Brother of the Dragon tb-2 Read online

  Everyone thought it was too early for planting. Snow still lay on the slopes above Yala-tene. A four-day thaw had broken winter’s ponderous grip on the valley floor, but the boggy land held meltwater too well. Yet, as Tiphan had ordered, the planters had come to break ground on the west side of the lake for a new orchard. Seeds held back from last year’s harvest had been planted in small pots and carefully tended all winter. Exactly when to transplant the green shoots into the ground was a critical decision.

  A gentle chiming filled the air, a sound like the fall of icicles from the plateau above the town. One by one the diggers raised their heads, the distraction offering them an excuse to ease their aching backs. Morning sun glinted off burnished bronze, flashing in their eyes. The Servers of the Dragon were coming.

  Two litters appeared, coming down the path from Amero’s bridge. Eight sturdy bearers moved slowly, their feet gripped by the same gritty mud that hampered the planting. The men in the chairs were covered from neck to ankles in heavy robes made from hundreds of small bronze scales, sewn to an underlying doeskin shirt. The scales tinkled as the chairs swayed from side to side.

  The planters leaned on their tools, waiting for their visitors. When the bearers arrived, they halted and lowered the litters to the ground. With a distasteful glance at the mud around him, the younger bronze-clad man remained seated, but the elder left his chair to join the workers in the mire.

  Jenla, eldest of the planters, raised her hand in greeting. “Welcome, Konza. Welcome, Tiphan, son of Konza.”

  “Greetings to you all,” Konza replied cheerfully. With every step his bark sandals sank into the sodden turf. The hem of his heavy metallic gown dipped into the mud.

  “Father,” said Tiphan. “You’re in the dirt.”

  “These good people spend their days in the mud,” his father replied. “Why shouldn’t I dirty my feet to speak to them?”

  “We are Sensarku,” Tiphan said, his tone indicating the number of times he’d had to remind his father of this. “To be worthy of the great dragon’s favor, we must be pleasing to his eye. You won’t be if you muddy his scales.”

  “I’ll wash before I return to the Offertory. Don’t be so proud, boy! We’re all Servers of the Dragon.” He gestured to the diggers, waiting patiently in the cold mud. “Aren’t we?”

  Tiphan sighed. “Yes, father.”

  Turning back to Jenla and the rest, Konza smiled. “I bring good tidings. We have the dragon’s word no more snow is expected this season. You can plant your seedlings knowing the weather will only get warmer.”

  Jenla’s square face brightened. “That’s good, Konza. When I dug my first hole, I tell you I was thinking ill of our Protector. The soil is too wet, but so long as there’s no snow, the land will dry, and the trees will grow.”

  “You should always believe the words of our Protector,” Tiphan said coldly.

  “They believe,” Konza said, grasping the old woman’s hand fondly. “Jenla remembers how hard life was before Amero and the dragon taught us how to live.”

  “We must return and prepare the evening’s offerings,” Tiphan said loudly.

  Konza smiled indulgently, his deep-set brown eyes gleaming with gentle tolerance. “My son was very young when we came to the valley,” he explained. “He doesn’t remember wandering the plains each day, searching for food and shelter.”

  The old man clasped hands with the diggers he could reach, wishing them all fair sun and dry skies. By the time he resumed his seat in the litter, not only were his feet and hem muddy, so were his hands and sleeves.

  Eight pairs of brawny arms hoisted father and son off the ground. Hampered by the soggy earth, the bearers slowly worked their way around until they were facing Yala-tene.

  The planters resumed work. Jenla stood idle a bit longer, scanning the sky. Most of it was a clear blue, but heavy gray clouds crowded around the southern peaks, as if ready to slide down into the valley.

  Jenla frowned.

  Tiphan’s bearers were younger and stronger than his father’s, and they soon outdistanced their fellows. Even if they’d been close enough to converse, Tiphan would’ve remained silent. All the way back the younger man fumed.

  His father was hopeless. He had no sense of dignity, no feel for the importance of their positions as Sensarku. That he would descend to the ground and soil his robe was bad enough. That he would clasp hands and consort with ordinary diggers was worse. He would have to remind his father yet again of the proper way to comport himself. As Servers of the Dragon, they were not common people any longer, and they had to be worthy of their place.

  When Tiphan’s litter reached the outskirts of the settlement, cattle herders tending their beasts greeted him. The older ones hailed him the traditional way, by raising both hands high — a plainsman’s greeting meaning, “I’m a friend. I’m unarmed.” The rest, villagers of Tiphan’s generation and younger, bowed their heads as he passed. No one knew where this custom came from. Some said it was the way elves showed respect to their lords. Whatever the origin of the gesture, Tiphan liked it.

  The stock pens were full of long-horned oxen, lean from subsisting on dry hay all winter. When the outer valleys thawed, the herds could be turned loose to graze on the fresh green grass growing there. Their flesh would sweeten and be all the more pleasing to the Great Protector.

  Behind the ox pens were long, narrow horse corrals. Some of the mares had foaled early and were trailed by leggy offspring. Tiphan frowned. He did not approve of horses. They reminded him of the savage nomads who had chosen not to live under the wings of the dragon. The nomads roved the plains outside the valley, many on horseback. Filthy, lawless barbarians, they stole cattle, kidnapped women and children, and did not respect the Sensarku.

  Tiphan forgot his dislike of horses and the people who rode them when the village wall came into view. Where finished, it was eight paces high and three paces thick, and even the haughty Sensarku chief thought it a grand project, worthy of the dragon’s people.

  Under the wall were clustered an ever-changing forest of tents and ragged lean-tos. Wanderers of every stripe came to the valley to trade. Born in the open, some folk could not adapt to the close streets and roofed dwellings of the village. They pitched their tents and remained for one day or a hundred, trading game, labor, or objects for food and handicrafts.

  Something in the muddle of scruffy tents caught Tiphan’s eye. He leaned forward, saying, “Leave me at the wall.” The lead bearer grunted acknowledgment and steered his comrades to the open defile.

  To prevent enemies from simply storming the necessary openings in the wall, Amero’s builders created a low, extra wall in front of each opening. Those entering Yala-tene by these baffles had to zigzag around the short wall before they could enter. In times of trouble, heavy timbers or boulders could be set in the baffles to block them completely.

  The bearers lowered Tiphan’s chair to the ground. He rose with a musical clatter of bronze scales and stepped down. Moments later, his father’s litter arrived.

  “Why have you stopped, son?” Konza called.

  “I want to check the progress of the wall. You go ahead. Preparation of the offering must commence by midday. Will you see to it?”

  The old man blinked. “Gladly.” He sat back, plainly puzzled. “But I thought you were in a hurry to get back.”

  “I was.” To Konza’s bearers, Tiphan said, “Take my father to the Offertory.”

  With a concerted shout, they set off, giving Konza no chance to countermand his son’s command.

  Tiphan sent his own bearers away as well. He strolled along the outside of the wall, admiring the evenness of the stonework, the precision of the seams between the blocks. Amero’s masons had learned a great deal about laying stone in twelve years. This newest section of wall was their finest effort yet.

  Turning away from the wall, Tiphan walked down to the wanderers’ camp. Eyes watched him from scores of open tents, yet for all the roughness of the encampment, he
had nothing to fear. The inhabitants might call their town Yala-tene, meaning “Mountain Nest,” but to outsiders such as these, it was known as Arku-peli, or “Place of the Dragon.” No one dared interfere with Tiphan. His dragonscale robe made it plain he had access to the powerful Duranix.

  Tiphan spied a tall, conical tent near the center of the camp. Bark walls meant the owner was too poor to have a tent made of deerskin. A flap of woven ivy hung over the entrance, reinforcing the image of poverty, yet on the leafy doorflap hung a bronze disk two handspans wide, embossed with an image of the sun. Bronze was rare and valuable, quite out of place on such a lowly shelter. It was this artifact that had caught Tiphan’s eye.

  The Sensarku swept back the flap with one hand. The interior was dark and smelled of sour mold and raw meat. He saw crossed feet, clad in bark sandals. They retreated from the shaft of light Tiphan let in.

  “May I enter?”

  “As you choose, but close the flap.” The speaker — his name was Bek — had an edge in his voice, the sharpness of danger and guile.

  Tiphan stepped in and let the mat of vines fall shut behind him. Darkness closed around him. Tiny points of sunlight pierced the interior through chinks in the bark shell. By these Tiphan could see Bek sitting on the far side of the tent. A few rough stones piled in the center of the floor served as a firepit. The rest of the tent was crowded with rattan baskets and bags of moldering leather.

  “What do you have for me this time?”

  “What you asked for,” Bek said.

  Tiphan’s eyes widened. “Show me.”

  “It wasn’t easy to come by and won’t be cheap.”

  “Show me!”

  The shadowy figure stood. Bek was little taller standing than sitting. As he slipped past, Tiphan caught only glimpses of his strange host: tattoos scrolling down his neck, a blue stone fixed in a pierced earlobe, a reddish pigtail hanging down his back. And what was hanging from the back of his belt? A panther’s tail?

  Bek knelt by a tall basket and pushed off the lid. The rattan container was crowded with cylinders of stiff white parchment. The tattooed man drew out one scroll, checked the glyphs on the butt of the wooden rod, and handed it to Tiphan.

  “Kinsheesus Talikanathor is its name, more or less. In the argot of Silvanesti priests it means ‘The Way to Bind the Sun.’”

  Tiphan parted the scroll. It was filled from side to side and top to bottom with Elvish script. Glosses on the black text were scribed in red. He was still learning the language, and the poor light did not make deciphering the ornate, feathery writing any easier.

  Tiphan let go of one side, allowing the scroll to roll itself shut. “What do you want for it?”

  For the first time the little man looked his customer in the face. Both his eyes glowed in the dark, and in different colors. His right eye was cool, greenish blue, like the belly of a carrion fly. The left eye was yellow, like the stars in the constellation of Matat, the dragon.

  “Give me your robe,” Bek said.

  Tiphan laughed. “This robe is worth more than your life!”

  “This book is worth more than both our lives.” Bek removed the scroll from the Sensarku’s hand and carefully returned it to the basket with the others. “You can’t walk into a scribe’s shop in Silvanost and ask for these tomes, you know. They’re forbidden! I took many chances getting it.” He drew a stubby finger across his throat. Tiphan ignored the ugly gesture. Bek continued, “This book has commentaries by Vedvedsica himself. Did you see the passages in red ink? His hand, his wisdom.”

  Tiphan knew the fame of the elf priest Vedvedsica. For many years he’d been the first sage of Silvanos’s realm. Then, a few years ago, rumors had reached Yala-tene of his downfall. It was said the wily Vedvedsica had been exiled to an island far away in the southern sea.

  “I’ll give you four pounds of bronze,” Tiphan told him. “Or six pounds of copper. I also have some gemstones.”

  Bek shook his head. His eyelids closed for the space of two heartbeats, and when they opened again, his irises had switched colors — now the right one was yellow, and the left blue.

  “I want the robe off your back, nothing less,” Bek said, grinning. His teeth were uncommonly long and pointed.

  “There’s ten pounds of bronze in this robe!”

  “With this book you can command the elements!” The little man held the lid poised over the basket. “Last chance. What say you?”

  Tiphan’s hands positively ached to hold the manuscript again. Jaw clenched, he unclasped the buckle of his belt and let it fall to the dirt. Dropping his arms, he shrugged the heavy robe off. It piled around his feet like musical, golden snow.

  The little man handed Tiphan the scroll. “Wise choice, my friend. Knowledge is much more valuable than bronze,” he said. To Tiphan’s amazement, the panther tail attached to the back of the man’s belt moved, lashing once from side to side.

  “You seem to crave bronze well enough,” Tiphan said, slipping the parchment roll inside his white doeskin shirt.

  “A fella’s got to eat. While you’re here, can I interest you in another book? It’s also from Silvanost, very rare, suppressed by five priesthoods.” In answer to Tiphan’s questioning look, Bek elaborated. “ Girthas Laka Morokiti, ‘Dialogue of the Courtesans.’ It tells of the amorous doings of highborn Silvanesti ladies.”

  Tiphan sneered. “Keep it. I seek wisdom, not lechery.” He picked up his belt, raised the door flap, and added, “But if you find more like this, contact me in the usual way.”

  “Good fortune to you, excellent Tiphan!” Bek called cheerfully. “Always a delight to serve you.”

  The Sensarku walked away. He glanced back once and regretted it. The bookseller stood partially concealed in the door of his tent. Where sunlight fell on him, the illusion of humanity failed utterly. One leg, one arm, and his shoulder were covered by charcoal fur. A single yellow fang protruded from his whiskered upper lip. The supposed panther’s tail curled around Bek’s ankle, twitching with feline amusement.

  Chapter 2

  At long last the screaming stopped. The blazing tents collapsed in a shower of sparks, and the night grew dark again. Laughing and talking loudly, the raiders drifted back to the despoiled camp. Having chased down and killed the last of their terrified victims, they fell to looting the camp.

  There was little to be had. The only livestock were four goats and six oxen. No more than twelve plainsmen had been in camp when the raiders struck. All were now slain. All but one.

  The girl pressed herself into the grass close beside a speared ox, using the fat beast for cover. Her tangled, waist-length black hair screened the pale oval of her face from view. She held her clenched fists to her mouth to keep from making a sound. Tears streamed down her cheeks. When the screams of her kinsman stopped, she heard one of the raiders tell another to start butchering the animals.

  A rider approached at a canter. She prayed to her ancestors to let the darkness shield her, to let the rider go to another beast. The carcass shifted slightly as he prodded it with his spear.

  “A big one here!” he shouted. “Gunsa, bring a hatchet!”

  With that, the girl sprang to her feet and bolted. The ox was between her and the rider, and he was slow to react. She ran for her life, bare feet pounding in the dry grass.

  “Ai, Zan! Another dove!” the raider cried. Two-score throats, all yelping with delight, answered him. The rumble of many hooves filled the night behind her.

  As long as she had room to run, she kept to a straight line. Soon enough the horses would outpace her, and she would use her greater agility to dodge them. That was her plan, anyway. There was no cover in the tall grass, just open ground in all directions. Tonight the endless plain seemed more endless than usual.

  She caught sight of raiders to her left and right, cantering along, just keeping pace with her. They were at least twenty paces away. A single glance over her shoulder revealed ten riders trotting behind her in very leisurely fashion. Puzz
led, she slowed a bit. The raiders reined in. Her puzzlement grew. Why didn’t they try to take her?

  All of a sudden there was a loud neigh, and a large horse reared up in front of her. It was so close its forelegs struck her in the ribs, sending her sprawling. Where had he come from? She could have sworn the way ahead was clear.

  She rolled to her knees, wincing from the horse’s kick. The animal towered over her, and she felt a cold flint spear tip, already wet with blood, pressed against her throat. Bracing herself for death, she closed her eyes.

  The point moved away. A stern voice commanded, “Stand up.”

  She opened her eyes and got a good look at the rider for the first time. He was dressed in a cloak the same dark gray color as his horse. No wonder he’d been hard to see. The rider’s head was covered by a grotesque hood, made from the skull of some horned beast and embellished with leather flaps and paint. To a more ignorant victim, he could have been taken for a spirit.

  The girl rose, clutching her bruised ribs. The rest of the raiders arrived, forming a ring around her and the hooded man.

  “Kill her, and let’s be off,” said one of the new arrivals, barely giving her dirty face a glance. There was silence as the hooded man continued to regard her.

  “What’re you waiting for, Zan? Let’s — ” the fellow began again.

  With no word of warning, her hooded captor swung his spear in a wide arc, catching the protesting raider on the jaw. His hands flew up, and the man toppled backward off his mount. No one else said a word or moved to help.

  The hooded man called Zan dismounted. He took a length of rawhide rope from his belt and said to the girl, “Put out your hands.” When she did not comply, he barked, “This can go around your hands or your neck!”