Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Zannian led his men to the ford of the Great Plains River, and there they stopped. Like most of the dragon’s machinations, the halt was unexplained. For three days they remained in camp, sending out only small raiding parties. Now, on their fourth night, Sthenn ventured forth as Greengall to inspect his savage host.

Oxen stirred fearfully when they caught Greengall’s reptilian smell. Raiders stopped whatever they were doing and bowed as he passed. Slaves scrambled out of the way, anxious to avoid his notice. The trees around the camp were already hung with the bodies of captives and raiders alike who’d displeased the master. The presence of so many corpses lent a pervasive air of death to the camp. Only Greengall and his yevi didn’t seem to find it oppressive.

The disguised dragon paid little heed to the raiders or slaves, giving the corrals and tents only a cursory glance. Zannian led the way through a gap in the tents. They entered a gully running from the nearby hills to the river and ascended the slope toward a ravine. Three blazing torches, each surmounted by a polished white human skull, marked the entrance to the ravine. Greengall smiled when he saw the death’s heads and fondled them in passing.

The ravine itself was well lit by two-score blazing torches arranged in a box of fire, twenty paces to each side. Inside the square was a block of warriors standing shoulder to shoulder. Each was outfitted with a dark green leather breastplate and hood, a brace of spears, and a green-painted wooden shield. They stood absolutely still, even when Greengall came into view.

Sitting in a crude litter at the head of this silent company was Zannian’s mother, Nacris. Two of the hooded warriors stood on each side of her as bearers.

“Greetings, Master,” she said, her voice as rough as her appearance. Greengall barely gave her a nod.

“Is everything ready?” Zannian asked.

“Ready for anything,” she replied. Her flint-colored eyes glanced quickly over the rows of silent warriors.

Greengall stood by Nacris, elongated hands clasped behind his back. Zannian stood on his master’s other side, a half step back.

“Begin,” said Greengall.

“Jade Men! Salute!”

Nacris’s voice carried crisply across the gully. The block of warriors shifted in unison, moving their feet a space apart, spears held before their masked faces.

“Hail, Sthenn!” they cried in unison. “Hail, Deathbringer!”

“Charming,” said the altered dragon. “I like their color.”

Nacris allowed herself a brief, triumphant glance at her son, then snapped, “Spears up!”

A hundred weapons rose as one. At her command, the first rank, ten warriors, raised their shields and approached, marching through the line of torches. They halted. Not only were their weapons painted green, all their exposed skin was too.

“They walk beautifully,” Greengall said acidly. “Now, let’s see them fight.”

“Fight who?” Nacris asked.

“Why not Zannian?”

“Master, you can’t mean that!” Nacris protested. “He’ll be killed!”

The monstrous face regarded her with total calm. Nacris bowed her head and looked at her son. The young man’s face was like stone, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. Without a word of resistance, he pulled the bone-and-leather hood down over his head. Drawing a bronze elven sword, he stood ready to receive the spears of the Jade Men.

“Fight to the death,” Greengall said calmly. “Give the order.”

Nacris opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her lined face twisted with indecision.

Greengall smiled. “Give the order, or I’ll tear your other leg off.”

“Jade Men, attack!” she cried.

The spearmen spread out and tried to box Zannian in. He didn’t wait for the ring to close but charged the nearest warriors. He beat aside one’s shield and ran him through. The green-painted warrior fell, clutching his side. Zannian dueled briskly with two other attackers as his first victim struggled to regain his feet. There were no war cries or oaths as the men fought. Their silent dedication was total.

Zannian broke two more shields with his metal blade before the first spear points began flashing past his chest and face. He sidestepped the fast thrusts, giving ground until he was backing up the slope of the hill behind him. Two Jade Men combined to harry Zannian at the same time. He beat one, lopping off the flint head of his spear, but the other delivered a resounding crack to Zannian’s thigh with the shaft of his weapon. Down went the raider chief. The green-painted warriors crowded in for the kill, and only then did the Jade Men make noise: a thready whistling, as they sucked air excitedly through their sharply filed teeth. Nine spears rose high, ready for the final thrust.

Greengall said, “Enough.”

“Hold!” Nacris shouted.

The Jade Men obeyed, but their eyes remained intensely focused on their foe. Even the wounded man, supported by a comrade, was still staring at Zannian.

The raider chief got up, a sheen of sweat on his bare arms. “They fight well,” he said.

“Good,” said Greengall, nodding. “For what use do you intend them?”

The crippled woman bowed her head. “Any task you choose, Master. They will run until they drop, fight until killed, and slay without mercy anyone you order slain. They live to serve only you.”

It was the simple truth. The Jade Men had begun as one hundred babies, stolen from their murdered parents and raised in Almurk to become Sthenn’s invincible, unquestioning band of killers. The oldest of them was now sixteen. Nacris had trained them to worship the green dragon as father and master. She herself was the closest thing to a mother any of them would eyer know.

“They seem like useful little rodents,” Greengall said mildly. He asked Zannian, “What do you think of them?”

“Their fighting skills are great,” the raider chief replied honestly, “but there’s no good in being fearless. A warrior should fear failure.”

Greengall laughed loudly, the upper half of his head tilting backward from the hinge of his oversized jaw. “There’s one other thing all your warriors should fear,” he chortled. “They should tremble before me, for I am Death.”

The sky was painted from zenith to horizon with many thousands of stars, all silently lighting the land beneath. They were Beramun’s guideposts. She had walked a long way from the Edge of the World, passing the many days in solitude.

The high plain was usually teeming with life — herds of oxen and elk, bands of plainsfolk following the herds on their yearly route from south to north and back again. This spring, she had encountered few animals and even fewer people. She caught glimpses on the far horizon, but all fled from her before she could reach hailing distance. Rabbits and other small game also gave her wide berth.

Reduced to eating roots and grubs, she stumbled onward, guided by some inner voice that kept her face pointed toward the rising sun. She lost track of the days and of her location, until late one night she came to a broad river, flowing from south to north. She knew this river, if not the exact spot where she stood. This was the Great Plains River that divided the world she knew into East and West.

The slow-flowing water was no obstacle to her, and she descended the riverbank to the water’s edge. There she stumbled upon a small ox herd, sheltering by a copse of laurel trees. The beasts stirred from their sleep and began to low loudly. She murmured soothing words at them, but the animals seemed unusually alarmed by her presence. Powerful bulls rolled their eyes and pawed the ground at her approach. The oxen nearest her jostled their comrades hard to avoid her.

“Stupid beasts,” she muttered. She would have loved to spear one and feast on beef, but she had no weapon. Reaching the water’s edge, Beramun paused to tie back her long hair with a strip of hide, and she saw a flash of fair doeskin in the deep shadows beneath a nearby tree.