Paul Cook: Brother of the Dragon

“No Silvanesti,” Beramun said, shaking her head vigorously. She raised her left hand and pointed northeast. “I’m here to find Karada. Karada!”

The centaurs instantly lost their bored manner. Big Centaur stepped forward and grabbed Beramun by her hair.

“Karada?” he roared, followed by undeniably ugly denunciation. He shook her like a panther worrying a fresh kill. Beramun, blind with pain, clawed and struck the centaur’s brawny arms. With a final exclamation of hatred, he threw her to the ground.

The leader spoke, and two of his companions took hold of Beramun’s arms, pulling her to her knees. The third stretched her head back. Wide-eyed, she saw the big centaur raise his club high -

There was a meaty thunk, and a long, slender wooden shaft, tipped with gray feathers, appeared in the centaur’s ribs. Blood welled out around the shaft.

The chief centaur’s front knees buckled, and a second shaft sprouted from his chest. When a third appeared in his throat, he toppled to the side with a feeble grunt.

The remaining centaurs released Beramun and galloped away. One of them received a wooden shaft in his back. He stumbled, calling out to his friends. They kept going and did not look back. Weaving from side to side, the wounded centaur tried to catch up with his fellows.

Beramun’s shocked gaze left her erstwhile captors and turned to her savior.

It was a woman, striding through the waist-high grass. Lean, clad in tan, close-fitting buckskins, the stranger had sun-gilded brown hair pulled back in a thick braid that reached to her waist. Her face and arms were brown as leather from years in the sun. She wore a spirit mark — three short horizontal lines of white paint on her forehead. What

Beramun first took to be other painted lines on her throat and jaw turned out to be massive scars, which did not tan as darkly as the rest of her skin. Though not really a handsome woman, she was tall and had an arresting presence.

Halting a pace away from Beramun, the woman raised an amazing device. It was a long, bent piece of wood. The two ends were joined by a taut length of sinew. She fitted one of the slender wooden shafts — it looked like a miniature spear, with a flint head on one end and feathers on the other — against the sinew and drew it back with her fingers while holding the wooden part at arm’s length. The stave flexed deeply. Releasing her grip, the woman sent the tiny, feathered spear winging toward the wounded centaur. It struck him in the hindquarters. He went down, disappearing in the tall grass.

At last the woman took notice of Beramun. “All right, girl?” she asked. Her accent was odd, but her words understandable.

Beramun, still stunned by her last-second reprieve, stuttered, “I am. Yes. Thank you!”

“Good.”

She made for the spot where the second centaur had fallen, Beramun following. Along the way, she slipped the dart thrower over her head for carrying and drew a wickedly long bronze knife.

The centaur was lying on his side, breathing raggedly. When he saw the two women approaching, he struggled to rise. He failed and lay bleeding in the grass.

The woman said a sentence in the harsh centaur tongue. Rage, impotent but genuine, bloomed on the wounded creature’s face.

“What did you say?” Beramun asked.

“I told him to prepare to meet his ancestors.”

“You mean to kill him?” At the woman’s curt nod, Beramun added, “You must not!”

The woman pondered a moment, then reversed her grip on the knife. “You’re right. You should do it.” She offered the handle to Beramun.

“No! I mean you should spare him. I’m not hurt, and he’s suffered enough.”

Studying her with penetrating, hazel eyes, the woman flipped the knife back again into her right hand. “He’s got one arrow in his lung and another in his haunch,” she said. “If we leave him here, he’ll die slowly — unless wolves or panthers get him first.”

Beramun looked at the wounded centaur. One hoof, held off the ground, trembled. The centaur’s face was twisted in agony, his breathing shallow and short. Though he and his companions had tried to kill her, she felt no pleasure at his condition.

He gasped a few words. Beramun looked questioningly at the woman, who translated. “He says he hurts and I should finish him. He laid hands on you, girl. What do you say?”

“Do what you must,” Beramun said. She turned away.

After a moment, the woman, wiping her blade with a tuft of plucked grass, caught up to Beramun.

“I don’t know why they attacked me,” Beramun said.

“The big one, Ponaz, was a vicious renegade.” The woman sheathed her knife and took her dart-throwing device in hand again. “He and his sons capture humans to sell to the Silvanesti. The elves pay in flint and hides.” She gave Beramun a thoughtful look. “They pay more for a live human than a dead one. I wonder why Ponaz was willing to lower your value?”

Beramun fingered her bruised head. “I think it’s because I mentioned Karada.”

The stranger laughed. “That would do it. Karada and Ponaz have had a blood feud going for quite a while. He must’ve thought you were one of her band.”

The woman’s long gait forced Beramun to jog to keep up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

Again, that disconcertingly direct gaze was leveled at her. “Why do you want to know?” the woman asked.

“I’m a wanderer, new to these parts. I was sent to find Karada.”

“Were you? Who sent you?”

“Her brother, the Arkuden of Yala-tene.”

The woman halted. She didn’t draw her knife or load her dart thrower, but Beramun had the distinct feeling she was in peril.

“Centaurs aren’t the only ones who take payment from the elves,” the woman said slowly. “The Silvanesti have a price on Karada’s head — one hundred jewels or one hundred pounds of fine bronze. Such wealth could easily turn a girl’s head.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Beramun replied, trying to stay calm.

Plainly evaluating her, the woman asked, “What is the Arkuden’s true name?”

“True name? Amero. It’s Amero.”

A nod. “And the dragon who guards Arku-peli — what’s he called?”

“Duranix.”

“Right again. What was Karada’s birth name?”

Beramun felt panic rise in her chest. She had no idea.

“Well?” demanded the woman.

“I don’t know. Amero never told me.”

The woman resumed walking. Beramun ran to catch up. “Do you know where I can find Karada?”

“Karada’s dead. She died in battle years ago.”

Beramun was desperate. “Well then, does her band yet survive?” There was no answer, and Beramun’s voice rose. “Please! I must find them! I’m the last of eight scouts sent to find Karada. All the rest were killed. Yala-tene is under attack and will fall soon if someone doesn’t help! Amero and all his people will perish!”

“The Silvanesti have attacked Arku-peli?”

“No. Human raiders, under a chief named Zannian. They fight for a green dragon called Sthenn, and they mean to destroy Yala-tene completely!”

“Where’s Duranix? Why doesn’t he save his people?”

Keeping pace with this elk-muscled woman made Beramun pant. “He left the valley… chasing Sthenn, and won’t return… till the green dragon’s… dead.”

In a stand of poplar trees the woman had tethered a horse. It was a beautiful animal, wheat-colored, with a long white mane and tail. A finely woven blanket lay across its back. Untying the reins, the woman mounted easily.

“You seem honest enough,” she said, wrapping the reins around one hand and extending the other to Beramun. “I’ll take you to Karada’s band, but if you have treachery in mind, you’ll die much less cleanly than that centaur.”