Brother of the Dragon tb-2

by Paul Cook

  “Peace to you, Amero,” she said. “We will meet again.”

  “Fare you well,” he replied hoarsely.

  She vanished over the wall. Amero hauled up the rope when it went slack. He was glad there was no one else near just then. A man his age did not like for others to see him weep.

  Beramun had drawn the highest and least-used path out of the valley, Northwind Pass. Nearly everyone entering or leaving the Valley of the Falls from the east used Cedarsplit Gap, the pass nearest the village, and also the widest and easiest to traverse. North of it was Bearclaw Gap, densely wooded and mostly frequented by foresters in search of timber. Northwind Pass was due north of Yala-tene. Narrow and rocky, it was also extremely steep. These factors Beramun considered assets. No horseman could ride into Northwind Pass.

  The valley was filled with low clouds, mist, and light rain. It was hard to make out landmarks, so she made her way to the cliffs, fixed them on her right, and worked her way north. This would take her across the mouth of both Cedarsplit and Bearclaw Gap, but that couldn’t be helped. She didn’t want to lose her way before she even left the valley.

  She had to hide when mounted raiders passed nearby, and the distinctive yelps of yevi sent her scrambling into a juniper bush. Four of the shaggy gray beasts trotted back and forth. Their senses were keen enough to pierce the night and rain. The smell of juniper covered her scent, but she couldn’t remain in the bush all night. Lying on her belly, she put her knife in her teeth and started crawling. When she’d gone some distance, she got up on her knees and listened. All she heard was the constant patter of the rain.

  She crossed a deep path worn into the turf, scored over the years by heavy trees dragged down the gap to the village. Rainwater that collected in the ruts soaked her feet. She skirted the logging trail and crouched behind a bank of earth. After listening and hearing nothing, she sprinted for the nearest trees. Pausing, back pressed against a pine tree, she listened once more. All was still.

  Northwind Pass lay ahead. Beramun slipped through the brush, confident she had evaded her enemies. The north end of the valley was still wild, as few villagers had any reason to go there. She felt more at ease in the sparse woods and underbrush than she had in the open valley. Here was country she understood.

  The mouth of the pass was only sixteen paces wide, and it narrowed farther in. She recognized the two spires of white sandstone that her map said marked the entrance. When she saw those white columns glowing faintly in the dark, she wanted to cheer.

  The pinewoods ended well short of the pass. Instinct made Beramun pause before leaving the cover of the trees. There was no sound, either human or animal. The rain had slowed, and its soft dripping was all she heard. Yet something was making the hair on the back of her neck bristle.

  Her eyes picked out dark shapes standing between her and the pass. She’d taken them for stones at first, so rigidly unmoving were they, but when a pair of them walked away, she realized they were actually men in dark clothing guarding the pass.

  She circled right, keeping behind the bracken. She was both puzzled and worried. Her way was blocked by a band of twenty men, standing in the open, not talking and moving very little. Their faces and hands did not shine in the dark and so must be darkened like hers.

  Finding a small stone, Beramun tossed it to distract them. When it landed, the formation of silent watchmen broke apart. In pairs, the men darted into the darkness, seeking the source of the sound. Though she couldn’t see the glint of weapons in their hands, she heard the metallic whisper of bronze blades being drawn.

  Beramun ducked her head, astonished. They moved so swiftly and quietly!

  Suddenly, she remembered the strange, green-garbed youths commanded by Zannian’s crippled mother. Jade Men, they were called. How could she evade such well-disciplined troops?

  With great care she lifted her head again. Four men were still visible in the narrow opening of the pass. Worse, the others were lurking in the shadows, seeking the source of the sound they’d heard.

  Beramun tossed another pebble, this time aiming behind them. Like bats on the wing, the dark sentinels split into two pairs and advanced on the spot where the stone had landed. Their backs were to Beramun now.

  Halfway to the unguarded pass, her left foot skidded on a wet stone. Though the sound was barely audible in the falling rain, the sentinels turned instantly, facing her. She froze in horror, and the four dark men advanced.

  Beramun drew her knife, then remembered Amero’s orders to flee rather than fight. She sprinted away. Without a word, her pursuers broke ranks and ran after her. One caught her by the arm well before she reached the sandstone spires.

  Beramun whirled, slashing at his chest. Her flint blade cut a long gash in the man’s green leather breastplate, but the hide was thick, and he wasn’t injured. Quite strong, the Jade Man forced her wrist down and relieved her of her knife with ridiculous ease.

  Before she could recover, her other arm and both legs were seized. Since there was no longer a need for stealth, Beramun gave voice to her outrage. Her curses rang in the night.

  “Let me go!” she said, fighting hard.

  “Kill it,” whispered the one holding her right foot.

  “Yes,” said another. “The Master expects it.”

  “It may know answers to questions,” murmured the third, her left arm transfixed in his rock hard grip. “We should return it to the Mother to be examined.”

  More of the green-clad fanatics returned from the shadows, curious to see what their comrades had snared.

  The clouds and fog were parting, and by the faint starlight Beramun saw the Jade Men were young, her own age or even younger. There was a blind fierceness in their eyes totally at odds with their deft and silent manner. She had no doubt they could gut her like a rabbit and never feel the slightest remorse.

  Unable to overcome their implacable grips, Beramun went limp. Her garments were well soaked from the rain, and slick. She felt one leg slip just slightly. Bursting into motion, she jerked the leg free and kicked the nearest Jade Man in the face. The other three were knocked off balance. She yanked herself free and fell to the ground.

  A bronze blade flashed by her nose. It raked lightly down her ribs, snagging the lacings of her buckskin shirt and pulling them loose. The garment fell off one shoulder.

  She rolled over on her belly and tried to crawl away. Instantly, many hands seized her again. One of the Jade Men grasped her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. A sharp point buried itself in the soft flesh under her chin. Her heart contracted to a small, tight knot.

  The next thing she knew, she was free. The shock of this sudden change was so great she staggered slightly, then whirled, expecting a stab in the back. It never came. The Jade Men had formed a square around her and made no move to recapture her. They watched her closely with cool, expressionless, painted faces.

  “You bear the Master’s mark,” said one.

  “Mark?”

  The one who had spoken bared his left breast. Starlight illuminated the shiny triangle on his skin. As Beramun stared, one after another they revealed identical green triangles.

  “You bear the Master’s mark,” the Jade Man said again. He was little more than a boy, judging by his smooth, hairless chest.

  “What does it mean?” she demanded.

  “You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.”

  Beramun flushed and opened her mouth to deny it hotly — opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap.

  “You’re right,” she said, sidling away from the eerie band. They didn’t try to stop her. “I am doing the will of the Master. You will tell no one about seeing me — not Zannian or anyone else.”

  “The Master’s will is our will.”

  As one, the Jade Men intoned, “Greengall. Greengall…”

  Beramun turned and ran. The path was steep and treacherous, lined with loose gravel and thorny brush. She fell several times but continued to run until the valley vanished b
ehind her.

  The night was more than half gone. She needed to be well into the mountains before daybreak.

  She paused only once, at a promontory a league from the mouth of the pass. Her hands and legs were smeared with the green paint worn by Sthenn’s boy troop. It smelled awful, like rancid oil, so she halted by a puddle of rainwater and scrubbed herself hard. Even after the paint was gone, she felt unclean where the Jade Men had touched her.

  You hear the Master’s mark. You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.

  Denying it in her head but fearing it in her heart, Beramun took to her heels again.

  When day broke, the villagers received a shock. Their lookouts on the eastern cliffs saw bands of raiders gathered near the north wall. The lookouts sounded the alarm and sent word to Amero that the enemy was up to something.

  Much worse was to come. As the sun rose over the eastern cliffs, the raiders set up two stakes in view of the village lookouts. To these stakes they tied two of the scouts who’d been sent to find Karada’s nomads. The runners, captured during the night, weren’t dead — not yet, not quite.

  The news sent a chill of horror through the village. “Two lost already,” Lyopi mourned. “And now Zannian knows we’ve sent for help.”

  “Two lost means six got through,” Amero said grimly. “They knew the dangers. They also know they carry all our hopes with them.”

  Rain and mist clung to the mountains for two days. It was driven away at last by a rising wind that tore the clouds to shreds. Strange portents followed the wind — booming thunder from a clear sky, cold whirlwinds scampering through the side canyons, flashes of green and blue light in the eastern sky at dusk.

  Through all these disturbances, Amero kept a solitary vigil atop the Offertory. He watched as one runner after another was captured and staked out below the walls of Yala-tene. Two, then three, then five distant figures hung limply on posts in plain view.

  Amero suffered for each one, having known them all their lives, but as much as he grieved for them and their families, he kept the summit of his anguish locked away, waiting for the unbearable moment when Beramun would join them.

  Chapter 23

  Two raiders, well muscled and hard of mien, threw their prisoner at Zannian’s feet. The young villager, caught in Bearclaw Gap east of Yala-tene, had been cruelly treated. He was the sixth scout the raiders had found.

  “Well?” said Zannian. “What did he tell you?”

  “Same story as before — the Arkuden sent him and seven others to find Karada.”

  Zannian burst out laughing. “So it’s true! They seek a ghost!”

  Nearby, Nacris was working on a tally of the animals they’d captured in the valley. She heard the hated name and put down the willow twig she was using to scratch the count in the dirt.

  “Karada again?” she asked sharply.

  “It’s nothing,” Zannian said, waving a dismissive hand. “The Arkuden pins his hopes on a dead woman.”

  “There’s more, Zan.” The bearded interrogator prodded the unconscious scout with the same stick he’d used to beat him. “If Karada herself wasn’t found, he was to bring back any of her warrior band he could find.”

  “Well, a few old wanderers are no threat to us,” he said. “Take this fool out and stake him like the others. When we get all eight, the mud-toes will certainly give up.”

  The bearded fellow made no move to leave, but exchanged a significant look with the other raider.

  Zannian saw it and snapped, “What else?”

  “He said one of the scouts is that black-haired girl, the one you offered the bounty for.”

  Zannian leaped to his feet and took hold of the bearded raider’s tunic. “Are you sure?”

  “He told us the names of all of them. Her name is Beramun, right?”

  Zannian shoved the man away. “Get my horse,” he snapped. “Round up forty men and have them ready to ride!”

  “Aye, Zan!” The two raiders picked up the unconscious youth by the heels and dragged him out. Zannian and Nacris were left alone.

  “Any objections, Mother?” Zannian’s expression dared her to criticize.

  She scratched a few random lines in the dirt. “Should I object?”

  “Aren’t you going to say something about me wasting my time chasing that crow-haired wench?”

  “No, Zanni. You’ve been sulking in this tent too long. Polish your sword, get on your horse, and go do something.”

  Though he knew the childish nickname was meant to tease him, he merely grinned unpleasantly and said, “That I’ll do!”

  “One thing,” she said, all jesting gone. “If there are survivors of Karada’s band out there, they’re not to be discounted. Any one of her warriors could whip ten of your yevi-spawned hirelings.”

  “Pah!” he spat. “Karada died long ago. The Master told me so himself.”

  “You’d be wiser not to believe everything the Master says.”

  Zannian paused at the tent flap, unsure. His mother’s advice had lately proven valuable. He was inclined to listen to what she said.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “The Arkuden is seeking allies. So can we.” Nacris traced invisible lines on her palm with the willow twig. “I’ve been thinking about just such a move for a while now. There are some warriors I know who would not find Arku-peli’s wall much of an obstacle.”

  “Who?”

  “Ogres.”

  Zannian uttered a single loud oath. “You’re mad! Bring ogres into our fight?”

  “Why not?” was her cool response.

  “Why not?” Zannian clapped a hand to his head. “Have you forgotten the ancient war between men and ogres? They nearly wiped out our ancestors! And you want to invite them here, to fight alongside us? By all the spirits! What’s to stop them from killing us?”

  “We’re not weak, and ogres respect strength.”

  “We’ve lost a quarter of the hand so far. How strong will we be when the last battle is fought?”

  “There’s the Master too,” Nacris said.

  Mention of Sthenn calmed Zannian. “True enough,” he replied, “but he’s far away, battling the bronze dragon. We have no idea when he’ll return.” He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s too risky. I forbid you to have any contact with the ogres. We will conquer by our own hands or perish in the attempt.”

  Nacris was silent for a time, then said, “As you wish, Zanni. You’re chief of this band.” She smiled. “Now go! You have wild game to catch, don’t you?”

  “Aye! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, brimming with newfound enthusiasm.

  As soon as he’d gone, Nacris’s fingers closed on the willow twig, snapping it in two. The Arkuden’s desperate plan to find Karada did not worry Nacris. In fact, she wished his plan every success. She hoped Karada was alive and could be found. Let Karada ride headlong to her own destruction!

  Nacris raised herself with her crutch and hobbled outside. She made her way slowly to the river’s edge. A gang of slaves was washing clothes, preparing food, and repairing broken weapons. She scanned those guarding the busy captives, looking for one face in particular.

  “Where is Harak, Siru’s son?” she called out. The slaves kept their heads down and continued their labors.

  “Horse corral,” replied an emaciated woman.

  The raiders had set up a temporary corral to hold their spare horses and the goats and oxen taken from the village. Nacris had no problem finding Harak. The young raider was exercising a sable mare injured in one of the earlier attacks on Arku-peli.

  She watched Harak closely as he rode. He was not hard to look at. His long hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was the same color as the sleek mare he rode. The early morning sunlight cast his chiseled features into sharp relief.

  Work before pleasure, she mused, and called, “Harak! Come here!”

  He pulled the reins sharply, bringing the mare around in a tight turn. The horse approached Nacris at a
trot. Five steps away, Harak swung a leg over the animal’s neck and slid to the ground.

  “Greetings, Mother,” he said pleasantly.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not your mother.”

  “As mother to our chief, aren’t you mother to us all?”

  “Mind your tongue, hoy, or the chief will have it out.” Nacris limped on her crutch to the shady side of the pen and sat on a convenient slab of rock. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”

  Harak folded his lean body gracefully, and propped an elbow on the stone, close to Nacris. His expression was calculatedly winsome, and because he was so handsome and so obvious, she found herself smiling at him.

  “How long have you been in my son’s bad graces?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  His pleasant expression didn’t alter. “You know very well. Since the captives broke free during our march across the plain.”

  “The escape wasn’t your fault.”

  He shrugged. “Tell your son that.”

  “Zannian distrusts you.” Harak feigned surprise. She chuckled, saying, “Yes he does, and you know it. He’s afraid you’re smarter than he is, and he resents your prowess on horseback.”

  “I am as my ancestors made me,” said Harak with blatantly false modesty.

  “So you are,” Nacris retorted dryly. “Well, I have need of you. I want you to be my man, Harak.”

  His dark brown eyes widened. “You flatter me. I thought you were Hoten’s mate.”

  Nacris backhanded him. An old warrior herself, she had plenty of strength in her arms. The blow sent the insolent young man sprawling.

  “Don’t banter with me, boy! I’ve known men who were worth ten of you, as warriors and as lovers. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”

  Harak picked himself up. Brushing away dirt, he knelt again, this time out of her reach. His tanned cheek bore the red imprint of her hand.

  “All right, Nacris. I’m listening. What do you want of me?”