by Dragon Lance
For a moment the villagers’ barrage dwindled as they beheld the terrible spectacle of armed ogres standing on their wall. Ungrah-de brandished his huge axe and urged his warriors onward. He jumped down from the baffle wall onto the heap of boulders Duranix had piled up to block the entrance. Skidding in the loose rubble, Ungrah clambered across the gap to the undefended stretch of wall bordered by fire. More ogres followed him. The fifth one to gain the top of the baffle arrived in time to receive the brunt of a renewed bombardment. Larger and larger missiles struck him. With a grunt, the ogre toppled backward, knocking down several of his comrades.
Whatever glee the villagers might have felt with this small victory was lost when Ungrah marshaled his four warriors and charged through the flames. By chance he chose to go to his left, away from Hekani, Lyopi, and the village elders.
With two sweeps of his broad stone axe, Ungrah cleaved aside the villagers in his path. Smelling victory, he bellowed for his warriors to follow.
The villagers gave ground, retreating along the wall until they came to the ramp leading down into the town.
There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, many openly trembling as the ogres advanced. They were joined by townsfolk carrying bundles of fishing net and pots of oil, hurrying up the ramp.
Ungrah waited for more ogres to join him. When his strength reached ten, he charged. The ogres came bellowing at the terrified villagers.
Up went the fishing net, held aloft on long poles. Ungrah had never seen a net before, but it didn’t look like any sort of barrier that could resist the stroke of his mighty axe.
They were almost in chopping range when the net fell forward, covering them. The ogres thrashed and hacked at the heavy cordage. While they were engaged, villagers upended two tall jugs of nut oil.
Ungrah slipped in the oil, and fell heavily on his back. A stone-headed spear buried itself in his right calf. He roared with anger and plucked the puny weapon out.
All around, his fighters were struggling with the fishing net and treacherous oil. The thick liquid lapped over the edges of the wall and ran down, leaving dark stains. Out on the plain, Zannian had advanced his horsemen to within a hundred paces of the wall. He watched the ogres’ charge, the ensuing melee, and the oil seeping over the stones.
“The walls are running with blood!” he declared. “What monsters those ogres are! They’re wallowing in the mud-toes’ blood!”
Then the liquid reached the burning fascines. Blue flames raced up the wall.
A few of the ogres had almost freed themselves from the net when it suddenly caught fire. Ungrah saw the danger and, ignoring heat and pain, chopped his way out. He stood erect, bathed in fire, and saw the humans dumping a fresh amphora of oil on the parapet.
“Back!” Ungrah roared at his troops in the ogre tongue. “Go back!” So saying, he leaped feet first to the ground. It was a long drop even for him; he hit hard, rolled, and took a few seconds to shake off an impact that would’ve killed a human. A torrent of rubbish fell on him – rocks, wood, mud bricks, and, most insulting of all, offal and dung.
Outraged, mighty Ungrah heaved himself to his feet and struck Yala-tene’s wall with his axe. A stone shard six hands long flew out, leaving a deep crevice in the block. It was a fell blow, and it also cracked the head of his axe.
Screaming from their burns, more ogres jumped off the wall, hair singed, skin blistered, and leather armor smoldering. The rest of the ogre force, still embroiled at the baffle, saw their leader’s jump from the wall and abandoned the fight.
*
Nacris had crossed the battlefield alone, leaning on her crutch. She saw the repulse of the ogres and felt curiously elated at their overthrow. Served them right for leaving her behind, she thought.
A horse cantered up behind her. She heard someone dismount, but before she could turn around, strong arms encircled her.
“Why are you out here?” Hoten asked. Her mate for less than a season, Hoten had grown more and more protective of Nacris as the siege dragged on, even as she felt less and less need of him.
“This is my fight. I had to see it! Why doesn’t Zan attack? Ungrah-de can’t carry the day alone!”
“The ogre chief insisted we stand back and witness the prowess of his warriors. Zan agreed, and now they’ve learned a lesson. The villagers are not fools, nor are they weaklings. But the battle isn’t done. While the ogres drew the enemy’s eyes to the west, Zan has sent half the band to storm the north entrance.”
She took his arm in a painful grip and her flint-colored eyes narrowed. “This is my battle, too, Hoten,” she hissed. “I won’t remain in camp like some doddering ancient.”
“I know, I know. Come with me. We’ll fight together.”
He lifted her to his horse’s back and mounted behind her. He laced a broad leather strap around both their waists, tying them together.
For the first time in many, many days, she smiled at him. “Don’t untie me until I’m dead,” she said, taking the reins.
Hoten closed his hands over hers. “Not even then,” he vowed.
Chapter 8
No one could remember ever seeing Karada so shaken.
The news brought by the village children changed everything. Karada called in Bahco and Pakito, gathering the whole of her band in a hollow beneath three stony hills. She related what the children had told her, that ogres had joined the fight against Yala-tene and, even worse, that the Arkuden had been slain.
“The raiders,” she went on, tendons standing out in her throat, “have a small of band of young, handpicked warriors who wear green face paint. They’re called Jade Men. They entered the village by night and murdered my brother. He was wounded in the leg in an earlier fight and was lying helpless on his bedroll.” Her hazel eyes, normally sharp and clear as melting snow, were rimmed red and filmed with unaccustomed tears.
“They slew him where he lay, stabbed him with obsidian knives...” She could not finish.
After a long and pain-filled silence, Pakito stood. “He was a good man, Karada. We grieve with you.”
She shook her head. “Save your grief.” She raised her dusty, tear-streaked face skyward. “Turn it into rage to expend on the treacherous ones who killed my brother and seek to destroy all he worked for.”
“Aye, Karada.” Hundreds of solemn voices repeated Pakito’s affirmation.
She glanced at Beramun, sitting on the ground between Mara and Balif, and saw the girl’s lovely face was pale and strained from mourning. She turned back to the sea of faces watching her.
“If any of these green-painted killers fall into our hands, I want them slain at once. Do you hear? Take no Jade Men prisoners.” There were nods and shouts of agreement. Karada went on, “With ogres in the field, I’m going to change our order of battle. Those not fit for fighting will stay behind. You’ll not enter the Valley of the Falls until the battle is over.”
There was grumbling among the elder nomads at being left behind, but they understood the wisdom of her plan. If they remained out of reach, they could not be caught and held hostage against Karada. Only one voice rose in protest.
“What are we supposed to do here?” Mara demanded. “Where will we go?”
Karada swept an arm out to encompass the terrain. “Build a hidden camp on the summit of one of these steep hills. Stay there until I return.”
Mara said no more, but her expression was mutinous.
Balif rose. “May I speak, Karada?” he asked.
“No. Yes. Be brief.”
The elf lord folded his arms across his lean chest. “Despite the valor and skill of your warriors, Karada, the odds are lengthening against you. According to Beramun” – he bowed to her – “the raiders already outnumber you. Add to that an unknown number of ogres, and you’re facing a far more potent enemy than you reckoned on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Karada said. “My honor and my duty to my brother demand that I go.” Standing on the stump of a storm-toppled tree, her bronze helmet glinting in the late day
sun, her braid of sun-streaked brown hair falling across her shoulder, she looked like the spirit of war made flesh.
“Will you lead your loyal band to such an uncertain fate?”
“Fate is never certain, as your presence here proves.”
There was chuckling in the crowd, and Balif smiled thinly. “Which brings me to my point: I would like to offer my arm to you, Karada, for the duration of this campaign.”
General astonishment reigned. Beramun reacted first. She clutched Balifs arm and declared, “Well said! Well done!”
“Quiet!” Karada barked. She crossed the open ground to the elf lord. Beramun quickly withdrew, yielding to the formidable nomad woman.
Nose to nose and eye to eye with Balif, Karada said fiercely, “This is some trick. Do you think I’ll give you back your swords and horses so you can attack us from behind?”
“That’s unworthy of you,” he said calmly. “Don’t be stupid.”
Karada’s hand went to the hilt of her sword. There were gasps from those gathered around; they were sure the insolent Silvanesti was about to die.
“I have not tried to escape,” Balif said. His calm in the face of Karada’s ire amazed Beramun. “I chose to stay with my soldiers and share their fate, whether ransomed or not. What I now propose is that I fight alongside you against these painted raiders and their ogre allies – I and as many of my soldiers as will join me.”
“Ha!” Karada walked away a few steps, whirled, and presented the tip of her sword to Balif’s face. “I see your plan! No. You and your elves will remain behind with the children and elders!”
He shrugged. “As you wish, Karada, but consider: My soldiers are trained warriors. You’ve never defeated Silvanesti troops in open battle – not once in twenty years. Can you afford to ignore so ready a weapon placed at your disposal?”
“Why would you want to help us?” asked Pakito suspiciously.
Balif lifted his head, speaking to everyone in earshot.
“We’ve fought each other a long time,” he said. “We know each other, know our motives and goals. Though we’ve sometimes dueled without quarter, I believe there is an understanding between us – even respect.”
Karada said nothing. Balif forged ahead.
“The raiders represent a grave threat, different from you nomads. For humans to serve the whims of a green dragon is very troubling and would distress the Speaker of the Stars. Add to that their new alliance with ogres, and I see a common cause for us: to defeat these savages and keep them as far from the borders of Silvanesti as possible.”
Pakito’s expression showed he found the elf’s explanation sensible.
It made sense to Beramun, too. “Shouldn’t we stand together on this?” she said quietly to Karada.
The nomads muttered among themselves, some agreeing with Beramun and others hotly ridiculing even a temporary alliance with the Silvanesti.
“Karada, maybe we could —”
“Not a word!” she snapped at Pakito. Lowering her blade, she gazed steadily at the fair-haired elf. “Even if I trusted you, can I trust your lieutenants? Surely they can’t all be as honorable as you.”
“My officers are no less loyal than yours. They will follow me to death or to victory.”
“Will you obey my commands, even if you don’t agree with them?”
“Certainly.” She looked surprised, and he added, “You took me by force of arms and spared my life on condition of ransom. I am honor-bound to obey.”
Her sword declined farther, until the point was hovering just above the ground. “I won’t put you on horses,” she warned him. “You’ll march and fight on foot.”
He nodded his acceptance.
Karada slipped her sword back into its leather scabbard. When the hilt slid home, Beramun leaped to her feet and cheered. A surprising number of nomads did likewise.
Puzzled by the acclaim, Karada said, “All of you, listen. This is a temporary alliance! When the fighting ends, the elves must give up their weapons again.”
Balif’s pale brows rose. “One way or another, we’ll be disarmed. Either we triumph and our arms belong to you, or we perish and our bones belong to the crows.”
The rest of the band saluted his brave good humor, but Karada did not smile.
Alone in the excited crowd, the girl Mara sat quietly, looking first at her chief, then at the cool and confident Balif. Her face contorted briefly, but whether from fear or hatred or something else only Mara could say.
*
While her people prepared themselves for the hard ride ahead, Karada rode off into the hills alone. In a lonely ravine, she dismounted, tying her horse to a scrub elm. She’d taken only twenty steps up the gully before, clasping both hands around her stomach, she doubled over in agony.
Amero is dead.
She’d lost siblings before. One sister had died before learning to walk, and marauding yevi had killed her baby brother Menni. Yet the news – Amero is dead – burned through her body like a blazing brand.
Putting her back to a tree, she fought for breath. Though she hadn’t seen her brother in a dozen years, it had always been enough to trust he was alive and well in Yala-tene, protected by his steadfast people, the bronze dragon, and a stout stone wall. Now that he was gone, it felt as if something inside her had been torn out.
She knew the depth of her feeling was unnatural. Long ago, a jealous member of her band named Pa’alu had used spirit power on her, trying to compel her love. The talisman miscarried, and instead of undying passion for Pa’alu, she was stricken with an unsisterly love for her own brother. Ever since, she’d grappled with the insidious influence. The struggle had nearly driven her insane, but from deep within she found the strength to live with the impossible compulsion. Live with it. Not conquer it.
Karada slid down the tree trunk, rough bark snagging her buckskins. She would never love again. She knew this in her heart. The abnormal flame she’d carried concealed for Amero had consumed her. It could never be kindled for anyone else. Lifting her eyes to the empty sky, she grieved, weeping for Amero and for herself.
The tears went on for a long time, too long. She found she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t command the gulping sobs that wracked her. At last, disgusted by her weakness, she drew the bronze dagger from her belt. Baring her left arm, she pressed the keen-edged blade against the tan skin between her wrist and elbow. Blood stained the golden blade as she drew it across her arm. The wound hurt, but not enough, so she made a second cut above the first. And then a third.
*
With a few exceptions, the Silvanesti supported their lord’s offer to fight Zannian. The common soldiers volunteered to the last elf. After all, it was better than being left behind, sitting in the dirt and wondering when one of these angry, unpredictable nomads would take it into his head to slay them. However, all six of Balif’s noble officers declined to fight. They objected to taking orders from Karada – a human, a woman, and an enemy. Balif listened to their arguments then dismissed them to idle captivity.
“Guard them well,” he told Pakito. “They’re honorable elves, but once I’m gone, they may not feel inclined to sit by and await ransom. I wouldn’t want their lives wasted.”
Leadership of the nomads remaining behind was given to Karada’s old friend, Targun. Though the oldest man in the band, his once-black hair nearly all gray now, Targun was one of the chieftain’s most trusted lieutenants. Only Pakito and his mate, Samtu, had been with Karada longer. Old Targun had his charges organized in no time.
Children were told to use pine boughs to sweep away their tracks as they departed, hiding their whereabouts even from their own people. If the battle went badly, none of Karada’s warriors could be forced to tell where their loved ones were hiding.
Warriors watched in silence as their families disappeared into the hills. Many wondered where Karada was. No one had seen her since the elf lord proposed his startling alliance. The nomads knew better than to look for their leader. She often went off
on her own, and there was no questioning her when she did.
Beramun found herself standing next to Samtu, as the woman waved farewell to her children. Bearing five children in twelve years had left Samtu’s short frame rather stout, and her dark hair bore strands of gray, but she still rode at Pakito’s side and fought like a nomad half her age. Now, though, the warrior woman’s face reflected her sadness at seeing her children depart.
The obvious pity on Beramun’s face seemed to embarrass Samtu, and she busied herself with freshening the spirit marks on her face. Beramun asked about the significance of the marks and, obviously grateful for the distraction, Samtu explained. The nomads wore the painted streaks as a sign of unity. The marks were meant to resemble the scars Karada had received in her fight with the yevi so many years before. It was that first fight that had made their leader strong.
Beramun didn’t understand why Karada painted the marks on herself, since she had the real scars after all.
Samtu, shrugging, repeating what Karada had told her people: “Some scars can’t be seen unless you draw them on your skin.”
As the last of the family members disappeared around a low hill, Bahco discovered Mara crouching among the tethered horses. He told her to go with Targun, to run and catch up, but she refused, digging in her heels and fighting him as he tried to pull her out of hiding.
Karada reappeared on the other side of the camp, her left forearm tightly wrapped with a fresh strip of doeskin. The altercation between Bahco and Mara drew her, and she arrived in time to see the girl bite Bahco’s hand. Furious, the warrior pushed the combative girl to the ground and planted a foot on her back to hold her there.
When Karada gestured at him to let the girl up, Mara scrambled to her on hands and knees and clung to her chiefs leg.
“I serve you, Karada,” she pleaded. “Let me go with you!”
“Stand up, Mara,” Karada said severely. “You’re not a dog.”
The girl stood. Her doeskin shift was dirty and her curly hair matted. Impatiently, Karada combed through the rusty brown tangles with her fingers.