A few tents were dragged out and unfolded before Karada rode by and ordered they not be put up. The band would move out at first light, and she wanted no time wasted pitching and striking tents. Many grumbled at having to spend the night in the rain, but every nomad in the band knew their leader would be out in the weather herself, just as wet and miserable as the rest of them.
Beramun had lost sight of the chief when the rain closed in, so she wandered the camp, looking for some spot to spend the night. The elf prisoners had a novel method for beating the weather. Their cloaks were made with several small metal hooks and rings along their edges and could be joined together into a large, lightweight fly. As the rain poured down, the elves sat on the ground in a tight circle, facing outward, shielded from the worst of the downpour by their ingenious cloak-tent.
After a long search, Beramun spotted Karada’s wheat-colored horse tied to a picket line. Below the animal’s nose was a dark hump in the grass. Someone was squatting there, wrapped in a large ox hide. Beramun hurried over. She lifted one edge of the hide and shoved her head under.
“Room for another?” she asked, then saw it was not Karada under the hide, but Mara.
The girl said nothing but moved slightly to one side, giving tacit assent. Warily, Beramun crawled in.
It was dark as Sthenn’s heart under the hide, but with their knees drawn up to their chins, the two girls were able to stay dry. The air was heavy with cold rain and Mara’s palpable jealousy.
The silence stretched between them until Beramun asked, “Where’s Karada?”
“With that elf. She’s spent every night with him since he was caught.” Beramun gave a low exclamation of surprise, and Mara added, “Not alone. Pakito’s with them.”
“Oh.” Beramun dismissed the alarming fantasies she’d conjured up. “Is she afraid he’ll escape?”
She felt the other girl shrug. “Pakito says they argue about everything, from the best way to raise horses to who’s the best leader. This goes on until one tires and goes to sleep. Karada’s won every night. That elf sleeps first.”
Rain trickled down Beramun’s collar. She pushed away from the edge of the hide until her feet bumped Mara’s.
“Is it a game?”
“Karada doesn’t play games,” Mara said, her tone a mixture of pride in her leader and animosity for her own treatment. “It’s a fight. Karada is pitting her spirit against that elf s.”
In a comradely way, Beramun replied, “She’s in no danger, I’m certain.”
The sharp chime of metal sliding against metal, the sound of a dagger being drawn, froze the words in her throat. She tensed as a cold, bronze point touched her ankle.
“No one will harm Karada!” Mara announced. “Not while I live!”
Beramun was silent, unmoving and barely breathing. Her lack of response had the desired effect: the weapon was returned to its sheath.
“I think I’ll get some rest,” Beramun said mildly and curled up on the damp ground. A spot between her shoulder blades tingled at being exposed to one so troubled who carried a dagger, but Beramun felt she had Mara figured out. The girl worshiped whoever ruled her – first Tiphan, leader of the destroyed Sensarku, then her Silvanesti masters while she was a slave, and now Karada. Those her ruler favored, Mara would not harm, but woe to anyone Karada hated!
As she drifted off to sleep at last, Beramun reflected on Balif’s predicament. Being in the hands of his longtime enemy didn’t seem to worry him, and he didn’t appear to chafe at waiting as long as a year to see if his lord Silvanos would pay his ransom. Yet if he knew the danger he faced from this single, strange girl, things might be different. “That elf,” as Mara called him, might know true fear.
*
The rain pounded the walls of Yala-tene. It ran in streams down alleys, washing away the dust of many dry days. In the lane before the House of the Turtle, it also washed away a great deal of blood.
Within, Lyopi sat quietly by the fire, her tears spent. Her thick chestnut hair, freed from its usual neat braid, fell past her waist.
“Pitiless children,” she said.
“What?”
Two men knelt on the other side of the hearth, the flames between them. One was Tepa the beekeeper, oldest of the remaining village elders. With him was Hekani, a young man lately thrust into the position of leading the defense of Yala-tene. Not quite twenty, Hekani wore his brown hair in a long horsetail, in the fashion of the men who still wandered the savanna. Until the raiders invaded the valley, he’d never spent a night in Yala-tene. He was a wanderer who had dwelt in the tent camp outside the walls. Like the rest of the camp’s inhabitants, he traded, bartered, and hired out his labor for two days or ten. When the wanderers in the tent camp pulled up stakes and departed under threat of Zannian’s arrival, Hekani was the only one who’d remained. His common sense and loyalty had won the trust of the Arkuden and, even more difficult, of the Arkuden’s woman, Lyopi.
“What did you say?” Hekani asked again.
“The ones Zannian sent after Amero – they were barely more than children. How do you make children into such pitiless killers?”
“I hope never to know,” Tepa murmured. He rested his forehead in the palm of one hand and sighed deeply. His own son, Udi, had been one of those sent out with Beramun several weeks ago to find the Arkuden’s sister. The raiders had caught Udi, and his dying body had been displayed on stakes before the walls of Yala-tene. As yet there was no word of Beramun.
As the old man dozed, Hekani slipped around the hearth to be closer to Lyopi. He was very tall, all knees and elbows. Fate had shown him to be a formidable fighter. He’d slain two of the invading Jade Men by himself.
“What shall we do?” he asked, voice low out of deference for the sleeping man. “Our food won’t last twenty days. There’s been no sign of the last scout the Arkuden sent out. Unless the dragon returns to save us, I doubt we can hold out much longer.”
Lyopi nodded her agreement and prodded the dying fire. The fact that Beramun’s body hadn’t been exhibited by the raiders had given Lyopi hope the girl had made it through. But perhaps the girl wanderer had taken to her heels, leaving the certain death of Yala-tene behind.
The flickering flame went out, leaving only a shoal of glowing coals. “There are,” Lyopi said slowly, as though choosing her words with care, “tunnels in the mountain.”
“The storage tunnels? What of them? They’re all dead ends.”
“Two are; one isn’t. Amero found a fissure in the rock while hunting for copper ore. He had some men widen the cleft. It runs all the way to the cliff top overlooking the village. Amero had both ends concealed with slabs of rock.”
Hekani was stunned. “Why haven’t you spoken of this earlier? We can escape!”
Lyopi shook her head and said, “The passage is too narrow to allow more than one small person through at a time. It would take days for the population of Yala-tene to get out – those who would fit – and the tunnel could collapse at any time. Escape was never the plan. It was too risky even to consider, but now...” She lifted hollow eyes to his. “The children. We might get some of the children out. They could escape over several nights, scatter in the mountains. It will be dangerous, but at least something of Yala-tene might survive.”
Hekani rocked back on his hands. “I say, fight it out! You saw them out there yesterday – there aren’t so many left! We can beat them!”
“Moonmeet is in two days. They claim they’ll have a way to tear down our wall.”
“They’re bluffing! They can’t overcome our wall. All they can do is threaten and scare us.”
“I am scared,” Lyopi said softly. “How many do we have left who can fight?”
Hekani thought a moment, then answered, “Able-bodied men and women – one hundred and sixteen. Old folks and children who can help – one hundred forty and nine. Hurt or sick ones who can’t fight at all – two hundred and eighty-eight.”
“And how many have died?”
He turned away from her intense gaze. “I don’t know. I’ve only been war chief since the night of the Jade Men.”
Lyopi rose suddenly. She draped a horsehair blanket around the sleeping Tepa. Hekani took his leave, throwing on his cloak and retrieving his spear.
“Be strong, Lyopi.” he said proudly “We’re not lost yet!”
He strode away in the rain. Once he was gone, Lyopi discovered a well of tears she had not yet exhausted. She leaned her head against the door and wept. The sound of her crying was lost in the rush of rain down the dark, empty street.
Chapter 5
“This had better not be a jest.”
Zannian sat on his horse, flanked by Hoten and four other captains of his hand. To his right, Nacris reclined in her chair, hands folded together and pressed against her lips. The morning sun was behind the group, filling the mountain pass with long shadows and tinting the peaks crimson.
A scout had returned earlier that morning with an odd report: In the lower end of the pass leading out of the Valley of the Falls, he’d encountered a lone rider. The rider identified himself as Harak, son of Nebu, but would not approach. When the scout tried to approach him, the supposed Harak had told him to come no closer but to bring Zannian and Nacris at once.
Irritated by the lofty command, the scout started to argue, but movement on the slope behind Harak caught his eye. Something stirred, sending a shower of pebbles down the mountainside. The scout’s horse pranced amidst the cascade of stones.
Harak cast a glance at the slopes behind him and snapped, “I’ve been on a mission for our chief! Go now and do what I tell you! Bring Zan and Nacris here!”
The scout went.
He found Zannian in a black mood. Five raiders had deserted the night before, while patrolling the passes east of Yala-tene. In the past three days, more than twenty men had abandoned the siege.
The scout’s report caused the raider chiefs hazel eyes to narrow suspiciously. “Are you sure it was Harak? What’s he playing at? Why didn’t he just ride in?”
Though Zannian had accepted the necessity of Nacris’s plan to send for the ogres, most of the hand knew nothing about it.
Nacris gave her son a significant look and, glancing at the men in earshot, said, “Harak doesn’t know what’s happened since he’s been gone. He’s a cautious, clever fellow, that one.”
“Yes,” Zannian muttered, “too clever.”
Without explanation, he rounded up two dozen raiders and led them to the western pass. Most he left at the mouth of the ravine, as only he, Nacris, Hoten, and a handful of favored captains continued deeper into the pass.
Hoten hadn’t been nearby when the scout made his report, but the elder raider was observant. When they had left the other warriors behind, he said quietly, “Harak’s back, isn’t he?”
“Seems to be,” Zannian replied.
“Do the men know what’s coming?”
A sharp look. “What difference does that make?”
Hoten reined to a stop. “It makes all the difference, Zan! We’re the Raiders of Almurk. We follow the Master and do his will, but we are still men!”
Zannian swung his horse to one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Are you questioning my command?” he asked calmly.
Hoten stared at his leader, jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.
Four other captains, following behind, caught up to them and stopped, uncertain what was happening. When Nacris arrived in the next moment, she sized up the situation immediately.
“You two going to fight?” she asked.
“And if we did?” Hoten asked his mate through clenched teeth. “Who would you favor?”
“You’re both too important to this band to waste your lives fighting each other. Open your eyes! Can’t you see victory before us? It’s just down this pass, a league or so away. Do you really want to kill each other now, when the spoils of success are nearly in your hands?”
Zannian relaxed as she spoke. “You’re my mother’s mate, Hoten. Killing you wouldn’t be respectful.” Tapping his heels to his gray stallion’s flanks, the chief moved on.
Hoten glared from Zannian to Nacris and back for the space of a few heartbeats. Then he too started his horse moving again. When he caught up to his chief, he said in a low voice, “This is wrong, Zan, and we’ll all suffer for it.”
Zannian’s reply was loud and confident. “As the Master says, the only wrong in this world is failure. I won’t fail.”
They arrived at the spot the scout had indicated, but there was no sign of Harak. They waited. The morning sun pushed higher and higher, warming the shade-less canyon. To shift Zannian’s mind from his growing impatience, Nacris spun out old stories about her youth, her days with Karada, and her first mate, Sessan. The air grew hotter, and biting flies beset both horses and men.
“This had better not be a jest,” Zannian repeated
“Zan! Look!”
Far down the trail, shimmering in the heat-soaked air, a rider came. His pace was slow, and the steady clop of his horse’s hooves echoed off the high stone walls around them. Hoten wanted to ride out to meet him, but Zannian refused to let him go. He’d come this far at someone else’s beck and call. Now that someone would come to him.
The wavering image slowly resolved into a lanky, tanned rider with long, dark brown hair, riding a dappled brown horse. At Zannian’s command, the raiders fanned out in a semicircle. Nacris, unafraid, ordered her bearers to carry her out in front of the mounted men.
Her vision was still acute. “Harak!” she called.
The young raider urged his mount to a canter and loped in, nodding to his comrades. He stopped when his horse was head to head with Zannian’s.
“Greetings, chief,” he exclaimed, “and to your wise and ferocious mother.”
“Where are they?” Nacris asked eagerly, eyes alight. “Are they with you?”
Mischief danced in Harak’s deep brown eyes, but a look at the sweaty, impatient faces around him caused him to quell his normal impulse to be flippant. He twisted sideways on his horse, one arm sweeping out to gesture behind and above. He gave a loud, guttural call.
In unison, the raiders’ heads lifted. One man let out a hoarse yell.
“Ogres!”
Stepping out of cover, hulking figures ranged on both sides of the pass. The raiders were surrounded. Hoten, the captains, and the litter bearers were obviously alarmed. Swords and spears came up. Only Zannian, Nacris, and Harak remained calm.
“Be careful,” Harak said quickly, as several of the raiders brandished their weapons. “Ungrah-de is wary of humans. He says you can’t trust creatures with such small teeth.”
“Which one is he?” Zannian asked.
A sly look crossed Harak’s features. “Leadership among the ogres is determined by size – a most sensible practice.” He was himself a span taller than Zannian. “Ungrah-de is the biggest ogre here.”
Zannian picked him out immediately and raised his hands in the plainsman’s traditional greeting. “Great Chief! I greet you with open hands!”
Ungrah folded his tree-trunk sized arms. “Huh,” he called down. “You’re very small – smaller even than little Harak. How can you be chief?”
“I am chief by my wits, by my skill with arms, and by the will of my Master, Sthenn Deathbringer of Almurk.”
“Talking of old Sthenn, is he here?” asked Harak.
“Do not speak his name so lightly!” Zannian barked.
“He hasn’t returned yet,” Nacris told Harak. “We don’t know where he is.”
Ungrah clattered down the slope, followed by his towering warriors. Reaching the bottom, he strode toward the anxious raiders. The top of his head was even with Zannian’s, though the raider chief was on horseback.
“It’s well,” said the ogre. “Dragons are not fit company for warriors. They plot and plan and talk too much. I don’t fight beside dragons, only against them.”
The horses rolled their eyes and shi
ed away from the ogres as they congregated around their leader. Ungrah-de noticed Nacris in her litter.
“Cripple,” he said bluntly. “Better to die than live less than whole. If I was crippled like that, I’d crawl off a cliff.” He translated this for his followers. They grunted in approval, sounding like a chorus of enormous boars.
Harak noted Nacris’s anger at the ogre’s high-handed words. “Ungrah-de, it was her idea to enlist your aid,” he said.
The raiders exchanged surprised looks at this bit of information. The ogre chief grunted deeply and shouldered a huge axe. Its head was an enormous chunk of grayish agate veined with lapis.
“Lead us to the place of stones,” Ungrah-de commanded, “to Arku-peli.”
He started down the canyon, his troop at his back. Zannian yelled, “Wait! We must bargain first, so you know what’s expected of you.”
Ungrah paused. “He made promises,” he said, and lifted a gnarled, hairy finger to Harak. “I agreed. The bargain is made. We will kill the enemies you failed to conquer.”
He and his monstrous warriors resumed walking.
Zannian turned, swift as a striking snake, and whipped out his sword. The point came to rest on Harak’s chest. “What did you promise them?” he growled.
Wincing, Harak tried to push the blade away, but Zannian dug in the tip. “Your mother said I should promise them anything for their help!”
“You will not sell my victory to those monsters!” Zannian snapped at Nacris.
“Then win it yourself!” she replied hotly. “Get on your horse and use that bronze blade on your enemies and not your followers!”
She spat a command to her bearers. They hoisted her onto their shoulders and started after the ogres. Harak carefully leaned away from the sword at his breast. Zannian, his eyes on his mother, allowed the blade to drop.
“By my blood, I will take the mud-toes’ village myself!” Zannian vowed. Silence answered his rousing declaration. He looked to his men. They were staring at him with expressions that mixed shock and horror.
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