“Ogres, Zan?” murmured one, his voice hoarse. “Are we to fight with ogres now?”
Another spoke up. “The spirits of my ancestors will rise in outrage if I fight alongside their murderers!”
“We dishonor ourselves, siding with those monsters!” Hoten said firmly.
Without warning, Zannian struck. The flat of his sword connected with Hoten’s head. The elder raider toppled sideways off his horse, stunned. One captain brought his sword up and thrust it at Zannian. The young chief swung his own weapon; at the end of its arc, the captain’s severed hand fell to the ground, still grasping his sword. The man gave a harsh cry of pain. He fell from his horse.
Zannian whipped his bloodied sword around and snarled, “Any one else dare draw on me?”
The other raiders pulled back out of reach. Only Harak held his ground.
Zannian turned on the smirking young wanderer. “I should slay you as a lesson to the rest!”
Harak lost his affected good nature for once. “Slay me? You should thank me! It wasn’t easy finding Ungrah-de or convincing him to help!” Zannian continued to regard him with hatred, and he added, “You know, if I were you, Zan, I’d hurry after those ogres. If the band doesn’t know they’re coming, they might attack Ungrah when he reaches the river. That would be bad in many ways.”
The truth of those words turned Zannian’s fury into action. “After them!” he ordered. Sullenly, his captains galloped after the marching ogres.
“I’d better go, too,” Harak said mildly. “Ungrah likes me, you see. I can keep things calm between you and the ogres.”
Zannian sheathed his sword with a clang. “Don’t cross me, Harak, or you’ll not live to see the end of this siege.”
“It’s a very bad habit, Zan, threatening your friends.”
“You’re not my friend!”
Harak looked down at the dying raider and the unconscious Hoten sprawled on the ground. “Thank my ancestors for that,” he said, and rode away.
*
Karada was riding across the high plain with her entire band at her back when the lead riders flushed six men on horseback.
The strangers tried to flee, but Karada’s superior horses overhauled them. Karada herself joined the brief melee, trading spear thrusts and sword cuts with a wildly painted rider. None of the strangers tried to surrender. All fought to the death.
Karada had the six dead men laid out for Beramun to see. The girl needed only a glance to recognize them.
“Zannian’s men! The men who killed my family painted their faces just the same!”
Karada shaded her eyes. “We’re still two days from the Valley of the Falls. Why would Zannian waste men scouting so far east? Is he expecting us?”
“All the messengers from Yala-tene were taken but me,” Beramun said thoughtfully. “Zannian could have learned of our mission from those he captured.”
Karada changed the marching order of her band. Those not fighting – children, elders, the captured Silvanesti – were sent to the rear. Instead of a long, slender column of riders, Karada’s warriors spread themselves out in a wide line, two ranks deep. This would allow them to sweep the savanna as they rode and shield their families, too. Karada kept Beramun by her side, since the girl could help guide them through the mountains. It had been many years since the nomads had traveled so far west.
She divided her fighting force into three parts. Pakito was summoned, and he arrived with Balif still in tow. Karada gave the giant charge of the right wing. Bahco was to have command of the left, and she herself would lead the center. Pakito left Balif with Karada and took his place on the north end of the nomads’ line.
The elf general looked trailworn, his long hair windblown and his fine clothes unkempt. Unlike some of the well-born elves, Balif never complained about his comfort or treatment. He seemed to regard his captivity as an interesting outing, like a prolonged hunting trip.
He looked down at the six dead raiders. “We had word of men like these in the west. Their deeds drove many humans into land claimed by the Speaker of the Stars.”
Karada spared him but a scornful glance. The nomads took up their new formation and surged forward. The wide line scared up all sorts of animals and game. Rabbits, wild pigs, deer, and every bird known on the plains took flight before Karada’s band. Edible game was taken down with arrows and the meat passed back to those on foot. Beramun expressed concern that their bold approach would warn Zannian they were coming.
“Maybe if they know we’re coming, they’ll get on their nags and clear out,” Karada said.
She had a stem of sweet grass in her teeth and a woven grass hat on her head to keep the sun off her face. Beramun marveled at her calm demeanor. She looked like a middle-aged hunter’s mate, foraging for roots. Of course, when she lifted her head, the light shone on the web of scars at her throat and in her hard hazel eyes, and she was again Karada, famed nomad chieftain.
“Do you have a plan of action?” Balif asked. Karada wouldn’t answer him, so he went on, “You’re a fine natural tactician, but you’re fighting an unknown enemy. They may outnumber you. They may have traps set for you. Stealth and surprise will greatly aid your cause.”
“This is not your fight.” Karada spat out the grass stem. “Once I beat this Zannian and get your ransom, I’ll have blades, mounts, and warriors enough to wrest the south plain from your leader, and all the elves in Silvanesti will not be enough to dislodge me!”
Balif pursed his lips and said nothing more.
The terrain began to break apart and rise. Rocky hills pushed through the green grass, and stands of trees appeared, pine and cedar mostly, with a few wild apple trees mixed in. Bahco and the left wing of the band, a hundred sixty-three strong, were lost from sight as they bore south around an intervening hill. Pakito’s wing, a hundred forty-four riders, forded a wide stream and disappeared into a grove of trees. Karada allowed a short rest for her part of the band. Horses were watered in the stream and noisily munched windfall apples.
Karada dipped her hand in the creek and brought the clear water to her lips. She swallowed, made a face, and said, “I forgot how stony the water is here.”
Beramun looked north and south, past the idle nomads. “I remember this stream,” she said quietly. “I crossed it lower down, the day the raiders caught Udi.”
Because Balif couldn’t dismount without help (his legs were still hobbled under the belly of his horse), Beramun filled a hollow gourd and took it over to him.
“Thank you, girl.” He drank deeply, then suddenly dropped the gourd. Beramun caught it before it hit the ground.
“Careful!” she chided. “Break the gourd and you’ll have to lap your water like the horses.”
“Will you ask Karada to come here, right away?” Balif’s polite words sounded more like a command than a request, but his tone was urgent and his face wore an odd expression.
“Don’t run or shout,” he added calmly. “Go to her slowly and return the same way. Do it now, Beramun.”
She put aside her surprise and did as he asked. Karada was enjoying the feel of the cool creek water on her feet, and it was hard to pull her away. Beramun persisted. When they returned to Balif, the nomad chieftain was still barefoot, her doeskin leggings draped over one shoulder.
“What do you want, elf?” she said, annoyed.
“You’re being watched from that stand of pines over there. At least two men, maybe more.”
Karada did not so much as glance in the direction he indicated. Her hard grip on Beramun’s arm kept the younger woman from turning.
“Raiders?” Karada asked.
Balif grimaced. “What am I, a dragon? I can’t see that far. Find out yourself.”
The word spread softly through the band. Slowly, casually, groups of three and four slipped into the pine copse. They circled wide, seeking hidden horses or spies on foot. They found nothing. When they reappeared empty-handed, Karada took the matter into her own hands. She nocked an arrow and lo
osed it at the tree Balif said housed the spy.
The missile had its intended effect. With a shriek, a figure tumbled from the pine. Karada ran to the spot. By the time she arrived, two more figures had appeared, weeping.
Beramun joined her. “Children!” she exclaimed.
They were two young hoys and a girl. The older boy had been in the tree, and Karada’s arrow had scared him so badly he’d lost his hold. The younger pair tried to comfort him, but they were so frightened they could do little more than cling to each other and cry.
“Be still!” Karada snapped. The weeping trio flinched and tried to obey.
Beramun knelt beside them, patting heads and cheeks. She recognized the beadwork on their dusty kilts. “You’re from Yala-tene, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” the smaller boy quavered.
“How did you get here?” demanded Karada. “How did you avoid the raiders?”
“Please, Karada,” Beramun said. “Be patient. They’re young and scared.” The nomad chieftain grunted and walked away to retrieve her arrow.
The children followed her movements with wide eyes. Beramun spoke kindly to them, shifting their attention back to herself.
Little by little, she drew from the children the story of how they had come to be here. They’d been sent by the elders of Yala-tene, they said, “through a crack in the mountain.” The elders had sent other children like themselves through this narrow tunnel and told them all to run away and hide from anyone on horseback.
When Karada rejoined them, Beramun related what the children had said, then asked them, “How long ago did you leave?”
“A night, a day, a night, and today,” said the smaller boy.
“Things must be bad for them to send children out alone,” Karada remarked.
The little ones began sobbing again. “Monsters have come!” wailed the girl. “The painted men have monsters to help them! They’ll pull down the big wall!”
“Monsters? You mean the green dragon?”
“No. The monsters have legs and arms like us, but they’re big and ugly, with teeth sticking out their mouths, and long, floppy ears —”
Karada inhaled sharply. “Ogres?”
Beramun jumped to her feet. “The Arkuden needs us. We must go to him right away!”
“Lady.” The little girl was tugging at Beramun’s kilt. “Lady, there is no Arkuden any more.”
The child’s declaration was like a spear through Beramun’s heart, and she froze.
Karada’s sunbrowned face turned paler than Beramun had ever seen it. The chieftain grasped the poor child by her shoulders and shook her hard.
“What do you mean? Where is the Arkuden?” she cried. The child could only sob.
A blow on her leg broke through Karada’s shock. The smaller boy had struck her with his walking stick. She set the girl down.
“What happened?” she asked, striving to keep her voice calm. “What happened to the Arkuden.”
“They killed him,” said the boy, pulling the girl away from her. “The green-skinned men killed the Arkuden!”
Chapter 6
Blusidar’s island was no mere rock in the midst of the ocean. From high above, Duranix could just barely see it in its impressive entirety. Both shape and terrain were surprisingly regular. Though the coast had been etched by centuries of tides and tempests, the island was a nearly perfect circle. The outer edge was bordered by a wide band of sand dunes. A ring of steep mountains sat in the center, and a heavy belt of forest filled the area in between.
The odd regularity was a puzzle to be pondered at a later time. For now, Duranix remained convinced Sthenn was hiding somewhere in the forest. Days had passed without any sign of the green dragon. He must have been badly injured by Duranix’s lightning strike to remain hidden so long. Though a satisfying theory, it was also troubling. Wounded, Sthenn might be more desperate, more dangerous than ever.
Duranix floated on high, riding the steady winds available over the island. The sky was bright and cloud-free. Though he could see the natural life of the island with his usual clarity, he detected no visible trace of Sthenn. His deeper senses did not lie, however. His old enemy was near.
He descended to the mountain where he’d first encountered Blusidar. He hoped to see her again and scrutinized crags and crevices as he swooped in. She was nowhere around. Disappointed, Duranix alighted atop a forked pinnacle, balancing on the narrow peak with his tail spread out behind him.
Stop being a fool, he chided himself. Why waste time looking for the female? She was backward, awkward, and blind to the danger Sthenn represented. It was dangerous to divide his attention between the two. Better to concentrate on his green nemesis and leave Blusidar to fend for herself.
Cast-off scales glittered on the slope below his perch, and he realized Blusidar must have used the notch in the peak for preening. The thought birthed an irresistible itch between his shoulders. His wings, numbed from his long vigil over the island, were regaining feeling, and it felt as though a hundred brazen-toothed vermin were gnawing at him. Leaning to one side, he lowered his shoulder and scraped his back against the sky-blue stone.
Instead of a dull, stony scratching sound, the air was filled with a sonorous droning, like the organized noises the humans in Yala-tene called “music.” Duranix stopped scratching and the sound ceased. Experimentally, he rubbed his shoulder again on the rocky crag. The noise resumed. The spire of heavily crystallized stone vibrated in sympathy when scraped, creating an impressive sound.
He tried striking the spire with his horned head and tapping it with a talon. Each method drew a different note from the rock.
Movement in the air interrupted the performance. Extending his wings, Duranix prepared to pounce or fly.
Blusidar flashed past him, close enough that he felt the wind from her wings. He called to her.
“Why are you still here?” she said, passing close behind him. She was a swift flier, he had to admit. Young dragons often could outfly their elders. Mature dragons were stronger but also much heavier.
“I’ll stay until I find Sthenn,” he replied. “I have pledged to put an end to him, whatever else happens.”
Blusidar extended her rear claws and landed on a lower prominence. “Make not the sound,” she said, shifting from one clawed foot to the other with evident agitation.
He looked from her to the pinnacle. “Rubbing the stone? Why not?”
“It is for ji-ri-ni, not for play!”
In the ancient dragon tongue, ji-ri meant “hatchlings.” The syllable ni indicated “to make.” So ji-ri-ni meant “making hatchlings.”
Taken aback, Duranix tilted his huge, homed head to one side, regarding the spire. Apparently the dragons confined to this island in the past had used the sonorous stone as part of some sort of mating ritual.
“Forgive me,” said Duranix, embarrassed. “I don’t know your customs here.”
“Dragons of your land, they do not do this?”
“I have never seen it.”
His own mother had mated just once and subsequently laid three eggs. Duranix’s father was an ancient bronze known as Venerable Ro. (It had once been customary for each new generation of dragons to gain a syllable in their names – Duranix and Blusidar, having three, were of the same generation. Sthenn and the Venerable Ro were of the eldest generation.)
Blusidar settled down, flaring her nostrils. “You will not go until the green is found? Then follow, and be quiet.”
She leaned sideways and fell silently from her ledge. Spreading her wings, she glided over the jagged lower slopes and soared up a hundred paces. Hovering in an updraft, she waited for Duranix to join her.
Feeling more than a little old and clumsy in her wake, he opened his heavier wings and pushed off his perch. Stones loosed by his talons clattered down the mountain. Blusidar gave him a disdainful glance and flew on.
She traveled some way, paralleling the cliffs. He flew slightly above and behind her. The woods below pres
ented an unbroken canopy of intertwining branches, alive with thousands of birds.
When at last a break appeared in the tree cover, Duranix saw a shallow river meandering through the forest. Blusidar dropped her tail and landed on a stout fallen tree. He settled on the sandbar beside the tree. His claws promptly sank into the damp, loose sand.
He didn’t have to be told why they’d come here. The stink of Sthenn was strong in the air. Across the river lay the remains of a herd of wild pigs, recently slaughtered. Blood from their mangled carcasses mingled with the flowing water.
Duranix waded into the river, holding his wings up out of the mud. He counted six dead pigs and signs of at least that many more devoured by Sthenn. A great heap of brush and logs was scattered in all directions behind the herd. The blood was still fresh; the kill wasn’t very old.
He hadn’t flown away, or Duranix would have seen him. He must have crawled away. In the river – yes! The flowing water would conceal his trail, and the open air above the stream would help disperse his fetid odor.
Duranix pondered which way Sthenn might have gone, until the sound of sloshing broke his concentration. Blusidar waded to the pig carcasses. She hoisted one of the more intact ones by its hind leg and skinned back her lips to take a bite.
Like lightning, Duranix swatted the dead pig from her claws before she could sink her fangs into its flesh. She snarled at him, dropping on all fours and shrinking back to present a smaller target.
He snapped, “Calm yourself! You don’t want to eat that. Sthenn doesn’t leave gifts behind. What he couldn’t finish, he tainted.” Duranix picked up the carcass and sniffed. “Yes, poisoned with one of his vile secretions. Eat this animal, and you’ll wish you could die!”
Blusidar uncoiled herself and sniffed the dead pig cautiously. She blinked rapidly, eyelids clashing like swords. “This smell... is poison?”
“The worst sort. It would rot you from the inside out, and nothing on this island could save you.”
Duranix piled up all the carcasses and incinerated them with a lightning bolt. Blusidar watched closely.
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