There was much posturing and spear shaking, but as horses and riders calmed, the two bands drew farther apart. The sun was not long from setting, and the nomads had the blazing light in their eyes. Across from them, many raiders were reeling on their animals, nearly overcome by exhaustion.
Into the open ground between the two forces rode five nomads on four horses. The giant and the dark man were two of them. The third was a slender woman with long black hair. In the midst of the ruin of his dreams of conquest, Zannian felt a surge of fire in his veins when he recognized Beramun.
His elation was tempered by the sight of the fourth horse. It carried two women: one, a red-haired girl Beramun’s age, Zan dismissed immediately; the other, older and browned by years of sun, merited a longer inspection. The older woman wore a fine bronze helmet of elven make. Her jaw and throat were streaked with livid, white scars.
Beside him, Hoten drew in a breath sharply. “Karada!”
“Are you certain?” Zannian demanded.
“In my youth I rode with her band,” was the awed reply. “That’s her.”
Zannian gave a low growl of annoyance. “First the Arkuden and now Karada. Too many dead people are still alive.”
He and Hoten rode out together with Ungrah-de striding along between their horses. They came within six steps of the nomads and stopped.
No one spoke. The only sound was the ogre’s loud breathing and the sound of horses’ tails switching away flies.
Hoten broke the impasse. “Greetings, Karada,” he said, hailing his former chieftain.
She squinted against the flare of the setting sun. “I know your face. You’re... Hoten, son of Nito. You were in my band, many years ago.”
He nodded, thinking it strange that her recognition should please him so.
“Now you ride with these savages?” Pakito growled at him. “Yevi-spawn!”
So much for old memories.
Zannian said, “Speak, Karada. Why have you come here?”
“To save my brother and his people. I may be too late for one but not the other.”
Zannian did not enlighten her that Amero lived. “You don’t belong here. Go back to the east. Battle the Silvanesti, and leave this land to us.”
“You are the invaders!” Beramun spoke up. “Murderers and looters! Go back to the stinking forest you call home and tell your dragon master you have failed!”
The raider chief turned his horse’s head toward her. “I saved you from the Master more than once, girl. Have you no gratitude?”
“Speak to me, raider,” Karada said severely. “I give you this leave: he gone from the Valley of the Falls by sunrise tomorrow, or your corpse will rot where it falls.”
“This one is a warrior,” Ungrah said suddenly. His dark eyes had not left Karada’s face since she’d first spoken.
Hearing the imposing creature speak their language startled the nomads. Ungrah went on. “Even in the high mountains we have heard of the Scarred One. I see now the tales are true.”
“This is not your fight, ogre,” she replied. “Withdraw, and none shall hinder you.”
“My fight is any I choose. Killing the wall-people was just work, but now I think this fight will be good. I will wear your skull with pride, Karada.” He rattled the trophies hanging from his armored chest.
In answer, she drew her long bronze sword. Zannian and Hoten tensed, ready to fight. Ungrah stood his ground, feet planted firmly, both massive hands resting on the head of his axe, unmoving as a mountain.
“To the death then, is it?” said Karada, looking from the ogre to the raider chief.
“It is,” Zannian said.
Ungrah and the raiders turned to go. They’d taken several steps before she spoke again.
“I have Nacris.”
The simple words halted them. Hoten tried to see his mate’s fate in Karada’s expression, but the nomad chiefs face was like the eastern cliffs – hard and unyielding.
“Does my mother live?”
Something flickered across Karada’s face. “Mother?”
“Does she live?” Zannian snapped.
“For now. If I return her to you, will you leave the valley?”
“No.” Hoten’s protest was overridden as Zannian said, “We did not come all this way to fall short now! Karada is my mother’s blood foe. Nacris would rather die at her hands than be spared by her!”
The raider chief kicked his mount into motion, leading his sullen men back to camp.
Before he turned to follow them, Ungrah-de said, “When the sun is next overhead, we will meet here and test our strengths, arm to arm. Until then, savor your blood, Karada. Tomorrow it will stain the soil at my feet.”
Though the other nomads, even giant Pakito, were visibly affected by the threat, Karada turned her back on Ungrah and rode back to her band.
*
High atop the walls of Yala-tene, Amero and his companions watched the nomads and raiders parley, unable even to discern who the participants were. Yet, Amero was almost certain that one of the nomads was his sister. She was on a wheat-colored horse, and something about the way she sat the animal struck a chord in his mind.
When the two groups rode away from each other, he was filled with joy. Surely the raiders were defeated! What else could they do but abandon the siege and leave the valley?
Amero saw the nomads return to the north baffle and set up camp beneath the walls. A body of men marching in close order down Cedarsplit Gap joined the nomads. It wasn’t until they were much nearer that it became apparent the warriors on foot were elves.
“What does this mean?” asked Hekani, who’d come over from the west baffle once the ogres had retreated. “Silvanesti fighting alongside nomads? Such things don’t happen!”
“What about men allied with a green dragon and with ogres?” replied Lyopi tartly.
“I don’t know what’s possible, and I don’t care! It is a great day!” Amero declared. Worn down to raw courage and sheer nerve, the other villagers could only agree.
Amero hurried to the north baffle, eager to see his sister after so long a time. Beramun would be there, too – brave girl! He longed to see her again and do honor to her courage. Alone of the scouts he’d sent to find Nianki, she had survived and brought the nomads back to save them.
By the time he arrived at the entrance, nomads had already swarmed onto the baffle and were making their way into the village. The people of Yala-tene lined the walls to cheer them. Gratitude poured out of every hoarse throat.
Beyond the wrecked barricade, Amero stopped. He could see them coming. His throat tightened, and his hands trembled. Beramun’s raven hair was painted dark crimson by the setting sun. In front of her, a tawny woman of forty summers clambered over the boulders and rubble. It was Nianki indeed, and how strong she looked!
Where the obstructions ended and the wall began, Karada and her party halted. She looked up and saw the assembled villagers waiting for them. Standing on the wall directly above her was a bearded man in tattered clothes. He was hollow-eyed, battered, and cut about the hands and face. A handsome woman with a thick chestnut braid of hair stood at his side, gripping a much-used spear.
Karada felt her heart beat hard, the pulse pounding in her ears. The setting sun was behind the people on the wall, leaving their faces in shadow. Yet she knew the bearded man. Though her voice, when at last she could speak, sounded questioning and strained, she knew him.
“Amero?”
“Nianki!” the man called joyously, spreading his arms wide.
No one else in all the world called her by her birth name. It was Amero. He was alive.
She didn’t remember climbing the last bit. Next thing she knew she was on the wall, arms around the apparition of her brother. He was solid and real, no spirit, and when he drew back from her, she saw the old gleam of wit in his hazel eyes.
“I can hardly believe it! You saved us!” He was grinning so wide his face seemed ready to split.
“You called m
e,” she said quietly, moved. “I came.”
Chapter 11
Vast was the relief felt in Yala-tene that night. The desperate, hungry villagers poured from their homes, embracing any nomad who would stand still for it. Though not plentifully supplied themselves, the nomads shared what provender they had with Amero’s people. It was not a celebration – everyone was too tired for that – but the feeling of doom over the valley had eased.
Beramun was enthusiastically greeted by all. Even Lyopi, not overly fond of the nomad girl, honored her courage and perseverance. When Beramun told them Karada’s band had met the three children from Yala-tene and that the children were safely hidden with the non-combatants outside the Valley of the Falls, the villagers gained hope that the rest of their young might have made it as well.
Amero, Lyopi, and the village elders left the safety of the wall for the first time in many days and went to Karada’s camp. There they met Bahco and renewed their acquaintance with Pakito and Samtu, both of whom Amero had known from his sister’s last visit to Yala-tene a dozen years before. The villagers were presented to Balif, who greeted the Arkuden and his people with great courtesy.
Unlike his hard-riding captors, Balif had taken the time to wash after the day’s fighting. Dressed in a sky-blue robe and girded by a cloth-of-gold belt, he looked every bit the elf lord.
“How is it you’re here fighting alongside my sister?” Amero asked.
“It’s the fault of the moon,” was Balif’s reply.
Conversation around the great campfire died. “Moon?” asked Lyopi.
“Just so. I was on a hunting expedition north of the Thon-Tanjan during the dark of the white moon, and the catch was meager. My hunt master recommended we return to Silvanost and try our luck later, but I knew the moon would return soon and the hunting would improve. I insisted upon staying on the plain a few days longer.” He squared his angular shoulders and tried not to look irritated. “Two nights later we were taken unawares by Karada’s band.”
“You might as well blame Beramun as the moon,” Karada said, sipping cider. “It was she who brought us west.”
Sitting in the circle behind Karada, Beramun blushed as all eyes turned to her.
Balif explained that the ogre threat had persuaded him to offer his sword to Karada’s cause.
Amero gripped his sister’s hand and smiled. “I always believed you were alive,” he said. “I knew you would come.”
“Yes, he only feared you’d arrive after the village was razed,” Lyopi said dryly.
Amero protested amid general laughter. While he was distracted, Karada freed her hand from his and moved away, ostensibly to refill her cup.
Talk continued, with confessions of faith balanced against admissions of doubt. The conversation remained light until Pakito said, “Tomorrow, will the raiders really stand and fight?”
The camp grew quiet. Burning wood hissed and popped in the fire.
“They will, and so will the ogres,” Karada said.
“How many ogres are there?” asked Bahco.
“You saw them all today,” Hekani said. “About two dozen are still breathing. There were thirty, once.” Hekani smiled grimly. “We took care of a few already.”
“Beating them will take new tactics,” mused Karada. “Maybe new weapons...”
“Filthy monsters,” Samtu muttered. More loudly, she said, “These raiders are outnumbered. If they were wise, they’d ride out tonight and leave the ogres to fend for themselves!”
“You can’t count out the raiders,” said Beramun. “Zannian has spent his entire life preparing to conquer the plains. It’s all his mother and the green dragon have trained him for. He won’t give up that dream. As long as Zannian lives, there will be no peace on the western plain.” Since she knew the raiders better than anyone, her words carried weight.
In the silence that followed her harsh pronouncement, Amero yawned widely. Apologizing, he said, “I think it’s time for rest now. I know we villagers will sleep easier tonight.” Lyopi was already asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. He shook her gently awake.
Lyopi and the elders went ahead while Amero remained to thank their saviors again. He clasped Balif’s hard, slender hand. The elf’s face reminded him of painted pottery – attractive, yet cool and stiff. Amero could not fathom what lay beneath.
When he stood before Pakito, the genial giant disdained the hand he offered and instead grabbed the Arkuden by both shoulders and gave him a hearty shake. Once Amero regained his balance, Samtu kissed his bearded cheek, then departed with her towering mate.
Amero found himself facing Beramun. In the firelight, the black-haired girl was as achingly beautiful as ever – more so, he decided. Life with Karada seemed to agree with her. When she first stumbled into the Valley of the Falls, she’d looked gaunt and hunted. Now she had fleshed out and acquired the tan worn by all Karada’s nomads.
“How can I thank you?” he said, not daring to touch her. “You saved everything.”
“You’ve thanked everyone enough,” she joked. “And I was but one of many. The spirits were with me, and I lived to find Karada.”
“Tomorrow should see the end of it.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, smiled briefly, and left.
Last to receive his good-night was his sister. She stood a few steps away, looking awkward, almost shy. Amero knew of the curse she lived with, but he could not treat her like a stranger. He held out his arms. She didn’t move, so he stepped forward and embraced her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He could feel it, so he drew back. “I’m sorry,” he said for her ears alone. “I don’t mean to distress you.”
She only shook her head, so he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Amero tried to leave, but he found he couldn’t. Karada was gripping the front of his shirt in her clenched fists. She looked at her hands in surprise, as though they belonged to someone else, and released him.
“Watch yourself tomorrow,” Amero said, then his gaze slid past her. “It’s no victory if I lose you.”
The campfire was at his back, and its light reflected off a pale face in the shadows behind his sister. Karada had told him how she’d released Mara from Silvanesti bondage. He’d greeted the girl with relief, surprised and pleased to know she hadn’t died as the villagers had thought – on an ill-fated journey to find spirit stones out on the plains. Mara hadn’t returned his good feelings but had regarded him with an odd wariness.
Now the fire’s dying flames illuminated anger in her green eyes.
Karada noticed his frown and glanced over her shoulder to see what caused it. She spoke sharply to the hovering girl. Silently, Mara stole away.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. A girl’s misplaced affection.”
Amero left his sister and caught up with his people outside the nomad camp. The elders chatted idly, still excited by their sudden deliverance.
“The only thing missing,” Amero said, “is Duranix.”
He looked up at the night sky, brightly washed with light by the conjunction of the red and white moons. “I hope he finds what he’s seeking,” he added.
“I hope he kills that green dragon!” Lyopi said.
Amero smiled. “That’s what I meant.”
“I’m not being amusing. If Duranix fails, our battle here means nothing. The green dragon will return and destroy us.”
Amero’s step faltered. What Lyopi said was unbearably true. All their suffering and striving would be for nought if Duranix lost to Sthenn.
They ascended the timber ramp lowered from the wall and reentered the village. Amero bade the elders a good night. He did not accompany Lyopi to her house but walked the streets of Yala-tene for some time, trying to escape the remorseless bonds of her words.
*
Karada’s head ached from too much heat, noise, and raw cider. She should sleep, but an important task remained undone.
&n
bsp; Alone in her dark tent, she removed her heavy riding clothes, sword, and leggings. She washed her hands and face quickly, then donned a clean buckskin shirt and wraparound kilt. Tying the sash in place, she thrust a flint knife behind the knot. When she stepped out again, she found Mara waiting for her.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” she snapped. “If you’re restless, clean my gear for tomorrow!”
“Yes, Karada.”
Walking away, Karada made a silent resolution to do something about the girl. Mara’s excessive devotion had once been amusing. Lately it had become annoying.
Years ago, Karada had found an orphan child wandering the plain and had raised her like a daughter. That orphan was Samtu. Their relationship had been stormy, as Samtu was as strong-willed and fiercely independent as Karada herself. Mara’s slavish worship was another thing entirely.
Thoughts of Mara vanished when she reached her destination. Two nomads guarded the small tent, leaning on their spears. Spotting their chief, they straightened up and hailed her.
“All quiet?” she asked.
“Not a sound’s come out of there,” said the female guard.
“All right. Go elsewhere for a while.”
The guards departed, and she lifted the flap and stepped inside.
“I knew you’d come,” Nacris said. “What took you so long?”
“I had more important things to do.” Karada let the flap fall. There were cutouts in the fabric around the top. The white light of Soli, combined with Lutar’s red glow, gave the tent’s interior a pinkish cast. Karada stood over her crippled captive.
“You must think I’m very dangerous,” said Nacris, lifting the heavy bronze chain coiled around her waist. The other end was attached to a stout wooden stake a pace long, driven into the ground by Pakito. Gesturing at her crippled leg, she added, “You know I can’t run away.”
Sister of the Sword Page 13
