Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“Amero? Amero, are you there?”

“Beramun! Over here!”

She appeared out of the murk like a black-haired wraith. “Duranix is weaving a mist to hide us from the raiders!”

They worked their way back to the creek and used it to guide themselves to the dragon. Golden morning light filtered through the fog, tinting it the exact color of Duranix’s scales, and they missed the dragon completely. They backtracked. In the end they found him only because Beramun walked directly into his chest.

“My ancestors!” she exclaimed. “He’s become fog himself!”

“Not quite,” Duranix replied. “But close enough for our purpose.”

“How long will the mist last?” asked Amero.

“It will remain only as long as the wind and sun allow. Once gone, I cannot renew it. My strength is used up.”

Amero grabbed Beramun’s hand. “Then we’d better get moving.”

Before breaking camp, the Jade Men left behind a macabre honor for their master: a mound of severed heads, taken from the slain prisoners. It stood higher than a man, and the green-garbed warriors forced the recaptured slaves to march past it. Nacris had not ordered the deed, but she approved it. The surviving captives trudged silently by the gruesome pile, their earlier pride in the escape completely gone. A few paces beyond the grisly warning, the mist swallowed them.

“Move on,” Nacris commanded. Four Jade Men hoisted her litter onto their shoulders and followed their comrades into the fog.

A dark shape passed overhead. Fog swirled, and Sthenn, in full winged form, landed beside the column of Jade Men. Nacris ordered her bearers to stop.

“Greetings, Master,” she called. “Queer weather, isn’t it? At sunrise the day was as clear as a mountain stream.”

“So it was.” Sthenn stretched his ancient limbs and preened. “This is no ordinary fog. It stinks of metal.”

Nacris regarded him blankly.

“Duranix, fool!” he barked.

“The bronze dragon lives? I thought he was poisoned.”

“He is. By this subterfuge he seeks to hide from my scouts.”

“I warned you not to judge him lightly.”

The green dragon cocked his misshapen head and snarled, “Have a care, old rodent! Task me with your warnings, and you may lose another limb.”

Nacris paled, the scar on her cheek standing out vividly. Her fear seemed to satisfy him.

“The air is drying,” he said, his angry tone gone. “The fog won’t last much longer. When it clears, I will find poor little Duranix.”

He was right. For the first time in hours, Nacris saw faint shadows appear.

“Have the Jade Men spread out,” the dragon told her. “If they find Duranix before Zannian’s men do, I’ll grant you a boon, my little cripple.”

With a few running strides, he took to the air. Amber mist spun behind him, quickly obscuring him from view.

“You heard the Master,” she said to the Jade Men. “Find that dragon!”

All but her bearers departed, and Nacris sat back in her litter. They were two days away from the Valley of the Falls. In two days, her revenge would truly begin.

She knew the favor she would ask of Sthenn. The Jade Men’s tribute to their master had given her the idea. Once Arku-peli had fallen, she would ask him to send swift scouts to every corner of the plains to find her former chief. When Karada was found, Nacris would send her gifts from the new mistress of Arku-peli — the heads of her brother and the bronze dragon, salted and cured like elk jerky.

The Sensarku marched along in good spirits, chattering and enjoying the dry morning after the thunderstorm. They camped the first night by a branch of the Plains River, laid fires, and generally behaved as though they were on a casual hunting trip rather than a war party.

The second day dawned much like the first, with no sign of raiders, a green dragon, or their own lost people, but the acolytes’ ease was shattered by midmorning. Paharo and his scouts had kept their distance from the noisy Sensarku, save for periodic reports to Tiphan. Before noon on the second day, the acolytes were alarmed to see all the scouts suddenly returning as fast as they could run.

Calming his followers, Tiphan ordered his spearmen forward. Fingers fumbling a bit, he tied a special belt around his waist. In it were fourteen separate pockets, each containing a fragment of spirit stone.

“What news?” called Tiphan as Paharo returned.

Though the morning was mild, beads of sweat glistened on the scout’s forehead. “Something strange, Tosen. The day broke clear, but an unusual patch of fog has appeared to the southwest, and it’s moving our way.”

“Fog? Is that all?” Tiphan frowned, adding, “Wait. You say it’s moving?”

“It’s like no mist I’ve ever seen.”

“How fast is it moving?”

“It’ll reach us by noon at the latest, I’d say.”

Tiphan nodded. “Then we shall continue our advance.”

The scouts muttered, their disagreement with this strategy plain.

Paharo, trying to keep his tone respectful, said, “Tosen, I don’t advise it. Anything could be in that fog — anything!”

“Then the further from Yala-tene we meet it, the better for our people,” was his lofty reply. To his acolytes, Tiphan said, “Make ready! We will proceed.”

“Tosen, please! This isn’t wise.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Paharo.” Tiphan noted the apprehension on the faces of the other scouts. “Have your men stay in sight until we reach the mist,” he said. “No sense getting separated.”

Gradually the southern horizon took on the color of pale bronze as the sun played over the gently rolling fog-bank. Without being ordered to do so, the Sensarku slowed then halted in a body to gaze at the strange phenomenon. The oncoming mist slowly swallowed isolated trees and waving grass.

“Why have you stopped?” Tiphan’s voice rang out.

Nervously, the acolytes shouldered their weapons and started forward. All talk ceased.

Tiphan debated using one of his spirit stones to dispel the fogbank, but decided to save his power for more serious threats. When they finally entered the murk, he congratulated himself on his wisdom. The mist flowed around the Sensarku, but nothing untoward happened.

Paharo was not so confident. Conditions were entirely wrong for such a mist, and it behaved most unnaturally. The fog held together in the wind instead of tearing into wisps, as was usual. Despite his concerns, Paharo and the scouts continued forward.

Moments later the scout on his far right suddenly stiffened. The fellow held up his hand, and his comrades halted. He knelt in the high grass. The others followed suit, obeying his silent warning.

Paharo heard what had alarmed the boy — a swishing sound of movement in the grass ahead and to their right. It could be a deer or pig, or it could be a raider approaching. He strained his eyes to penetrate the mist, but it was so thick the Sensarku thirty paces behind him were completely hidden.

Paharo got a whiff of a sour aroma he knew well — larchit paste — as two figures loomed out of the mist. He could make out only enough to know they were humans on foot. He brought his spear up, ready to cast.

One of the intruders stumbled and cursed. Though the words were muffled, Paharo recognized the voice. He grinned in relief.

“Arkuden!” he called out. “It’s Paharo. We are here.”

The two newcomers closed the last few steps rapidly, revealing themselves to be Amero and Beramun. With many grins and back slaps, Amero was reunited with the young hunter.

“Did Udi and the rest make it back to the village?” the Arkuden asked quickly. Paharo explained he hadn’t seen the other boys since Beramun had sent him off to warn the village.