Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“Yes, Master?”

Greengall stretched and scratched himself, his talons scraping loudly against his leathery skin. “The human female you once desired is not far away.”

Heat flared in the young warrior’s breast. “Beramun? Where is she?”

“Arku-peli.”

Zannian’s heart raced. Greengall might be lying — he certainly had a black sense of humor — but what if he wasn’t?

“She couldn’t have escaped if I hadn’t allowed it,” Greengall continued smugly. “She is where I wished her to go. Through her, Arku-peli will fall. She’s my egg in little Duranix’s nest.”

“When the valley is ours, I will have her?” Zannian asked, with undisguised yearning.

“That is up to you, little Zan. If the fight does not consume you both, she may yet be yours. When the village is in ruins and the Lake of the Falls is saturated with the blood of Duranix and his nest of rodents, you may claim whatever you want from the remains.”

Greengall dismissed Zannian, and the young man withdrew, his head spinning. He was filled with new zeal, new purpose. If it meant finding Beramun again, he would tear down the mountains with his bare hands. He’d been stricken from the time he first saw her, and her escape had made his desire for her grow unbearably. Now that he knew she was in Arku-peli, he couldn’t wait to lead his men into battle.

Thoughts of fighting and the black-haired girl put a swagger in Zannian’s step. He walked back to the firelit camp humming happily, not even noticing the body of Oswan swinging from a tree.

The sounds of the night abruptly ceased. Frogs, crickets, owls, and other denizens of the dark fell silent. The sudden silence stirred Duranix from his nap. He opened one eye.

He spotted a line of horsemen riding in single file along the southern horizon. From the gear they wore, he deduced they must be from the same band as the other three he’d fought. Evidently his message to Sthenn had been ignored.

Duranix crawled from his resting place. Rocks tumbled away as he straightened his stiff legs. Noise carried far on the savanna, and the column of riders halted, hearing the clatter.

The dragon sprang into the open, expanding to his true shape as he hurtled into the air. Landing at full stretch, he spread his wings, threw back his head, and sent a bolt of white-hot lightning blasting from his throat.

The raiders reacted strangely to the terrifying display. Instead of galloping away, they broke formation and charged. Nonplussed, the dragon watched as the small party surrounded him, spears leveled.

Duranix swiped at the nearest rider. Rearing up on his hind legs, he exhaled his fear-inducing breath at the rest of the men. To his immense surprise, the men and horses did not bolt. Both men and beasts wore masks over noses and mouths, and the leather masks were smeared with some kind of oily paste. Duranix knew Sthenn dabbled with herbs and potions. Apparently he had prepared his forces for this type of attack.

A sharp pain flared in Duranix’s right leg. He’d been so astonished by the failure of his fear-breath that he’d failed to notice the last rider in line. The fellow had worked in behind and pricked the dragon’s right rear leg with a bronze-tipped spear. With a roar, Duranix whirled on his attacker.

The dragon’s claw shot out and plucked the raider from his horse. The man was a brave fellow and didn’t scream, even when the dragon bit his head off.

Duranix hurled the body at the raiders, then spat the man’s head at them for good measure. Still they did not flee, but merely circled out of reach.

The dragon tried to pull the spear from his hip, but the flimsy shaft snapped, leaving the bronze head embedded. Bellowing, he lunged at the nearest rider. The human’s pony pranced sideways, narrowly avoiding Duranix’s talons. The raider had the temerity to jab at the dragon with his spear.

Once more Duranix was taken aback. These insane humans were trying to fight him! Humans always fled when he attacked. These raiders, mounted on fleet horses, could have galloped away at any time, but instead they maneuvered around him, making menacing thrusts with their puny spears.

Puny but painful! Duranix’s hip wound burned. The pain was so abnormal he had a terrible moment of insight. He leaped backward several paces and groped in the wound to find the spearhead. He shuddered in agony, but persisted and found the jagged triangle of bronze. With the tips of two talons, he teased it out and gave the point a quick sniff.

Poison. The smell was pungent and fetid — Sthenn’s personal blend.

Six of the raiders marshaled themselves and charged. Duranix feigned a greater hurt than he felt and awaited their attack, head hung low. At the last moment, he launched himself over the charging horsemen, vaulting above their heads and alighting behind them.

Their comrades shouted warnings too late. With two wide sweeps of his claws, Duranix cut the men to pieces. Foreclaws dripping gore, his eyes flashing with fury, he faced the remaining three raiders.

“Flee!” cried one. “We’re outdone!”

“Stand fast!” bellowed another. “Remember Oswan! If I’m to die, let it be fighting a great beast, not kicking at the end of a rope!”

So saying, he gave a full-throated battle cry and charged. A heartbeat later, the other two kicked their mounts into action as well.

With pain singing through his leg, Duranix had no patience left. His mouth gaped, and a lightning bolt issued forth. Three riders, their horses, and a goodly patch of savanna were reduced to cinders in the twitch of an eye.

As the smoke rose into the starry sky, Duranix sank to the ground, panting. Numbness gripped the muscles around his wound, and when he tried to stand, the useless limb would not support his weight. Hobbling to the dead raiders he hadn’t incinerated, he stripped off their chaps and tore the leather into strips. With these he made a tourniquet to restrict the spread of the poison from his leg.

It scarcely helped. The weakness was spreading rapidly up his haunch, toward his wing. When he tried to fly, he was so badly off balance he tumbled headfirst to the ground.

After four such spills, he gave up, exhausted. The numbness now encompassed his right leg and wing, and was creeping across his lower back.

The dragon raged at his own stupid complacency. He’d known these humans were allied with Sthenn, and yet he’d let them get close enough to stick him with their primitive weapons. He pondered gnawing off his poisoned leg, to keep the toxin from reaching his heart. The limb would grow back eventually, but until it did he would be a helpless cripple, easy prey for Sthenn or his bold human minions.

Duranix limped eastward, moving awkwardly on three legs. Keeping to creeks and gullies, he avoided showing himself, in case other raiders were tracking him.

As the white moon set and the deep stillness of late night settled over the plain, he was reduced to crawling. His right rear leg and right wing were completely useless, and his left leg had begun to tremble under his weight, Duranix had to pull himself forward with his foreclaws, occasionally assisted by thrusts of his weakening left leg. He kept this up for some time, putting more and more distance between himself and the raiders.

The rustle of wings overhead was followed by a ground tremor, as something heavy alighted nearby. By this time, Duranix was so dazed with pain and fatigue he hardly noticed.

“Dear, dear,” said a simpering voice. “What a sight!”

Duranix pushed himself up with his forelegs and lifted his heavy head. “Sthenn!” he rasped. “Where are you, you wretched lizard?”

“Behind you, dear friend, as always.”

Duranix looked back. Sthenn’s silhouette blotted out the stars. With great effort, the bronze dragon hauled himself around to face his adversary.