Dragon's Hope (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss Book 4) Page 11

  "These are my females," I say, voice low and soft.

  "Only if you can keep them," he says. "Edicts are edicts. Edicts bring us together."

  "I don't know what 'edicts' you're operating on," I say. "You want to take my females I'll destroy you."

  He snorts and the edges of his scales tint red with anger. His mouth tightens into a hard line as a smile spreads on my face.

  "Ragnar, stop," one other says.

  "Astarot," Lana says and I dart a glance in her direction.

  Her and the other females are in a huddle watching.

  "What?" I ask.

  "We should go with them. We're a long way from home."

  Ragnar and I glare at each other for a moment longer before I step back, conceding the space. She's right and this entire display is the bijass, pushing towards conflict and not resolution. I can't give into it.

  "Right," I agree. "Lead the way."

  Ragnar takes a moment longer than I do to let his rage go. He shakes himself all over then turns and walks off into the desert. Our group falls in behind him. Lana walks at my side, the other two females drop in behind. One of the other Zmaj falls into step on my other side.

  "He's not all bad," he says.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm Bashir," he says.

  "Astarot," I say.

  "That's Melchior," Bashir says, pointing out the unnamed Zmaj.

  Melchior is moving ahead and off to the side. He moves fast, staying low to the ground with his head moving left to right in quick succession as he scouts ahead.

  "Where are we heading?" I ask.

  "The Tribe," he replies.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  Bashir gives me an odd look like I might be crazy. Shaking his head he picks up his pace and walks away. If nothing else Lana is right. I don't know where we are in relation to home or how to get us back there. I'm also curious what this 'Tribe' is. Seeing three Zmaj working as a team is strange enough but their weird mantra and the things they say are worse.

  Elders? Tribe? Sky People?

  The new Zmaj look primitive. They don't have lochabers, which is a traditional weapon. The spears they're carrying have rough metal tips that look crudely forged. They're wearing leathers that look rough. The other Zmaj, back in Drakonov, all have their lochabers and good clothes. We're not wearing home-made leathers, yet. The three of them make hand signals back and forth as they walk. I'm sure they're communicating but it means nothing to me.

  "Are we in trouble?" Lana asks, whispering.

  "We're fine," I lie.

  "You're a terrible liar," she says. "Your scales turn green when you try it."

  Frowning I hold my hand up to see what she is seeing.

  "There's no green," I observe.

  "I know, but now I know you're lying," she smiles.

  "Okay, I don't know," I say.

  "Yeah, isn't this strange? I thought Zmaj couldn't be around each other? Aren't we the exception back home?"

  "I thought so too," I say. "We struggle with it there. Somehow these three have figured out a way to avoid the bijass."

  "Maybe they can help us get home?"

  "Be careful what we say," I tell her.

  "What do you mean?"

  "They may not be friends."

  "Oh," she says, her mouth snapping shut.

  We walk in silence. Lana stumbles and I help her then the other females who are moving slower too. Moisture is pouring down their faces, soaking their clothes. I have to help all of them as the new males keep marching, ignoring them.

  A mountain range has been coming closer for a while now and we're climbing the outermost hills of it. They're following a path up the side. I'm not sure if it's natural or created but it turns back and forth allowing only two Zmaj abreast. The girls walk three abreast but they're small.

  Ragnar and Bashir lead the way while Melchior has fallen back and brings up the rear. Climbing and climbing until I can see out across the empty desert for a long ways. There's a shadow in the distance, rising towards the sky, something massive sits there.

  "That's the ship, I think," Lana says, following my gaze.

  "It's bigger," I say.

  "Yeah," she agrees.

  There's something in her voice I can't identify.

  We turn another time then we're passing into a breach of the rocks. The walls squeeze in tight and Ragnar has to turn sideways to get through. I squeeze through but it's tight. When we emerge I stop and Lana runs into my back.

  "What?" she asks. "Astarot? You okay?"

  I can't answer her. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Looking down into a small valley with dark cave openings dotting the walls on either side, there are Zmaj. Over two handfuls, maybe even more. Several of them stop and stare at us. Ragnar's wings spread out from under his cloak, he raises his spear over his head and hisses loudly.

  16

  Lana

  I can't see past him. Pushing does no good, he's too big and solid.

  "Astarot!" I yell this time, wanting his attention.

  He still doesn't move.

  "What's happening?" Olivia asks from behind.

  "I don't know," I say.

  Giving up on making him move, I squeeze past, scraping my back on the wall.

  When I turn and look I know why he's standing there. This isn't supposed to be. I'm staring down into a valley with cave openings dotting the walls. Zmaj men move around the valley floor, in and out of the cave openings, talking to each other and working. There must be a dozen of them, maybe more. The sight of it takes my breath away.

  "I thought you couldn't stay with each other?" I ask, awe in my voice.

  "We can't," he says. "This is… impossible."

  "Come on," Bashir says, motioning us forward.

  Ragnar stares, shaking his head. His wings flutter and his tail shifts side to side in an agitated movement.

  "How?" Astarot asks the hunters.

  "The Commander can explain, quit wasting time," Ragnar hisses, turning his back on Astarot.

  Astarot tenses, his hands balling into fists. His anger is palpable, so I put a hand on his arm. He turns his head towards me, his jaw tight, his lips pursed, anger burning in his eyes.

  "It's okay," I assure him.

  He blinks several times then his hands unclench. Ragnar has gone a distance ahead of us so we follow him down into the valley. The two new women whisper between themselves. Today has been one long series of firsts. Tajss was devastated in a massive war years and years ago, the handful of survivors found that they were regressing to a more primal state, one they call bijass. It made it impossible for them to be around each other without fighting, so they separated, each going their own way to wait out the death of their race.

  That's the story, that's what we know. So how are all these Zmaj living together? A clanging sound of metal on metal echoes off the stone walls of the narrow valley. Inside an alcove in the wall a large Zmaj is pounding out metal at a forge. He doesn't look up as we pass, intent on the white hot metal he is shaping. Another we pass is working large pieces of leather, preparing it in the sun's light.

  Most of the Zmaj pause in what they're doing and look up as we pass. No one says anything. Ragnar and the other two lead us to the back of the valley where it ends in a box. As we approach a dark rectangle that can't be a natural occurrence in the rock, the biggest Zmaj I've ever seen steps out into the sunlight. He's so tall and broad he has to duck and turn sideways to fit out the opening.

  Crossing his arms over his massive chest that looks broad enough for me to lie down on, he frowns down at Ragnar. Ragnar glares up even though he himself has to be seven feet tall. The new Zmaj must be almost eight feet tall. His scales have a subtle red tint to the tan. He doesn't have the bright colorations at the edges that most Zmaj have either. His brow is heavy, his jawline strong and sharp.

  "Get out of the way Drosdan," Ragnar hisses.

  Drosdan's wings flutter, spreading part way out and casting a shadow across Ragnar. His
thick tail drags on the ground making a shifting sound.

  "No," he says, not moving. "What is this?"

  "It's for the Commander, not you," Ragnar answers.

  "No one sees the Commander," Drosdan says.

  Ragnar's tail goes still and I can see his shoulders tense. His head tilts to one side.

  "You wouldn't," he hisses.

  "I could," Drosdan says, making a sound that is a cross between a snort and a laugh.

  "Edicts," Ragnar hisses.

  Something passes over Drosdan's face. Anger, rage, regret, submission, it's fast and makes me even more curious. What are these edicts? How do they keep these Zmaj living and working together? It's more than obvious that Drosdan wants to beat Ragnar and just on size alone he probably would. He doesn't, and that leaves me wondering.

  "Edicts bring us together," Drosdan says, reluctance in his voice, then he steps to one side.

  Ragnar steps through the opening into the darkness and the rest of us follow. Drosdan glares at each of us as we pass. Astarot meets his gaze, not breaking eye contact until he is through the door, straining his neck to keep contact as long as he can.

  The air is cooler inside. As my eyes adjust to the dim light we're led down a straight, smooth tunnel cut into the rock. The floor inclines down until it levels off then we enter a room lit by candles. The flickering light casts dancing shadows across the red stone walls. Three chairs sit against the wall opposite of us, the center one occupied by a male Zmaj with a hood pulled over his head and a staff in his hand.

  Ragnar walks over and stops a few feet in front of the seated Zmaj. Ragnar bows at his waist, his wings spreading part way out from under his cloak. He remains bent over in that position waiting.

  "Edicts are edicts," a soft, hissing voice says from inside the seated man's hood.

  "Edicts bring us together," Ragnar responds, then stands up and steps to one side.

  Delilah, Olivia, Astarot and I exchange confused looks, none of us sure what we're supposed to do next. The Zmaj before us leans forward, his staff rapping on the stone floor. Taking the hood in his hands he slides it off his head.

  It's difficult to tell a Zmaj's age. Their longevity keeps their bodies young much longer than a normal human lifespan, but this one seems older. Something about his eyes, I think. We stare at each other without speaking, I'm waiting for a clue what to do next.

  "Welcome," the seated man says at last.

  "Thank you," Astarot replies, taking a step forward.

  Two more Zmaj enter the room from an open doorway to our left. These two are definitely old. Their hair is thin and gray, their scales are dull, lacking the normal shine of a Zmaj. Their shoulders and backs are bent and they both walk with heavy sticks, leaning on them for support. They go to the other two chairs without a glance at us and take their seats.

  "I am Visidion, Commander of the Tribe," the first Zmaj says. "You've already met Drosdon outside, my Second."

  "I am Astarot," he says, bowing at his waist. "This is my mate, Lana, and my females."

  The hair on back of my neck bristles when he calls me his mate but there's a pleasing warmth in my belly. Ragnar grunts but the two to either side of Visidion lean in and whisper in his ear, talking low and quick.

  "Good," Visidion says. "These are the Elders of the Tribe. Kalessin, Founder and my Father, and Falkosh."

  He motions to his left then right as he introduces the two others.

  "Be welcome," Kalessin says, his voice is a leathery whisper like a soft touch on my skin that gives me goosebumps.

  There's a heavy wisdom in his voice you can feel when he speaks.

  "If you wish to stay with the Tribe, you must agree to and follow the edicts," Visidion continues. "If you will not, or cannot, we will give you supplies and send you on your way."

  "What are the edicts?" I interject.

  The four males besides Astarot all turn and look at me in obvious surprise. My cheeks burn hot as a sudden urge to crawl under a rock takes over. There is no pulling back the words now I've put them out there. I hear Ragnar hiss to my right. The three seated males look at each other then back.

  "You speak our tongue?" Visidion asks.

  Feeling lost and desperate I look at Astarot for guidance. He purses his lips and his clenches his jaw. Shit, what have I done? Running a hand over my face I pull myself together.

  "Yes," I say, my stomach rock hard, and my heart racing.

  The two Elders lean in close to Visidion and whisper behind their hands. I can't make out what they're saying but there's no doubt it's about me and my ability to speak Zmaj. Astarot takes a step closer so our arms are touching while he remains half a step in front of me. I swallow hard, trying to force moisture back into my mouth.

  The Elders sit back, staring at me, while the Commander, Visidion, seems lost in thought. When at long last he sighs and rises fear knots my stomach. I don't know if we're about to go to war or what. There are a lot of Zmaj here and there's no way that Astarot can stand against them all alone. I'm under no illusions that I'd be of any help.

  "We need you," Visidion says.

  "You can't have her," Astarot says, his voice tight.

  Visidion looks Astarot up and down in quiet contemplation. Ragnar makes a sound, his wings and tail shifting, but doesn't come closer.

  "Yes," Visidion says. "We have much to discuss."

  "We appreciate your hospitality," Astarot says. "But we need to get back to our home."

  "This could be your home," Visidion says. "What have you out there to return to?"

  Astarot's mouth snaps shut. I can see he doesn't want to say too much and I'm not sure I blame him. How much do we trust these people we just met?

  "Ah," Visidion continues. "I see, you need understanding."

  "Yes," Astarot says, taking the offered way out.

  "Come," Visidion says, walking past Astarot.

  "What is going on?" Olivia asks in Common, her voice quavering.

  "Do we need to run for it?" Delilah asks.

  "It's fine," I tell them. "I think."

  "How are you defining fine?" Delilah asks.

  Good question. How am I defining it? Smiling at the two girls I shrug.

  "We're not out in the desert with no supplies?" I offer.

  All of this is being made harder by how bad I feel. The muscles in my arms and legs tremble, my mouth is dry, but the headache is below a dull roar, so that's nice at least.

  "Okay, points for that," Delilah says and Olivia nods her agreement.

  "Look, right now I don't know what's happening. I'm struggling to keep up but I'll tell you when I know something."

  Olivia bites her chapped lips. Her skin has an almost gray tint to it and her eyes look dull and lifeless. Delilah doesn't look much better. They need epis.

  "Fine," Olivia agrees.

  Astarot follows Visidion outside the shelter. The bright suns are high enough overhead to stream down into the valley, burning my eyes even worse. Rapid blinking helps my eyes to adjust, but doesn't relieve how dry they are.

  "This is the Tribe," Visidion says as we gather in a semi-circle.

  To make life easier on the other humans I translate for them as he speaks. Visidion watches me do this, his head tilting to one side. A tingling sweeps up my neck and across my face. Why is he watching me with such interest? Astarot follows his gaze then looks back.

  "What?" I ask, unable to take the scrutiny without doing or saying something.

  "It is nothing," he says. "Allow me to continue, all will come clear. The Tribe is what we call ourselves. We are the product of my Father Kalessin's vision. After the Great War he gathered those he could. Knowing our fate and that the bijass was rising, he developed the edicts."

  "Yes, what are these edicts?" Astarot interrupts.

  Visidion smiles in response. "They bind us, one to another. Simple in concept, powerful in application," he says.

  "Beautiful words that have no meaning, what are they?" Astarot asks, barin
g his teeth in frustration.

  "One, I am myself. Two, together we are stronger. Three, survival of the group matters."

  "That's it?" I ask, surprised when he stops talking.

  Watching Astarot who seems lost in thought, maybe they mean more to a Zmaj? They look too simple to have any great effect like saving the entire Zmaj race or forcing them to work together. Visidion flashes a smile at me but his attention is on Astarot.

  "Simple? Yes," Visidion says, like he read my mind. "They are a tool, they focus the mind. The true control comes from within us, our inner strength only needs a focus to exert itself."

  "I see," Astarot says, nodding.

  "Come, see what we have accomplished," Visidion says, resuming his walk. "We have craftsman for leather, stone, and a blacksmith. Our hunters you have met, led by Ragnar, they provide us with food."

  Walking down the length of the valley Visidion points out the different craftsman to us. At the blacksmith's alcove there is a smaller Zmaj, the smallest one I've ever seen, though still bigger than a human man. As we approach, he grabs something from a shelf and walks away. The blacksmith, a huge Zmaj even by their standards with large, bulging arms, drops his hammer and grabs the smaller Zmaj by the back of the neck. Spinning him around he backhands the smaller Zmaj who drops the item. Only then does the big man release him and he falls to the ground.

  The smaller Zmaj stays on his knees as if he's groveling before the blacksmith. He picks up the item he dropped and holds it over his head offering it to the blacksmith who takes it, puts it back on the shelf, then takes back up his hammer and resumes working like nothing happened.

  The entire scene makes my breath catch in my chest and my heart pound with regret and pain for the smaller Zmaj. The casualness of the cruelty is unacceptable. Olivia gasps and Delilah curses under her breath but none of us move to intervene. Visidion walks on by as if nothing happened.

  "Is that how you treat each other?" I ask.

  Visidion stops and turns around. He glances at the blacksmith who's ignoring us. The smaller Zmaj has gotten to his feet and wandered off into one of the openings that lead into the cliffs. When Visidion looks at me I see a hardness in his eyes and the set of his features.