His stomach roiled. Tsoong threatened to climb back up his throat, but he held it down with a trick he’d learned in Zannian’s band – he rolled his tongue backward, blocking his throat. The intoxicating effects of the brew hit him and lightened his head. A fiery aura enveloped him, the first warmth he’d felt since coming to the high mountains. His nausea faded.
A powerful hand spun him around. The camp whirled about his head. The blurry visage of Ungrah-de swam before Harak’s eyes.
“You did not lose the tsoong!” the chieftain exclaimed with dawning respect. All around them grown ogre warriors were on their knees, retching. “You are a warrior indeed, little bird! Have you ogre blood in you?”
Shame on my ancestors if that’s true, Harak thought groggily, but was sober enough not to say it out loud.
“A spicy... drink, great chief, but I’ve had stronger,” Harak said. Anything stronger would have loosened his teeth.
Ungrah picked him up by the back of his cloak and shook him playfully. “I like you, man. What are you called again?”
“Harak, Nebu’s son.”
“The night is long and cold, Harak Nebu’s Son! You will tell me of your battles, of the enemies you have slain! Come, let us punish ourselves again, to make our spirits angry and our future battles sweet!”
It was a long night. Harak was obliged to drink more of the foul brew but was able to fool the drunken ogres into thinking he was keeping up with their excesses. Ungrah passed out near midnight, the last of the ogres to succumb. Hoarfrost was forming on the snoring ogres, so Harak crawled close to the dying bonfire before blessedly losing consciousness. When morning came at last, he well understood why they called their revels “punishment.” The aftereffects of tsoong proved to be even worse than the ordeal of swallowing it in the first place.
*
Beramun lay on her belly in the high grass. All around her, scouts from Karada’s band of nomads were likewise hidden. It was early afternoon and hot. No shade softened the glare of the sun on the open savanna. Sweat pooled in the small of her back, but she ignored it, as she ignored the fly buzzing around her face and the maddening itch on her ankle.
The rest of the band was half a league back, hidden in a dry wash. Since leaving their camp on the eastern plain, Karada’s people had covered better than fifteen leagues a day – an amazing distance considering a third of them were not horsed.
Continuing that pace would have brought them to Yala-tene in six and a half days, but just after dawn Karada halted everyone. Her scouts had come galloping back reporting fresh signs of strangers on horseback ahead.
“Could be Zannian’s men,” Beramun said, her heart racing.
Beside her, Karada was reflective. “Or Silvanesti. Were the tracks shod?” Elves put copper shoes on their horses’ hoofs. Humans rode unshod animals.
The scouts reported the horses were unshod, and Karada ordered the band to take cover in the dusty ravine. She placed her old comrade Pakito in charge of defending the children, old folks, and baggage, then picked two dozen riders to follow her forward to investigate the strangers. Beramun was included in the scouting party since she knew Zannian’s men on sight.
Before they rode away, a girl of eighteen summers dashed out from the line of baggage-bearing travois. Long auburn braid bouncing on her back, she ran to Karada and clutched the nomad chieftain’s leg.
“Take me!” the girl demanded. “I’m too old to remain with the children!”
Karada shook her leg, breaking the girl’s hold. “Get back, Mara,” she said sternly. “You’re not a warrior.”
“Neither is she!” The girl pointed to Beramun.
“She’s a hunter, and she knows the enemy. Go back to Pakito.” When Mara showed no sign of moving, Karada pushed her away with her foot. “Do as I say! Go!”
The column of riders trotted away. Beramun looked back. Mara glared at her, tears staining her face, then whirled and walked back to the waiting band.
Beramun wanted to feel sorry for the girl. Her life, like Beramun’s, had been difficult. Captured and enslaved by Silvanesti, Mara had been freed by Karada. Beramun had suffered likewise at the hands of Zannian’s raiders. They had killed her family and forced her to labor in their camp, but she had escaped and made her way to Yala-tene. Though she could sympathize with what Mara had suffered, Beramun found it impossible to like her. The girl’s jealousy was all too plain.
Half a league west, they found the trail of the unshod horses. Karada examined the signs. Whoever they were, they rode in a double line, keeping precise intervals between each horse. Beramun felt the raiders were too wild to keep such order and wondered who this could be.
Karada, cinching her sword belt tightly around her waist, ordered Beramun and ten scouts to dismount and search westward on foot for fresh signs. She and the remaining mounted scouts strung their bows and followed at a distance.
Time passed. The sun climbed to its zenith then began its journey down to the west. Beramun walked slowly, constantly scanning the horizon for movement. Her thoughts wandered back to Yala-tene.
How many days had it been since she’d left – twelve, fourteen? Did the walls still stand? Did Karada’s kindly brother Amero still lead the village? Or had he and the rest already fallen to the raiders, never knowing she had reached her goal?
Unconscious of the gesture, Beramun rested her hand against a spot high on her chest. Beneath her fingers was the green mark placed there by Sthenn – a smooth, iridescent triangle, a bit larger than a human thumbprint. The mark had nearly been her undoing when she first arrived in Yala-tene. She had no memory of receiving it, but Duranix said it stamped her as Sthenn’s property and had urged her immediate death. Amero had defended her against his powerful friend. Had her long absence changed Amero’s mind? Perhaps the people of Yala-tene now believed her to be doing the evil dragon’s work.
Beramun kept the mark hidden from Karada and her people. She couldn’t bear the thought that the same hatred and loathing she’d seen in the bronze dragon’s eyes might bloom in Karada’s clear hazel gaze.
The nomad on her immediate right, a dark-skinned fellow named Bahco, suddenly dropped to one knee. All along the line the scouts followed suit. With the pronounced heat-shimmer in the air, Beramun and the others would be invisible behind tall grass so long as they remained still.
She glanced at Bahco. His ebony skin was sweat-sheened, like her own. By following the line of his gaze, she saw dark figures moving against the bright horizon. The objects grew larger as she watched. They were closing. She and the other scouts dropped to their stomachs. Bahco crawled back to warn Karada.
Raising her head slightly, Beramun could make out six figures on horseback and, between them, four people walking on foot. Each pair of walkers had a long pole on their shoulders. A butchered animal carcass swayed from each pole.
Beramun sighed and relaxed a little. They were probably not Zannian’s men. Such a hunting party would likely not be scouting for a force of raiders.
They were approaching from the northwest, heading southeast, which would bring them obliquely across Beramun’s hiding place from right to left. As they drew nearer, sunlight flashed off the metal they wore, and Beramun fretted anew. Hunters avoided wearing metal, as the glare and clatter of it scared away game. Who were these people?
Someone came sliding through grass behind her. A dry, callused hand touched her forearm. She turned and saw the nomad chieftain crouched behind her.
Karada held a finger to her lips. Her bow was in her other hand. Beramun looked a question at her, but Karada’s face was like a mask of seasoned wood. The marks on her face and neck, which had given her the name “Scarred One,” stood out whitely against her tan.
Faintly, the strangers’ voices could be heard. One of them laughed. The odor of freshly killed game was strong now. Beramun didn’t dare lift her head higher for a better view. Instead, she slowly parted the grass stems in front of her, trying to peer through the summer growth.
/> Her caution was for naught. Karada suddenly rose to her knees and in one swift motion, nocked an arrow and loosed it. Beramun heard the flint-tipped shaft strike flesh; the sound was unmistakable.
Shouts erupted, and the riders urged their horses to a gallop even as Beramun wondered why Karada had given them away by attacking. All around her, the nomads rose from hiding places and picked off the mounted strangers. It was over in a few heartbeats, all six riders slain.
“Stand up, Beramun, and see who we’ve found.”
The nomad chieftain bent over the one she’d shot, turning his lifeless face to the sun and pulling off his helmet. A shock of pale hair was revealed – and sharply pointed ears.
“Elves,” Beramun breathed. “How did you know, Karada?”
The four bearers on foot had thrown down the deer carcasses they carried and stood in a huddle. They were elves too, dark-haired and more sunburned than their mounted comrades. When they heard the name of their captor, they fell to their knees in the trampled grass.
“Spare us, terrible Karada!” one cried. “We are not soldiers. We bear no arms!”
“You’re elves,” she replied coldly. “Why should I spare any of you?”
“We’re poor folk from the south woods,” said another, “hired to work for the great lord. Spare our lives, great chieftain! We will leave your land and never return!”
“What lord?” Karada asked. “Who leads you?”
“Lord Balif.”
Bahco, leaning on his bow, was startled. “Out here? Why would the commander of Silvanos’s host stray so far from home?”
“A hunting expedition, sir. Lord Balif delights in the hunt.”
“Don’t I know it.” Karada prodded the nearest elf with her bow. “How many soldiers are with him?”
He shook his head, exchanging a frightened look with the others. “I don’t know the number, lady.”
“More than what you see here?”
He looked around at the watching nomads, then said, “Yes. Twice this many, could be.”
Karada’s eyes shone. “So Balif goes hunting with fewer than a hundred retainers?” She punched a fist in the air. “I’ll have him! I’ll hang his head from my tent post!”
“But what about Amero and Yala-tene?” Beramun cried.
“What about them?” Karada said coolly.
Beramun was stunned by her indifference. “We have to help them. Now!”
Karada tossed her bow to Bahco and folded her tanned arms. “Amero can hold out a half day longer. I’ve waited too many years to get Balif at sword point!”
Beramun tried to argue, but the rising color in the nomad chiefs face told her it was useless. Love for her brother had given way to a dream of vengeance, a dream Karada would not deny herself.
From the bearers, they learned Balif’s camp was two leagues southeast. Karada sent riders to tell Pakito to bring the rest of the band forward. Her plan was to wait for nightfall, then surround the elves’ camp and take them while they slept. Beramun’s worry that it might be a trap was dismissed outright, reasoning the Silvanesti had no way of knowing the nomads had come so far west.
“As far as they know,” Karada said, smiling a bit, “we’re still in the foothills of Strar, where you found us. Everyone has been chased out of this region, right down to Miteera and his centaurs.” Her smile widened into a fierce grin. “Balif thinks he’s safe!”
The nomads rounded up the slain Silvanesti’s horses and prepared to join up with Pakito. Beramun was relieved when Karada ordered the captives bound rather than killed, and the woodland elves were led away by rawhide halters looped around their necks.
“I ought to burn them, as their masters tried to burn us on Mount Ibal,” Karada muttered. Her hazel eyes narrowed. “But I won’t. I’ve learned many things from the Silvanesti, but they are not my teachers in war.”
Beramun was relieved, then startled as Karada’s demeanor lightened abruptly. “I’ll have him at last! Balif will fall to me!” the nomad chief exclaimed. “It’s you, Beramun. You’re my good luck. Your coming has been a portent.”
Beramun shook her head sadly. “I did not come, I was sent.”
Unmoved, Karada turned her attention to the elves’ game. “Someone pick up that meat! Balif’s hunters went to the trouble to kill those deer. The least we can do is eat them!”
*
They found Balif’s camp just where the bearers said they would, by a small tributary of the Thon-Tanjan. A palisade of sharpened stakes surrounded the tents, and a few mounted warriors stood guard, but the eighty-odd elves in camp were sleeping as Karada closed in around them.
Beramun had never seen bows used at night before. The effect was terrifying. With no more sound than the snap of the bowstring, lethal arrows came flying out of the darkness. Highlighted by the campfires behind them, the mounted guards had no chance. They quickly went down, and Karada sent ten nomads forward to break a hole in the hedge of stakes. Only a small gap in the palisade was opened before the nomads were seen. The rattle of bronze gongs roused the Silvanesti from their slumber.
“Form on me!” Karada called, placing herself at the head of a close column of riders.
“Do we give quarter?” asked Pakito, a giant on a mammoth horse.
The chiefs wheat-colored horse reared as her hands tightened on the reins. “Spare all who lay down their arms!” Karada shouted. “Now, at them!”
Three abreast, the mounted nomads charged through the gap made in the line of stakes. At first there was little resistance. Hastily donning what armor was at hand, the Silvanesti hung back around a central cluster of tents. Several javelins flew at the nomads, emptying a few saddles, but Karada was too canny to ride straight into the center of an aroused enemy camp. She sent half her warriors off to the left, circling just inside the palisade, while she led the rest to the right. A second wave of nomads, headed by Pakito, brought in torches and set fire to the outer ring of tents.
Fire blazed up, revealing the confusing scene. Beramun, armed with an unfamiliar sword, tried to keep pace with Karada. She did not strike a single blow, for the elves had done her no harm, but Silvanesti on foot around her did not realize this. A half-clad elf threw a spear at her. It seemed to leave his hand slowly, then gain frightening speed as it plunged at her face. She brought up her sword to deflect it, but a heedless, howling nomad rode in front of her and took the Silvanesti javelin in the ribs.
Shaking off her battle lethargy, Beramun rode through a gap in the churning crowd toward Karada. The Silvanesti adopted an interesting way of fighting their mounted foes. Instead of trying to make a line, they grouped into small knots of four to six warriors each, presenting a circle of sharp points all around them. They might have held off Karada’s band with this tactic but for the nomads’ bows. Whenever a knot of Silvanesti proved too tough to break, bows were called for and the defending elves picked off.
Between the two biggest campfires, a large contingent of elves had collected, led by a tall, fair-haired Silvanesti clad in a white shift stained with blood. Shouting in unison, the elves charged their mounted enemies and drove them back.
Karada shouldered through the melee. “Balif! It’s Karada! Yield or perish!” she cried.
The fighting continued, however, so the nomad chief called on the archers beside her, ordering them to spare the tall elf leader.
A quick thrum of arrows cut down several Silvanesti standing beside Balif. When he saw his companions felled, the pale-haired elf snapped an order. Within moments, the remaining Silvanesti grounded their arms. A few on the far side of the camp did not hear the command or would not obey it. They fought on until they were overcome, and more died.
By midnight, the fighting was over. Half the elves and a score of Karada’s warriors had been slain. The surviving elves were plainly shocked by the swift battle, and they sat disconsolately on the ground, lords and commoners alike.
Balif, slightly wounded, surrendered his sword to Pakito, who presented the elf lord
to Karada.
Looking down on Balif from horseback, she relished the ironic change of fortune that had brought him into her hands.
“So, your life is mine now,” she said. “What do you say to that?”
Balif mopped sweat and blood from his high forehead. “I say I am wiser than even I knew,” he answered in a subdued voice.
She frowned, plainly at a loss. “What do you mean?”
“Years ago I spared you after the battle of the riverbend. Had I killed you, the leader of your band of nomads now might have no reason to spare my life.”
Some of the nomads laughed at this surprising reasoning, but Beramun was still puzzled. “If you’d killed Karada back then, this whole battle might not have happened,” she pointed out.
The elf lord turned to her, and she was struck by the strangeness of his eyes. They were like a cloudless sky, or watered rock crystal....
“Do I know you?” Balif said, pale brows rising. Even in defeat his manner was winning. She gave her name. “Well, Beramun, consider this: felling a single tree does not bring down an entire forest.”
The nomads laughed again, but Beramun was as mixed-up as ever, both by his subtle words and by his demeanor.
“You still talk too much,” Karada said harshly. “Stand where you are and keep silent!”
The captured elves were bound hand and foot and their camp thoroughly looted. Stores of fine bronze weapons, helmets, and breastplates were distributed to nomads who had distinguished themselves in the fight. Karada offered a long, yellow dagger to Beramun, but the girl declined.
“I’d rather learn the bow,” she said.
“Then you shall.” Karada tossed the dagger to Mara. “Put that in my baggage.” Mara slipped into the crowd, the bronze dagger clutched in her fist.
When Balif was separated from the rest and led away, it became obvious not all the nomads were in favor of sparing him. A man named Kepra, whose face bore the old marks of severe burns, argued forcefully for the elf’s death.
Sister of the Sword Page 3