Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Hoten put down the quartz shard he used to mark the bark strip and rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. “There’s no doubt of either,” he said evenly. “Our master is powerful, and Zannian is a great warrior.”

Rowdy laughter in the center of the camp abruptly died. Hoten stood to see what had quelled the men’s high spirits.

“What is it?” Nacris pushed herself up with her hands.

He frowned. “Looks like some of our men have come back bested.” He hurried away, leaving Nacris cursing and calling for her absent bearers.

Hoten pushed his way through the drunken raiders. Two horses had ambled into camp with riders tied facedown across their backs. Both men had been stripped of clothing and weapons. One was dead with a cracked skull, but the other was only groggy from his long ride upside down.

Hoten sent a runner to find Zannian and ordered the live man released. The rawhide bindings were swiftly sliced. He fell heavily to the ground. Some of his comrades laughed.

“Shut up,” Hoten snapped. “Oswan, what happened to Siwah? Where’s Takanu?”

The man couldn’t say. The dead one, Siwah, was brought over to Hoten for inspection. He had a strange sort of hat on his head. In the fading light it glinted like metal.

Hoten jerked the object off Siwah’s head. It was metal, a thin, curled sheet.

Cursing loudly, Nacris and her bearers bullied their way through the throng. When she spotted the object in Hoten’s hand, she uttered an oath of surprise.

“Give that to me!” she demanded.

Hoten handed the strange metallic token to her just as Zannian arrived.

“What’s going on?” the chief asked.

“Someone beat three of our scouts,” Hoten said. “That thing came back on Siwah.”

Nacris had been turning the burnished metal object in her hands, trying its hardness with her thumbnail, even sniffing it.

She snapped, “Where did this come from, Oswan?”

He shrugged. “It was just there — on Siwah — when I woke up.”

“Summon the Master.”

“What is it?” Zannian asked his mother, reaching for the object.

She yanked it out of his reach and cried, “Summon the Master! Now!”

The raiders knew Nacris did not invoke the green dragon lightly. They whispered among themselves uneasily, as Zannian ordered Hoten to fetch Greengall.

“Takanu’s dead,” Nacris declared, putting the metal leaf on her lap. “These two were sent back as a warning.”

“How do you know?”

“This, boy!” She waved the metal at Zannian. “Wait till the Master sees this!”

Soon, Hoten returned with Greengall. The crowd of warriors melted away, making a path for the towering creature. A few bowed their heads. Most just sought to avoid the gangling monster’s eye.

“Why do you summon me?” Greengall said irritably.

“Look at this, Master!” Nacris held up the metal leaf in both hands.

Greengall’s vertical pupils contracted to black slits, making his eyes appear even larger than usual. He took the leaf from her.

“What is this?”

“A scale, Master.”

“I know it’s a scale!” he bellowed, swatting her across the face with it.

The sharp edge cut deeply into Nacris’s cheek. She bore her hurt in silence as the hardened warriors drew back in a body, fearful of Greengall’s rage. Nacris dabbed at the blood running down her face and looked up to her harsh master again. She laughed. The low, cheerless sound drew all eyes.

To Zannian’s surprise, Greengall, who hated the sound of human merriment, chose to ignore the transgression instead of punishing it. Clearly the mysterious fragment was important.

“Who brought this here?” Greengall asked, looking around. No one spoke.

Zannian alone had not retreated. Handing his bleeding mother a scrap of doeskin to press to her wound, he said calmly, “Oswan, step forward and tell the Master your tale.”

Trembling as much from new terror as from his recent ordeal, Oswan fell to his knees before Greengall. In halting words he told how he and his comrades had spotted the runaway calf and given chase, how a strange, powerful man had appeared and unhorsed them. That was all he remembered.

“A man, you say?”

Swallowing audibly, Oswan replied, “Yes, Master.”

“Does this look like the skin of a man?” He flung the scale to the ground. It rang musically against a rock. “He is near! My old friend, the plaything of my youth, has come to seek me out!”

Zannian was puzzled. “Who, Master?”

Nacris said exultantly, “The bronze dragon, Duranix!”

She resumed her perverse cackling. The raiders muttered and shifted uncomfortably. Greengall, catching Nacris’s mood, started giggling, his green mane lifting as his chortles rose in volume.

“It was only a matter of time before dear little Duranix paid us a visit,” he said. To the raiders, he shouted, “Why do you fear? I slew this lizard’s mother eight hundred years ago, and Amylyrix was thrice the dragon Duranix will ever be! It was inevitable he would take the field against us. I will deal with him. You have only to slaughter his foolish herd of humans, and your task will be done.”

“Having an enemy dragon on the plain will make our task harder,” said Zannian.

Greengall thrust his hideous face close to the young chiefs. “Is that a complaint, rodent?”

With remarkable aplomb, Zannian stood up under the monster’s baleful gaze and replied, “No, Master. An observation.”

“Good.” Greengall grinned, showing tight rows of sharp, conical teeth.

He picked up the scale and tucked it under his unnaturally long, green arm. “Continue as before,” he ordered. “Sweep the savanna clean of all nomads and game animals. That will prevent the villagers from getting news or fresh meat from outside their valley. Once that’s done, we’ll make our advance on Arku-peli.”

The raiders cheered, but it sounded forced. Greengall departed, his grotesquely long legs bowing out as he walked away.

Several paces distant, he stopped. Turning back, he added, “Oh, yes. Hang that one.”

Oswan blanched and held out his hands. “Spare me, Master!” Oswan wailed. “I did no wrong!”

“You let the enemy get the better of you,” Greengall replied. His face contorted in a wide, wicked grin. “Hang a while, and consider your failure.”

Hoten signaled, and Oswan was seized by comrades and dragged off, screaming his loyalty and innocence. Greengall, ordinarily very fond of hangings, ambled back to his tent, idly licking the bronze scale. Zannian hesitated a moment between his bleeding mother and his freakish master, then followed Greengall.

“Master!” he called, as the latter was about to enter his tent.

Greengall turned, taking the scale from his lips.

“Why not spare Oswan? If the men were ambushed by a dragon, they had no chance to win anyway.”

“I know.”

Zannian blinked. “Why kill him? We’ll need every man for the battle ahead.”

Greengall lifted the flap of this tent. “Hanging him will encourage the others.”

Greengall ducked inside and reclined on his couch of rotting leaves. Zannian hovered near the flap, wishing his master would light a lamp. He heard a scrabbling in the peat and leaves, followed by a muffled crunching. Greengall must have found a rat or roach.

The dragon swallowed and said, “Don’t hover there like some cautious bat. Come in!”

Zannian stepped forward and let the flap fall.

“It’s time your scouts were given their special spears. Make sure the potion is applied to the bronze tips.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Take no more prisoners until Duranix is found. Any man your riders meet might be the dragon in disguise, so kill any humans you find until I tell you to stop.” Greengall belched loudly. A horrible stench filled the tent. “One other thing, Zannian.”