Zannian said sharply, “Stand up.”
She snapped back to awareness and did as he ordered. He unwound the blanket from her arm. The center of the bedroll was slashed in several places.
“You’re bleeding.”
Beramun stared at her arm as though it belonged to someone else. There was indeed a long cut from her wrist to her elbow. Blood dripped slowly from the tip of her little finger, soaking quickly into the black earth.
“So I am,” she said.
The night, the camp, and Zannian’s face swirled before her eyes as the last of her strength deserted her.
Beramun awoke upside down, her head and arms dangling. A greenish yellow light offered just enough illumination for her to see. It took her a moment to realize she was being carried over someone’s shoulder. The legs and feet beneath her might have belonged to any of the raiders. She noticed a carved wooden rod hanging from her carrier’s waist and recognized the odd weapon. Zannian had killed Kukul with it.
The raider chief was carrying her down a dark tunnel. Stones had been set in the soft soil to make a firm, dry path. The light was coming from clumps of villainous-looking toadstools growing in cracks in the paving. The gills radiated the sickly glow, and the stems and caps were a dull, dark red, like raw meat.
The path slanted downward. Turning her head, she saw the tunnel stretched behind them. No entrance was visible — just an unmeasurable darkness. Dampness clung to her skin, but she resisted the urge to shiver. Her injured arm was wrapped in a hide bandage, but she wore the same short, ragged shift she’d gone to sleep in two days before.
Zannian stopped, and Beramun closed her eyes, maintaining her limp, unconscious pose. The raider chief bent his knees until her feet touched the ground, then he caught her under the arms and lowered her to the ground with care. Hearing his footsteps move away, she dared crack an eyelid to see what was happening.
They were in a large, circular room, ten paces across. The floor dropped away in stages, resulting in a series of stone steps leading down to an open hole. Even more toadstools grew here, resulting in a relatively brighter view. Zannian stood on the lowest step, facing the hole and stretching his arms wide.
“Great Master,” he intoned loudly, “I am here as you commanded.”
Beramun heard scratching noises near her face. Opening her eye a bit wider, she spotted three huge cockroaches, each as big as the palm of her hand. Their bellies and spiny feet made soft scraping sounds as they clambered over the loose debris on the floor. Disgusted, Beramun clenched her eyes shut. She had to set her teeth firmly to keep from crying out when the giant insects crawled over her chest to investigate the dried blood on her injured arm.
Bad as the cockroaches were, a new, louder noise chilled the blood in her veins. She opened one eye and looked toward the pit, from which the noise came. It was a hard tapping, like wood or bone against stone, followed by the distinct hiss of skin rubbing on skin. That and a rising acidic stench announced the coming of Sthenn.
“Master! I await your orders!” Zannian cried.
A large claw rose out of the black pit and gripped the edge of the lowest step. It was the dewclaw on the dragon’s wing joint, as big as Beramun’s slim hand, though yellowed and eroded like a tusk of weathered ivory. The reek of the dragon’s poisonous breath grew stronger. Emitting rapid clicks, the roaches fled to crevices in the wall. Beramun wished she could follow them.
Her breath caught as she watched the dragon slowly emerge from its lair. A second dewclaw appeared, followed closely by the forward-curving horns atop Sthenn’s head. His horns were stained and notched from untold years. The dragon’s broad brow rose above the edge of the pit. His head was heavy and square, the color of ancient jade. Along his muzzle and the underside of his throat, his scales were ragged, corroded-looking. The barbels on his chin were thick and the palest green of all, as if their color had leached away with the centuries.
“I am here as you bid, Master,” the young chief said.
“That is good,” rasped the dragon. “I don’t have to tear your head off.”
Zannian stepped back from the rim of the pit as more of the monster emerged. Sthenn’s body was slender and serpentine. Gray-green scum mottled the edges of his scales, and he exuded a powerful reek of age, mold, and uncleanness.
He perched on the stone ledge that lined the opening of his lair. In the confined space, his presence was overwhelming. Beramun felt cold moisture trickling down her face and neck, the sweat of pure fear.
“What’s this?” asked the dragon, swiveling his head toward her. As he did so, Beramun closed her eye.
“A slave,” Zannian replied. “We took her on the raid.”
Beramun heard the dragon come closer. She could almost feel his baleful eyes boring into her. She begged all her departed ancestors to spare her from too much pain, to make her death mercifully quick.
Something cold and sharp raked through her hair, and this time Beramun begged her ancestors for the strength not to shriek aloud.
After an interminable time, the dragon said, “All rodents look alike to me. Why bring it here?”
“I would keep her for myself, Master, if you allow it.”
The hovering presence above her withdrew. Beramun’s heart eased its frantic thumping.
“Why this one? Many females have come to Almurk in recent days. What’s special about this one?”
Zannian did not answer immediately, so the dragon repeated the question, his powerful voice rising into a higher register, lending it a curiously feminine tone.
“She’s beautiful, Master.”
“What do rodents know of beauty?” Sthenn sneered. “That frail, thin hide of yours isn’t capable of beauty.”
“True, Master. May I keep her anyway?”
Beramun was certain she’d given no sign she was awake, yet something had alerted the dragon, for he said, “Let’s ask the little squirrel. She’s listening to your plea.”
The dragon’s claws closed around her waist, and she was lifted from the stones. The time for pretense was gone, so she vented her pent-up terror in a loud, ringing scream. Zannian took a step toward her. The green dragon’s slit eyes flickered to the raider chief.
“You wish to help her?” Sthenn asked, chuckling malevolently.
“Master, I — ”
Sthenn swung his claw in a wide arc until Beramun’s feet were dangling over the open pit. Her frantic squirming inside his claw only seemed to amuse the monster more.
His black mirth made Beramun furious. “Go ahead and kill me!” she shouted. “I won’t be forced to mate with any man!”
The dragon’s hard laughter echoed off the walls. “Hear that, little Zan? True love indeed!”
“Please, Master,” Zannian pleaded, his face crimson. “Don’t hurt her.”
“And if I told you to choose between serving me and having this black-haired wench, what would you say?”
Beramun saw the raider’s throat work as he swallowed hard. “I will always serve you, Master.”
“Excellent answer!”
Sthenn tossed Beramun onto the upper steps. She landed hard and rolled, coming to a stop against the niter-encrusted wall. Her tumble scattered the loose debris, sending some of it rolling into the yawning pit. She realized many of the “stones” she’d been lying on were actually human bones.
“Take her, boy, and use her as you see fit!” Sthenn cackled. “When you tire of her, bring her to me — though beautiful rodents likely taste much the same as ugly ones.”
The dragon lowered himself backward into his hole. His feculent laughter echoed upward long after his monstrous form was lost from view.
Zannian knelt by Beramun and helped her sit up.
“Don’t touch me!” she snapped.
He withdrew, but said, “Mend your attitude. Those who break the laws of Almurk end up here, as meat for the Master.”
“How can you serve such a monster? How can you feed your fellow humans to him?”
“Sthenn is the source of our future greatness. With him as our master, we will forge a great tribe and