Paul Cook: Children of the Plains

“I don’t care to be struck down from behind,” said Hatu.

“That’s human thinking for you — as if it matters from what direction a blow falls!”

“An honorable man fights facing his enemy.”

The dragon grinned, and Hatu’s horse shied again as the nomad squeezed its sides convulsively with his legs. “Ah, you expect me to fight like a man?” Duranix hissed.

“I expect you’ll fight like the evil beast you are!”

In a motion faster than a snake striking, Duranix seized Nacris in his mouth. She screamed and struggled, but he raised her high in the air and with a single sideways shake of his head, tossed her into the center of the lake. She screamed all the way until she hit the water.

Hatu swallowed hard. “Nacris is a good swimmer,” he said, but his voice was unsteady.

“How unfortunate,” Duranix replied.

Few were the men who could look up into an angry dragon’s face and not give way to panic, yet Hatu stood his ground. For all his treachery, the one-eyed plainsman’s courage inspired in Amero grudging respect.

“Come on,” said Hatu, drawing an elven sword from his belt. “Let us fight.”

“Absurd,” Duranix replied. “If fighting a bull, should I lower my head and bang horns with him?” He advanced a step.

In his free hand Hatu held a ram’s horn. He raised it to his lips.

Amero had a sudden, shocking insight. Two nomads had entered the cave to kill him at the beginning of the fight. There could be others -

“Duranix!” he shouted. “Beware! There are men on the cliffs above you!”

Hatu blew a single bleating note on the horn. Duranix reached out a claw to snatch Hatu off his horse, but the plainsman evaded his grasp. Just then, a boulder the size of a full-grown ox slammed into the sand steps away from the dragon. Villagers and nomads alike shouted in surprise.

High up, Hatu’s men labored to lever another boulder off the cliff. Amero shaded his eyes, but the morning sun was behind the men, and he couldn’t make out how many there were. Another huge slab of sandstone smashed to the ground. It shattered into many pieces, pelting Duranix. He ducked his head under the barrage. While he was distracted, Hatu galloped away with the last of his followers.

Instead of following them, Duranix did a bold thing. He slithered with serpentine grace to the foot of the cliff, dodging a third boulder. Fixing his foreclaws in the relatively soft sandstone of the cliff face, he began to climb.

Heedless of the danger from falling rocks, Amero ran to where Duranix was picking his way up.

“Come back!” he shouted. “You can’t dodge them if you’re clinging to the cliff!”

“How many boulders can they have?” replied the dragon coolly. A fourth missile, this time a smaller, harder slab of slate, whistled down. It struck Duranix a glancing blow to the right shoulder. Scales curled up under the impact, and bluish-green blood oozed from the wound.

Furious at the rebels and afraid for his friend, Amero grabbed Duranix’s barbed tail just as it left the ground. The dragon paused and looked down at him.

“Let go, Amero. This is no place for pets.”

“I’m not a pet!” was the young man’s angry reply as he clung to the muscular tail.

“It’s no place for a friend, either.”

“I can watch out for falling rocks! Shut up and climb!”

Without another word or backward glance, Duranix started up the cliff. He didn’t have to hunt for handholds or toeholds; his powerful claws gouged their own as he went. Faster and faster he ascended, until he was racing upward like a lizard on a canyon wall. Yet he was careful to keep his long tail as motionless as possible, to avoid injuring the foolish human clinging to it.

Amero held on for dear life. In spite of his brave words to the dragon, he wasn’t able to keep watch for falling rock — his eyes were tightly shut. He did feel the powerful surge of the dragon’s muscles as Duranix scrambled sideways to avoid being hit. At last Duranix’s vertical tail lifted to horizontal, and Amero knew they’d made it to the top.

By the time he’d let go of the dragon’s tail, Amero saw that Duranix had slain three of Hatu’s men. The dragon sprang forward a full ten paces and caught one man as he was running away. With a sideways flick of his claw, Duranix hurled the luckless nomad over the cliff.

“Stop!” Amero cried. “Don’t kill any more, please!”

“They’re vermin. They’ll make trouble if you let them go.”

“They’re men! They can learn from their mistakes!”

Duranix gave a disgusted snort, but he stopped. The remaining four renegades took the opportunity to race for their horses. They galloped away.

“You’re too forgiving,” said the dragon, resting on his haunches. He growled a bit as he bent his neck to examine his bruised shoulder.

The battle was over. Amero found himself shaking uncontrollably. He slumped heavily to the ground and toppled over on his side. The wounds on his chest and back were shallow, but very painful. As his eyes closed, he felt the dragon’s cool metallic claws close gently around him.

“Lie still,” rumbled Duranix. “I will take you home.”

A day passed, then another, then five, and the renegades did not return. Nianki posted lookouts on the clifftops and across the lake to watch for trouble, but it seemed that Nacris, Hatu, and their followers had been defeated.

Though his wounds were not deep, Amero contracted a fever, and for many days his survival was in question. To provide the best care for him, a large open shelter was raised near the burned houses, and the people of Yala-tene took turns nursing him. While Amero was ill, his authority fell quite naturally to Nianki. No one disputed her orders now. The villagers, who’d seen her fight for them, obeyed her without question.

For Amero, the days passed like a single bad night’s sleep. At intervals he would open his eyes — it was daylight and someone was feeding him broth; it was night and someone else was smearing larchit on his wounds. After these brief moments of wakefulness, he would lapse back into a deep slumber.

Once, he heard people around him talking, and he recognized Nianki’s voice.

“Where did you try today?”

“South, in the lower valleys,” answered a different voice. “There was no sign.”

“If I know him, he’ll go back to familiar territory, the land of his ancestors.”

“And where would that be?”

“North,” Nianki replied. “The north plain, close to the mountains.”

“Then that’s where I’ll look.”

The voices ceased. After what seemed like only a moment, he heard some scraping noises, and the sound of water being poured. Cool dampness caressed his lips, chin, and forehead. He opened his eyes.

“Nianki.” His voice was a croak.

She dipped a scrap of chamois in the clay basin and squeezed out the excess. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Dry. Water?”

She lifted a hollowed gourd to his lips, using her other hand to support his head. The small sip of water he managed to swallow tasted wonderful.

“Who was just here?” he asked once he was resting again. “No one.”

“I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

She smiled. “You were dreaming again. You’ve been doing that a lot. You talk when you’re asleep, did you know that?”

“No.”

She gently wiped his neck and shoulders and rinsed the chamois again. He looked past her. His bleary gaze picked out movement — villagers moving to and fro, rebuilding their burned houses.

“How many people did we lose?” he asked.

“Twenty-three of the village, eighteen of my people.”

So many. He closed his burning eyes. “How is Duranix?”