Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  Karada folded her arms and looked away into the dark periphery of the house. Amero gazed at the fire. Lyopi looked from one to the other, then turned her attention to the warmed wine. She filled three cups and handed them out.

  Amero sipped, feeling the gentle heat pervade his limbs. The aching wound in his leg felt better.

  “Nacris is lost,” he said after a long silence. “Like a mad dog, it would be a merciful thing for her to die. Since Nianki took her, she’s Nianki’s to deal with.”

  Lyopi nodded her agreement. Karada said nothing.

  “Zannian’s different,” Amero went on. “I don’t believe he’s completely lost to madness and evil, like Nacris. He’s young, and he is our brother. I believe we can turn him back from the path Sthenn and Nacris put him on.”

  Karada drained her cup dry. “You give speeches like an elf. Speak plainly.”

  “Let Zannian remain in Yala-tene. He may be blind forever. Perhaps I can find Menni somewhere, deep inside him.”

  Karada put her cup down. The clay clinked loudly on the stone hearth.

  “The man who obeyed a green dragon, murdered his own kind, and made an alliance with ogres deserves death,” she said. The flat certainty of her words brought a worried frown to Lyopi’s face. Karada, however, had decided to argue no further, for she added, “But if you wish it, brother, I won’t challenge you. I’ll take Nacris, and you can keep Zannian.”

  The strange bargain was made. Amero felt lightened by the decision. Watching him smile and take mulled wine from Lyopi, Karada felt cold. He thought the danger was past, but as long as Nacris drew breath, Karada sensed the hag’s venom was still working.

  Chapter 16

  The hills west of the valley echoed with the thud of axes on wood. Forty-one captive raiders had been brought to the wooded slopes to harvest trees for the great funeral pyre. The captives were accompanied by five villagers, led by Hekani, who showed the prisoners how to roll logs into the river and haul them upstream by means of long straps.

  Guarding the captives were a dozen nomads, commanded by Bahco. He’d formed a harsh attitude toward the ex-raiders and kept them hard at their task all through the morning.

  Just after midday, the puffs of breeze from the west ceased. It grew glaringly hot, even though the sun was blunted by a whitish haze spreading from horizon to horizon. Work slowed as captives and captors alike wilted in the heat.

  Hekani returned from the pass with the men who’d taken in the last load of logs. He mopped his brow and studied the sullen, lifeless sky.

  “Something’s going to happen,” he said to Bahco, shaking his head. “The air is heavy, but it doesn’t feel like rain.”

  From their vantage point, they could see the beginning of the open plain. It was high summer, and the savanna was hip-deep in grass, a great, rippling sea of green. Even the lightest zephyr would start the grass nodding, but at this moment, not a stem was bent.

  The raiders sensed the strangeness, too. Harak and five others had been lopping branches off felled trees with blunt stone axes. They halted and stood staring at the sky and hills.

  “This isn’t good,” said one raider. “It’s like the Master was here again.

  “Don’t be stupid, Muwa,” Harak replied. “Sthenn’s dead and buried. There’s no need to dig him up to explain the weather.”

  “Then tell us your explanation, wise one!” taunted Muwa.

  “I saw this kind of sky before – nine years ago, up north. An Ember Wind is coming.”

  The captive raiders exchanged looks of disbelief. “That’s only a fable!” Muwa declared.

  “I’m telling you, I went through it once when I was a boy. The wind blew for six days, and ten people in my clan died. It blows hot and dry and brings pestilence sometimes, and other times, madness.” Harak smiled. “Which would you boys prefer?”

  “I prefer a change of scenery!” exclaimed Muwa. “We won’t wait for dark. Who’s with me?”

  A pair of nomads rode up. “Why have you stopped working?” one demanded.

  “They’re afraid of the Ember Wind,” said Harak. He wove his fingers together and cracked all his knuckles with a single flex.

  “Get back to work!”

  Muwa held up his axe threateningly. “I’m a free plainsman, you can’t force me to work like a slave!”

  “Seems I heard those same words from Zannian’s slaves,” said Harak dryly.

  “Shut your mouth!” Muwa bellowed and charged at him, swinging the axe. The nearest nomad tried to interpose his horse between the men, but before he could do so, two raiders jumped from the log at him. In moments, the second rider found himself beset by angry raiders. They grabbed his ankles and dragged him to the ground.

  Harak dodged Muwa’s clumsy attack. The axe hit the elm’s trunk and stuck there. Bracing his hands behind himself on the felled tree, the lanky raider kicked out, his feet finding the center of Muwa’s chest. The man went flying, and Harak tossed the axe away.

  The rebellion spread quickly. All over the hillside, ex-raiders attacked their guards. Isolated and outnumbered, the nomads were overthrown and subdued. Shouting wildly, raiders claimed the nomads’ horses. They galloped away, often two men on one animal, ignoring the pleas of their comrades on foot.

  The last pair of nomads still mounted turned tail and rode back up the pass. Raiders jeered and threw stones after them.

  Harak put two fingers in his teeth and whistled loudly. The raiders’ chatter died.

  “They’re going to fetch Karada,” Harak announced. “Are you going to wait here for her or make good your escape? Don’t think about it too long, friends.”

  Back on his feet, Muwa said, “Let’s go, men! Scatter!” Harak did not move. He kept his place astride the elm tree trunk.

  “Harak! Aren’t you coming?” asked a raider breathlessly.

  “No,” he replied.

  Nearby, a nomad groaned and pushed himself up on his hands. It was Bahco, who’d been knocked senseless and his horse taken.

  “That one’s still breathing,” Muwa said. “Somebody finish him off!”

  Two men moved to carry out Muwa’s suggestion. Harak rolled off the log to intercept them. The nearest raider was unarmed, and Harak easily threw him to the ground. The other man had a lopping axe, which he swung clumsily. Harak spun away, grabbing the axe handle behind its heavy stone head. He thrust out a foot and tripped his opponent. The raider fell and rolled over in time to see the blunt axe head coming straight down at his face. He screamed and clenched his eyes shut.

  The killing blow never landed. When next he opened his eyes, he saw Harak standing over him, grinning. The axe head was embedded in the ground, just brushing his left ear.

  “The others left you,” Harak told him. “Better ran if you want to catch them!”

  Harak laughed as the raider scrambled to his feet and ran.

  The leading edge of the wind reached the woodcutting camp. It was hot, from out of the north, and dry as a lizard’s dream. Harak’s prediction was coming true, and his good humor vanished.

  Nomads and villagers, recovered from their beatings, were rising to their feet. Everyone clustered around Bahco, sheltering in the lee of an oak.

  “Where are Tanik and Harto?” Bahco asked.

  “Two of your men rode off,” Harak said, raising his voice above the wind. “I guess they went for help.”

  Angry the raiders had escaped, some of the nomads began to shove Harak and upbraid him.

  “Leave him,” Bahco said sharply. “This man saved me and maybe all the rest of you.” He told them how Harak had fought off the men coming to kill him, then frightened the rest away by reminding them Karada would be coming to avenge their rebellion.

  “Why’d you stay behind?” Hekani asked.

  “I’ve seen what Karada does to her enemies. I’d rather be her prisoner.”

  Hekani laughed, but the nomads openly sneered. They had more respect for the escaped raiders, who had fought for their freedom, tha
n for this slippery character.

  The hot wind coursed steadily, not gusting like a normal breeze. Sheltered only slightly from the desiccating air, the men grew parched. Though Harak warned them not to venture forth, one by one they slipped down the hill to the river to drink their fill. Fighting back through the Ember Wind, they returned drier than if they’d stayed put.

  Soil once rain-soaked now dried to powder and rose into the air as dust. Coughing, the men huddled together behind the tree, flying grit stinging their exposed flesh.

  After an interminable time, a column of riders came thundering out of the pass. At their head was Karada, face wrapped in doeskin against the vicious wind. Bahco went to greet her. He explained what had happened, and how Harak had fought to save their lives, yet called himself a coward to explain why he didn’t flee with his raider comrades.

  Karada’s eyes narrowed. “Watch him closely. I don’t trust clever men.”

  The horseless nomads and villagers doubled up with Karada’s riders. She gave the order to return to their camp. The horsemen faced about and started back up the pass. Soon, only she and Harak, still on foot, remained. She looked down at him from her tall horse.

  “Why didn’t you escape?”

  “It’s not my time yet to go,” he said. “Aren’t you going to bring them back? They’re flouting your authority.”

  “You mistake me for Zannian. I don’t command, I lead. My band follows me out of loyalty, not fear.” She shrugged, adding, “And if they live through the Ember Wind, perhaps they deserve to be free.”

  “You know the Ember Wind?”

  “There isn’t much on the plains I don’t know.”

  She extended her hand. Harak took hold, and she hauled him up behind her.

  “You’re strong,” he remarked, settling in close. “Don’t forget it,” she said.

  He didn’t. All the way back to the valley, Harak kept his hands carefully at his sides.

  *

  The Ember Wind could not sweep directly through the Valley of the Falls, as the valley ran east-west through the higher range of mountains, but it closed in above the valley, creating a strange and strained atmosphere. The air inside the valley grew still and unnaturally humid. Overhead, clouds tore by at a reckless rate, glowing yellow by day and deep orange at sunrise and sunset. The sky appeared to be on fire, which is why the name Ember Wind had arisen.

  Much wood had been gathered for the funeral pyre, though not enough for the grand mountain of flame Karada had envisaged. Logs and brush were laid in courses around the mound where Sthenn lay buried. The dead slain in battle were brought out by the remaining captive raiders. Wrapped in hides or shrouds of birch bark, the bodies were put on each course of kindling. No distinction was made between raider, nomad, or villager. Some of the Yala-tene elders objected to this, but Karada silenced them, saying, “Anyone who died fighting is a warrior. Causes mean nothing to corpses – they’re all in the land of the dead now.”

  Two days after the Ember Wind’s arrival, the pyre was nearly complete and a method to ignite it needed to be found. There wasn’t any oil left in Yala-tene to soak the timbers, and the freshly cut wood wouldn’t be easy to light, especially in the unnaturally humid air. While the preparations continued, the elders sought out Amero. They found him on the village wall with Lyopi, Balif, and several elves. Lyopi suggested Duranix, and Amero agreed to ask the dragon.

  The Arkuden walked to the top of the ramp leading down into the village. Lyopi, the elders, and the elves stayed back, watching him. Amero folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  Duranix. Duranix, can you hear me? He repeated his call three times before the dragon answered.

  I can always hear you, was the testy reply.

  We need your help. We need to burn the bodies of those who died in the battle, only we don’t have the means to make so great afire. Would you help?

  I will if you’ll stop pestering me.

  Amero backed up a step, taken aback by the dragon’s harsh tone. He thought, It will mean a lot to everyone. We must do this, or face plague and wandering spirits.

  Very well.

  “He’s coming,” Amero said quietly.

  A long interval passed, so long that Amero felt his face redden.

  Finally the thundering falls burst apart as the powerful bronze body punched through to open air. Duranix spread his great wings. The elders let out a concerted gasp. Though they had known Duranix a long time, he’d not been seen much recently. Duranix had grown enormously during his time away as a result of being infused with wild spirit power by Tiphan, the ill-fated leader of the Sensarku. The bronze dragon had been poisoned by Sthenn, his limbs rotting away, when the misguided young villager released the power he barely understood to heal Duranix. Heal him it did – and accelerated his growth by almost a hundred years.

  The villagers were filled with awe, but the Silvanesti were no less impressed, though they tried harder to conceal their amazement. Duranix flew toward them, swelling rapidly in size. Repair work in the streets of Yala-tene came to a halt as the shadow of the dragon fell across the town. Nomads and ex-raiders placing the last bodies on the timber terraces of the funeral pyre paused and looked up when the great beast hove into view. As the dragon drew closer, they could see that the injuries he’d sustained in his battle with Sthenn were healing well, and his left eye was no longer swollen shut.

  The remaining raiders were stricken with fear. Some of them fell to the ground, terrified Duranix might be as capricious and vindictive as their former master. They had often seen their master in his hideous disguise as Greengall or in his natural, decrepit form. But no face the ancient green dragon ever presented could match the power and majesty of Duranix in his prime.

  Duranix paid no heed to any of them. He landed on the pile of masonry rubble left by his collision with the town wall. The funeral pyre was complete, and Duranix ordered everyone back.

  He opened his wings and vaulted into the air. It was late afternoon, and the weird orange sky glow reflected red and gold from his bronze hide as he climbed almost vertically. Golden fire trailed from the tips of his wings and his homed head, making a shimmering path many paces long in his wake. People below exclaimed in wonder, and even the elves could not hide their astonishment.

  “Is he always so flamboyant?” asked Balif, coming up to Amero’s side.

  “No,” Amero said, gawking along with everyone else. “He usually draws lightning from the clouds. I don’t know where this new yellow flame comes from.”

  The dragon reached the underbelly of the scurrying clouds and hovered. Silent orange fire rippled up and down his wings, flying off the tips in streams of bright fiery balls. Abruptly Duranix tipped to one side and plunged down, his jaw dropped open, and golden fire burst forth.

  The mound trembled, then erupted into flame. Duranix held his mouth agape for some time, playing a stream of fire to and fro across the heap of logs and kindling. When he finally snapped his jaws shut, the pyre was blazing from end to end.

  No one cheered, wept, or made any sound at all. A thousand pairs of eyes – villager, nomad, raider, and elf – stared at the mountain of fire billowing up from the flat valley floor. Even after Duranix landed on the west side of the pyre, brilliant orange lightning continued to flicker down from the Ember Wind clouds, striking the funeral pyre time and again.

  Against the low roar of the flames, a lone voice could be heard singing.

  Come walk with me, lonely one

  In summer sun or winter rain,

  From mountains high to rivers low,

  Across the open, endless plain.

  Amero strode to the edge of the parapet and tried to spot who was singing the tune his mother had used to soothe him to sleep as a child. Ringed around the pyre were hundreds of people, mostly from Karada’s band. He hurried down the ramp. Lyopi called after him, “Where are you going?”

  He clambered down the broken wall, slipping and teetering over slabs of shattered stone. The voice was
still singing, but the words were indistinct this close to the crackling, popping bonfire. Amero pushed among the nomads. He spotted Karada some distance away, seated on her tall, wheat-colored horse. They exchanged a look, then his sister quickly glanced away.

  More voices joined in the song. All were former raiders. Hearing the slow, soothing melody issuing from the throats of the hardened men moved him deeply, and he wondered how they could know his mother’s song.

  Amero broke through a line of nomads still gazing at the fire and reached Karada. On the ground at her horse’s feet was Zannian, his head still swathed in bandages.

  His was the clear, strong voice leading the singing of “The Endless Plain.”

  A sharp pang touched Amero’s heart. He knelt beside Zannian. His nearness caused the sightless man to flinch and stop. The song went on among his former followers.

  “Who is it?” said Zannian hoarsely.

  “Amero.”

  “Ah, with Karada, then we are all together.” Using her horse’s leg as a guide, Zannian got to his feet. “Strange custom you have, burning the dead.”

  “Necessity taught it to us. Graves are hard to dig in the mountains, and when there are so many to bury, fire is an honorable solution.”

  “What do nomads do with their dead?” Zannian asked, raising his voice and face to Karada.

  “Bury them,” she said tersely. “The plains are wide, and all can sleep within.”

  Amero looked from her to their newly found brother. “We must talk. The three of us.”

  Karada was silent for a long moment, then said, “Let us go to my tent.” She guided her horse away, back to camp. Amero took his brother’s arm and followed.

  Though it seemed every person in the valley was at the pyre, at least one was not. When Karada entered her tent, she found Mara waiting by the campfire.

  “I am making food, Karada,” the girl said.

  A silent nod. “Go now. I want to be alone.”

  Mara slunk out. She’d just entered the shadows when she saw the Arkuden arrive. He was leading an injured man in raider’s clothes. They went into Karada’s tent without calling for permission.