Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Nacris, Hoten, and the lesser captains sat crossed-legged on the ground in a semicircle, listening to their chief. He stood before them next to a framework of willow upon which was stretched a soft, tanned sheepskin. Drawn on the skin was a crude map of the valley, as deduced by reports from their scouts and information forced from their prisoners.

“Here is our goal,” Zannian said, pointing to the center of the map. “Arku-peli itself lies here, between the eastern shore of the lake and these cliffs. There are only five entrances to the valley, and three of them lie on the eastern side — Bearclaw Gap, Cedarsplit Gap, Northwind Pass. On our side there are two — the pass we know, which the villagers call the Plains Gap, and this unnamed canyon, impassable to us.”

“Why impassable, Zan?” Hoten asked.

“It’s only a few paces wide, and the river fills it completely.”

Zannian picked up a clay dish of red ocher, the same pigment his men used to paint their faces. He dipped a well-chewed willow twig in the thick paint and snaked a red line through the Plains Gap to the river.

“Half the band will ride to the spot where the bridge once stood and hold the mud-toes there.” He drew a line down, parallel to the riverbank. “The rest will ride south and take the gardens where the villagers grow much of their food.”

“We destroy the gardens?” asked one of the captains.

“No,” Zannian replied. “We live on their food, weakening them and strengthening ourselves.”

The men nodded, murmuring approvingly. Nacris ended the optimistic mood by asking, “What about the bronze dragon?”

The circle fell quiet. Zannian folded his arms. “The Master has seen to him.”

“How?”

The chief bristled. Failure in battle and the sight of Beramun still out of his reach put him in no mood for sharp questions, even from his mother.

“The Master has lured the bronze dragon away. He won’t be a factor in our fight.”

“Then neither will the Master.”

Zannian glared at her. “We don’t need him to defeat these mud-grubbers! They’re clever, they’ll resist for a while, but they can’t stop us!”

Some of his more zealous underlings got up and shouted, fiercely echoing their chiefs sentiments. One by one the other captains stood, vowing death and destruction to the villagers. Only Nacris and Hoten remained seated — she by necessity and he by choice.

When the shouting subsided, Hoten asked carefully, “What is our next step?”

“Capture the gardens,” Zannian told him. “If you take any prisoners, I want them alive. We’ll put the slaves to work tending the crops. I’ll lead the rest of the band to the river to keep the villagers in place.”

“What about the Jade Men?” Nacris wanted to know.

“Keep them close but out of sight. They’re our secret dagger, and when the time comes, they’ll be the first across the river.”

Zannian collected the four hundred best horsemen in his band and led them into the pass. On their heels came Hoten with the balance of the raiders, including the men who’d lost their mounts. Next came the slaves and prisoners, dragging heavy burdens of weapons and supplies.

Nacris and the remaining Jade Men were the last to go. Standing silent and immobile in the hot morning sun, the Jade Men’s green face paint and green clothing made them look like an orchard of weird, man-shaped trees.

Nacris looked them over proudly. “Sons of Greengall,” she said loudly, “our master has gone away to do battle against the beast whose range we have invaded. With the bronze dragon gone, there is nothing between us and victory but a few hundred hut-dwellers who think they can defeat us with tricks and traps and piles of stone. But we know better!”

One of the Jade Men raised his spear in salute, then plunged its head into the ground.

“No retreat!” he vowed. “We will not leave this valley without victory!”

“No retreat!” echoed his comrades. “Greengall! Greengall!”

Nacris let them chant a while, then held up a hand for silence. They quieted.

“We will make the river run red with our enemies’ blood!” she said. Leaning forward in her litter, she added, “But there is one villager you must not kill. I speak of Amero, called Arkuden, the headman of Arku-peli. The Master has given this man to me to use as I will. When the battle joins, I will point him out to you. Mark him well.” Her flinty eyes raked over the ranks of green men. “In my hands it will take him many, many days to die, and from him I will have the answer to my final vengeance. No one, not even my son, will deny me my due! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Green Mother,” they replied as one.

At her nod, they picked up their weapons and marched into the steep pass, the last of the invaders to quit the plain.

Despite their initial success, it was clear to the villagers they hadn’t won the war. All day, while they worked feverishly to strengthen their defenses, they knew they were being watched. Zannian’s band remained out of sight, yet from the crags above the swift river to the shadowed crevices beyond the ruins of the fallen bridge, a thousand hidden eyes saw everything being done on the open floor of the valley. Work stopped periodically as nervous villagers stood and stared at the far shore, trying to catch sight of the invisible menace. Calmer heads, like Huru or tough old Jenla, had to scold or cajole them back to work.

On Amero’s instructions, the east bank of the river was covered with obstacles to hinder the raiders. Stakes were pounded deep into the sandy loam and long vines were strung between them, creating tangle-traps. Though his people were exhausted from the night’s battle, Amero kept them working. Busy, they had less time to be afraid.

He walked among them tirelessly, offering encouragement, settling disagreements, helping out whenever any difficulties arose. He hammered stakes, braided vines, and even helped comb the shoreline for bodies and weapons washed up during the night. While working on this last task, he came across Beramun piling up raider spears and leather breastplates in heaps. A score of dead raiders lay nearby, stripped of arms. Some villagers were preparing a pyre for them.

“Greetings,” Amero said to the girl. “Are you well?”

“Well enough,” she replied. She threw two boiled cuirasses on the growing pile.

“I saw you on the bridge tower last night. You fought like a panther.” Beramun did not reply, but stood staring down at the debris of battle, arms folded. “I mean that as a compliment,” Amero explained awkwardly.

She shook her head, dismissing his words, then kicked the heap of stiff leather armor. “I helped make these,” she said. Tears welled up in her jet eyes. “There was another prisoner, a woman named Roki, my friend — ” A sob interrupted her words. “She and I escaped together, but she…”

Her misery made his heart ache, but Amero didn’t dare take her in his arms. He settled for taking her hand. The moment was fleeting. She noticed the others were watching them and freed her hand, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

Hulami the vintner arrived with a caravan of travois loaded with food and drink.

“Arkuden!” Hulami called.

Without another word, Beramun slipped away. Amero drew a deep breath and let it sigh out.

“How goes the work in the village?” he asked the vintner.

Hulami handed her chief a skin of wine. “Well, thanks to the dragon, the north and south entrances are sealed, but the western baffle still has a gap. I asked Montu to organize a gang to finish the job, but the other elders in the village are protesting. They say if the last opening is blocked, everyone outside will be trapped if the raiders cross the river.”