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

alive!”
    “Go back then. The slave pen is right there.”
    Roki said no more but transferred her tight grip from Beramun’s arm to the shaft of her spear. With hand gestures, Beramun indicated she intended to go straight across the camp, skirting the opening to Sthenn’s lair. Roki looked very much like she wanted to protest, but clamping her lips tightly together, she nodded.
    They slipped by the yawning hole in the ground, glancing nervously into its dark depths. North of the pit were the hovels where the raiders lived. Outwardly, they were little better than the pen enclosing the slaves – simple structures of scrounged stone, wood, bark, and mud plaster. There was a strong smell of woodsmoke there, and the tang of roasted meat. Something else, too – a sour, musky odor Beramun had never smelled before. It wasn’t the dragon or any human, no matter how filthy. It reminded her of predatory beasts, like panthers or wolves, but it was different, too. Stronger somehow, like a whole pack of flesh-eaters collected in one noisome spot.
    The strange smell came from smaller, ruder log structures scattered among the huts. These small dens were too low for a human to stand in. Beramun and Roki gave them wide berth.
    A shaft of light fell on the path before them. The women paused, tracing the yellow glow back to its source. Standing in the midst of the raiders’ huts was a larger, better-made dwelling with a moss-thatch roof and smooth wattle-and-daub walls. It even had windows, which were covered with wicker shutters. Voices could be heard, speaking from within.
    Smitten with curiosity, Beramun crept up to the bigger house, ignoring Roki’s frantic tugs on her shirt. She leaned the spear against the wall and stood up on tip-toe, trying to see through the loosely woven shutters.
    The light came from a mussel shell just inside the window. It was filled with burning fat. Beyond it, another lamp burned, and between them sat Zannian. He was drinking from a clay cup and listening to a heated harangue from a gray-haired woman sitting with her back to the window.
    “... can’t be ready for another ten days,” the woman was saying. “The breastplates are made, but they’ve not been dyed the proper color yet.”
    “You and your color,” Zannian said, irritated. “Why must your band have green hoods and chests?”
    “To honor the Master. The Jade Men will fight to the death for him when I command.”
    “When you command, Mother?”
    Beramun could hardly contain her surprise. Of course Zannian had parents, but to find his mother working alongside him for the vicious green dragon was astounding. She crept forward, gripping the window sill to steady herself. Roki crouched at her feet, trembling.
    “I command them, and the Master commands me, as you well know,” the old woman said.
    He looked past her for a moment and his expression changed, just slightly, and only for the barest instant.
    Zannian said, “All right, make your green dye. You can have ten extra slaves to help. Now go.”
    “What’s the hurry?”
    “I have other tasks.”
    She knocked aside his empty cup. “Yes. Drinking. Very important!”
    “Good night, Mother.”
    His farewell, spoken with finality, silenced her at last. The old woman rose laboriously, leaning heavily on an oak crutch. Beramun saw her left leg was wrapped in leather trews. Her right leg, also wrapped, ended at the knee.
    She hobbled to the door. Pausing there, she turned, and for the first time Beramun glimpsed her face. She had dark gray eyes, a sharp chin, and slender, bony hands. Though deeply lined, her face was not that of an old woman, but it did speak of a very hard life. Something about her face chilled Beramun. This, she decided, was a woman capable of anything.
    “I hear there’s a girl in camp, a girl you fancy,” the woman said, and Beramun listened intently.
    “Yes, so?” said Zannian.
    “You’ve no time for girls, you know. Not until the Master’s plans are carried