by Paul Cook
Beramun still hesitated, so Amero yanked her arm roughly and snapped, “Do you prefer to be found by Zannian?”
She let him pull her into the pit.
Duranix’s head sank, allowing the sod on his back to fall into place, covering the opening.
Chapter 15
As had been his habit for many years, Konza walked home carrying supper in a wicker basket. Unlike his son, he did not rely on the acolytes to collect his necessities. Old as he was, he preferred to go out among his fellow villagers and collect his own victuals.
Nearing home, he saw smoke rising into the leaden sky over the Offertory. Though Duranix had been gone six days, Tiphan insisted the offerings be made as usual. Konza deplored the waste. All that good meat burned to cinders, sustenance for no one.
At home he found the door flap down with three sturdy poles pegged in place, barring the entrance. The ground floor window flaps were pulled down tight as well. Puzzled, Konza set down the heavy basket.
“Tiphan!” he called. “Tiphan, why is the door barred?”
There was no response. It was late, and he was hungry. When his son did not answer a third time, Konza got down on his knees and pushed the flap inward. There was just room between the ground and the lowest guard pole for him to pass. Konza wormed his way inside and stood up triumphantly.
His victory vanished when the unnatural chill inside hit him. His breath formed mist in the air. Then he noticed the light.
The single-room house was divided by partitions made of wooden poles and rattan mats. The partitions formed a wall between the two beds. Behind the wall, on Tiphan’s side, a strange, greenish light shone, brighter than any lamp or torch.
“Son?”
Still no answer. Vexation gave way to concern.
Ever practical, Konza unpegged the poles on the door flap and brought in his basket, setting it on the table by the hearth. He picked up a thick, ironwood walking stick and walked slowly around the partition. The air grew even colder. Goose bumps rose on his arms.
There was Tiphan, seated cross-legged on a mound of furs, surrounded by his Silvanesti scrolls. Eyes closed, hands cupped together at his chest, he did not appear to be breathing. Floating in the air above his hands was a sizable chip of spirit stone. The bright greenish light emanated from the levitating stone.
Konza was dumbstruck for a moment. Gathering his scattered wits, he breathed, “By all our ancestors! What are you doing?”
The floating stone wobbled, as though reacting to his voice. Konza held out his walking stick, meaning to knock the hovering stone away. Before the wood touched the stone, Tiphan’s eyes sprang open.
Konza cried out. His son’s eyes were no longer blue. They were ice-white from corner to corner.
“Beware, old man.” The voice came from Tiphan’s lips, but it was not his son’s. Deeper, more powerful, it resonated strangely inside the stone house, sounding like several voices speaking in unison.
Konza lowered the walking stick with a shaking hand.
“Who are you? What have you done to my son?”
“We are many, old man. Fear not. Your son is with us.”
“Are you the spirits held captive in the stone?”
“That is as good as any explanation.”
“Give me back my son!” Konza demanded.
“We hold him not. He is here because he sought us. Through him we shall find release from our prison.”
“Liars! Deceivers! You tricked him! Restore him to me!”
He — they? — laughed, a low chuckle, arid with the dust of bygone ages.
Konza gripped the sturdy walking stick in both hands and shouted, “Tiphan! Son, if you can hear me, hold fast! I shall release you!”
He brought the knurled ironwood down hard on the hovering spirit stone. The instant the wood came in contact with the shard, a silent blast of light filled the small house.
Hundreds of eyes watched Tiphan. Nothing was clearly visible, just the suggestion of forms and shapes beyond the boundaries of his sight. They spoke in whispers or shouted in unison, a chorus of a thousand separate voices, which he understood despite their numbers. They were calling him by name.
Join us, they said. Be our gateway to the world we once knew, the world of light and color. Do this, and we will share with you power undreamed!
The words sent a thrill of exultation through Tiphan, and he eagerly consented, yet even as the spirit host enfolded him, a fragment from his newest scroll flashed through his mind.
The Way to Bind the Sun contained a gloss by a sage named Kerthinalhest, who had lived many hundreds of years ago. According to Kerthinalhest, not all the spirits who fought in the great war had gone into captivity voluntarily. Some had been imprisoned by still greater spirits, forced into silent oblivion after ferocious resistance. Kerthinalhest believed minions of Evil were present in the stones in equal numbers with spirits of Good and Neutrality. Great care must be taken, he wrote, to choose stones containing only beneficent spirits.
The spirits sensed his doubts. We are Good spirits, they told him, unjustly imprisoned in this shell of unfeeling rock. Free us! Lend us your mind and body. Great will he your reward! We, the Many, shall favor you above all mortals.
Tiphan’s mouth opened. He was ready to agree when he heard his name being called. This voice was very different from the others. It sounded frightened, then angry. The Many tried to drown out the new voice, but no matter how much they whispered, screamed, and teased at his senses, the voice succeeded in reaching him.
“Give me back my son!”
It was his father’s voice, and he sounded terrified.
Tiphan turned toward a slim column of light. He held out his hand -
A thunderous explosion struck him, and all the voices cried out as one.
Tiphan opened his eyes. His sight returned slowly, and he found he was lying with his back against a cold stone wall. Every muscle in his body ached, as though he’d been flung against the wall.
The house was dark, but he could make out familiar shapes. He took a deep breath and sat up, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.
Give me back my son!
His father’s furious words echoed in his head. “Father?” Tiphan called. “Father, where are you?”
The only answer was the incessant ringing in his ears. Groaning, Tiphan stood and looked for flint with which to strike a light. In his groping, he found the small table holding the clay bowl of tinder and the lamp had been knocked over.
Powerful tremors shook Tiphan. The house was so bitterly cold! The spilled lamp oil had congealed in the chill, and his hands and feet were numb. He headed toward the door to open the flap and let in light and heat. As he crossed the room, he trod on what felt like gravel. He hissed in pain as the sharp bits cut his bare feet.
Once the door flap was opened, the last of the day’s light flooded in. He turned back and beheld chaos.
Everything had been thrown to the floor — tables, stools, loose clothing, furs. There was no sign of his father, but just inside the door a large basket lay on its side, dry beans and burlnut flour spilling across the floor.
His father had come home, but where was he?
From the overturned basket, Tiphan’s gaze fell upon a sight that made his heart race. Beside his bed was a strange mound of whitish gravel, the same stuff that had cut his bare feet. The mound was shaped like a man — two separate, long piles for the legs, two more like arms, a higher, rounded area for the head, and a thick section for the torso.
Tiphan knelt and ran his fingers through the stuff. It was like soft limestone, the color of old bones. Instinctively, he knew he was touching the remains of his father. Konza had come home and found him entranced. Taking fright, he’d interfered, and this was the result. The thwarted spirits had taken Konza’s life.
Tiphan felt oddly detached as he looked at the crumbling remains. A part of him regretted Konza’s death, but his head still rang with the voices of the Many. He could hear them still,
calling him…
The crinkle of parchment distracted him. His precious Silvanesti scroll lay curled up on the floor under his foot. He lifted his foot quickly and picked up the scroll. Chalky white dust cascaded to the floor when he unrolled it slightly. The scroll was undamaged.
Fortunate, Tiphan mused, turning his back on Konza’s remains. He had much to learn before he dared converse with the Many again. Righting the table, he spread the Silvanesti scroll and began to read.
Pairs of torches blazed atop the wall on each side of the west baffle. A lone watchman stood by the southern set of torches, shielded from the night wind by a long fur cloak.
Anuca, son of Montu the cooper, gnawed absently on a strip of smoked venison and wished something would happen to enliven his dull duty. His friend Min, son of Nubis the stockman, had seen stars racing across the sky the night he stood guard. On this dreary night, there were no stars. So far, all Anuca had done was keep his torches lit in this wretched wind.
The hoofbeats of a fast-moving horse caught his ear. Shoving what was left of his snack in his mouth, Anuca took a torch in one hand and his spear in the other. He pondered how to summon help. He had no third hand to hold the ox horn he was supposed to blow. Dithering a moment, he put down the spear to take up the horn.
“Hold!” he shouted, waving his torch. “Who are you?”
The horse skidded to a stop, and the rider slid off the animal’s neck and fell inelegantly to the ground. In a heartbeat he was up again.
“It’s Paharo!”
He snatched the dangling bridle and led the horse in. Anuca jogged down the ramp to meet him. Another sentinel, summoned from her post by the sound of hoofbeats, joined them.
“What’s wrong?” the sentinel, Lyopi, demanded.
“Paharo’s back!” Anuca called. “Say, Paharo, where’d you get the horse?”
“From the raiders! They’re coming this way! Rouse the elders and tell them to gather in front of the foundry!” When Anuca and Lyopi regarded him blankly, the trail-worn Paharo barked, “The Arkuden’s life and the safety of the whole village hang in the balance! Gather the elders at the foundry! Go!”
Before long the entire adult population of Yala-tene was crowding into the open ground in front of the foundry. The village elders arrived, sleepy and dazed. Only Konza was missing. In his place came his son, for once not surrounded by a pack of adoring acolytes.
Paharo related in detail what he’d seen. Many hundreds of mounted warriors on their way to Yala-tene, but no sign as yet of a green dragon.
“What of the Arkuden?” Lyopi demanded. “Where is he?”
Paharo looked at the ground. “The last I saw, he and the nomad girl Beramun were running for their lives.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Tepa said, “Did you find any trace of the Protector?”
“We were following a ground trail, but we came upon the raiders and had to flee. Whether the Protector lives, I can’t say.”
Sounds of soft weeping slowly filled the air. Paharo, his message delivered, slumped against the side of the foundry, his knees quaking with fatigue.
Nubis spoke for many present when he said, “We must send messengers to meet this Zannian, to see if he can be persuaded to spare our village.”
“No!” said Paharo, snapping upright again. “You can’t expect mercy from men like these! I saw a vast crowd of folk, bound hand and foot, driven along by the raiders. Beramun told us Zannian makes slaves of all he captures — those the green dragon doesn’t kill for sport!”
Nubis spread his hands. “How can we resist such a war-band? We’re not fighters.”
“We have the wall,” said Jenla. “I will fight any enemy who tries to scale it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I maybe old, but I won’t give way to cutthroats! Who will fight with me?”
Many brave voices responded.
“And what will you do if the green dragon appears?” Nubis demanded. “Will you fight him, too?”
“Yes!” shouted Paharo. “If the choice is slavery or death, I’ll fight to the death!”
The meeting quickly degenerated into an argument, with everyone loudly voicing their opinions on whether or not to fight.
Tiphan stood to one side, listening calmly. He strolled to the low wall around the foundry and stood on it. Concealed in his left fist was a fragment of spirit stone. He held his right hand high, fingers spread. Pale blue fire blazed from his fingertips. He whirled his hand around his head, creating a fiery corona in the air. The disputing villagers quickly fell silent, awed by his display of power.
When every eye was on him, Tiphan spoke. “We must destroy our enemies,” he intoned.
Into the surprised silence Tepa said dryly, “A fine plan, Tosen. But how will it be done?”
“By me, with the spirit power I command.”
That sparked a fresh round of wrangling. Could the arrogant young Sensarku really defeat Zannian’s band and a green dragon by himself? Shouldn’t they consult the Arkuden?
Jenla’s voice carried clearly above the tumult. “Forgive our doubts, Tosen, but you haven’t answered the question. How will you destroy the enemy?” she asked.
Tiphan turned to the nearby cliff. Drawing back his right hand, he hurled a ball of bright blue fire at the towering rock face. It struck and burst with a sound like thunder. Dirt and rock dust showered the stunned crowd.
“The Tosen will save us!” Nubis shouted.
“Alone?” Jenla retorted.
“We must send a party of spearmen to escort him,” said Montu. “Twenty — no, forty! — of our strongest young men. They can march out at daybreak.”
“Forty men can do little against Zannian’s hundreds,” Paharo advised.
“They won’t have to!” the cooper replied, fired by the Sensarku’s display of power. “He needs protection only while he summons the blue fire. Isn’t that true, Tosen?”
Tiphan cleared his throat. “That is so.”
The respect dawning on all their faces elated him. He spread his arms wide. “No spearmen are needed,” he declared. “I shall go forth with the Sensarku. My followers will be my shield.”
Consternation erupted. Most of the acolytes had never been out of the Valley of the Falls. Even as hunters and trackers they were backward, having spent most of their time serving in the Offertory.
Tiphan ended the argument by saying, “Very well. Choose six villagers to serve as guides. Paharo, will you lead them?” The tired scout nodded. “Good. We shall muster outside the west baffle at dawn.”
Tiphan stepped down from the wall. Jenla blocked his departure.
“Tosen, where is your father?” she asked.
“My father? He is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Having seen the great good it did me, my father has undertaken a journey to the east to learn more about the spirit power.”
A small crowd had collected around Tiphan and Jenla. “Who went with him?” she asked.
“No one.”
Jenla blanched. “You let an old man go into the wilderness alone? Are you mad?”
“He insisted on it. He wanted to strengthen his heart by privation and gain the benefit of ancient wisdom as I did.” Tiphan pushed past her into the dispersing crowd, adding quickly, “Peace to you, Jenla. Good night.”
“He’s lying,” Jenla said after Tiphan departed. “Konza was no fool. He wouldn’t go on such a journey by himself.”
She turned to Paharo with a thoughtful frown and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Guard yourself well, son of Huru,” she said. “If what I fear is true, you face as much danger from your friends as your foes.”
The downpour had slackened to a steady drizzle. After the prisoners’ escape, Zannian recalled his men to a central point on the open plain. There, Nacris and Greengall waited for news, while the Jade Men formed a square around their tent.
Greengall sat on the muddy ground. He enjoyed the dampness, though he complained that the high plain was not properly
fetid like the black soil of Almurk.
From time to time riders appeared, bringing reports of the round-up. When important information came in, Zannian ducked under the tent to inform his mother and master.
“Six more slaves have been retaken,” Zannian told them. He checked the tally scratched on a slab of slate. “That makes fifty-four we’ve gotten back so far.”
“I hope the wretches catch their death!” Nacris said, shivering in spite of her cape and furs. Absently she scratched the black scab on her cheek where Greengall had cut her with Duranix’s scale.
“Is there any word of the nomads who aided the escape?” asked Greengall.
“Very little, Master. Stories vary. It seems four or five plainsmen slipped past our outriders and reached the prisoners. All the dead so far are known to us.”
“And Duranix? Any sign of him?”
“None, Master. He seems to have vanished.”
Greengall wove his unnaturally long fingers together and cracked his knuckles. Nacris winced at the unwholesome sound.
“He’s not far away,” Greengall said. “I can smell him. His wound is festering delightfully, and he is in great pain. Remember, Zannian, there’s a special reward for the man who finds the bronze dragon.”
Zannian bowed his head. “I’ll remind the men.”
He walked back out into the rain, mounted, and rode away to confer with his warriors. Nacris eyed Greengall, squatting in the mud like a monstrous frog.
“Why do you toy with your enemy?” she asked. “Duranix is a dangerous foe. Why didn’t you kill him when you had him cornered?”
Greengall picked up a glob of wet dirt in his hand and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. Shiny black mud oozed between his fingers.
“Any dragon, even a meddlesome bronze, is worth more than all you miserable rodents put together,” he explained. He flung the mud to the ground, splattering Nacris’s foot. “Contesting with Duranix has been the greatest pleasure I’ve ever had. If all I wanted was to kill him, I could have done that when he was a hatchling.”
