by Dragon Lance
Amero returned to the subject at hand. “So bronze flows better into molds than copper?” he said.
Before the elven bronzesmith could reply, Karada interrupted. “Arkuden, I have something to ask you. Come away, will you?”
Curious, Amero followed her on foot down the slope. Halfway to the lake, Karada stopped.
“Sthenn is dead,” she said.
“I know. Duranix told me last night.”
“Did he tell you what he did with the carcass?”
Amero shook his head, so Karada told him about the newly formed mound where the crater had been, then asked, “Do you think the body will taint the valley’s water supply?”
He scratched his bearded chin, and she noticed for the first time there were gray hairs scattered among the brown ones.
“There’s a ledge of solid stone under that spot,” he said. “It should be safe for Sthenn to remain there. Anything else? No? Then I’ll get back to Master Farolenu —” A sudden thought struck him. “Nianki,” he said, using her old name, which no one else dared do. “You never told me. When the dragons fell, how did you escape being crushed like Ungrah-de?”
His hardened sister looked uncharacteristically amused. “It was the craziest thing,” she said, grinning. “I knew nothing, saw nothing, but Ungrah before me. A bolt of lightning struck the ground between us, and I turned away to shield my eyes. Next thing I knew, a wave of mud picked me up and carried me away. I fetched up in the top of a pine tree a quarter-league from where I’d been.”
Amero blinked in surprise, then began to laugh. Thanks to the all-day rain, his sister had been splashed to safety. The ogre chief, a few steps closer to the center of impact, had been killed outright.
She laughed. “Don’t spread the story, Amero. It was just stupid luck.”
Since she was still seated on her horse while he was on foot, he clapped a hand to her leg as he said, “What you call luck, I call the favor of our ancestral spirits! But let the tale-tellers in your band invent some romance or other. It won’t be as wonderful as the truth, though.” Still chuckling, he added, “Dine with Lyopi and me tonight, Nianki?”
She nodded, and Amero started up the hill to the ruined foundry. “Come at sunset!” he urged. “We’ll have venison!”
He ran back to his conversation about metal. Karada noted with fondness the smudge of soot on the seat of his trews. His woman, Lyopi, would give him what for if he got soot on her fur rugs.
His woman.
Her light mood evaporated like dew on a summer morning. Amero had a right to companionship, but the phrase had a bitter taste. Karada had heard of his infatuation with Beramun, but that was no great concern to her, since the girl obviously didn’t return his affection. Lyopi was quite a different fox in the den.
Lyopi had fought bravely at Amero’s side. Half mother, half mate, she’d defended him with her life. Her love for Amero was something Karada understood. She had loved him too for a long, long time. Could she ever escape her curse? Short of death, she couldn’t imagine how.
*
Lyopi was a fine cook. They ate well on venison and spoke of trivial things – cooking, hunting, which region of the plains had the most flavorful game. Each of them chose a different point on the horizon – Amero the north, Lyopi the south, Karada the east – and defended it to the amusement of all.
Lyopi stirred the embers on the hearth and set a clay kettle on the resulting fire to heat water for mulled wine. Talk veered from game to the weapons used to hunt it.
“These bows are very interesting,” Amero said. “You say the seafarers showed you how to make them?”
“Yes. Bahco’s people. We traded flint and furs with them for the knowledge. Our bows have made the elves’ lives a lot harder.”
Warming to her subject, she picked up a stick and drew lines in the cool ashes at the edge of the hearth. “At Thorny Creek some years ago, Balif’s host pushed us back across the stream, thinking to drive us into a trap made by the soldiers of Tamanithas, coming up at our backs. We shot down so many elves at the creek ford we could have ridden from one bank to the other across the bodies and never gotten our horses’ hooves wet —”
Mention of bloodshed took the good humor out of Amero and Lyopi. Sensing their disapproval, Karada cut short her war story and brushed away the map in the ashes.
“I talk too much,” she apologized.
“Never mind,” Lyopi said. “We’ve seen too much battle of late. What else did you learn from the seafarers?”
Karada leaned back against the warm hearthstones. “They make this thing Bahco calls ‘cloth.’ They wear it and use it to make the sails of their ships. Bahco says it’s not hide or wool, that it’s made from shredded leaves.”
Lyopi lifted the steaming kettle from the coals and set a tall beaker of red wine into the hot water. “Like thatch?” she said. “Sounds scratchy.”
“It’s not,” Karada assured her. “I’ve handled it. It’s softer than doeskin and more flexible.”
Lyopi was openly doubtful. Amero smoothed over the potential argument by raising an important, if painful subject.
“What’s to be done with Nacris and Zannian?” he asked.
“I’ll deal with Nacris before I leave this valley,” Karada said firmly. “How is my business.”
“And Zannian?”
“Brother or not, I know him no more than I know that insolent Harak. Zannian has done great harm to the people of Yala-tene and elsewhere.”
“But he’s your family,” Lyopi protested. “How can you think of killing him?”
“What do you propose?” said Karada. “Shall we let him go if he promises to be a good boy?”
“He’s blind! What harm can he do?”
“Nacris is crippled, and look what evil she wrought. I know you both are sick of blood, but it’s weak and foolish to let Zannian or Nacris live. The woman’s mad. She’d do anything to harm me or Amero. Zannian was raised to think of her as his mother, so he believes as she does. He called that green monster ‘master’ and did its bidding! How many people have died for his ambition? Any man who does things like that is not my brother!”
Karada folded her arms and looked away into the dark periphery of the house. Amero gazed at the fire. Lyopi looked from one to the other, then turned her attention to the warmed wine. She filled three cups and handed them out.
Amero sipped, feeling the gentle heat pervade his limbs. The aching wound in his leg felt better.
“Nacris is lost,” he said after a long silence. “Like a mad dog, it would be a merciful thing for her to die. Since Nianki took her, she’s Nianki’s to deal with.”
Lyopi nodded her agreement. Karada said nothing.
“Zannian’s different,” Amero went on. “I don’t believe he’s completely lost to madness and evil, like Nacris. He’s young, and he is our brother. I believe we can turn him back from the path Sthenn and Nacris put him on.”
Karada drained her cup dry. “You give speeches like an elf. Speak plainly.”
“Let Zannian remain in Yala-tene. He may be blind forever. Perhaps I can find Menni somewhere, deep inside him.”
Karada put her cup down. The clay clinked loudly on the stone hearth.
“The man who obeyed a green dragon, murdered his own kind, and made an alliance with ogres deserves death,” she said. The flat certainty of her words brought a worried frown to Lyopi’s face. Karada, however, had decided to argue no further, for she added, “But if you wish it, brother, I won’t challenge you. I’ll take Nacris, and you can keep Zannian.”
The strange bargain was made. Amero felt lightened by the decision. Watching him smile and take mulled wine from Lyopi, Karada felt cold. He thought the danger was past, but as long as Nacris drew breath, Karada sensed the hag’s venom was still working.
Chapter 16
The hills west of the valley echoed with the thud of axes on wood. Forty-one captive raiders had been brought to the wooded slopes to harvest trees for the great funer
al pyre. The captives were accompanied by five villagers, led by Hekani, who showed the prisoners how to roll logs into the river and haul them upstream by means of long straps.
Guarding the captives were a dozen nomads, commanded by Bahco. He’d formed a harsh attitude toward the ex-raiders and kept them hard at their task all through the morning.
Just after midday, the puffs of breeze from the west ceased. It grew glaringly hot, even though the sun was blunted by a whitish haze spreading from horizon to horizon. Work slowed as captives and captors alike wilted in the heat.
Hekani returned from the pass with the men who’d taken in the last load of logs. He mopped his brow and studied the sullen, lifeless sky.
“Something’s going to happen,” he said to Bahco, shaking his head. “The air is heavy, but it doesn’t feel like rain.”
From their vantage point, they could see the beginning of the open plain. It was high summer, and the savanna was hip-deep in grass, a great, rippling sea of green. Even the lightest zephyr would start the grass nodding, but at this moment, not a stem was bent.
The raiders sensed the strangeness, too. Harak and five others had been lopping branches off felled trees with blunt stone axes. They halted and stood staring at the sky and hills.
“This isn’t good,” said one raider. “It’s like the Master was here again.
“Don’t be stupid, Muwa,” Harak replied. “Sthenn’s dead and buried. There’s no need to dig him up to explain the weather.”
“Then tell us your explanation, wise one!” taunted Muwa.
“I saw this kind of sky before – nine years ago, up north. An Ember Wind is coming.”
The captive raiders exchanged looks of disbelief. “That’s only a fable!” Muwa declared.
“I’m telling you, I went through it once when I was a boy. The wind blew for six days, and ten people in my clan died. It blows hot and dry and brings pestilence sometimes, and other times, madness.” Harak smiled. “Which would you boys prefer?”
“I prefer a change of scenery!” exclaimed Muwa. “We won’t wait for dark. Who’s with me?”
A pair of nomads rode up. “Why have you stopped working?” one demanded.
“They’re afraid of the Ember Wind,” said Harak. He wove his fingers together and cracked all his knuckles with a single flex.
“Get back to work!”
Muwa held up his axe threateningly. “I’m a free plainsman, you can’t force me to work like a slave!”
“Seems I heard those same words from Zannian’s slaves,” said Harak dryly.
“Shut your mouth!” Muwa bellowed and charged at him, swinging the axe. The nearest nomad tried to interpose his horse between the men, but before he could do so, two raiders jumped from the log at him. In moments, the second rider found himself beset by angry raiders. They grabbed his ankles and dragged him to the ground.
Harak dodged Muwa’s clumsy attack. The axe hit the elm’s trunk and stuck there. Bracing his hands behind himself on the felled tree, the lanky raider kicked out, his feet finding the center of Muwa’s chest. The man went flying, and Harak tossed the axe away.
The rebellion spread quickly. All over the hillside, ex-raiders attacked their guards. Isolated and outnumbered, the nomads were overthrown and subdued. Shouting wildly, raiders claimed the nomads’ horses. They galloped away, often two men on one animal, ignoring the pleas of their comrades on foot.
The last pair of nomads still mounted turned tail and rode back up the pass. Raiders jeered and threw stones after them.
Harak put two fingers in his teeth and whistled loudly. The raiders’ chatter died.
“They’re going to fetch Karada,” Harak announced. “Are you going to wait here for her or make good your escape? Don’t think about it too long, friends.”
Back on his feet, Muwa said, “Let’s go, men! Scatter!” Harak did not move. He kept his place astride the elm tree trunk.
“Harak! Aren’t you coming?” asked a raider breathlessly.
“No,” he replied.
Nearby, a nomad groaned and pushed himself up on his hands. It was Bahco, who’d been knocked senseless and his horse taken.
“That one’s still breathing,” Muwa said. “Somebody finish him off!”
Two men moved to carry out Muwa’s suggestion. Harak rolled off the log to intercept them. The nearest raider was unarmed, and Harak easily threw him to the ground. The other man had a lopping axe, which he swung clumsily. Harak spun away, grabbing the axe handle behind its heavy stone head. He thrust out a foot and tripped his opponent. The raider fell and rolled over in time to see the blunt axe head coming straight down at his face. He screamed and clenched his eyes shut.
The killing blow never landed. When next he opened his eyes, he saw Harak standing over him, grinning. The axe head was embedded in the ground, just brushing his left ear.
“The others left you,” Harak told him. “Better ran if you want to catch them!”
Harak laughed as the raider scrambled to his feet and ran.
The leading edge of the wind reached the woodcutting camp. It was hot, from out of the north, and dry as a lizard’s dream. Harak’s prediction was coming true, and his good humor vanished.
Nomads and villagers, recovered from their beatings, were rising to their feet. Everyone clustered around Bahco, sheltering in the lee of an oak.
“Where are Tanik and Harto?” Bahco asked.
“Two of your men rode off,” Harak said, raising his voice above the wind. “I guess they went for help.”
Angry the raiders had escaped, some of the nomads began to shove Harak and upbraid him.
“Leave him,” Bahco said sharply. “This man saved me and maybe all the rest of you.” He told them how Harak had fought off the men coming to kill him, then frightened the rest away by reminding them Karada would be coming to avenge their rebellion.
“Why’d you stay behind?” Hekani asked.
“I’ve seen what Karada does to her enemies. I’d rather be her prisoner.”
Hekani laughed, but the nomads openly sneered. They had more respect for the escaped raiders, who had fought for their freedom, than for this slippery character.
The hot wind coursed steadily, not gusting like a normal breeze. Sheltered only slightly from the desiccating air, the men grew parched. Though Harak warned them not to venture forth, one by one they slipped down the hill to the river to drink their fill. Fighting back through the Ember Wind, they returned drier than if they’d stayed put.
Soil once rain-soaked now dried to powder and rose into the air as dust. Coughing, the men huddled together behind the tree, flying grit stinging their exposed flesh.
After an interminable time, a column of riders came thundering out of the pass. At their head was Karada, face wrapped in doeskin against the vicious wind. Bahco went to greet her. He explained what had happened, and how Harak had fought to save their lives, yet called himself a coward to explain why he didn’t flee with his raider comrades.
Karada’s eyes narrowed. “Watch him closely. I don’t trust clever men.”
The horseless nomads and villagers doubled up with Karada’s riders. She gave the order to return to their camp. The horsemen faced about and started back up the pass. Soon, only she and Harak, still on foot, remained. She looked down at him from her tall horse.
“Why didn’t you escape?”
“It’s not my time yet to go,” he said. “Aren’t you going to bring them back? They’re flouting your authority.”
“You mistake me for Zannian. I don’t command, I lead. My band follows me out of loyalty, not fear.” She shrugged, adding, “And if they live through the Ember Wind, perhaps they deserve to be free.”
“You know the Ember Wind?”
“There isn’t much on the plains I don’t know.”
She extended her hand. Harak took hold, and she hauled him up behind her.
“You’re strong,” he remarked, settling in close. “Don’t forget it,” she said.
&
nbsp; He didn’t. All the way back to the valley, Harak kept his hands carefully at his sides.
*
The Ember Wind could not sweep directly through the Valley of the Falls, as the valley ran east-west through the higher range of mountains, but it closed in above the valley, creating a strange and strained atmosphere. The air inside the valley grew still and unnaturally humid. Overhead, clouds tore by at a reckless rate, glowing yellow by day and deep orange at sunrise and sunset. The sky appeared to be on fire, which is why the name Ember Wind had arisen.
Much wood had been gathered for the funeral pyre, though not enough for the grand mountain of flame Karada had envisaged. Logs and brush were laid in courses around the mound where Sthenn lay buried. The dead slain in battle were brought out by the remaining captive raiders. Wrapped in hides or shrouds of birch bark, the bodies were put on each course of kindling. No distinction was made between raider, nomad, or villager. Some of the Yala-tene elders objected to this, but Karada silenced them, saying, “Anyone who died fighting is a warrior. Causes mean nothing to corpses – they’re all in the land of the dead now.”
Two days after the Ember Wind’s arrival, the pyre was nearly complete and a method to ignite it needed to be found. There wasn’t any oil left in Yala-tene to soak the timbers, and the freshly cut wood wouldn’t be easy to light, especially in the unnaturally humid air. While the preparations continued, the elders sought out Amero. They found him on the village wall with Lyopi, Balif, and several elves. Lyopi suggested Duranix, and Amero agreed to ask the dragon.
The Arkuden walked to the top of the ramp leading down into the village. Lyopi, the elders, and the elves stayed back, watching him. Amero folded his arms and closed his eyes.
Duranix. Duranix, can you hear me? He repeated his call three times before the dragon answered.
I can always hear you, was the testy reply.
We need your help. We need to burn the bodies of those who died in the battle, only we don’t have the means to make so great afire. Would you help?