Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Beramun shrank back from the window. Roki clutched her leg, inquiring with large, frightened eyes. Beramun wanted to run, but a flood of light appeared from the open door of the hut as Zannian’s mother hobbled away.

The women crouched low beneath the window. When the door flap closed again, Beramun moved. Before she could recover her spear, Zannian threw the shutter open, lamp in hand. Beramun was caught in a patch of soft yellow light. She froze, transfixed by the sudden illumination. Roki slunk away in the shadows, unseen.

“I thought I saw someone,” Zannian said, his youthful face flushed. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, not without irony. “I thought I’d walk around and see the rest of the camp.”

“Not a wise idea. The camp isn’t safe at night. Come inside.”

Zannian waited until she started toward the door, then he closed the shutter. Beramun knew if she ran, he’d overtake her before she could reach the trees. With a discreet wave to Roki, she continued to the door. Zannian was there, holding the hide flap open for her. She ducked under his arm and entered.

It was very warm inside, a condition aggravated by the heat of the flaming lamps. A sweet aroma she couldn’t identify hung in the air. Zannian sat down on the floor and bade her do likewise. He watched her closely as she sat, his guileless face betraying an obvious appreciation for her looks, dirty though she was.

“How long were you out there?”

She wouldn’t answer.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m pleased to see you,” he said, finally breaking his gaze and taking up a gourd. He poured a golden liquid from the gourd into a small clay cup. He held it out to her, and she realized this was the source of the sweet smell.

“Try it. We make it from the honey we collect from the hives.”

Beramun took the cup but waited until she saw Zannian pour himself another measure and drink it. She held the cup to her lips and sipped. The stuff tasted as sweet as it smelled but burned as it slid down her throat. Beramun coughed and coughed.

Zannian grinned. “Don’t let the sweet smell fool you. Mead’s strong.”

Eyes filling with tears, she set the cup down. He refilled both cups.

“You can’t escape, Beramun,” he said suddenly.

Her eyes met his. “I wasn’t — ”

“Yes, you were. You figured out we put tane pollen in the slaves’ evening meal. Last night you didn’t eat yours to test your notion, and tonight you tried to escape.”

Her incredulity was so obvious that he smiled.

Beramun was suddenly struck by a strange thought. Tidied up, Zannian would be handsome. His smile, like a conjurer pleased with a trick, gave his face a whole new aspect. At the river, he’d given her his blanket. He’d saved her from Kukul and risked the dragon’s wrath by defending her. Was he a good man in spite of himself?

“Nothing happens in Almurk I don’t know about,” Zannian said. “I was raised from the earliest age to rule this land, and I shall.”

The odd moment was shattered. Beramun shook her head, angry for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts, even for a moment. This was the man who’d led the murderers of her father, mother, and kinsmen!

He mistook her gesture for disbelief of his grand claim. “I will,” he insisted, “and you can be mine, Beramun — mate to the chief of all the plains.”

“Why do you keep after me?” she snapped. “Aren’t there girls here whose families you did not destroy?”

“My master and my mother taught me to take only the best,” said Zannian, unmoved by her rebuke. He tossed back his mead. His cheeks reddened. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Eyes like the night sky filled with starlight, hair darker than a raven’s wing… and I will have you!”

He spoke like a bard, which astonished Beramun, but she was even more stunned when, with frightening speed, he caught her by both wrists. She tried to twist free, then made fists and attempted to hit him, fighting as Zannian dragged her to him. She hit him in the ribs, a glancing blow. Snarling, he slapped her across the face with his open palm. The blow made her ears ring, and she spun to the floor. In a heartbeat he was over her, pinning her facedown on the cold clay.

“Don’t fight so hard,” he rasped in her ear. “This can be a pleasant night.”

The thought of an entire night at his mercy put new strength in her limbs. Beramun drove her elbow backward into his stomach, and he rolled aside, gasping. She got to her knees before he seized her by the shoulders and pulled her backward. Then Zannian let out a grunt and went limp. Momentum carried Beramun onto her back, and she landed atop the young chief.

She scrambled to her feet and whirled, panting with exertion, rage, and fear. Instead of Zannian, however, Beramun faced Roki. The older woman stood a step away, holding her spear reversed. She’d subdued the amorous chief with the butt-end of her weapon. Zannian was unconscious.

“Why didn’t you stab him with the point?” Beramun demanded.

Roki shook her head. “I’ve never killed a man.”

“Nor have I, but if ever there was a time — ” She tried to wrench the spear from the woman’s grasp, but Roki resisted.

“We must go!” the older woman whispered urgently. “The night wears on, and we must be far away before they discover we left.”

Beramun poured sticky mead over the lifeless Zannian. If anyone came looking for him before daybreak, they’d think him drunk and not raise an alarm. She relieved him of his bronze Silvanesti dagger, a hawk feather cloak, the only full waterskin in sight, and a round of mushroom bread.

Roki stood guard by the door, urging speed. Beramun took a last look around, and they dashed outside and plunged into the forest on the north side of the camp. The forest swallowed them, and in moments Almurk was lost from view.

The rising sun was the only witness to their flight. The heavy weave of vines, trees, and hanging moss kept out all but a little light. What could be seen sparkled through minute gaps in the canopy, like daytime stars.

The initial excitement of their escape passed quickly as Roki and Beramun found their pace slowed to an elder’s walk. They crept along, probing ahead with their spears, searching for carnivorous monsters and footing firm enough to support their weight. The necessity for the latter had been borne in on them the hard way. While it was still dark, Beramun stepped in a morass. She lost Zannian’s hawk feather cloak to the dragging embrace of the mire, and only Roki’s timely intervention saved her life. Thereafter they went single file through the dense undergrowth, poking and prodding the black soil carefully.

Just after daybreak, they paused to rest under an elm so large the two of them could not circle its trunk with their arms. Covered in sweat and mud, they sat under the vast tree and quickly consumed the bread and water they’d stolen from Zannian.

They had just begun to scrape the mud from their legs with elm twigs when they heard the howling. The twig fell from Roki’s hand.

“What’s that? Wolves?”

Beramun leapt to her feet. “No. Yevi! They’re hunting us!”

They ran, pointing their noses at the brightest patch of sky, east. Beramun kept glancing back toward the sound of the hunting pack.

Haste made them careless. Dodging around in thick underbrush, Beramun became separated from Roki. Before she could worry about that, the ground went treacherous again. Her foot sank into muck up to her ankle, and she went sprawling. Zannian’s bronze dagger flew from her hand.

She had no time to search for it. Something low and gray flitted through the dense foliage off to her left. Leaves and twigs snapped continuously behind her. Her pursuers were very close!