Children of the Plains

Chapter 12

By the time Karada reached the western slopes of the mountains, her band of followers had grown from forty-odd warriors on foot and horse to over a hundred. All along the route plainsmen left the line of march to collect their mates and children, most of whom lived in solitary camps in the eastern foothills. In the wake of their defeat, they feared the Silvanesti would sweep the countryside clear of humans, so they packed up their families and followed Karada west.

It was raining as the long, straggling procession of nomads wound its way along the twisting mountain passes. Most of them, Karada included, had walked all the way from the Thon-Thalas. What horses they had were given to a few trusted scouts, who rode ahead looking for potential trouble and locating the best trails.

The habit of leadership was strong in Karada. Though this ragtag collection of families was a far cry from the hundreds of warriors she had so recently led, they still saw her as their chief, and it was a role she could not easily relinquish.

She was constantly on the move, going from the head of the line to the back, encouraging the wounded and whipping the laggards into line. It became clear four days into the march that the elves were not pursuing, but still Karada wouldn’t allow her people to dawdle. She drove them over the mountains through the low, easy southern passes, and not until they reached the great open plain did she allow any rest.

The skies cleared, and while the younger hunters scoured the savanna for food, Karada held a council with the surviving leaders of the band. There weren’t many — Targun, Pakito, Hatu the One-eyed, and Samtu.

No one was surprised Samtu remained in Karada’s band despite being threatened by her own chief. Samtu owed everything to Karada. Her family had died when she was only five. Karada had found the girl wandering like a fox cub, naked and filthy, and raised her in a stern but caring way.

Karada’s seconds ranged themselves around a modest fire, sitting on whatever rocks or logs were convenient. Karada took a chunk of trail bread from her knapsack — the last bit of food she had — broke off a piece and handed the rest to Pakito. The trail bread went around the circle until it was gone, then Karada started a gourd of fresh water in its wake.

“Here we are, back again on the plains of my birth,” Karada said. “I wish it were for better reasons.”

“I can’t think of a better reason than being alive,” Targun said. Though Karada had never stopped to consider it before, he was the oldest man present and was showing his age. His once black hair was shot through with gray, his squat, powerful frame now seemed wasted and hollow.

“At least there’s good fishing here,” he added. “Nothing bigger than a minnow ever got up the blasted Thon-Thalas!”

They laughed a little. The water gourd came back to Karada. It was still heavy and sloshing. Her comrades had left much of the water for her.

“It’s late in the season,” she said. “We don’t have the time or the horses to hunt down enough game to feed the band.” She spat on the flattened grass. “Balif thinks he’s shown himself to be a generous conqueror by letting us go. The fact is, if we don’t do something, few of us will survive the winter.”

“What can we do?” Samtu wondered.

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Silence reigned. Finally, Pakito said, “We could find Pa’alu.”

“How will that help?”

The big man reddened. “He’s smart. He could think of something,” he said lamely.

“He’s smart all right — smart enough to run off and not come back,” jeered Hatu.

Pakito jumped up. “Watch your words, One-eye!”

“Have I said something untrue?” Hatu was no weakling himself, the last survivor of a family of four strapping brothers. His manner was always outwardly mild, but he was a tough, sometimes ruthless character. Even Karada respected him as a fighter.

“My brother never ran away,” Pakito said. “The chief ordered us to follow the dragon-man.”

“So where did he follow him to? The red moon?”

Pakito took a step toward him. Karada stopped the giant with a word.

“Sit,” she said. Pakito flexed his battle-scarred hands into fists, but he obeyed his chief and sat down.

“Fighting each other is worse than stupid,” she told them. “I won’t have it, do you hear?”

“I wonder about Pa’alu,” Targun said. Pakito glared, but the old man went on. “Pa’alu and the dragon-man, I mean. Did they go to the Place of the Dragon?”

“So what if they did?” asked Samtu.

“What of the settlement there? Might they help us?”

Karada slowly sat up straight. “I pondered that when Pakito told me how the dragon-man helped defeat some elves at the place of standing stones.” She made a fist. “I put away the idea because I thought we could beat the elves without help.”

“Things have changed,” said Targun.

“A dragon would make a powerful ally,” Pakito remarked.

“How can you bargain with such a monster?” said Hatu. “Long ago my brothers and I fought a dragon in those very mountains. He killed my father! For all I know, it’s the same beast.”

“It may not be. Should we pass up a useful ally for such a slender reason?” Karada said. Hatu did not reply. “You know the mountains, Hatu. Can you find Arku-peli?”

Long ago, a wounded elk had gored Hatu, costing him his right eye. He wore a patch on his headband that hid the empty socket. When he was very troubled, he would mb the patch absently. He was rubbing it now with his thumbnail.

“I’ll do as my chief commands,” he said at last. “To me there seems little difference between serving an elf or serving a dragon, but if Karada says ‘dragon,’ then I obey.”

“Thank you, Hatu.” Everyone shifted uncomfortably. It was not a phrase Karada used often. Her saying it was a grim measure of their plight.

They estimated they were four days from the Place of the Dragon. None of them, not even Hatu, knew exactly where the settlement lay. Common repute said the village was on a lake at the foot of a high waterfall. Hatu remembered such a lake from his youth. Once back in the mountains, he felt sure he could find his way there again.

The nomads rested a full day on the savanna. Their meager food dwindled, and they resumed the march under a cloudless blue sky, the last hot days of the season. The scouts returned and reported no signs of pursuit by Balif and no other sources of trouble in sight.

Unknown riders began appearing in the valleys south and east of the lake. Foragers from Yala-tene were alarmed when they encountered the first humans they’d ever seen on horseback. They’d heard tales of plainsmen who had adopted this elf habit, but it was strange to see men and women astride long-legged beasts. And what strange humans they were — tough, sinewy people, cured by wind and sun until they resembled the leather gear they wore. They moved in groups of eight or ten at a time and were armed with spears or long-handled clubs. They were polite enough when bartering for food and water, but there were scores of them roaming the high passes, and their very numbers made the villagers nervous.

The first riders arrived at the lake five days after the tunnel disaster. They were first seen on the cliffs overlooking the village and were mistaken for elf warriors. A panic ensued until Pa’alu identified the horsemen as members of Karada’s band, his comrades.

Amero heard the commotion and descended from the cave to see what the matter was. He found a congregation of village elders in the square before the dragon’s cairn. Pa’alu was with them.

“What’s the alarm?” asked Amero wearily. He was hollow-eyed and pale, having slept little the past few nights.

“Riders have been seen atop the cliffs,” Pa’alu said. “Some of my people have arrived.”

Amero glanced back at the cave where Duranix was sleeping off his recent meal of ox meat. In his current state, the dragon would be hard to rouse, but if there was trouble…

Pa’alu read Amero’s thoughts on his face. “Why all the worry?” the plainsman asked. “Wanderers come to the village all the time, don’t they? Why are you all so scared?”

“Plainsmen on horses,” said Konza, “like warrior elves.”

“They mean no harm,” Pa’alu vowed. He looked away to the cliff wistfully. “My brother Pakito may be with them.” And Karada.

Now it was Amero’s turn to read Pa’alu’s thoughts. “Your people are welcome,” he said, as much for the elders’ benefit as Pa’alu’s. “Go and meet them, Pa’alu, so there’s no mistake about our good will. If you find your chief, bring her here and we will do her all honor.”

A smile flickered across Pa’alu’s face. He saluted Amero with his javelin, saying, “I go gladly. Please tell the villagers not to challenge Karada’s band. They’re seasoned fighters who’ve lately lost a battle. They’ll likely be in a foul mood.” He departed at a jog. Once he was out of earshot, the elders peppered Amero with their fears about the newcomers. Amero let them rant for a while then waved for silence.

“Why do you worry so much?” he asked. “They are plainsmen like us. If we treat them kindly, we’re more likely to make them strong friends than enemies.” He let that sink in for a moment, then added, “And you forget who we are. We’re not exactly sheep.”

“Maybe not, but we do have a powerful shepherd,” Valka said wryly. The dragon was an asset not easily trumped. Amero decided not to tell the worried elders that Duranix probably would be out of action for several days at least.

“Go back to work,” he advised them. “Act as if this were any day, and receive the strangers with kindness.”

Despite his words, Amero himself was anything but calm. As he returned to the cave to study his copper melting experiments and await events, he felt a shiver of fear. Pa’alu had described Karada’s band as being five hundred strong. Yala-tene had had trouble in the past with lone outcasts or small bands of thieves, kidnappers, and killers. In most cases they hadn’t needed Duranix’s assistance, but they’d never faced so large a force of strangers before. Amero was no warrior, and neither were the people of Yala-tene. Could Duranix defend them against so many?

His fears were magnified as he ascended to the cave in his basket. As he rose, Amero could see more and more of the plateau behind the cliff. It was dotted with moving figures, all approaching Cedarsplit Gap, a steep ravine that led from the heights down to the valley of the lake. By late afternoon, for good or ill, Karada’s band would be here.

Then his anxiety doubled when he saw Duranix was not in the main chamber. Amero ran up the steps to the dragon’s sleeping platform and saw him there — in human form. Duranix’s slow, regular breathing filled the cavern. Still asleep? Had he changed to human form in his sleep?

The thought must have been a strong one, because it disturbed the sleeping dragon. Duranix turned over in one of those sinuous motions impossible for a true man to make and opened his eyes. Without saying a word, he held a hand up in front of his face.

“Bizarre,” he said, and sat up abruptly. “How long have you been gone?”

Amero was still at the edge of the platform. “Not long. It’s not yet midday.”

The dragon held out his human hands. “I must have transformed in my sleep. That’s very strange.”

Duranix stood up, spread his feet apart and held his arms out. Usually this signaled the beginning of his change back to dragon form. This time nothing happened. The dragon looked disturbed.

“What is this?” he said wonderingly.

Amero had no idea and said so.

Duranix whirled, pointing both hands at the pile of old bones at the rear of the platform. Lightning arced from his spread fingers. Bones shattered into dull white shards that flew in high arcs, falling to the sandstone floor. He followed this demonstration by hurling a web of incandescent lightning against the wall. The crash and flash were stunning. When Amero lifted his head, Duranix was standing, staring at the smoking holes in the wall.

“I’m not totally powerless,” said the dragon slowly, and Amero detected relief in his voice. It crackled to anger when he added, “But this is intolerable! Why can’t I revert to my natural shape?”

“Are you ill?” asked Amero.

“I feel buried in this feeble body,” Duranix snapped.

“Could it be your enemy?”

“Sthenn? No. I would sense him long before he could get near enough to place such a spell on me.”

Amero racked his brain for a helpful thought. “Maybe it was something you ate?”

Duranix blinked, then burst into bitter laughter. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This isn’t a bellyache!”

Amero recoiled. Though he had lived with a dragon for ten years, he knew next to nothing about the creature’s inner thoughts or workings. His sudden anger, coupled with the imminent arrival of Karada’s band, brought home to him the tenuousness of his life, and of Yala-tene itself.

“Calm down. I’m not going to eat you,” said Duranix, interrupting Amero’s anxious reverie. “Your thoughts are muddled. Who is coming?”

“Pa’alu’s people — Karada’s band — at least, some of them. Riders have been spotted on the plateau and in the outlying valleys. They seem to be converging on Yala-tene.”

“I see.” Duranix sat down on the edge of the platform and let his bare feet dangle. “You’re worried the warriors will attack your people?” Amero admitted as much, and Duranix nodded. “You’re wise to think so. Karada is hard and harsh, and her band takes her as their model. Does Pa’alu know they’re coming?”

“He’s gone to meet them.”

Duranix thumped his heel against the cool stone. “That’s good. He’s in love with Karada. That may give him some influence over her.”

“Good influence, I hope,” Amero muttered.

The dragon hopped down to the floor. “Fear not, Amero. Though I may be confined to this shape, I’m still the dragon of the lake. No one need know otherwise. If the problem is some allergy or influence, it will pass.”

A trio of ram’s horns blared from below. Amero raced to the door and looked down. Dust rose from the direction of Cedarsplit Gap, and a small column of riders could be seen entering the valley between the cattle pens and the bridge.

“How does this thing work?” Duranix was examining Amero’s hoist. “If I can’t spread my wings, I’ll have to descend like you, won’t I?”

Amero frowned. He explained the hoist system, with its counterweight and pulleys made of the heartwood of the burltop tree. The basket attached to the hoist was roomy enough for two. However, he said, the counterweight was too light for Duranix, who still weighed as much he did in dragon form.

“So am I stuck here, a prisoner in my own cave?”

Amero recalled the dragon’s advice from years ago when he, Amero, had asked the same question. With pleasure, he repeated that advice now. “You could jump.”

“I’m in no mood for your insolence!”

His fury was genuine, and Amero backed away. “It was a jest!”

“A poor one. There must be a cause for this malady — ”

The horns sounded again. Amero climbed in the wicker basket and prepared to drop the counterweight. “You’ll have to work it out yourself. I must go,” he said. Grunting, he yanked on the strap and the hide sack of stones rolled off the timber shelf and started down. On the ground, a second sack started to rise, as the basket sank slowly.

The hoist gathered speed and Duranix disappeared above. It was all very well to tease the dragon about being marooned in the cave, but without him the village was practically defenseless. Under no circumstances could Karada’s band be allowed to know this — nor could the people of Yala-tene.

As Amero crossed the sandy lanes between the villagers’ houses, doors thumped shut around him. The paths through the village were empty of people. Homes with two stories had their upper windows open, as curious and anxious families peered out at the approaching horsemen. Tools and work were left in place as everyone fled inside and bolted their doors. By the time Amero reached the outer edge of the settlement, he was alone, completely exposed and vulnerable.

A ragged line of horsemen, no more than a dozen in all, trotted over the sandhill. Rather than walk out to meet them, Amero halted and struck what he hoped was a confident pose. The lead riders spotted him and came toward him at the same lazy trot. When they got closer, they spread out in a line six horses wide. At little more than spitting distance, the rider in the center of the line held up his hand, halting his comrades.

“Greetings,” said the dusty, fair-haired nomad.

“Peace to you all,” replied Amero, clearing his throat to avoid any quaver in his voice. “I am Amero, headman of Yala-tene.”

The horsemen’s leader looked surprised. “Are you the Arkuden we’ve heard of?” In the plains tongue Arkuden meant “dragon’s son.”

“Some have called me that. I am simply Amero, founder of this village and friend to Duranix, the bronze dragon of the lake.”

The horseman smiled widely, showing bad teeth. “My name’s Sessan. This is Tarkwa, and this, Nacris.” These were the man and woman flanking him, respectively. Like the rest of the riders, they were grimy, sunbrowned, and hard-eyed. Amero greeted them.

“You’re part of Karada’s band?” he said.

Sessan betrayed surprise. “We were, not so long ago. How’d you know?”

“One of your comrades has been with us for a while, Pa’alu by name. We saw you coming, and he identified you as being of her band.”

“Pa’alu, here? Where is he?” Nacris said.

“He left on foot this morning to meet you,” Amero replied, scratching his head. “I’m sure he went up Cedarsplit Gap. I can’t think why you didn’t see him.”

“It’s a dusty day,” Sessan said. “We may not have seen him if he was walking. Truth to tell, we don’t pay much attention to you stray root-pickers on foot.”

A few of the other riders laughed. Amero smiled through the insult and said, “How many of you are there?”

“What you see here, plus whoever else makes it this far.”

“Is your chief with you?”

Tarkwa exclaimed loudly, “Karada? She’s dead!”

Sessan and Nacris stared at him with as much surprise as Amero. Abashed, Tarkwa said, “She must be dead, I mean — she stayed behind to fight the elves alone. No one’s seen her since, have they?”

An awkward silence ensued. Amero broke it by saying, “On behalf of my people and the great dragon Duranix, I welcome you. Please, follow me.”

Nacris steered her horse in front of Amero and extended a dirty, callused hand to him. “Climb on,” she said cheerfully.

Amero had never ridden a horse in his life, and he sensed this was a test of his mettle. How hard could riding a horse be for a fellow who’d flown through the air in a dragon’s claw? He clasped Nacris’s hand, and she hauled him up. He slid onto the horse behind her. It was hard to say who smelled worse, Nacris or the horse.

Sessan raised his hand and shouted, “Let’s go!”

The nomads stirred their horses to gallop. They yipped and yelled as they raced down the hill toward the silent houses. Amero clung to Nacris’s waist and bounced up and down with the motion of the horse. It was punishing, but he was proud he remained on the creature’s back. He called instructions to Nacris, and she guided her horse toward the lakeshore.

At his direction, she stopped on the open ground between the cairn and Amero’s hoist. Here the ground was all rock ledges, lightly dusted with sand washed down by the falls. The waterfall was close by. Amero had long since gotten used to its thunder, but the nomads were as excited as children by the roaring column of water. They walked their horses into shallow water and let the fine spray cover their faces. Amero slid off the horse, went back to dry land, sat down on a slate ledge, and waited.

When he tired of playing in the water, Sessan slogged ashore, wringing out his long hair as he came. Dripping, he dropped beside Amero and began peeling off his sodden sandals and leggings.

“Nice spot,” he said, squeezing the excess water from his suede footgear. “I can see why you chose to live here.”

“I didn’t choose it,” Amero replied. “The dragon did.”

“Oh, the dragon. When can we see him?”

“Any time he decides to show himself. He doesn’t come among us too often.”

“I thought he took on the shape of a human? He came to Karada’s camp looking like a big man.”

“He takes human form sometimes,” Amero said carefully, “but he does not do our bidding.”

The other riders whooped and splashed in the cold lake. Amero watched them, smiling. At least they would smell better after their wet roughhousing.

“We’d like to stay for a while,” Sessan said suddenly.

“I understand. You can live here if you want, so long as you agree to obey the village elders.”

“Oh, we won’t be staying that long.” Sessan slung his damp sandals around his neck. “We’re wanderers. We can’t dig a hole and live in it, like some rabbit.”

“No, you’re more like wolves, aren’t you?”

Sessan wasn’t offended. He laughed at Amero’s comparison. Jumping to his feet, he swept his arm in a wide half-circle. “Yeah, us wolves’ll camp here, by the lake.”

“You’ll find it damp,” Amero said. “The mist from the falls will soak your tents before nightfall.”

He waved away the young headman’s warning. “We’re used to it. Any night on the savanna it rains is damp for us. Thanks, boy!” He clapped Amero on the back and went to unpack his horse.

Hide tents sprouted on the rocky ledge, and a picket line for the horses stretched between some boulders rolled over from the cliff base. Before departing, Amero told the nomads they could barter with the villagers for whatever they needed — food, fodder for their animals, and so on. He warned them against stealing, then bade them a good evening.

By the slanting amber light of an early autumn afternoon, he saw more dust, more riders filing down the gap. Wearily, he set out to greet them. Amero wondered how many visitors the valley could take before the villagers and the nomads found it too close for comfort.