“Aye, Karada.” Hundreds of solemn voices repeated Pakito’s affirmation.
She glanced at Beramun, sitting on the ground between Mara and Balif, and saw the girl’s lovely face was pale and strained from mourning. She turned back to the sea of faces watching her.
“If any of these green-painted killers fall into our hands, I want them slain at once. Do you hear? Take no Jade Men prisoners.” There were nods and shouts of agreement. Karada went on, “With ogres in the field, I’m going to change our order of battle. Those not fit for fighting will stay behind. You’ll not enter the Valley of the Falls until the battle is over.”
There was grumbling among the elder nomads at being left behind, but they understood the wisdom of her plan. If they remained out of reach, they could not be caught and held hostage against Karada. Only one voice rose in protest.
“What are we supposed to do here?” Mara demanded. “Where will we go?”
Karada swept an arm out to encompass the terrain. “Build a hidden camp on the summit of one of these steep hills. Stay there until I return.”
Mara said no more, but her expression was mutinous.
Balif rose. “May I speak, Karada?” he asked.
“No. Yes. Be brief.”
The elf lord folded his arms across his lean chest. “Despite the valor and skill of your warriors, Karada, the odds are lengthening against you. According to Beramun” – he bowed to her – “the raiders already outnumber you. Add to that an unknown number of ogres, and you’re facing a far more potent enemy than you reckoned on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Karada said. “My honor and my duty to my brother demand that I go.” Standing on the stump of a storm-toppled tree, her bronze helmet glinting in the late day sun, her braid of sun-streaked brown hair falling across her shoulder, she looked like the spirit of war made flesh.
“Will you lead your loyal band to such an uncertain fate?”
“Fate is never certain, as your presence here proves.”
There was chuckling in the crowd, and Balif smiled thinly. “Which brings me to my point: I would like to offer my arm to you, Karada, for the duration of this campaign.”
General astonishment reigned. Beramun reacted first. She clutched Balifs arm and declared, “Well said! Well done!”
“Quiet!” Karada barked. She crossed the open ground to the elf lord. Beramun quickly withdrew, yielding to the formidable nomad woman.
Nose to nose and eye to eye with Balif, Karada said fiercely, “This is some trick. Do you think I’ll give you back your swords and horses so you can attack us from behind?”
“That’s unworthy of you,” he said calmly. “Don’t be stupid.”
Karada’s hand went to the hilt of her sword. There were gasps from those gathered around; they were sure the insolent Silvanesti was about to die.
“I have not tried to escape,” Balif said. His calm in the face of Karada’s ire amazed Beramun. “I chose to stay with my soldiers and share their fate, whether ransomed or not. What I now propose is that I fight alongside you against these painted raiders and their ogre allies – I and as many of my soldiers as will join me.”
“Ha!” Karada walked away a few steps, whirled, and presented the tip of her sword to Balif’s face. “I see your plan! No. You and your elves will remain behind with the children and elders!”
He shrugged. “As you wish, Karada, but consider: My soldiers are trained warriors. You’ve never defeated Silvanesti troops in open battle – not once in twenty years. Can you afford to ignore so ready a weapon placed at your disposal?”
“Why would you want to help us?” asked Pakito suspiciously.
Balif lifted his head, speaking to everyone in earshot.
“We’ve fought each other a long time,” he said. “We know each other, know our motives and goals. Though we’ve sometimes dueled without quarter, I believe there is an understanding between us – even respect.”
Karada said nothing. Balif forged ahead.
“The raiders represent a grave threat, different from you nomads. For humans to serve the whims of a green dragon is very troubling and would distress the Speaker of the Stars. Add to that their new alliance with ogres, and I see a common cause for us: to defeat these savages and keep them as far from the borders of Silvanesti as possible.”
Pakito’s expression showed he found the elf’s explanation sensible.
It made sense to Beramun, too. “Shouldn’t we stand together on this?” she said quietly to Karada.
The nomads muttered among themselves, some agreeing with Beramun and others hotly ridiculing even a temporary alliance with the Silvanesti.
“Karada, maybe we could —”
“Not a word!” she snapped at Pakito. Lowering her blade, she gazed steadily at the fair-haired elf. “Even if I trusted you, can I trust your lieutenants? Surely they can’t all be as honorable as you.”
“My officers are no less loyal than yours. They will follow me to death or to victory.”
“Will you obey my commands, even if you don’t agree with them?”
“Certainly.” She looked surprised, and he added, “You took me by force of arms and spared my life on condition of ransom. I am honor-bound to obey.”
Her sword declined farther, until the point was hovering just above the ground. “I won’t put you on horses,” she warned him. “You’ll march and fight on foot.”
He nodded his acceptance.
Karada slipped her sword back into its leather scabbard. When the hilt slid home, Beramun leaped to her feet and cheered. A surprising number of nomads did likewise.
Puzzled by the acclaim, Karada said, “All of you, listen. This is a temporary alliance! When the fighting ends, the elves must give up their weapons again.”
Balif’s pale brows rose. “One way or another, we’ll be disarmed. Either we triumph and our arms belong to you, or we perish and our bones belong to the crows.”
The rest of the band saluted his brave good humor, but Karada did not smile.
Alone in the excited crowd, the girl Mara sat quietly, looking first at her chief, then at the cool and confident Balif. Her face contorted briefly, but whether from fear or hatred or something else only Mara could say.
*
While her people prepared themselves for the hard ride ahead, Karada rode off into the hills alone. In a lonely ravine, she dismounted, tying her horse to a scrub elm. She’d taken only twenty steps up the gully before, clasping both hands around her stomach, she doubled over in agony.
Amero is dead.
She’d lost siblings before. One sister had died before learning to walk, and marauding yevi had killed her baby brother Menni. Yet the news – Amero is dead – burned through her body like a blazing brand.
Putting her back to a tree, she fought for breath. Though she hadn’t seen her brother in a dozen years, it had always been enough to trust he was alive and well in Yala-tene, protected by his steadfast people, the bronze dragon, and a stout stone wall. Now that he was gone, it felt as if something inside her had been torn out.
She knew the depth of her feeling was unnatural. Long ago, a jealous member of her band named Pa’alu had used spirit power on her, trying to compel her love. The talisman miscarried, and instead of undying passion for Pa’alu, she was stricken with an unsisterly love for her own brother. Ever since, she’d grappled with the insidious influence. The struggle had nearly driven her insane, but from deep within she found the strength to live with the impossible compulsion. Live with it. Not conquer it.
Karada slid down the tree trunk, rough bark snagging her buckskins. She would never love again. She knew this in her heart. The abnormal flame she’d carried concealed for Amero had consumed her. It could never be kindled for anyone else. Lifting her eyes to the empty sky, she grieved, weeping for Amero and for herself.
The tears went on for a long time, too long. She found she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t command the gulping sobs that wracked her. At last, disgusted by her wea
kness, she drew the bronze dagger from her belt. Baring her left arm, she pressed the keen-edged blade against the tan skin between her wrist and elbow. Blood stained the golden blade as she drew it across her arm. The wound hurt, but not enough, so she made a second cut above the first. And then a third.
*
With a few exceptions, the Silvanesti supported their lord’s offer to fight Zannian. The common soldiers volunteered to the last elf. After all, it was better than being left behind, sitting in the dirt and wondering when one of these angry, unpredictable nomads would take it into his head to slay them. However, all six of Balif’s noble officers declined to fight. They objected to taking orders from Karada – a human, a woman, and an enemy. Balif listened to their arguments then dismissed them to idle captivity.
“Guard them well,” he told Pakito. “They’re honorable elves, but once I’m gone, they may not feel inclined to sit by and await ransom. I wouldn’t want their lives wasted.”
Leadership of the nomads remaining behind was given to Karada’s old friend, Targun. Though the oldest man in the band, his once-black hair nearly all gray now, Targun was one of the chieftain’s most trusted lieutenants. Only Pakito and his mate, Samtu, had been with Karada longer. Old Targun had his charges organized in no time.
Children were told to use pine boughs to sweep away their tracks as they departed, hiding their whereabouts even from their own people. If the battle went badly, none of Karada’s warriors could be forced to tell where their loved ones were hiding.
Warriors watched in silence as their families disappeared into the hills. Many wondered where Karada was. No one had seen her since the elf lord proposed his startling alliance. The nomads knew better than to look for their leader. She often went off on her own, and there was no questioning her when she did.
Beramun found herself standing next to Samtu, as the woman waved farewell to her children. Bearing five children in twelve years had left Samtu’s short frame rather stout, and her dark hair bore strands of gray, but she still rode at Pakito’s side and fought like a nomad half her age. Now, though, the warrior woman’s face reflected her sadness at seeing her children depart.
The obvious pity on Beramun’s face seemed to embarrass Samtu, and she busied herself with freshening the spirit marks on her face. Beramun asked about the significance of the marks and, obviously grateful for the distraction, Samtu explained. The nomads wore the painted streaks as a sign of unity. The marks were meant to resemble the scars Karada had received in her fight with the yevi so many years before. It was that first fight that had made their leader strong.
Beramun didn’t understand why Karada painted the marks on herself, since she had the real scars after all.
Samtu, shrugging, repeating what Karada had told her people: “Some scars can’t be seen unless you draw them on your skin.”
As the last of the family members disappeared around a low hill, Bahco discovered Mara crouching among the tethered horses. He told her to go with Targun, to run and catch up, but she refused, digging in her heels and fighting him as he tried to pull her out of hiding.
Karada reappeared on the other side of the camp, her left forearm tightly wrapped with a fresh strip of doeskin. The altercation between Bahco and Mara drew her, and she arrived in time to see the girl bite Bahco’s hand. Furious, the warrior pushed the combative girl to the ground and planted a foot on her back to hold her there.
When Karada gestured at him to let the girl up, Mara scrambled to her on hands and knees and clung to her chiefs leg.
“I serve you, Karada,” she pleaded. “Let me go with you!”
“Stand up, Mara,” Karada said severely. “You’re not a dog.”
The girl stood. Her doeskin shift was dirty and her curly hair matted. Impatiently, Karada combed through the rusty brown tangles with her fingers.
“Such a strange girl,” she said. “What do you think you can do with us? We don’t have a travois for you to ride, and you’ll never keep up with us on foot.”
“Let me ride with you!”
An impatient shake of her head, then Karada said, “I could burden Balif with you. He’ll be walking with his elves —”
“No!” Mara shrieked, jerking away from Karada’s hands. “I won’t go with them! I hate them! Let me ride with you!”
Beramun came forward, leading her own horse. She took in the situation immediately.
“Mara can ride with me,” Beramun said. “My horse is big enough to carry us both.”
“She’ll only get in the way,” Bahco said, glaring and rubbing the hand Mara had bitten.
Green eyes narrowed at the dark-skinned man, Mara shoved her hands into slits cut in her shift, reaching for something inside. Nomad women often carried seeds and roots they gleaned in a pouch inside their shift, but Beramun doubted the girl was going to offer Bahco food.
Grabbing her elbow, Beramun pulled her away, saying, “Come. Ride with me or go with Targun. That’s your choice.” She got on her horse and put out a hand to Mara.
Mara looked away from Karada’s unhelpful expression to the outstretched hand. Finally, with Beramun’s assistance, she mounted awkwardly. The two girls rode away.
Karada sighed, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. “That girl’s touched, Bahco. Don’t be so rough on her.”
“She loves you like a jealous mate, Karada,” he said, shaking his head. “Watch out for her. Some day she’ll do something rash.”
*
Night fell in the valley, but the battle continued. Ungrah-de reformed his ogres and, fighting like lions, they stormed the west baffle again, this time holding it against all the villagers’ counterattacks. The defenders were fewer in number now because Zannian had drawn some away with his attack on the northern entrance.
From atop the wall, the ogres could see across Yala-tene to where the raiders battled the villagers, highlighted by flaming fascines. Ungrah could not get any farther because a barrier of logs and stone slabs had been thrown up behind the baffle. Three times the ogres had rushed the barrier, trying to break it down with axe blows or their massive bare hands, and three times they were repelled by large, bronze-tipped spears hurled down at them. The villagers attached lines to the butts of these oversized weapons, to recover them after they were cast. The ogres’ leather armor could not turn aside the sharp spearheads, hastily formed from Duranix’s cast-off scales.
After these three failures, Ungrah ordered his warriors to tear down the baffle wall and dislodge the boulders heaped inside it. This they did far into the night, sending huge sections of carefully placed masonry crashing to the ground.
On the north side of Yala-tene, the situation was just as dire. While the villagers’ attention was focused on the ogres, Zannian personally led an assault on the north baffle, isolating the entrance with bonfires and sending his men up the wall on ladders fashioned from trees taken from the village’s spirit-enhanced orchard.
Once, when Yala-tene’s newly planted orchard was threatened by ice and cold, the proud leader of the Servants of the Dragon, Tiphan, Konza’s son, had used the power of ancient spirit stones to save them. The orchard not only grew at an unnatural rate thereafter, but twigs cut from its branches put down roots and became full-grown trees within days. His success with the orchard had fueled Tiphan’s arrogance, impelling him to take the entire company of Sensarku out to face Zannian’s men before they reached the Valley of the Falls. The Sensarku had been destroyed, down to the last acolyte.
Now, Zannian’s raiders cut down dozens of the spirit-enhanced apple trees, hewed their branches off short to serve as footholds, and carried them to the northern baffle. Thrust in the dirt by the wall, the amputated trees took root and began to grow again. After a day, it was impossible for villagers to topple them from the wall. The raiders cut their way to the top and kept their toehold on the wall despite fierce counterattacks by the villagers.
“One more day should do it,” Zannian said, slumping under the overhang of the town wall. From there, he a
nd his men were shielded from most of the bombardment. “One more day, and Arku-peli will fall.”
The sweaty, soot-streaked warrior beside him opened his eyes. “One more day like today and there may not be enough left of the band to capture anything,” he said.
Zannian, his face and arms covered with cuts, bruises, and blood (not his own), peered at the gloomy raider’s dirty face and recognized him. “Harak? Of all people to share a respite with!”
Harak ran a scrap of leather down the length of his bronze sword, wiping the blood away. Both edges were deeply nicked, and the tip had acquired a distinct bend. “I’ve been fighting at your side since sunset, Zan. Saved your life at least three times.”
“Liar.” Zannian found it unbearable that Harak might be telling the truth. He was good with a horse and deadly with a blade but so smug and sneaky Zannian could not help but distrust him.
A thrown mud brick, heated in a fire, hit the parapet above them and shattered, raining hot fragments over both men. Yelping, they brushed off the burning shards. Two other raiders sitting beside them didn’t move. Harak leaned over and patted their faces. They toppled sideways, falling facedown in the dirt.
“Dead, both of them,” he reported.
“Who are they?”
Harak squinted through the smoke and darkness. “That’s Othas. I knew him. He was a good horse-healer.” He leaned across dead Othas to inspect the other man. “Don’t know this one.”
Somewhere in the darkness, a death scream rent the air. It wasn’t possible to tell if it was friend or foe. Unperturbed, Harak took a grass-wrapped gourd flask from his belt and pulled the stopper with his teeth. The spicy smell of cider reached Zannian.
“Give me some of that.”
Harak passed the gourd. His chief upended the flask, gulping rapidly. “Ahh!” he gasped, handing it back to Harak. “That’s wretched cider!”
“Tastes like spring water to me.” He sipped it lightly. “You should try the ogres’ brew, tsoong. Whew! Strip the skin from your throat, it will. It’s so bad they call getting drunk ‘punishment.’”
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