Brother of the Dragon by Paul B. Thompson and Tonya C. Cook

never get out of here,” she said flatly. “If the raiders don’t catch us, the stormbird will. Or would you rather be eaten by some spirit-cursed monster in the forest?”
    “I’d rather escape this muck hole and live free,” the girl insisted. A guard, sauntering through the molding hut, brusquely ordered Beramun back to work. She shouldered the poles and hissed at Roki, “I’ll not eat any more of their food.”
    “Then you’ll starve.”
    The day did not improve after that. One of the slaves was stung to death by bees while removing a section of honeycomb for the waxworks. The forest bees were the size of Beramun’s thumb, and the poor girl was overcome so quickly there was no chance to help her. The girl was an uncomplaining worker, no more than fourteen. That was all Beramun knew about her. She didn’t even know the girl’s name.
    As the guards routed the bees with smoky pine knots and carried the girl’s body away, Beramun could only think she had been someone’s child. She must have had a family who cared about her, yet she had died alone and unknown in this horrible place.
    Beramun refused to accept the same fate. She resolved to escape that very night.
    After work, the usual stew was served. Beramun waited until the guards were gone then gave her portion away, ignoring her growling stomach. She considered telling her fellow slaves about the sleeping potion then changed her mind. Many of them had lapsed into sullen indifference, like Roki, or else openly collaborated with the raiders in hopes of currying small favors. Not wanting to risk exposure of her plan, she decided to keep it to herself.
    She feigned sleep a long time before making her move. The slaves’ pen resounded with snores and wheezes as the exhausted captives dozed under the influence of the potion. Beramun didn’t bother trying to open the heavy gate but simply climbed the low wall. She had one leg over the top when something grabbed the ankle still inside the pen. A scream formed in her throat, but she stifled it. Looking down, she saw Roki had hold of her foot.
    “Come back!” the woman said hoarsely. “You’ll be killed!”
    “Why aren’t you asleep?” Beramun replied.
    “I didn’t eat the stew. I knew you would try this!”
    “Join me or not, but let me go!”
    Roki hesitated a few seconds, but to Beramun it seemed like an age before the older woman’s callused hand released her ankle. By the feeble starlight penetrating the canopy of vines overhead, Beramun saw Roki’s cheeks were wet with tears.
    A lump formed in Beramun’s throat. The woman had been her friend, the only one she’d made among the captives, but she couldn’t remain here.
    She swallowed hard and said, “Farewell, Roki. Smooth trail and —” She stopped, unable to complete the plainsmen’s usual farewell. There would be no smooth trail or open skies for Roki here.
    Beramun lifted her leg over the wall and prepared to drop three steps to the ground. Suddenly Roki exclaimed in a loud whisper, “Wait! I’m coming!”
    “Hurry!” Beramun replied and dropped to the ground. The moldering turf muffled the sound.
    Her friend clambered over the rough wall and fell heavily against Beramun. Her landing was frighteningly loud, and they froze for a moment to make sure they hadn’t been heard. There was no sound but the trill of the night creatures in the forest.
    The two women stole across the empty camp, hand in hand, with Beramun leading the way. She went directly to the lean-to where the newly made spears were stacked and took one for herself and Roki. Somewhere in Almurk a dog barked. Huddled against a pile of spears as high as their shoulders, the women listened fearfully. The dog made no other sound.
    “Where shall we go?” Roki whispered close to Beramun’s ear. “The trail we came in on?”
    “Too obvious. We’ll have to strike out through the forest.”
    Roki recoiled in horror, clutching Beramun’s arm. “That’s crazy! We’ll be eaten