near hills, the denizens of the night had recovered from his intrusion. Crickets chirped in the grass, and clouds of mosquitoes filled the air.
He ran down the hill toward the spot where he’d seen the crimson gleam. When the pungent smell of burning pine reached him, Duranix flattened himself against the ribbed trunk of a giant burltop. He’d hardly taken up this position when a pair of animals trotted past. Mounted on the animals were riders carrying long spears.
Duranix froze. Grand as he was, as a dragon he was still cousin to the lizard and the snake, and when he wished he could remain perfectly motionless. The riders passed within arm’s length of him. Their shape and smell was unmistakable — two humans riding two horses. Duranix knew elves tamed and rode horses, but he’d never heard of humans doing it until now.
He considered snatching one of the men and forcing him to answer questions, but paused when he heard them conversing in the tongue of the plainsmen.
“… so I said, ‘The best flint is the black kind from Khar land,’ but you know Nebef, he thinks he knows everything, so he says, ‘The yellow flint of the east mountains makes the best points…’”
Interesting, Duranix thought. Whoever they were, they were wide-ranging if they knew both Khar and this eastern plain.
After they’d passed, Duranix stepped out from behind the tree and watched the riders continue down the draw. He was so distracted by his discoveries that he didn’t hear a second pair of riders steal up behind him.
Suddenly, a rough hide net was thrown over his head. Two horsemen, shouting in triumph, tried to sweep by on either side and scoop him into their net. They hadn’t reckoned on snaring a dragon in disguise. Though he looked no bigger than a sturdy man, Duranix weighed as much as full-grown bronze dragon. When the net snapped taut, he merely planted his feet, and the riders were yanked off their horses.
Duranix pulled the net apart as easily as a man can tear a cobweb and stood over the two dazed riders. One was a rangy fellow with yellow hair, a flowing mustache, and a smoothly shaven chin. His companion was a short, dark female, clad in a strange outfit consisting of a buckskin tunic with short lengths of twig sewn on. The twigs had been peeled of their bark and matched to length. The female’s arms and chest were covered in tight horizontal rows of white wooden pegs.
He picked up the woman by the collar and held her off the ground. She shook off the effects of her fall and stared at Duranix.
“Uran! Uran, get up!” she yelled. The yellow-haired man only groaned. The woman yanked a sharply pointed flint dagger from her waist and slashed at Duranix with it.
He caught her wrist with his free hand and squeezed. She screamed and let the knife fall to the ground. Duranix dropped her.
“You broke my arm!” she gasped, collapsing to the ground. “I haven’t broken it yet, but I can,” said Duranix
“Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions, though I can’t improve on yours. Who are you?”
The woman glared at him fiercely and wouldn’t respond. He picked up the stone knife and snapped it in two with one hand. His great strength caused her anger to dissolve into shock. To further intimidate her, Duranix allowed his eyes to flash with contained lightning.
“Forgive me, Great Spirit! Forgive us! We thought you were an elf!” the woman said.
“What is your name?” asked the dragon.
“Samtu.”
“And him?”
“Uran. We are of Karada’s band.”
Duranix folded his arms. “And who is Karada?”
“The greatest hunter, the bravest warrior, the keenest tracker, the cleverest — ”
“Yes, yes,” said the dragon, interrupting a no doubt lengthy list of superlatives. “Where is this Karada? I would like to meet him.”
All at once something gripped Duranix’s ankles. There was a sharp tug and he lost his balance and fell backward. This is why four feet are better than two, he thought in disgust.
Samtu yelled, and her companion, Uran, leaped on the fallen Duranix. It was a brave deed, but entirely futile. With only the slightest effort, the disguised dragon hurled Uran aside. The plainsman flew some distance and landed heavily in the grass.
Duranix rose, irritated at being tripped by such a puny creature. He grasped Samtu by the hair and dragged her to her feet.
“I should pluck the head from your shoulders like a ripe cherry,” he said coldly, “but first tell me where I can find this Karada.”
“Spare me, Great Spirit!” she begged. “I’ll take you to the camp! It isn’t easy to find in the dark! Please let me live!”
Duranix released her, embarrassed he’d caused such terror. Humans, with their spears and stone knives, were far too weak to present a serious danger to him. He might as well torment a rabbit.
“Look to your companion,” he said gruffly, gesturing at the fallen man. “He landed hard.”
Samtu went to Uran, who hadn’t moved since landing. She found him wide-eyed and staring, dead of a broken neck. She reported this to Duranix.
“My apologies,” he said.
He was surprised when Samtu shook her head and declared, “It was a fair fight, though not an even one.” She closed the dead man’s eyes and removed the flint knife from his belt. Favoring her injured arm, she managed to heave Uran’s body onto his horse. Samtu tied the reins to her mount’s bridle.
“Come, Great Spirit. I will take you to Karada.”
He expected to find the human chieftain camped beneath a spreading vallenwood, but the truth was more subtle. The plainsmen had cleared a large area of the shoulder-high grass in the midst of the open plain. Nets, supported by poles, were spread across the clearing. The cut grass had been layered on top of the net, which kept the camp from being spotted from above and gave shade to the artificial clearing beneath.
Leading her own and Uran’s horse, Samtu allowed Duranix to precede her into the clearing, which was lit by a few small, smoky fires. That’s what he’d glimpsed from the air, one of these veiled campfires.
Tough-looking warriors leaped to attention when they spied the stranger. Samtu tied the horses and warned her comrades off. As he passed them, Duranix slowly increased the height of his human form, so that he soon overtopped the tallest plainsman by a full span. He hoped his imposing size would forestall any more rash attacks.
Samtu announced, “Tell Karada a mighty spirit wishes to speak with her.”
A runner was dispatched, and all awaited the arrival of the chieftain — the warriors with much muttering and fingering of spears, Duranix with utter calm. They did not have long to wait.
The chieftain entered the clearing alone and on foot. She was a woman, a bit older than twenty-five, rawboned and red-brown from the sun. Aside from her piercing eyes, Karada’s most striking feature were the jagged scars that crisscrossed her throat, left arm, and right leg. She was clad in a knee-length, divided kilt of pigskin, tanned a soft gray. Her torso was covered with a ribbed breastplate of carved twigs, similar to the one Samtu wore, except the twigs were studded with carved teeth taken from various predators. Karada carried an unusual short-handled spear. The shaft was only half the usual length.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was clear and firm, the tone of a woman used to being obeyed.
“My name is Duranix.”
“Samtu says you killed one of my men.”
“An accident. My regrets. I should have been more careful.”
“Uran was a stout fighter,” she said. “How did he die?”
Samtu related how they’d spied Duranix in the dark, apparently skulking on the trail of two of their other riders. She described their failure with the net and Duranix’s amazing strength.
“Are you a spirit?” Karada asked, nonplussed.
“I am a living, flesh-and-blood creature, I assure you, but this shape you see is not my real one. I am a dragon — what you call a stormbird.”
This revelation set off a loud hubbub in the clearing. Plainsmen left their campfires and filled the clearing
