Children of the Plains tb-1

by Paul Cook

  The lake was bound by a narrow shoreline on the right, thickly covered with low plants and slender trees growing in unnaturally straight rows. The wider, left bank was even more surprising. A cluster of tall, beehive-shaped houses filled the land between the lake and the cliff wall. Smoke rose from every rooftop, orange firelight glinting from many of the second story windows. The wind changed, bringing to Karada the odors of pine smoke and cattle dung.

  Hatu edged forward on horseback to Karada’s side. He looked over the scene and whistled softly.

  “This is it! Sure has changed,” he said in an awed voice.

  “Ride back to the main band, and tell Targun to bring everyone on. We sleep in Arku-peli tonight.”

  Pakito and the other scouts rode up. After admiring the sights for a moment, Pakito said, “We’re on the wrong side of the river. It’s too deep to ford. How do we get across?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s a ford upstream.” Karada wrapped the reins around her hand. “Let’s find out.”

  They didn’t have to travel far before they found the bridge. The plainsmen crowded around the end of the bridge, marveling at its construction.

  “Is it a plant? Did it grow here?” Pakito wondered. “It’s made of wood and vine — ”

  “Human hands made it,” Karada said. “See the blade marks on the planks?”

  Karada and the scouts waited until the column of people appeared, headed by Targun, Samtu, and Hatu — the latter on horseback.

  Karada and Pakito rode across the bridge. It swayed under their weight but held up fine. The rest of the band followed, many of the younger members clinging to the supporting vines and moving nervously from handhold to handhold until they were on solid ground again.

  “What do you suppose they’re like, these people?” Pakito murmured as they rode slowly toward the first line of houses.

  “They’re very clever,” offered Targun.

  “That they may be, but living under piles of stone is for lizards, not plainsmen,” Karada stated flatly. “And where are their scouts, their watchmen? We could be a war party of elves for all they know.”

  “We’ve been seen.” Hatu pointed to the looming houses. “There are people moving inside those stone piles. They know we’re here.”

  He was right. Karada watched the upper-story windows and saw heads and bodies silhouetted again the inside glow of firelight. Suspicious, she slowed her horse, and the rest of the band did likewise. Just as they were about to enter the shadowed lane between the lines of houses, the wail of a ram’s horn filled the night.

  The tired, edgy plainsfolk on foot recoiled from the sudden alarm. Hatu and the mounted warriors drew swords or leveled spears, but Karada called for calm and ordered everyone to stand still.

  A glow appeared between the houses. As they watched, it came nearer, bobbing gently. It soon resolved itself into a solitary figure on foot, carrying a blazing torch. It was a young man, whose hair was cut short in a strange kind of fashion. Hatu fingered his own long braid of hair and gave the shorn villager a disparaging sneer. He made a rude comment to Pakito about a bald goat he’d once seen. The big man laughed.

  The light was poor enough the young man did not seem to notice their disdain. He stopped a safe distance away.

  “You’re the largest group so far,” he said in a genial voice. “Welcome!”

  “You don’t even know who we are,” Karada said coldly.

  “More of Karada’s band, yes? Your people have been arriving steadily for the past few days.”

  The plainsmen exchanged looks of surprise. Pakito asked, “How many of Karada’s band have come here?”

  The torchbearer considered the question silently, tilting his head in thought for a few seconds, then replied, “Over two hundred, so far. How many are you?”

  “Eighty-eight.”

  “Quite a crowd! Well, follow me. I’ll take you to your comrades.”

  The pale-faced, short-haired man started back the way he’d come.

  Hatu muttered, “Our so-called comrades — those who abandoned us on the battlefield. How will they take to seeing us now?”

  “That’s my problem,” Karada said quietly. “Whatever happens, don’t let the old folks or children come to harm.”

  The mounted plainsmen followed the torch bearer in single file, Karada leading. They passed silently through the quiet village. A small wolf sprang out of the shadows and barked at them. Karada raised her spear to strike, then noticed the wolf was tied to a stake with a rope around its neck. Their guide came back and quieted the beast with a few soothing words and a pat on the head.

  “You command beasts here?” asked Samtu.

  “A few. They guard our homes and fight off their wild brethren.”

  “Why should they do that?” Pakito asked from over Karada’s shoulder.

  “We’ve tamed them. Settled life agrees with them, as it does the rest of us.”

  The torch bearer went on, Karada’s people following him. Each one passed under the scrutiny of the tame wolf, who watched them with unblinking yellow eyes.

  The copse of houses came to an end. A patch of sandy, open ground followed, in the midst of which was a tall, square pile of stones, quite unlike the domed houses. The top layers of stone were soot-stained.

  “What’s this?” asked Samtu.

  “Our place of offering. Here we give oxen and elk to our protector, the dragon.”

  “Duranix,” the chief said.

  Their young guide halted. “You know of him?”

  “He came to our camp in human guise,” Karada explained.

  “My brother followed him here. Do you know if one named Pa’alu is here?” asked Pakito.

  “He was, but he isn’t now.” The torch bearer scratched his head and explained. “Pa’alu was here, but he left yesterday to meet small parties of your band arriving then. He was hoping to find Karada. He hasn’t returned yet. Actually, we’re quite worried about him.”

  “This is Ka — ” Samtu began, but a glare from her chief stilled her tongue.

  “We all have friends and comrades we hope to see again,” Karada said.

  In contrast to the quiet, orderly village, the camp of the nomads was a riot of haphazard tents, lean-tos, and windbreaks of sand and loose stone. The young guide left Karada for a moment and ducked into a rambling tent made from spotted cowhide. He returned with Sessan and Nacris in tow then slipped away quietly.

  Both nomads staggered as they walked, and their clothes were awry. They’d worked in the ox pens all day in exchange for two jugs of wine, most of which they’d already drunk.

  Sessan looked up at his chief. “By my blood!” he swore in surprise. “You’re alive!”

  Karada had noted the departure of their young guide, now she spat at Sessan, “I am. Why are you?”

  He pressed the wineskin on Nacris and drew himself up as straight as he could. “I’m alive because I left!”

  “You admit it, do you? You ran away from the battle!”

  He swept his hand in a wide arc. “We had no chance,” he said solemnly.

  Nacris upended the skin, gulping down more wine. She wiped her mouth and said, “How did you survive, eh?”

  “I fought until captured. Balif stripped me of arms and turned me loose.”

  “How can you live with the shame?” asked Sessan harshly. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw yourself from the cliff top!”

  “Yes, I chose to live with our defeat. Any fool can kill herself, but I will rebuild the band and strike the elves again! I’ll make Balif curse the day he sought to shame me into quiet exile!” Karada stormed. “You want to speak of shame? Look at you, cowards and traitors, standing there! And addled with drink like a pair of loons! Is this the end of our band, our dream of a free land for our people?”

  “The elf lord spared you,” Sessan replied heatedly, “but the rest of us would have been trampled into the grass had we stayed.”

  Karada mastered her anger. “You disobeyed
my command.”

  “You’ve no right to judge us, no right to lead us. You would’ve let us all die in a lost cause!” Nacris retorted. She cast about wildly. “Ask him. These are sensible people here. Where’d he go — the Arkuden?”

  “Who?”

  “The village headman, the fellow who led you here.”

  Karada said, “He left. And why should I ask a short-haired villager anything?”

  More nomads came out of their shelters to watch the confrontation. Tarkwa, the other leader of the breakaway band, joined Sessan and Nacris.

  “If we are to be one band, strong and united, there must be one chief,” Karada said. “The chiefs word must be obeyed. Anything else is chaos.”

  Tarkwa, who was sober, said, “I cannot follow you, Karada. You speak of freedom for all plainsmen — that is my desire, too. But we can’t be free and be your children, trembling at your every order. What difference is there between serving elf lords or serving you?”

  “I am one of you.”

  “Not good enough!” Sessan sputtered.

  “You care nothing for our lives,” Nacris cried. “You’d sacrifice us all for your own glory!” Many of the nomads behind her shouted approval of Nacris’s hard words.

  Karada flinched, but she swung down from her horse and walked up to Sessan. She stood nose to nose with him, shoving Nacris away when the woman tried to wedge herself between her man and Karada.

  “Will you fight me?” she whispered fiercely.

  His reddened eyes betrayed fear, but he said, “Yes. Any time. Tomorrow!”

  Her laugh was sharp and ugly. “Make it the day after tomorrow. I need rest and you need to sleep off your foolishness.”

  Sessan stepped back and slammed his foot on the sand. “Daybreak, then. Here.”

  Karada turned on her heel and remounted. “Look to your horse, Sessan. We’ll fight mounted, with spears, as plainsmen should.”

  There was a murmuring behind her as she rode on to claim the high ground by the cliff wall for her tired band of loyalists. Samtu and Targun went to find food for the children. Hatu and Pakito were delegated to organize the raising of tents and tarps. Pakito tried to say something to her about Sessan, but he was banished with an angry gesture.

  Karada flung her skimpy baggage to the ground and pulled the blanket off her horse. Without a further glance or a word to anyone, she strode down to the lake.

  A wall of mist swirled up from the falls, enveloping her in a silver cloud. She stood up to her ankles in the chill water and removed all her gear and clothing. Kneeling, she threw handfuls of water on her face and neck. The dust of many leagues washed away.

  She wished her many worries could be as easily lost.

  Chapter 14

  It had been a restless couple of days. Amero had had to go out after dark each night and lead in party after party of stragglers from Karada’s band. The last was a particularly large and pathetic group, made up of old folks, children, and a few warriors who seemed worn out and ill-fed. Their appearance reminded Amero of the hard life that still existed outside the comfortable confines of Yala-tene.

  As if these interruptions to his sleep weren’t bad enough, his days were disrupted as well. Duranix had been ceaselessly pacing and prowling the cave ever since he found himself unable to change back to dragon form. As time passed, he became more and more irritable. For long periods he would sit, motionless, staring at the cave walls. Then, in a sudden burst of action, he would circle the room over and over, muttering and gesticulating. Tiny bolts of lightning arced from his hands, and after a few hours of this, the air in the cave seemed alive with crackling energy. Everything Amero touched gave him a shock.

  He tried to concentrate on his copper experiment. Men in the village had constructed an anvil to his specifications, hewn from a single block of rose granite. Amero placed the ingot he’d cast the day the tunnels collapsed on the anvil and pounded it with a sandstone maul. The spaces between the half-melted beads closed up, and the ingot gradually became a flat, thin plate.

  As Amero worked in the early hours before dawn, on the second day after the arrival of Karada’s band, the mussel shell chimes at the top of the hoist rattled. Amero didn’t hear it at first and kept hammering. Duranix left the path he was wearing in the sandstone floor and went to the lower door.

  “Pa’alu’s returned,” he announced. Amero kept pounding, so Duranix shouted the news. Amero looked up distractedly. Sighing, he set aside the maul and went to the opening. All he could see was the ever-present waterfall disappearing into the dark depths below.

  “It’s him,” Duranix insisted, then added testily, “I may be crammed into this tiny body, but I haven’t gone blind yet!”

  Amero started the counterweight down. Rope hissed over the wooden pulleys. The basket appeared. He saw Pa’alu, gazing up at him. The broad-shouldered plainsman filled the small basket completely, and his ascent was slow.

  The top of the basket frame bumped the pulley and stopped. Amero tied off the hoist and Pa’alu vaulted over the side, landing lightly on his feet.

  “Greetings, Amero, and to you, great Duranix.” The dragon grunted something unintelligible and resumed his angry pacing.

  “What ails him?” asked Pa’alu.

  Amero considered speaking the truth, then said, “Who can say? Pay him no heed.” He put aside his newly made copper sheet and sat down on the anvil. “I’m glad to see you, Pa’alu. Where have you been? Many of your comrades have arrived during your absence, including a big man who says he’s your brother.”

  “Pakito’s here! That is good news!” He clapped Amero on the shoulder. The well-intentioned blow was enough to knock Amero off his perch.

  “Any word of Karada?” Pa’alu asked anxiously, lending the young man a hand.

  “No word as yet.”

  By this time Duranix had circled the cave and come back. “What kept you?” asked the dragon. “We worried you were lost in the mountains.” Amero was curious to hear Duranix express concern about a mere human.

  “That’s what I came to tell you. I was waylaid in the mountains.” Pa’alu related his encounter with the monstrous Greengall — up to a point. He carefully avoided any mention of Vedvedsica. The dragon would not knowingly give up the nugget if he knew it would go to the elf priest.

  “Describe this Greengall!” Duranix said grimly. “Leave nothing out!”

  Pa’alu described the weird fellow: long legs, short arms, spidery fingers, hideously oversized head and mouth. When he began to describe Greengall’s clothing, Duranix folded his arms and lowered his head.

  The dragon muttered, “I should have expected this. He’s been quiet too long.”

  “Do you know this creature?” asked Amero.

  “Sthenn.” The name was an evil hiss. Duranix locked eyes with Pa’alu. “You met the green dragon Sthenn and lived to tell about it. How did you manage that? You’re a stout fellow for a human, but you’re no match for a dragon of any hue. Why did Sthenn let you go?”

  It was Pa’alu’s turn to fold his arms and look grave. “He spared me to be a messenger,” he said. “He sent me back to tell you he wants the nugget, the gold nugget you took from the elf priest.”

  The dragon was speechless for a moment. Amero, who knew little of the unusual nugget Duranix had brought back from his travels, asked, “Why does he want a mere stone? What value is it to him?”

  “It’s a cache of pure spirit-power,” interjected Duranix curtly. “Sthenn must have some idea of tapping it, though I don’t understand why. We dragons have our own sources of power. What is Sthenn planning? Does he think to offer such power to his followers?”

  “What is he talking about?” Pa’alu asked Amero.

  “Be still,” the dragon said. He put a thumb and forefinger into his mouth and took out the nugget. He placed it on Amero’s granite anvil. All three looked at it with new curiosity.

  “There is a hierarchy in the universe,” Duranix explained. “Some of your people alr
eady know of the higher beings and worship them as gods. Below them in power are dragons, who exist midway between the pure spirits and the lower animals.” Amero didn’t have to be told who the “lower animals” were. Pa’alu still looked mystified.

  The dragon continued, “With proper concentration and training, elves and even humans could release the power contained in this stone.”

  “Could the yevi?” Amero said under his breath.

  Pa’alu reached out to grasp the dull golden nugget. His hand froze just above it.

  “Go ahead, pick it up,” said the dragon. “You’ll feel nothing from it.”

  Pa’alu found the stone warm to the touch — no doubt from being in Duranix’s mouth all this time. The nugget was weighty for its size, but as the dragon had said, Pa’alu could feel nothing emanating from it.

  “It’s just a stone,” he said, disappointed.

  “Keep thinking that,” the dragon replied. “When humans start coveting spirit-power, the world is in for more grief than it can bear.”

  Pa’alu carefully replaced the nugget on the granite block. He expected Duranix to reclaim it instantly, but the disguised dragon had wandered away, a hand to his head.

  “Duranix?” Amero said.

  The dragon’s steps faltered. He clutched his head in both hands and stumbled through the hearth. Ashes and charred wood went skittering across the floor. Amero hurried to him, leaving Pa’alu by the anvil.

  “Duranix? Duranix, what is it?” Amero called, alarmed.

  The dragon-man threw his arms wide suddenly and let loose a roar of — what? Agony? Fear? Amero couldn’t tell.

  As he stood there, shaking, his screams reverberating off the hard walls of the cave, Duranix’s arms began to bleed blue-green blood. The skin along the back of his arms split open. Under the tearing human skin were the red-bronze scales of Duranix’s true flesh.