by Dragon Lance
“Mara didn’t tell you her whole story,” she said. Karada brushed her hand over the girl’s thick auburn hair. “After her leader abandoned her, Mara was captured by the Silvanesti.
They took her to Thalasbec, a town on the northern border of their forest. She was given to an elf warrior named Tamanithas, to work in his household as a slave. The Silvanesti were not cruel to her – at least, not in the way your Zannian is to his captives, but they broke her will until she was utterly compliant. She would be there still if I hadn’t raided Thalasbec in early summer.”
“You freed her?”
Karada shrugged. “Tamanithas is an old enemy. My warriors sacked the town, and I myself put the torch to his great house. As the flames took hold, Mara ran out, knife in hand, and attacked me.”
Beramun was surprised by this, and Karada explained. “So deeply had the elves taken hold of her. mind, she thought of herself only as their property and not as a free person. I might have slain her out of hand, but as I had torches in both fists, all I could do was knock her down. After setting the fire, I brought her back here. So far, all she’s done is transfer her slavish allegiance from Tamanithas to me. One day I’ll find a way to awaken her pride again.”
Beramun was touched by the tale, which in some ways paralleled her own, but she didn’t see what it had to do with saving Yala-tene. She said so.
“Raiders are nothing,” Karada told her. “There will always be violent, ambitious men willing to take from others by force. I have built my band up from nothing to take on the Silvanesti and end their tyranny.
“Five years ago I almost died fighting them. I led fourteen survivors – fourteen! – out of a fiery trap into the deepest wilderness I could find. Now we are seven hundred strong, enough to make life hard for any elves who try to take the northern plain from us. I intend to free humans like Mara who’ve been enslaved, their hearts and minds stolen by the elves’ subtle power. That’s why I can’t ride to Yala-tene, Beramun. A greater task awaits me here.”
Beramun sagged to the floor, crushed. She’d come so far, fought so hard, left Udi to die, had nearly been killed herself by centaurs, and it had all been for nothing.
“Stay as long as you like,” Karada said, rising to go. “The freedom of the camp is yours.”
Beramun shook her head wearily. “I must go back. People are counting on me. I want them to know I did my task.”
“I understand. You’re a strong girl. You’d do well in my band. If you live, come back and join us.”
“I don’t expect to live,” Beramun said flatly.
Chapter 25
Hoten emerged from the river. Nacris had an obsession about cleanliness and required him to bathe every few days. She herself bathed in a private pool dug behind Zannian’s great tent.
Hoten put on his leggings, kilt, and shirt. It was a hot evening, and he’d be dry soon enough. He saw more rafts, laden with wood for tonight’s fires, coming over from the west bank. The slaves were already erecting several large piles in the center of the camp. By the look of things, it was going to be another lively night.
The revels were Nacris’s idea. The bored raiders needed something to keep their morale up as they waited for the villagers to starve and weaken. Zannian had gone on a long ride, hunting the black-haired girl. In his absence, Nacris had begun the nightly feasts. The well-being of the band wasn’t her only motive. As she explained it, the defenders of Arku-peli would be greatly disheartened if they saw the abundance being enjoyed outside their walls.
There was a stir in camp as a column of riders arrived. Hoten hurried up the hill to see what was what. He soon heard Zannian’s name on everyone’s lips. Their chief had returned and was in a foul mood.
Six days he’d tracked back and forth across the eastern plain, and never once had he picked up Beramun’s trail. Hot, tired, and angry, he’d returned to camp and found preparations for a feast underway. Flattered at first, thinking Nacris had anticipated his return, his mood quickly turned black when he discovered the celebrations had been going on for days.
Hoten entered the tent in time to hear Zan dressing down his mother.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I gave no permission for festivities! You don’t lead this band. I do!”
“It was for the good of all,” she replied, unmoved by his temper. “The men need diversion.” She went on to describe her vision of the revels as a taunt to the besieged villagers.
Turning to Hoten, Zannian demanded, “Do you support this?”
“I didn’t at first, but the men’s spirits have definitely improved since we started.”
Zannian grudgingly gave permission for the carousing to continue. He washed his face and hands in the river and returned, only to be confronted with Nacris’s questions about his hunting expedition.
“So, you didn’t find the girl?” she said.
“No,” he answered sullenly. “There’s probably nothing to find but bones by now anyway. If heat and thirst didn’t finish her, a panther likely did.”
“I hope not. She was a brave girl. In another time, she would have made a fine member of the band.”
Zannian made a dismissive gesture. “Women can’t fight as well as men.”
“If I had two legs, I’d show you the folly of that statement,” retorted his mother.
The feast got underway. The great fires were laid, and whole oxen were carried in on willow frames to roast in the flames. Hulami’s captured wine had long since been drunk up, but the raiders had been making their own brew using the spoils of the orchard and gardens. Pulped apples and pears made a potent cider.
At sunset the meat was ready. Gorged on beef and cider, the raiders were in an expansive mood. They sang old trail songs until their repertoire gave out. In the silence, Nacris asked Zannian to lead them in a new song. He waved the request aside, but so many raiders roared for him, he relented.
Red-faced with drink, he said, “How about ‘The Endless Plain?’”
This was a slow, sad song, but the men cheered. Their chiefs singing voice was appreciated by all. Zannian began. He had a boy’s voice still, high and clear, and after a verse, the rest of the raiders joined in.
*
Not far away, Amero held up his hand to halt the village raiding party. Those on foot dropped to one knee, and the four impersonating raiders reined in their mounts.
“What is it, Arkuden?” someone hissed.
“Listen!”
“Come walk with me, lonely one
In summer sun or winter rain,
From mountains high to rivers low,
Across the open, endless plain.”
“I know that song,” Amero said.
Lyopi whispered, “I’ve never heard it before, but it sounds like they all know it.”
Amero was shaking his head slowly. “Not the words, the tune – but it can’t be! It comes from a song my mother sang to me. And she made it up! How could —?”
“What’s wrong?” hissed the people farther behind. “Why are we waiting?”
Amero forced himself to shake off the strange feeling. Perhaps some passing nomad had heard his mother singing the song long ago.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The animal pen was between the great tent and the river. Lyopi and the other three mounted villagers split off, riding casually through the darkened edge of the raiders’ camp. Amero led those on foot around the right side of the camp, where a long-ago rock fall created a stony barrier to their progress. Carefully, the villagers climbed over the mound of loose rocks. On the other side, bathed in firelight, was the corral full of sleek, well-fed beasts.
Amero sent four of his people to the corral fence. It was hastily built of split tree trunks and stacked stones, with a few vines to tie it all together. The villagers weakened a wide stretch of wall, leaving only a few trimmed branches in place, then they crept back to the rockpile.
“Bring the oil,” he whispered. Pots of burlnu
t oil were passed forward. Amero took one amphora on his shoulder and slipped down the mound behind the large tent. He poured the brown aromatic oil on the hide wall. It oozed down, soaking into the sandy soil. More jugs were passed to him, and he spread oil all along the side of the tent.
A raider kicked through a flap and stepped unsteadily out. Amero froze in place. The drunken raider answered nature’s call and was about to go back in when he noticed the smell of burlnuts.
“Who’s cookin’?” he muttered. He slipped on the oily sand and fell against the tent. When his comrades came over to pick him up, the more sober ones smelled the oil too. While searching for the source, one of them spotted Amero and raised a cry.
“Now!” Amero yelled, jumping to his feet. “Do it now!”
The villagers had brought hot embers in clay bowls. At Amero’s command, they hurled these at the oil-soaked tent. The embers hit the hide wall in a shower of red sparks. An eyeblink later, the tent erupted in flames.
Raiders groped for their weapons and stumbled to their horses. In the midst of this drunken panic, Amero’s disguised riders galloped through the camp, waving spears and shouting contradictory orders. Lyopi yelled that the bronze dragon was back, breathing fire. Thinking the entire band was about to be incinerated, a sizable number of raiders bolted into the river to escape. Another group of raiders decided the fire was the work of their own slaves and descended upon the poor, sleeping captives. Beaten awake, they were forced to form a human chain from the blazing tent to the lake. Anything that could hold water was carried to the river, filled, then delivered to the flames.
Their mission of confusion done, Lyopi and her companions rode to the corral. Horses, oxen, and goats were jostling each other, lowing nervously.
The four mounted villagers entered the corral, shouting and waving their hands, driving the fearful animals against the fence. It gave way, and the beasts stampeded through the narrow path between the blazing tent and the stony hill. Amero and the villagers on foot ran after the fleeing stock, driving them toward the distant walls of Yala-tene.
The first few oxen had just climbed onto the ramp into the village when the raiders struck. Raggedly they swept forward. A few tried to turn the herd, but the terrified oxen blundered on, trampling anyone in their way Some of the villagers were trapped between the stampeding animals and Zannian’s outraged warriors. Many perished, but the herd kept going.
Amero’s thigh wound opened while he was running. He hobbled on until his leg failed completely, then went down hard. Fortunately the oxen were in front of him, so he was spared being trampled.
“Amero! Watch out!”
He looked up at the warning and saw an armed raider on a huge gray horse thundering toward him. The raider’s spear was aimed directly at Amero’s chest.
*
How many days had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? How many leagues? Duranix no longer knew.
After escaping the collapsed cavern, he’d tracked Sthenn across this vast, unknown continent, over plains and forest, lakes and desert. Though all he found were teasing traces of the evil creature – burned meadows, poisoned forests, slaughtered beasts – it was enough to keep him on the hunt. After six days of constant flight, Duranix came once more to the ocean.
It wasn’t until he climbed high to search the distant horizon that he saw the pattern in Sthenn’s destruction. All the burned and wasted land formed a marker when seen from above. Broader at its base and narrowing to a point, the blackened, poisoned areas formed a spearhead pointing due west. The spear’s tip was a blasted promontory overlooking the sea.
The meaning was unmistakable. Sthenn had gone west, and dared Duranix to follow.
How wide was the world? Duranix, who considered himself an intelligent and wide-ranging dragon, had no idea. Was there an end to the world, a place beyond which Sthenn could not flee? He wanted to think so. Otherwise the chase might go on and on, until both dragons were used up, worn out, and lost.
What choice did he have?
None at all.
Sparing a last thought for Amero and the humans of Yala-tene, Duranix flew on, his nose to the setting sun.
*
The raider’s spear plunged at Amero’s heart.
His injured leg useless beneath him, Amero closed his eyes and waited for the end.
Amid the shouting, the roaring flames, and the bellowing of the frightened oxen, he heard two horses collide and fall. Something hit the ground at his feet. Opening his eyes, he saw the raider who’d been about to spear him was down, as was his gray horse. A second, hooded rider had apparently rammed into him.
The hooded rider lost control of his horse. It bucked and reared, outraged or terrified by the inferno around it. Losing his grip on the horse’s mane, the fellow went flying off.
Thinking he was one of the villagers masquerading as a raider, Amero crawled to the downed rider. He was sitting up, shaking his head. He got to his feet and helped Amero stand. Arms around each other’s waists, they hobbled away as quickly as they could.
“You were lying there like a rabbit!” said the fellow, rough voice muffled by his hood. “Didn’t you see he was going to spit you?”
Teeth gritted against the pain in his leg, Amero growled, “I couldn’t move! It’s my leg —”
“It’s not your leg that’s weak. It’s your head! But your scheme worked!”
It had indeed. Villagers were herding the frightened animals up the waiting ramp.
The rumble of hooves behind them grew louder. Amero wanted to look back, but his unidentified comrade put on more speed.
“Run!” the fellow said. “Just run!”
Amero gave it all he had. The wound in his thigh continued to bleed, but he kept up his awkward, hopping run.
The fire had jumped to other tents and provided plenty of light. Darts were starting to fly, and the missiles thudded into the ground at their heels. Villagers ahead of Amero were hit, but he and his rescuer gained the bottom of the cattle ramp without further injury.
Blood coursed down Amero’s leg. Face chalk-white, he collapsed heavily against the hooded rider. The stranger threw down his weapons and grabbed Amero’s hands. He dragged the half-conscious man up the ramp even as darts and spears thudded around them. Halfway up the ramp, men from the village arrived and relieved the hooded man of his burden. Villagers on the walls hurled stones and spears, keeping the raiders at bay until Amero was safe.
A few daring raiders reached the ramp and urged their horses up. As soon as Amero was atop the wall, men with axes cut the ropes holding the ramp in place. The wide platform crashed to the ground. The villagers shouted and blew horns to signal the success of their raid.
In the midst of the chaos and celebration of their return, Hulami knelt by Amero. He gasped, “How many did we bring back?”
She repeated his question to the stockmen below and relayed their answer: “Twenty-nine oxen and forty-one goats!”
“Good,” he said. “Where’s the fellow who helped me? The one in the mask?”
Hulami looked around. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see him.”
“I owe him my life.”
Amero’s wound was tightly wrapped, and he was carried by litter to Lyopi’s house. The elders gathered outside, but Lyopi’s brother, Unar, stood before the door with his arms crossed. He would not let them disturb the weakened Arkuden.
“Is it serious? Will he live?” asked Hulami.
“He’ll live,” said Lyopi, arriving on the scene at last. “I won’t let him die!”
She pushed past her brother and went inside. The elders, buoyed by the night’s success and Lyopi’s confidence, headed for their homes.
*
“Filthy mud-toes! I’ll pile their heads up higher than their damned wall! The scheming rodents! Make me look like a fool, will they?”
Zannian’s fury went on all night. Once the fire was out, he summoned his chiefs and berated them as drunken, worthless fools. At his back, Nacris and Hoten
listened impassively.
“From now on, I want a standing patrol of twenty men constantly circling the town,” he raged. “Not a mouse gets in or out of there, do you understand? I want corpses sorted and counted! All the dead villagers in our hands are to be put up on stakes in view of the walls! Hoten!”
“Here, Zan.”
“Since the mud-toes want to be tricky, we’ll be tricky, too. Get the slaves to cut branches from the spirit trees and plant them around the camp. In two days we’ll have a wall of our own, and they won’t be able to wander in uninvited!”
“Aye, Zan. It’ll be done at first light.”
“Do it now!” the young chief screamed. “No one sleeps for the rest of this sorry night!” He drew his sword and whipped it in circles around his head. “Mother! Bring me the Jade Men! I have work for them, too!”
The raiders dispersed to their tasks.
Zannian kicked through the ashes of his ruined tent, thinking black thoughts of what he would do to the villagers when they succumbed. His ugly reverie was interrupted by Nacris.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Are you ready now?” she said calmly.
“Ready for what?”
“The course I suggested. The ogres.”
Eyes blazing, Zannian made a fist and raised it to strike her. Nacris never blinked. She stood, braced with her single crutch, and regarded him calmly.
“If you weren’t my mother...” he snarled.
“What difference does it make how we win? What matters is that we conquer. Will you let me bring in Ungrah-de and his warriors? We’ll win with their help.”
Zannian lowered his fist. “Your other plans haven’t brought victory,” he said bitterly.
Nacris laid a hand on his shoulder. He was shaking with rage and frustration. “Be calm, Zanni,” she said. “The wise warrior is the one with the clearest head and the calmest heart.”
He stepped forward suddenly and engulfed her in his arms. Her crutch fell among the ashes. Putting his head down to her shoulder, he held her tightly and sobbed.