Brother of the Dragon tb-2

by Paul Cook

  Amero sprinted for the friendly end of the bridge. Just as he reached the wall of shields, a column of raiders four abreast came galloping up the gorge. Amero could see more than thirty men had infiltrated their defenses. They were dressed in dark leather capes and hoods, their faces smeared with dark green paint. Ten or more yevi moved among them, laughing their peculiar, distinctive cry.

  The riders approached the bridge, led by a mounted figure in a macabre hood studded with animal horns and teeth.

  Surrounded by torch-bearers, the fellow raised his hood and shouted, “People of Arku-peli, listen to me! I am Zannian, chief of Almurk! Put down your weapons! If you resist, we’ll kill you all!”

  The villagers huddled behind their shields. Encouraged by their silence, the hooded man said, “Lay down your spears, and I will spare your lives! This is your only chance for mercy!”

  Amero shouted back, “This is our valley, and we’ll defend it!”

  “Die then!” The chief yanked his hood back down.

  Riders dropped deer-antler grapples into the tangle of thorns laid around the end of the bridge. Then a mob of slaves was driven forward. Whips snapping, the raiders forced the captives to haul on the rawhide ropes attached to the grapples. The thorn barrier quickly came apart.

  “Stand ready!” Amero shouted. “Those in the back, brace those in the front!”

  Villagers in the rear of the formation pressed their shields into the backs of their comrades. Some laid their spears over the shoulders of their neighbors, creating a bristling hedge of points. Their steadfastness didn’t discourage the raiders. In fact, Zannian’s men seemed outraged at this show of resistance. Screaming threats of bloody death and destruction, they thundered across the bridge, slamming into the wall of shields.

  The bridge was too short to allow a full charge, but the impact was still enough to dent the line deeply. It was an awkward fight, with the raiders jabbing at the villagers’ exposed heads and the villagers stabbing at the riders’ legs. Zannian ordered more men across the bridge to press home the attack.

  Leading from the front rank, Amero shoved his spear forward and felt it strike home. A raider reeled off his horse, a deep wound in his thigh. He fell among the churning horses’ legs and was impaled by another villager before he could escape.

  Horses reared, lashing out with their hooves, and several villagers were knocked down. Gaps opened in the line of shields, and the raiders pushed forward to exploit them.

  Beramun found herself trapped on all sides by friends and foes. Hemmed in so tightly she could hardly breathe, she threw down her wooden buckler and climbed on the back of the man in front of her. A dart whisked by her face. Raiders who couldn’t reach the front line were using their throwing sticks to bombard the tightly packed villagers.

  Beramun clambered over the heads of battling townsfolk until she reached the entwined supports of the bridge. She hauled herself up the thick cable under a constant barrage of darts. One scored a line across her calf, another tore through her hair, just missing her skull. She kept climbing.

  Atop the south tower, she found both sentinels slain, their bodies studded with darts. She pried stones loose from the ledge and dropped them into the mob below. The crowd was so dense, it was impossible to miss, and she brained several raiders.

  Realizing there would be no quick victory, Zannian ordered his men back. The raiders retreated, to the jeers of the elated villagers. A few townsfolk broke ranks to chase the raiders and were set upon by the yevi, hiding in the shadows on the bridge. They were dragged, screaming, into the darkness. Amero called the rest back, anxious to prevent unnecessary casualties.

  As the raiders withdrew up the canyon out of sight, the villagers set up a cheer, thinking they’d vanquished their enemy. Their joy was short lived. In moments, the raiders came galloping back. They’d retreated only to gain room for a charge. Thundering down the slope three abreast, each raider was bent low, their long spears leveled.

  From her high perch on one of the bridge’s support cables, Beramun shouted, “Form up, quick! They’re coming back!”

  Amero yelled, “You, on the far right and left, move in behind and support the front!”

  The bridge was thirty-two paces long. When the raiders were halfway across, Beramun cast her spear at one of the lead riders. She missed, but a horse in the second rank tripped on the shaft and went down, hurling its rider into the river. Another horse stumbled on the first fallen beast, then another.

  The momentum of the raiders was so great that they surged past the fallen men and horses and hit the wall of shields. The villagers directly in their path were ridden under. The second line collapsed, but the third held. Villagers in the broken lines cast aside their shields and hauled raiders off their horses. A close, bloody fight ensued at the south end of the bridge.

  “Push on!” Zannian bellowed from the north bank. “Kill them! Ride them down! Go! Go! ”

  Raiders emulated Beramun and began climbing up the bridge’s rigging. Six of them closed on the lone girl. Her spear gone, all Beramun had was a flint knife and whatever stones she could pry loose from the tower top. Standing fearlessly exposed to enemy darts, she knocked two raiders off the rigging in quick succession.

  More and more horsemen piled onto the bridge. The villagers’ line was slowly bending backward under the sheer weight bearing against it. Amero’s people dug in their heels. Men and horses toppled into the river, and the swift current bore them away.

  A creaking groan sounded, and the bridge canted to one side. There followed a louder crack, and one of the cables weakened by Amero broke. The thick cord whipped through the air, knocking several riders into the river, and the west side of the bridge collapsed, pitching everyone in the water.

  A roar went up from the embattled villagers. Raiders and their horses were swept away by the frigid current, though a few clung to the planking still attached to the bridge. The attackers who’d gained a toehold on the south shore were soon battered and subdued.

  Beramun had noticed the weakened condition of the upper rope on her side of the bridge. She hacked at it with her knife. At last, the cable parted. Men still clinging to the crazily canted bridge were swept away. The water roiled with people and horses, some swimming, some drowning, others already floating lifelessly. A handful of villagers ran along the water’s edge, bombarding the frantically swimming raiders with rocks and spears. Any raider who made it to the hostile shore was swiftly dispatched, their bodies thrown back in the river.

  On the north bank, rams’ horns sounded the retreat. Dejected raiders rode down the canyon out of sight of the cheering villagers. The yevi slunk away as well. The green-daubed men melted into the shadows at the foot of the western cliffs. Though Amero could no longer see them, he was sure they were still there, lurking in the dark.

  Zannian alone remained, gazing over the battlefield. He removed his fearsome hood and threw it down in disgust. By the light of the blazing barricades and in full view of the people of Yala-tene, he removed his leather breastplate and drew his bronze sword. Slowly, deliberately, Zannian scored a cut along his left breast. Dark blood seeped from the wound. He extended his bright blade to the gawking villagers, so they could see the blood on it.

  The formerly cheering townsfolk fell silent. Nubis asked the question for everyone: “Is he mad? Why does he injure himself?”

  “He’s sending you a message,” Beramun said grimly. “This defeat is a small hurt, like the cut he gave himself. He’s not giving up, not after one fight.”

  His message delivered, Zannian laid the bare blade on his shoulder and rode away.

  Chapter 20

  Zannian withdrew his men from the pass, leaving a score of Jade Men and yevi to make sure the villagers didn’t reoccupy the heights. When the sun rose, the majority of the band was drawn up on the western plain: nine hundred twenty-two warriors on horseback, another forty without mounts, and just under two hundred slaves and prisoners.

  Nacris, Hoten, and the
lesser captains sat crossed-legged on the ground in a semicircle, listening to their chief. He stood before them next to a framework of willow upon which was stretched a soft, tanned sheepskin. Drawn on the skin was a crude map of the valley, as deduced by reports from their scouts and information forced from their prisoners.

  “Here is our goal,” Zannian said, pointing to the center of the map. “Arku-peli itself lies here, between the eastern shore of the lake and these cliffs. There are only five entrances to the valley, and three of them lie on the eastern side — Bearclaw Gap, Cedarsplit Gap, Northwind Pass. On our side there are two — the pass we know, which the villagers call the Plains Gap, and this unnamed canyon, impassable to us.”

  “Why impassable, Zan?” Hoten asked.

  “It’s only a few paces wide, and the river fills it completely.”

  Zannian picked up a clay dish of red ocher, the same pigment his men used to paint their faces. He dipped a well-chewed willow twig in the thick paint and snaked a red line through the Plains Gap to the river.

  “Half the band will ride to the spot where the bridge once stood and hold the mud-toes there.” He drew a line down, parallel to the riverbank. “The rest will ride south and take the gardens where the villagers grow much of their food.”

  “We destroy the gardens?” asked one of the captains.

  “No,” Zannian replied. “We live on their food, weakening them and strengthening ourselves.”

  The men nodded, murmuring approvingly. Nacris ended the optimistic mood by asking, “What about the bronze dragon?”

  The circle fell quiet. Zannian folded his arms. “The Master has seen to him.”

  “How?”

  The chief bristled. Failure in battle and the sight of Beramun still out of his reach put him in no mood for sharp questions, even from his mother.

  “The Master has lured the bronze dragon away. He won’t be a factor in our fight.”

  “Then neither will the Master.”

  Zannian glared at her. “We don’t need him to defeat these mud-grubbers! They’re clever, they’ll resist for a while, but they can’t stop us!”

  Some of his more zealous underlings got up and shouted, fiercely echoing their chiefs sentiments. One by one the other captains stood, vowing death and destruction to the villagers. Only Nacris and Hoten remained seated — she by necessity and he by choice.

  When the shouting subsided, Hoten asked carefully, “What is our next step?”

  “Capture the gardens,” Zannian told him. “If you take any prisoners, I want them alive. We’ll put the slaves to work tending the crops. I’ll lead the rest of the band to the river to keep the villagers in place.”

  “What about the Jade Men?” Nacris wanted to know.

  “Keep them close but out of sight. They’re our secret dagger, and when the time comes, they’ll be the first across the river.”

  Zannian collected the four hundred best horsemen in his band and led them into the pass. On their heels came Hoten with the balance of the raiders, including the men who’d lost their mounts. Next came the slaves and prisoners, dragging heavy burdens of weapons and supplies.

  Nacris and the remaining Jade Men were the last to go. Standing silent and immobile in the hot morning sun, the Jade Men’s green face paint and green clothing made them look like an orchard of weird, man-shaped trees.

  Nacris looked them over proudly. “Sons of Greengall,” she said loudly, “our master has gone away to do battle against the beast whose range we have invaded. With the bronze dragon gone, there is nothing between us and victory but a few hundred hut-dwellers who think they can defeat us with tricks and traps and piles of stone. But we know better!”

  One of the Jade Men raised his spear in salute, then plunged its head into the ground.

  “No retreat!” he vowed. “We will not leave this valley without victory!”

  “No retreat!” echoed his comrades. “Greengall! Greengall!”

  Nacris let them chant a while, then held up a hand for silence. They quieted.

  “We will make the river run red with our enemies’ blood!” she said. Leaning forward in her litter, she added, “But there is one villager you must not kill. I speak of Amero, called Arkuden, the headman of Arku-peli. The Master has given this man to me to use as I will. When the battle joins, I will point him out to you. Mark him well.” Her flinty eyes raked over the ranks of green men. “In my hands it will take him many, many days to die, and from him I will have the answer to my final vengeance. No one, not even my son, will deny me my due! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Green Mother,” they replied as one.

  At her nod, they picked up their weapons and marched into the steep pass, the last of the invaders to quit the plain.

  Despite their initial success, it was clear to the villagers they hadn’t won the war. All day, while they worked feverishly to strengthen their defenses, they knew they were being watched. Zannian’s band remained out of sight, yet from the crags above the swift river to the shadowed crevices beyond the ruins of the fallen bridge, a thousand hidden eyes saw everything being done on the open floor of the valley. Work stopped periodically as nervous villagers stood and stared at the far shore, trying to catch sight of the invisible menace. Calmer heads, like Huru or tough old Jenla, had to scold or cajole them back to work.

  On Amero’s instructions, the east bank of the river was covered with obstacles to hinder the raiders. Stakes were pounded deep into the sandy loam and long vines were strung between them, creating tangle-traps. Though his people were exhausted from the night’s battle, Amero kept them working. Busy, they had less time to be afraid.

  He walked among them tirelessly, offering encouragement, settling disagreements, helping out whenever any difficulties arose. He hammered stakes, braided vines, and even helped comb the shoreline for bodies and weapons washed up during the night. While working on this last task, he came across Beramun piling up raider spears and leather breastplates in heaps. A score of dead raiders lay nearby, stripped of arms. Some villagers were preparing a pyre for them.

  “Greetings,” Amero said to the girl. “Are you well?”

  “Well enough,” she replied. She threw two boiled cuirasses on the growing pile.

  “I saw you on the bridge tower last night. You fought like a panther.” Beramun did not reply, but stood staring down at the debris of battle, arms folded. “I mean that as a compliment,” Amero explained awkwardly.

  She shook her head, dismissing his words, then kicked the heap of stiff leather armor. “I helped make these,” she said. Tears welled up in her jet eyes. “There was another prisoner, a woman named Roki, my friend — ” A sob interrupted her words. “She and I escaped together, but she…”

  Her misery made his heart ache, but Amero didn’t dare take her in his arms. He settled for taking her hand. The moment was fleeting. She noticed the others were watching them and freed her hand, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

  Hulami the vintner arrived with a caravan of travois loaded with food and drink.

  “Arkuden!” Hulami called.

  Without another word, Beramun slipped away. Amero drew a deep breath and let it sigh out.

  “How goes the work in the village?” he asked the vintner.

  Hulami handed her chief a skin of wine. “Well, thanks to the dragon, the north and south entrances are sealed, but the western baffle still has a gap. I asked Montu to organize a gang to finish the job, but the other elders in the village are protesting. They say if the last opening is blocked, everyone outside will be trapped if the raiders cross the river.”

  “Blast them! We’ll see about that!” Amero shoved the wineskin back into Hulami’s hands. He named Huru to command in his absence, then stalked back to Yala-tene.

  The western entrance was just as Hulami described, partially open. The filled section looked fine. Duranix had torn up boulders the size of small huts and wedged them into the gap between the baffle wall and the main wall. A hundred men pushing at
once could never dislodge such mighty stones.

  On the other side of the baffle, two villagers stood casual guard, leaning on their spears. One of them was Lyopi.

  “Why isn’t this gap closed?” Amero demanded as soon as he was within earshot.

  Taken aback by his bluntness, Lyopi replied, “The elders chose not to. How wall you and the others get back inside if there’s no opening?”

  “If we fail out there and the wall stands open, the raiders will ride right through,” he snapped. “I won’t have the town’s safety endangered by stupid half-measures!” He cupped hands to his lips, calling, “Montu! Montu, where are you?”

  “Calm down,” Lyopi said. “I thought the raiders had been turned back. Why so angry, Amero?”

  “Many good people died last night to keep our village safe! Their deaths mean nothing if the village falls from carelessness!” Red-faced, he shouted for Montu again.

  Since reason had no effect on his bad temper, Lyopi shouted back, “You’ll find the elders at the Offertory, Arkuden! Go and rant at them, not me!”

  Without another word, he did just that.

  The town was nearly empty, with so many people at the river camp or manning the walls. The Offertory felt especially abandoned. Before they’d left, the Sensarku had put everything neatly away. Their communal houses were closed and shuttered. The walls of the Offertory were as clean and white as ever, but windblown sand had drifted through the opening in the sanctuary wall, marring the spotless inner courtyard.

  When Amero approached the cairn, a flock of crows rose squawking from the top, scattering ash and burned bones. Amero circled the cairn and found Montu and the remaining elders sitting on the sand. Slabs of roast were piled between them. Open pots of wine and cider lent their acid bite to the air. The elders were dining heartily on elk meant for the dragon.