Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

The clouds and fog were parting, and by the faint starlight Beramun saw the Jade Men were young, her own age or even younger. There was a blind fierceness in their eyes totally at odds with their deft and silent manner. She had no doubt they could gut her like a rabbit and never feel the slightest remorse.

Unable to overcome their implacable grips, Beramun went limp. Her garments were well soaked from the rain, and slick. She felt one leg slip just slightly. Bursting into motion, she jerked the leg free and kicked the nearest Jade Man in the face. The other three were knocked off balance. She yanked herself free and fell to the ground.

A bronze blade flashed by her nose. It raked lightly down her ribs, snagging the lacings of her buckskin shirt and pulling them loose. The garment fell off one shoulder.

She rolled over on her belly and tried to crawl away. Instantly, many hands seized her again. One of the Jade Men grasped her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. A sharp point buried itself in the soft flesh under her chin. Her heart contracted to a small, tight knot.

The next thing she knew, she was free. The shock of this sudden change was so great she staggered slightly, then whirled, expecting a stab in the back. It never came. The Jade Men had formed a square around her and made no move to recapture her. They watched her closely with cool, expressionless, painted faces.

“You bear the Master’s mark,” said one.

“Mark?”

The one who had spoken bared his left breast. Starlight illuminated the shiny triangle on his skin. As Beramun stared, one after another they revealed identical green triangles.

“You bear the Master’s mark,” the Jade Man said again. He was little more than a boy, judging by his smooth, hairless chest.

“What does it mean?” she demanded.

“You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.”

Beramun flushed and opened her mouth to deny it hotly — opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap.

“You’re right,” she said, sidling away from the eerie band. They didn’t try to stop her. “I am doing the will of the Master. You will tell no one about seeing me — not Zannian or anyone else.”

“The Master’s will is our will.”

As one, the Jade Men intoned, “Greengall. Greengall…”

Beramun turned and ran. The path was steep and treacherous, lined with loose gravel and thorny brush. She fell several times but continued to run until the valley vanished behind her.

The night was more than half gone. She needed to be well into the mountains before daybreak.

She paused only once, at a promontory a league from the mouth of the pass. Her hands and legs were smeared with the green paint worn by Sthenn’s boy troop. It smelled awful, like rancid oil, so she halted by a puddle of rainwater and scrubbed herself hard. Even after the paint was gone, she felt unclean where the Jade Men had touched her.

You hear the Master’s mark. You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.

Denying it in her head but fearing it in her heart, Beramun took to her heels again.

When day broke, the villagers received a shock. Their lookouts on the eastern cliffs saw bands of raiders gathered near the north wall. The lookouts sounded the alarm and sent word to Amero that the enemy was up to something.

Much worse was to come. As the sun rose over the eastern cliffs, the raiders set up two stakes in view of the village lookouts. To these stakes they tied two of the scouts who’d been sent to find Karada’s nomads. The runners, captured during the night, weren’t dead — not yet, not quite.

The news sent a chill of horror through the village. “Two lost already,” Lyopi mourned. “And now Zannian knows we’ve sent for help.”

“Two lost means six got through,” Amero said grimly. “They knew the dangers. They also know they carry all our hopes with them.”

Rain and mist clung to the mountains for two days. It was driven away at last by a rising wind that tore the clouds to shreds. Strange portents followed the wind — booming thunder from a clear sky, cold whirlwinds scampering through the side canyons, flashes of green and blue light in the eastern sky at dusk.

Through all these disturbances, Amero kept a solitary vigil atop the Offertory. He watched as one runner after another was captured and staked out below the walls of Yala-tene. Two, then three, then five distant figures hung limply on posts in plain view.

Amero suffered for each one, having known them all their lives, but as much as he grieved for them and their families, he kept the summit of his anguish locked away, waiting for the unbearable moment when Beramun would join them.

Two raiders, well muscled and hard of mien, threw their prisoner at Zannian’s feet. The young villager, caught in Bearclaw Gap east of Yala-tene, had been cruelly treated. He was the sixth scout the raiders had found.

“Well?” said Zannian. “What did he tell you?”

“Same story as before — the Arkuden sent him and seven others to find Karada.”

Zannian burst out laughing. “So it’s true! They seek a ghost!”

Nearby, Nacris was working on a tally of the animals they’d captured in the valley. She heard the hated name and put down the willow twig she was using to scratch the count in the dirt.

“Karada again?” she asked sharply.

“It’s nothing,” Zannian said, waving a dismissive hand. “The Arkuden pins his hopes on a dead woman.”

“There’s more, Zan.” The bearded interrogator prodded the unconscious scout with the same stick he’d used to beat him. “If Karada herself wasn’t found, he was to bring back any of her warrior band he could find.”

“Well, a few old wanderers are no threat to us,” he said. “Take this fool out and stake him like the others. When we get all eight, the mud-toes will certainly give up.”

The bearded fellow made no move to leave, but exchanged a significant look with the other raider.

Zannian saw it and snapped, “What else?”

“He said one of the scouts is that black-haired girl, the one you offered the bounty for.”

Zannian leaped to his feet and took hold of the bearded raider’s tunic. “Are you sure?”

“He told us the names of all of them. Her name is Beramun, right?”

Zannian shoved the man away. “Get my horse,” he snapped. “Round up forty men and have them ready to ride!”

“Aye, Zan!” The two raiders picked up the unconscious youth by the heels and dragged him out. Zannian and Nacris were left alone.

“Any objections, Mother?” Zannian’s expression dared her to criticize.

She scratched a few random lines in the dirt. “Should I object?”

“Aren’t you going to say something about me wasting my time chasing that crow-haired wench?”

“No, Zanni. You’ve been sulking in this tent too long. Polish your sword, get on your horse, and go do something.”

Though he knew the childish nickname was meant to tease him, he merely grinned unpleasantly and said, “That I’ll do!”

“One thing,” she said, all jesting gone. “If there are survivors of Karada’s band out there, they’re not to be discounted. Any one of her warriors could whip ten of your yevi-spawned hirelings.”

“Pah!” he spat. “Karada died long ago. The Master told me so himself.”

“You’d be wiser not to believe everything the Master says.”

Zannian paused at the tent flap, unsure. His mother’s advice had lately proven valuable. He was inclined to listen to what she said.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“The Arkuden is seeking allies. So can we.” Nacris traced invisible lines on her palm with the willow twig. “I’ve been thinking about just such a move for a while now. There are some warriors I know who would not find Arku-peli’s wall much of an obstacle.”