Sister of the Sword

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Lyopi is gone,” Beramun said. “Talk.”

  “My guards tell me you’ve taken a mate, but they wouldn’t say who he was,” Zannian replied.

  “Strange to say, he was one of your men. Harak.”

  If she’d slapped him, she couldn’t have shaken the ex-raider chief more. His tanned face paled below the bandages around his eyes. His throat worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he forced a smile and said, “I can understand why he wants you, but how did he convince you to accept him? Did he use an amulet, as the nomad tried on Karada?”

  She said nothing, refusing to be baited. Zannian took a step closer to her voice. She backed away, and he smiled unpleasantly.

  “He’s known many women, you know. Cut quite a swath through the captives we took to Almurk. Had a taste for red hair, as I recall, so he’s changed just for you —”

  She struck him open-handed across the jaw. No dainty girl, she rocked Zannian back on his heels. He laughed triumphantly.

  “You must care if you hit me!”

  Beramun backed away again, working to regain her composure. “Has anyone explained what’s to become of you?” she asked finally.

  The odd lilt in her voice gave him pause, but he said jauntily, “With the Arkuden dead, I guess Karada will have my head on stick.”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “You’re to live in Yala-tene, forever. The villagers will feed you and take care of you like a child. They’ll lead you where you need to go and keep you clean, but you’ll never be allowed outside the walls of the town.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s what the rest of your life will be like, great raider chief. Every day will be just the same, and you shall live and die in darkness.”

  Zannian was shaken by the time she finished. He let out a howl, then lunged at her. Lyopi stood to come to her aid, but Beramun waved the other woman off as she easily evaded him.

  “I’ll escape!” he declared, head whipping left and right. “My eyes will heal, and I’ll escape!”

  “Your sight will never return. You’ll dwell in this village until you’re old and feeble as well as blind. And since you’ve told us there is no more Menni, now there will also be no more Zannian. You’re to have a new name, one befitting your new life – Horiden, ‘the Sightless One.’”

  “Amero wouldn’t let you do this!” he said, voice rising high.

  “Amero is dead, and this is not my doing. I would gladly grant your wish and take the head from your shoulders, but it wasn’t my decision to make.”

  She expected him to rage or even plead for a warrior’s death, but he did neither. He mastered himself, then smiled broadly. That smile unnerved Beramun more than naked rage.

  “If you want me dead, then I’m happy,” he declared. “And make no mistake – I will see again, and I will escape this blighted valley. I shall forge an even greater band of raiders next time. You’ll see! My mistake was getting involved with Nacris and the green dragon. They were twisted by ancient hatreds. I’ll create a new brotherhood of true warriors, greater than Karada’s band, and sweep all before me....”

  So consumed was he by his grand dream that he didn’t notice Beramun had left him. Lyopi came and took the rope from her. The women embraced.

  “Farewell and be well,” Beramun whispered.

  “Peace to you, and all your kin,” Lyopi murmured back. Behind them, Zannian ranted on. Lyopi squeezed Beramun’s arms and asked, “Do me one favor, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Name your first son Amero, will you? He’d like that.”

  Beramun felt tears start. She kept them in check and smiled.

  “I will.”

  She left the village by the west baffle and returned on foot to the nomad’s camp. She never set foot in Yala-tene again, nor met anyone who lived there for the rest of her long, long life.

  *

  Dawn was near, and still Karada kept her place atop the cliff. She did not sleep, for she did not want to dream. When she heard the rush of wings, she looked up and saw Duranix descending through the broken clouds.

  He landed nearby. She saw he had something clutched in one foreclaw. When the dragon opened his talons, Mara’s limp form rolled out on the ground.

  “I was beginning to think you’d lit out for good,” Karada said good-humoredly. She checked the girl. Mara had swooned from fear and the rush of traveling so high in the air, but she was very much alive. Karada quickly gagged her and tied her hands and feet.

  Earlier, Duranix had carried Amero’s body to the cave they’d once shared. He swept aside the ashes from the old hearth and laid his friend there, piling loose stones over him. Then, with claws and fire, he sealed the outer openings – first the largest one behind the waterfall, then Amero’s smaller, personal entrance, where his hoist used to be. Lastly, the dragon closed the unfinished third entrance Amero had meant for Duranix to use when in human form. The cave was now secure, save for the vent holes. Duranix clung to the rocky ceiling with his claws and butted his homed head against the vents, breaking them open into a single hole large enough for him to crawl through.

  Now, having returned with Mara, he and Karada would conduct their private justice.

  With Karada in one foreclaw and the unconscious Mara in the other, Duranix stepped into the open hole and dropped back into the black cave. The fall into total darkness tested even Karada’s nerves. She gripped Duranix’s hard-scaled claw until she felt the rush of wind past her ears ease, signaling he’d opened his broad wings and was slowing their descent.

  The dragon landed heavily. His massive hind legs took up the shock and spared his passengers. Setting Karada down, Duranix exhaled a small bolt of lightning into a pile of charred wood he’d scraped up earlier from around the cave. A smoky red fire flared.

  Clomping across the rough stone floor, Duranix laid the unconscious Mara across the heap of stones that was Amero’s grave. Turning his huge, reptilian head suddenly, he said to Karada, “She’ll die slowly in here, of starvation.”

  “Only if she chooses to.”

  Karada went to the pile of stones. From her belt she drew a short bronze dagger – the same one Mara had used to kill Amero. She put the dagger in Mara’s slack hand.

  The fire was already dwindling. Duranix picked Karada up in a hind claw and launched himself at the roof. When he reached the opening, he had to close his wings and grip the edge of the hole with his foreclaws. He worked himself through.

  Putting the woman down, Duranix covered the opening with great slabs of gray slate and yellow sandstone. He was satisfied, but his companion wasn’t, not yet. Karada found a large stone and fitted it onto the pile, closing the last small gap.

  They walked to the edge of the cliff. Below them the waterfall foamed and thundered.

  “Where will you go?” she shouted over the water’s roar.

  “I have a place in mind. A long way away, but the company promises to be congenial.”

  “Human?”

  His barbels twitched. “I said congenial. A dragon, if you must know, of my bronze race.”

  “Female?” she asked. He nodded his horned head, human-fashion.

  “I’m tired of humans,” Duranix replied. “Maybe in a hundred years or so I’ll be able to stand them again.”

  She looked up at him. “Some of us won’t be around in a hundred years.”

  He brought his huge face close, eyelids clashing like swords. “You’ll live longer than I,” he told her. “When my bones are dust and my scales gone to verdigris, plainsmen will sing of Karada, the Scarred One, the greatest hunter and warrior of them all. They already make up songs about you.”

  “I don’t listen to such nonsense.”

  “Sometimes there’s truth in nonsense.” He lifted his head and spread his wings.

  “You’re leaving now?” she said. “The folk in Yala-tene will miss saying farewell.”

  “It’s better I go now. Less trouble. Less fuss. Goodbye, Karada.�
��

  She put out her hand, touching his massive flank. “Nianki.”

  Duranix balanced on his rear claws, poised for flight. “Farewell then, Nianki. Be worthy of your honor in all things.”

  He leaped from the precipice, flying through the cloud of mist perpetually suspended over the falls. For a while his bronze skin glistened in the first, faint light of dawn, then he was so far away all she could see of him was a black silhouette against the indigo sky.

  Chapter 22

  Nomads breaking camp was always a noisy affair. Amid much shouting and grunting, the rings of tents came down, each hide hut sending up a cloud of dust when it collapsed. As was traditional, the older children struck the tents, under the supervision of the elders. While this was going on, warrior-age nomads saw to their horses and movable gear.

  In the center of this maelstrom, Karada sat on her horse, strangely quiescent. She watched the dusty, churning proceedings with a detachment she did not ordinarily feel. Those close to her attributed her reflective mood to Amero’s death, and they were right.

  Beramun approached on foot, black hair coated with yellow dust. She hailed her chief and adopted mother. Karada smiled down at her and held out a leather-wrapped gourd of cool water.

  Beramun rinsed her parched mouth and spat out the resulting mud. “I bring word from Harak and the former raiders,” she said. “They want to know where in the column they should travel.”

  “At the rear,” Karada said, taking back the gourd. “We’ve no horses to spare for them, so they’ll walk at the rear, with the travois.”

  “Harak too?”

  Karada sipped cool lake water. She’d grown to like its mineral bite again. “Harak too. I can’t favor him over the others, Beramun. They’d hate him for it. If the raiders prove themselves worthy, we’ll find mounts for them later on. And no, he can’t ride double with you. It’s too hard on the horse.” Seeing Beramun’s disappointment, she added, not unkindly, “Harak will not object, and his good behavior will make him all the more pleasing to his men.”

  Beramun smiled. The excitement of leaving the Valley of the Falls more than compensated for a temporary separation from her mate.

  Looking past Karada at the village, Beramun saw dust rising from the vicinity of the north baffle.

  “Someone’s coming from Yala-tene,” she said.

  Karada sighed. “More elders to talk us to death. I’ve never known folk who talk so much. Wasn’t ‘good-bye’ yesterday enough?”

  Beramun frowned, shading her eyes. “There’s a lot of them – not just a party of elders.”

  Karada turned her wheat-colored horse around to see for herself. Sure enough, a sizable troop of people was coming toward them from the village.

  “Find Pakito,” she said tersely. “Send him to me. If you see Bahco first, send him too.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably nothing. Go on, do as I say.”

  Beramun sprinted into the chaotic scene, darting to and fro around horses and collapsing tents. By the time Pakito and Bahco returned, the people from Yala-tene were clearly visible. There must have been two hundred of them, all heavily laden with bundles and packs.

  Leading the marching villagers was the young hunter Hekani. When he reached the nomad chief, he signaled those behind him to stop. The burdened villagers gratefully set down their bags and rested in the morning heat.

  “Greetings, great chief!” Hekani said. “We’ve come to join you.”

  “What?” Bahco and Pakito exclaimed simultaneously.

  “We want to join your band,” Hekani said, sweeping his arm back to encompass all the people behind him.

  “What are you talking about?” said Karada. “You’re not nomads!”

  “We shall be, if you’ll have us. Since the Arkuden’s death and the dragon’s departure, a lot of us felt it wasn’t worth going on here. Everyone you see this morning has chosen to leave Yala-tene and join with you.”

  Karada looked pained, and Bahco said, “Not one in ten of you has a horse! And none of you is accustomed to walking long distances. How will you keep up with us?”

  “There must be more horses on the plains,” Hekani replied.

  “But you’re all just a bunch of mud-toes!” Pakito blurted, then looked sheepish. “What I mean is, life on the plain is hard, not at all like living in comfortable stone piles.”

  “We’re not all so long off the plains that we’ve forgotten what it’s like,” retorted an older woman behind Hekani. “And life hasn’t been that easy in Yala-tene lately.”

  “We fought Zannian longer than you did,” Hekani said proudly. “I’m a hunter myself. As for riding – well, we can learn, can’t we? You won’t have to take care of us. We have a lot of skills among us – flint knapping, metalworking, tanning, pot-making, gardening. We’ll make our own way, and share our skills with your people.”

  Karada was shaking her head. “You’d slow the band too much.” She looked over the composition of the crowd and added, “Besides, if so many young folk leave, what will become of those who stay behind?”

  From the crowd at Hekani’s back stepped Jenla, the planter. “I came with Hekani to answer that question, Karada.”

  The nomad chieftain nodded at the formidable old woman, and Jenla said, “As near as I can tell, I’ve seen fifty-six summers. I know I wouldn’t have lived so long, had it not been for the Arkuden and his village. Now I’m too old to wander, and Yala-tene will be my home until I die.

  “Many old people in the village feel as I do. We’ll stay in the valley, dragon or no dragon, Arkuden or no Arkuden. We have our gardens, our orchard, and our thick stone walls.”

  Hekani spoke again. “For us” – he gestured to the crowd behind him – “that’s not enough. We want a leader of power and spirit. The Arkuden was strong in wisdom and kindness, but we’ve learned the hard way that’s not enough. Even having a dragon as our protector didn’t prevent the raiders from attacking us. The way to be free is to be strong. We want to follow you, Karada.”

  She took a long time before replying, her eyes sweeping over them. Finally she spoke loud enough for all to hear, “If you think life will be better with me on the plain, you’re fools. Stay here. Grow your gardens and live inside your stone walls. That’s the best choice for you.”

  Amid mutters from the crowd, she called to Pakito and Bahco, and the three of them rode off. A short distance away, they stopped and looked back. “They’re not leaving,” Bahco reported.

  The villagers milled about where Karada had left them, watching them from a small hill west of the nomads’ camp.

  Karada didn’t turn around, but said, “Let’s see what they’re made of. If they can keep up with us, I’ll take them in.”

  “They’re not nomads,” Bahco objected.

  “Neither were you when we met. You crossed the sea in a basket of logs, seeking a new land. Was I wrong to take you in when you asked to join Karada’s band?”

  He grinned. “No. And we call those baskets of logs ‘ships,’ chief.”

  She waved a hand, dismissing Bahco’s ships, then twisted right and left on her horse, saying, “Anyone seen our highborn hostage this morning?”

  “Balif and his soldiers were waiting for us at sunrise,” Pakito said. “I told them to march with the raider-men. Might as well keep all our troubles in one pouch, eh?”

  Karada sighed. “As if those were our only troubles! Very well, Pakito, lead the band into Bearclaw Gap. Bahco, hold back a hundred riders, and let the raiders and elves enter the pass ahead of you. You follow them through till we reach open ground again.” The two men nodded, and she sent for Targun.

  The old nomad rode up to Karada on his dappled mare, the same horse he’d ridden out of the Valley of the Falls thirteen years earlier. Karada gave him charge of the travois and those folk on foot. He asked about the young people from Yala-tene still milling about on the hill.

  “Ignore them,” she said. “If they can keep up with us, we might take
them in.”

  She gave more orders, and the nomad band sorted itself accordingly. Pakito led the foremost riders into Bearclaw Gap. As they rode away, Beramun, mounted now, cantered up to her informally adopted mother and was told to stay close to “learn how to lead a band.”

  Beramun put her horse alongside Karada’s. Pakito’s nomads rode past, waving and calling their chiefs name. She did not return their salutes but watched impassively as they passed.

  “Don’t you answer their hails?” Beramun asked in a low voice.

  “Only in battle. All other times I assume a lofty air. It gives them confidence.” At Beramun’s confused expression, Karada smiled ever so faintly. “A stern face helps them believe I’m thinking deep, wise thoughts on their behalf.”

  Beramun had a lot yet to learn about being chief. She laughed long and loud at Karada’s admission, and all the riders passing gawked at her in surprise.

  *

  The elves shouldered their packs and marched out. At their head, Balif set the pace.

  “I’m glad to see the end of this valley,” Farolenu said, walking at his lord’s side. “Too much suffering and sorrow happened here.”

  Balif made no comment, and they trudged in silence a while. Then the elf lord said, “What will you do first when we get home, Faro?”

  “Bathe,” said the bronzesmith. “In heated water. And love my wife.”

  “In that order?”

  “Arikina, my wife, will insist on that order. What will you do, my lord?”

  “I shall dine on nothing but fruit for thirty days – washed down with the rarest nectar in Silvanost. The coarse food these humans eat has aged me a century.”

  Farolenu looked forward and back at the lines of humans on foot and horseback. “So many of them,” he remarked. “For short-lived creatures, they breed quickly!”

  “Too quickly. Our sovereign and his counselors must understand that.” Balif spotted the mounted figures of Karada and the black-haired girl she’d taken as her daughter. “Many things need to be explained to the Speaker. Many things..