Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Zannian stepped back from the rim of the pit as more of the monster emerged. Sthenn’s body was slender and serpentine. Gray-green scum mottled the edges of his scales, and he exuded a powerful reek of age, mold, and uncleanness.

He perched on the stone ledge that lined the opening of his lair. In the confined space, his presence was overwhelming. Beramun felt cold moisture trickling down her face and neck, the sweat of pure fear.

“What’s this?” asked the dragon, swiveling his head toward her. As he did so, Beramun closed her eye.

“A slave,” Zannian replied. “We took her on the raid.”

Beramun heard the dragon come closer. She could almost feel his baleful eyes boring into her. She begged all her departed ancestors to spare her from too much pain, to make her death mercifully quick.

Something cold and sharp raked through her hair, and this time Beramun begged her ancestors for the strength not to shriek aloud.

After an interminable time, the dragon said, “All rodents look alike to me. Why bring it here?”

“I would keep her for myself, Master, if you allow it.”

The hovering presence above her withdrew. Beramun’s heart eased its frantic thumping.

“Why this one? Many females have come to Almurk in recent days. What’s special about this one?”

Zannian did not answer immediately, so the dragon repeated the question, his powerful voice rising into a higher register, lending it a curiously feminine tone.

“She’s beautiful, Master.”

“What do rodents know of beauty?” Sthenn sneered. “That frail, thin hide of yours isn’t capable of beauty.”

“True, Master. May I keep her anyway?”

Beramun was certain she’d given no sign she was awake, yet something had alerted the dragon, for he said, “Let’s ask the little squirrel. She’s listening to your plea.”

The dragon’s claws closed around her waist, and she was lifted from the stones. The time for pretense was gone, so she vented her pent-up terror in a loud, ringing scream. Zannian took a step toward her. The green dragon’s slit eyes flickered to the raider chief.

“You wish to help her?” Sthenn asked, chuckling malevolently.

“Master, I — ”

Sthenn swung his claw in a wide arc until Beramun’s feet were dangling over the open pit. Her frantic squirming inside his claw only seemed to amuse the monster more.

His black mirth made Beramun furious. “Go ahead and kill me!” she shouted. “I won’t be forced to mate with any man!”

The dragon’s hard laughter echoed off the walls. “Hear that, little Zan? True love indeed!”

“Please, Master,” Zannian pleaded, his face crimson. “Don’t hurt her.”

“And if I told you to choose between serving me and having this black-haired wench, what would you say?”

Beramun saw the raider’s throat work as he swallowed hard. “I will always serve you, Master.”

“Excellent answer!”

Sthenn tossed Beramun onto the upper steps. She landed hard and rolled, coming to a stop against the niter-encrusted wall. Her tumble scattered the loose debris, sending some of it rolling into the yawning pit. She realized many of the “stones” she’d been lying on were actually human bones.

“Take her, boy, and use her as you see fit!” Sthenn cackled. “When you tire of her, bring her to me — though beautiful rodents likely taste much the same as ugly ones.”

The dragon lowered himself backward into his hole. His feculent laughter echoed upward long after his monstrous form was lost from view.

Zannian knelt by Beramun and helped her sit up.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped.

He withdrew, but said, “Mend your attitude. Those who break the laws of Almurk end up here, as meat for the Master.”

“How can you serve such a monster? How can you feed your fellow humans to him?”

“Sthenn is the source of our future greatness. With him as our master, we will forge a great tribe and conquer the plains!”

Beramun ignored his helping hand and stood, bracing herself against the sticky wall until her knees ceased shaking.

He watched her through narrowed eyes. “You can live as the chiefs mate or die as his slave. The choice is yours. Until you decide, you’ll work like the others in the tannery.”

He indicated she should precede him up the tunnel. She limped past, bruised from her hard landing, and they walked in silence. The long tunnel eventually ended on a blank wall. Looking up, Beramun saw an opening. A ladder made from peeled saplings was positioned in the hole. Weary, her entire body aching, she began the climb up.

When they emerged, she saw it was still night. Zannian pointed wordlessly to the pen where the other captives slept. Head held high, Beramun limped into the low-walled prison.

Tiphan and his young helpers left the valley through Cedarsplit Gap, climbing into the low-hanging clouds as they went. Everything they wore or carried soon acquired a thin coat of ice. Once they crested the pass, they encountered a frigid wind that cut through their furs. By the time the sun rose above the eastern range, all three travelers were numb to the bone.

Tiphan consented to a pause in the lee of a promontory for refreshment. Strengthening drafts of Hulami’s best wine got their blood coursing again.

“The wind shouldn’t be so bad on the downslope,” Mara remarked.

“I hope so,” said Penzar, lips blue with cold. “Tosen, now that we’re out of Yala-tene, can you tell us where we’re going?”

In reply Tiphan opened his hip pouch and took out the scrap of Silvanesti map. He spread it on a convenient rock and pointed approximately halfway between the eastern rivers.

“Here,” he said.

Penzar touched the ragged edge of the tom map reverently. “This is elven?”

“Yes. It represents a place, like you might draw a picture of a person you know.” Tiphan drew his knife and deftly scratched a few lines on the rock face behind them with the bronze blade. Mara and Penzar squinted at the image. It was a simple face — round head, eyes, nose, the suggestion of a mouth.

“This might be anyone,” Tiphan said. “So I add — ” He scored a curling line from the back of the image’s head. “Now who is it?”

Penzar said, “Mara!” and the girl echoed, “Me!”

“If I drew a three-sided lake with a waterfall at the broad end, you’d know what place it was, wouldn’t you?”

The boy grinned. “Of course, Tosen.”

Mara was studying the crude likeness on the rock. She glowed with her pleasure at having been chosen as the subject of her leader’s lesson, but she quickly resumed her serious countenance.

Standing out from the sheltering boulder, she said, “The wind dies. Shall we go?”

As they crossed the high divide between east and west the wind subsided. It was still freezing and extremely dry — too dry for snow or ice — but the sun was bright, and they made good time. Penzar moved ahead, scouting for hidden danger and game, but he found neither. The mountains were desolate this late in winter, and save for few birds of prey wheeling in the faultless sky, they saw no animals at all.

By afternoon it was Mara’s turn to scout ahead, which she did with her bird stick in hand. If she scared up a covey of quail or a grouse, she could bring down a bird in flight with her carved throwing wand. Unfortunately, she found the rocky crevices as lifeless as Penzar had.

At this height, the sky was clear, blue, and free of clouds. Shading her eyes, Mara looked to the eastern horizon. Slender, thready clouds reached out from the edge of dawn, like long white fingers. It was snowing, possibly raining, somewhere far to the east, but she reckoned the moisture wouldn’t reach them for several days.