“My yevi hunted you,” Sthenn said. “D’ranix saved you. Girl saved herself. I saved the other.”
“What ‘other?’” Amero whispered.
“Boy. Smallest one.”
Karada clamped her hand on Amero’s arm. She pulled him strongly. “Come away!” she said with unusual anxiety. “Don’t listen to that monster. You heard Duranix – it lies!”
Sthenn’s voice rasped on, feeble, weak, yet unstoppable. “I spared him. Never seen a human close up. I kept him. My pet.”
Amero resisted his sister’s urging. “Go on,” he said to Sthenn.
“Raised him... gave him a mother.” Wet, rattling sounds emanated from deep within the green dragon’s chest. Sthenn, dying by moments, was laughing. “Loving mother Nacris.”
Furious, Amero shouted, “What do you mean? What happened to Menni?”
“It’s Zannian. Zannian is our brother,” Karada said, and nodded when Amero’s face reflected his disbelief. “It’s true. Nacris hinted as much, but I didn’t believe her. I have her prisoner, back in camp.”
Sthenn’s leathery eyelids fluttered. “Black-hearted woman. Never thought she’d outlive me.”
“She won’t by much,” Karada vowed.
Amero yanked the sword from his scabbard. It was ruined as a weapon – deeply notched, cracked through to the fuller – but he ran forward and stabbed it deep into Sthenn’s neck.
“Why!?” Amero stormed. “Why do that to Menni, and why tell us about it now?”
Sthenn laughed until more feculent fluids rose in his throat and choked him. Amero drew back, afraid to let the poisonous slime touch him.
“To see the look on your face,” Sthenn said when he could speak again. “To smell your heated blood go cold. To... to bring you pain on the day of your triumph —”
The ravaged head lolled to one side.
“What about Beramun?” Amero said quickly. “Release whatever hold you have on her!”
Sthenn could not or would not say more. His left eye, half-shut, took on a dull and lifeless stare.
Karada took hold of Amero’s arm, and he let her lead him away. As they passed Duranix, Amero said, “I’ll come back in the morning. Shall I bring food?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll find you when this is done.”
Brother and sister walked away. Karada pondered Amero’s last words to Sthenn, wondering what hold the green dragon had on Beramun and what hold Beramun had on her brother. The two reached their waiting friends before she could ask him anything, and she remained silent.
Amero led them all back to Yala-tene. On the way they were joined by Karada’s comrades, Pakito, Samtu, and Bahco. Beneath the crumbling north baffle, Amero halted next to the unconscious young man lying on the ground, his head swathed in bandages. His fearsome skull-mask and weapons stripped away, Zannian now looked no different than scores of others in the valley, wounded or dying.
Should the blame be put on Zannian or on Nacris? Amero wondered. Or was Sthenn the instigator of all this misery?
The Arkuden shook his head, banishing those thoughts for now. To those around him, he said, “This is Zannian. He is my brother, mine and my sister Nianki’s.”
Chapter 14
The days that followed were hard. Peace was restored, but it was a peace of exhaustion and pain. Much of the valley was wrecked or ruined, and many people were dead or severely injured.
Duranix stayed in the west end of the valley, keeping his somber vigil. Though he’d told Amero not to bother, the headman of Yala-tene sent several oxen to his great friend, who had to be famished after his long journey.
The raider band was utterly destroyed. When Zannian was finally taken, most of his remaining men rode out of the valley, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the vengeance they imagined awaited them now that the bronze dragon was back. A few others lingered in the mountains, curious to see how matters were resolved. Karada sent patrols to flush them out of the passes. Once they had been dealt with, all that remained were the raiders who had surrendered and those, like Zannian, who were sorely hurt.
Amero adamantly refused his sister’s suggestion that all captured raiders be put to death. He was heartily sick of bloodshed and wanted no more of it in the Valley of the Falls. Instead, he put the healthiest of the former raiders to work repairing the damage they’d done. Able-bodied men were set filling in the pits and ditches, rebuilding houses in the village, and restoring the despoiled orchards.
On a bright, sultry afternoon, four days after the dragons returned and ended the battle, a crew of ex-raiders filling the huge crater where the dragons had fallen found the answer to a great puzzle.
Word of their strange find spread quickly, and Amero, Karada, Balif, and Beramun hurried to the yawning pit. Karada was once more astride her favorite wheat-colored horse.
The pit was more than thirty paces wide and at least eight deep. A gang of ex-raiders, stripped to the waist in the heat, were standing around the crater rim, gazing down in the hole. Beramun recognized one tall fellow with dark brown hair who leaned on his shovel at the edge of the pit. It was Harak, to whom she had given her leggings.
Near the bottom of the pit a gray, oblong object lay embedded in the black mud. It looked like a block of limestone, but Harak, who’d made the discovery, said the so-called stone was in fact the top of Ungrah-de’s head. The combined weight of two dragons had driven him into the ground like a tent peg. Six other ogres had been found crushed in the pit, but their chief wasn’t discovered until the level of rainwater filling the hole had lowered.
Though the rest were content to take Harak’s word that this was in fact Ungrah-de, Karada wanted proof. She unbuckled her sword and handed it to Balif.
“Is this a formal surrender?” asked the elf.
Amero chuckled, but his sister did not. She descended into the pit. Her feet sank into the soft sides of the crater, and by the time she reached the bottom, she was muddy to her knees. Unperturbed, Karada bent down and probed the mud around Ungrah’s head.
She found the proof she sought in the form of a great stone axe. It was buried alongside the ogre, and it took her some time to work it free. Wiping away the thick mud that coated it, the head was revealed to be a massive chunk of grayish agate shot through with veins of lapis lazuli.
“It’s Ungrah’s all right.” Karada grunted, holding up the weighty weapon. “Send some men down to dig him out.”
“Why bother?” Harak asked, shrugging. “Why not just fill in the hole?”
Karada glared at the raider. “He was a mighty warrior. He deserves a warrior’s pyre.”
Harak’s wasn’t the only skeptical expression. Amero seemed about to comment, but the sight of his sister’s tired, drawn face halted him.
She climbed out, dragging the axe with her. When no one moved to carry out her wishes, she glowered at the idle prisoners.
“Well, dig him out!” she barked. Jerking her head at Harak and another fellow, she added, “You two – go! Bring his body out.”
With an impertinent shrug, Harak picked up his shovel and started down after the other fellow.
Karada sighed deeply, and Amero said, “You’re worn out. Why don’t you go to the lake and wash up?”
She nodded wordlessly. She asked Beramun to take her sword to her tent and to have someone carry the heavy, dirty axe there as well. Then, mounting her horse, she left.
Despite Karada’s instructions to get help, Beramun decided to carry Ungrah’s axe back herself. She had dragged it only a few paces, however, before Amero picked up the blade end, knees buckling from the weight, and helped her carry it.
Balif stayed at the crater to examine the dead ogres. He’d never encountered the creatures before, and he was eager to study their weapons and physique.
Amero and Beramun walked parallel, carrying Ungrah’s massive weapon between them. Normally hip-deep in grass and flowers by this time of year, the valley floor had been trampled flat by masses of horses
and men. The customary smell of growing things was overpowered by the sweet-sour aroma of decay and death. Ahead, hundreds of round tents covered the center of the valley, sides tied up to admit cooling air. Though the nomads’ camp had been flattened by Sthenn during Es battle with Duranix, the hide tents were easy to repair and re-pitch.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Beramun said, sweat dripping from her brow. Though shared, their burden was considerable. “How long has it been?”
“From the day you arrived in the valley to today,” Amero replied, “four turnings of the white moon – one hundred twelve days.” Shaking his head, he added, “Such a waste! Think of all the lives cut short! All the crops not planted, animals not tended, lost days of work in the foundry – and for what?”
“So we could live free,” she said, a little surprised. “Wasn’t that why you were fighting?”
“Sometimes I forget. By the end, we were fighting just to stay alive.”
When they reached the outer tents in the nomad camp, their strange cargo attracted a limping, bandaged crowd. Injured nomads had remained in camp while others went to search for their children and old folks, hiding out in the eastern foothills. Others had been sent by Karada to scour the highlands south and east for the children of Yala-tene who had been sent out through the secret tunnel when it looked like the village would fall to Zannian.
Beramun and Amero located Karada’s tent. They edged through the entry flaps and hauled the monstrous weapon into the dark enclosure.
After they deposited the axe by the wall near the entrance, Beramun went into the shadowed depths of the tent to find water so they could wash up. Not only was Ungrah’s weapon muddy from being buried, it was smeared with gore from the furious battle.
Amero waited by the entrance. It appeared the large tent served as a storehouse as well as his sister’s dwelling. He couldn’t see very far inside, and he didn’t want to stumble around the dark interior, tripping over casks, sacks, and fragile amphorae.
Ghost-like, Beramun appeared before him. She held an obviously weighty leather bucket in front of her.
“Hold out your hands.”
He did so, and she doused them. When his hands were clean, they switched places so she could wash her own.
While she scrubbed and sluiced away the mud, Amero spoke, his voice low and serious. “Beramun, I want to tell you something.” She looked up quickly, eyes wide and worried. He shook his head, adding, “It’s not what you think. A lot’s happened since you left Yala-tene. I’ve learned many things since then. Important things. I learned... I belong with Lyopi.”
Beramun’s smile was like the sun flashing through dark clouds. Her hand gripped his. “That’s good,” she said gently. “I’m glad you found out. I knew it all along.”
When they were back outside, Amero asked, “Will you stay with us in the valley or join Karada’s band? I know she’ll take you in if you ask.”
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m a wanderer. Other places call to me. I could never be happy seeing the same land, the same faces, for the rest of my life.”
Amero recalled how he’d once bemoaned that very fact of his own life in Yala-tene. Having nearly lost it all had made him realize just how precious those same faces and this place were to him.
“As for joining Karada.. Beramun said, her voice trailing off.
Amero saw her hand had come up to touch a spot high on her chest. “Beramun,” he said, gently pulling her hand away, “you saved us all by finding my sister. Whatever Duranix may think, you’re no tool of Sthenn.”
He took his leave of her. The walk back to Yala-tene was pleasant, despite the heat. Though his heart had gone in a different direction for good, Amero was filled with admiration for Beramun. He was sure of one thing: whoever her future mate might be, he would be a very lucky man.
*
From the shore of the lake, Karada could see sunlight gleaming off the bronze head and arching back of Duranix, a league away. He was still keeping his death watch over the green dragon. She approved of what he was doing and understood it well. When she entered the valley, she had ordered the extermination of the Jade Men, thinking they had murdered her brother. It was the duty of blood kin to avenge wrongs against family, no matter how long it took. It was a law of nature, as irreversible as night being dark and day being bright.
Wading out to her knees in the cold water, she stripped off her muddy outer clothes and rinsed them in the lake. She filled her cupped hands and dashed clear water on her face. The lake hadn’t lost its hard, mineral tang. Licking droplets from her lips, she remembered the first time she’d tasted it, all those years ago.
Thoughts of the past reminded her of Nacris. The madwoman was still chained, and by Karada’s order no one had told her what had happened. Karada was still trying to figure out what to do with Zannian, and his fate was linked to that of his demented “mother.”
“What about me?”
Karada looked up from her reflection in the shallow water. Balif stood on the pebbled shore, a pace or two away.
“What about you, elf?”
He sat, stretching his legs in front of him. “Do you still mean to ransom me to my sovereign?”
“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, we did fight for your cause,” he said, leaning back on his hands.
“You asked to fight.”
“So I did. I was thinking I might have earned my freedom in the bargain.”
Karada rose and wrung out her sodden buckskins. She sloshed ashore and sat down on the rocky beach to let the hot sun warm her. It felt good on her face.
“You’re right,” she said at last.
Balif seemed genuinely surprised. “I am?”
“Yes. You can leave the Valley of the Falls when I do. I’ll escort your people to the Thon-Tanjan, to make sure you leave the plains. Just don’t come back to my land ever again.”
She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun again. Tiny waves, stirred by a soft western breeze, lapped the black and tan stones of the shore.
Balif watched the rippling water. He had captured Karada once and freed her. He’d done it to demonstrate his superiority over his human antagonist, to show her elves understood mercy. Karada had been furious the day he set her free. She had thought Balif was mocking her. In fact, he had been discounting her. Bereft of her followers, he’d thought she would be finished.
How far he had come from the cool halls and gleaming crystal spires of Silvanost. No pampered child of capital and court, he’d been born under the trees, within sight of the Thon-Thalas. He’d been part of a band of hunters called the Oak Tree Alliance for his first hundred years. By the time of the Sinthal-Elish – the great council at which Silvanos Goldeneye was chosen to rule the elven nation – he was leader of the Oak Tree elves. Balif’s followers wanted the throne for Balif, and they had the power to make it happen. He wondered what these barbarians – these people – would think if they knew he might have been Speaker of the Stars.
In those days he had two thousand forest elves at his back, and the chief of a powerful society of priests, the Brown Hoods, came to him, saying he would also back
Balif as Speaker. That was a fateful meeting. The Brown Hood’s chief was Vedvedsica.
It wasn’t lack of support that kept Balif from accepting the crown. He knew, deep within, he was not hard or ruthless enough to rule others. Lead them, yes, if they lodged their confidence in him. But rule? No.
To confirm his belief, he asked Vedvedsica to send his spirit to a future time. He wanted to see what would become of the nation if he agreed to be Speaker. For seven days Balif sat in the depths of a cave, breathing the fumes of smoldering herbs. The Brown Hoods used their power to send his spirit out of his body. He was shown what the future would be if he ruled and what would come to pass if Silvanos wore the crown. When the vision ended, he remained in the cave a full day, trying to come to grips with what he’d seen. The choice was plain, of course; reco
nciling himself to his own future, though, had been difficult. At the Sinthal-Elish, Balif threw his support to Silvanos. He never told anyone, not even Vedvedsica, what he’d seen in the shadows of things to come.
Karada’s sunbath had turned into a nap. She snored loudly beside him.
Savage, he thought not unkindly. Of all the people in the world, Karada would probably understand his decision. She knew what it was like to lead and to live with a curse. One day his destiny would overtake him and transform him into... something else.
Balif shook himself slightly, pulling his mind back to the present. “Wake up,” he said, nudging the nomad chief. “You’ll blister, lying in the sun like that.”
Karada draped an arm across her closed eyes. “Why does an enemy care whether I burn?”
“We are not ordinary foes, you and I. I’m not certain what we are....”
Not wanting this line of conversation to continue, Karada rolled suddenly to her feet.
“I don’t have time to waste idling here,” she said, snagging her horse’s dangling reins. “Don’t you have tasks that need doing?”
“I do,” said Balif, squinting into the afternoon sun. “I am curious about one thing: What’s to become of Zannian?”
“He’ll be dealt with. He at least is still a true enemy.”
*
Late that night, unable to sleep, Amero wandered out of Yala-tene. He went up the shoreline toward the falls, pausing to inspect the ruins of his foundry. So many days he’d labored here, seeking the secret of bronze. They had been good days, and he wondered if he would ever know their like again.
As he kicked around the broken and blackened stones, the rhythmic thump of wings sounded overhead. He turned toward the noise and saw the dark shape of Duranix alight on the shore. The dragon bent his long neck to the water and drank deeply. Amero ran down the hill, calling to him.
“Duranix! Old friend, how are you?”
The dragon raised his head, and Amero skidded to a stop. One draconian eye regarded him solemnly; the other had been battered shut in his battle with Sthenn.
Sister of the Sword Page 18
