Dawn arrived in awesome silence. A light morning mist filled the low places below the walls of Yala-tene and hung over the clear waters of the Lake of the Falls. Despite the early hour, the parapets were lined with people—somber, gray-faced, as stony as the wall on which they stood.
On the valley floor, lines of horsemen were deployed in a great arc around the besieged town, from the rocky flats below the waterfall to the now empty ox pens on the north end of Yala-tene. In places the line was only a single rider deep, but they were there, armed and ready.
A small party of raiders rode out from their camp by the river, making straight for the western entrance to the town. In their wake came a dozen raiders on foot, four of them bearing a litter on their shoulders. Showing off their best horsemanship, the approaching raiders wheeled about just out of throwing range. The morning sun flashed off their purloined weapons and armor.
Four raiders put ram’s horns to their lips and blew a flat, wavering note that carried from one end of the valley to the other. A single man on a pale gray horse rode forth a few steps from the group, then stopped. Like most of the raiders, he was masked—his was an elaborate creation fashioned from the skull of some horned beast and adorned with leather flaps and paint. He removed his skull-mask, revealing a surprisingly youthful face and light brown hair.
“People of Arku-peli!” he called. “I am Zannian, chief of this band! Do you hear me?” A shower of stones spattered the ground a pace in front of his horse. His lips thinned in a grim smile. “I see you do. I have words for your headman! Bring him out, so I may speak with him!”
The crowd atop the wall stirred, and two people shouldered to the front. One was an elderly man with thinning gray hair and a long nose. The other was a woman half his age with chestnut hair drawn back in a thick braid. She leaned on a spear.
“Say what you need to say to me!” the woman called.
“Begone, woman! I will speak only to your Arkuden!”
“Begone yourself then, butcher. The Arkuden is too busy to waste words on you!”
Puffing under their load, the litter bearers arrived alongside Zannian. Seated in the contraption of hide and poles was a woman of forty summers, though she looked much older. Her fair hair was liberally streaked with gray, a shade reflected in her dark, flinty gaze, and her face was deeply lined. Once a warrior herself, she traveled now by litter because her right leg ended at the knee, the limb lost years before to a shattering injury.
“Go back, mother,” Zannian said to her under his breath. “You’re not needed here.”
“I want to see their faces,” Nacris replied. “I want to be here when they admit Amero is dead!”
“Bring out the Arkuden!” Zannian shouted once more. “Bring him out, if any of you want to survive this fight!”
The woman and the elderly man conferred, then the old man called down in a quavering voice, “The Arkuden has been wounded. He can’t yet stand on his injured leg. Speak to us, raider. We will carry your words to him.”
Nacris pushed herself up on her hands, screaming, “Show us his corpse, you liars! We know he’s dead! I want to see the work done by my Jade Men!”
Furious, Zannian leaned down and shoved the crippled woman back into her seat.
“Meddling old vulture! Shut your mouth!” To the men holding up her conveyance he barked, “Take Nacris back to camp!”
“No! I deserve to see his blood! Stop, men! I killed him, Zan! You couldn’t do it, but I could! Stop right now! Take me back—”
Wary as they were of the formidable Nacris, the litter bearers were more afraid of their leader. They continued down the hill with the woman ranting at them all the way.
“Listen to me, foolish people!” Zannian declared loudly. “This is your last chance! By Moonmeet, we’ll have the means to overcome your wall! When that happens, no one in Arku-peli will be spared! Do you hear? You’ll all die! Tell that to your wounded Arkuden—you have until the morning of Moonmeet to yield. After that, no mercy!”
In answer to his ultimatum, many villagers on the wall turned their backs and lifted their kilts in contempt.
Zannian laughed despite himself and donned his skull-mask again. He rode back to his waiting captains. The eldest of them, Hoten son of Nito, greeted him.
“Any sign of the Arkuden?” the elder man asked.
“No. Mother’s assassins may well have succeeded.”
Another raider said, “She promised they would submit if their Arkuden died.”
“My mother says many things. You’d be wiser to listen to me, not her.”
The raider chief and his captains rode back to their band. Hoten pulled the skullcap of bear and panther teeth from his head and rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate.
“I don’t like it, Zan,” he said. “What if the mud-toes don’t give up in time? Will you really set a pack of ogres on them?”
“Assuming that rogue Harak returns with any, yes.” Zannian glared at Hoten’s shocked expression. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“But ogres, Zan! How can we ally ourselves with such monsters?”
Zannian’s laugh was as sharp as a bronze sword. “Are they any worse than a green dragon?”
He kicked his horse’s flanks and cantered away. Raiders eager for his favor followed him, leaving Hoten behind. The camp by the river soon rang with Nacris’s shrill denunciations, punctuated by her son’s deeper-voiced replies.
By the time the first mountain peaks appeared on the western horizon, Beramun was beside herself with worry. So many days had passed since she’d left the Valley of the Falls—days without word of Zannian’s raiders or the fate of Yala-tene. She chafed at the deliberate pace Karada set for her band. When she complained at their slowness, Karada told her the horsed contingent couldn’t leave behind the unmounted members. If the band became strung out, both the head and tail of the line would be vulnerable to raider or Silvanesti attack.
Beramun saw the wisdom of this, yet understanding did nothing to ease her anxiety. Her riding skills had improved on the long march, and she was able to concentrate less on maintaining her seat and more on the distant ghostly peaks ahead. Her anxious eyes remained fixed forward, watching the mountains grow slowly more distinct in the hot, hazy air.
To distract herself from the slow pace and her own dark worries, Beramun left Karada’s side and circled back through the dusty column. Eventually, she passed the ranks of the elf prisoners, marching in the center of the nomads’ column under the command of their own officers.
The elves had proved surprisingly docile. Aside from plenty of sullen faces in their ranks, they kept pace and caused no trouble. One or two glared at Beramun as she rode by, but she ignored them.
Balif had been given over to the custody of Pakito. The elf lord was mounted on a good horse, the better to keep pace with Pakito’s large steed. Balif’s hands were bound in front of him so he could hold his reins, and a stout rawhide thong was slung under his horse’s belly, hobbling the elf’s ankles. The horse he rode had been trained by Samtu, Pakito’s mate. It responded to whistled commands like a dog. If Balif tried to gallop away, Samtu’s shrill whistle would bring the animal trotting obediently back.
“It would be simpler if you’d give your oath not to escape,” Pakito said.
“All captives have the duty to escape,” replied Balif. “Karada would agree with me.”
A grunt. “Try it then. Karada would slit your throat.”
Balif smiled thinly. He knew the big man spoke the truth.
Beramun rode up to them, falling in beside the elf lord’s mount. Though she said nothing, her curiosity was so obvious Balif addressed her.
“Are you Karada’s daughter?” he asked. The nomads had taken his helmet and suede hat, so his fair face was rapidly turning red-brown under the broiling sun.
Beramun shook her head. “No. I come from a different place, a different clan.”
“Yet, she favors you like a daughter. Don’t you think so?” This last was addressed to Pakito.
“This one interests her,” the giant agreed. “And Karada does not give her attention lightly.”
Balif looked back at Beramun, his pale eyes frankly assessing her. “Why, I wonder? What does she see in you?”
“All that black hair and those big dark eyes—she is pretty,” Pakito said thoughtfully, and Beramun’s blush was more fiery than the elf’s sunburn.
“For a human, I suppose so. I’ll concede it as a matter of taste.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I were a prized mare!” Beramun snapped. “I came from Yala-tene with a message from Karada’s brother, Amero. His town is besieged by vicious raiders. I was one of several scouts sent to find Karada and fetch her back to Yala-tene.”
“Yes? Why doesn’t the dragon of the mountain help his friend the Arkuden?”
Beramun explained Duranix’s absence, then said, “Elf, you seem more talker than fighter. How did you and Karada become such dire enemies?”
“In my country, one may be a poet, a dancer, or a painter, as well as a warrior. Thinking and fighting are not like fire and water, mixing to the destruction of both. As commander of the host of the Speaker of the Stars, I am obliged to carry out his will and make war on his enemies. Karada understands this. We’ve fought many times. Once I won and spared her life. I thought showing leniency to their chief would dispirit the nomads, but …” He shrugged and shot a sidelong glance at Pakito, who was listening carefully. “Many times I regretted not killing Karada. The Speaker’s soldiers have hunted her for twenty seasons. In that time, many brave warriors have perished.”
“On both sides,” put in Pakito.
“How do you know Karada won’t kill you, if the ransom isn’t paid?” Beramun asked.
Balif leaned toward her. His sky-blue eyes bored into her dark ones. In a voice deep and vibrant, he said, “You won’t let her kill me, will you?”
Startled, Beramun pulled back on her reins, halting her horse. The moving column flowed around her. Balif’s light chuckle, joined by Pakito’s booming laugh, came clearly back to her. Wrenching her mount’s head around, she rode back toward the rear of the band, her crimson face hidden in the swirling clouds of dust.
When Beramun finally returned to the head of the column, she found Karada surrounded by scouts. Trotting in the flattened grass behind the nomad chieftain’s horse was the girl Mara, her face and auburn hair yellow with dust.
“Have a good talk with Balif?” asked Karada as Beramun arrived. Beramun’s surprise was evident, and Karada added, “I know everything that happens in this band. A horse doesn’t stumble or a child cough that I don’t hear about it eventually.”
“I’ve never met an elf before,” Beramun said defensively. “I wanted to see what they’re like.”
“Stay away from Balif. He’s too wise for you, too cunning. Listen to him long enough and you’ll end up wanting to free him.”
“I would never do that!”
“Yes, you would,” Mara put in airily. “The Good People can change a mind or turn a heart around as easily as the wind finds a new course.”
Beramun had no chance to dispute this, as Mara added quickly, “Please, Karada, may I have a horse?”
“None to spare,” was the terse reply.
Mara, panting between the mounted nomads, looked so downcast Beramun felt sorry for her.
“Climb on,” she said, extending a hand. “We can ride double.”
Mara looked from Beramun’s outstretched hand to Karada’s stern face and back again. Without another word, she turned and merged back into the dusty stream of horses and dragging travois.
The dry wind switched directions, becoming damp and heavy as it blew down from the north. By late afternoon, the hazy white clouds had clotted into piles of mighty thunderheads, filling the northern sky. The nomads plodded on for a while, but night and the threat of rain finally convinced Karada to halt her people. While the first campfires were being laid, the clouds broke open and dumped a torrent of water, dousing all hope of warmth. Cold jerky and journey bread were everyone’s fare that night.
A few tents were dragged out and unfolded before Karada rode by and ordered they not be put up. The band would move out at first light, and she wanted no time wasted pitching and striking tents. Many grumbled at having to spend the night in the rain, but every nomad in the band knew their leader would be out in the weather herself, just as wet and miserable as the rest of them.
Beramun had lost sight of the chief when the rain closed in, so she wandered the camp, looking for some spot to spend the night. The elf prisoners had a novel method for beating the weather. Their cloaks were made with several small metal hooks and rings along their edges and could be joined together into a large, lightweight fly. As the rain poured down, the elves sat on the ground in a tight circle, facing outward, shielded from the worst of the downpour by their ingenious cloak-tent.
After a long search, Beramun spotted Karada’s wheat-colored horse tied to a picket line. Below the animal’s nose was a dark hump in the grass. Someone was squatting there, wrapped in a large ox hide. Beramun hurried over. She lifted one edge of the hide and shoved her head under.
“Room for another?” she asked, then saw it was not Karada under the hide, but Mara.
The girl said nothing but moved slightly to one side, giving tacit assent. Warily, Beramun crawled in.
It was dark as Sthenn’s heart under the hide, but with their knees drawn up to their chins, the two girls were able to stay dry. The air was heavy with cold rain and Mara’s palpable jealousy.
The silence stretched between them until Beramun asked, “Where’s Karada?”
“With that elf. She’s spent every night with him since he was caught.” Beramun gave a low exclamation of surprise, and Mara added, “Not alone. Pakito’s with them.”
“Oh.” Beramun dismissed the alarming fantasies she’d conjured up. “Is she afraid he’ll escape?”
She felt the other girl shrug. “Pakito says they argue about everything, from the best way to raise horses to who’s the best leader. This goes on until one tires and goes to sleep. Karada’s won every night. That elf sleeps first.”
Rain trickled down Beramun’s collar. She pushed away from the edge of the hide until her feet bumped Mara’s.
“Is it a game?”
“Karada doesn’t play games,” Mara said, her tone a mixture of pride in her leader and animosity for her own treatment. “It’s a fight. Karada is pitting her spirit against that elf’s.”
In a comradely way, Beramun replied, “She’s in no danger, I’m certain.”
The sharp chime of metal sliding against metal, the sound of a dagger being drawn, froze the words in her throat She tensed as a cold, bronze point touched her ankle.
“No one will harm Karada!” Mara announced. “Not while I live!”
Beramun was silent, unmoving and barely breathing. Her lack of response had the desired effect: the weapon was returned to its sheath.
“I think I’ll get some rest,” Beramun said mildly and curled up on the damp ground. A spot between her shoulder blades tingled at being exposed to one so troubled who carried a dagger, but Beramun felt she had Mara figured out. The girl worshiped whoever ruled her—first Tiphan, leader of the destroyed Sensarku, then her Silvanesti masters while she was a slave, and now Karada. Those her ruler favored, Mara would not harm, but woe to anyone Karada hated!
As she drifted off to sleep at last, Beramun reflected on Balif’s predicament. Being in the hands of his longtime enemy didn’t seem to worry him, and he didn’t appear to chafe at waiting as long as a year to see if his lord Silvanos would pay his ransom. Yet if he knew the danger he faced from this single, strange girl, things might be different. “That elf,” as Mara called him, might know true fear.
The rain pounded the walls of Yala-tene. It ran in streams down alleys, washing away the dust of many dry days. In the lane before the House of the Turtle, it also washed away a great deal of blood.
Within, Lyopi sat quietly by the fire, her tears spent. Her thick chestnut hair, freed from its usual neat braid, fell past her waist.
“Pitiless children,” she said.
“What?”
Two men knelt on the other side of the hearth, the flames between them. One was Tepa the beekeeper, oldest of the remaining village elders. With him was Hekani, a young man lately thrust into the position of leading the defense of Yala-tene. Not quite twenty, Hekani wore his brown hair in a long horsetail, in the fashion of the men who still wandered the savanna. Until the raiders invaded the valley, he’d never spent a night in Yala-tene. He was a wanderer who had dwelt in the tent camp outside the walls. Like the rest of the camp’s inhabitants, he traded, bartered, and hired out his labor for two days or ten. When the wanderers in the tent camp pulled up stakes and departed under threat of Zannian’s arrival, Hekani was the only one who’d remained. His common sense and loyalty had won the trust of the Arkuden and, even more difficult, of the Arkuden’s woman, Lyopi.
“What did you say?” Hekani asked again.
“The ones Zannian sent after Amero—they were barely more than children. How do you make children into such pitiless killers?”
“I hope never to know,” Tepa murmured. He rested his forehead in the palm of one hand and sighed deeply. His own son, Udi, had been one of those sent out with Beramun several weeks ago to find the Arkuden’s sister. The raiders had caught Udi, and his dying body had been displayed on stakes before the walls of Yala-tene. As yet there was no word of Beramun.
As the old man dozed, Hekani slipped around the hearth to be closer to Lyopi. He was very tall, all knees and elbows. Fate had shown him to be a formidable fighter. He’d slain two of the invading Jade Men by himself.
“What shall we do?” he asked, voice low out of deference for the sleeping man. “Our food won’t last twenty days. There’s been no sign of the last scout the Arkuden sent out. Unless the dragon returns to save us, I doubt we can hold out much longer.”
Lyopi nodded her agreement and prodded the dying fire. The fact that Beramun’s body hadn’t been exhibited by the raiders had given Lyopi hope the girl had made it through. But perhaps the girl wanderer had taken to her heels, leaving the certain death of Yala-tene behind.
The flickering flame went out, leaving only a shoal of glowing coals. “There are,” Lyopi said slowly, as though choosing her words with care, “tunnels in the mountain.”
“The storage tunnels? What of them? They’re all dead ends.”
“Two are; one isn’t. Amero found a fissure in the rock while hunting for copper ore. He had some men widen the cleft. It runs all the way to the cliff top overlooking the village. Amero had both ends concealed with slabs of rock.”
Hekani was stunned. “Why haven’t you spoken of this earlier? We can escape!”
Lyopi shook her head and said, “The passage is too narrow to allow more than one small person through at a time. It would take days for the population of Yala-tene to get out—those who would fit—and the tunnel could collapse at any time. Escape was never the plan. It was too risky even to consider, but now …” She lifted hollow eyes to his. “The children. We might get some of the children out. They could escape over several nights, scatter in the mountains. It will be dangerous, but at least something of Yala-tene might survive.”
Hekani rocked back on his hands. “I say, fight it out! You saw them out there yesterday—there aren’t so many left! We can beat them!”
“Moonmeet is in two days. They claim they’ll have a way to tear down our wall.”
“They’re bluffing! They can’t overcome our wall. All they can do is threaten and scare us.”
“I am scared,” Lyopi said softly. “How many do we have left who can fight?”
Hekani thought a moment, then answered, “Able-bodied men and women—one hundred and sixteen. Old folks and children who can help—one hundred forty and nine. Hurt or sick ones who can’t fight at all—two hundred and eighty-eight.”
“And how many have died?”
He turned away from her intense gaze. “I don’t know. I’ve only been war chief since the night of the Jade Men.”
Lyopi rose suddenly. She draped a horsehair blanket around the sleeping Tepa. Hekani took his leave, throwing on his cloak and retrieving his spear.
“Be strong, Lyopi.” he said proudly. “We’re not lost yet!”
He strode away in the rain. Once he was gone, Lyopi discovered a well of tears she had not yet exhausted. She leaned her head against the door and wept. The sound of her crying was lost in the rush of rain down the dark, empty street.