by Dragon Lance
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.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He grinned widely. “I knew his mother, Amylyrix. We fought long and hard for this same territory, one thousand two hundred years ago. Neither of us could gain the upper hand until I found her nest in the Easthorn Mountains, far from here, and brought an avalanche down on her. Her clutch was buried under half a mountain, and she herself was mortally wounded. I sat atop the pile of stones and waited for her to die. It took eleven days.”
Nacris understood. She dreamed of the day she would stand over Karada’s dying body.
“I thought I had disposed of her whole brood,” Greengall continued, “but as I sat there listening to Amylyrix expire, I heard a hatchling mewling under the rocks. Curious, I dug him out. It was Duranix. His mother had shielded him from the weight of the landslide with her own body.”
“A mother’s finest deed,” said Nacris sincerely.
The grotesque creature gave her an inscrutable look. “Yes, very noble. I picked up little Duranix by his tail and told him, ‘I’ve killed your family, but I’m going to let you live. Do you know why?’ All the little scalesucker could do was puke and whimper. I rapped his skull with a stone to make sure he was listening. ‘I’m going to let you live,’ I said, ‘so I can kill you later.’”
Time passed with only the sound of dripping rain to mark it.
“Do you understand?” Greengall asked, coming out of his reverie to give Nacris a probing look.
“The bronze dragon owes his life to you, however reluctantly.” From beneath her tangled, graying hair, Nacris’s eyes glimmered like rain-flecked flint. “How he must hate you.”
“I hope so! What a waste if he doesn’t!”
Nacris settled back in her litter and closed her eyes. What a monster she was consorting with – conniving, endlessly cruel, and with a vicious sense of humor. Having Sthenn for an ally was like sleeping with a deadly viper. The question was not if it would bite you, but when.
No matter. The green dragon was simply the means to an end. To destroy a powerful, clever enemy, one needed powerful, ruthless allies.
Twelve years ago she’d lost everything. Karada had killed her mate, Sessan, then helped Duranix defeat the disaffected nomads led by Nacris, Hatu, and Tarkwa. Tarkwa perished in the fight. Hatu was hunted down and murdered by the bronze dragon. Nacris alone had survived, hurled into the lake by Duranix, her leg shattered by the fall. A clan of ox herders had rescued her from the river below Yala-tene, but her leg had been too far gone to be saved.
The herders went south to Khar land, and Nacris went with them, slowly recovering. She vowed by all her ancestors that she would one day have her revenge on Karada, the village of Yala-tene, its protector dragon, and its headman.
One bitter winter day her adopted clan was massacred by the Almurk raiders. Nacris recognized one of her attackers as Hoten, son of Nito. Bald Hoten had been part of the rebel faction she’d led against Karada. He spared his old chief and took her deep into the forest at the Edge of the World to meet Sthenn. There, her dreams of vengeance began to take a more definite form.
“I have need for one like you,” Sthenn had told her.
Grateful to be alive, Nacris promised her loyalty, saying, “I no longer ride, but I know how to lead warriors in battle.”
“Any hothead can do that. I have a different task in mind, one more nourishing to the black heart I see within you.”
He had departed as the green dragon but returned in the form she came to know as Greengall. He brought with him a dirty, disheveled boy of twelve. He had introduced the child as Zannian, then added, “Boy, meet your mother.”
It was hard to say who had been more astonished, the child or the woman. The boy spoke first.
“Mother? How come I haven’t seen you before?”
“She’s been away fighting,” said Greengall. Venomous irony dripped from his words. “Now she’s come back to raise you properly. Isn’t that right?”
Nacris stared at the ragged hoy with his rat’s nest of light brown ha
ir. Through the caked-on dirt, she could see intelligence shining from his hazel eyes – intelligence and mistrust in equal measure – as he gazed back at her.
She glanced at Greengall. He was smiling, his horrible, too-wide grin revealing sharply pointed teeth. She voiced none of the questions that tumbled through her brain. Instead, she simply nodded. At that moment the bargain was made.
“Yes, I’ve come back,” she said to Zannian, opening her arms. “Come here, son.”
The boy let the strange woman hug him, though he didn’t return her rough embrace. After a few moments, Nacris pushed him away, brushing the matted hair from his face.
“I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing,” she said. Looking past Zannian to Greengall, she added, “You must tell me everything.”
Nacris became a mother. Later, she added to her vicious brood the orphan boys who became the Jade Men. Like Zannian, they were raised to know no right but force, no truth but fear, and no pleasure but obedience. She told herself she cared for none of them. They were tools for a task, nothing more. Why then did she feel a pang of fear when the Jade Men demonstrated their fighting skills against Zannian and yet felt nothing when a Jade Man was gravely wounded?
The rain continued to fall. Nacris imagined the cold drops washing away all her feelings and all her fears, until only pure hatred was left.
Chapter 16
At daybreak, Paharo and his five fellow scouts gathered under a cloud-shrouded sky. Dampened by intermittent drizzle, they waited for the Sensarku. When Tiphan and his acolytes arrived, the sight of them left Paharo and his scouts blinking in amazement.
They were twenty young men and women, none older than eighteen, clad in white doeskins. Their hair was plaited with spring flowers, and on their shoulders each bore a spear, its shaft daubed with white paint. Another five pairs of acolytes, also dressed in buffed doeskins and with flowers in their hair, drew five travois. The travois were heavily laden with supplies – by the look of it, enough to feed them all for twenty days.
Tiphan, walking proudly in the midst of his followers, was draped in doeskins of dazzling whiteness. His pale face was likewise coated with white paint, as were his hands and arms. Bronze dragon scales covered his chest. With his already white hair and eyebrows, he looked like a spirit in human guise. Only his eyes contained any color. They shone brilliant turquoise in the midst of his eerie pallor.
