[NRPG: Sent to Cleft because it takes place in the Nomadlands.
Informational only.]

"Then where?" Darlea had asked.  Where could they go and be safe from
assassins trying to take her life and their child's life?

His eyes were clouded for a moment, as he thought.  It couldn't be
anywhere in the DragonLands.  The Assassins Guild held sway everywhere
here.  He didn't know enough about the lost warrens.  That left one
place...  He met her blue eyes, capturing them with his.  "Home .." 

She frowned slightly, trying to decide what he meant, then her eyes
widened.  "What?"

"Trust me," he said simply.

She swallowed, and nodded.

******

"You're scared?" The question was just as much a statement as he looked at
Darlea mounted up on her emerald green dragon.

"A little."

"It will be okay," he assured her.

She nodded, though he could see she was still nervous.

Almiron squeezed her hand.  "I love you."

"I love you, too," she nodded. Satisfied he turned and mounted his own
dragon. 

He selected a place in the Nomadlands.  Since his tribe, as all the
tribes, moved about, there was no way for him to know where they might be. 
It would take searching.  So, for now, he would go to Alrah's Field.  The
game there was more plentiful.  There was nearby fresh water.  There were
plentiful tubers and berries.  There was a unique rock formation there. 
And, most importantly, it was sacred ground.  Tribes thought twice before
attacking someone there. 

He concentrated on the image long enough that the visualisation-impaired
Darshan could pass it on to Makayla, then two dragons were winging their
way across the sky, lined up, side by side. 

Then they vanished in a synchronized teleport.

The rock was the same, and there was still fresh water nearby, but that
was about all that was the same.  The grass was wraith-scorched.  No game
moved on the plains below them.  Almiron signaled them to land.  Both
dragons were jumpy as Almiron slid off and went to examine the wraith
scorching.

"It is old.  There is new plant coming through, see."

Darlea relaxed a bit, though the dragons were still edgy.  "I don't see
anyone about..."

Almiron smiled.  "My tribe is *nomad*.  It does not stay in one place.  We
have to find it.  This is good, central place to path it takes most year."

"Oh, I see."

He helped her down.  "We need to talk now."

She blanched a bit at that.  "What about?"

"About me people... my culture...  You are woman.  Most woman is... 
inferior to man.  Except for warrior woman.  You will not be harmed if you
are my wife, though.  Assuming I am not harmed..." 

"You are not harmed?  Why would you be harmed?"

"It has been many year since I left.  I might not be recognised.  And, if
I am, my brother, chieftain, might see me as... competitor for position."

"Wh-which brother is this?"

Almiron remembered Qedhar's words of two years ago-- "I think it is Azkah,
but I'm not certain.  We found Azyil's wife in desert some... three year
ago.  She had fled tribe for fear of her life."

If Azyil's wife had fled, it was probably because Azkah had won, and both
his competitor, Sabar, and Sabar's ally, Azyil, and all their family would
have been killed.  Azkah was likely his only surviving brother.  "Azkah," 
he answered.  "I believe Sabar and Azyil is both dead.  Hafir died at
Sabar's hand.  Other brother all died at hand of Darshan's mother." 

"I'm sorry," Darlea said.

Almiron shrugged.  "It is cost of being chieftain's son."  Already, the
stark cruelty of the place that nurtured the Nomads and their culture was
seeping back into his psyche.  "Also, there will be slave which may be
mistreated or neglected.  You cannot be trying to change slave's lot or it
may not go well for us. When we find tribe, we must be careful when we
first enter encampment.  Do you understand?"

He could see the fear grow deeper in her eyes as she nodded.  "I
understand."

******

They spent the day flying to various likely sites.  As they headed toward
yet another possibility, they spotted a brick-brown mass on the ground.
<Pet, it's a dragon!> Darshan informed him.  <And he's wearing a saddle.>

<Is he from Cleft?>

<I don't know.  He doesn't answer me.>

Almiron motioned to Darlea to stay airborne while Darshan set down.  He
slowly approached the dragon.  As he got closer, he could see the arrows
and spears in the dragon's side.

Nomad arrows, and Nomad spears.

Between the creature's front claws was a goat.  He bent down and studied
it.  Yes, there was the brand.  Hehranon.  He thought he had recognised
the workmanship on the arrows.  His tribe had brought down this dragon.

He touched the side of the dragon, feeling the warmth and the laboured
breathing.  He studied the countryside, his senses at the alert, then
waved Darlea down.  While Makayla landed, he dug into the saddlebags.

"What happened?  Can you tell?"

Almiron nodded as he came across the papers.  "Dragon took a goat from
Hehranon, my tribe, and was shot."  He pointed to the ground.  "No blood,
but footprint, including some DragonLands-style bootprints.  Rider was
probably captured and taken to encampment."

"Oh, dear.  We have to tell Cleft!"

He shook his head, holding up the papers.  "His name is H'riol.  He is not
Cleft rider.  He is part of Roland's Rogues."

She shrank at that.  "He was a rogue?"

Almiron nodded.

"But the warren--"

"Would destroy my tribe for harming dragon.  If we want to help him, we
must do it ourself." 

"But how?"

Almiron shrugged.  "It depends on reception I get.  But, I think it would
be best if we left Darshan and Makayla behind."

She nodded.  "And the dragon?"

"I can heal him... with your help..."

******

[H'riol]

He had been trying to find where his comrades had moved, still stung that
Cynthia hadn't even considered offering him a hearing, a second chance,
even though she knew he had been unfairly banished.  He'd had to return...
return to the angry and cruel rogues he'd been forced to ally himself
with.

And then, it had happened.

He knew enough to know that he needed to submit if he planned to live.  If
he lived, his dragon might live.

Submit...

The Nomads demanded complete and total submission before they would keep a
captive alive.

He had submitted.

Now he lay in the dark, the light from the fire flickering about the tent
walls, Garoth's mind a distant haze, the sensations of the bodily
submission to his captor still fresh in his mind and body.  His captor had
been gentle, which somehow made it worse. 

"Hehrial," his captor murmurred.

"Ah," he answered.

The man whose name he had learned was Azyil patted the bed furs beside
himself.

His captor had been pleased with his performance earlier in the evening.
He closed his eyes, reminding himself that he was doing this for Garoth,
then opened them and made his way to Azyil's side.

A child of perhaps ten stirred in his sleep at H'riol's gasp of pain, then
lay watching as H'riol once again submitted to his master's whims.  The
Nomads had little sense of privacy and no real way to achieve it. 

For Garoth... for Garoth... for Garoth...

In the field, Garoth stirred as the heat from Almiron's body coursed
through him.  Distantly, he could feel H'riol's violation as a voice
whispered in his head "...for Garoth... for Garoth... for Garoth..."  He
could vaguely sense other dragons here.  He sent the feelings to the
nearest one.  <Help him...> he asked, then drifted back to
unconsciousness. 

******

[Almiron]

Darlea pulled him back from the dragon before he did himself harm.
"That's enough for now.  Do we try to find your tribe, or stay here?"

Almiron felt Darshan touch his mind lightly.  <His rider has had to submit
to stay alive, you know.>

Almiron mentally nodded.  He had surmised as much.  But he couldn't tell
Darlea...  "We stay here tonight.  Tomorrow morning, I will heal dragon
more, then we go in, carefully.  Darshan and Makayla will protect this
dragon until we know situation."

"Okay," she said.

He smiled.  "Everything will be fine.  Come, let's get some sleep."

Respectfully submitted,
 Lynette R. F. Cowper
  Almiron and Darshan
  (and H'riol and Garoth)

---

 Lynette R. F. Cowper <lcowper@indy.net>, INWO Line Editor