Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  Changing his tone, Harak said, “Chief, any men you don’t take will fall back into stealing and raiding. I know them. They are not bad, not really. Some are lazy or coarse, but the worst from Zannian’s band are already dead or escaped. Those left need a strong leader to turn them around, someone we can follow. You can be that leader, Karada.”

  Shorn of Harak’s flattery, his point about the captives going back to raiding if left on their own was undeniable.

  Fifty men could cause a lot of trouble for small family bands wandering the plains. They could make life difficult for Amero’s villagers, too.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will take them, and if they cause any trouble I will deal with them.”

  It took Harak a moment to digest her blunt statement, then he exclaimed, “Thank you, Karada! You are the noblest chief of all!”

  She held up her hand to stanch the flow of flattery. “Harak, I won’t be oiled like an old pouch. I will meet with each former raider. They will be inspected by the warriors of my band and by the people of Yala-tene. Any recognized as murderers, plunderers, and other yevi-spawn will meet a swift fate. Those who pass muster can come with us.”

  “Certainly, Karada, certainly!” Harak said. “I’m sure the men will agree to your conditions. You’re even more wise than all the tales proclaim.”

  “Shut up,” she said, but without rancor. Grinning, Harak did.

  Hearing them, Beramun turned over and groaned. Her feet kicked at the fur covering her legs. Concerned, Harak went to her and took her hand. Her fingers closed around his with startling force.

  He could see her eyes moving rapidly beneath her closed lids. “What is she seeing?” he wondered aloud. “What powerful dreams hold her in such sway?”

  *

  The tunnel was endless. Toadstools sprouted in the cracks between the stones of the floor, their yellow gills emitting a weird, cool light. The walls and ceiling were black soil, crumbling and rotten.

  Beramun was icy cold. Barefoot, wearing only a tattered doeskin shift, she felt as though she’d been wandering in this bleak place forever. The air was clammy and smelled like moldering bones. She shivered, holding the neck of her shift together to keep out a little of the chill.

  She heard footsteps behind her. Though they sounded only when she moved, she knew it wasn’t an echo.

  All at once she whirled about. For the briefest instant she spotted the outline of something in the darkness. The shape melted into the shadows under her probing gaze, but it had been there.

  Heart hammering, Beramun turned and ran. Her stride stretched out to bizarre lengths, covering many paces with every strike of her heel. The broad reach of her legs didn’t seem to get her anywhere, though. The dimly illuminated tunnel appeared to be endless and straight as a spearshaft.

  The footfalls behind were louder than before. Closer.

  Suddenly, a hole yawned in the floor ahead. Beramun tried to stop, but her momentum was too great, and she fell into the opening, feet kicking frantically. She flung out her hands and miraculously caught the far side of the hole. Her relief changed immediately to horror. The walls were so soft her feet could find no purchase but instead gouged deep holes in the soft black dirt. The dirt fell away.

  Exhausted, she hung there, panting, above what she knew was a bottomless chasm. Footsteps approached, but these came not from behind her but from in front, on the other side of the hole. A face appeared above her.

  It was Harak.

  “Help me!” she gasped. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  “Of course you can’t,” he said, not moving to aid her. His smile revealed too many wolfish teeth. “Do you know where you are?”

  “What? No, I... please, Harak!” The fingers of her left hand began to slide off the rim of the hole.

  “This is the lair of the green dragon.”

  A tremor of horror vibrated through her straining limbs. “It can’t be! I was in Yala-tene – and Sthenn’s dead!”

  “Did you see him die?”

  “No, but Duranix said —”

  Harak threw back his head and laughed. “Little Duranix? You believe one dragon’s word about another? How sweet!”

  He was neither acting nor speaking like the Harak she knew. As her grip continued to slip, Beramun felt a burning pain on her chest. She looked down and saw blood flowing freely from a deep wound where Sthenn’s green mark had been.

  When she looked up again, Harak had leaned down, and their noses almost touched. His eyes gleamed oddly. They weren’t the dark brown she knew but had a greenish cast. The pupils were vertical, like a cat’s – or a dragon’s.

  Terror rose in her throat like nausea to choke her. “You’re not Harak!”

  In the blink of an eye, he metamorphosed into the grotesquely tall, misshapen body she knew was his Greengall form.

  “Hee hee hee,” Greengall giggled, looking down at her and hugging himself with long, thin arms. “You can’t be rid of me so easily! Did I live a thousand years to have my neck wrung by that rodent-lover Duranix? I should say not! True, I am much changed, but the genius of Sthenn remains, and I will live again in your slender shell of flesh. What an honor for a mere rodent!”

  Beramun could hardly breathe. Her fear was so great it made her dizzy. “No!” she said faintly.

  “Keep saying that,” Greengall-Sthenn said in his ugly singsong voice. “Maybe it will come true! Let go, rodent. Give up. Let go and fall!”

  He kept up this refrain, his words twisting through her skull like a snake. She dug her fingers into the lip of the hole, raised her right leg, and gripped the spongy soil with her toes. The earth crumbled, but she worked her toes into the black filth, deeper and deeper until she had enough support to raise her left foot. She began to work it into the dirt, too.

  Greengall’s face twitched. “Stubborn little female,” he said, annoyed. “Still, if you weren’t so strong, your body wouldn’t be of much use to me.”

  “You can’t... have me,” she said through gritted teeth. She heaved her right foot out of the hole she’d made. Black beetles, maggots, and blood-colored worms sluiced from the opening in the pit wall. Beramun ignored them and burrowed higher, rising half her own height out of the hole.

  Greengall stopped urging her to let go and swiftly backed away, as though he was afraid. Not only did his action gave her confidence to struggle on, it sparked a revelation. He couldn’t possess her by force, or else he would simply reach down and capture her.

  Only if she gave in would Sthenn control her!

  “I know you now,” she said, rolling forward, out of the hole. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but her heart beat strongly and evenly again. “The mark you put on me meant nothing. It’s only purpose was to frighten and dishearten me! It even fooled Duranix. But you have no power over me, except through fear. That’s what it was always about, wasn’t it? You drink in fear like raiders swill stolen wine!”

  Greengall’s form altered and shrank into Harak again. “Don’t be cruel, brave Beramun!” the false Harak said. “Do you know what it’s like to feel your body perish, your powers flicker out like a falling star? This is my last vestige of life! Don’t cast me into the darkness, please, sweet, kindly Beramun!”

  Beramun rose to her feet. She lifted her hands to brush the dirt from them and realized one now held a bronze dagger. The weapon looked familiar. She closed her fingers around the handle and raised the blade high to strike.

  The false Harak’s form shifted rapidly as he became first Greengall again, then Zannian, Karada, Nacris, and finally Amero. She hesitated upon seeing this last, but Greengall’s telltale eyes remained, framed in the borrowed sincerity of the Arkuden’s bearded face.

  Beramun struck, burying the dagger up to the hilt in Sthenn’s chest. Her target was a spot on his left breast, just above his heart. A stabbing pain lanced through her own chest —

  With a cry of pain, Beramun awoke, bolting upright. She was firmly held by strong hands.

  “Le
t me go!” she cried, struggling wildly.

  “Beramun, it’s Harak! Wake up!” he said, shaking her, then held her at arm’s length so she could see his face.

  Beramun froze in place, staring at him. His deep brown eyes, flecked with amber, had round pupils, not vertical. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a look of concern. Behind him stood Karada, her tanned brow likewise furrowed with worry.

  “It is you!” Beramun said joyously. “The beast is gone!”

  She threw her arms around Harak’s neck, and they kissed for the first time.

  *

  Riders returned from Northwind Pass and Bearclaw Gap. The narrow northern pass was filled waist-deep with drifted dirt, practically impassable. Forested Bearclaw was still open, thanks to the sturdy trees lining the gorge. The nomad band would have to stretch thin to traverse the winding, wooded pass, but there was no other choice. Karada let it be known the band would depart the next morning through Bearclaw Gap.

  The western pass, being much wider and guarded on either side by vertical cliffs, was as clear as always, and Karada’s hunters returned through it with elk and deer to augment the feast.

  As the sun dropped low over the cliffs to the west, torchbearers ran from pit to pit, igniting tall conical heaps of logs and kindling. Villagers pounded pine stakes in the ground in circles, then wove strips of birch bark between them, making great bowls two paces wide. Into some of these bowls fresh water was poured. Stones, heated in the bonfires, were dropped in the water until it boiled. Herbs and roots gleaned from the high, neighboring valleys would be simmered in this until ready to eat. The nomads had never seen this cooking method before, and they watched, curious and uncertain, as the villagers made their preparations.

  The only real shortage in the valley was wine. The raiders had guzzled and spilled huge quantities, and despoiled the orchards until there was precious little fruit to harvest. Tepa tried to remedy this by providing honey from his hives to make mead, but mead was notoriously slow to ferment. In the end, Hulami and Pakito mixed the available wine with crushed berries and water to make a mild punch. Karada and Amero were designated to taste the first cups.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Karada said, making a face. “Hunt down the raiders who escaped. Their crime grows greater and greater.”

  Amero tasted his and shrugged. “It’s not a fine vintage, but it answers thirst.” He handed the cup to Lyopi and dipped himself another from the birchbark vat. “Like the walls of Yala-tene, the vineyards need repair, but one day we’ll have walls and wine again.”

  With that cheering thought the feast began. The sky darkened to purple, and the blazing logs sagged into their pits, sending showers of sparks skyward. Whole oxen and elk, which had been brought out on a cross-thatch of tree limbs and set up to roast, filled the air with the aroma of cooked meat. The smell drew Duranix, who flew over the feast site. His belly glowed golden in the light of the setting sun. The villagers raised a cheer for the dragon, which was echoed by Karada’s nomads. Duranix landed upwind of the firepits.

  Karada hailed him, saying, “The first ox off the fire is yours!”

  “Only the first? I thought this was a feast.”

  There was general laughter, and she said, “The first four, then.”

  Ox hides were spread on the ground, and groups of villagers and nomads took their ease as the food simmered and sizzled. Children dodged among the adults, chasing fireflies. Someone called for a tune. Six muscular nomads produced reed flutes and began to play a gentle walking song.

  Reclining against Lyopi, Amero felt more at peace than he had in many, many days. The expanse of the valley spread out before him, dotted with nomad tents. Above, Lutar emerged from the veil of daylight. It was waning, and its normal red hue was a mild rose by twilight. Just the color, Amero thought, of a ripening apple.

  “Something wrong?” asked Lyopi.

  “What? No.”

  “You sighed.”

  “I was thinking of something Duranix said, about needing challenges to make life worth living. I’ve made bronze at last, a goal I’ve chased a long time, but I’m not disappointed I’ve done it. There are a lot more things to be done in Yala-tene.”

  “Always more things,” Lyopi agreed.

  He tilted his head back until he was seeing her face upside down. “Shall we declare ourselves mates tonight?”

  Nonplussed, she said, “There’s no hurry. Whenever suits you —”

  “What better time than this?” he said earnestly, sitting up. “Could you ask for a grander mate-day feast, or finer guests?”

  Quietly Lyopi said, “Think of your sister.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him that Nianki might not like to see him mated. Feeling bold (and a little stubborn now that he’d made up his mind), he called to her, sitting a few steps away between Pakito and Samtu.

  “Nianki! Will you stand by me tonight and see me mated to Lyopi?”

  Pakito looked stricken by Amero’s words, and Samtu rolled her eyes, but Karada merely bowed her head slightly and said, “I will.”

  There was little set ceremony to mating. The man and woman simply stood before their friends and kinsmen and announced their union. Fired with enthusiasm, Amero jumped up, eager to get the attention of every soul in the valley for his declaration.

  “Wait here,” he said, giving Lyopi’s hand a squeeze. “I’d like Balif and Farolenu to be here for this. I’ll find them!”

  He dashed off, darting between singing and drinking revelers like a child after a firefly. Lyopi shook her head and smiled ruefully.

  “Thirty-nine years old and still a boy,” she said, speaking chiefly to Karada and Samtu.

  “Aren’t they all?” Samtu replied.

  “No. Truly, he is. Amero’s always bringing home the oddest things. He collects sacks of rocks from all over the valley and sits by the fire cracking them open to see what’s inside. Sometimes he brings home animals, too.”

  “He still hunts?” asked Karada.

  “No. He brings them home alive! One autumn he brought back an enormous bullfrog from the fens on the west side of the lake. Big as a chicken it was.”

  “Why?” Samtu asked. “Does he like to eat frogs?”

  “No! He wanted to measure how far it could jump!”

  The women burst out laughing. After a moment’s pause, Karada asked, “How far could it jump?”

  Lyopi raised her hands and dropped them again in an exasperated gesture. “We never found out. It wouldn’t budge, even when Amero prodded it with a stick!”

  “Must’ve been a male frog,” said Karada. That set them off again.

  Pakito studiously stayed out of the conversation, until their laughter subsided. Then he asked, “Where are the Silvanesti? I haven’t seen them all day.”

  “They’ve taken to lingering by Amero’s old foundry,” said Duranix. He’d sated his hunger and moved a bit closer to the fire. By its light, his massive bronze head seemed to float in the air all by itself, his body masked by the deepening shadows. “They were there when I left the cave at sundown.”

  “Wonder what they’re up to?” said Pakito.

  “Be calm,” Karada said. “They won’t cause any trouble. I have Balif’s word.” She drained the weak wine mixture from her cup. “You know elves. They’re up there gabbing at each other, using more words than any decent human would.”

  “Any decent human but Amero,” Lyopi observed dryly. The laughter started anew.

  *

  Amero found the Silvanesti, as Duranix had told the others, at the old foundry. When he arrived, still brimming with enthusiasm for his mating day, the elves were busily cleaning and packing their gear.

  Balif returned Amero’s greeting but declined his invitation to join the feast. The elf lord knew there were still many in Karada’s band unwilling to share a cup with a

  Silvanesti. As he pointed out, the converse was also true. Few were the elves in Silvanost who would willingly dine with a human. In any event, he and hi
s soldiers were busy preparing for the next day’s departure.

  The Silvanesti were certainly diligent and organized. Four elves were doing nothing but polishing bronze – sword blades, knives, buckles, gorgets. Others were down by the lake, washing mantles and leggings, while another half-dozen carefully packed their loose gear in bundles.

  “Would you and Farolenu come just for a short time, to see me mated?” asked Amero. “It would be a great honor to me.” He explained their custom.

  “I would be happy to attend,” Balif said, bowing. Farolenu likewise accepted.

  Amero was ready to lead them back right then, but the elf lord begged for time to change into clean attire. It was agreed to delay the mating declaration until Soli appeared in the southwest. That would give Balif and his bronzesmith time to prepare themselves.

  When the Arkuden had hurried away, Balif turned to his nearest elves. “Did you get them?” he asked, keeping his voice low, even though he was speaking in his own tongue now.

  “Yes, my lord,” said an elf, on his knees packing.

  “Show me.”

  Making sure no humans were in sight, the fellow unrolled the bundle he’d been working on. In it were four bowstaves, bowstrings, and ten arrows.

  “How did you acquire them?”

  “As you suggested, my lord. We traded bronze and gold to some nomads for them. We have seven complete weapons and twenty missiles.”

  Farolenu, already pulling on his best tunic and mantle, asked, “My lord, do you think what we’re doing is honorable? Aren’t we betraying the humans’ trust?”

  “We are,” was Balif’s candid reply. “But we have given the Arkuden the secret of bronze. It seems only fair we take something in trade – something in addition to our lives, I mean.”

  Every elf knew what was at stake. The nomads’ bows and arrows could devastate any Silvanesti army in their path. To avoid this disaster, the elves had to learn to use the new weapons themselves. Balif had agonized over his subterfuge, but he felt he had no choice.

  “By maintaining a balance, we shall endeavor to keep the peace,” Balif promised. “Come, Farolenu, we have been honored with an invitation. Let’s do our duty by the Arkuden.”