The History of Krynn: Vol I
Page 121
The fifty-odd men who remained in the captives’ pen chose Harak as their spokesman, as he seemed to have access to Karada and the Arkuden. They wanted their fate settled. Their pen was rife with rumors that they’d be put to the sword before the nomads left the valley. Harak couldn’t believe it himself, but he didn’t object when his fellow prisoners demanded he seek out Karada and speak to her about their plight. It was a good excuse for him to slip away from the feast preparations, too. No one challenged him. People had become accustomed to seeing him roaming the camp.
Laughter and singing drew Harak to the lake. The impromptu party was breaking up, and women streamed up the hill to village or camp, some weaving a bit as they went. Harak passed unchallenged through the flow of cheerful, red-faced women. He saw many he knew – Samtu, Lyopi, vintner Hulami, and the tough old woman called Jenla, whom Zannian had captured early in the battle. Karada was nowhere to be seen.
He was about give up his search and look instead for a place to stay out of sight until the toil at the firepits was done when a face caught his eye.
It was Beramun, walking slowly up the lakeshore, carrying a baby on her hip. She looked so content and easy with the child that a stranger might have thought it hers. Harak fell into step beside her.
“I’m looking for Karada. Have you seen her?”
Beramun shook her head.
“Whose baby?”
She hefted the year-old boy leaning his head on her shoulder and he gave her a sleepy smile. “This is Kimru, son of Udi and Tana.” The names plainly meant nothing to Harak, so she added in a quiet voice, “Udi and Tana are dead. Kimru is an orphan.”
“I’m sorry,” Harak found himself saying, for reasons he didn’t understand. He hadn’t killed anyone named Udi or Tana – at least, not that he knew.
“Udi’s father, Tepa the beekeeper, has him now. He’s an old man, though, and I fear the child will lose him before he becomes his own man.”
By the north baffle Beramun handed young Kimru to a village woman. She gave the boy’s downy head a final caress and watched until he and the woman disappeared behind the wall.
Sighing, she said, “I will miss him.”
Harak trailed after her. “You act as though you aren’t going to see him again.”
“I’m not.”
“Karada’s not leaving for another two days.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Beramun said flatly.
He caught her hand, stopping her. “But why? You have Karada’s favor. If you remain with her hand, you could he chief some day.”
Anguish bloomed in her dark eyes, but she shouted, “I don’t want to be chief of anything!”
People nearby glanced their way. Beramun pulled away and started walking faster.
Tall Harak, with his long, lean legs, easily caught up with her. “Where will you go? What will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll wander. It’s the life I was meant for.”
“What about a mate and children? You seem to like children —”
She whirled to face him. “Will you leave me be? I don’t want to answer your questions! I’m in this place because men like you murdered my entire family!” She tore at the neck of her doeskin shirt, exposing the green triangle high on her chest. “This is why I must go! The green dragon gave me this mark. It binds me to him!”
Harak frowned. “Sthenn’s dead. What hold could he possibly have over you now?”
“Just because a viper dies doesn’t mean its venom becomes water. Duranix says I’m tainted forever by Sthenn’s mark,” she said and backed away from him, retying the lacings of her shirt tight at her neck. “What did the green dragon intend for me? Will I end up like Nacris, crazed, eaten up with hate? How can I live among good people knowing I may grow evil in time?” With a violent shake of her head, she added, “No! Better to be a wanderer for the rest of my life. Alone!”
She ran. A bit stunned, Harak did not react for a moment. Then his thoughts sharpened, and his choice became clear. He ran after her.
Zigzagging through the rows of tents, Beramun ended up at Karada’s. She ducked inside, thinking he wouldn’t dare follow.
Mara was there, kneeling by the entry flaps, a whetstone in front of her. She was sharpening the bronze dagger she always kept in her shirt. When she spied Beramun, she recoiled like a guilty thief.
“Where’s Karada?” asked Beramun, breathing hard.
“Not here,” Mara replied. “What —?”
Harak barreled into the tent, nearly knocking Beramun off her feet.
For a man – a raider! – to enter Karada’s tent in such a way was unforgivable. Mara leaped to her feet, presenting the dagger point-first to the intruder. The newly sharpened tip gleamed like gold.
“Who do you think you are?” Mara shouted. “Get out! This is Karada’s tent!”
“Shut up, girl!” Harak snapped. Mara jabbed at him, but he stepped nimbly back, unharmed.
“Put that down! I’m not here to cause harm. I need to talk to Beramun.”
“Get out!” Mara repeated shrilly. “Karada will hear of this intrusion!”
Harak lashed out with his foot, kicking the weapon from her hand. The blade spun through the air, and he caught it neatly. Mara let out a short, horrified cry and ducked behind Beramun, then continued her furious denunciations.
“Leave,” Beramun said, interrupting Mara’s tirade. Arms crossed over her chest, Beramun glared at Harak.
He flipped the dagger, catching it carefully by the blade. He presented the pommel to Beramun.
“Hear me out and then I’ll go.”
Beramun took the dagger. Mara promptly tried to snatch it back, but Beramun thrust her aside. The girl tripped over a pile of furs and fell backward to the floor.
“Don’t listen to him!” Mara urged. When Beramun paid her no heed, Mara crawled away. She circled wide of Harak and, near the entry flaps, rose to her feet and dashed outside.
Harak said, “We don’t have much time before she brings Karada. Listen to me, Beramun. You don’t have to go away alone. I’ll go with you!”
The young woman was not impressed. “I know your kind,” she said bitterly. “I know what you want. You’re no different than Zannian!”
“I don’t blame you for saying so, but I’m not like him at all.”
She made a dismissive gesture and started to turn away.
“Be my mate, Beramun, and we’ll wander the world together!”
The words obviously startled him as much as they did her, but Harak smiled broadly and repeated them. “Be my mate, Beramun. I know you’ve been asked before, but I’m not a fool like Zannian nor a dreamer like the Arkuden. I’ve had women before, but I’ve never asked one to be my mate. Say no and I’ll not bother you again, but you must know my offer is honest.”
Beramun still held Mara’s dagger. Her other hand went to her chest. She said, “What about Sthenn’s mark? Don’t you fear it? How do you know I won’t cut your throat some night while you sleep?”
She didn’t say no! Harak thought jubilantly. He stepped toward her. Putting an arm around her waist, he slowly pulled her closer still.
“It would be just like the old lizard to plant an evil seed in a brave, good womanlike you. But he’s dead, and I don’t fear his poison. All his other acts have failed, and he’s failed with you, too.”
She would not look at him. She whispered, “I won’t be the cause of your death.”
He took hold of her wrist and brought the dagger up. “Then I’ll undo his work.”
Her dark eyes lifted, the question in them plain.
“I’ll remove the mark,” Harak explained.
“No more tricks, Harak, please.”
He plucked the bronze dagger from her fingers. “No trick. No lies. Whether you take me as your mate or no, let me remove Sthenn’s mark. Once you’re free of it, you can decide what you want to do.”
A small fire crackled on the hearth. Harak bade Beramun sit by the circle of stones. He knelt bes
ide her and put the blade of Mara’s dagger in the flames.
Her eyes widened.
“I saw an old man do this once. His horse had a growth on its withers, and he fixed it this way.” Squeezing her hand, he said, “I know you’re brave enough to do this.”
Wordlessly, she loosened the lacings on the front of her shirt and slipped her left arm out of the sleeve. By firelight, the green triangle looked black and shiny against her tanned skin.
Harak picked up the dagger gingerly. The leather-wrapped handle was hot, but not too hot to hold. The tip of the span-long blade glowed dull orange. “Take a deep breath, and don’t be too proud to scream.”
Swallowing hard, he pressed the flat of the hot blade against the jade-colored triangle. Beramun twisted her face away and groaned. Her entire body trembled. A sizzling sound filled the tent, but the dragon’s mark did not smell like normal flesh burning. Instead, a fetid whiff of Almurk filled their nostrils.
Harak yanked the blade away. Beramun sagged in a faint, so he held her up. It was just as well. Having seared the green dragon’s mark, he now needed to excise it forever. He worked quickly, using the knife’s sharp tip to cut beneath the foreign color embedded in Beramun’s skin. Because he’d cauterized it first, little blood flowed.
At last the evil sign was out. Harak threw it on the fire. He shuddered when the yellow flames changed to vivid green as the last remnant of the green dragon was consumed. A choking stench rose but quickly dispersed.
Beramun’s eyes opened part way, and she let her head loll on Harak’s shoulder. With great care he lowered her to the furs heaped beside the hearth. He found his hands were shaking.
“Well done.”
Startled, Harak turned. Karada stood in the entrance to her tent, arms folded, watching. Behind her were arrayed Pakito and Bahco. Mara’s pale face peered between the men.
Harak passed a hand over his sweating brow and sat down by Beramun. “She was afraid the green dragon would compel her to do evil,” he said. “I did what I could to help her.”
Karada nodded. “She is worth the scar you’ve given her. But are you worthy of Beramun?”
Harak understood her question. Beramun had no parents, no living kin. Karada was taking on their role, demanding he prove himself to her for Beramun’s sake. He returned the dagger to the fire.
Harak hated pain. He’d always thought Zannian and the other raiders who gloried in their resistance to it were stupid brutes. A wise man – a clever man, at least – avoided pain. That’s why it existed, so you would know the things that caused it were to be avoided.
When the knife was glowing again, he opened the collar of his worn tunic. Looking straight at Karada, he pressed the hot bronze to his chest, just above his heart – the same place Beramun had borne the mark of Sthenn. He clenched his teeth so hard he was sure they’d crack, and tears filled his eyes. The smell of his own burning skin made him want to wretch, but as he had mastered the noxious ogre drink tsoong, so he mastered his sickness.
He threw the burning blade aside. Karada’s face swam before him. The tent seemed to waver around him. He fell.
Strong arms hoisted him to his feet.
“Take him out, Bahco,” Karada was saying. “Beramun will stay here until she’s better.”
“Let me stay with her,” Harak protested feebly.
Karada clapped a hand to his shoulder. The comradely gesture rocked him like the kick of a horse.
“You won’t lose her,” she said vehemently. “Not now. That was the strongest mating ceremony I’ve ever seen. You two are bound for life.” She glanced at Beramun, still unconscious on the fur rug. “I knew it would take a lot to win her, but I couldn’t have guessed how much.”
Bahco draped Harak’s arm over his shoulder and bore the ex-raider away. Karada picked up the dagger, still faintly warm.
“Mara,” she said. “Come here.”
The girl tried to flee but ran into a wall of muscle and buckskin as Pakito barred the way out. Though he looked distinctly unhappy doing so, he held the far smaller Mara fast with one huge hand.
Karada approached, tapping the handle of the dagger into her palm. “One of the worst crimes is when a man forces himself on a woman,” she said in a low voice. “I know of what I speak. There’ve been men who tried to take me. Every one died by my hand.”
She stopped at arm’s length from the cringing girl. “You come running to me, screaming that this raider is forcing himself on Beramun. I return and find him saving her spirit, if not her life. Perhaps you were sincerely mistaken. I doubt it. The only crime worse than a man forcing a woman, Mara, is a woman lying about it. When you do that, you make us all out to be liars.”
Karada put the tip of the dagger under Mara’s chin. “If you were one of my band, I’d have you beaten for this.”
Mara squeezed her eyes shut. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Karada removed the dagger abruptly. “But you’re not one of my band, and you never will be. You came from Yala-tene, and here you will stay. Go, and never let me see you again.”
She dropped the dagger. Pakito released Mara. Nearly convulsing with grief, the girl collapsed at their feet.
“Don’t send me away,” she sobbed, clutching Karada’s legs. The nomad chief stepped out of reach. Mara’s sobs gained volume. “Please! Oh, please! I’ll serve you even better than before! I’ll do anything you say, Karada! Anything at all!”
“Get out!” Karada’s voice rose to be heard above the girl’s cries. “If I see you again, I’ll gut you like a fish!” She turned her back.
Large of frame and equally large of heart, Pakito felt sorry for the misguided girl. “Go,” he urged gently. He held open the tent flap.
Hiccuping, Mara brushed her tears away. She snatched up the dagger and for a moment stared hard at Karada’s exposed back. Pakito would have swatted her like a fly if she’d moved toward his chief, but it didn’t come to that. Mara slipped the dagger in her robe and darted out of the tent.
“By all my ancestors!” Pakito exclaimed. “I thought she was going to go for you!”
Karada shrugged. “I gave her the chance, but the girl has no nerve. I thought she might recover her pride living with me, the Silvanesti broke her too well. She’s just a rabbit. A silly, frightened rabbit.”
“Poor girl. Will she harm herself, do you think?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. She’s Amero’s problem now.”
Pakito left. Karada sat by the fire and waited for Beramun to wake.
*
Amero kicked loops of braided vine through the hole in the cave roof. As it spilled down, he finished tying off the other end to a cedar tree. A long time ago, rebels from Karada’s band had used these holes to enter the cave and attack him. Now they were his means to see his melancholy friend.
He lowered himself through the hole and started down. It was hard work for a man his age, but the privations of the recent war had hardened him, and he reached the cave floor without mishap.
The cave’s interior was dark and chilly. Cold blue light filtered through the waterfall, and slender beams of daylight slanted in through the roof holes. The cave smelled strongly of reptile and old smoke. It had been many days since Amero had last been here, but the drinking pool and hearth pit were just as they had been when he used to live here every day with Duranix.
The dragon lay in the back of the cave on his sleeping ledge, a vast mound of coiled bronze muscles. Where once Duranix had had room to spare on the ledge, now his tail hung over the edge, and the arch of his back almost scraped the sloping wall above him.
“I know you’re there,” Duranix said with a deep sigh, neither rising nor turning to face Amero.
“Is it all right? Or should I go?”
“How would you leave? Are you fit enough to climb that cobweb you came in on?”
The bronze dragon uncoiled, limbs and body seeming to move in different directions at the same time. Amero backed away, giving ground to the massive creature.
Amero sat on the cold hearthstones. “Surprisingly well. I’ve learned the secret of making bronze, did you hear? Balif’s smith, Farolenu, showed me how it’s done.”
Duranix blinked, huge eyelids clashing together. “My condolences.”
Amero’s confusion was plain on his face and in his thoughts, so Duranix said, “You’ve spent a long part of your short life trying to discover how to make bronze. Now you’ve done it. It’s finished. So, what will you try next? Iron?”
“What’s iron?”
“Never mind. I’ve just been having a difficult time imagining the future.”
Amero poked the ashes of the long-dead fire with a stick. “There are plenty of problems left to overcome,” he said. “The village needs to be rebuilt. We must decide what to do with the prisoners. Hekani has an idea for improving the baffles – he wants to attach permanent ramps to the walls, wooden ramps that can be raised or lowered from within —”
A single claw waved dismissively. “These are your problems, not mine.” The dragon sighed, blowing loose ash and dust around. “So much has happened here. It’s not the valley I came to a century ago. I thought this was my place. Now I doubt it. There’s a wide world beyond this valley....”
Amero quickly changed the subject, announcing that he and Lyopi were to be mated at last.
“Who knows?” he said, grinning. “I might become a father in my old age!”
“It’s wise you chose the sturdy female over the blackhaired one. That girl is tainted.”
Amero wasn’t sure about any taint Beramun might have, but he was certain Lyopi would resent being called “sturdy.” He asked, “Why so restless? What did you see on your journey?”
Instantly, Amero’s mind filled with a crowd of rapidly changing images. He saw flying dragons, dragons on mountaintops and in caves, nesting dragons – in many sizes, shapes, and colors. Like listening to numerous voices all talking at once, he couldn’t sort the onslaught of images into any sensible order. Gradually, the cacophony subsided, leaving a single, crystal-clear vision – a slender bronze dragon perched gracefully on a bluestone mountaintop.