by Dragon Lance
“Such a strange girl,” she said. “What do you think you can do with us? We don’t have a travois for you to ride, and you’ll never keep up with us on foot.”
“Let me ride with you!”
An impatient shake of her head, then Karada said, “I could burden Balif with you. He’ll be walking with his elves —”
“No!” Mara shrieked, jerking away from Karada’s hands. “I won’t go with them! I hate them! Let me ride with you!”
Beramun came forward, leading her own horse. She took in the situation immediately.
“Mara can ride with me,” Beramun said. “My horse is big enough to carry us both.”
“She’ll only get in the way,” Bahco said, glaring and rubbing the hand Mara had bitten.
Green eyes narrowed at the dark-skinned man, Mara shoved her hands into slits cut in her shift, reaching for something inside. Nomad women often carried seeds and roots they gleaned in a pouch inside their shift, but Beramun doubted the girl was going to offer Bahco food.
Grabbing her elbow, Beramun pulled her away, saying, “Come. Ride with me or go with Targun. That’s your choice.” She got on her horse and put out a hand to Mara.
Mara looked away from Karada’s unhelpful expression to the outstretched hand. Finally, with Beramun’s assistance, she mounted awkwardly. The two girls rode away.
Karada sighed, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. “That girl’s touched, Bahco. Don’t be so rough on her.”
“She loves you like a jealous mate, Karada,” he said, shaking his head. “Watch out for her. Some day she’ll do something rash.”
*
Night fell in the valley, but the battle continued. Ungrah-de reformed his ogres and, fighting like lions, they stormed the west baffle again, this time holding it against all the villagers’ counterattacks. The defenders were fewer in number now because Zannian had drawn some away with his attack on the northern entrance.
From atop the wall, the ogres could see across Yala-tene to where the raiders battled the villagers, highlighted by flaming fascines. Ungrah could not get any farther because a barrier of logs and stone slabs had been thrown up behind the baffle. Three times the ogres had rushed the barrier, trying to break it down with axe blows or their massive bare hands, and three times they were repelled by large, bronze-tipped spears hurled down at them. The villagers attached lines to the butts of these oversized weapons, to recover them after they were cast. The ogres’ leather armor could not turn aside the sharp spearheads, hastily formed from Duranix’s cast-off scales.
After these three failures, Ungrah ordered his warriors to tear down the baffle wall and dislodge the boulders heaped inside it. This they did far into the night, sending huge sections of carefully placed masonry crashing to the ground.
On the north side of Yala-tene, the situation was just as dire. While the villagers’ attention was focused on the ogres, Zannian personally led an assault on the north baffle, isolating the entrance with bonfires and sending his men up the wall on ladders fashioned from trees taken from the village’s spirit-enhanced orchard.
Once, when Yala-tene’s newly planted orchard was threatened by ice and cold, the proud leader of the Servants of the Dragon, Tiphan, Konza’s son, had used the power of ancient spirit stones to save them. The orchard not only grew at an unnatural rate thereafter, but twigs cut from its branches put down roots and became full-grown trees within days. His success with the orchard had fueled Tiphan’s arrogance, impelling him to take the entire company of Sensarku out to face Zannian’s men before they reached the Valley of the Falls. The Sensarku had been destroyed, down to the last acolyte.
Now, Zannian’s raiders cut down dozens of the spirit-enhanced apple trees, hewed their branches off short to serve as footholds, and carried them to the northern baffle. Thrust in the dirt by the wall, the amputated trees took root and began to grow again. After a day, it was impossible for villagers to topple them from the wall. The raiders cut their way to the top and kept their toehold on the wall despite fierce counterattacks by the villagers.
“One more day should do it,” Zannian said, slumping under the overhang of the town wall. From there, he and his men were shielded from most of the bombardment. “One more day, and Arku-peli will fall.”
The sweaty, soot-streaked warrior beside him opened his eyes. “One more day like today and there may not be enough left of the band to capture anything,” he said.
Zannian, his face and arms covered with cuts, bruises, and blood (not his own), peered at the gloomy raider’s dirty face and recognized him. “Harak? Of all people to share a respite with!”
Harak ran a scrap of leather down the length of his bronze sword, wiping the blood away. Both edges were deeply nicked, and the tip had acquired a distinct bend. “I’ve been fighting at your side since sunset, Zan. Saved your life at least three times.”
“Liar.” Zannian found it unbearable that Harak might be telling the truth. He was good with a horse and deadly with a blade but so smug and sneaky Zannian could not help but distrust him.
A thrown mud brick, heated in a fire, hit the parapet above them and shattered, raining hot fragments over both men. Yelping, they brushed off the burning shards. Two other raiders sitting beside them didn’t move. Harak leaned over and patted their faces. They toppled sideways, falling facedown in the dirt.
“Dead, both of them,” he reported.
“Who are they?”
Harak squinted through the smoke and darkness. “That’s Othas. I knew him. He was a good horse-healer.” He leaned across dead Othas to inspect the other man. “Don’t know this one.”
Somewhere in the darkness, a death scream rent the air. It wasn’t possible to tell if it was friend or foe. Unperturbed, Harak took a grass-wrapped gourd flask from his belt and pulled the stopper with his teeth. The spicy smell of cider reached Zannian.
“Give me some of that.”
Harak passed the gourd. His chief upended the flask, gulping rapidly. “Ahh!” he gasped, handing it back to Harak. “That’s wretched cider!”
“Tastes like spring water to me.” He sipped it lightly. “You should try the ogres’ brew, tsoong. Whew! Strip the skin from your throat, it will. It’s so bad they call getting drunk ‘punishment.’”
“Maybe I’ll try it someday,” Zannian retorted. “If you can drink it, I can. Speaking of ogres, I’ll be glad to see the back of Ungrah-de. Bloody beast! You know he vows he will claim his choice of villagers after the battle? Not to ravage or enslave, but to eat! Filthy monster!”
“The Master’s been known to dine on our delicate kind.”
Zannian snatched the gourd from Harak. “The Master is not bound by human customs. He is above them all.”
Harak took the gourd back and drank. “Tell me. Do you miss Sthenn? Not his power or the terror he brings, I mean. Do you miss his guidance, his company?”
“No.”
The single word, firmly declared, surprised Harak. He said so.
“You know nothing about being chief,” Zannian replied. “I owe my place to the Master, but I have been more of a chief to my men since he left than I ever was in Almurk.”
A loud sound of pottery smashing made both men flinch. Zannian reclaimed the gourd of cider.
Harak said thoughtfully, “At the horse pen, I talked to villagers we’ve captured. They said the Arkuden and the bronze dragon were linked in spirit – one could call the other, even from many leagues’ distance. Do you believe that?”
The raider chief hawked and spat. “I know I never knew the Master’s mind, spoken or unspoken. I only did his bidding.”
Harak leaned his head against the warm stone wall “I wish he were here to do our fighting for us.”
Zannian drained the last drops from the flask and tossed the empty vessel into Harak’s lap. “Fool. You have no sense of glory.”
Seated beside two corpses, surrounded by screams, darkness, and destruction, Harak had to admit his chief was right.
Chapter 9
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The time before dawn is so quiet, plainsmen say, because that’s when the spirits of their ancestors are about, observing the world and the descendants they’ve left behind. Humans and animals alike are quieted by their gaze, and when the disk of the sun first breaks the horizon, the spirits vanish like dew on the grass – until the next night and the next dawn.
Lyopi dozed, standing up. She and the elders of Yala-tene had taken refuge on the sloping ramp below the town wall, a few score paces from the north baffle, now in Zannian’s hands. Hekani and his beleaguered comrades were still holding off Ungrah-de at the west entrance.
She scrubbed her face with her hands and gazed across her threatened town. Early rays of sunlight slanted in over the wall, highlighting the drifting smoke hanging over most of Yala-tene. The streets were deserted, and Lyopi wondered how many people still lived within the wall of Yala-tene. Everyone not fighting had been told to stay inside. Many of the children had already been sent through the narrow tunnel in the eastern cliffs. The anguish of the parents, consigning their young to an uncertain fate, had been terrible to see.
All along the ramp, the defenders stirred. Everyone was armed now, even the elders and the wounded. Lyopi squatted and prodded the cloaked figure lying curled at her feet.
“Wake up,” she said quietly. Beneath the brown home-spun, the sleeper jerked awake, then groaned. “Come on,” she said, dragging the cloak aside. “It’s light already. The raiders will be coming soon.”
Amero lifted his head and squinted against the early morning light. He stretched and flexed until the blood began to flow again in his tired limbs, then got stiffly to his feet. He smiled at Lyopi, but the smile changed to a wince as he put weight on his right leg. The thigh wound he’d received in battle still ached.
“Any word? Any movement?” he said, peeking over the top of the ramp. Six steps away, a hasty barricade of stones and wood blocked the parapet. On the other side was ten paces of open wall, littered with the casualties of the night’s battle. Bracketed by twin columns of smoke was the north baffle, firmly under Zannian’s control. The tops of his tree-ladders could be seen sticking up above the baffle wall. In the midst of death, the trees were already leafing out in tender green.
“No movement so far. They had a hard night, too,” Lyopi said with a snort. “Shall we let them sleep?”
“I wish we had the people to charge down there and wake them properly,” Amero said bitterly. His beard was no longer neatly trimmed, but long and uneven. Dark circles ringed his hazel eyes, and like the rest of the survivors in Yala-tene, he’d lost so much weight that his clothes hung loosely on his frame.
He looked out over the north end of the valley. All there was to be seen were raiders’ horses and tents clustered around the captured baffle. No Nianki. No Duranix. How he longed to see either of them riding or flying over the intervening mountains, ready to strike the enemy and scatter them to the winds!
Montu and Tepa arrived on their hands and knees, anxious not to expose themselves to the raiders’ deadly throwing sticks.
“What’s the enemy doing?” whispered the cooper huskily.
“Snoring,” said Lyopi in a normal tone.
“Shouldn’t we be getting more of our people out of the village?” Tepa asked. “While things are quiet, I mean?”
“Most of the young children are out,” Amero said. “The older ones want to stay and fight.”
“You must order them to go, Arkuden!”
“How can I? We need every pair of hands we can get.”
“They’ll be slaughtered.”
“We survived the ogre attack, didn’t we? And everything Zannian has thrown at us?”
“But can we continue to hold out?” Tepa wondered aloud.
“Yes, we can,” Amero said, helping the exhausted old man stand erect. “Go wake the others, and see if there’s any water to be had. Don’t give up, my friend. Our enemies are strong, but they’re not without weakness. We thought Jenla was dead, and she still lives. They thought they could murder me, but I survived.”
“Unar didn’t.”
Amero sighed. Unar, Lyopi’s brother and one of Amero’s foundry workmen, had died in his place, slain by the Jade Men who’d mistaken him for the Arkuden.
Since the night of the Jade Men’s attack, however, Amero had kept out of sight. If the raiders thought him dead, they wouldn’t make other attempts to kill him. Moreover, Zannian and Nacris no doubt believed the people of Yala-tene would crumble without their headman. Their continued stout resistance must have taken some toll on the raiders’ fighting spirit.
“Many good people have died, Tepa,” Lyopi said quietly, her grief for her lost brother evident. “But the only way to save the rest is by saving Yala-tene. Do you want to surrender?”
Tepa shook his head dumbly. Leaning on Montu, he turned to go and rouse the others.
At that moment, a brace of throwing spears banged into the barricade, and hoarse shouts rang out.
“Hurry,” Amero urged the men, hefting his spear.
Raiders on the baffle pelted the barricade with missiles for a short time, shouting dire threats. With quiet determination, thirty villagers filed in behind the barrier, spears ready. From the edge of the wall, Amero could see scores of raiders milling about beneath the baffle, waiting for their chance to climb the trees and join the attack.
“I’d give all the bronze in Yala-tene for just six jars of oil!” Amero cursed softly. He knew there was none to be had. Hekani had the town’s remaining few jars on his side to use against the ogres.
Spearpoints thickened below the parapet as the raiders mustered. Amero had his people leave small holes in the barrier, just large enough to run a spear through. Another thirty villagers crouched on the ramp, ready to reinforce the line if the raiders pressed too hard.
A raider’s face, chillingly painted to resemble a grinning skull, popped up above the parapet. He raised his spear and shouted, “Go!”
Leather-clad men with similarly garish visages poured over the wall and ran helter-skelter at the makeshift barrier. Villagers lobbed stones and lumps of broken pottery at them, felling a few. The rest came on, howling for blood. The lead raiders threw themselves on the barricade, bracing their arms against it so their comrades could climb their backs.
“Now!” Amero yelled. Villagers shoved javelins through the prepared chinks in the wall, spearing the human ladders where they stood. When they collapsed, the raiders on their shoulders fell too, some tumbling right off the wall. Furious, those remaining pounded on the barricade with fists and spearshafts, making the hastily erected structure shake ominously.
Amero stuck his foot in a likely niche and climbed the barrier. Keeping his head below the top, he held on with one hand and reached over with his spear, jabbing at heads and shoulders. He wounded several raiders, and the attack fell apart. Still screaming threats and obscenities, the raiders retreated to the baffle.
They attacked twice more before midday. On the third attempt, the villagers came under fire from spear-throwers on the ground. Raiders thrust the butt ends of their spears into the holes in the barricade and tried to lever it apart. Timbers and stones fell on both sides, and the struggle degenerated into a contest of grunting, straining muscles and unyielding stubbornness.
Zannian, masked and helmeted, appeared on the wall behind his men. He recalled his troops to him, and the raiders withdrew, panting in the heat of the day.
Amero thought the raider chief might want to parley, but this hope died almost instantly. At Zannian’s nod, two raiders raised ram’s horns to their lips and blew a loud, bleating signal. The plain below filled with horsemen.
The villagers’ hearts fell. They were barely a hundred strong, and Zannian had just called in twice that number of reinforcements. Up and down the lines, spears were lowered, shoulders drooped, and heads bowed.
Amero knew what he had to do. He’d been saving a last trick, a final stratagem, for their most desperate hour. This was it. He cli
mbed the barricade again. This time he kept going until he reached the top, and he stood upright. Dropping the hood from his head for the first time since his reputed assassination, Amero stood in clear view of the enemy.
“Zannian!” he cried. “Zannian, here! I am here. Come and get me if you can. It’s Amero, Arkuden of Yala-tene!”
The horn blasts died away. The raiders stared up at the shouting man. More than one took a step back in surprise, as if facing an apparition.
Zannian slowly removed his mask. “So. Mother’s little pets failed after all?” His youthful face, scratched and streaked with soot, split into a grin. “Good! A man like you should not die in bed, stabbed by green-faced children. Your blood belongs on my sword!”
His words brought a frown to Amero’s face, but the Arkuden forged on. “Will you parley?” he called.
“This is our parley. Speak your piece! It’s the last chance you’ll have!”
Amero glanced at his gray-faced, exhausted followers. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Let’s speak of surrender.”
The raiders broke into ragged cheers. Zannian tossed his skull-mask to one of his men and strode forth until he was only few paces from the barricade.
With a sweeping gesture to silence his men, he said, “Throw down your weapons, people of Arku-peli!”
“I want guarantees first,” Amero told him, over renewed raider cheers. “You must protect my people from the ogres.”
“I guarantee nothing. Ungrah-de expects certain rewards in exchange for his help. I can’t go back on my agreement with him.”
Amero’s disgust was evident. “How can you treat with ogres? You know what they are, what they’ll do!”
Zannian drew his bronze elven sword, holding it up to let the bright sunshine flash off the naked blade. “A warrior uses whatever weapon he can to win. The ogres are just weapons.”
“You can’t believe that! What’s to stop them from returning to their country and bringing back more of their kind? Will you be strong enough afterward to resist an attack by a horde of ogres? You must know the ancient tales – how their kind enslaved all of humanity, and scores of our people died seeking freedom. It’s said they devour their enemies!”