by Paul Cook
People waved to Nianki as she cantered past, but no one displayed much curiosity about Beramun.
Nianki rode up to a large tent near the main firepit. Throwing a leg over her horse’s neck, she dropped to the ground. Beramun, less practiced, managed a barely controlled fall.
“Stay by me,” Nianki said tersely. Beramun followed like her shadow.
The tent was all one spacious room, with a high, pointed roof supported by a tripod of lashed poles. A simple stone hearth filled the center of the room, and the rest of the tent was dotted with baskets and pottery jugs, grass mats and fur blankets. When Nianki entered, someone at the back of the tent stood. Beramun’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she saw a girl about her own age — Nianki’s daughter, perhaps.
“Welcome home,” said the girl. She hurried over, bearing a tall, painted pot and cup. She poured pale yellow liquid into the cup and offered it respectfully to Nianki. From where she stood, Beramun smelled wine, though she’d never seen any that wasn’t red.
“Mara, this is Beramun. Make her comfortable until I return.” Nianki drained the cup and tossed it back to the girl. To Beramun, she said, “Wait here until I come back for you. If I find you outside, I’ll take you for a spy and deal with you accordingly.” She left.
Taking the initiative, Beramun introduced herself.
“I’m Mara,” the girl replied. She had curly red hair and a round, freckled face. “Would you like some nectar?”
“Water would be better.”
Mara scurried away to fetch it. Returning with a cup of water, she held it out to Beramun, eyes downcast. Her deference made Beramun uncomfortable.
Mara asked, “Have you known her long?”
“Nianki? We just met today.” She described her encounter with the centaurs.
“Ponaz dead? There’ll be rejoicing in camp when that news spreads!”
Beramun sat on a pile of furs. There was something about Mara, her manner or way of speaking, that seemed odd and out of place here. Nervous and thin, she resembled Nianki not at all. If not a daughter, was she a captive? Her bearing was unhappily similar to the raiders’ slaves.
“Are you a prisoner?” Beramun said abruptly.
Mara looked startled. “No! I’m very happy to be under my lady’s protection.”
My lady? Beramun had never heard such a term before. “Where are you from? You’re not one of these nomads.”
Mara edged away. “I am one now.”
“Have you been with them long? I need to know what kind of people these are. I’m on a mission, you see, from Yala-tene — ”
Mara’s green eyes widened. She dropped the water urn. The thick clay broke, spilling water on the grass floor mats. “Yala-tene!”
“You know it?”
“I was born there!”
Though hesitant at first, Mara told her story at Beramun’s urging.
Her father was an ox herder in Yala-tene, and she’d been an acolyte of the Sensarku. She’d gone on a journey over the mountains with another acolyte, a centaur, and the Sensarku leader, Tiphan, Konza’s son.
“Tiphan?” Beramun said. “I met him.”
“The wretch!” Mara’s unassuming manner vanished as anger brought a flush to her pale cheeks. “The cowardly dog! He abandoned Elu and me to the Silvanesti!”
“Don’t worry. He didn’t prosper after he left you.” Beramun told her of Tiphan’s death and the fate of rest of the Sensarku. If she thought the news would comfort Mara, she was wrong.
Mara wept. She poured out her grief to Beramun — grief for her friends and fellow acolytes slain, and despite herself, sorrow for Tiphan, too. Though arrogant and selfish, he had been her leader for many years and losing him was losing a large part of her past.
Beramun patted her back consolingly. “Whatever else he may have done, he died bravely, trying to destroy the green dragon,” she said.
Mara lifted her tear-streaked face. “Green dragon?”
Now it was Beramun’s turn to talk. She spared Mara nothing, beginning with the night she’d been captured by the raiders, through her escape from Almurk, to her final mission to find help for Amero’s people.
“If only these nomads would ride to the valley and settle Zannian for good!”
Mara brushed her tears away and composed herself. “They will go,” she said. “She is his sister, after all.”
“What? Who’s sister?”
“The Arkuden’s. Karada, born Nianki, daughter of Oto and Kinar, is the Arkuden’s sister.”
Beramun jumped to her feet. Nianki was Karada? She dashed to the tent flap and threw it open. There was Nianki — Karada — sitting on a stone, just outside.
Karada looked at her. “Where are you going?”
“To find you!” Beramun replied.
“Didn’t I tell you not to leave the tent?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you were Karada.”
The famed nomad warrior stood and ducked under the flap. Beramun backed inside, more intimidated than ever.
“She’s telling the truth, isn’t she?” Karada said.
“I believe her,” Mara replied, and bent to pick up the pieces of the broken water jug.
“So do I.” Karada crossed the tent to the hearth.
Unable to bear the suspense, Beramun demanded, “Well? Are you going to help us? Will you ride to Yala-tene?”
Karada gazed at the smoldering embers in the firepit. “No,” she said.
Beramun was stunned. “How can you say that? Amero is your brother!”
Like a viper striking, Karada turned and thrust a finger into Beramun’s face. “I know who he is,” she said coldly. “His troubles are his own, just as mine are my own. I never asked Amero for help against the Silvanesti. Why should he want me to save him from this Zannian?”
Beramun stood her ground, though she was shaking inside. “Because everything he’s ever done will be lost if Zannian wins — the village, the valley, all the people of Yala-tene. How can you let that happen?”
“He must rely on his own strength and not try to borrow mine.” Karada sat down on the warm hearthstones. Once she’d finished clearing away the broken jug, Mara came and sat at Karada’s feet.
“Mara didn’t tell you her whole story,” she said. Karada brushed her hand over the girl’s thick auburn hair. “After her leader abandoned her, Mara was captured by the Silvanesti.
They took her to Thalasbec, a town on the northern border of their forest. She was given to an elf warrior named Tamanithas, to work in his household as a slave. The Silvanesti were not cruel to her — at least, not in the way your Zannian is to his captives, but they broke her will until she was utterly compliant. She would be there still if I hadn’t raided Thalasbec in early summer.”
“You freed her?”
Karada shrugged. “Tamanithas is an old enemy. My warriors sacked the town, and I myself put the torch to his great house. As the flames took hold, Mara ran out, knife in hand, and attacked me.”
Beramun was surprised by this, and Karada explained. “So deeply had the elves taken hold of her. mind, she thought of herself only as their property and not as a free person. I might have slain her out of hand, but as I had torches in both fists, all I could do was knock her down. After setting the fire, I brought her back here. So far, all she’s done is transfer her slavish allegiance from Tamanithas to me. One day I’ll find a way to awaken her pride again.”
Beramun was touched by the tale, which in some ways paralleled her own, but she didn’t see what it had to do with saving Yala-tene. She said so.
“Raiders are nothing,” Karada told her. “There will always be violent, ambitious men willing to take from others by force. I have built my band up from nothing to take on the Silvanesti and end their tyranny.
“Five years ago I almost died fighting them. I led fourteen survivors — fourteen! — out of a fiery trap into the deepest wilderness I could find. Now we are seven hundred strong, enough to make life hard for any elves who try to
take the northern plain from us. I intend to free humans like Mara who’ve been enslaved, their hearts and minds stolen by the elves’ subtle power. That’s why I can’t ride to Yala-tene, Beramun. A greater task awaits me here.”
Beramun sagged to the floor, crushed. She’d come so far, fought so hard, left Udi to die, had nearly been killed herself by centaurs, and it had all been for nothing.
“Stay as long as you like,” Karada said, rising to go. “The freedom of the camp is yours.”
Beramun shook her head wearily. “I must go back. People are counting on me. I want them to know I did my task.”
“I understand. You’re a strong girl. You’d do well in my band. If you live, come back and join us.”
“I don’t expect to live,” Beramun said flatly.
Chapter 25
Hoten emerged from the river. Nacris had an obsession about cleanliness and required him to bathe every few days. She herself bathed in a private pool dug behind Zannian’s great tent.
Hoten put on his leggings, kilt, and shirt. It was a hot evening, and he’d be dry soon enough. He saw more rafts, laden with wood for tonight’s fires, coming over from the west bank. The slaves were already erecting several large piles in the center of the camp. By the look of things, it was going to be another lively night.
The revels were Nacris’s idea. The bored raiders needed something to keep their morale up as they waited for the villagers to starve and weaken. Zannian had gone on a long ride, hunting the black-haired girl. In his absence, Nacris had begun the nightly feasts. The well-being of the band wasn’t her only motive. As she explained it, the defenders of Arku-peli would be greatly disheartened if they saw the abundance being enjoyed outside their walls.
There was a stir in camp as a column of riders arrived. Hoten hurried up the hill to see what was what. He soon heard Zannian’s name on everyone’s lips. Their chief had returned and was in a foul mood.
Six days he’d tracked back and forth across the eastern plain, and never once had he picked up Beramun’s trail. Hot, tired, and angry, he’d returned to camp and found preparations for a feast underway. Flattered at first, thinking Nacris had anticipated his return, his mood quickly turned black when he discovered the celebrations had been going on for days.
Hoten entered the tent in time to hear Zan dressing down his mother.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I gave no permission for festivities! You don’t lead this band. I do!”
“It was for the good of all,” she replied, unmoved by his temper. “The men need diversion.” She went on to describe her vision of the revels as a taunt to the besieged villagers.
Turning to Hoten, Zannian demanded, “Do you support this?”
“I didn’t at first, but the men’s spirits have definitely improved since we started.”
Zannian grudgingly gave permission for the carousing to continue. He washed his face and hands in the river and returned, only to be confronted with Nacris’s questions about his hunting expedition.
“So, you didn’t find the girl?” she said.
“No,” he answered sullenly. “There’s probably nothing to find but bones by now anyway. If heat and thirst didn’t finish her, a panther likely did.”
“I hope not. She was a brave girl. In another time, she would have made a fine member of the band.”
Zannian made a dismissive gesture. “Women can’t fight as well as men.”
“If I had two legs, I’d show you the folly of that statement,” retorted his mother.
The feast got underway. The great fires were laid, and whole oxen were carried in on willow frames to roast in the flames. Hulami’s captured wine had long since been drunk up, but the raiders had been making their own brew using the spoils of the orchard and gardens. Pulped apples and pears made a potent cider.
At sunset the meat was ready. Gorged on beef and cider, the raiders were in an expansive mood. They sang old trail songs until their repertoire gave out. In the silence, Nacris asked Zannian to lead them in a new song. He waved the request aside, but so many raiders roared for him, he relented.
Red-faced with drink, he said, “How about ‘The Endless Plain?’”
This was a slow, sad song, but the men cheered. Their chiefs singing voice was appreciated by all. Zannian began. He had a boy’s voice still, high and clear, and after a verse, the rest of the raiders joined in.
Not far away, Amero held up his hand to halt the village raiding party. Those on foot dropped to one knee, and the four impersonating raiders reined in their mounts.
“What is it, Arkuden?” someone hissed.
“Listen!”
“Come walk with me, lonely one
In summer sun or winter rain,
From mountains high to rivers low,
Across the open, endless plain.”
“I know that song,” Amero said.
Lyopi whispered, “I’ve never heard it before, but it sounds like they all know it.”
Amero was shaking his head slowly. “Not the words, the tune — but it can’t be! It comes from a song my mother sang to me. And she made it up! How could — ?”
“What’s wrong?” hissed the people farther behind. “Why are we waiting?”
Amero forced himself to shake off the strange feeling. Perhaps some passing nomad had heard his mother singing the song long ago.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The animal pen was between the great tent and the river. Lyopi and the other three mounted villagers split off, riding casually through the darkened edge of the raiders’ camp. Amero led those on foot around the right side of the camp, where a long-ago rock fall created a stony barrier to their progress. Carefully, the villagers climbed over the mound of loose rocks. On the other side, bathed in firelight, was the corral full of sleek, well-fed beasts.
Amero sent four of his people to the corral fence. It was hastily built of split tree trunks and stacked stones, with a few vines to tie it all together. The villagers weakened a wide stretch of wall, leaving only a few trimmed branches in place, then they crept back to the rockpile.
“Bring the oil,” he whispered. Pots of burlnut oil were passed forward. Amero took one amphora on his shoulder and slipped down the mound behind the large tent. He poured the brown aromatic oil on the hide wall. It oozed down, soaking into the sandy soil. More jugs were passed to him, and he spread oil all along the side of the tent.
A raider kicked through a flap and stepped unsteadily out. Amero froze in place. The drunken raider answered nature’s call and was about to go back in when he noticed the smell of burlnuts.
“Who’s cookin’?” he muttered. He slipped on the oily sand and fell against the tent. When his comrades came over to pick him up, the more sober ones smelled the oil too. While searching for the source, one of them spotted Amero and raised a cry.
“Now!” Amero yelled, jumping to his feet. “Do it now!”
The villagers had brought hot embers in clay bowls. At Amero’s command, they hurled these at the oil-soaked tent. The embers hit the hide wall in a shower of red sparks. An eyeblink later, the tent erupted in flames.
Raiders groped for their weapons and stumbled to their horses. In the midst of this drunken panic, Amero’s disguised riders galloped through the camp, waving spears and shouting contradictory orders. Lyopi yelled that the bronze dragon was back, breathing fire. Thinking the entire band was about to be incinerated, a sizable number of raiders bolted into the river to escape. Another group of raiders decided the fire was the work of their own slaves and descended upon the poor, sleeping captives. Beaten awake, they were forced to form a human chain from the blazing tent to the lake. Anything that could hold water was carried to the river, filled, then delivered to the flames.
Their mission of confusion done, Lyopi and her companions rode to the corral. Horses, oxen, and goats were jostling each other, lowing nervously.
The four mounted villagers entered the corral, shouting and w
aving their hands, driving the fearful animals against the fence. It gave way, and the beasts stampeded through the narrow path between the blazing tent and the stony hill. Amero and the villagers on foot ran after the fleeing stock, driving them toward the distant walls of Yala-tene.
The first few oxen had just climbed onto the ramp into the village when the raiders struck. Raggedly they swept forward. A few tried to turn the herd, but the terrified oxen blundered on, trampling anyone in their way Some of the villagers were trapped between the stampeding animals and Zannian’s outraged warriors. Many perished, but the herd kept going.
Amero’s thigh wound opened while he was running. He hobbled on until his leg failed completely, then went down hard. Fortunately the oxen were in front of him, so he was spared being trampled.
“Amero! Watch out!”
He looked up at the warning and saw an armed raider on a huge gray horse thundering toward him. The raider’s spear was aimed directly at Amero’s chest.
How many days had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? How many leagues? Duranix no longer knew.
After escaping the collapsed cavern, he’d tracked Sthenn across this vast, unknown continent, over plains and forest, lakes and desert. Though all he found were teasing traces of the evil creature — burned meadows, poisoned forests, slaughtered beasts — it was enough to keep him on the hunt. After six days of constant flight, Duranix came once more to the ocean.
It wasn’t until he climbed high to search the distant horizon that he saw the pattern in Sthenn’s destruction. All the burned and wasted land formed a marker when seen from above. Broader at its base and narrowing to a point, the blackened, poisoned areas formed a spearhead pointing due west. The spear’s tip was a blasted promontory overlooking the sea.
The meaning was unmistakable. Sthenn had gone west, and dared Duranix to follow.
How wide was the world? Duranix, who considered himself an intelligent and wide-ranging dragon, had no idea. Was there an end to the world, a place beyond which Sthenn could not flee? He wanted to think so. Otherwise the chase might go on and on, until both dragons were used up, worn out, and lost.
