Paul Cook: Brother of the Dragon

During the day they rode back and forth in plain view, doing nothing but doing it loudly. There was nowhere in Yala-tene to escape the noise of their movements or the stench of the rotting food outside the walls or the memory of those who had died. By night, the raider camp was lit with bonfires, and the valley rang with coarse singing and drunken laughter.

A complete turn of the moons had passed since Zannian had come to Yala-tene, and there’d been no fighting for half that time. The raiders seemed in good spirits however — able to hunt, eat, drink, and do as they liked.

Amero watched the raiders ride and carouse. In another cycle of the white moon, it would be Moonmeet, when Lutar and Soli joined in the heavens. Moonmeet signaled the height of summer. It was normally a time of celebration, when the villagers reveled from sunset to sunrise, thereby losing a whole day’s work the next day.

Amero dropped the staff he was leaning on. The villagers usually lost a whole day’s work after the Moonmeet festivities, because no one could work well after a night of drinking, dancing, and feasting. And no one could possibly fight.

He clutched his hair with both hands. How many opportunities they had missed! He limped down the Offertory steps, calling loudly for the village elders. In the street before Lyopi’s house he gathered everyone and explained his idea.

“The raiders have grown comfortable in their camp,” he said excitedly. “They drink and feast every night — ”

“On our food,” Montu grumbled.

“Yes, and we just sit here and let them. I’m tired of that! Tonight will be their last revel! When the bonfires blaze and the wine flows tonight, I propose to lead an attack on the raiders’ camp while they’re too drunk to resist!”

The elders did not cheer or even express a taste for vengeance. Amero couldn’t fathom their lackluster response. Tepa spoke up, offering the explanation.

“We’re tired of fighting, Arkuden,” he said. Since Udi’s death, Tepa had begun to show the burden of the years he had once worn so lightly. “So many have been hurt and died, and for what? Will this night attack drive the raiders from the valley?” Amero admitted he didn’t think they would succeed so grandly. Tepa sighed. “Then why do it?”

“During the attack, our stockmen can round up as many oxen and goats as they can handle. We need food, and there’s food rotting a hundred paces outside the wall!”

The elders brightened at this. Victuals were indeed worth fighting for. They began talking at once, some about fresh meat, others about night-fighting tactics. Amero was pleased. It was the most spirit any of them had displayed in many days.

While the elders talked, Lyopi tugged at his elbow. “Are you going on this raid?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Her disapproval was fierce. “Let younger ones do the fighting!”

“I’m not that old,” he said stiffly.

“No, but you’re important to the people of Yala-tene. Think what a blow it would be if you were killed.” She turned away, then abruptly turned back again, shoving her face close to his. “And what will I do if you get killed?”

He had to grin. “I’ll try not to be. But I can’t stay here, safe and protected, and send my people out to fight.”

“Then I’m going, too. Someone has to guard your back, you old fool.” In view of his own reasons, he couldn’t refuse her.

Amero reviewed the available men and women for the daring nighttime raid and chose thirty-three. He was saddened at being reminded how many familiar faces, young and old, were already gone.

A few horses quartered inside the walls would be used as camouflage for the attack. Dressed in leather breastplates and hoods, four villagers would pose as raiders and lead those on foot to the enemy camp. Amero stressed that fighting was less important than sowing the maximum amount of confusion and bringing back food.

At sunset, many more villagers than normal lined the walls, watching the raiders’ camp. Amero was worried their presence might warn Zannian some scheme was afoot, but the raiders paid them no heed. Bonfires blazed up in the raiders’ camp. Shouts and wild laughter soon followed. The valley floor around Yala-tene emptied of riders as Zannian’s men returned to camp for their nightly excesses.

Multiple ropes were let down the wall, and a hurriedly built timber ramp was lowered to allow the skittish horses to reach the ground. A poor rider, Amero chose to lead the contingent on foot. Every bit of metal or stone carried by the villagers was swathed in soft hide scraps to prevent rattling. They blackened their faces and hands. One final preparation made little sense to many: Amero had his people tie bundles of sage or mint around their ankles.

Lyopi asked, “Is this a charm for luck?”

“We make our own luck,” he replied. “The herbs will keep the yevi from scenting us.”

He took hold of a rope and lowered himself to the ground.

Six days after she left Udi by the creek, Beramun came to the banks of a mighty river. She was far from the land she knew and had no idea of the river’s name, but it was a broad band of slow-moving green water, half a league wide in places. It flowed from north to south, like the Thon-Tanjan, whose upper branches she had already skirted.

The opposite shore of the nameless river was lined with willow trees. Beyond them was a vast sea of grass, stretching to the horizon. All that moved on it were a few animals. Taking in the broad vista, she felt like the only human being in the world.

Shaking off her loneliness, she slipped into the water. It was a long way, even for as strong a swimmer as she, so she floated out on the trunk of a dead tree, toppled earlier in a storm. Hooking the trunk under her arms, Beramun paddled into the wide river, hoping there were no dangerous beasts lurking beneath its placid surface.

The crossing was long but tranquil enough. She slogged ashore on the east bank and immediately spotted a cut through the wall of willow trees. Closer inspection revealed hoofprints, a good sign. Amero had said Karada’s band rode horses.

Beramun walked through the gap in the trees and spotted a trail winding away into the high grass. Before she’d gone ten steps, a rough net of woven vines dropped over her. Amid deep-voiced yells, she was swept off her feet and dragged pell-mell through the grass.

Beramun shouted and kicked at the sturdy net as she bumped painfully over rocks and roots. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, her trip ended. One edge of the net was pulled hard, rolling her out into the grass.

She sat up, furious. Her protests died in her throat when she saw her captors.

They were centaurs — four dark, heavily muscled horsemen. One flanked her on each side, and two others stood in front of her. They were armed with long-handled clubs, blackened by years of bloodstains.

The largest centaur asked a question in his own tongue.

“My name is Beramun,” she said, guessing at his inquiry. She tried to stand, but the centaurs behind her tripped her. She rolled over and yelled, “I’ve done you no harm! Why do you attack me?”

Big Centaur yelled right back, saliva flying from his lips. Beramun thought of her bronze dagger. Usually she wore it in a sheath at her waist, but for swimming, she’d tucked it in back of the collar of her shirt. It was still there, and the centaurs hadn’t found it.

The chief centaur uttered a long imperative phrase that ended in what sounded like “seelwanest.” He pointed south with a thick finger. Beramun had a glimmer of understanding. She faced the chief and mimicked his gesture.

“Silvanesti?” she said.

He bobbed his shaggy head. “Seelwanest.”

They were taking her to the elves!