Paul Cook: Children of the Plains

Duranix joined the crowd of villagers who gathered to see the nomads off. He was in human shape, the first time he’d taken the form since breaking his wing. Konza and Tiphan were there in their coats of scales, though beneath them they wore furs to keep out the chill.

“Do you have enough food to get you past the Plains River?” asked Amero, looking over the heavily loaded travois.

“If we had any more, the oxen couldn’t drag it,” Nianki said. “Be at ease, brother. You’ve done right by us. More than right.”

Pakito was to lead the nomads who traveled on foot. With much genial shouting, the amiable giant stirred his small band into motion. There were many farewells as the villagers who had joined Karada’s band marched away, their tidy clothes and short hair marking them as different from their long-haired nomad cousins.

Samtu rode up in answer to Nianki’s call. Her belly was beginning to swell with Pakito’s child. She had been the object of much teasing, as nomads and villagers alike warned her that if the baby took after its father, she had a lot more swelling yet to do.

“Take the riders out,” Nianki told her. “Once across the river, split into two columns. I want one to ride on each side of the walkers, to shield them.”

Samtu nodded. “What track shall we follow, Karada?” she asked.

“Follow the river. It will lead us where we want to go.”

Samtu whistled through her teeth, and the riders mounted their horses. Only Targun remained behind with Nianki.

“Well, dragon, you’ll have more peace in your valley from now on,” she said, leaning down from horseback to offer her hand to Duranix.

He clasped her hand. “I doubt it, Karada. Many people know about the valley of the lake now, including all the nomads who fled the fight Nacris lost. And there’s Vedvedsica. He was here the night of the Moonmeet feast, prowling around for some reason.”

Duranix had finally told Nianki that Vedvedsica was the one who’d fashioned the amulet for Pa’alu. Now, at his mention of the cleric’s name, she frowned, recalling flashes of her bizarre dream about the city of elves. Then Targun, sitting on a horse by his chief, spoke, and she banished the images with a shake of her head.

“Do you think Silvanos will move against you?” Targun asked.

“I don’t think so. There’s little for him to gain here,” Duranix said. “The elves will keep an eye on us though, I’m certain.”

“I wish we knew happened to Nacris and that one-eyed wolf, Hatu,” Amero said. “They worry me more than the elves.”

Duranix arched one eyebrow and touched a finger to his forehead. From behind his back, he produced a small bundle, wrapped in a scrap of leather, and gave it to Nianki. She queried him with a look.

“A gift,” he said. “To be opened once you’re away from Yala-tene.”

With that, his human face actually reddened slightly. He bade them good-bye and walked away. The rest of the villagers drifted away as well, until only Targun, Nianki, and Amero were left by the foot of the bridge.

“Go ahead, Targun,” she said. “Watch after Samtu, will you? She looked like she might lose her breakfast at any moment.”

“Aye, Karada.” The elder plainsman gave Amero a silent, smiling nod and rode away.

Finally, it was just the two of them: Nianki on horseback, her white wolfs fur robe rippling in the breeze, and Amero, his leggings and sleeves stained with the soot of his hearth.

“Will you ever return?” he asked quietly.

“The world is a big place,” she told him. “When I’ve ridden all the way round it, I may get back here.”

“Might take a long time.”

“I think it will.” Nianki leaned down with her hand out, as she had done to Duranix. “You’re a good brother, Amero. Oto and Kinar would be pleased.”

He took her cold, callused hand. The mention of their parents brought a lump to his throat. He swallowed hard, and said hoarsely, “There is always a place at my fire for you, Nianki.”

She abruptly pulled free and slapped her horse’s neck with the reins. She cantered across the bridge, which swayed from side to side as they went. Nianki soon caught up to Targun and took her place beside him. Amero leaned against the last tall piling of the bridge and watched the nomads until they disappeared around the bend of the river.

Though he watched until she was lost from sight, Nianki never looked back.

Duranix, still in human form, found Amero hunched over the hearth that evening. He seemed to be shaking gently, rocking back and forth.

The disguised dragon put an awkward hand on Amero’s shoulder. “It will be all right.”

His friend raised his head. He hadn’t been shaking with grief as Duranix had thought, he’d been busy blowing on a bed of glowing coals.

Accustomed as he was to Amero’s strange ways, Duranix still had to ask, “Why are you doing that?”

“It makes them hotter,” he announced triumphantly. “I think I’ve found a way to melt bronze at last!”

Amero, Duranix decided, would be fine.

The nomads camped ten leagues from Yala-tene that night, not quite on the open plain but sheltered from the icy night wind by a pair of low hills. Tents were pitched, and the old rhythm of the wandering life slowly resumed. They could feel it inside, like the pulse of a second heart.

The stars were out, so numerous and so bright Nianki could see all the way back to the snow-clad mountains, or ahead to the flat, endless savanna. The Winged Serpent, the sign of Pala, was in his place in the heavens, as was Matat, the stormbird.

Dragon, Nianki corrected herself. Matat was a dragon. Like Duranix.

Alone by a campfire, she opened the leather-wrapped gift Duranix had given her. When she saw what was in it, she smiled briefly and tossed the whole bundle onto the burning wood.

Flames slowly ate into the square of oiled leather, curling around the traitor Hatu’s black eyepatch. Duranix’s parting gift to her was a little peace of mind about the safety of her brother and his people.

In a flicker of silent orange flame, the gift turned to ash.