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

claw rose out of the black pit and gripped the edge of the lowest step. It was the dewclaw on the dragon’s wing joint, as big as Beramun’s slim hand, though yellowed and eroded like a tusk of weathered ivory. The reek of the dragon’s poisonous breath grew stronger. Emitting rapid clicks, the roaches fled to crevices in the wall. Beramun wished she could follow them.
    Her breath caught as she watched the dragon slowly emerge from its lair. A second dewclaw appeared, followed closely by the forward-curving horns atop Sthenn’s head. His horns were stained and notched from untold years. The dragon’s broad brow rose above the edge of the pit. His head was heavy and square, the color of ancient jade. Along his muzzle and the underside of his throat, his scales were ragged, corroded-looking. The barbels on his chin were thick and the palest green of all, as if their color had leached away with the centuries.
    “I am here as you bid, Master,” the young chief said.
    “That is good,” rasped the dragon. “I don’t have to tear your head off.”
    Zannian stepped back from the rim of the pit as more of the monster emerged. Sthenn’s body was slender and serpentine. Gray-green scum mottled the edges of his scales, and he exuded a powerful reek of age, mold, and uncleanness.
    He perched on the stone ledge that lined the opening of his lair. In the confined space, his presence was overwhelming. Beramun felt cold moisture trickling down her face and neck, the sweat of pure fear.
    “What’s this?” asked the dragon, swiveling his head toward her. As he did so, Beramun closed her eye.
    “A slave,” Zannian replied. “We took her on the raid.”
    Beramun heard the dragon come closer. She could almost feel his baleful eyes boring into her. She begged all her departed ancestors to spare her from too much pain, to make her death mercifully quick.
    Something cold and sharp raked through her hair, and this time Beramun begged her ancestors for the strength not to shriek aloud.
    After an interminable time, the dragon said, “All rodents look alike to me. Why bring it here?”
    “I would keep her for myself, Master, if you allow it.”
    The hovering presence above her withdrew. Beramun’s heart eased its frantic thumping.
    “Why this one? Many females have come to Almurk in recent days. What’s special about this one?”
    Zannian did not answer immediately, so the dragon repeated the question, his powerful voice rising into a higher register, lending it a curiously feminine tone.
    “She’s beautiful, Master.”
    “What do rodents know of beauty?” Sthenn sneered. “That frail, thin hide of yours isn’t capable of beauty.”
    “True, Master. May I keep her anyway?”
    Beramun was certain she’d given no sign she was awake, yet something had alerted the dragon, for he said, “Let’s ask the little squirrel. She’s listening to your plea.”
    The dragon’s claws closed around her waist, and she was lifted from the stones. The time for pretense was gone, so she vented her pent-up terror in a loud, ringing scream. Zannian took a step toward her. The green dragon’s slit eyes flickered to the raider chief.
    “You wish to help her?” Sthenn asked, chuckling malevolently.
    “Master, I —”
    Sthenn swung his claw in a wide arc until Beramun’s feet were dangling over the open pit. Her frantic squirming inside his claw only seemed to amuse the monster more.
    His black mirth made Beramun furious. “Go ahead and kill me!” she shouted. “I won’t be forced to mate with any man!”
    The dragon’s hard laughter echoed off the walls. “Hear that, little Zan? True love indeed!”
    “Please, Master,” Zannian pleaded, his face crimson. “Don’t hurt her.”
    “And if I told you to choose between serving me and having this black-haired wench, what would you say?”
    Beramun saw the raider’s throat work as he swallowed hard. “I will always serve you, Master.”
    “Excellent answer!”
    Sthenn tossed Beramun