Brother of the Dragon tb-2

by Paul Cook

  Amero was genuinely surprised. “Why do they think that?”

  “Because you’re the Arkuden. Everything that happens, good and bad, is because of you.”

  “Is that what you think, too?”

  She picked up her mending again. “You didn’t bring Zannian down on us. He came here at the bidding of the green dragon.” She gave him a sidelong look and added, “But I don’t understand all the decisions you’ve made. Why did you let the Protector leave?”

  “I don’t control Duranix.” Amero’s voice was sharp. “I never have.”

  She nodded and bent herself to her task.

  He felt the burden of their troubles resting on his shoulders, heavy and solid as a mountain. All he wanted was peace, to have his old life back and work in the foundry, continuing his experiments with bronze. Instead, he spent his days on the abandoned Offertory, impotently watching the movements of the raiders.

  During the day they rode back and forth in plain view, doing nothing but doing it loudly. There was nowhere in Yala-tene to escape the noise of their movements or the stench of the rotting food outside the walls or the memory of those who had died. By night, the raider camp was lit with bonfires, and the valley rang with coarse singing and drunken laughter.

  A complete turn of the moons had passed since Zannian had come to Yala-tene, and there’d been no fighting for half that time. The raiders seemed in good spirits however — able to hunt, eat, drink, and do as they liked.

  Amero watched the raiders ride and carouse. In another cycle of the white moon, it would be Moonmeet, when Lutar and Soli joined in the heavens. Moonmeet signaled the height of summer. It was normally a time of celebration, when the villagers reveled from sunset to sunrise, thereby losing a whole day’s work the next day.

  Amero dropped the staff he was leaning on. The villagers usually lost a whole day’s work after the Moonmeet festivities, because no one could work well after a night of drinking, dancing, and feasting. And no one could possibly fight.

  He clutched his hair with both hands. How many opportunities they had missed! He limped down the Offertory steps, calling loudly for the village elders. In the street before Lyopi’s house he gathered everyone and explained his idea.

  “The raiders have grown comfortable in their camp,” he said excitedly. “They drink and feast every night — ”

  “On our food,” Montu grumbled.

  “Yes, and we just sit here and let them. I’m tired of that! Tonight will be their last revel! When the bonfires blaze and the wine flows tonight, I propose to lead an attack on the raiders’ camp while they’re too drunk to resist!”

  The elders did not cheer or even express a taste for vengeance. Amero couldn’t fathom their lackluster response. Tepa spoke up, offering the explanation.

  “We’re tired of fighting, Arkuden,” he said. Since Udi’s death, Tepa had begun to show the burden of the years he had once worn so lightly. “So many have been hurt and died, and for what? Will this night attack drive the raiders from the valley?” Amero admitted he didn’t think they would succeed so grandly. Tepa sighed. “Then why do it?”

  “During the attack, our stockmen can round up as many oxen and goats as they can handle. We need food, and there’s food rotting a hundred paces outside the wall!”

  The elders brightened at this. Victuals were indeed worth fighting for. They began talking at once, some about fresh meat, others about night-fighting tactics. Amero was pleased. It was the most spirit any of them had displayed in many days.

  While the elders talked, Lyopi tugged at his elbow. “Are you going on this raid?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Her disapproval was fierce. “Let younger ones do the fighting!”

  “I’m not that old,” he said stiffly.

  “No, but you’re important to the people of Yala-tene. Think what a blow it would be if you were killed.” She turned away, then abruptly turned back again, shoving her face close to his. “And what will I do if you get killed?”

  He had to grin. “I’ll try not to be. But I can’t stay here, safe and protected, and send my people out to fight.”

  “Then I’m going, too. Someone has to guard your back, you old fool.” In view of his own reasons, he couldn’t refuse her.

  Amero reviewed the available men and women for the daring nighttime raid and chose thirty-three. He was saddened at being reminded how many familiar faces, young and old, were already gone.

  A few horses quartered inside the walls would be used as camouflage for the attack. Dressed in leather breastplates and hoods, four villagers would pose as raiders and lead those on foot to the enemy camp. Amero stressed that fighting was less important than sowing the maximum amount of confusion and bringing back food.

  At sunset, many more villagers than normal lined the walls, watching the raiders’ camp. Amero was worried their presence might warn Zannian some scheme was afoot, but the raiders paid them no heed. Bonfires blazed up in the raiders’ camp. Shouts and wild laughter soon followed. The valley floor around Yala-tene emptied of riders as Zannian’s men returned to camp for their nightly excesses.

  Multiple ropes were let down the wall, and a hurriedly built timber ramp was lowered to allow the skittish horses to reach the ground. A poor rider, Amero chose to lead the contingent on foot. Every bit of metal or stone carried by the villagers was swathed in soft hide scraps to prevent rattling. They blackened their faces and hands. One final preparation made little sense to many: Amero had his people tie bundles of sage or mint around their ankles.

  Lyopi asked, “Is this a charm for luck?”

  “We make our own luck,” he replied. “The herbs will keep the yevi from scenting us.”

  He took hold of a rope and lowered himself to the ground.

  Six days after she left Udi by the creek, Beramun came to the banks of a mighty river. She was far from the land she knew and had no idea of the river’s name, but it was a broad band of slow-moving green water, half a league wide in places. It flowed from north to south, like the Thon-Tanjan, whose upper branches she had already skirted.

  The opposite shore of the nameless river was lined with willow trees. Beyond them was a vast sea of grass, stretching to the horizon. All that moved on it were a few animals. Taking in the broad vista, she felt like the only human being in the world.

  Shaking off her loneliness, she slipped into the water. It was a long way, even for as strong a swimmer as she, so she floated out on the trunk of a dead tree, toppled earlier in a storm. Hooking the trunk under her arms, Beramun paddled into the wide river, hoping there were no dangerous beasts lurking beneath its placid surface.

  The crossing was long but tranquil enough. She slogged ashore on the east bank and immediately spotted a cut through the wall of willow trees. Closer inspection revealed hoofprints, a good sign. Amero had said Karada’s band rode horses.

  Beramun walked through the gap in the trees and spotted a trail winding away into the high grass. Before she’d gone ten steps, a rough net of woven vines dropped over her. Amid deep-voiced yells, she was swept off her feet and dragged pell-mell through the grass.

  Beramun shouted and kicked at the sturdy net as she bumped painfully over rocks and roots. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, her trip ended. One edge of the net was pulled hard, rolling her out into the grass.

  She sat up, furious. Her protests died in her throat when she saw her captors.

  They were centaurs — four dark, heavily muscled horsemen. One flanked her on each side, and two others stood in front of her. They were armed with long-handled clubs, blackened by years of bloodstains.

  The largest centaur asked a question in his own tongue.

  “My name is Beramun,” she said, guessing at his inquiry. She tried to stand, but the centaurs behind her tripped her. She rolled over and yelled, “I’ve done you no harm! Why do you attack me?”

  Big Centaur yelled right back, saliva flying from his lips. Beramun thought of her bronze dagger. Usually she wore i
t in a sheath at her waist, but for swimming, she’d tucked it in back of the collar of her shirt. It was still there, and the centaurs hadn’t found it.

  The chief centaur uttered a long imperative phrase that ended in what sounded like “seelwanest.” He pointed south with a thick finger. Beramun had a glimmer of understanding. She faced the chief and mimicked his gesture.

  “Silvanesti?” she said.

  He bobbed his shaggy head. “Seelwanest.”

  They were taking her to the elves!

  “No Silvanesti,” Beramun said, shaking her head vigorously. She raised her left hand and pointed northeast. “I’m here to find Karada. Karada!”

  The centaurs instantly lost their bored manner. Big Centaur stepped forward and grabbed Beramun by her hair.

  “Karada?” he roared, followed by undeniably ugly denunciation. He shook her like a panther worrying a fresh kill. Beramun, blind with pain, clawed and struck the centaur’s brawny arms. With a final exclamation of hatred, he threw her to the ground.

  The leader spoke, and two of his companions took hold of Beramun’s arms, pulling her to her knees. The third stretched her head back. Wide-eyed, she saw the big centaur raise his club high -

  There was a meaty thunk, and a long, slender wooden shaft, tipped with gray feathers, appeared in the centaur’s ribs. Blood welled out around the shaft.

  The chief centaur’s front knees buckled, and a second shaft sprouted from his chest. When a third appeared in his throat, he toppled to the side with a feeble grunt.

  The remaining centaurs released Beramun and galloped away. One of them received a wooden shaft in his back. He stumbled, calling out to his friends. They kept going and did not look back. Weaving from side to side, the wounded centaur tried to catch up with his fellows.

  Beramun’s shocked gaze left her erstwhile captors and turned to her savior.

  It was a woman, striding through the waist-high grass. Lean, clad in tan, close-fitting buckskins, the stranger had sun-gilded brown hair pulled back in a thick braid that reached to her waist. Her face and arms were brown as leather from years in the sun. She wore a spirit mark — three short horizontal lines of white paint on her forehead. What

  Beramun first took to be other painted lines on her throat and jaw turned out to be massive scars, which did not tan as darkly as the rest of her skin. Though not really a handsome woman, she was tall and had an arresting presence.

  Halting a pace away from Beramun, the woman raised an amazing device. It was a long, bent piece of wood. The two ends were joined by a taut length of sinew. She fitted one of the slender wooden shafts — it looked like a miniature spear, with a flint head on one end and feathers on the other — against the sinew and drew it back with her fingers while holding the wooden part at arm’s length. The stave flexed deeply. Releasing her grip, the woman sent the tiny, feathered spear winging toward the wounded centaur. It struck him in the hindquarters. He went down, disappearing in the tall grass.

  At last the woman took notice of Beramun. “All right, girl?” she asked. Her accent was odd, but her words understandable.

  Beramun, still stunned by her last-second reprieve, stuttered, “I am. Yes. Thank you!”

  “Good.”

  She made for the spot where the second centaur had fallen, Beramun following. Along the way, she slipped the dart thrower over her head for carrying and drew a wickedly long bronze knife.

  The centaur was lying on his side, breathing raggedly. When he saw the two women approaching, he struggled to rise. He failed and lay bleeding in the grass.

  The woman said a sentence in the harsh centaur tongue. Rage, impotent but genuine, bloomed on the wounded creature’s face.

  “What did you say?” Beramun asked.

  “I told him to prepare to meet his ancestors.”

  “You mean to kill him?” At the woman’s curt nod, Beramun added, “You must not!”

  The woman pondered a moment, then reversed her grip on the knife. “You’re right. You should do it.” She offered the handle to Beramun.

  “No! I mean you should spare him. I’m not hurt, and he’s suffered enough.”

  Studying her with penetrating, hazel eyes, the woman flipped the knife back again into her right hand. “He’s got one arrow in his lung and another in his haunch,” she said. “If we leave him here, he’ll die slowly — unless wolves or panthers get him first.”

  Beramun looked at the wounded centaur. One hoof, held off the ground, trembled. The centaur’s face was twisted in agony, his breathing shallow and short. Though he and his companions had tried to kill her, she felt no pleasure at his condition.

  He gasped a few words. Beramun looked questioningly at the woman, who translated. “He says he hurts and I should finish him. He laid hands on you, girl. What do you say?”

  “Do what you must,” Beramun said. She turned away.

  After a moment, the woman, wiping her blade with a tuft of plucked grass, caught up to Beramun.

  “I don’t know why they attacked me,” Beramun said.

  “The big one, Ponaz, was a vicious renegade.” The woman sheathed her knife and took her dart-throwing device in hand again. “He and his sons capture humans to sell to the Silvanesti. The elves pay in flint and hides.” She gave Beramun a thoughtful look. “They pay more for a live human than a dead one. I wonder why Ponaz was willing to lower your value?”

  Beramun fingered her bruised head. “I think it’s because I mentioned Karada.”

  The stranger laughed. “That would do it. Karada and Ponaz have had a blood feud going for quite a while. He must’ve thought you were one of her band.”

  The woman’s long gait forced Beramun to jog to keep up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Again, that disconcertingly direct gaze was leveled at her. “Why do you want to know?” the woman asked.

  “I’m a wanderer, new to these parts. I was sent to find Karada.”

  “Were you? Who sent you?”

  “Her brother, the Arkuden of Yala-tene.”

  The woman halted. She didn’t draw her knife or load her dart thrower, but Beramun had the distinct feeling she was in peril.

  “Centaurs aren’t the only ones who take payment from the elves,” the woman said slowly. “The Silvanesti have a price on Karada’s head — one hundred jewels or one hundred pounds of fine bronze. Such wealth could easily turn a girl’s head.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Beramun replied, trying to stay calm.

  Plainly evaluating her, the woman asked, “What is the Arkuden’s true name?”

  “True name? Amero. It’s Amero.”

  A nod. “And the dragon who guards Arku-peli — what’s he called?”

  “Duranix.”

  “Right again. What was Karada’s birth name?”

  Beramun felt panic rise in her chest. She had no idea.

  “Well?” demanded the woman.

  “I don’t know. Amero never told me.”

  The woman resumed walking. Beramun ran to catch up. “Do you know where I can find Karada?”

  “Karada’s dead. She died in battle years ago.”

  Beramun was desperate. “Well then, does her band yet survive?” There was no answer, and Beramun’s voice rose. “Please! I must find them! I’m the last of eight scouts sent to find Karada. All the rest were killed. Yala-tene is under attack and will fall soon if someone doesn’t help! Amero and all his people will perish!”

  “The Silvanesti have attacked Arku-peli?”

  “No. Human raiders, under a chief named Zannian. They fight for a green dragon called Sthenn, and they mean to destroy Yala-tene completely!”

  “Where’s Duranix? Why doesn’t he save his people?”

  Keeping pace with this elk-muscled woman made Beramun pant. “He left the valley… chasing Sthenn, and won’t return… till the green dragon’s… dead.”

  In a stand of poplar trees the woman had tethered a horse. It was a beautiful animal, wheat-colored, with a long white mane a
nd tail. A finely woven blanket lay across its back. Untying the reins, the woman mounted easily.

  “You seem honest enough,” she said, wrapping the reins around one hand and extending the other to Beramun. “I’ll take you to Karada’s band, but if you have treachery in mind, you’ll die much less cleanly than that centaur.”

  Swallowing hard, Beramun took the woman’s hand. She was very strong, and effortlessly hauled the girl onto the horse behind her.

  “Their camp is a half day’s journey from here. Have you ridden before?”

  “A little.” She put her arms around the nomad woman’s waist. “My name’s Beramun. What shall I call you?”

  The woman pulled her horse’s head around and thumped its ribs with her heels. “Call me Nianki,” she said.

  The camp was a collection of tents and sod huts, cunningly hidden. Various traps and obstacles Beramun reckoned were meant to fend off attacks by the Silvanesti guarded the perimeter. There were pits covered with twigs and grass (for trapping enemies on horseback), dense hedges of thorn-bush and holly, fences of sharpened stakes arranged with the points raking outward, ditches full of water, and deadfall traps loaded with boulders and masses of earth. Nianki rode in carefully, avoiding each trap. The path was so intricate Beramun knew she could never have gotten in without a guide.

  The camp proper was hidden behind a pair of hills, invisible to a casual observer. One moment Beramun and Nianki were riding along a narrow path between the hills, and in the blink of an eye, ten score dwellings appeared, arranged in three concentric circles around a central fire-pit. It was a busy scene, with half-naked children dashing about, dogs barking, artisans making baskets, blankets, and the little spears for Nianki’s throwing stick (“arrows,” she called them). Deeper in the camp were horse pens crowded with fine-looking animals. Beramun estimated there were five or six hundred people living here.

  Few were as fair-haired as Nianki. Most had brown or black hair, like Beramun’s. There were also quite a few black men and women from across the northern sea, like Huru and Paharo back in Yala-tene. She wondered if any of these nomads came from her homeland on the southern plain.