Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“Who?”

“Ogres.”

Zannian uttered a single loud oath. “You’re mad! Bring ogres into our fight?”

“Why not?” was her cool response.

“Why not?” Zannian clapped a hand to his head. “Have you forgotten the ancient war between men and ogres? They nearly wiped out our ancestors! And you want to invite them here, to fight alongside us? By all the spirits! What’s to stop them from killing us?”

“We’re not weak, and ogres respect strength.”

“We’ve lost a quarter of the hand so far. How strong will we be when the last battle is fought?”

“There’s the Master too,” Nacris said.

Mention of Sthenn calmed Zannian. “True enough,” he replied, “but he’s far away, battling the bronze dragon. We have no idea when he’ll return.” He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s too risky. I forbid you to have any contact with the ogres. We will conquer by our own hands or perish in the attempt.”

Nacris was silent for a time, then said, “As you wish, Zanni. You’re chief of this band.” She smiled. “Now go! You have wild game to catch, don’t you?”

“Aye! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, brimming with newfound enthusiasm.

As soon as he’d gone, Nacris’s fingers closed on the willow twig, snapping it in two. The Arkuden’s desperate plan to find Karada did not worry Nacris. In fact, she wished his plan every success. She hoped Karada was alive and could be found. Let Karada ride headlong to her own destruction!

Nacris raised herself with her crutch and hobbled outside. She made her way slowly to the river’s edge. A gang of slaves was washing clothes, preparing food, and repairing broken weapons. She scanned those guarding the busy captives, looking for one face in particular.

“Where is Harak, Siru’s son?” she called out. The slaves kept their heads down and continued their labors.

“Horse corral,” replied an emaciated woman.

The raiders had set up a temporary corral to hold their spare horses and the goats and oxen taken from the village. Nacris had no problem finding Harak. The young raider was exercising a sable mare injured in one of the earlier attacks on Arku-peli.

She watched Harak closely as he rode. He was not hard to look at. His long hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was the same color as the sleek mare he rode. The early morning sunlight cast his chiseled features into sharp relief.

Work before pleasure, she mused, and called, “Harak! Come here!”

He pulled the reins sharply, bringing the mare around in a tight turn. The horse approached Nacris at a trot. Five steps away, Harak swung a leg over the animal’s neck and slid to the ground.

“Greetings, Mother,” he said pleasantly.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your mother.”

“As mother to our chief, aren’t you mother to us all?”

“Mind your tongue, hoy, or the chief will have it out.” Nacris limped on her crutch to the shady side of the pen and sat on a convenient slab of rock. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”

Harak folded his lean body gracefully, and propped an elbow on the stone, close to Nacris. His expression was calculatedly winsome, and because he was so handsome and so obvious, she found herself smiling at him.

“How long have you been in my son’s bad graces?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

His pleasant expression didn’t alter. “You know very well. Since the captives broke free during our march across the plain.”

“The escape wasn’t your fault.”

He shrugged. “Tell your son that.”

“Zannian distrusts you.” Harak feigned surprise. She chuckled, saying, “Yes he does, and you know it. He’s afraid you’re smarter than he is, and he resents your prowess on horseback.”

“I am as my ancestors made me,” said Harak with blatantly false modesty.

“So you are,” Nacris retorted dryly. “Well, I have need of you. I want you to be my man, Harak.”

His dark brown eyes widened. “You flatter me. I thought you were Hoten’s mate.”

Nacris backhanded him. An old warrior herself, she had plenty of strength in her arms. The blow sent the insolent young man sprawling.

“Don’t banter with me, boy! I’ve known men who were worth ten of you, as warriors and as lovers. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”

Harak picked himself up. Brushing away dirt, he knelt again, this time out of her reach. His tanned cheek bore the red imprint of her hand.

“All right, Nacris. I’m listening. What do you want of me?”

“I want you to go on a journey. A secret journey, kept even from Zannian. Are you interested?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Power. Wealth. What else? You know I am favored by the Master. I have free access to his lair in Almurk. He’s collected many treasures in a thousand years of life. Do this task for me, and you’ll also be doing it for him. He will reward you.”

“What sort of treasure?”

“Bronze, copper, gold, rare ointments and poisons, and weapons of spirit power. Any of these can be yours for the asking.”

“Your word as a plainsman?”

Nacris put out her hand. “My word as a plainsman.”

Harak gripped her forearm briefly, sealing the bargain. “Where am I going?”

“Do you know the mountains that border Khar land on the northwest?” He nodded. “I want you to go there and seek out a certain chieftain named Ungrah-de.”

His handsome face drew down in a frown. “That’s no plainsman’s name.”

“No indeed. Ungrah-de is an ogre.”

She waited for him to exclaim or laugh. He did neither. By his silent wariness, Nacris knew she’d chosen the right emissary.

“You’re not afraid of ogres?” she asked.

“I serve a green dragon. Why should I fear ogres? What do I say to this Ungrah-de?”

“I’ll instruct you on the message. You will leave today. Take a horse and plenty of provisions. You must be back by Moonmeet. Do you understand?”

Harak rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “That’s not much time.”

“You’re the best rider in the band. That’s why I chose you.”

He laughed. “You chose me because I hate your son and will keep your secrets from him.”

It was nothing more than the truth, and Nacris let the matter drop. She patted the rock beside her. “Sit here,” she invited. “I’ll teach you the message I want you to deliver.”

The air was still and cold. Since sunrise, Duranix had been flying at extreme heights, trying to spot Sthenn. During the night, the green dragon had eluded him after they crossed the coast of a large continent, hundreds of leagues northwest of their homeland. Sthenn had vanished among the dark hills and heavy forest of the unknown land below.

Day arrived, bright and cloudless. Duranix could see for many leagues in all directions. The continent so far was featureless, except for a low mountain range he’d followed since arriving. It ran north-south, dividing the sandy coastal wastes from greener territory inland.

The bronze dragon glided in a great circle, head sweeping from side to side as he searched for his enemy. Sthenn was down there somewhere. Duranix could sense him. Hiding was just another ploy to aggravate him. The treacherous beast wanted Duranix to waste time and strength while Zannian’s raiders savaged the Valley of the Falls.

He descended in a slow, wide spiral. The country below was vast. Past the mountain range were few distinctive landmarks — no rivers, no settlements. Dropping lower still, Duranix felt strong and ready, and was anxious to put an end to this ridiculous chase.

A break in the trees caught his eye. On the crest of a high ridge he spotted an area of blighted trees, their normal verdant foliage gone brown as though a huge shower of mud had fallen on them. Duranix studied the dying trees. The stain was not mud. Leaves had shriveled and died on the branches. It might have been due to some arboreal plague but could just as easily have been caused by the poisonous breath of a green dragon.