by Dragon Lance
The leader reviewed the information he’d memorized on the village layout. Tortured from villagers captured in battle, it might not be reliable, but it was all they had. Decisively, he led his men in single file along the wall away from the standing torches. At the inside of the next zigzag, they found, as they expected, a ramp leading to the ground inside.
Halfway down the ramp, they came upon an armed villager relieving himself. The sentinel never had a chance. The Jade Men rolled his corpse into the shadows at the base of the ramp and moved on.
Yala-tene was an alien world to these youths, raised in a forest and on the open plain. The streets were dark, stone-cobbled, and damp. The stone houses seemed to close in on them from all sides. An odor of burnt meat was thick as fog. Though many of Zannian’s raiders ate cooked food, Nacris had raised her Jade Men to loathe such softness. They ate flesh in the way of their plainsmen ancestors: raw.
The concentration of peculiar sights and aromas was almost overwhelming, and their pace slowed as they grew confused and unsettled by the maze of streets. They collected behind their leader in the shelter of a blind alley below the town wall, unsure of their next move.
The leader’s senses slowly adjusted, and he studied his surroundings with more care. The highest structures stood out against the light of the stars. One of these structures, their mother had told them, was the White Tower, where the bronze dragon was fed. The headman, it was said, lived in a dwelling four houses east and two north of the White Tower. The door of his house was marked with the sign of the turtle, painted in white.
By hand signals, the leader ordered his men to follow him. They moved down the dark street in absolute silence. Nothing disturbed their single-minded concentration, not distant voices on adjoining streets nor the barking of the villagers’ tame dogs. Anything or anyone interfering with their purpose would die swiftly.
The narrow road, closed in on both sides by tall, windowless houses, ended on a much wider avenue. Lit by three large, open fires, the White Tower loomed over them. The area seemed filled with villagers, talking loudly and rattling their weapons.
The leader dropped to the ground and slowly wormed his way around the corner into the wider road. His followers waited. At times villagers walked within ten steps of him, oblivious to his prone form. Using his chin, fingers, and toes, he squirmed across the dangerous open space into the shadows on the other side. He signaled for the rest to follow, one at a time.
They proceeded without incident until the last man. A door in the house behind them opened suddenly, flooding the lane with light. A stoutish woman hefting a basket of food scraps saw the final Jade Man lying motionless in the street.
“Iby!” she called over her shoulder, shifting the basket to her hip. “Some drunkard’s passed out in the street!”
A male voice inside the house answered indistinctly. Before the woman could say more, the Jade Men’s leader was on her, green hand clamped over her mouth. He pushed her inside, and the rest of his band flowed in behind him.
The man called Iby rose from his hearth, a stone axe in his hand. He raised his weapon, but the Jade Men swept over him. Down he went, and the obsidian knives were put to work. Neither he nor his mate uttered another sound before they died.
Shivering with excitement, the Jade Men crowded around the dead couple’s hearth, poking their meager supper with their knives. They were quickly and silently called to order by the leader. He led them out of the house by the rear door, and they moved swiftly down the black, narrow street.
The leader felt a surge of triumph when they found the house of the turtle. Not only did it have the animal totem on the door as they’d been told, but a pair of armed villagers stood guard by the door. This was certainly the headman’s dwelling.
Four Jade Men worked their way around to the west side of the house. They would seize the closest guard while their leader and the other four took down the one nearest them. The signal to strike would be the leader’s bat-call.
The guards, one female and one male, were not as heedless as the others they’d encountered. The woman scanned the darkness alertly.
“Something moved over there,” she said.
The Jade Men froze in place.
“A dog?” the man suggested, lifting his spear.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.”
“You’re too nervous, Lyopi.”
The woman’s protest was interrupted by the squeaking bat-call. Before the first notes had died, several Jade Men launched themselves at the male guard. The woman shouted a warning, and the man turned, swinging his spear. He managed an awkward parry of the trio of obsidian knives thrust at his chest, and his arcing spear-shaft connected with the head of one of his attackers.
The woman put her back to his. As the rest of the Jade Men, leader to the fore, spilled out of the shadows, she gasped, “More of them coming!”
A diorite mace hit the male guard on the knee. He gave a grunt of pain and toppled. Before he hit the ground, another club connected with his temple, knocking him unconscious. At the same time, a leaping Jade Man struck the woman in the back. The spear flew from her hand, and she went down hard, landing facedown in the lane.
Every moment counted now. There was no time to spare for killing the two unconscious guards, and the leader guided his troop swiftly through the door of the dwelling.
A fire on the hearth had burned down to embers. The interior of the single round room was dim. Nostrils flaring, the leader smelled his prey before he saw him.
The headman lay on his side, his back to the door. The commotion outside had not wakened him. Half his face was swathed in bandages – a wound earned in battle with Zannian’s men.
Slaying him as he slept held no satisfaction, so the leader kicked the headman until he stirred. The fellow’s single visible eye widened in shock as he rolled over and saw the apparitions surrounding him.
Before the headman could so much as raise a hand, the leader struck, dropping to his knees and using his whole body to increase the force of his blow. He drove the dagger into his victim so far the brittle stone snapped in two. The other Jade Men moved in, ringing their prey and stabbing him again and again. None would leave with an unbloodied knife.
Shouts outside ended the murdering frenzy. Time to depart. The leader gestured at the open doorway.
He was the last to leave. With a final satisfied glance at the dead man, the leader of the Jade Men went out the door. He left his broken blade lodged in his victim’s ribs.
Outside, the streets were alive with villagers shouting and brandishing torches and spears. The two guards were gone, either fled or carried off.
There was no need for stealth now, so the Jade Men ran, heading for the ramp they’d used to enter Arku-peli. Near the White Tower they were confronted by a band of villagers. Stones and spears flew at them. One of the latter caught the trailing Jade Man in the back, and he went down, severely injured. He swiftly drew his knife and fell upon it rather than surrender to the outraged townsfolk.
The alleys confused the fleeing youths, fragmenting the band of eight. The leader knew the way out yet did not call to the others. Like his men, he had taken an oath to say nothing until the mission was completed. None of them violated that oath – not even those who, confused and disoriented, blundered into armed search parties and were killed.
The leader was the only survivor to reach the foot of the ramp. After racing up the ramp, he uttered his bat-call from the summit of the wall. The rest of his group hastily quit the shadows to re-form their living ladder.
As he waited for them to be ready, the leader looked back over the village. Twin rivers of fire were converging on his position, two columns of torch-bearing villagers howling for vengeance. When several villagers reached the base of the ramp below him, the leader could wait no longer. He slid feet first down the sloping wall to reach his comrades.
Rough stone tore at his legs. When he hit the uppermost Jade Man, the human ladder shuddered but h
eld.
The leader climbed quickly down his comrades’ bodies. As he passed a pair, they would disconnect themselves and follow him down.
From the wall, villagers hurled stones, pots, and torches at the intruders. One pot filled with oil shattered on the wall, and a blazing stick that followed set it alight. The uppermost Jade Men were doused in flames, and the remainder of the ladder simply fell apart, burning.
“Get them! Kill them all! Let none escape!” shouted a villager. Rocks and trash were replaced by lethal spears.
Two Jade Men died in the fire. Three were swiftly impaled. Two more fell into hidden pit traps. It seemed none of them would escape. But when the leader finally threw himself to the ground, he found two of his comrades remained with him. All three lay on the lee side of the hill, panting and listening to the shouts of their furious enemy. Suddenly, one plaintive cry rose above the rest.
“They killed him! They killed the Arkuden!”
The wail was taken up by the rest of the villagers. Lying in the dirt, the searing pain of his scorched arms and back forcing tears from his eyes, the leader of the Jade Men smiled so broadly his parched lips cracked and bled.
Arkuden, meaning “dragon’s son,” was the villagers’ name for their headman. Amero was dead.
Mother and the Master would be very pleased.
Chapter 2
Harak was a long way from home.
Not that he had a home, in the sense the people of Yala-tene did. Harak was a nomad and had always been a nomad, even before joining Zannian’s army. When he thought of home – which he rarely did – he thought of the wide, grassy plains where he’d been born. He was a long way from there now.
Sitting on a cold stone slab high in the mountains of Khar land, surrounded by hostile and suspicious ogres, was not a place Harak wanted to be. He’d undertaken this insane errand at the behest of Zannian’s mother, Nacris. Crazy woman, crazy mission.
Go to the mountains, she’d told him. Find the ogre tribe led by Ungrah-de. Promise them rich plunder if they will help us capture Arku-peli.
It sounded simple the way she put it, but Harak had no real idea just how dangerous his task would turn out to be. Unlike the relatively gentle mountains surrounding the Valley of the Falls, the ogre homeland was higher and colder than any place he’d ever been. By day, wind roared through the passes like a torrential river, blinding him and his horse with driven grit. The air was so frigid and dry it sucked all the warmth from his limbs and caused his exposed skin to crack like old leather. By night the wind died, but sunset brought on cold more pervasive than any he had ever felt before. Furs hardly sufficed to keep the deadly chill away.
Harak’s first night in the high pass was almost his last. He was well toward freezing to death when his horse, unhappy with the raw conditions, kicked him awake. Staggering to his knees, Harak managed to get a fire going before his eyes closed forever. The horse got a double ration of hay the next morning, as well a new name: Stone Toe.
Harak’s travails didn’t end with the cold or the desiccating wind. He had to convince the ogres he met not to kill and rob him on sight. Some would not be persuaded, and time and again he was forced to flee. Those ogres not bent on murdering him presented another problem: how to locate Ungrah-de.
Harak quickly discovered that “Ungrah” was a common name among ogres, and “Ungrah-de” merely meant “Big Ungrah.” Many of the creatures answered to that epithet. A great many.
In the end, he found the one he sought by means of a stratagem. He presented a minor chieftain with a bronze Silvanesti dagger and hinted he had a very special gift for the great chief known as Ungrah-de.
“Give gift to me,” said the lesser chief, who was named Garnt. “I’ll give it to Big Ungrah when next I see him.”
Harak had no doubt his life would end immediately once the ogre extracted whatever goods he had. On the other hand, resisting Garnt’s request was likely to be less than healthy, too.
Clapping his hands to his head, Harak howled, “Fierce One, have pity! I bear in my pack a blade cursed by the priests of the woodland elves. My master, the great chief Zannian, cannot wield this weapon himself, for the curse will strike down anyone who holds the blade, sending maggots to consume his flesh even down to the small bones! My chief seeks to rid both his people of this cursed blade and your mountains of the vile tyrant Ungrah-de. When the monster takes the weapon in his unworthy hand, the elf curse will infest him at once, and we shall be blessed by his death!”
Garnt digested this. Harak was gambling on his host hating Ungrah-de, who by reputation was the largest and fiercest ogre in the highlands.
Garnt asked to see the “cursed” Silvanesti weapon. Harak displayed a sword Nacris had sent along as part of the payment for the ogres’ aid. It was a fairly unremarkable bronze weapon with a ring of smoky garnets in its pommel. Harak made a great show of handling the Silvanesti blade with scraps of leather to keep from touching the bare metal.
Garnt studied the sword for a long time. Harak could almost hear the turnings of his slow brain.
“Such a gift must be delivered right away,” the ogre said at last. “One of my warriors will take you to Ungrah-de.”
Harak bowed low, deliberately letting the bronze blade slip from his grasp and fall at Garnt’s feet. The massive ogre shuffled backward to avoid the touch of the “cursed” weapon.
“You go now!” Garnt snapped, face paling. He sent an ogre named Ont to accompany Harak as guide and interpreter.
A day later Ont was leading Harak through a lofty crevice between two of the highest peaks in the range. The air was so thin that Stone Toe’s breath came in labored, deep-chested gasps. Harak took pity on the horse and dismounted, leading him by the reins.
Even Ont found the height difficult. He rested frequently, leaning a heavy arm against the unyielding mountain and breathing hard. During one of these breaks, Harak asked why the great chief lived so high.
Ont’s knowledge of the plains tongue was limited, but he explained the mighty Ungrah-de, being much bigger than his fellow ogres, could breathe effectively at high altitude. It was clear Ont considered himself a mere youth in comparison to the great chieftain.
Harak he dismissed as a “bird,” the uncomplimentary epithet ogres used to describe any small and insignificant creature.
Harak assumed the ogre was exaggerating. Ont was two full spans taller than Harak’s own considerable height and much more heavily muscled than any human. However, when they reached Ungrah-de’s camp, situated on a plateau below the highest peak in the entire range, he realized his guide was only relating the truth. Ungrah-de proved to a towering creature, and the males of his tribe all topped Ont by at least a handspan.
With Ont interpreting, Harak greeted the celebrated Ungrah-de and offered him the gifts Nacris had sent. In addition to the Silvanesti sword, there were various other pretty items stolen by the raiders on their sweep across the plains.
Painted pots and leather goods did not interest the ogre chief. Ungrah-de kicked through the pile of gifts at his feet until he came upon a rare item – a bronze scale. Cunning Nacris had included it intentionally. It was the same scale Duranix had sent to Zannian as a warning to turn back from Yala-tene.
Ungrah-de picked up the scale in one hand, sniffed it, and said a single word to Ont.
The smaller ogre, translating, turned to Harak and asked, “Dragon?”
“Yes,” Harak said, “a scale from a bronze dragon.” Kneeling before this gargantuan ogre, he felt exactly as Ont had characterized him, like a bird, a sparrow in a ring of vultures.
Ungrah asked a question, and Ont relayed. “You take from dragon?”
A little embellishment never hurt a story. “No. My chief, the mighty Zannian, struck this off the dragon Duranix.”
“Where is dragon now?” the chief asked, through Ont.
Harak looked up at the hulking ogre. “Flown away, to the setting sun. The powerful Zannian chased him away.”
Ont
translated this. Ungrah responded with a sharp-sounding query.
“He says, if your chief so strong, why need Ungrah-de?”
“Tell the dread chief my people are worn down from long days of fighting. The villagers have chosen to hide behind walls of stone and refuse to come out and fight, face to face, like men – ah, like ogres.”
Ont conveyed this reply. More of Ungrah-de’s warriors gathered around them. The chief thrust his jutting jaw forward, clacking his lower tusks against his upper fangs. He asked what was in the alliance for him.
“Plunder,” Harak said loudly, spreading his hands wide. “All the horses and oxen you can carry off. Cloth, furs, and anything else in the village.”
“Humans?” Ungrah asked slyly.
Though it made his stomach churn, Harak nodded. “Yes. As many as you can take.”
When Ont translated this, the ogres began talking all at once, bellowing, pointing, and gnashing their prominent teeth. Harak tried to interrupt but it was like whistling against thunder. Ungrah-de noticed the human trying to speak and roared for quiet.
Ogres are taciturn and slow to speak, but once they get going, they’re equally hard to silence. When his bellow failed, Ungrah snatched a club from his belt and laid about with this huge persuader, knocking some of his warriors out cold. Others retreated out of reach, nursing bloody noses or spitting out cracked teeth.
Ungrah shoved the end of the club in Harak’s face and roared a question. Ont, after shouldering his way out of the mob, translated.
“He says what else do you have for him?” Ont added in a low voice, “Give cursed blade now. I pick you up and run when Ungrah die!”
Harak nodded, feigning agreement, but he also noticed Ungrah watching them both warily. The chieftain, he was certain, had understood Ont’s words.
Harak opened his fur coat and drew out the wrapped bundle. As he pulled the leather away from the sword, ogres around him grunted. Lacking metal themselves, they greatly prized the few pieces they acquired by raiding or trading.
Obvious appreciation showed in Ungrah-de’s dark eyes, and one taloned paw moved as if to touch the blade. He hesitated.