it was less than a bite. It disappeared quickly into Duranix’s maw.
“We’ll have to move soon,” Amero said. “We don’t stand a chance against Zannian’s band by daylight.”
“You should go ahead on your own. I’m too slow. It will be easy for them to track me.”
“I won’t leave you behind.”
“Don’t be stupid. I won’t be able to defend you from the whole band.”
“Who asked you to? Have you ever considered that I might be able to defend you? ”
“Silly human! Think of the female, then. Do you want to see her killed?”
Amero’s argument died, the anger on his face fading into worry. He could take responsibility for himself and for the dragon, but not for Beramun.
Duranix closed his eyes tiredly. “You see? You must go without me.”
Before Amero could reply, Beramun returned with an armload of larchit leaves. They found smooth stones on the creek bank and set to pounding the fleshy green leaves to paste. Amero smeared several handfuls of the paste on Duranix’s wound. “You know this won’t cure me,” said the dragon.
“I know,” Amero said.
“Then why do it?”
“It will soothe your hurt. Isn’t that enough?”
Duranix lowered his head to the ground. “Stupid man,” he said, but there was no rancor in his words.
Beramun said little until Amero had finished ministering to his giant friend, then she asked, “What next?”
“We must get to Yala-tene,” he replied, rinsing the sticky larchit sap from his hands. “If we can get Duranix to the village, our healers can treat him.”
She chewed her lower lip and scuffed a heel in the dirt. “It’s a long way to the mountains. Do you think we can evade Zannian’s riders over that distance? I don’t.”
“You may be right. You should go.” Amero cleaned the dagger again and returned it to its sheath. “If you strike out due west, you might avoid the raiders altogether.”
She folded her arms. “You’re telling me to leave?”