Paul Cook: Brother of the Dragon

The little man handed Tiphan the scroll. “Wise choice, my friend. Knowledge is much more valuable than bronze,” he said. To Tiphan’s amazement, the panther tail attached to the back of the man’s belt moved, lashing once from side to side.

“You seem to crave bronze well enough,” Tiphan said, slipping the parchment roll inside his white doeskin shirt.

“A fella’s got to eat. While you’re here, can I interest you in another book? It’s also from Silvanost, very rare, suppressed by five priesthoods.” In answer to Tiphan’s questioning look, Bek elaborated. “ Girthas Laka Morokiti, ‘Dialogue of the Courtesans.’ It tells of the amorous doings of highborn Silvanesti ladies.”

Tiphan sneered. “Keep it. I seek wisdom, not lechery.” He picked up his belt, raised the door flap, and added, “But if you find more like this, contact me in the usual way.”

“Good fortune to you, excellent Tiphan!” Bek called cheerfully. “Always a delight to serve you.”

The Sensarku walked away. He glanced back once and regretted it. The bookseller stood partially concealed in the door of his tent. Where sunlight fell on him, the illusion of humanity failed utterly. One leg, one arm, and his shoulder were covered by charcoal fur. A single yellow fang protruded from his whiskered upper lip. The supposed panther’s tail curled around Bek’s ankle, twitching with feline amusement.

At long last the screaming stopped. The blazing tents collapsed in a shower of sparks, and the night grew dark again. Laughing and talking loudly, the raiders drifted back to the despoiled camp. Having chased down and killed the last of their terrified victims, they fell to looting the camp.

There was little to be had. The only livestock were four goats and six oxen. No more than twelve plainsmen had been in camp when the raiders struck. All were now slain. All but one.

The girl pressed herself into the grass close beside a speared ox, using the fat beast for cover. Her tangled, waist-length black hair screened the pale oval of her face from view. She held her clenched fists to her mouth to keep from making a sound. Tears streamed down her cheeks. When the screams of her kinsman stopped, she heard one of the raiders tell another to start butchering the animals.

A rider approached at a canter. She prayed to her ancestors to let the darkness shield her, to let the rider go to another beast. The carcass shifted slightly as he prodded it with his spear.

“A big one here!” he shouted. “Gunsa, bring a hatchet!”

With that, the girl sprang to her feet and bolted. The ox was between her and the rider, and he was slow to react. She ran for her life, bare feet pounding in the dry grass.

“Ai, Zan! Another dove!” the raider cried. Two-score throats, all yelping with delight, answered him. The rumble of many hooves filled the night behind her.

As long as she had room to run, she kept to a straight line. Soon enough the horses would outpace her, and she would use her greater agility to dodge them. That was her plan, anyway. There was no cover in the tall grass, just open ground in all directions. Tonight the endless plain seemed more endless than usual.

She caught sight of raiders to her left and right, cantering along, just keeping pace with her. They were at least twenty paces away. A single glance over her shoulder revealed ten riders trotting behind her in very leisurely fashion. Puzzled, she slowed a bit. The raiders reined in. Her puzzlement grew. Why didn’t they try to take her?

All of a sudden there was a loud neigh, and a large horse reared up in front of her. It was so close its forelegs struck her in the ribs, sending her sprawling. Where had he come from? She could have sworn the way ahead was clear.

She rolled to her knees, wincing from the horse’s kick. The animal towered over her, and she felt a cold flint spear tip, already wet with blood, pressed against her throat. Bracing herself for death, she closed her eyes.

The point moved away. A stern voice commanded, “Stand up.”

She opened her eyes and got a good look at the rider for the first time. He was dressed in a cloak the same dark gray color as his horse. No wonder he’d been hard to see. The rider’s head was covered by a grotesque hood, made from the skull of some horned beast and embellished with leather flaps and paint. To a more ignorant victim, he could have been taken for a spirit.

The girl rose, clutching her bruised ribs. The rest of the raiders arrived, forming a ring around her and the hooded man.

“Kill her, and let’s be off,” said one of the new arrivals, barely giving her dirty face a glance. There was silence as the hooded man continued to regard her.

“What’re you waiting for, Zan? Let’s — ” the fellow began again.

With no word of warning, her hooded captor swung his spear in a wide arc, catching the protesting raider on the jaw. His hands flew up, and the man toppled backward off his mount. No one else said a word or moved to help.

The hooded man called Zan dismounted. He took a length of rawhide rope from his belt and said to the girl, “Put out your hands.” When she did not comply, he barked, “This can go around your hands or your neck!”

Reluctantly she presented her wrists. He cinched the hide strap around them tightly.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Beramun, daughter of — ” She couldn’t finish and couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in her dark eyes. Her parents were dead. All her kin were dead.

“You’re mine now, Beramun,” the man said, heedless of her suffering. He remounted, keeping the end of the hide rope in his left hand. “Try to run away, and I’ll have you hamstrung.”

He snapped more orders to his men, sending half back to the camp to butcher the fallen animals. He led Beramun and the remainder of his hand across the dark plain to a dry ravine. There, a few bored-looking raiders guarded a collection of terrified captives kneeling in the dirt, hands tied like Beramun’s. At Zan’s command, the prisoners stood. Beramun’s rope was secured to the others.

After a satisfied survey of the prisoners, Zan said, “Back to Almurk. We’ve meat for us and captives for the Master.”

The prisoners were driven forward in a stumbling, weeping mass. More riders joined the loose column. Beramun, who was good with numbers, counted three times twenty warriors on horseback. In addition to their twenty-seven captives, the raiders had taken eight live oxen, sixteen goats, and a pile of lesser booty. This was heaped on captured travois, drawn by stolen oxen.

Beramun could hardly believe what had befallen her so suddenly — her family killed and she taken captive. Yet, she was young and strong, and so she kept going even as three of her fellow captives fainted. Those who collapsed met quick fates. Speared, their corpses were cut loose and left by the wayside. Shocked, the remaining prisoners began to carry or drag any who fell.

The eastern sky brightened behind them. Beramun glanced back at the coming dawn. They were marching due west. West of the plains lay a mountain range called the Limbs of the Sky, and south of that was the Edge of the World.

Daylight did little to allay Beramun’s fears. Frightening as the raiders were by night, by day they were worse. All were hard, rangy men, hungry-looking as wolves. They wore their long hair loose and decorated themselves with paint, bones, and sparkling stones. They rode bareback with only a thong bridle and reins to control the animals. Perched on their shoulders was their principle weapon: a flint-headed spear. The shafts were so long that a mounted man could impale his target even if it was flat on the ground.

The band never stopped moving. Plainsmen all, the captives were accustomed to long days afoot, but it was still a hardship to move at such a pace with no food and only a little water doled out grudgingly when the leader, Zan, ordered it.