by Dragon Lance
“Come, Great Spirit. I will take you to Karada.”
He expected to find the human chieftain camped beneath a spreading vallenwood, but the truth was more subtle. The plainsmen had cleared a large area of the shoulder-high grass in the midst of the open plain. Nets, supported by poles, were spread across the clearing. The cut grass had been layered on top of the net, which kept the camp from being spotted from above and gave shade to the artificial clearing beneath.
Leading her own and Uran’s horse, Samtu allowed Duranix to precede her into the clearing, which was lit by a few small, smoky fires. That’s what he’d glimpsed from the air, one of these veiled campfires.
Tough-looking warriors leaped to attention when they spied the stranger. Samtu tied the horses and warned her comrades off. As he passed them, Duranix slowly increased the height of his human form, so that he soon overtopped the tallest plainsman by a full span. He hoped his imposing size would forestall any more rash attacks.
Samtu announced, “Tell Karada a mighty spirit wishes to speak with her.”
A runner was dispatched, and all awaited the arrival of the chieftain – the warriors with much muttering and fingering of spears, Duranix with utter calm. They did not have long to wait.
The chieftain entered the clearing alone and on foot. She was a woman, a bit older than twenty-five, rawboned and red-brown from the sun. Aside from her piercing eyes, Karada’s most striking feature were the jagged scars that crisscrossed her throat, left arm, and right leg. She was clad in a knee-length, divided kilt of pigskin, tanned a soft gray. Her torso was covered with a ribbed breastplate of carved twigs, similar to the one Samtu wore, except the twigs were studded with carved teeth taken from various predators. Karada carried an unusual short-handled spear. The shaft was only half the usual length.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was clear and firm, the tone of a woman used to being obeyed.
“My name is Duranix.”
“Samtu says you killed one of my men.”
“An accident. My regrets. I should have been more careful.”
“Uran was a stout fighter,” she said. “How did he die?”
Samtu related how they’d spied Duranix in the dark, apparently skulking on the trail of two of their other riders. She described their failure with the net and Duranix’s amazing strength.
“Are you a spirit?” Karada asked, nonplussed.
“I am a living, flesh-and-blood creature, I assure you, but this shape you see is not my real one. I am a dragon – what you call a stormbird.”
This revelation set off a loud hubbub in the clearing. Plainsmen left their campfires and filled the clearing around Duranix while he spoke, eyeing the body of their fallen comrade. When he announced the truth about himself, there were many loud denunciations.
“Shut up,” Karada said without raising her voice. The crowd fell-silent at once. “That’s a tall tale, stranger. I’m known to be a blunt woman, but I won’t call you a liar. What I want to know is, why are you here?”
“I dwell some distance from here, in the mountains. There are humans there living under my protection, and when I detected your band hiding by day and advancing by night, naturally I wanted to find out whether you were dangerous to my people.”
Karada rested the short spear on her shoulder. “You live with humans?”
“A modest settlement,” Duranix said.
Someone in the crowd said, “Arku-peli!”
The dragon surveyed the faces of Karada’s plainsmen. They were very different from Amero’s villagers, and different from the small family groups who still wandered the western savanna. There was pride in their faces, a sense of their own independence and toughness. Despite Duranix’s words, his appearance, and the corpse of their comrade, they were not intimidated. The dragon found this interesting and disturbing at the same time.
“I see you’ve heard of our village,” Duranix said. “Those who live there call it Yala-tene.”
“It’s said a stormbird lives at Arku-peli, in the cliffs above the lake,” Karada replied. “Are you him?”
“None other.”
She smiled thinly, sitting down on a fallen log. “I saw a stormbird once, many years ago, high in the sky. It was riding the crest of a storm, and I watched it slay half a herd of elk with its fiery breath.”
Her words triggered a memory. Duranix hadn’t hunted elk in years, not since the villagers began supplying him with choice sides of meat. An image surfaced in his mind: a bedraggled and bloody human waif, standing in pouring rain, watching him devour his food on the hoof...
“Are you listening?” Karada was saying.
Duranix pulled himself back to the present. “What?”
“I said, let me see you as you really are.”
He considered the request briefly, then said no.
“Why not?” she asked. “You allow the people of Arku-peli to look upon you, don’t you?”
“They’re used to me. I wouldn’t want to scare your men.”
Duranix’s remarks brought on a shower of boasts and threats from the plainsmen. Karada let them rant.
The dragon ignored their posturing. “What are you doing here, Karada? Are you headed for Yala-tene?” he asked.
“What if we were?”
“You’re welcome, so long as you come in peace.”
She jabbed the butt of her spear into the dirt. “Peace is not our concern just now! Silvanos, lord of the elves, is trying to push us back across the Tanjan. We’re fighting back, as we did in the south. My scouts tell me he’s moving a large war band up the Thon-Thalas on rafts. I intend to meet them. We’ll crush them where they step ashore.”
This declaration stirred fierce cheers from the warriors.
Karada continued, “When we’ve defeated the elves and sent them back to their forest, maybe then we’ll pay a friendly visit to Arku-peli. Does that answer your question, dragon-man?”
“Well enough, Scarred One.” The mutual witticism made them both smile. He touched his right hand to his forehead in salute, allowing a small snap of lightning to pass between his fingertips and head. The plainsmen pressing in on the scene grunted in surprise and drew back.
“I’ll tell the people of Yala-tene you’re only interested in fighting elves. Good luck to you, Karada, and be cautious. Elves are not to be trifled with. They’re a force of nature, like a cloudburst. Their fury can be endured but not turned aside.”
“Keep your advice, dragon. Silvanos is learning we humans are a force as well. We ask only the right to go where we will, to live as we will. If Silvanos would grant us that, there would be no fighting.”
Tired of the belligerent band, Duranix said farewell and departed on foot. Karada’s nomads parted ranks for him, and he strolled away into the night.
*
When the dragon was gone, Karada called, “Pakito, Pa’alu, I want you.”
The two brothers, long members of Karada’s band, pushed their way through the throng and stood before their chief.
Pakito had grown into a huge man, heavily muscled from balding head to bare toes. Pa’alu cut an impressive figure as well, less massive than his brother, but with a formidable width of shoulders and powerful limbs.
“What’s your will, Karada?” asked Pa’alu.
“Follow him,” she said, indicating the departed Duranix. “Find out where he goes, and see if he is what he claims.”
“And if he’s not?” rumbled Pakito.
“If he’s a fool or a liar, let him be. If he’s a scout for Silvanos, bring back his head.”
“Aye, Karada. That we’ll do.” Pakito cracked the joints of his enormous hands for emphasis.
The plainsmen dispersed to their beds. Pa’alu lingered in the clearing until he was alone with Karada.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I still think your plan is wrong,” he said, kneeling beside her. “We can’t face an elf war band on equal terms. Most of our men still use flint-head spears and stone axes. We have horses n
ow, and a few elven blades, but it’s not enough.”
She regarded him coldly. “Is it because you are afraid, Pa’alu?”
“I’ve hunted and fought at your side for nine seasons. What’s at stake is not my life or yours, but the whole band. You know I speak from the heart.”
“When the gray killers destroyed my family, I survived because I fought back,” she said. “I’ve hunted down and slain more of them than I can count. When the ‘Good People’ tried to drive all humans from the southland, I brought the families and single hunters together to fight back. Now we’re five hundred strong. We have horses and can cover ten leagues a day, hunt and fight on the move...” Karada paused, tracing a line in the dirt with her toe. “I know the elves are powerful, Pa’alu. They have metal. Their shamans have spirit-power none of our wise men can match. It’s said they can change the weather, command the winds, talk to beasts of the air, land, and water...” She slammed the butt of her spear on the ground. “So, do we throw down our spears and run away, hoping the great Silvanos doesn’t decide to take the land north of the river away from us?”
She stood up, hair falling loosely into her face. “We will fight, Pa’alu. We will hit them as they try to leave their rafts, and the river will run red with elf blood. Then Silvanos will know we are not rabbits, but plainsmen!”
She stalked away. He followed, catching her arm.
“You’ve been alone too long,” he said in a low voice. “You see only with the eyes of a hunter. Put down your spear, Nianki. Take me as your mate.”
She pried his hand loose. “You take a chance,” she whispered. “I’ve killed men who laid hands on me. Do you remember Neko?”
Pa’alu stepped back. “I meant no disrespect. I love you, Nianki.”
Her expression did not change. “I’ve no time for such things. Pakito is waiting. Go.”
When Pa’alu remained, she gave him a level look and departed. He watched until darkness engulfed her, cursing himself for saying too much and for loving a woman he could not reach. He might as well love the stars in the sky – like Nianki, they could lead you through the darkest night, but they were impossible to touch and gave no warmth. So it was with his chief. Many men had tried to win her or take her, but she’d bested them all. Through it all Pa’alu remained at her side, glad to be a friend and comrade, if nothing else.
Pakito’s bull voice echoed across the clearing, calling him. With a deep sigh Pa’alu shouldered his knapsack and went to join his brother.
Out from under the protective canopy of grass, the sight of the stars mocked his heart. Pa’alu had never thought much about spirits and powers, but faced with an impossible goal, he decided it couldn’t hurt to reach out to them in case there were forces greater than humankind who could intervene on his behalf.
Pa’alu looked up at the sparkling firmament and made a solemn vow. Some day, Nianki would be his. Whatever the cost, he would have her.
Chapter 9
It didn’t take long for Duranix to discover he was being followed. This did not mean Pa’alu and Pakito were clumsy stalkers, merely that the dragon’s senses were far more perceptive than any normal prey. He heard their footfalls behind him within a league of leaving Karada’s camp. Once he knew they were there, it was easy to spot them. The warm blood in their veins gave their silhouettes a dull luminosity against the cooler background of trees and grass. After ascertaining his trackers numbered only two, he moved on.
Duranix could have reverted to dragon shape and taken to the air, leaving the humans far behind, but that wouldn’t have been nearly so interesting. Instead, he began to walk faster and faster until he was covering ground in huge bounds. His pursuers faded in the distance. Once his lead was comfortable, Duranix searched for a convenient spot to turn the tables on the plainsmen.
He found what he wanted in a field of boulders. Hundreds of upright stones littered the grassland, most of them slabs of black granite. Their regularity, and the fact that no other outcroppings of similar stone occurred in the vicinity, puzzled the disguised dragon. The stones appeared to have been arranged purposefully, but who could have done such a thing? They were well outside elf territory, and the backward local humans lacked the means to move so many heavy boulders.
Duranix stopped at the edge of the field of standing stones. His run across the savanna hadn’t winded him. A quick glance behind failed to reveal Pakito or Pa’alu in sight.
The dragon entered the outer circle of stones. He trailed his fingers over the rough surface of one angular boulder. His senses tingled strongly. Surprised, he pressed first his palm, then his cheek against the cold granite. The stone fairly hummed with contained force. There were hundreds more stones around him. He touched those nearest him and found them charged as well. Much power had been expended here in the distant past – power greater than a hundred dragons. The stones radiated it invisibly, like heat stored up from a hot summer day.
The deeper he went into the formation, the more disturbed Duranix became. He’d been looking for a spot to stage a playful ambush. Instead, he’d stumbled across a place of vast, captive spiritual energy. It was neither benign nor malign in flavor, but the sheer amount of power pent up in these stones made Duranix’s mock-human skin crawl.
He’d wasted enough time with these savages. He resolved to get out of this strange forest of stones, resume dragon form, and fly back to his lake. On his way out, he heard movement among the standing stones – a jingle of metallic links, the flex of heavy leather.
A tiny blue spark appeared in the air before him and rapidly grew into a spinning globe of light three spans wide. It was harmless, Duranix knew, merely a source of illumination, but it meant someone mortal was drawing on the power of this place.
Folding his arms, Duranix said loudly, “You’ve made yourself known. Who are you, and what do you want?”
Two-legged figures emerged from behind the stones – more than a dozen in all. Duranix readied himself to fight or flee. Some of the hidden watchers gathered under the blue light, and he saw they were elves, not humans. They surrounded Duranix with a ring of bronze-tipped javelins.
Eleven were dressed in warrior garb. The twelfth was visibly older than the rest, wore a long blue robe embroidered with arcane hieroglyphs, and had a feathery mustache and beard. Duranix was intrigued by this last detail. Elves did not possess facial hair. They regarded beards as a bestial human trait. Sparse though it was, this bearded stranger could not be a full-blooded elf and, surprisingly, he chose to flaunt the fact.
He leaned on a tall, stout staff, studded with raw, unpolished gems. “I am Vedvedsica, high sage to my lord Balif, first warrior of the host of our great master, Silvanos.” Vedvedsica raised his staff, pointed it at Duranix, and declared in ringing tones, “You are not what you appear to be!”
“Who is?” said the dragon pleasantly. “What brings you so far from your native forest? Aren’t you afraid of the plainsmen?”
“I am well protected,” the robed elf replied, with a nod to his escort.
Piercing the night with his dragon’s eyes, Duranix perceived each of the armed elves was weighed down with a pair of hide bags draped across their shoulders. The bags were obviously heavy and clinked when the elves moved. Vedvedsica himself had a small drawstring bag around his neck.
“You’ve been prospecting,” Duranix surmised, “chipping fragments from the standing stones.”
One of the warriors shifted nervously, saying, “He knows our business, Master. Shall we silence him?” The other elves tensed, ready to strike with their javelins.
“No!” the priest said sternly. “This is no wandering barbarian! Keep still, or he may slay us all!”
Duranix had to smile. “You’re wise for one so small.”
A shrill whistle split the air. Half the elves turned about, scanning the ill-lit stones for the source of the noise. A similar whistle rose from the darkness on the other side of the stone field. The senior warrior snapped commands, and four elves ran off int
o the shadows to investigate.
Duranix stood very still. He detected motion above and behind him. His peripheral vision discerned someone jumping from the top of one standing stone to another. The elves hadn’t noticed.
“What will you do with them?” Duranix asked as the drama unfolded around them.
“Do with what?” Vedvedsica asked, frowning. There was something unnatural about his eyes. With those whiskers under his nose, he had the face of a panther.
“Those stones.” A second shadowy figure leaped across the high rocks on Duranix’s right. Still the elves saw nothing. “The ones you and your retainers carry.”
The priest fingered the little bag hanging down on his chest. “These will make powerful amulets,” he said. “The high lords of Silvanost will reward me richly for them.”
Just then a fist-sized rock hit the warrior nearest Duranix in the face. He went down hard, blood spurting from his nose.
The rest of the elves exploded into uncoordinated action – running, yelling, trying to minister to their fallen comrade. One angry elf ported his javelin and tried to shove Duranix back against one of the boulders.
The dragon felt he had been more than patient, but his forbearance was wearing thin. He grasped the offending javelin with one hand and snapped it in two places with a twist of his wrist The astonished elf leaped back, clawing for his bronze short sword. Duranix blew lightly in the warrior’s face. The elf dropped his sword and ran screaming into the outer darkness.
Duranix turned his attention to the priest’s light orb. With a sweep of his hand he shattered the fiery blue ball into ten thousand sparks, which winked and went out. Night engulfed the scene.
Someone large and heavy landed in front of Duranix. He grabbed the intruder by the front of his buckskin shirt.
“It’s me – Pakito!” his captive said.
“So it is.” Duranix hoisted Pakito off his feet and flung him at the group of elves guarding Vedvedsica. They all went down in a flailing, cursing heap. Pakito recovered first and laid about him with his massive fists.
“Pa’alu! Brother, I’m here!” he shouted. Duranix couldn’t tell if he was calling for help or asking Pa’alu to join the fun.
