Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Just then, the loud footfalls and careless jangling of the young Sensarku rattling their gear pierced the fog.

In response to Amero’s questioning look, Paharo explained, “We’re guiding the Tosen and his acolytes to turn back the enemy.”

“What?” the Arkuden exclaimed. “They’ll be slaughtered!”

Another sound forestalled any reply: a heavy dragging noise, as though a large, laden travois was approaching.

“Duranix is coming,” the Arkuden explained. The scouts were thankful to hear the dragon was alive.

“He’s grievously hurt,” Beramun warned. “Look yonder.”

Duranix was pulling himself along with his powerful front legs. When he saw Amero talking with the young hunters, the dragon lowered his head to the ground and sighed gustily.

“I can’t go another league,” he said.

“How far are we from the valley?” asked Amero.

“At a hunter’s pace, a day and a night,” Paharo replied. “With the Sensarku in tow, two full days.”

Amero’s face reddened. “The arrogant fool. Where is Tiphan?”

“He is here.” Tiphan strode through the murk, leading his followers. “I rejoice to find you alive, Arkuden.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Tiphan spied Duranix lying motionless in the grass. He bowed to the dragon. “And our Protector! How fares he?” he asked solicitously.

“Weak,” said Amero. “The raiders wounded him with a poisoned spear.”

The acolytes huddled behind Tiphan, pointing at the unmoving dragon and murmuring unhappily. Amero resisted an urge to push among them and box their ears. It was Tiphan who deserved his anger, not these foolish youngsters.

“Shall I heal him?” Tiphan said simply.

All conversation stopped. “What?” Amero asked.

“Shall I call upon my spirit power to heal the Great Protector?”

Amero, Beramun, and the scouts exchanged surprised looks.

“Can you?” the girl asked.

“All things are possible to the wise,” Tiphan said smugly. Gripping his staff, he walked to Duranix’s side.

“Great Protector,” he declaimed loudly. “May I, the first of your servants, attend you?”

The dragon opened one eye. “Did you bring me an ox haunch?”

“No, Protector. I’ve come to heal you.”

“I’ve no patience for jests, little man.” The eyelid clicked shut.

“I have the power, Protector. May I use it to aid you?”

A sigh echoed in the silence. “Do what you will. I can go no further.”

The Sensarku leader bowed. He waved the acolytes forward and had them stand in a ring around the prostrate dragon. Taking one of the largest fragments of stone from his belt pouch, he wedged it into a slot cut in the head of his staff.

“Behold! Power from the time before men and dragons!” Tiphan raised his staff, then lowered it until the stone chip hovered a finger’s width above Duranix’s forehead.

The dragon’s eyes snapped open. He exclaimed hoarsely, “Thunder and lightning! That’s — !”

“Is it all right?” Amero interrupted, stepping forward.

“Stand back!” Tiphan commanded. “The power is not for ordinary men!”

Duranix said nothing more, so Amero kept silent, though his gaze moved uneasily from the Sensarku to the prostrate dragon.

Tiphan began his invocation as proscribed in the Silvanesti books, repeating again and again a simple, clear command to the power in the stone. At first, he did this silently, in his head, but as his blood warmed with the force of his concentration, the words spilled loudly out of his lips.

“Heal the wound!” he cried. “Cleanse this tainted flesh! By all the power captive in you, I command you, spirit of the stone, to heal this wound!”

Softly at first, then rising in volume as their master’s voice likewise rose, the acolytes took up the chant.

“Heal! Heal! Heal! Heal!”

The stone glowed. Tiphan was trembling from head to toe, and sweat dampened his colorless hair. He lifted the blazing stone away from Duranix’s head, holding it as high as his arms and the length of the staff would permit.

“Let it be done!” he screamed, and brought the staff down like a club.

For the briefest instant Amero imagined he saw a plume of sparks trailing from the dazzling stone. Then it struck Duranix’s head between his horns, and a tremendous flash of white light erupted. Amero reeled away and fell, taking Beramun down with him. As he hit the ground, he heard the full-throated roar of the bronze dragon.

Zannian cantered forward to confer with his lead riders. The vast fogbank was at last beginning to dissipate, after they’d spent half a day plodding through the impenetrable murk. Riders on the west side had found signs of humans on foot, moving northeast, along with a broad bloodstained trail flattened in the grass — the trail of the wounded dragon.

He ordered a hundred men to gallop northwest to intercept the wounded creature and his helpers. Poisoned spears were given to every fifth man.

Then came the explosion. It began as a distant flash in the fog, like far-off lightning, but instead of fading, it grew larger and brighter until it engulfed Zannian and everyone around him. He felt a sharp bite of cold on the exposed flesh of his face and arms. When his eyes recovered from the blinding glare, he saw the fog had been swept away. Not a trace of the mist remained.

Sthenn, who had been flying overhead all morning, emerged from the blast out of control and plummeting to earth. He landed hard a score of paces from Zannian, his breast and chin striking the ground. The warrior chief rode over to the floundering green dragon.

“Master! Thank you for clearing away the fog!”

“Worthless rodent! I didn’t do it!” Sthenn said shrilly, and Zannian was shocked to see portions of the dragon’s hide were blistered and smoking. He held his wings awkwardly away from his body, as though it was painful to move them.

“A great power has been loosed,” Sthenn said. “Power not seen in these parts in my lifetime!”

“By the bronze dragon?”

Before the green dragon answered, he tried to fold his wings. Several enormous blisters on his wing membranes ruptured. Sthenn’s howls of anguish were so loud Zannian’s horse shied. Mad with pain, Sthenn rolled and thrashed in all directions, swatting riders from their horses. His hind feet tore huge clods from the ground as he shrieked in agony.

Zannian, fighting to control his mount, dodged frantically, but a buffet from the dragon’s wing felled him and his horse. He hit the ground, rolled away from the gray stallion, and kept crawling until he was well clear of the great beast’s tantrum.

At last the aged green dragon mastered his temper and roared an answer to Zannian’s question. “That was no dragon spell! One of those detestable elf priests must be nearby. Only they have the means of tapping the ancient spirit power!”

Gingerly, Sthenn stood on all fours, breathing heavily. “Get your men together,” he told Zannian.

The raider chief formed his band into three large blocks of horsemen, with the center under his personal command. It took some time for all the warriors to gather, and before he was done mustering them, Nacris had arrived with the slaves and the Jade Men.

“Where have you been, woman?” hissed the dragon. “Get your warriors in order. There’s going to be a fight.”

“But my men — ” Zannian began.

“Keep them here!” Sthenn thundered. “I want the Jade Men to strike the first blow!”

Flushed with lust for battle, Nacris barked orders. She deployed the Jade Men in a single line ahead of her son’s block of horsemen, spears and shields ready.

“All is ready, Master,” Nacris reported. “Where is the foe?”

“They are near. Start your men forward at a walk, and beware of trickery.”