Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

To distract herself from her misery, Beramun studied Zan. He’d shed his fearsome hood when the sun warmed the air. He was young, only a few seasons older than she, making him about twenty. His hair was light brown, parted in the center and drawn back into a thick hank. Remarkably fair-skinned, he had a surprisingly childlike face with a boy’s downy cheeks. There was no mistaking the hard set of his hazel eyes though. For all his boyish looks, Zan was no innocent.

After marching all day, they came at last to a swiftly flowing river, running south to north. Beramun wasn’t familiar with the land this far west, but some of her fellow prisoners told her the river was called the Wildroot. Its racing current meant the captives couldn’t cross on foot, and it was too swift for the horsemen to ford. Beramun expected the raiders would turn north or south to find a likely crossing, but Zan ordered the band to halt.

The captives sank gratefully to the dusty turf. Beramun’s well-callused feet were burning, and her ribs still ached from the kick Zan’s gray stallion had given her. She was also monstrously thirsty. Not until after the raiders and their horses had drunk did two men bring hide buckets of water to the captives.

Hands still tied, Beramun and a woman named Roki held one bucket steady so the older prisoners could drink. Then she and Roki shared what was left. Roki was short and sturdy, with big hands and a pleasant, strong face.

“Wonder what they’ll do with us?” she said in a husky whisper.

Beramun shrugged. She’d heard tales of clans who stole young women to be mates, hut Zan’s raiders had taken men and women, young and old alike.

“Some of the riders called us ‘slaves,’” she offered, “whatever that means.”

“It means we work for them, do whatever they say.”

“For how long?”

“Till we die.”

Beramun stared. “They can’t do that!” she exclaimed. “We’re plainsmen too!”

“Doesn’t matter to the likes of them.”

Zan and several of his lieutenants rode by. He stopped short when he spotted Beramun among the others.

“You there,” he said. “Stand up.”

Dazed by thirst and fatigue, Beramun didn’t realize he was speaking to her until a fellow captive prodded her sharply. She got to her feet.

The raider on Zan’s right, a balding man wearing an elaborate collar of bear and panther teeth, looked her over. One eyebrow climbed his high forehead.

“You’re right, Zannian. You have an eye, don’t you?” he said.

“It’s just a girl, Hoten,” said the man on Zan’s left, a dirty fellow with deep-set eyes. “Close your eyes, they all look alike.”

“You’re a pig, Kukul.” Zannian said. “You know nothing about beauty.”

Beramun was only distantly aware they were talking about her. She’d lived her whole life among kinsmen too close in blood to be considered possible mates. She had little idea what strangers would make of her looks.

“Will you keep her for yourself?” asked bald Hoten, smiling.

Kukul snorted. “Only if his mother approves!”

Zan turned on him. “Hold your tongue, you scab! I am chief of this band, and I answer only to the Master!”

Kukul held his hands up, palms out. “Peace, Zannian, peace! I jest!”

The raider chief twisted his horse’s head around. “You’d be wiser to obey more and joke less!”

He trotted away. Hoten called, “Zan, the girl — do you want her culled out?”

Zan gave a quick shake of his head. “All captives belong to the Master. If he allows it, I’ll take her, but not until then.”

Kukul rode after him, leaving Hoten with Beramun. Looking down, the older man said, “You’ve caught the eye of our chief, girl. Mind what you do, and you might come out of this far better than you imagine.”

Beramun, who had been staring at the ground in embarrassment, raised her eyes to meet the raider’s. Though she didn’t understand just what the raider chief had in mind for her, she thought it had to be better than slavery or death.

The sun went down, and still they squatted on the east bank of the river. The bored laxity of their guards encouraged some prisoners to think of escape. The younger men on the other leash worked their way into the midst of Beramun’s group. A red-haired fellow Beramun’s age pushed in shoulder to shoulder with her and Roki.

“Name’s Opet,” he whispered. “The raiders caught my family southeast of here, in Khar land. They’re heading for their own camp, so we better escape if we want to live. Are you with me?”

Roki and Beramun exchanged looks. “Yes,” they said in unison.

“Good.” He slipped a hand under his buckskin shirt and drew out a small, sharp chip of obsidian. “When they settle for the night, we’ll cut our bonds and go.”

“Is that your only plan?” Roki said, shaking her head. “You won’t get six steps before they spit you like a partridge!”

“We’re not gonna run,” said Opet, eyes shining. “We’ll jump in the river. They won’t be able to use their horses to catch us. Can you swim?”

“Yes!” said Beramun, feeling a surge of hope. Roki’s wide shoulders slumped.

“I can’t swim,” she muttered. “I’m probably not the only one here who can’t.”

Beramun clasped the downcast woman’s hand. “I’ll help you!”

Roki shook her head. “Have you seen that current? Your ancestors will bless you if you manage to make it across by yourself!”

Opet frowned. “We have to try. The raiders are waiting for something — maybe another band to join them. If we don’t act soon, we’ll likely be surrounded by even more of them.”

Roki’s eyes flickered between their captors and the racing river. At last she nodded. “I’ll try. If it’s the will of the Great Spirits, I’ll make it across.”

Word of the plan passed among the prisoners. Opet’s sharp black stone was likewise passed from hand to hand. On his advice, the rawhide ropes were cut just to the point of breaking. At the right moment, all the captives had to do was snap the last bit of thong and race to the river. As Roki had feared, some of the prisoners could not swim, but all vowed to chance death by drowning rather than face whatever fate the raiders intended for them.

Raiders moved among them at sundown, bringing water and evil-smelling jerky for a meager meal. The captives submitted meekly to the jeers and kicks of the raiders, biding their time till the planned escape.

Time seemed to crawl. Many of the weary captives fell asleep, as did quite a few of the raiders. Lutar, the red moon, rose from its resting place and cast a sanguinary light over the plain. All was still. Even the spring crickets were silent.

Opet crept up to Beramun and tugged at her elbow. “Time to go!” he hissed. His hands were free, and with a sharp tug, he broke the weakened thong around Beramun’s wrists.

Quietly, the prisoners stirred their sleeping comrades. No more than twenty paces separated them from the rushing water. Beramun gathered her feet under her, poised to flee.

Opet slapped her on the back, and she took off like a rabbit, sprinting down the stony riverbank. The time for stealth was over. Her footfalls and those of her fleeing comrades were loud in the quiet night.

The noise roused the raiders. Some tried to mount their horses while still weighed down by sleep and fell heavily to the ground. Zannian, barefoot and bareheaded, shouted orders as he wrestled with his nervous gray stallion.

Beramun reached the water first, with Opet close behind. She dived in, surfaced, and waved for Roki to follow. “Come on!” she cried.

Roki hesitated only a moment before fear of her captors overcame her terror of water, and she charged into the river. She floundered close enough for Beramun to grab the back of her shirt. Swimming out from the shallows, the two women were hit by the rush of the current. Roki panicked, pounding the water with her feet. Beramun had no breath to spare for soothing words. Tightening her grip on Roki’s clothing, Beramun crawled against the powerful rush of the river.