overcome them!”
Zannian turned to his mounted warriors. “The rest of you, form on me!” he ordered, and the balance of the center block of raiders, two hundred strong, closed ranks. “No throwing sticks. Spears! Use your spears!”
Two hundred flint-tipped lances swung down. Bellowing hoarsely, Zannian led them down the hill. Reaching Hoten’s band, Zannian united both groups and started toward the ring of cheering villagers.
When they were sixty paces from the white-clad enemy, a third bolt of lightning lashed out, flying over the heads of the Jade Men and hitting the ground scant steps from Zannian’s gray stallion. The raider chief felt the heat of it on his face, and dirt and stones flew wildly, but he kept going.
At twenty paces, a fourth bolt was unleashed, but it was far smaller than the others and flew harmlessly wide of the raiders, tearing a smoking hole in the hillside. That was the last. The Jade Men reached the slender line of villagers and fell on them like wolves.
As the enemy’s blood flowed, the Jade Men gave voice for the first time, chanting, “Greengall! Greengall!” Most of the villagers were speared where they stood. A few tried to run, but none got more than a few steps before being cut down.
Zannian found Nacris sitting propped on the wreckage of her litter, trying to see the battle. He extended a hand to her. She swung awkwardly onto the horse behind him.
“How goes the fight?” she said.
“Your Jade Men are wading through the enemy’s blood.”
“They closed for the kill despite the lightning?”
“Not one turned away.”
Her hard face split in a savage smile.
Zannian approached the surviving villagers. He was astonished to see them fall back to protect their leader. The lightly armed youths surrounded their leader in a wall of living flesh, batting aside spear tips with their bare hands. Two even threw themselves on spearpoints to keep them from piercing the man in the center of their circle.
Zannian put a ram’s horn to his lips and blew the call that ordered his men to stop fighting. The mounted raiders halted, but the Jade Men continued to press in, spearing the helpless villagers.
“Order them to stop,” Zannian told Nacris. “I want to know about this power they possess.”
She had to give the command twice, but the Jade Men finally drew back in a tight square in front of Zannian’s horse.
Seven young men and women, their white doeskins torn and drenched with blood, clung together around their leader.
“Yield or die,” Zannian said, halting his horse only a step away from the panting, bleeding group.
The villagers’ leader maintained his straight-backed, arrogant posture. He was a strange-looking man — tall, pale, with hair the color of midwinter snow.
“I am Tiphan, first servant of the great dragon of Yala-tene.”
“Are you? And where is the great dragon of Yala-tene? Why does he leave his followers to perish like dogs?”
“I sent him away,” Tiphan said proudly. “I am the defender of my people.”
“You’ve done a job of it, too.” Zannian’s eyes raked over the dead youths. “Was it you throwing that blue fire?”
“It was.”
“Tell me how you do it, and I may spare your life.”
“I possess the ancient power.” Tiphan’s proud stance was wavering, exhaustion evident on his face. He trembled, but said, “Send your warband away, and I will instruct you in the ways of the Sensarku.”
Zannian laughed. The man’s gall was amazing.
A large shadow swept over raider and villager alike. Zannian’s amusement became grimmer. He said, “You’re the one who’s about to learn something.”
With a strong backwash of air, Sthenn landed. Tiphan’s young followers wailed when the saw the green dragon. The white-haired man spoke sharply to them, and they dragged themselves off their bellies and wrapped their bleeding arms around him, seeming both to support and draw strength from him.
“What have we here?” Sthenn said. “Is this the source of the power I felt? I can’t believe it!”
Tiphan drew himself as straight as he could. “I am Tiphan, first servant of the great dragon of Yala- tene.”
“Friends of my old friend Duranix, eh?” Sthenn, blistered hide oozing pus, hopped several steps and landed heavily in front of the Sensarku. “How charming. Did he teach you those tricks?” The hideous green head snaked closer. “Did he?”
Tiphan tried to maintain his defiant stance, but he shrank from his hideous questioner. His reply was nearly inaudible. “No. I learned them myself.”
Sthenn’s jaws parted slightly. He blew a stream of cyan-colored gas on the villagers clinging to Tiphan’s legs. Coughing and retching horribly, the acolytes slid limply to the ground, poisoned by his breath. Sthenn’s bony claw darted in and took hold of Tiphan’s waist. He hoisted the man into the air.
“Nothing is funnier than a rodent who thinks he’s important,” the green dragon said. He raked a single claw down Tiphan’s chest, slashing open his doeskin robe and drawing blood. “Tell me, wise rodent, what’s become of my dear, dear friend Duranix?”
“He… lives,” Tiphan gasped, eyes streaming tears from the gas.
“Of course he does!” Sthenn squeezed his hapless victim until blood spurted from Tiphan’s nose. “But where is he now?”
“Yala… tene.”
“Impossible!” Sthenn shook him hard, snapping his head forward and back. “Don’t lie to me, rodent! His hindquarters must be rotting by now!”
The light of pride flared one last time in Tiphan’s blue eyes. “I cured him,” said the Sensarku leader.
Sthenn could see he spoke the truth, and the dragon howled with pure vexation. He spread his jaws wide, intending to bite Tiphan’s head from his body, then changed his mind. Instead, he began to squeeze, gradually tightening his grip around the man’s waist, savoring each snapping bone.
Tiphan’s head lolled back, his tongue protruding, and the green dragon relaxed his grip slightly, planning to draw out his death for as long as possible. Tiphan’s head slowly came up, and he opened his mouth. With his last breath, he called upon the remaining stones in his belt.
A ball of white fire engulfed him, sending horses and men reeling back in terror. When it vanished seconds later, Tiphan was gone, and so was Sthenn’s foreclaw.
The green dragon screamed. The stump of his right foreleg was blackened and smoking. Torrents of anger, pain, and outrage poured from his throat. He fell to the ground and thrashed wildly, hammering his head into the turf. His tail whipped about, smashing anyone and anything it struck. Panic-stricken, the raiders fled their master’s agony, riding away pell-mell to escape.
Zannian and Nacris fled too, pausing on a nearby hilltop to watch Sthenn’s torment.
Hoten joined them. Like his chief, the elder raider looked down on the green dragon’s display with an unsympathetic eye.
“So the Master lost a hand?” he asked.
“Yes,” Zannian answered. “It’ll grow back, in time.”
Hoten watched the scattering raider host and sighed. “It’ll take time to get the men back together.”
“Don’t even bother until the Master finishes his fit,” Nacris put in.
“How long will that take?”
Nacris leaned forward tiredly, resting her head on Zannian’s back. “Until he’s done.”
Several leagues away, Duranix halted in his tracks. He was walking rather than flying to avoid giving away their position to the raiders. When Amero noticed the dragon wasn’t at their heels, he doubled back.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Tiphan is dead.”
Amero pulled up short. “How do you know? Can you hear his thoughts, too?”
