by Dragon Lance
“Somebody tell me what’s going on – now!” Hoten demanded.
“Look here!” Kej pulled the twig out of the ground. It wasn’t a twig any longer; a thin tangle of roots hung from the broken end.
“Eh?” Hoten dismounted and took the twig from Kej. “That’s impossible!”
The men pulled up other twigs they’d planted before he arrived. Each had a tuft of fine new roots. Hoten reluctantly accepted the evidence of his eyes.
“This is some rich soil!” Kej said, laughing.
“Shut up. There’s something strange at work here.” Taking the rooted stem with him, Hoten mounted his horse. “You men get to work,” he ordered. “Zannian will be here soon, and I don’t want him to see you idling around watching plants grow!”
He rode away. At the bridge site, the standoff was still going on. Raiders rode to the water’s edge, yelling and shaking their spears. Across the river, a block of villagers, drawn up on the facing slope, stood stolidly behind their cowhide shields.
Zannian slumped on his horse, chewing a strip of venison.
“Zan, the gardens are ours,” Hoten reported, “but there’s something you need to see.”
He held out the twig and explained what he’d observed. Zannian listened but didn’t believe it any more than Hoten had at first.
The chief held out a hand. Hoten put the tiny apple tree sapling in it. Not bothering even to look at the twig, Zannian threw a leg over his horse’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground. He shoved the tender shoot into the grainy sand by the water’s edge.
“I’ll make you a wager, Hoten. If this sprig grows noticeably by tomorrow, I’ll give you the pick of any horse in the band.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Zannian’s grin was feral. “You get the honor of leading the first attack across the river.”
An honor indeed. Zannian knew the initial attack would be the bloodiest fight in the valley.
“Well, what do you say?”
“I don’t need a new horse, hut there is a wager I’ll make with you.” His chief nodded for him to continue. “If that sprig is larger by tomorrow, I want your mother for my mate.”
Zannian couldn’t have been more surprised if Hoten had asked to mate with the green dragon.
After staring at him for several startled moments, the chief burst out laughing and said, “I’ll take that bet, but I won’t call you father if you win!”
“And I won’t call you son,” Hoten replied.
There was no disputing the outcome of the bet. By the next morning, the tiny sprig was a sapling a pace tall and as thick as Hoten’s thumb. Zannian was fascinated. He waved aside Hoten’s sincere thanks for Nacris’s hand, then called for more shoots to be cut from the orchard and transplanted to the bridge site.
“Why plant more?” asked Hoten. “We have the whole crop abandoned by the mud-toes.”
“I don’t want them for food. I have another use for them.” Zannian explained, and Hoten’s eyes widened in surprise.
Chapter 21
The green dragon flew northwest. Land flowed rapidly beneath him and his implacable bronze pursuer. The northern plain, the steep mountain range of Dar, the delta of the great Plains River, and at last, the great sea passed beneath them. As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, the dragons left dry land behind and continued their flight over the open ocean.
Once over the water, Sthenn descended until he was skimming above the tossing waves. Duranix dropped to within five leagues, determined to keep his canny foe in sight.
Sthenn bore left during the night, heading due west. Duranix easily followed his enemy’s progress in the dark, as the wash from Sthenn’s wings left ridges of white foam on the surface of the calm sea. At dawn, Sthenn overtook a pod of whales, black-skinned animals each three paces long. Snaking his head down into the waves, the giant dragon snatched out two whales in quick succession, gulping them down whole. The rest of the panicked pod sounded, but Sthenn tracked them through the murky green water and was directly over them when they surfaced again. He grabbed a third whale in his jaws and tossed it over his shoulder.
Duranix saw the whale tumbling through the air, and he caught it in his claws. It infuriated him to accept food from his enemy, but he was practical about it in the end. His belly was achingly empty. He devoured the small whale in two tremendous snaps of his jaws.
The green sea turned blue when the morning sun broke through the haze on the horizon. A low coastline appeared ahead, and Sthenn turned toward it.
Duranix readied himself to pounce. He hoped to catch Sthenn when the green dragon landed to drink or rest, but his old tormentor flashed over the narrow beach without slowing. Duranix saw a blur of green foliage, the cone of a smoldering volcano, and they were over the trackless sea once more.
More islands appeared on each side, but Sthenn paid them no heed. Gradually he gained height again, leveling off a thousand paces above the water. His wings worked unflaggingly. He did not seem tired at all.
Frustrated, Duranix tried to close on his adversary. To his delight, the gap between them shrank from four leagues to barely one. At that range, he loosed a bolt of lightning. With uncanny prescience, Sthenn slipped out of the way, and the bolt sizzled harmlessly past. The green dragon promptly rose into a tall bank of clouds, vanishing in the white mist.
Duranix slowed. Clouds were a perfect place for an ambush. He peered through the billowing mass, trying to catch a glimpse of his quarry. He saw nothing.
After circling a bit, he made up his mind and plunged into the cloudbank. Immediately blue static collected on his wingtips, horns, and tail. He welcomed the growing crackle of power. Bolts arced from cloud to cloud and from cloud to sea, growing larger with each sweep of his wings. He steered a serpentine path through the mist, sowing lightning and rain in his wake.
On his third swing through the white cloud, Duranix detected movement above and let a mighty bolt of fire erupt from his throat. It struck with a thunderous explosion, and Sthenn came hurtling into view, his decrepit hide trailing smoke.
Got him! Duranix exulted. He dropped free of the cloud and followed the falling green dragon.
Two hundred paces above the wind-tossed waves, Sthenn righted himself. There was a black singe mark down the center of his back. Duranix folded his wings and plummeted at his ancient enemy, claws extended. Yawing from side to side, Sthenn seemed stunned, barely able to stay in the air. He sank to within forty paces of the water. Thunder rolled overhead, and heavy rain lashed at both dragons. Duranix flexed his claws wide, eager to do as much damage as possible.
His talons met only air. At the last moment, Sthenn adroitly maneuvered out of the way. Duranix plunged by and, unable to stop, hit the sea, sending up a huge column of water.
Sthenn climbed leisurely into the clouds, laughing. “Enjoy your bath, little friend!” he called.
Furious, Duranix fought his way back to the stormy surface, spewing torrents of saltwater from his mouth and nostrils. A wave struck him in the face, and he submerged again.
Sthenn swung around in a tight curve and came winging back. Just as the bronze dragon’s head broke the surface a second time, the green dragon’s heavy tail struck him smartly on the back of the skull, plunging him once again facedown into the ocean.
The green dragon flapped for altitude and turned for another pass. “Come, come!” he chided. “We can’t be done yet. Get up, little friend!”
Kicking his legs, Duranix propelled half his body length out of the water. He intended to throw himself on his enemy and drag him down, even if it meant they both sank beneath the waves. However, Sthenn saw the danger and drew back, fanning his wings hard to reverse course. For once his elderly reflexes were just a bit slow, and he couldn’t evade Duranix’s outstretched claws.
As the dragons met, a tremendous bolt of lightning flashed from the clouds to their metallic hides. Duranix was thrown backward into the sea, momentarily dazzled by the terrific flare and concussion.
Waves broke over him, and he choked on seawater.
When he finally raised his long neck above the waves, Sthenn was nowhere in sight. Duranix ducked underwater. Even with momentary flickers of lightning brightening the depths, he could see no sign of his quarry.
Without the metallic dragons aloft to stir up the atmosphere, the storm quickly blew itself out. Shafts of sunlight fell on the heaving sea. Sthenn was still nowhere to be seen.
Where had the evil beast gone? Duranix refused to believe the green dragon had succumbed to the lightning strike. The only evidence he would accept for Sthenn’s demise was the monster’s lifeless carcass.
As he bobbed in the calming waves, he felt an odd tickling sensation on his tail. Before he could react, he was jerked under the surface. Saltwater went into his eyes, blinding him. He lashed out with talons and twisted his tail free of the unseen grasp, surfacing in time to see Sthenn burst from the ocean not far away.
“The game isn’t over yet!” the green called mockingly. “The whole world lies ahead of us, dear Duranix. Rise and follow!”
His desiccated laughter carried far over the open sea. “Right now, my little Zan is butchering your humans and laying waste to your valley. Will you allow such deeds to go unavenged?”
In answer, the bronze dragon flung himself into the air. Sthenn put his tail to the morning sun and flew away.
Water streaming from his wings and back, Duranix followed.
*
Ten days had passed since the battle of the bridge. Wary of the raiders’ mobility, each evening Amero sent scouts to the far corners of the valley to keep an eye on what the enemy was doing. Beramun went on one such patrol to the northern end of the valley, returning two days later.
Jenla, Huru, and the rest hailed her. “Welcome back,” Amero said, rising to his feet. “How is the north?”
“Still as a winter glade,” she reported. “I found no sign the raiders are trying to get around that way.”
He handed her a bowl filled from the bubbling stew pot bedded in the embers at the edge of the fire.
As she wolfed down the first hot food she’d had in days, Beramun asked, “What’s happening here? What’s Zannian been up to?”
“He’s been quiet since his men took our gardens, but he’s up to something,” Amero said. He gestured to where the fallen bridge had stood. “They’ve raised a hedge on the river-bank, so we can’t see what they’re doing.”
“They’re using the trees Tiphan cured with his spirit power,” Jenla explained. “They grow so fast that in a few days the hedge will be a forest!”
Beramun drained the last morsels of stew and Amero refilled her bowl. “It’s only a question of where and when they’ll attack,” the Arkuden said. “The hedge may be a trick, to make us watch them at one place while the real attack falls somewhere else.”
“Send someone over to have a look,” Beramun suggested.
The others fell silent and Amero said, “Paharo tried, last night. The raiders caught him... and killed him before our eyes.”
Shocked, Beramun swallowed hard. She had liked the brave young hunter. She couldn’t believe Paharo was gone.
As they stared into the flames, loss evident on every face, she walked around the fire to kneel beside Huru. The foundry master was weeping soundlessly, tears streaming down his dark, lined cheeks.
She rested her hand on his. “Your son was a good man.”
Huru closed his eyes, grateful for her words. She looked across the leaping flames to Amero. “You still need to know what’s going on over there. I’m a strong swimmer. I’ll go.”
Amero shook his head. “You just got back. Rest. Someone else can do it. I may go myself.”
“Don’t be stupid! You’re needed here.”
Amero’s voice grew loud. “I won’t let you throw your life away!”
“You let Paharo.”
Wood crackled in the fire, sounding unusually loud in the stillness following her words.
Beramun tied her hair back with a thong and asked for a hank of rope. Tepa went off into the darkness and returned with a coil of braided vines, recovered from the ruined bridge. Beramun tied it firmly under her arms. Carrying the rest of the rope over her shoulder, she strode away from the camp. Amero, Huru, and several others trailed behind.
The sound of the river’s rushing water covered the noise of their footfalls on the gravelly shore, but with the raiders only thirty or forty paces away on the opposite bank, the little group did no talking.
Beramun knelt and, by gestures, indicated what she intended to do. Amero clasped her hands in his, pleading with his eyes. She pulled free.
The villagers held one end of the rope as Beramun slipped into the water. The current pulled the line taut as the people on shore played it out. She swam a third of the way across, then dove.
Amero, hands clenched tightly into fists, watched Beramun surface in shallow water by the west bank. She waved once, then skulked down the beach, the rope still securely tied around her waist.
Suddenly, two horsemen rode into sight behind Beramun. Amero and the others dropped on their bellies.
Beramun was brought up short when they stopped paying out the rope. Looking back, she saw the riders. She crept back into shallow water and submerged. The mounted men passed without noticing her.
When they were gone, she crawled on her belly through the grass to higher ground. From this vantage point she could see behind the dense wall of fruit tree saplings. She stayed only a moment, then returned to the river.
Before she could slip away, however, a pair of shaggy gray yevi appeared, their eyes reflecting Lutar’s red light. One sprang into the water and seized the floating rope in his jaws. The other flung itself on Beramun. It hit her squarely between the shoulders, and she disappeared with a loud splash.
“Pull!” Amero hissed.
The villagers hauled frantically on the rope, hand over hand. There was a tremendous drag on the line, and even with eight pulling, they could scarcely get the rope in. Halfway across the river, the calm water erupted. In the poor light it was impossible to tell who was in trouble, Beramun or the yevi.
Since the noise was sure to rouse the raiders, Amero abandoned all pretense of stealth and shouted for help. More villagers came running down the hill and took hold of the rope. With the extra help, they dragged it in.
Knife drawn, Amero waded out to assist Beramun. A limp and lifeless body surfaced a few paces away. Those on shore desperately demanded to know whether it was Beramun.
Amero’s questing hand found sodden gray fur. The floating corpse was a drowned yevi.
He turned and thrashed toward shore, shouting, “It’s not her! Pull! Pull!”
The villagers obeyed with a will. The second yevi, thoroughly entangled in the vine rope and likewise drowned, glided to the bank at their feet. Of Beramun, there was no sign.
Several dozen mounted raiders, fully armed, galloped down the opposite shore and hurled short spears. The missiles hissed into the shallows and thumped into the sand. Dropping the line, Amero and villagers had to retreat.
Back at camp, everyone was dumbfounded to find Beramun drying herself by the fire. They rushed forward, clapping her on the back and laughing with relief.
“What happened?” Amero asked. “How did you escape?”
She wrung more water from her long black hair. “Simple,” she said. “I figured yevi were like wolves – they can swim, but only on the surface. So I dove, untied myself, and snared them in the rope. As long as your people kept the rope taut, the beasts couldn’t untangle themselves.” She shrugged. “Once free, I swam upstream to get away and came ashore.”
The villagers laughed and cheered. Giddy with relief, Amero took her in his arms and embraced her like a comrade.
“You’re graying my hairs, you know,” he said.
“Oh? And who grayed them before me?” Her gentle gibe inspired more laughter from the delighted villagers.
Jenla brought Beramun a mug of h
ot broth. As she sipped it, she reported what she’d seen on the other side of the river.
“They’re building rafts,” Beramun said. “Big ones. I saw slave gangs lashing whole trees together behind the hedge.”
“I knew it!” Amero smote his palm with his fist.
“Can we stop them?” asked Huru.
“I don’t know,” Amero replied. “We must meet them at the water’s edge, wherever they land. If they get their horses ashore, we’re in big trouble.”
He increased the number of sentinels patrolling the eastern shore and ordered bonfires lighted at half-league intervals all the way down to the lake.
Beramun’s news sent a chill through Yala-tene. The quiet interlude had lulled many into thinking the raiders might give up and go away. The rafts made it clear the fight was far from over.
*
To renew his people’s confidence, Amero designed new defenses for the eastern shore of the lake. A fence of sharpened stakes was erected, and broken mussel shells were poured on the banks to cut horses’ hooves. Villagers stripped the valley and eastern passes of every thorn bush and movable boulder. These were piled up behind the stakes to further impede the enemy.
From the old bridge tower to the open lake, the shoreline was two leagues long. Amero knew they didn’t have enough stones and stakes to fill the whole distance, so he left gaps in places suitable for the villagers to defend – hills, gullies, and other natural strong points – mainly near the old bridge. Using shovels made from Duranix’s cast-off bronze scales, they deepened the gullies and piled the dirt on the hills to make them steeper.
Montu the cooper came down from the village once the last gap in the wall had been closed. Because Montu was a skilled woodworker, Amero asked him to estimate how long it would take Zannian to produce enough rafts to ferry his warband across the river.
“At twenty men or ten horses per raft, it would take fifty rafts to carry a thousand warriors,” Montu said. “Working night and day, they might make ten rafts a day.”
It had been six days since Beramun’s daring swim across the river. Six days – perhaps sixty rafts.
