Sister of the Sword

11

Vast was the relief felt in Yala-tene that night. The desperate, hungry villagers poured from their homes, embracing any nomad who would stand still for it. Though not plentifully supplied themselves, the nomads shared what provender they had with Amero’s people. It was not a celebration—everyone was too tired for that—but the feeling of doom over the valley had eased.

Beramun was enthusiastically greeted by all. Even Lyopi, not overly fond of the nomad girl, honored her courage and perseverance. When Beramun told them Karada’s band had met the three children from Yala-tene and that the children were safely hidden with the non-combatants outside the Valley of the Falls, the villagers gained hope that the rest of their young might have made it as well.

Amero, Lyopi, and the village elders left the safety of the wall for the first time in many days and went to Karada’s camp. There they met Bahco and renewed their acquaintance with Pakito and Samtu, both of whom Amero had known from his sister’s last visit to Yala-tene a dozen years before. The villagers were presented to Balif, who greeted the Arkuden and his people with great courtesy.

Unlike his hard-riding captors, Balif had taken the time to wash after the day’s fighting. Dressed in a sky-blue robe and girded by a cloth-of-gold belt, he looked every bit the elf lord.

“How is it you’re here fighting alongside my sister?” Amero asked.

“It’s the fault of the moon,” was Balif’s reply.

Conversation around the great campfire died. “Moon?” asked Lyopi.

“Just so. I was on a hunting expedition north of the Thon-Tanjan during the dark of the white moon, and the catch was meager. My hunt master recommended we return to Silvanost and try our luck later, but I knew the moon would return soon and the hunting would improve. I insisted upon staying on the plain a few days longer.” He squared his angular shoulders and tried not to look irritated. “Two nights later we were taken unawares by Karada’s band.”

“You might as well blame Beramun as the moon,” Karada said, sipping cider. “It was she who brought us west.”

Sitting in the circle behind Karada, Beramun blushed as all eyes turned to her.

Balif explained that the ogre threat had persuaded him to offer his sword to Karada’s cause.

Amero gripped his sister’s hand and smiled. “I always believed you were alive,” he said. “I knew you would come.”

“Yes, he only feared you’d arrive after the village was razed,” Lyopi said dryly.

Amero protested amid general laughter. While he was distracted, Karada freed her hand from his and moved away, ostensibly to refill her cup.

Talk continued, with confessions of faith balanced against admissions of doubt. The conversation remained light until Pakito said, “Tomorrow, will the raiders really stand and fight?”

The camp grew quiet. Burning wood hissed and popped in the fire.

“They will, and so will the ogres,” Karada said.

“How many ogres are there?” asked Bahco.

“You saw them all today,” Hekani said. “About two dozen are still breathing. There were thirty, once.” Hekani smiled grimly. “We took care of a few already.”

“Beating them will take new tactics,” mused Karada. “Maybe new weapons...”

“Filthy monsters,” Samtu muttered. More loudly, she said, “These raiders are outnumbered. If they were wise, they’d ride out tonight and leave the ogres to fend for themselves!”

“You can’t count out the raiders,” said Beramun. “Zannian has spent his entire life preparing to conquer the plains. It’s all his mother and the green dragon have trained him for. He won’t give up that dream. As long as Zannian lives, there will be no peace on the western plain.” Since she knew the raiders better than anyone, her words carried weight.

In the silence that followed her harsh pronouncement, Amero yawned widely. Apologizing, he said, “I think it’s time for rest now. I know we villagers will sleep easier tonight.” Lyopi was already asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. He shook her gently awake.

Lyopi and the elders went ahead while Amero remained to thank their saviors again. He clasped Balif’s hard, slender hand. The elf’s face reminded him of painted pottery—attractive, yet cool and stiff. Amero could not fathom what lay beneath.

When he stood before Pakito, the genial giant disdained the hand he offered and instead grabbed the Arkuden by both shoulders and gave him a hearty shake. Once Amero regained his balance, Samtu kissed his bearded cheek, then departed with her towering mate.

Amero found himself facing Beramun. In the firelight, the black-haired girl was as achingly beautiful as ever—more so, he decided. Life with Karada seemed to agree with her. When she first stumbled into the Valley of the Falls, she’d looked gaunt and hunted. Now she had fleshed out and acquired the tan worn by all Karada’s nomads.

“How can I thank you?” he said, not daring to touch her. “You saved everything.”

“You’ve thanked everyone enough,” she joked. “And I was but one of many. The spirits were with me, and I lived to find Karada.”

“Tomorrow should see the end of it.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, smiled briefly, and left.

Last to receive his good-night was his sister. She stood a few steps away, looking awkward, almost shy. Amero knew of the curse she lived with, but he could not treat her like a stranger. He held out his arms. She didn’t move, so he stepped forward and embraced her.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He could feel it, so he drew back. “I’m sorry,” he said for her ears alone. “I don’t mean to distress you.”

She only shook her head, so he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Amero tried to leave, but he found he couldn’t. Karada was gripping the front of his shirt in her clenched fists. She looked at her hands in surprise, as though they belonged to someone else, and released him.

“Watch yourself tomorrow,” Amero said, then his gaze slid past her. “It’s no victory if I lose you.”

The campfire was at his back, and its light reflected off a pale face in the shadows behind his sister. Karada had told him how she’d released Mara from Silvanesti bondage. He’d greeted the girl with relief, surprised and pleased to know she hadn’t died as the villagers had thought—on an ill-fated journey to find spirit stones out on the plains. Mara hadn’t returned his good feelings but had regarded him with an odd wariness.

Now the fire’s dying flames illuminated anger in her green eyes.

Karada noticed his frown and glanced over her shoulder to see what caused it. She spoke sharply to the hovering girl. Silently, Mara stole away.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. A girl’s misplaced affection.”

Amero left his sister and caught up with his people outside the nomad camp. The elders chatted idly, still excited by their sudden deliverance.

“The only thing missing,” Amero said, “is Duranix.”

He looked up at the night sky, brightly washed with light by the conjunction of the red and white moons. “I hope he finds what he’s seeking,” he added.

“I hope he kills that green dragon!” Lyopi said.

Amero smiled. “That’s what I meant.”

“I’m not being amusing. If Duranix fails, our battle here means nothing. The green dragon will return and destroy us.”

Amero’s step faltered. What Lyopi said was unbearably true. All their suffering and striving would be for nought if Duranix lost to Sthenn.

They ascended the timber ramp lowered from the wall and reentered the village. Amero bade the elders a good night. He did not accompany Lyopi to her house but walked the streets of Yala-tene for some time, trying to escape the remorseless bonds of her words.

Karada’s head ached from too much heat, noise, and raw cider. She should sleep, but an important task remained undone.

Alone in her dark tent, she removed her heavy riding clothes, sword, and leggings. She washed her hands and face quickly, then donned a clean buckskin shirt and wraparound kilt. Tying the sash in place, she thrust a flint knife behind the knot. When she stepped out again, she found Mara waiting for her.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” she snapped. “If you’re restless, clean my gear for tomorrow!”

“Yes, Karada.”

Walking away, Karada made a silent resolution to do something about the girl. Mara’s excessive devotion had once been amusing. Lately it had become annoying.

Years ago, Karada had found an orphan child wandering the plain and had raised her like a daughter. That orphan was Samtu. Their relationship had been stormy, as Samtu was as strong-willed and fiercely independent as Karada herself. Mara’s slavish worship was another thing entirely.

Thoughts of Mara vanished when she reached her destination. Two nomads guarded the small tent, leaning on their spears. Spotting their chief, they straightened up and hailed her.

“All quiet?” she asked.

“Not a sound’s come out of there,” said the female guard.

“All right. Go elsewhere for a while.”

The guards departed, and she lifted the flap and stepped inside.

“I knew you’d come,” Nacris said. “What took you so long?”

“I had more important things to do.” Karada let the flap fall. There were cutouts in the fabric around the top. The white light of Soli, combined with Lutar’s red glow, gave the tent’s interior a pinkish cast. Karada stood over her crippled captive.

“You must think I’m very dangerous,” said Nacris, lifting the heavy bronze chain coiled around her waist. The other end was attached to a stout wooden stake a pace long, driven into the ground by Pakito. Gesturing at her crippled leg, she added, “You know I can’t run away.”

Karada nudged the chain with her foot. “I learned from the Silvanesti troublesome things are less troubling when you chain them up.”

She sat down cross-legged in front of Nacris, just out of arm’s reach. She and her old foe were of an age, but Nacris’s hard life had taken its toll. Nacris looked years older than her former chief.

Bluntly, Karada spoke her thoughts. “You look like a day-old corpse. What curse has afflicted you?”

“A curse with your name.”

“You made your own misery, woman. Don’t blame it on me.”

Instead of biting back, Nacris smiled. She extended her good leg and stretched luxuriously.

“I’ve learned much in the years since your friend Duranix saw fit to maim me for life. That was the start of my journey to wisdom. It’s taken a long time and much bloodshed, but I’ve nearly reached my goal.”

“What goal?”

“Your humiliation and death.” When her words brought no response from her hated enemy, Nacris added, “And a painful death for all you love, starting with Amero.”

Karada lashed out, taking Nacris by the throat and forcing her down on her back. With her free hand she brought the flint knife to her enemy’s throat.

“I am your death!” Karada snarled. “Why do you think I let you live this long? My warriors could have slain you with your green-skinned killers, but I reserved that deed to myself!”

“Then do it!” Nacris hissed. She continued grinning widely, eyes bulging from their sockets.

Karada let the flint blade bite a little. Nacris felt the sting and started to laugh. Furious, flinging the knife aside, Karada tightened her grip on the woman’s throat.

Nacris’s laughter choked off as the pressure increased. She gasped, “If I die... you’ll never... find... your brother!”

“Fool! Amero lives in spite of your plots!”

“Your other brother!” Nacris gurgled.

The world went black before Nacris’s eyes, and a terrible roaring, as loud as any dragon’s cry, filled her ears. She felt herself falling down a deep pit like the one Sthenn inhabited in his forest lair.

Then the air lightened, and she could see again and breathe. The face of her hated enemy was still above her. Nacris drew in a long, deep breath. Her throat felt as raw as an open wound.

“Speak, hag,” Karada said. “Explain your words, and I’ll grant you the mercy of a swift death.”

After another ragged inhale, Nacris rasped, “Like your dragon’s mercy—flinging me into the lake and breaking my leg in three places.”

She said nothing more, merely struggled back upright and sat glaring at Karada.

The nomad chieftain stood and regarded her without pity. “Why say these things if you don’t care whether I understand you?” she said and turned to go.

“You did have another brother, didn’t you?” Nacris finally murmured.

“What of it? He died long ago, killed by the same yevi pack that slew my father and mother.”

“Did he?” Eyes of bloodshot gray locked with hazel. “Did you see his body? No? You believed Amero dead for many years, too, didn’t you?”

Karada gave a disgusted snort. “Your lies know no limits, viper! I came here to offer you an honorable death, but I see you’re not worthy of it. I think I’ll have Pakito toss you in the lake again. If we tie a stone around your neck, maybe this time you’ll stay down.”

Nacris grinned. “You cannot kill me, Karada. Not while I know something you must find out!”

She continued to shout as Karada lifted the flap and went out. The guards were just returning, and Nacris’s obscene threats against their chief were so awful the two warriors blanched.

“No one else is to see her,” Karada told them. “No one.”

The shouted imprecations grew even louder. “I’ll send wine. Drink it yourselves or give it to her, whichever leads to peace sooner.”

After eating with the villagers, Beramun wandered away. Pleased as she was they’d reached Yala-tene in time, knowing the bloodshed was going to continue tomorrow oppressed her deeply.

Her mission was over, her duty to Amero fulfilled. Zannian’s plans were undone. She once vowed to see him die as payment for the deaths of her family, but her lust for blood had dimmed. Neither a resident of Yala-tene nor a member of Karada’s band, Beramun wanted most to be back on the open plain and far away from the Valley of the Falls.

So what was keeping her here? The wide world was waiting. Why not go now?

She’d wandered aimlessly away from the great central campfire, passing through ring after ring of nomad tents. By the time she looked up from her musings, she was on open ground east of camp. Cedarsplit Gap was clearly in view under the combined light of Moonmeet. The way was not clear, however.

In front of her was a ring of stakes and vines, like a temporary ox pen. Huddled figures filled the ring, most lying on the ground under scraps of hide. Nomads on horseback rode slowly around the ring.

She accosted one rider. “What is this?” she asked.

“Raiders we caught today,” said the nomad. “We spared them when they threw down their arms.”

The surrendered men, no more than forty in all, looked utterly beaten. Stripped of face paint, weapons, and horses, they had ceased to be fearsome raiders.

Beramun slowly circled the pen, studying the men she’d feared for so long. She wondered if the ones who’d killed her family were present. She tried to see their nightmarish faces in the tired, pathetic prisoners before her.

Most of the captured men were sleeping, curled up in tight groups for warmth. A few, sick or wounded, whimpered and coughed. Near the fence, one man sat alone. He’d removed his torn leggings and was patiently trying to mend them by the light of the two moons.

Seeing her, he called out a greeting. She moved quickly to get past him. He stood and started paralleling her on the inside of the fence, but she kept her eyes straight ahead and walked faster.

“You look like you’re escaping from someone,” he called. “With a face as beautiful as yours, it must be a lover.”

“Mind your own troubles!” she snapped, halting.

He was tall and well made, with hair almost as long as her own, though somewhat lighter in color and tied back with a scrap of leather. His feet and ankles were badly scraped. No wonder his leggings were in tatters, she thought.

“You look kind, fair one,” he said. “I need to mend my leggings. Have you a bone needle to lend a wanderer like yourself?”

She snorted. “You should have stayed a wanderer, raider.” Beramun resumed walking, though she couldn’t remember where she’d been going.

“My name is Harak, fair one! I come from Khar land, in the south.”

She stopped, turned around, and came back. Without explanation, she unwound her own leggings. Harak watched silently, and when she handed them to him, he smiled and thanked her.

Just then a guard rode up. “What are you doing?” he asked Beramun.

“This man needs leggings,” she said. “I lent him mine.”

“He’s a raider!”

“Not by choice!” Harak declared. He placed a hand over his heart. “Taken by Zannian, I had to join them or become a slave. I couldn’t bear being held captive, so I rode for Zannian as a scout. Is that so terrible?”

“Pay him no mind,” said the guard. “He’s been talking like that since we caught him. Anyone who speaks so well must be a liar.”

“I think you’re right,” she said dryly, and started to walk on.

“Where are you going?” asked the guard. “The mountains are not safe yet, what with ogres in the valley.”

Beramun looked back at the moonlit camp and the walled town beyond it. “I was just out walking. I’m going back to camp.”

The guard nodded and rode away. Harak pressed against the vine fence and said, “What’s your name, lovely one? You know mine now. You saved my feet and I’d like to thank you.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder. “Beramun.”

When she was gone, Harak sat down and wound the buckskin strips around his legs. So that’s Beramun, he thought. Zan wasn’t a total fool. If he had to be obsessed with a female, at least he’d found a pretty one—beautiful in fact. Fortunately for Harak, she also had a good heart. The leggings were a little short, but they would do.

Harak stretched out on the ground and tucked his hands behind his head. Clouds were creeping in from the east, blotting out the stars and softening the glory of the two blazing moons. Thoughts of the lovely nomad girl gave way to more practical concerns.

Clouds like those meant rain was coming. Harak sighed. He hated being out in the rain. Maybe he could talk his way into a tent tomorrow or one of those piles of stone the villagers lived in. He’d like to see the inside of one of those.

Hoten studied the encroaching clouds. “Storm coming,” he said.

He and the surviving captains sat around a crackling fire, passing a skin of pulpy wine back and forth. There was little talk, and no boastful war songs were sung.

They’d left Almurk with a thousand fighting men and over four hundred slaves. The Master, their own green dragon, had flown overhead, terrifying everyone in their path. No one could stand against them—single families and entire bands alike fled or succumbed. The raiders had taken weapons, oxen, goats, and anything else they had wanted. Everything had been fine until they’d entered this accursed valley.

Sthenn had abandoned them. The mud-toes of Arku-peli were beaten in the field, but they refused to submit like normal folk and hid inside their stone pile. What sort of fight was this, Hoten grumbled silently, with women, children, and old people throwing rocks down on your head? Real men, real warriors, got on horseback and did battle face to face.

Only three hundred raiders were left. The rest were dead or had deserted. True, Ungrah-de and his ogres were still there. Six of the brutes had perished in the fighting, leaving twenty-four ready for the final battle. The raiders could hear the ogres in their own camp on the stony hill, pounding their drums and grunting like the beasts they were. Though astonishing fighters, twenty-four ogres weren’t any guarantee against hundreds of hard-riding nomads—and Karada.

Hoten shook his head. Karada herself stood against them! Many of the raider captains around the fire would have preferred to ride with her than with Zannian, even before fortune had brought them to this sorry state.

He drank and remembered his own days in Karada’s band. He’d been at the battle of the Thon-Tanjan, when Silvanesti cavalry stole victory from Karada’s hands. He’d ridden away with the rebel leaders Sessan, Hatu, and Nacris, all of them thinking Karada would perish fighting hordes of armored elves. Sessan had died in single combat with Karada, and Hatu had vanished one day, just after they left Arku-peli; his blood-spattered mount returned riderless a day later.

Karada survived, of course. She always survived. Many plainsmen believed she was a spirit and couldn’t be killed. Mutterings to that effect could be heard this very night in the raiders’ camp.

Nacris was gone now too, probably dead. Hoten did not grieve for his mate. She was so consumed with hatred that death would be the only rest she could know. Tomorrow he would join her. Their spirits would dwell together forever on the endless, high plain of the sky.

Zannian walked into the circle of firelight. He glittered from head to toe in bronze armor and bright body paint. The sullen raiders, eyes downcast, turned toward him, like flowers to the sun.

“Well, here’s a proper funeral,” he said. “Who’s dead?”

“We are,” groaned one raider.

Zannian drew a long sword from his scabbard. The scrape of metal made the assembled warriors flinch. A few edged away.

“Then leave!” Zan shouted. “Pick up your packs, mount your horses, and be gone! I would not die in the company of such weaklings and cowards!” He smacked the blade against the elven breastplate he wore. “You heard me! Leave! If I have to fight tomorrow with only Ungrah-de at my side, I shall!”

“We’re not cowards, Zan,” said a weary captain. “Six hundred nomads and the villagers! The odds are too great against us.”

“And when were they not? When we began our ride, the whole world was against us! How has anything changed?”

“But Karada—”

He laughed. “Are you scared of a scarred old woman? I’m not! She bleeds and dies like anyone. Ungrah has sworn to take her head home to his mountain lair. Anyone here want to wager against the ogre chief?”

No one spoke. Zannian laughed again.

“What did you think your lives would be like?” he went on, walking round the fire. When he found a raider nodding with drink or sleep, he kicked the man awake. “Did you think you would grow old riding the plains, fighting and taking the land’s bounty in your hands? Idiots! Any of us, any day, could stop a lucky spear thrust. So what if we die tomorrow? What does it matter, so long as you’ve lived as a true warrior?”

The chief dragged a burning limb out of the fire and held it up. “Better to see death coming than let it sneak up on you,” he declared.

Their leader’s words began to sink in. The raiders lost their slouch and regained some of their confidence.

Hoten asked quietly, “Have you any regrets about the way things have gone, Zan?”

Zannian’s wild grin fled. He tossed the flaming brand back on the fire. “Only one—the black-haired girl. I would’ve liked to have had her, at least a while.” He shrugged broadly, then said, with another grin, “Will you let the ogres outshine us? Listen to them rant and roar! Can’t the Raiders of Almurk do better than that?”

Two of the captains stood, a little unsteady from minor wounds and raw brew. Arms linked around each other’s shoulders, they began to sing. Their voices were ragged as they wove their way through “The Endless

Plain,” but Zannian circled around the fire and joined them. One by one, raiders still sober enough stood and joined in. In the rest of the camp, sleeping men awoke to the sound and crawled out of their bedrolls to lend their voices. Soon all the remaining raiders were bellowing out the old song—all but one.

Hoten had no voice left. He stared into the fire and nourished his nerve with dreams of his own death. It could not come too soon.

From the walls of Yala-tene, restless Amero heard loud singing rising from the raiders’ camp. It drowned out the inhuman rumble of the ogres and echoed weirdly off the cliffs behind the village.

Alone on a hillock outside her camp, Karada heard it too. She’d gone out alone to prepare herself for battle. Stripped to the skin, she washed in cold spring water. While her hair was still damp, she applied spirit marks to her face, stomach, thighs, and feet. Without realizing it, she hummed along with the song the raiders were singing. The strangeness of it struck her as she finished applying the last of the marks to her feet. “The Endless Plain” was a song her mother, Kinar, used to sing to her children to cheer them on their wanderings. Strange she should hear it now, after so long.

Her damp skin dimpled with gooseflesh. Donning her buckskins, Karada sat down to await the rising sun.