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 homespun, 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 climbed 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!”
His words struck home, at least among Zannian’s men. None of them had been happy to find ogres in their midst, allies or not. Amero’s words reinforced their fears. They could be heard muttering among themselves. Their leader glared at them.
“No more talk!” Zannian shouted. “And no guarantees. Surrender or die!”
“That’s no choice,” Amero replied. “To surrender is to die.”
“Very well.” Zannian walked confidently back to his waiting warriors. He donned his skull-mask again and, whipping a hand over his head, signaled the attack to resume.
There followed an eternal interval of bloody struggle, a seemingly endless clash over possession of the last barricade. Dismounted raiders climbed the apple trees to bolster Zannian’s assault while those on horseback peppered the villagers with thrown spears. The defenders dwindled. Soon Amero and Lyopi had only a handful of wounded comrades around them.
More horns blared out in the valley. Amero felt his heart shrivel with despair. Were even more raiders coming to trample them into the dust? Where did Zannian get his endless supply of men?
Packed shoulder to shoulder, the raiders pushed and heaved harder at the barricade. Afraid of being trapped when everything fell, Lyopi grabbed Amero by the collar and dragged him to the ramp. Grunting in unison, the raiders as one slammed against the tottering barrier.
The horns sounded again, closer. Lyopi pushed sweat-drenched hair from her face and peered out over the wall. Columns of horsemen filled the eastern valley. She felt numb as she watched them charging down from Cedarsplit Gap. Numb and hopeless. It was all over now.
What was this? She blinked suddenly, not crediting the evidence of her eyes.
Were the horsemen fighting each other?
She shook the dazed Arkuden. “Look, Amero!” she cried. “Look!”
He forced himself to follow her pointing hand. A mass of riders, most on tall, light-colored horses, were pouring into the valley. The mid-afternoon sun showed their faces were clean of paint, and many wore bright bronze on their heads. With sword and spear and ringing cries they attacked the mounted raiders already pressed against the walls of Yala-tene. To his confusion and shock, Amero saw many of Zannian’s men fall from their horses as though clubbed, yet no enemy was close enough to strike them. What spirit power was at work here?
Then the barricade came down with a crash, and Amero, Lyopi, and the surviving villagers were forced to concentrate on the battle closer to home. They braced themselves for a final onslaught.
It never came. A few intrepid raiders leaped over the ruined barrier, now a heap of rubble, but the majority hung back, shouting and pointing at the battle raging beneath them. One by one they abandoned the wall, streaming across the baffle to the tree-ladders. Amero saw Zannian himself urging his men away from Yala-tene and back to their tethered horses.
“By all our ancestors,” Lyopi said, sinking to her knees, tears glistening in her hollow, dark eyes. “We are saved!”
“But who can it be?” murmured a battered man behind her.
“Spirits, elves … I cannot tell, and I do not care,” she said weakly, then slumped to the parapet, unconscious.
Though equally exhausted, his wounded leg throbbing with every beat of his heart, Amero flung his arms wide and shouted, “No, not spirits! Not elves! Nomads! They’re nomads! Nianki’s band has come at last!”
From the moment he’d risen, Hoten knew the day was an ill-omened one. Raider dead, slain in the previous day’s battle, lay in heaps outside the camp. Though it was a grim sight, he’d seen much death since joining Zannian’s band. It was the eerie silence hanging over everything that had halted him in his tracks. Crows and vultures should have been circling, but the sky above was as empty of scavengers as it was of clouds. It was as though nature itself was rejecting the dead, and this troubled Hoten deeply. Such a thing had never happened. Never, until the ogres came.
After washing himself in the river, Hoten had awakened his mate and found her different this morning. Nacris came to life unusually animated. She told him of a wager the men had going, on whether it would be Zan or the ogres who entered Arku-peli first. Though betting favored Ungrah-de, Nacris wagered on her son.
“Losing faith in your allies?” Hoten asked, helping her rise and placing the crutch in her hand.
“Gaining faith in myself,” she replied. “I will lead my Jade Men to Arku-peli today. With them as his spearhead, Zan will prevail.”
“But Zannian commanded the Jade Men to remain in camp.”
“A stupid order. I shall lead them to victory!”
All the remaining raiders were summoned to Zannian a short time later. Hoten lingered at the rear of the formation, watching Nacris in her litter and the Jade Men surrounding her. Though Zannian offered him command of this attack, Hoten let the fiery young captains lead the morning’s assault. Shouting war cries, they galloped off to the north baffle to help storm the fading village defenses.
Still Hoten hung back. Nacris did not follow the horsemen when they turned toward the town. She led her twenty-two surviving Jade Men into the center of the valley and halted, facing the rising sun.
Hoten cantered to her. “What are you doing?” he called. “The battle is there. Why have you stopped out here?”
Nacris’s lean, lined face was alight with rapturous excitement. Her normally cold, flinty eyes glowed with a strange happiness. She looked years younger. It was astonishing how the emotion transformed her, yet the sight only added to Hoten’s feeling of nameless worry.
“She’s coming,” his mate said. “She’s coming, and I’ll be here to greet her.”
“Who’s coming? Nacris, what are you talking about?”
She looked up at him with shining eyes. “Karada.”
“Karada’s dead and gone, like her brother,” he said with a disgusted snort. Then, in spite of himself, he asked, “What makes you think she’s coming?”
“I feel it. Here.” The crippled old woman pressed a fist to her heart. “All night I dreamed I could hear the hoofbeats of Karada’s band, riding and riding. When I awoke I could still hear them. I know it is true, Hoten. The Great Spirits have granted me this boon. This is the day I will see Karada again, and one of us is fated to perish!”
He couldn’t tell if she was mad or inspired. In either case, Hoten felt he was losing the woman he loved. He palmed the sweat from his blistered brow and made one last attempt to reach her.
“If what you say is true, then you shouldn’t be standing out here, alone. Karada always led a band of superb warriors. If she comes, you and the Jade Men will be trampled into the dirt.”
Nacris drew a light javelin from a socket in the frame of her litter. She laid the weapon across her lap. In the same strange, lilting voice, she replied, “We will fight and we will win. The spirits are with me. Haven’t you understood this? Everything that has happened in my life has been done so to bring me here! You don’t believe me? Broken, lame, I was found by you and spared. The Master enlisted me in his cause, not knowing he was really serving mine! Zannian raised a mighty band to fulfill his ambition, but it was mine he was achieving!
“The bronze dragon abandoned his people, why? Because I willed it! The Dragon’s Son was slain—by my Jade Men! Even Ungrah-de has subordinated himself to my design. All that remains is to destroy Karada herself, and my revenge will be complete! I cannot possibly fail now.”
Hoten stared at her. He had lived too long to believe in anything so childish as heartbreak, but at that moment he knew, win or lose, Nacris was lost to him forever. The knowledge left him feeling empty.
He dismounted and came to her side. Her glittering eyes were fixed on the eastern horizon. Bending down, he kissed her gently on the forehead. She paid him no heed whatsoever.
Back astride his horse, Hoten turned toward Arku-peli, already ringing with the sounds of combat. “Farewell, Nacris. Hoten, son of Nito, salutes you.”
She did not look up as he rode away.