“It’s Paharo!”
He snatched the dangling bridle and led the horse in. Anuca jogged down the ramp to meet him. Another sentinel, summoned from her post by the sound of hoofbeats, joined them.
“What’s wrong?” the sentinel, Lyopi, demanded.
“Paharo’s back!” Anuca called. “Say, Paharo, where’d you get the horse?”
“From the raiders! They’re coming this way! Rouse the elders and tell them to gather in front of the foundry!” When Anuca and Lyopi regarded him blankly, the trail-worn Paharo barked, “The Arkuden’s life and the safety of the whole village hang in the balance! Gather the elders at the foundry! Go!”
Before long the entire adult population of Yala-tene was crowding into the open ground in front of the foundry. The village elders arrived, sleepy and dazed. Only Konza was missing. In his place came his son, for once not surrounded by a pack of adoring acolytes.
Paharo related in detail what he’d seen. Many hundreds of mounted warriors on their way to Yala-tene, but no sign as yet of a green dragon.
“What of the Arkuden?” Lyopi demanded. “Where is he?”
Paharo looked at the ground. “The last I saw, he and the nomad girl Beramun were running for their lives.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Tepa said, “Did you find any trace of the Protector?”
“We were following a ground trail, but we came upon the raiders and had to flee. Whether the Protector lives, I can’t say.”
Sounds of soft weeping slowly filled the air. Paharo, his message delivered, slumped against the side of the foundry, his knees quaking with fatigue.
Nubis spoke for many present when he said, “We must send messengers to meet this Zannian, to see if he can be persuaded to spare our village.”
“No!” said Paharo, snapping upright again. “You can’t expect mercy from men like these! I saw a vast crowd of folk, bound hand and foot, driven along by the raiders. Beramun told us Zannian makes slaves of all he captures — those the green dragon doesn’t kill for sport!”
Nubis spread his hands. “How can we resist such a war-band? We’re not fighters.”
“We have the wall,” said Jenla. “I will fight any enemy who tries to scale it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I maybe old, but I won’t give way to cutthroats! Who will fight with me?”
Many brave voices responded.
“And what will you do if the green dragon appears?” Nubis demanded. “Will you fight him, too?”
“Yes!” shouted Paharo. “If the choice is slavery or death, I’ll fight to the death!”
The meeting quickly degenerated into an argument, with everyone loudly voicing their opinions on whether or not to fight.
Tiphan stood to one side, listening calmly. He strolled to the low wall around the foundry and stood on it. Concealed in his left fist was a fragment of spirit stone. He held his right hand high, fingers spread. Pale blue fire blazed from his fingertips. He whirled his hand around his head, creating a fiery corona in the air. The disputing villagers quickly fell silent, awed by his display of power.
When every eye was on him, Tiphan spoke. “We must destroy our enemies,” he intoned.
Into the surprised silence Tepa said dryly, “A fine plan, Tosen. But how will it be done?”
“By me, with the spirit power I command.”
That sparked a fresh round of wrangling. Could the arrogant young Sensarku really defeat Zannian’s band and a green dragon by himself? Shouldn’t they consult the Arkuden?
Jenla’s voice carried clearly above the tumult. “Forgive our doubts, Tosen, but you haven’t answered the question. How will you destroy the enemy?” she asked.
Tiphan turned to the nearby cliff. Drawing back his right hand, he hurled a ball of bright blue fire at the towering rock face. It struck and burst with a sound like thunder. Dirt and rock dust showered the stunned crowd.
“The Tosen will save us!” Nubis shouted.
“Alone?” Jenla retorted.
“We must send a party of spearmen to escort him,” said Montu. “Twenty — no, forty! — of our strongest young men. They can march out at daybreak.”
“Forty men can do little against Zannian’s hundreds,” Paharo advised.
“They won’t have to!” the cooper replied, fired by the Sensarku’s display of power. “He needs protection only while he summons the blue fire. Isn’t that true, Tosen?”
Tiphan cleared his throat. “That is so.”
The respect dawning on all their faces elated him. He spread his arms wide. “No spearmen are needed,” he declared. “I shall go forth with the Sensarku. My followers will be my shield.”
Consternation erupted. Most of the acolytes had never been out of the Valley of the Falls. Even as hunters and trackers they were backward, having spent most of their time serving in the Offertory.
Tiphan ended the argument by saying, “Very well. Choose six villagers to serve as guides. Paharo, will you lead them?” The tired scout nodded. “Good. We shall muster outside the west baffle at dawn.”
Tiphan stepped down from the wall. Jenla blocked his departure.
“Tosen, where is your father?” she asked.
“My father? He is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Having seen the great good it did me, my father has undertaken a journey to the east to learn more about the spirit power.”
A small crowd had collected around Tiphan and Jenla. “Who went with him?” she asked.
“No one.”
Jenla blanched. “You let an old man go into the wilderness alone? Are you mad?”
“He insisted on it. He wanted to strengthen his heart by privation and gain the benefit of ancient wisdom as I did.” Tiphan pushed past her into the dispersing crowd, adding quickly, “Peace to you, Jenla. Good night.”
“He’s lying,” Jenla said after Tiphan departed. “Konza was no fool. He wouldn’t go on such a journey by himself.”
She turned to Paharo with a thoughtful frown and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Guard yourself well, son of Huru,” she said. “If what I fear is true, you face as much danger from your friends as your foes.”
The downpour had slackened to a steady drizzle. After the prisoners’ escape, Zannian recalled his men to a central point on the open plain. There, Nacris and Greengall waited for news, while the Jade Men formed a square around their tent.
Greengall sat on the muddy ground. He enjoyed the dampness, though he complained that the high plain was not properly fetid like the black soil of Almurk.
From time to time riders appeared, bringing reports of the round-up. When important information came in, Zannian ducked under the tent to inform his mother and master.
“Six more slaves have been retaken,” Zannian told them. He checked the tally scratched on a slab of slate. “That makes fifty-four we’ve gotten back so far.”
“I hope the wretches catch their death!” Nacris said, shivering in spite of her cape and furs. Absently she scratched the black scab on her cheek where Greengall had cut her with Duranix’s scale.
“Is there any word of the nomads who aided the escape?” asked Greengall.
“Very little, Master. Stories vary. It seems four or five plainsmen slipped past our outriders and reached the prisoners. All the dead so far are known to us.”
“And Duranix? Any sign of him?”
“None, Master. He seems to have vanished.”
Greengall wove his unnaturally long fingers together and cracked his knuckles. Nacris winced at the unwholesome sound.
“He’s not far away,” Greengall said. “I can smell him. His wound is festering delightfully, and he is in great pain. Remember, Zannian, there’s a special reward for the man who finds the bronze dragon.”
Zannian bowed his head. “I’ll remind the men.”
