Brother of the Dragon tb-2 Read online

  The dark-skinned man shrugged. “No one knows.”

  Amero closed the door and put on his sandals and cloak. Lyopi began to dress as well.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “No, Unar needs you. It’ll be all right. I won’t let anyone hurt Konza.”

  She frowned. “I’m not worried about Konza.”

  Amero kissed her and hastened away with Huru. His first steps in the street sent him sliding into the wall of the house across the way.

  “Watch your step, Arkuden!” Huru warned. “The ice is very bad.”

  The rest of the town seemed empty, with none of the usual morning hustle. Amero soon saw why. Most of the townsfolk were crowded into the streets around the Offertory.

  Konza, backed by Sensarku acolytes, was blocking the entrance to the sacrificial altar. Amero saw Jenla at the head of the outraged planters, shaking her fist under Konza’s nose.

  “… what he told us, and we believed him!” she said. “We spent two days on our hands and knees, putting in all the seedlings we had! If they die, what will we harvest?”

  “The loss threatens us all,” Konza said. His lined face was white with cold and anxiety. “No one meant to mislead you — ”

  “Great heaps of good that does us now!” howled another planter. “Without fruit, without nuts, I’ll have nothing to barter for meat or hides for my family.”

  “The elder trees still live,” Konza said weakly.

  “They’re played out!” Jenla cried. “For the past four years they’ve yielded less and less. Last summer we got just threescore and one bushels of apples from the whole orchard, and only four-score and eight of burl nuts!”

  Amero pushed his way through the crowd of curious onlookers until he was standing between Jenla and Konza. His presence caused an immediate change in the mood. Konza and the planters visibly relaxed.

  “Arkuden,” said Konza. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “As am I,” Jenla added. “You can right the injustice done to us!”

  “What injustice?” asked Amero.

  She repeated her earlier charges. When she finished, Amero said, “Who told you winter was over?”

  “It was Tiphan!” said a man behind her. The other planters took up the cry and repeated it until Amero held up his hands for quiet.

  Jenla said crossly, “He spoke the words of the Great Protector, Arkuden.”

  Amero smiled. “Then we should ask the dragon.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. No one was quite sure what Amero had in mind, but it was more interesting than huddling by their hearths on a frigid morning.

  Amero tried to move past Konza but found his progress blocked by the close ranks of the acolytes.

  “Stand aside,” he said.

  “Only Sensarku may enter,” replied a stern-faced youth.

  “Boy, I was living in the cave with the dragon before you were born,” Amero retorted. “Stand aside. I am the Arkuden, the dragon’s son. If he tolerates me in his home, he won’t mind me in his dining hall.”

  To Amero’s astonishment, the acolytes stood their ground. Konza ordered them to move, and they reluctantly parted, allowing Amero into the Offertory.

  Inside, he gazed up at the high walls and scrubbed stonework. It was a very different place from the day he and his sister Nianki had fought rebel nomads for control of Yala-tene. The cairn where the rebels nearly burned Amero alive was then a rude pile of sooty stones. Now it had the air of a sacred place, somehow more important than merely the spot Duranix took his meals.

  Konza and the female acolytes trailed behind him as he walked around the high altar. The crowd gathered around the entrance and peered in. The male Sensarku barred their way.

  White sand crunched underfoot. Sleet covered the sand, making the courtyard around the altar gleam like white metal. On the far side of the altar, Amero found steps inset into the stonework. He started up. The girls on Konza’s heels protested.

  “He is not clean!” said one. “He defiles the Protector’s place!”

  Konza whirled, his gray fox cape lifting from the force of the spin. He scowled at the assembled girls.

  “Hold your tongues!” he snapped. “Amero is the true son of the dragon! He may go where he wishes.”

  The acolytes, chastened, said no more, but they watched with intense resentment as Amero mounted the steps.

  The platform was quite high. Only the village walls were taller. Amero had often seen the top of the Offertory from his lift, but he’d not been on the great cairn since Tiphan had forbidden it to non-Sensarku. It was a simple structure, a solid stone platform ten paces wide by fifteen long. In the center was a firepit to roast Duranix’s meals. Short pillars at the corners of the pit served to hold the ox or elk carcass above the flames.

  Konza joined him. The wind was blowing less, but it was still bitterly cold atop the high altar.

  Amero turned and faced the waterfall, several hundred steps away. Duranix! Duranix, will you come? he thought. There was no answer but the whistle of the east wind.

  Amero frowned as he concentrated on sending his thoughts again to the distant dragon.

  Duranix, there’s a problem in the village. Please come.

  There was still no answer from the dragon, but Amero felt a tingling in his ears. Assuming it was from the cold, he cupped his hands over them. The tingling grew stronger, and then a faint sound, little louder than the wind, seemed to scratch inside his head.

  It’s too cold to go out. What do you want?

  Amero was so startled he staggered and nearly fell when his feet slid on the icy altar. Konza grabbed his arm to steady him.

  “What is it?” the old man asked, seeing his astonished expression.

  “Nothing. It’s icy up here, that’s all,” Amero managed to say, though his mind was whirling.

  This was astonishing! From the beginning of their acquaintance, he’d known Duranix could read his thoughts. Yet only now after so many years did the dragon demonstrate that Amero could also hear Duranix’s replies.

  Don’t be such a child. Duranix’s voice echoed inside Amero’s skull. You’ve always had the ability to hear my thoughts. Remember how, many years ago, you heard the thoughts of the yevi?

  Stunned by the revelation, Amero recalled himself to the business at hand. Please come down, for your sake and mine!

  Spears of sunlight poked through the low-lying clouds, raking the frosted landscape with light. Amero waited for an answer. After several seconds, he turned away.

  “He’s not coming,” he said, annoyed.

  Konza clutched his arm. “No, Arkuden! See. The Protector comes!”

  Amero looked up in time to see Duranix bursting through the wall of plunging water, wings spread wide.

  A concerted “Oh!” rose from the people below. In the years since he’d saved them from the nomad attack, Duranix had not appeared very often in broad daylight. The Sensarku offered their sacrifices at dusk or dawn when most villagers were at work or asleep.

  Duranix put his massive bronze head down and dived straight at the Offertory. Wings folded, he plummeted directly toward Amero and Konza. He grew larger and larger, showing no sign of slowing or turning. Konza let out a yelp and crouched as low as his stiff back would allow, sure they were about to be smashed flat.

  At the last moment, the dragon flung open his wings and swooped up, his claws missing the crown of Amero’s head by less than a span. Unimpressed by his friend’s display, Amero remained standing. The icy wind of Duranix’s passing tore at his cloak and blasted his face.

  They’re already afraid of you, Amero told him. You don’t have to show off.

  Duranix beat his wings hard and dropped his clawed feet. He came to rest on the platform, which creaked under the weight of his nearly fifteen-pace length. Curling his wings tight around his chest, the dragon spoke. “Thunder and lightning! It’s too cold to be outside!”

  “That’s the problem,” Amero said. “The planters planted t
heir seedlings, and now they’re afraid the ice will kill them.”

  “Well, it’s winter,” Duranix said.

  Konza made a surprised sound.

  “When you spoke last with Tiphan,” Amero said, “did you tell him there would be no more snow?”

  The dragon flicked his tongue impatiently. “You know I didn’t. Let them take it up with Tiphan. He’s at fault here.”

  Amero turned to Konza. “Where is Tiphan?”

  The old man, neck craned back, couldn’t take his eyes off Duranix. Something akin to worship lit up his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “He left before dawn this morning. Something about an important journey.”

  “He left Yala-tene?”

  Konza nodded. Amero was incredulous. Tiphan was openly scornful of the wandering life. The old ways of the plainsman held no appeal for him.

  Duranix exhaled on his foreclaws. Out came an arc of brilliant blue-white fire, like lightning. Konza’s adulation turned to fear, and he crouched in terror, his hands coming up to cover his head. There were screams from the people below.

  Duranix paid no attention to them. “That’s better,” he said, clapping his smoking claws together. “It’s too cold out here. You should get inside, Amero.”

  I will, as soon as you speak to the people.

  Duranix finally noticed the villagers milling around the Offertory entrance. As his angular reptilian head turned in their direction, many people pushed their neighbors, intent on escape. The rest seemed rooted in place, staring back at him in shock.

  I see I shall get no rest until I do, Duranix replied. From the center of the platform, he sprang to the top of the Offertory’s surrounding wall. Gripping the top of the wall with his rear claws, Duranix flapped his wings and stretched out his long neck for balance. The villagers’ fear turned to near panic.

  Once he’d settled himself, Duranix gazed down implacably.

  “People of Yala-tene!” he boomed. The villagers froze in place. “Some of you think I told Tiphan, Konza’s son, that no more cold weather could be expected. This is not true. He asked me if I thought it would snow again this season, and I said I didn’t want any more snow. That is all.”

  A figure clad in baggy woolens cautiously approached the perching dragon. “Tiphan mistook you?” Jenla asked loudly.

  Duranix looked the old woman straight in the eye. “Yes.”

  “Then our quarrel is with Tiphan!” she declared.

  Amero hurried down from the platform and emerged from the Offertory. “Tiphan is gone,” he announced. “He left Yala-tene this morning.”

  The villagers digested this with puzzled, unhappy mutters. A young Sensarku, as much in the dark as anyone, asked, “Will he come back?”

  “I don’t know, but we must act quickly to save the orchard,” Amero said. “Everyone must lend a hand. Gather all the hay you can find and take it to the orchard. We’ll spread it over the seedlings to keep them warm.”

  Konza, also down from the altar, added, “We can build fires between the rows to warm the soil.”

  Amero slapped the old man’s thin shoulder. “Good thinking! Let’s get to it. Duranix, will you start a fire for us across the lake?”

  The bronze dragon agreed.

  “But if we use our hay,” said a fellow in a herder’s apron, “what will the oxen eat?”

  “Moss and lichens,” said another. “It keeps the elk alive all winter. Why not oxen?”

  Buoyed with hope, the villagers dispersed. Amero watched them with relief. What looked like sure violence had been diffused by a unifying task.

  Children.

  “What?” Amero looked up at Duranix.

  They’re such children. One minute furious, the next minute happy.

  “They’re good people. They’re your people.”

  “So they are.” The dragon spread his wings in preparation for flight. He shivered, and the tips of his wings curled as a massive sneeze erupted from his nostrils, followed by wisps of steam. “But in the future, can you arrange to have these little dramas during warmer weather?”

  Chapter 4

  The Edge of the World, according to the plainsmen, was not a range of sky-piercing mountains or a trackless, endless sea. For them, the Edge of the World was a forest, one so dense, dark, and thickly grown that it forever blocked the way westward.

  There were stories of lone hunters or small bands of plainsmen who had tried to penetrate the mysterious woodland. So far as anyone knew, none had ever returned. The east was better understood and less feared, even with the menace of the Silvanesti there. Humans had explored all lands to the north, east, and south, but the forest at the Edge of the World remained an impenetrable barrier.

  The raiders drove their prisoners into this fearsome territory without hesitation. Beramun and her fellow captives quickly realized Zannian’s men had secret trails marked out in the underbrush. Many times the plainsmen were guided through a barely visible opening in a thick hedge or made to climb over a heap of fallen logs, and there on the other side would be a hidden path.

  Sthenn left them before sunrise. For such a powerful creature, he showed increasing anxiety as the sky lightened, his voice growing more and more shrill, his orders becoming wild and contradictory. Beramun imagined the dragon spent most of his time in the deep forest and thus found the full light of day hard to bear. When the first pink rays of dawn appeared in the east, Sthenn halted the band of humans trailing in his wake.

  “Zannian!” he snarled. “Zannian, where are you?”

  “Here, Master. I’m here.” The raider chief, on foot, stood close to the dragon’s haunch.

  “Ah. Quiet, aren’t you? Rodents are so stealthy.”

  “What is your will, Master?”

  “I return to my den. Hurry your cattle to Almurk. You shall wait upon me tonight.”

  Some of the raiders let out mutters of surprise, and Zannian said, “Tonight, Master? It’s at least twelve leagues to Almurk. I counted us there by tomorrow morning.”

  Sthenn flexed his leathery wings and hissed, “Do not dispute me! Do as I command! Use the whip on the captives and your men if you must, but be in Almurk before the sun next rises!”

  Zannian could only bow and say, “I do your will, Master.”

  “See that you do.”

  Before the eyes of the amazed captives, the dragon’s body grew thin and pale. His extremities changed to green mist, which the day’s early breeze dissipated. His wings followed, then his massive torso. The last thing to vanish were the dragon’s malign black eyes, slowly blinking until they faded from sight.

  Roki, shoulder to shoulder with Beramun, shuddered. “We are lost,” the older woman said hopelessly. “If we remain in that creature’s power, our lives will be measured in days.”

  Beramun forced herself to be cheerful, for her friend’s sake. “Don’t speak of it,” she said, clasping Roki’s chill hand. “Whatever his power, the stormbird must be mortal and have some weakness. So long as we live, there is hope.”

  Her gallant sentiments were cut short by Zannian’s shouts. He ordered the prisoners’ hobbles cut so they could move faster.

  “You’re in Sthenn’s realm now,” he warned, gesturing to the gloomy trees around them. “Try to run away, and you won’t last ten steps off the path. Our Master has filled the forest with beasts of his own making. Their only purpose is to kill the unwary, so keep to the track and do as you’re told!”

  Tired but fearful, the captives moved down the narrow trail in a column of twos. It wasn’t long before they had proof of the forest’s deadly purpose. One of the raiders fell asleep while riding, and his horse strayed off the path. It ambled to a short bush growing beneath a leafless tree. Slim yellow fruit hung from the bush, and a temptingly sweet aroma wafted to the hungry prisoners as they passed by. Before Zannian or the other riders had noticed their sleeping comrade, the horse nosed into the bush and nibbled a yellow fruit.

  A snap louder than any whipcrack split the air. Hairy brown
tentacles burst from the ground, enveloping the horse. The raider was thrown to the ground. Two tentacles seized the startled man around the waist and neck, drawing him under the seemingly solid soil and putting an abrupt end to his hoarse screams.

  “Hoten! Kukul!” Zannian yelled. “Save the horse!”

  Warily, the two riders jabbed their long spears into the ground around the bush. Beramun heard a high, keening shriek of pain. Blackish fluid oozed out of the dirt where Kukul’s spear penetrated. The tentacles loosened their grip on the horse, and Hoten snagged its bridle, leading the animal to safety. Grinning, Kukul gave the ground one last jab. Foul-smelling liquid spurted out, drenching his spear and arm. Kukul jerked his weapon free and rode back to the waiting band.

  “It’s gonna be sore for a while,” he boasted. Extending the reeking spear, Kukul deliberately wiped the vile ooze across the backs of two prisoners. “Faw! The takti smells a lot better above the ground than below.”

  Takti was a south plains word meaning “fisherman.” Beramun understood the wry reference. The creature buried itself under loose soil and extended a lure that had the appearance of a fruit-bearing bush. When unsuspecting prey tried to eat the fruit, tentacles seized them and dragged them into the takti’s maw. The comparison to a fisherman’s baited hook was grimly appropriate.

  The prisoners needed little goading to get them moving again. They stumbled deeper into the forest. Slowly their surroundings changed. The oak, yew, and alder of the upland woods gradually gave way to cypress, juniper, and elm. The dry brown soil became black and soft, and an air of decay permeated the forest. Wispy gray widows’ hair moss hung in long clumps from the branches of trees.

  Midday came, and still the column lurched onward. The raiders’ horses began to pant from exhaustion and thirst. Still Zannian would not let anyone stop, lest they incur the wrath of Sthenn. Instead, he ordered his men to dismount and lead their horses.

  Red-eyed vipers as thick as Beramun’s thigh occupied low branches above the trail. Spiderwebs two paces wide filled the gaps between some trees. Other dark things scurried away as they passed, a thousand rustlings and stirrings in the thick mat of rotting leaves covering the forest floor.