by Dragon Lance
Shaking off her loneliness, she slipped into the water. It was a long way, even for as strong a swimmer as she, so she floated out on the trunk of a dead tree, toppled earlier in a storm. Hooking the trunk under her arms, Beramun paddled into the wide river, hoping there were no dangerous beasts lurking beneath its placid surface.
The crossing was long but tranquil enough. She slogged ashore on the east bank and immediately spotted a cut through the wall of willow trees. Closer inspection revealed hoofprints, a good sign. Amero had said Karada’s band rode horses.
Beramun walked through the gap in the trees and spotted a trail winding away into the high grass. Before she’d gone ten steps, a rough net of woven vines dropped over her. Amid deep-voiced yells, she was swept off her feet and dragged pell-mell through the grass.
Beramun shouted and kicked at the sturdy net as she bumped painfully over rocks and roots. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, her trip ended. One edge of the net was pulled hard, rolling her out into the grass.
She sat up, furious. Her protests died in her throat when she saw her captors.
They were centaurs – four dark, heavily muscled horsemen. One flanked her on each side, and two others stood in front of her. They were armed with long-handled clubs, blackened by years of bloodstains.
The largest centaur asked a question in his own tongue.
“My name is Beramun,” she said, guessing at his inquiry. She tried to stand, but the centaurs behind her tripped her. She rolled over and yelled, “I’ve done you no harm! Why do you attack me?”
Big Centaur yelled right back, saliva flying from his lips. Beramun thought of her bronze dagger. Usually she wore it in a sheath at her waist, but for swimming, she’d tucked it in back of the collar of her shirt. It was still there, and the centaurs hadn’t found it.
The chief centaur uttered a long imperative phrase that ended in what sounded like “seelwanest.” He pointed south with a thick finger. Beramun had a glimmer of understanding. She faced the chief and mimicked his gesture.
“Silvanesti?” she said.
He bobbed his shaggy head. “Seelwanest.”
They were taking her to the elves!
“No Silvanesti,” Beramun said, shaking her head vigorously. She raised her left hand and pointed northeast. “I’m here to find Karada. Karada!”
The centaurs instantly lost their bored manner. Big Centaur stepped forward and grabbed Beramun by her hair.
“Karada?” he roared, followed by undeniably ugly denunciation. He shook her like a panther worrying a fresh kill. Beramun, blind with pain, clawed and struck the centaur’s brawny arms. With a final exclamation of hatred, he threw her to the ground.
The leader spoke, and two of his companions took hold of Beramun’s arms, pulling her to her knees. The third stretched her head back. Wide-eyed, she saw the big centaur raise his club high —
There was a meaty thunk, and a long, slender wooden shaft, tipped with gray feathers, appeared in the centaur’s ribs. Blood welled out around the shaft.
The chief centaur’s front knees buckled, and a second shaft sprouted from his chest. When a third appeared in his throat, he toppled to the side with a feeble grunt.
The remaining centaurs released Beramun and galloped away. One of them received a wooden shaft in his back. He stumbled, calling out to his friends. They kept going and did not look back. Weaving from side to side, the wounded centaur tried to catch up with his fellows.
Beramun’s shocked gaze left her erstwhile captors and turned to her savior.
It was a woman, striding through the waist-high grass. Lean, clad in tan, close-fitting buckskins, the stranger had sun-gilded brown hair pulled back in a thick braid that reached to her waist. Her face and arms were brown as leather from years in the sun. She wore a spirit mark – three short horizontal lines of white paint on her forehead. What
Beramun first took to be other painted lines on her throat and jaw turned out to be massive scars, which did not tan as darkly as the rest of her skin. Though not really a handsome woman, she was tall and had an arresting presence.
Halting a pace away from Beramun, the woman raised an amazing device. It was a long, bent piece of wood. The two ends were joined by a taut length of sinew. She fitted one of the slender wooden shafts – it looked like a miniature spear, with a flint head on one end and feathers on the other – against the sinew and drew it back with her fingers while holding the wooden part at arm’s length. The stave flexed deeply. Releasing her grip, the woman sent the tiny, feathered spear winging toward the wounded centaur. It struck him in the hindquarters. He went down, disappearing in the tall grass.
At last the woman took notice of Beramun. “All right, girl?” she asked. Her accent was odd, but her words understandable.
Beramun, still stunned by her last-second reprieve, stuttered, “I am. Yes. Thank you!”
“Good.”
She made for the spot where the second centaur had fallen, Beramun following. Along the way, she slipped the dart thrower over her head for carrying and drew a wickedly long bronze knife.
The centaur was lying on his side, breathing raggedly. When he saw the two women approaching, he struggled to rise. He failed and lay bleeding in the grass.
The woman said a sentence in the harsh centaur tongue. Rage, impotent but genuine, bloomed on the wounded creature’s face.
“What did you say?” Beramun asked.
“I told him to prepare to meet his ancestors.”
“You mean to kill him?” At the woman’s curt nod, Beramun added, “You must not!”
The woman pondered a moment, then reversed her grip on the knife. “You’re right. You should do it.” She offered the handle to Beramun.
“No! I mean you should spare him. I’m not hurt, and he’s suffered enough.”
Studying her with penetrating, hazel eyes, the woman flipped the knife back again into her right hand. “He’s got one arrow in his lung and another in his haunch,” she said. “If we leave him here, he’ll die slowly – unless wolves or panthers get him first.”
Beramun looked at the wounded centaur. One hoof, held off the ground, trembled. The centaur’s face was twisted in agony, his breathing shallow and short. Though he and his companions had tried to kill her, she felt no pleasure at his condition.
He gasped a few words. Beramun looked questioningly at the woman, who translated. “He says he hurts and I should finish him. He laid hands on you, girl. What do you say?”
“Do what you must,” Beramun said. She turned away.
After a moment, the woman, wiping her blade with a tuft of plucked grass, caught up to Beramun.
“I don’t know why they attacked me,” Beramun said.
“The big one, Ponaz, was a vicious renegade.” The woman sheathed her knife and took her dart-throwing device in hand again. “He and his sons capture humans to sell to the Silvanesti. The elves pay in flint and hides.” She gave Beramun a thoughtful look. “They pay more for a live human than a dead one. I wonder why Ponaz was willing to lower your value?”
Beramun fingered her bruised head. “I think it’s because I mentioned Karada.”
The stranger laughed. “That would do it. Karada and Ponaz have had a blood feud going for quite a while. He must’ve thought you were one of her band.”
The woman’s long gait forced Beramun to jog to keep up. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Again, that disconcertingly direct gaze was leveled at her. “Why do you want to know?” the woman asked.
“I’m a wanderer, new to these parts. I was sent to find Karada.”
“Were you? Who sent you?”
“Her brother, the Arkuden of Yala-tene.”
The woman halted. She didn’t draw her knife or load her dart thrower, but Beramun had the distinct feeling she was in peril.
“Centaurs aren’t the only ones who take payment from the elves,” the woman said slowly. “The Silvanesti have a price on Karada’s head – one hundred jewels or one hu
ndred pounds of fine bronze. Such wealth could easily turn a girl’s head.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Beramun replied, trying to stay calm.
Plainly evaluating her, the woman asked, “What is the Arkuden’s true name?”
“True name? Amero. It’s Amero.”
A nod. “And the dragon who guards Arku-peli – what’s he called?”
“Duranix.”
“Right again. What was Karada’s birth name?”
Beramun felt panic rise in her chest. She had no idea.
“Well?” demanded the woman.
“I don’t know. Amero never told me.”
The woman resumed walking. Beramun ran to catch up. “Do you know where I can find Karada?”
“Karada’s dead. She died in battle years ago.”
Beramun was desperate. “Well then, does her band yet survive?” There was no answer, and Beramun’s voice rose. “Please! I must find them! I’m the last of eight scouts sent to find Karada. All the rest were killed. Yala-tene is under attack and will fall soon if someone doesn’t help! Amero and all his people will perish!”
“The Silvanesti have attacked Arku-peli?”
“No. Human raiders, under a chief named Zannian. They fight for a green dragon called Sthenn, and they mean to destroy Yala-tene completely!”
“Where’s Duranix? Why doesn’t he save his people?”
Keeping pace with this elk-muscled woman made Beramun pant. “He left the valley... chasing Sthenn, and won’t return... till the green dragon’s... dead.”
In a stand of poplar trees the woman had tethered a horse. It was a beautiful animal, wheat-colored, with a long white mane and tail. A finely woven blanket lay across its back. Untying the reins, the woman mounted easily.
“You seem honest enough,” she said, wrapping the reins around one hand and extending the other to Beramun. “I’ll take you to Karada’s band, but if you have treachery in mind, you’ll die much less cleanly than that centaur.”
Swallowing hard, Beramun took the woman’s hand. She was very strong, and effortlessly hauled the girl onto the horse behind her.
“Their camp is a half day’s journey from here. Have you ridden before?”
“A little.” She put her arms around the nomad woman’s waist. “My name’s Beramun. What shall I call you?”
The woman pulled her horse’s head around and thumped its ribs with her heels. “Call me Nianki,” she said.
*
The camp was a collection of tents and sod huts, cunningly hidden. Various traps and obstacles Beramun reckoned were meant to fend off attacks by the Silvanesti guarded the perimeter. There were pits covered with twigs and grass (for trapping enemies on horseback), dense hedges of thorn-bush and holly, fences of sharpened stakes arranged with the points raking outward, ditches full of water, and deadfall traps loaded with boulders and masses of earth. Nianki rode in carefully, avoiding each trap. The path was so intricate Beramun knew she could never have gotten in without a guide.
The camp proper was hidden behind a pair of hills, invisible to a casual observer. One moment Beramun and Nianki were riding along a narrow path between the hills, and in the blink of an eye, ten score dwellings appeared, arranged in three concentric circles around a central fire-pit. It was a busy scene, with half-naked children dashing about, dogs barking, artisans making baskets, blankets, and the little spears for Nianki’s throwing stick (“arrows,” she called them). Deeper in the camp were horse pens crowded with fine-looking animals. Beramun estimated there were five or six hundred people living here.
Few were as fair-haired as Nianki. Most had brown or black hair, like Beramun’s. There were also quite a few black men and women from across the northern sea, like Huru and Paharo back in Yala-tene. She wondered if any of these nomads came from her homeland on the southern plain.
People waved to Nianki as she cantered past, but no one displayed much curiosity about Beramun.
Nianki rode up to a large tent near the main firepit. Throwing a leg over her horse’s neck, she dropped to the ground. Beramun, less practiced, managed a barely controlled fall.
“Stay by me,” Nianki said tersely. Beramun followed like her shadow.
The tent was all one spacious room, with a high, pointed roof supported by a tripod of lashed poles. A simple stone hearth filled the center of the room, and the rest of the tent was dotted with baskets and pottery jugs, grass mats and fur blankets. When Nianki entered, someone at the back of the tent stood. Beramun’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she saw a girl about her own age – Nianki’s daughter, perhaps.
“Welcome home,” said the girl. She hurried over, bearing a tall, painted pot and cup. She poured pale yellow liquid into the cup and offered it respectfully to Nianki. From where she stood, Beramun smelled wine, though she’d never seen any that wasn’t red.
“Mara, this is Beramun. Make her comfortable until I return.” Nianki drained the cup and tossed it back to the girl. To Beramun, she said, “Wait here until I come back for you. If I find you outside, I’ll take you for a spy and deal with you accordingly.” She left.
Taking the initiative, Beramun introduced herself.
“I’m Mara,” the girl replied. She had curly red hair and a round, freckled face. “Would you like some nectar?”
“Water would be better.”
Mara scurried away to fetch it. Returning with a cup of water, she held it out to Beramun, eyes downcast. Her deference made Beramun uncomfortable.
Mara asked, “Have you known her long?”
“Nianki? We just met today.” She described her encounter with the centaurs.
“Ponaz dead? There’ll be rejoicing in camp when that news spreads!”
Beramun sat on a pile of furs. There was something about Mara, her manner or way of speaking, that seemed odd and out of place here. Nervous and thin, she resembled Nianki not at all. If not a daughter, was she a captive? Her bearing was unhappily similar to the raiders’ slaves.
“Are you a prisoner?” Beramun said abruptly.
Mara looked startled. “No! I’m very happy to be under my lady’s protection.”
My lady? Beramun had never heard such a term before. “Where are you from? You’re not one of these nomads.”
Mara edged away. “I am one now.”
“Have you been with them long? I need to know what kind of people these are. I’m on a mission, you see, from Yala-tene —”
Mara’s green eyes widened. She dropped the water urn. The thick clay broke, spilling water on the grass floor mats. “Yala-tene!”
“You know it?”
“I was born there!”
Though hesitant at first, Mara told her story at Beramun’s urging.
Her father was an ox herder in Yala-tene, and she’d been an acolyte of the Sensarku. She’d gone on a journey over the mountains with another acolyte, a centaur, and the Sensarku leader, Tiphan, Konza’s son.
“Tiphan?” Beramun said. “I met him.”
“The wretch!” Mara’s unassuming manner vanished as anger brought a flush to her pale cheeks. “The cowardly dog! He abandoned Elu and me to the Silvanesti!”
“Don’t worry. He didn’t prosper after he left you.” Beramun told her of Tiphan’s death and the fate of rest of the Sensarku. If she thought the news would comfort Mara, she was wrong.
Mara wept. She poured out her grief to Beramun – grief for her friends and fellow acolytes slain, and despite herself, sorrow for Tiphan, too. Though arrogant and selfish, he had been her leader for many years and losing him was losing a large part of her past.
Beramun patted her back consolingly. “Whatever else he may have done, he died bravely, trying to destroy the green dragon,” she said.
Mara lifted her tear-streaked face. “Green dragon?”
Now it was Beramun’s turn to talk. She spared Mara nothing, beginning with the night she’d been captured by the raiders, through her escape from Almurk, to her final mission to find help for Amero’s people.<
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“If only these nomads would ride to the valley and settle Zannian for good!”
Mara brushed her tears away and composed herself. “They will go,” she said. “She is his sister, after all.”
“What? Who’s sister?”
“The Arkuden’s. Karada, born Nianki, daughter of Oto and Kinar, is the Arkuden’s sister.”
Beramun jumped to her feet. Nianki was Karada? She dashed to the tent flap and threw it open. There was Nianki – Karada – sitting on a stone, just outside.
Karada looked at her. “Where are you going?”
“To find you!” Beramun replied.
“Didn’t I tell you not to leave the tent?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you were Karada.”
The famed nomad warrior stood and ducked under the flap. Beramun backed inside, more intimidated than ever.
“She’s telling the truth, isn’t she?” Karada said.
“I believe her,” Mara replied, and bent to pick up the pieces of the broken water jug.
“So do I.” Karada crossed the tent to the hearth.
Unable to bear the suspense, Beramun demanded, “Well? Are you going to help us? Will you ride to Yala-tene?”
Karada gazed at the smoldering embers in the firepit. “No,” she said.
Beramun was stunned. “How can you say that? Amero is your brother!”
Like a viper striking, Karada turned and thrust a finger into Beramun’s face. “I know who he is,” she said coldly. “His troubles are his own, just as mine are my own. I never asked Amero for help against the Silvanesti. Why should he want me to save him from this Zannian?”
Beramun stood her ground, though she was shaking inside. “Because everything he’s ever done will be lost if Zannian wins – the village, the valley, all the people of Yala-tene. How can you let that happen?”
“He must rely on his own strength and not try to borrow mine.” Karada sat down on the warm hearthstones. Once she’d finished clearing away the broken jug, Mara came and sat at Karada’s feet.