by Dragon Lance
As he listened, Amero’s own memories stirred. His thoughts were not of the wandering life, but of Duranix and Yala-tene. He’d lived more than half his life in this valley with these people. What a long way we’ve come, he thought.
Talk died as the work of many days caught up with the villagers. Snores became plentiful. Some of the crowd tottered away to sleep in their own beds. Others just put their heads in any convenient lap and dozed.
Amero, fuzzy with wine and fatigue, watched the flames in the firepit burn down to a glowing pool of embers. Lyopi was curled up beside him. Looking down at her fondly, one hand idly smoothing her chestnut hair, he gradually noticed something strange was happening. The flames in the firepit were slowly dying, yet light bathed the banquet scene – a bluish-white shine like Soli’s glow, but more intense and pervasive. The strange light, Amero realized, was coming from inside the town.
He stood gently so as not to wake Lyopi. Others in the crowd were still awake, and they had noticed the strange light, too.
“Arkuden,” said Udi, the beekeeper’s son, “what can it be?”
“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.
“It’s coming from the Offertory,” Hulami said.
Indeed it was. Amero set off for the enclosure, followed by a dozen townsfolk. From four houses away, he could see the source of the light was indeed the Offertory. The eerie glow filled the street, washing the color from everything it touched.
When they reached the entrance to the Offertory, they found the Sensarku assembled in the courtyard, kneeling before the high cairn. Atop the stone platform stood an elongated, pear-shaped ball of light, so dazzling it hurt the eyes.
“What is this?” Amero blurted. The reverent acolytes nearest the entrance held fingers to their lips and shushed Amero. Irritated, he strode into the courtyard. The acolytes tried to stop him, but he kicked them off roughly and called, “Konza! Konza, what is going on?”
The old man, crouching by the altar, stood up. “Quietly, please, Arkuden!” he said, voice taut with emotion. “Do not insult the Omen!”
Konza sidled through the ranks of his followers and took Amero aside. “It appeared after sunset,” he whispered. “The boys were washing the cairn when this... spirit-omen arrived.” He looked up at the bright mass with wonder on his face. “It must be a sign from the dragon!”
Amero was doubtful. Duranix had many abilities, but Amero had never known the dragon to do anything like this.
He went to the footholds cut into the front of the cairn. More Sensarku protested, but Konza quieted them with a look. More curious than afraid, he climbed toward the orb. Up close, it gave off no heat and made no sound, but the light was truly blinding, and Amero had to shield his eyes. It seemed to be spinning rapidly, like a child’s top.
Listening intently, Amero became aware of a faint, massed whispering, as though scores of voices were murmuring at once. The voices seemed to echo, as though coming from a hollow place, like the deep interior of a cave. Amero strained to make sense of the words, but could not.
Questions burned in him as brightly as the strange light. He wanted very much to touch the brilliant object, to know what it was made of. He drew his bronze Silvanesti dagger. It was a span long, with an oilwood handle. He extended the point at the orb. The whispery, distant voices increased in volume as his blade approached. They grew so loud that Amero winced in pain, but he still couldn’t understand them or pick out a single voice from all the chaos. It seemed clear the voices didn’t like the dagger.
“Do you hear that?” he shouted over the din.
Konza was just a few steps away. He said, “Hear what, Arkuden?”
Setting his jaw, Amero shoved the dagger forward. Voices and light merged into a clap of thunder. All Amero had time to do was fling an arm over his eyes before his feet left the platform. He landed hard on his back, the impact driving the wind from his body.
Breath and sight slowly returned. Amero was on the ground, propped up by a pair of acolytes. They were patting his face and rubbing his hands. Their faces wore definite “I told you so” expressions. He brushed the youths aside and rose, grunting from the pain in his back.
Three steps away, Tiphan lay in the midst of a chattering circle of young Sensarku. He looked more than strange. Every bit of color had been bled out of him. He appeared to be clad in snow-white buckskins. His long blond hair and eyebrows had also turned white. His eyes were open and the look on his face positively beatific.
“Tiphan, son, can you hear me?” Konza was saying, hugging the young man desperately. “Say something! Can you speak?”
Amero pushed through the flock of gawking acolytes until he stood over the dazed Tiphan. He broke Konza’s hold on his son, seized the young man by the front of his shirt, and dragged him to his feet. Beneath him lay a number of small leather bags, likewise bleached of color.
“Where have you been, Tiphan?” Amero demanded, shaking him like a child. “Where are Mara and Penzar?”
Tiphan’s limp neck stiffened. He raised his head and looked Amero in the eye.
“Arkuden?” he said hoarsely. His eyes, still brilliant blue, took in his surroundings, and he smiled. “Home.”
Pulling free of Amero, Tiphan climbed atop the altar where all the Sensarku and townsfolk below could see him.
“People of Yala-tene!” the colorless man cried, flinging his arms wide. “I have come home!”
Chapter 10
Riding warm updrafts and weaving through sparse clouds, Duranix flew far out over the plain. He glided for leagues, steering by small movements of his tail. The sight of his shadow racing across the land below stirred up herds of elk and deer and the occasional wild ox, but for many days he had encountered no other creatures. The lack of wandering plainsmen made the otherwise teeming savanna seem oddly empty.
Duranix could see as well in darkness as in daylight, and the fall of night was a good time to leave his lofty vantage point and inspect the terrain in a stealthier manner. Many creatures, on two legs and four, went abroad in the night and hid by day. To spot them, the dragon landed and prowled the savanna like a panther.
He’d flown almost two hundred leagues, he estimated, since leaving Yala-tene. Such efforts emptied the belly and dried the throat. As soon as his hind legs touched the ground, Duranix’s thoughts turned inexorably to his hunger and thirst. The latter he slaked in a shallow tributary creek of the Tanjan. Meat would require a bit more exertion.
He strode through a copse of trees in the gathering dark, sniffing the wind for game. Catching the pungent scent of pig, he lowered his belly to the grass and crawled forward, nose to the trail. The only sound he made was that of his scaly hide sliding over the new green grass. He slithered right and left, following the meandering boar’s track. The smell grew stronger as he went, indicating the pig was near.
Suddenly, he glimpsed the animal’s brushy, black tail as it dug in the sod, looking for sweet roots. It never saw Duranix sweep up from behind, mouth agape. A snap, and the dragon’s daggerlike teeth made short work of the full-grown boar.
Still, it would take more than a single boar to satisfy his raging hunger. He sat up on his haunches and flared his nostrils wide, trying the air.
Lutar peeped over the horizon, enormous against the distant low hills, Its red light made the grass and trees black and gave his bronze scales a bloody cast as he searched for game.
He halted, catching wind of something quite different from elk or deer. The air carried a residual tang, almost as if lightning had struck nearby, though the sky had been clear for several days.
The only other force Duranix knew that could so singe the air was spirit power – a great deal of it. Sensing no other dragons nearby, he decided the source must be the elf priests Amero had warned him about.
The dragon noticed a path trampled through the weeds. Dropping his nose to the ground, he detected the scent of elves and horses. Since the path bore in the same direction as the scent, he followed it. Diff
erent, more familiar, aromas assailed him – human, centaur, the cold stink of metal. A piquant odor overspread all the rest: blood.
Duranix arrived at a wide area of flattened grass. Four dead horses, stripped of their tack, lay on one side of the clearing. The broken shafts of several elven javelins lay on the ground, their bronze heads having been salvaged. Scattered blankets, clay cups, and water gourds completed the scene. The aura of exhausted spirit power led off into the tall weeds a few paces away.
Before investigating further, Duranix decided to eat the dead horses. The humans had a saying: “Hungry enough to eat a horse,” meaning they were so ravenous they didn’t care what they ate. Duranix saw little difference between elk or horse.
He opened his mouth to sear the horses with a blast of fire, but halted abruptly when he saw an arm at the bottom of the heap of horseflesh. Living with Amero had given him a certain respect for thinking creatures. He couldn’t scorch the whole pile without removing the human first.
With a hungry sigh, Duranix tossed aside the top three carcasses. To his surprise, he discovered the arm belonged to a centaur. It was plain the man-horse had died hard. His body bore many wounds.
Duranix pulled the centaur’s body out of the way and roasted the horses. Once he’d eaten his fill, he incinerated the centaur. It was a small favor to a race he grudgingly admired, giving the fallen warrior a thorough cremation rather than leaving his body to the scavengers.
Picking his teeth with an equine leg bone, Duranix turned his attention to finding the locus of the spirit power he’d sensed earlier. He soon tracked it to a small clearing where the green growth of spring had been banished somehow, leaving the grass flattened and dead white, like the horse bone he held. The sensation of departed energy was amazingly strong here.
Duranix shook his head, wondering what had happened. The glint of metal caught his eye, and he retrieved from the grass a fine bronze knife. From the markings on the hilt, he recognized the weapon. It had belonged to Tiphan.
The presence of the single centaur at the battle now made sense. Amero had mentioned that Miteera sent one of his people along with Tiphan’s little expedition. The centaur had given his life in a bloody fight. What had become of Tiphan and his two acolytes?
As the dragon poked about for more clues, something stung his left rear claw. He lifted the limb, expecting to find another bronze blade in the grass. All he saw was a small, flat, stone chip, about the size of a man’s ear. The stone was dark gray granite streaked with gold and was neither hard enough nor sharp enough to penetrate his hide, yet he had he felt it intensely when he trod on it.
He picked up the stone – and immediately flung it away, shaking his claw as though burned. The mental shock he had received was intense. The tiny granite chip screamed with spirit power.
Things became clear in an instant. Tiphan was behind this. The young Sensarku, always hungering for power, hadn’t left Yala-tene on some pious quest. He’d gone in search of stones containing spirit power and had obviously found what he sought – with devastating results.
The obvious next step would be for Tiphan to return home. The fading trace of expended spirit power hinted that the human had found a quicker way home than walking or riding horseback. He’d used the power, or the power had used him.
Here was a danger far greater than the Silvanesti or hostile nomads. Foolish, ambitious Tiphan now had spirit power in his hands! The ignorant human had no idea of the damage he could cause or the danger he and his people faced from his rampant stupidity.
He could he in Yala-tene right now.
Duranix launched himself skyward, the Silvanesti threat forgotten. While he had been dawdling here on the eastern plain, snacking on boar and horse, a hideous danger was aimed at his valley, his home. If he flew as fast as he could, he could reach Yala-tene just after dawn.
If there was anything left of Yala-tene by then.
*
“Bad. This is very bad.”
Jenla knelt in the muddy orchard. She probed through the hay with a stick, gently lifting it to see if any green sprouts were visible. So far, she’d crawled down half a row without finding a single shoot.
“Are none alive?” asked Tepa anxiously. Without fruit trees, there’d be no blossoms. Without blossoms, his bees couldn’t make honey.
“Not yet.” She slid her damp knees forward and probed again. A slender shoot, more yellow than green, poked up through the soggy soil. “Ha!” Jenla crowed. “Apple tree!”
“That’s one.” Tepa ran a hand through his thinning gray hair, repeating sadly, “One.”
“Tiphan will answer for this.” Jenla marked the sickly seedling with a stone. “Heed my words – and watch where you step!” she said loudly, pushing Tepa away from the single live tree she’d found.
The old beekeeper wasn’t listening. He was gazing at something far away, brow furrowed wTith effort. When she noticed his distraction, she followed his rapt gaze, shading her eyes.
“What do you see?” she asked. Though he was old, Tepa’s excellent vision was well known. His keen eyes could still track bees in flight.
He concentrated for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he finally replied. “There’s something lying on the bank below the bridge. It’s not moving.”
“Probably a dead mountain goat, washed down from a higher valley. Maybe we can salvage the hide.”
The orchard was empty of other villagers, as work this morning was concentrated in the vegetable gardens, out of their sight. In companionable silence, the two elders walked along the shore toward the object Tepa had seen.
When they’d covered about half the distance to the unknown object, Jenla asked, “Can you tell what it is yet?”
He didn’t answer, and Jenla wasn’t surprised. Tepa was a cautious man. He didn’t volunteer opinions unless he had facts to back them up.
They drew nearer, and Jenla suddenly saw movement from the object. “It’s alive,” she said.
Simultaneously, Tepa cried, “It’s a girl!” He ran the rest of the way to the prone figure. Jenla shouted hoarsely at him to wait for her.
Tepa reached the fallen figure. Skinny arms and legs stuck out from beneath a mound of piebald oxhide.
“Can you hear me, girl?” he asked. She didn’t answer. He used the tip of his staff to lift the filthy hide. A cloud of flies rose up, and Tepa flipped the hide away, exposing the fallen stranger.
She was thin to the point of gauntness, wearing a tattered shift crusted with dried mud. Her bare legs and arms were black with muck, and her waist-length black hair was matted and stiff. Tepa could see her bony ribs moving through a gash in her shift. Her eyes were closed.
Tepa dropped to one knee and gathered her in his arms. When he lifted her, her head lolled back.
“Poor little one,” the beekeeper soothed. “You’ve traveled far, haven’t you?”
Jenla arrived, panting. “Careful, old man!” she said sharply, though not without affection. “She could be a spirit, even a dragon in disguise.”
Tepa dipped his hand in the stream and let the cool water dribble across the girl’s forehead. He chided Jenla, clucking his tongue.
“This is no monster,” he said, “just a lost girl, who’s gone too long since her last meal.”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes as black as her hair. Seeing Tepa, she began to struggle. He let her go and stood back with Jenla. The girl rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, regarding the couple warily.
Tepa asked gently, “What’s your name?”
“Beramun.” She dusted sand and dried mud from her doeskin shirt and kilt, keeping wary eyes on Jenla and Tepa.
When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, Jenla asked, “Who are your people?” The custom among plainsmen was to introduce themselves by the names of their parents.
“I have no people. I’m Beramun. That’s all.” She pointed past them to the town across the lake. “Is that the place called Yala-tene?”
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“It is,” Tepa said.
Beramun sighed, her eyes closing briefly. “At last! I’ve wandered through half these mountains, looking for this place.”
She swayed a bit on her feet. Tepa stepped forward to help her, but she shrank from his proffered arm.
“When did you last eat?” he asked, stepping back.
“I don’t know.” She looked in the leather bag looped around her shoulder. From the way the limp bag hung, Tepa knew it was empty.
Beramun added, “Some days ago, it seems.”
“Well, come with us, girl,” Jenla said firmly. “We’ll feed you.”
Beramun resisted. “I must speak to your headman first!” Fear darkened her wan face. “I bring news of great danger!”
She was so insistent Jenla relented, and the three of them set off for Yala-tene at once. On the way, Tepa found a few dried apple slices in the pocket of his wraparound tunic. He offered the fruit to Beramun. She took them without hesitation but otherwise remained silent, obviously not intending to divulge her news to anyone but the headman of Yala-tene.
*
After a long, slow walk, they reached the village wall. Beramun had never seen such a structure. She marveled at the large stone blocks and how tightly they fit together. Inside, the town bustled with activity. Potters carried their wares to the kilns on long, ladderlike racks. Basket makers, coopers, and cobblers haggled over barter rates with the folk who gathered the raw materials – woodcutters, tanners, and the fishermen who cut rushes in their spare time.
Beramun was overwhelmed by the tumult. She had never seen so many people in one place, and everyone seemed to be going in all directions. They spoke her language but much more quickly than she was accustomed to. Here and there she saw black-skinned men and women she knew came from across the sea.
