Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“Welcome, Tiphan,” Amero said. “I hope you’re recovered from your journey?”

“Quite recovered, Arkuden.”

“Send your people back to the Offertory, please. This doesn’t concern them.”

The Sensarku leader spread his arms wide. “I have no secrets from my children.”

Disgusted by his turn of phrase, Amero almost cut through the aromatic stick with a single stroke. Recovering, he said, “Let me speak plainly. I’m concerned about you, Tiphan. You left here as one person and returned as another.”

“Is that wrong, Arkuden?”

Amero met his eyes. “No, but you brought something with you I cannot tolerate in Yala-tene.”

“What would that be?”

“Spirit power.”

Tiphan smiled broadly. “It’s no secret I have acquired the power known to the priests of the Silvanesti,” he said. “I have said so publicly.” The joy on the faces of his acolytes reflected his own. “What an elf can do, now I can do. What arts they master, I can master, too.”

“No one can control the spirits. To try is folly. You’re like a man who juggles flaming brands — as long as you catch the cool end, you’re fine, but sooner or later you’re bound to burn your fingers.”

Tiphan’s smile vanished. “I never thought to hear such craven words from you, Arkuden. You, who have lived with a dragon and wrested metal from the very rocks beneath our feet? Why should you fear this power? It exists, stored in stone, for the wise to use, just as your metal lies hidden in ordinary rock. You dig it out to help us, to make life in Yala-tene better. My goal is the same.”

The scrape of feet behind him made Amero glance over his shoulder. His workmen were crowding the windows and door of the foundry, listening to Tiphan speak. From their faces, it appeared the Sensarku was winning his point.

“There’s a grave difference between copper and spirit power,” Amero countered, standing at last. “Metal, once smelted, is just metal. It neither harms nor helps, but does the will of the hand that wields it. This power you crave is not like that. Using it is like setting a wild beast loose from a trap. It may run away, or it may turn and bite you. There’s no controlling it. If you try to use it, it will destroy you, Tiphan, and may very well destroy Yala-tene, too.”

Tiphan shook his head sadly. “You’ve grown old, Arkuden, old and cautious. I’ve called upon the power twice already, and both times reaped the benefits.” He pointed across the lake. “My power has insured a bountiful harvest for seasons to come by saving the frozen seedlings. It also saved me from the elves, who attacked me on the plain.”

Amero folded his arms to stop them trembling with anger. “Attacked you?” he said coldly, “Mara, Penzar, and Elu were attacked, too. How is it this great power of yours couldn’t save them?”

“Have all your schemes borne fruit? Did they come without cost?” Tiphan retorted. “How many died when the storage tunnels were being dug? What about the people injured in your experiments? What was the final tally of dead after the nomads were welcomed into the valley?”

The smug look on the face of the Sensarku leader was suddenly too much for Amero. Furious, he started at Tiphan, but was stopped by the young believers who rushed between him and their leader. Fists clenched at his sides, he glared at the eight or so acolytes blocking his path.

“Stand clear, Tiphan, if you want to insult me!”

“You see our wise Arkuden,” Tiphan said loudly, addressing the rapt workmen in the foundry’s windows. “Outmatched in words, he has no other remedy but fighting.”

“You must give up the stones you collected!” Amero shouted.

“I will not.”

“Duranix will return soon and compel you to do so!”

All eyes turned to Tiphan. He pursed his lips and lowered his head, looking thoughtful. “I will always obey the will of our great protector,” he said solemnly, “but I have the right to make my case to him in person.”

Amero sneered. “That will be a song worth hearing!”

A new group of acolytes arrived. They hailed their leader and brought out a gift they’d made for him: an ankle-length mantle of the best white fox fur. They draped it over his shoulders and cheered. Satisfied he’d made his point, Tiphan led his large group of followers away.

Fuming, Amero turned his back on them. The sight of his workmen, standing idle as they witnessed Tiphan’s little spectacle, made him even angrier.

“Well?” he snapped. “Furnaces don’t mend themselves!”

Sheepishly, the men returned to work. He was about to join them when Lyopi and Beramun arrived.

“I heard you shouting as soon as I stepped out of my house,” Lyopi said. “I knew Tiphan couldn’t be far away.”

Amero took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of his ire. “He has a talent for baiting me.”

“And you have a talent for letting him.”

Lyopi’s comment sounded accusing to his ears, but before Amero could reply, Beramun spoke up.

“You should thrash him,” she said. “Disrespect to a headman shouldn’t be tolerated.”

Lyopi raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know our Arkuden. He talks his foes into submission far more often than he beats them.”

Again Amero felt stung by her tone. Why couldn’t she be more supportive, like Beramun?

Turning to the girl, he said, “Are you lodged comfortably?” He had asked Lyopi to keep Beramun out of the dragon’s sight.

“Yes, Arkuden. Lyopi has shared her home with me.”

“I always do my best for the lost and strayed,” Lyopi said wryly.

Amero ignored her bait. “Duranix has gone out to investigate your story. He’ll search the western plain for signs of Zannian’s band. If they’re out there, Duranix will find them.”

“You’ll dine with us tonight, Amero?” asked Lyopi, taking Beramun by the arm and drawing her away. She noted with a frown how closely Amero’s eyes followed the girl.

His answer was slow in coming, but finally he shifted his gaze from Beramun to Lyopi. “Yes, I will,” he said at last.

“Then bring a brace of rabbits, or a deer haunch,” Lyopi snapped. “I’m not your mother, to wait on you hand and foot.”

The women departed, leaving a surprised Amero wondering what had put steady Lyopi in such a bad temper.

Sunset arrived red as blood. Scouts came in tired from their daylong rides, their throats dry as the dust that coated them from head to toe. Stolen wine flowed freely. Zannian let the thirsty scouts drink their fill, and the camp grew loud with intoxicated boasts of warrior prowess.

Some had returned with loot and new captives — a few head of oxen or goats, or families swiftly rounded up as they tried to sneak across the plain. All captured humans were herded past an old oak stump by the river. Sitting on this stump was Hoten, son of Nito. He was in charge of tallying the new acquisitions, scratching marks on strips of bark to record the chattel — beast or human — taken by the raiders. Behind him sat Nacris, keenly watching from her litter.

After the latest pair of oxen were driven away, Nacris announced, “That makes six score and seven oxen taken. Not bad.”

“Five-score and nine of those came from the single herd we took six days ago,” Hoten replied. “Since then, only eighteen oxen have been brought in. Word has spread. The wanderers are keeping out of our reach.”

“What of it?” she said, shrugging. “We’ve enough meat now to last all winter, and when we take Arku-peli, we’ll have even more.”

“A wise hunter doesn’t pluck a bird he hasn’t caught yet.”

She scowled, shifting in her litter. “You’re a gloomy bird yourself, Hoten. Don’t you believe in the might of our master and the skill of my son?”