by Dragon Lance
Beramun shook her head sadly. “I did not come, I was sent.”
Unmoved, Karada turned her attention to the elves’ game. “Someone pick up that meat! Balif’s hunters went to the trouble to kill those deer. The least we can do is eat them!”
*
They found Balif’s camp just where the bearers said they would, by a small tributary of the Thon-Tanjan. A palisade of sharpened stakes surrounded the tents, and a few mounted warriors stood guard, but the eighty-odd elves in camp were sleeping as Karada closed in around them.
Beramun had never seen bows used at night before. The effect was terrifying. With no more sound than the snap of the bowstring, lethal arrows came flying out of the darkness. Highlighted by the campfires behind them, the mounted guards had no chance. They quickly went down, and Karada sent ten nomads forward to break a hole in the hedge of stakes. Only a small gap in the palisade was opened before the nomads were seen. The rattle of bronze gongs roused the Silvanesti from their slumber.
“Form on me!” Karada called, placing herself at the head of a close column of riders.
“Do we give quarter?” asked Pakito, a giant on a mammoth horse.
The chiefs wheat-colored horse reared as her hands tightened on the reins. “Spare all who lay down their arms!” Karada shouted. “Now, at them!”
Three abreast, the mounted nomads charged through the gap made in the line of stakes. At first there was little resistance. Hastily donning what armor was at hand, the Silvanesti hung back around a central cluster of tents. Several javelins flew at the nomads, emptying a few saddles, but Karada was too canny to ride straight into the center of an aroused enemy camp. She sent half her warriors off to the left, circling just inside the palisade, while she led the rest to the right. A second wave of nomads, headed by Pakito, brought in torches and set fire to the outer ring of tents.
Fire blazed up, revealing the confusing scene. Beramun, armed with an unfamiliar sword, tried to keep pace with Karada. She did not strike a single blow, for the elves had done her no harm, but Silvanesti on foot around her did not realize this. A half-clad elf threw a spear at her. It seemed to leave his hand slowly, then gain frightening speed as it plunged at her face. She brought up her sword to deflect it, but a heedless, howling nomad rode in front of her and took the Silvanesti javelin in the ribs.
Shaking off her battle lethargy, Beramun rode through a gap in the churning crowd toward Karada. The Silvanesti adopted an interesting way of fighting their mounted foes. Instead of trying to make a line, they grouped into small knots of four to six warriors each, presenting a circle of sharp points all around them. They might have held off Karada’s band with this tactic but for the nomads’ bows. Whenever a knot of Silvanesti proved too tough to break, bows were called for and the defending elves picked off.
Between the two biggest campfires, a large contingent of elves had collected, led by a tall, fair-haired Silvanesti clad in a white shift stained with blood. Shouting in unison, the elves charged their mounted enemies and drove them back.
Karada shouldered through the melee. “Balif! It’s Karada! Yield or perish!” she cried.
The fighting continued, however, so the nomad chief called on the archers beside her, ordering them to spare the tall elf leader.
A quick thrum of arrows cut down several Silvanesti standing beside Balif. When he saw his companions felled, the pale-haired elf snapped an order. Within moments, the remaining Silvanesti grounded their arms. A few on the far side of the camp did not hear the command or would not obey it. They fought on until they were overcome, and more died.
By midnight, the fighting was over. Half the elves and a score of Karada’s warriors had been slain. The surviving elves were plainly shocked by the swift battle, and they sat disconsolately on the ground, lords and commoners alike.
Balif, slightly wounded, surrendered his sword to Pakito, who presented the elf lord to Karada.
Looking down on Balif from horseback, she relished the ironic change of fortune that had brought him into her hands.
“So, your life is mine now,” she said. “What do you say to that?”
Balif mopped sweat and blood from his high forehead. “I say I am wiser than even I knew,” he answered in a subdued voice.
She frowned, plainly at a loss. “What do you mean?”
“Years ago I spared you after the battle of the riverbend. Had I killed you, the leader of your band of nomads now might have no reason to spare my life.”
Some of the nomads laughed at this surprising reasoning, but Beramun was still puzzled. “If you’d killed Karada back then, this whole battle might not have happened,” she pointed out.
The elf lord turned to her, and she was struck by the strangeness of his eyes. They were like a cloudless sky, or watered rock crystal....
“Do I know you?” Balif said, pale brows rising. Even in defeat his manner was winning. She gave her name. “Well, Beramun, consider this: felling a single tree does not bring down an entire forest.”
The nomads laughed again, but Beramun was as mixed-up as ever, both by his subtle words and by his demeanor.
“You still talk too much,” Karada said harshly. “Stand where you are and keep silent!”
The captured elves were bound hand and foot and their camp thoroughly looted. Stores of fine bronze weapons, helmets, and breastplates were distributed to nomads who had distinguished themselves in the fight. Karada offered a long, yellow dagger to Beramun, but the girl declined.
“I’d rather learn the bow,” she said.
“Then you shall.” Karada tossed the dagger to Mara. “Put that in my baggage.” Mara slipped into the crowd, the bronze dagger clutched in her fist.
When Balif was separated from the rest and led away, it became obvious not all the nomads were in favor of sparing him. A man named Kepra, whose face bore the old marks of severe burns, argued forcefully for the elf’s death.
“Have you forgotten this?” he hissed, gesturing at his own face. “My mate and children burned to death at Mount Ibal in the fire his soldiers started!”
“Those Silvanesti were commanded by Tamanithas, not Balif,” Pakito said.
The elf general Tamanithas had long pursued Karada with fanatical fury. His soldiers had set fire to the dry grass on the slopes of Mount Ibal, killing over half her band eight years ago. Tamanithas did not long enjoy his victory. He perished in personal combat with Karada, two years to the day after the fiery destruction he’d inflicted.
“Balif is no better!” Kepra insisted, his voice rising. “Cut off his head, I say! You’ve spoken of doing just that many times!”
During the debate, Balif had sat quietly at the center of the emotional nomads. He now asked if he could speak, and Karada gave him leave.
“In the plan of life it matters little whether you kill me or not. The Throne of the Stars will continue, and Speaker Silvanos will find a new servant to carry out his will.”
The humans around him muttered and swore.
“That said, I must admit I do not want to die.”
His declaration was followed by loud suggestions the elf lord be mutilated or blinded. Beramun noticed that for all his seeming calm, Balif’s pallid face grew even whiter as he listened.
Karada let her people rant a while, then said, “A hunter does not injure an animal on purpose. She kills it or lets it go. There is no third way.”
“I could be ransomed,” Balif said. The word meant nothing to the nomads, so he explained. “Send word to Silvanost of my capture, and demand payment in exchange for my freedom. I’m certain the Speaker will barter for me, if the price is not too high.”
Nomads greeted the notion with enthusiasm. Once more there was much noisy wrangling, this time over what to ask for. It wasn’t lost on Balif that Kepra and a good number of other nomads remained silent, staring at him with unconcealed hatred.
Karada called again for silence. “As I am chief of this band, so your life belongs to me,” she said to the elf lord. �
�Eight years ago I was in your place, and you spared my life —”
“No!” many nomads shouted, interrupting her. “Kill him!”
“Ransom! Ransom!” chanted others.
The tumult died down, and Karada’s gaze bored into Balif s. “You won’t know the day you’re meant to die. That will be my choosing. Until then, we shall see if your great lord Silvanos values you as much as you say he does.”
Balif nodded solemnly.
“Take any four of the well-born captives,” Karada told Pakito. “Give them clothes to cover their backsides, a skin of water each, and a strip of jerky. Tell them to return to Silvanost with this message: Lord Balif will live only if I receive five hundred bronze swords, five hundred fleet horses – mares and stallions in equal number – and five hundred pounds of purest bronze.”
Gasps arose at the huge price named. None of them had ever seen so much metal, and the band had never had five hundred horses at one time before.
“Will they be able to pay it?” asked Bahco, awed.
“They will pay or receive Balif’s head in a pot of salt,” said Karada flatly. Her bloodthirsty remarks did not seem to worry Balif as much as the silent anger of Kepra and those who sided with him. In fact, the elf lord smiled at Karada. She turned brusquely away.
“It’ll take time to gather such wealth,” Pakito said. “We’re riding west. How will we ever get the ransom, if the great elf chief agrees?”
Karada pondered for a moment. Her eye fell on Kepra, scarred inside and out by fire.
“We will give them one year’s time,” she said. “Let the Silvanesti meet us then on the south slope of Mount Ibal. There the ransom will be given over... if Balif still lives.”
The last four words were added in a mutter, but the elf lord agreed with surprisingly little rancor. Four noble elves were cut loose to deliver the message. At first they were reluctant to present such shameful words to the Speaker of the Stars, but Balif convinced them. They were given their meager supplies and sent off. The hoof-beats of their mounts faded quickly into the night.
The nomads dispersed to make preparations for night camp. Soon Karada and Beramun were alone with the captive elf lord.
Balif sat down on the ground. “Congratulations, Karada,” he said.
“For what?”
“You are treating with the mightiest ruler in the world,” he said, almost bemused. He looked past the nomad chieftain standing over him, focusing his gaze on the starry sky. “By doing so, you and your people cease to be a band of scavengers and vagabonds. Now you are a nation, like mine.”
“Like yours?” she said, spitting the words. “Spirits preserve us from such a fate.”
Chapter 3
At first, the flashes in the clouds below puzzled him. They couldn’t be lightning. When a bronze dragon was aloft, any lightning in the air would naturally collect around him, not far beneath in some broken clouds. If not lightning, then the flicker of fire in the air had to be something else, something unnatural. This possibility filled his tired limbs with new energy.
Duranix had been airborne eleven straight days, keeping on the trail of his mortal foe, Sthenn. More than a thousand leagues had passed beneath his hurtling shadow: ocean, islands, continents, and more ocean. His days had been a grim routine of flying, eating on the wing, and straining his senses for clues.
Some five or six days into the chase, Sthenn had switched to a spear-straight course due west, no longer dodging and doubling back to confuse his younger adversary. Just as Duranix was adjusting to his foe’s headlong flight, the aged serpent tricked him again. Losing the trail completely, Duranix wove north and south for several days, seeking remnants of the green dragon’s passage.
There were a few signs – a small blasted area in a dense forest, the half-eaten carcass of a whale floating in the ocean, an errant smell of decay on the high winds – yet never an actual sighting.
Sthenn’s new elusiveness was disturbing. Until now the green dragon had been careful not to lose Duranix. By keeping him on the chase, by leading him farther and farther from the Valley of the Falls, Sthenn was clearing the way for Zannian to destroy Yala-tene.
Duranix accepted those risks – the possibility of his own death and that of Amero – in order to sink his claws and teeth into his ancient enemy.
Now, thousands of leagues from Amero, Duranix sensed Sthenn’s purpose had changed. Perhaps the ancient creature was growing tired. Maybe he thought enough time had elapsed for his human minions to ravage Duranix’s territory. Whatever the reason, the green dragon was no longer leading Duranix astray, offering tantalizing glimpses of himself and leaving obvious markers to his passage. He seemed genuinely to be trying to evade his pursuer.
Scarlet and yellow flashes rippled through the lower clouds again. A distant boom arrived a little later. Duranix knew the air was too dry and cold to birth a thunderstorm. Perhaps he’d found Sthenn at last.
Shortening the spread of his wings, he dropped swiftly through the clouds. White lines of surf were visible to the north, evidence of a beach. Sunlight slanted through the tattered clouds, illuminating the tossing waves. The sea was shallow here, shallow and green as emerald.
Duranix emerged from the lowest level of clouds and found himself buffeted by searing flashes and loud claps of thunder. Heat flashed over his metallic hide.
Slitting his eyes to shield them, he saw the sea below was thick with boats, like the canoes made by humans but larger and more elaborate. Some were very long, with many slender oars protruding from the sides. They resembled giant centipedes. Other craft, shorter and blockier, pushed through the frothing waves propelled by a paddle wheel on each side. The centipede ships were roofed in timber and painted with stripes of red and black. The paddle-wheelers were sheathed in bronze plates. Duranix couldn’t see what sort of creatures were operating the craft, but they were fighting each other, centipedes versus paddlers.
The strange thunder and lightning came again, and he immediately saw the source of the fury: machines, mounted on platforms atop the paddle vessels, were hurling pots of fire at their foes. When a pot hit a black-and-red centipede boat, it burst apart with a loud report and the craft, burning, sank.
There was no sign of Sthenn here, so Duranix pointed his nose west again. His wings had not flapped three times before the ocean exploded behind him. He thought it was more of the sea battle until he heard a reptilian shriek of fury. Craning his long neck around, he spotted Sthenn protruding from the waves. Water streamed from his neck and tree-trunk sized nostrils.
Got you! Duranix exulted. The craven Sthenn had tried to hide by lying submerged in the shallow, green waters, but had misjudged Duranix’s position and emerged too soon. Now he was caught!
Duranix came diving back, chin barbels whipping in the wind. He thrust out his foreclaws and let his mouth gape wide. Too often on the chase Sthenn had managed to dodge Duranix’s energy bolts. He’d always been airborne, able to maneuver. Now he was chest-deep in wind-tossed waves, standing on the sea bottom. Duranix let fly.
The sizzling blue bolt caught the green dragon squarely in his ancient, withered throat. He erupted in a howl of pain. Heat from the blast caused the water around Sthenn to steam. Slowly, like a great tree falling, he toppled backward into the waves.
Duranix flashed over the spot so low his wingtips flicked saltwater onto his back. He sped past a line of black-and-red boats, which back-oared frantically to avoid him. The paddle-wheelers hoisted pennants and closed in to finish their opponents off.
Duranix turned and strove hard to gain height. Strange, there was no sign of Sthenn. He couldn’t possibly have succumbed to a single strike... but then, the green dragon had been traveling hard, and he was not as young or strong as Duranix.
The sea battle continued to rage beneath him, but Duranix ignored it. He had no time for anything but the destruction of his enemy.
The water was a perfect cover for the green dragon. Cursing his inadequate vision, Duranix tried to p
robe the surging depths with his other senses, but the scene was too confused.
Just as Duranix banked left, Sthenn reared up in the midst of the paddle craft. The green dragon had a deep wound in his chest that bled black ichor into the sea. Bilious jets of toxic fumes billowed from his mouth. The poison couldn’t kill Duranix, but it did mix with the clouds to form a murky vapor. What effect it had on the creatures in the boats Duranix didn’t know
Sthenn reached down with both foreclaws, grasped the nearest boat, a flag-decked paddle-wheeler, and hoisted it into the air. The paddles on each side of the tubby hull continued to turn, water sluicing from them. Wheezing with pain, Sthenn hurled the vessel at Duranix.
The bronze flapped vigorously for altitude. The boat tumbled end over end as it came. Duranix dodged, and the craft plummeted back to the sea. When it landed a huge spout of green water was thrown up, and the battered boat rapidly sank.
A curious thing happened next. The boats ceased battling each other and attacked the dragons! Not just the paddle-wheelers but the centipede vessels as well – scores of craft turned their attention to the giant beasts in their midst. The centipede boats were equipped with sharp metallic prows, which they tried to ram into Sthenn. He swatted the craft aside while spewing poisonous breath over them.
The paddle-wheelers tossed firepots at Duranix. He twisted and turned, keeping his vulnerable wings away from the exploding pots. He had no quarrel with these unknown beings, but they were hampering his more important contest. Without the strength to loose another bolt of lightning, he directed his repelling force against the firepots arcing toward him. The pots rebounded, falling among the very ships that had launched them. Two of the craft were shattered by the ensuing blasts, rolling over and plunging beneath the waves. The remaining paddlers scuttled away.
By this time Sthenn had waded free of the sea battle. Striding laboriously on his hind legs, the green dragon rose higher and higher out of the water.