Children of the Plains

Chapter 13

When he left Yala-tene, Pa’alu’s step was light. The news Karada might be close by put power and speed in his stride.

When he reached Cedarsplit Gap, he started the climb. Within a few score paces the ravine divided into northern and southern branches. Having spotted his old comrades atop the plateau south of the village, he assumed the southern course would take him to them.

As Pa’alu walked along the red rock ravine, his head filled with thoughts of Karada and the hope that he would find her well. Pakito also figured in his hopes. Surely nothing could ever harm his foolish giant of a brother. The feel of the sun on his face finally broke through Pa’alu’s busy thoughts.

When he’d left the village the sun had been at his back, very low in the eastern sky. Now it was in front of him and over halfway toward its zenith. How long had he been walking? When had the ravine doubled back? Most annoying of all, why had he met none of his fellow plainsman?

Pa’alu shook his head. Perhaps he should go back the way he had come -

Even as the thought formed in his head, he came around a curve in the ravine and found that the narrowing gorge opened into a bowl-shaped canyon perhaps twenty paces wide. Pa’alu squinted. The rock walls here were not the dark red of the ravine but were made up entirely of a light-colored stone. The creamy rock reflected the sun’s light dazzlingly.

The plainsman moved farther into the bowl-shaped canyon. Its floor was strewn with loose rocks that varied from fist-sized chunks to boulders twice as wide as he was tall. The canyon’s rim was completely bare of foliage. Two other passages led out of the deep bowl — one due east, directly ahead of him, the other to his left, on the north side.

By now it was obvious to Pa’alu he’d taken the wrong way. Grumbling at his foolishness and angry at the wasted time, he turned to retrace his steps back to Cedarsplit so he could take the northern fork in the ravine.

The opening that had been directly behind him was gone.

Pa’alu stopped, surprised. Deciding that he must have moved away from the opening while looking at his surroundings, he searched along the curving wall of the canyon to locate the passage.

He found nothing but solid rock.

Perplexed, Pa’alu continued on around the edge of the canyon intent on finding the northern path out. It, too, seemingly had disappeared. He went to the center of the canyon, climbed atop a medium-sized boulder, and scanned for the openings.

His annoyance became shock. There were no openings at all in the canyon’s walls. They had disappeared, and he was trapped in a steep-sided, rock-filled hole in the ground.

“This is madness!” he exclaimed to the high walls. His voice ricocheted around and came back to him, mockingly. “Madness… adness… ness.”

Pa’alu picked up a stone and threw it at the canyon wall. It had no more effect than his spoken protest, but the action made him feel a little bit better.

“That won’t get you out.”

He whirled to face the unexpected voice. A few paces away, seated atop a low table of fractured shale, was a strange, gaunt figure dressed in green. Pa’alu brought up his javelin, ready to attack or defend.

“Peace to you, friend,” said the stranger in a mild, calm voice. “I mean you no harm.”

He was sitting with one leg tucked under him, the other drawn up to his chest. His leg seemed strangely long, his bent knee reaching up as high as his head. The weird man’s arms were also outlandishly proportioned — the forearms too short, the fingers incredibly long. His clothes added to his freakish appearance; he wore a tight-fitting leather garment in various shades of green.

Pa’alu slid off his own rocky perch and watched the stranger warily. “Who are you?”

“A friend. A friend, Pa’alu.”

“You know my name.”

“I’ve heard it said.” The stranger unfolded his legs. His dangling feet touched the ground — some three paces below the rock ledge on which he sat.

“Who are you?” Pa’alu repeated, staring at those weirdly long legs. “How did you get to this place?”

“My name is… well, call me Greengall. I’ve been watching this path for a long time, waiting for the right fellow to come along. I think you’re that fellow.”

“Did you trap me in here?” asked Pa’alu, gripping his javelin tightly in both hands.

“Yes.”

Pa’alu raised the weapon to his shoulder to cast. Greengall’s hairless brows knitted together in a fearsome frown at the javelin aimed unwaveringly at his chest.

“Don’t be stupid! If I can divert you to this place and close walls of stone, do you think I can be hurt by such a trivial weapon as that?”

Pa’alu lowered his weapon sullenly. “What do you want of me?”

“You came from the place called Arku-peli, did you not?”

“I did.”

Greengall smiled, and Pa’alu flinched. The smile had drawn the corners of the stranger’s mouth up until they were even with the outside corners of his jade-green eyes. The plainsman swallowed hard.

Seeming not to notice Pa’alu’s discomfort, Greengall said, “A pleasant habitation! Such a picturesque location, too. How many people live there, would you say?”

The back of Pa’alu’s neck prickled, as it did when he heard the night cry of a wolf. “I don’t know,” he replied slowly. “I’ve only been there a few days.”

“They say a dragon lives there, too.”

“That’s true.”

“His name is…?”

“Duranix,” replied Pa’alu.

Greengall clapped his hands together. “Duranix, that’s it.” His expression abruptly went from extravagantly merry to deadly serious. “Have you seen him?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“It must have been very frightening for you.”

“No, most of the time I spent with him, he was in human form.”

Greengall’s head tilted to one side. He sighed loudly. “He’s so good at that. Me, I look like an overgrown grasshopper.”

The comparison was apt, and it prompted Pa’alu to ask, “Are you a dragon, too?”

Greengall snapped to his feet, causing Pa’alu to back quickly, hand flexing around the shaft of his javelin.

“What did you say?” Greengall snarled. Unfolded, his legs were enormously long and tightly muscled. His green leather breeches fit him like a second skin. At full height he towered over Pa’alu, who was tall for a plainsman.

“What did you say?” Greengall repeated.

Pa’alu did not reply but hurled his javelin at Greengall’s narrow chest. It was a good cast, well aimed and propelled by all of the nomad’s considerable strength. Even so, Greengall’s long-fingered hand lashed out and grabbed the elegant elven spear in mid-flight. The green-clad stranger laughed, deep in the back of his throat.

“A poor decision,” he said lightly. Saliva dripped from the comer of his too-wide mouth. “Here I am, trying to be polite, and you throw a sharp stick at me! Poor, poor choice. After I’m done with you, you won’t be throwing anything, little friend.”

He advanced, covering the ground between them in two vast strides. Pa’alu snatched a bronze dagger from his belt and prepared to sell his life dearly. Before he could strike, however, Greengall caught him by the wrists. He stretched his hands apart, pulling Pa’alu’s arms out straight. With no effort, Greengall hauled the stout warrior’s arms over his head and lifted until he stood on tip-toe. Pa’alu’s knife hand went numb, and the dagger fell to the ground.

“Humans are so loosely made,” Greengall said matter-of-factly, pushing his caricature of a face close to Pa’alu’s. “I wonder how long you can live without your arms?”

His lips parted enough to reveal his teeth. They were awful, serrated, and like nothing in any human mouth. Greengall lifted one long, narrow foot and rested it on Pa’alu’s feet, pinning him in place. Then he pulled on Pa’alu’s arms. With agonizing slowness, the creature increased the tension. The plainsman resisted as long as he could, then groaned in pain. His shoulders began to ache, then burned as though they were on fire. The remorseless Greengall pulled harder. Something in his shoulders gave. Pa’alu’s eyes filmed over with red agony.

The haze of pain was penetrated by an intense blue flash. The tension on his arms slackened, then ceased. The weight of the stranger’s foot on his feet disappeared. Pa’alu dropped heavily to the ground. His eyes were still clenched shut in pain, but he heard a loud, tortured hiss. Then an acrid odor filled the air, searing his throat. His arms flopping uselessly, Pa’alu rolled away, gasping for air.

When he opened his eyes, Pa’alu saw Greengall was backed up against the canyon wall. The chest of his taut leather shirt was scorched, and a sickly yellow fluid dripped from a wound there. Pa’alu followed the monster’s line of sight. He gasped when he realized who his rescuer was.

It was Vedvedsica, the elf priest. His severed hand had somehow grown back, for he was pointing two hands at the bizarre green-clad monster who cringed against the shadowed rock wall.

Greengall’s inhumanly wide mouth howled obscenities at the elf, who stood on a boulder ten paces away. A cloud of greenish gas blasted from Greengall’s mouth and swirled around Vedvedsica like a gale of vile smoke. The tiniest wisps of the gas strayed over to Pa’alu, causing him to cough and gag, yet Vedvedsica stood unmoved by the full blast of it.

“You should not have come out,” Vedvedsica told Greengall loudly. “Your powers are weakened when you leave your swamp. If Duranix or his kin catches you here, your life will be forfeit.”

“So why do you do their dirty work, elf?” Greengall snarled. “Have you come to worship little Duranix as the stupid humans do?”

“Duranix and I have business to settle that doesn’t concern you,” replied the priest. He pressed his hands together and blue light began to emanate from them.

Realizing another attack was imminent, Greengall screamed horribly and launched himself upward. He vanished in a blur of motion, leaving behind a whirlwind that sucked all the greenish vapors out of the bowl-shaped canyon and into the sky.

Pa’alu got up slowly, still unable to use his arms, which hung limply at his sides. To Vedvedsica he croaked, “I thank you, but why did you rescue me?”

“Troublesome as Duranix is,” said the priest, casting a distasteful glance skyward, “things would be infinitely worse if that creature usurped his place.”

“But I — ” He swallowed with shame to say it. “I cut off your hand!”

Vedvedsica shrugged. “An annoyance and a setback, but I have no time to waste on matters of petty revenge. How badly are you hurt?”

Pa’alu tried to move his arms. His hands tingled, his shoulders burned, and he couldn’t make the limbs work. Vedvedsica stepped down from his boulder. His hand dipped into a hidden pocket in his robe and came out with a large green leaf, rolled into a tube. He took Pa’alu’s hand. The plainsman turned white with agony at the forced movement, but he couldn’t pull away. Vedvedsica shook out of the leafy tube a small round berry, the size and color of a black cherry.

“Swallow it,” ordered Vedvedsica. With much effort, the plainsman got the berry to his lips. Within seconds a warm sensation spread through his injured limbs. The terrible pain ebbed, then vanished altogether. He fell to his knees before the priest.

“I am yours to command,” he said humbly. “That monster would have killed me for sure if you hadn’t come. How can I repay this debt to you?”

The elf tucked his hands into his sleeves and assumed a thoughtful expression. “If you truly mean to repay me, there is something you can do for me,” he said.

“You have only to name it, great one.”

Vedvedsica lowered his eyes. “What if I asked you to kill someone?”

The answer hung in Pa’alu’s throat for a moment. “Then they would die,” he said haltingly.

“Don’t be such a fool,” the elf said. “Don’t give away your conscience so readily. The world is full of beings who are stronger, smarter, or more ruthless than you — your will is the only thing these powerful ones cannot take away from you, as long as you don’t let them!” Pa’alu looked confused, so Vedvedsica continued, “What I want is simple, plainsman. No one need die for my wishes, least of all you. I want the yellow stone Duranix took from me. You know the one, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Pa’alu said tentatively.

“Get the stone from him and bring it here, to this place.” Vedvedsica pressed his thumb into the ledge on which Greengall had been sitting. His finger made a deep hole, as if the hard stone was merely wet clay.

“Leave the yellow nugget in this hole. I will find it.”

He turned to go. Pa’alu, feeling fully recovered from his one-sided fight with Greengall, followed after the priest, saying forlornly, “How can I get out of here? The passages in and out are gone!”

“That was simply one of the monster’s illusions,” Vedvedsica said, waving a dismissive hand. “Look again.”

Sure enough. The three paths were right where Pa’alu had expected them to be. He blinked a few times, but the clefts in the canyon wall remained.

Vedvedsica was already picking his way over the sloping ground to the east. Pa’alu called after him. “What is this yellow stone? Why is it so important?”

The strange elf paused, stroking the sparse hair on his pointed chin. “It’s part of a larger answer,” he said. The plainsman obviously didn’t understand, so Vedvedsica offered this explanation. “When hunting, if you find large footprints, you know you’re on the trail of big game, don’t you?”

Pa’alu nodded.

“Well, consider the yellow stone the ‘footprint’ of something much larger, so large your human mind can’t conceive it. It has touched a great font of power — perhaps the source of all power in the world.” His eyes grew distant, looking at some vista only he could see. “When I have it,” he mused aloud, “I’ll know for sure.”

His golden, almost feline eyes focused on Pa’alu once more, impaling him with a glance. “Get the stone, human. Get it soon, and your debt,” he said the word almost with amusement, “will be paid.”

Karada’s straggling band found the first signs of habitation when they reached the river of the falls. Ail along both banks were stumps of trees, cut down with stone axes. Wandering plainsmen never cut down whole trees; they used only dead or windfall limbs.

Karada squatted by the stump of an oak. She scooped up a handful of wood chips and sniffed them.

“Sap’s still fresh,” she remarked. She dumped the chips, dusting her hand on the leg of her chaps. “Can’t have been cut more than three or four days ago.”

“There are drag marks, here,” Pakito said. The dark loam was deeply indented where the felled tree had been dragged to the river and rolled in.

“I don’t understand. The stream flows away from the mountains. How could they float logs against the current?” asked Samtu.

“They must haul them from the riverbank,” Karada replied. “It would be easier than dragging them all the way back to the mountains.”

Eighty-eight survivors of Karada’s once mighty band stood quietly behind their chief, waiting for her word to move on. Their numbers had diminished in the last days of their journey. Each night a few slipped away, no longer believing Karada was leading them to safety. Autumn was in the air — mornings broke crisp and cool — and the plainsmen’s instincts were to head north, following the game herds as they migrated before winter set in. Karada’s trek east into the inhospitable mountains seemed like folly.

Karada paid no attention to the lessening muster. Their strength as a people lay in their unity. Leaving the band was a step backward for the deserters, a return to the hard, desperate days of lonesome hunting and gathering. If there were those in the band too weak to trust her, then she didn’t want them around anyway.

“Hatu,” she said, rising to her feet, “how far to the lake?”

He surveyed the gray peaks with his good eye. “Half a day,” he said. “Certainly by nightfall.” He pointed to a trio of nearby mountains. “The river passes through them on the north side of the low ridge. The lake of the falls is on the other side.”

“Good. Let’s get moving.”

Hatu had not been to the lake in ten years, and his memory played him false. By the time the sun had begun to dip below the western horizon, Karada’s band was barely in the shadow of the first major peak in the mountain range. They paused on the riverbank and ate cold rations from their vanishing supplies, not bothering to build campfires or forage for fresh food. This was usually the time of day the nomads made camp for the night, but Karada insisted they push onward.

She formed a mounted patrol of six, including herself, and rode ahead into the darkening valley. The rest were left under the leadership of Targun and Samtu, to follow at the best possible speed.

The sound of their horses’ hooves rattled loudly off the walls of the narrow valley. Signs of human life continued: tracks in the mud on the riverbank, signs that outcroppings of rock had been hammered away to make wider trails. By the side of one trail Karada and her scouts found a pile of stinking garbage — fruit and vegetable peelings, offal, and the like. It was becoming more and more obvious they were approaching a sizable settlement.

The valley walls closed in, and the river made a sharp bend to the right. The low thrumming sound they’d been hearing became a steady booming noise, heralding the great waterfall. The night was very dark, with only occasional glimpses of the stars through scudding clouds. Karada ordered her companions to halt at the river’s bend and stay out of sight. She rode forward slowly alone.

Even by filtered starlight the waterfall was a stunning vista. The river poured down the mountainside, fed by a thousand clear springs and the snows of a long winter. It gathered force and hurled itself over the cliff, losing a third of its volume to mist. What remained churned up a bright, clear lake, which narrowed once more into the river they’d been following.

The lake was bound by a narrow shoreline on the right, thickly covered with low plants and slender trees growing in unnaturally straight rows. The wider, left bank was even more surprising. A cluster of tall, beehive-shaped houses filled the land between the lake and the cliff wall. Smoke rose from every rooftop, orange firelight glinting from many of the second story windows. The wind changed, bringing to Karada the odors of pine smoke and cattle dung.

Hatu edged forward on horseback to Karada’s side. He looked over the scene and whistled softly.

“This is it! Sure has changed,” he said in an awed voice.

“Ride back to the main band, and tell Targun to bring everyone on. We sleep in Arku-peli tonight.”

Pakito and the other scouts rode up. After admiring the sights for a moment, Pakito said, “We’re on the wrong side of the river. It’s too deep to ford. How do we get across?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a ford upstream.” Karada wrapped the reins around her hand. “Let’s find out.”

They didn’t have to travel far before they found the bridge. The plainsmen crowded around the end of the bridge, marveling at its construction.

“Is it a plant? Did it grow here?” Pakito wondered. “It’s made of wood and vine — ”

“Human hands made it,” Karada said. “See the blade marks on the planks?”

Karada and the scouts waited until the column of people appeared, headed by Targun, Samtu, and Hatu — the latter on horseback.

Karada and Pakito rode across the bridge. It swayed under their weight but held up fine. The rest of the band followed, many of the younger members clinging to the supporting vines and moving nervously from handhold to handhold until they were on solid ground again.

“What do you suppose they’re like, these people?” Pakito murmured as they rode slowly toward the first line of houses.

“They’re very clever,” offered Targun.

“That they may be, but living under piles of stone is for lizards, not plainsmen,” Karada stated flatly. “And where are their scouts, their watchmen? We could be a war party of elves for all they know.”

“We’ve been seen.” Hatu pointed to the looming houses. “There are people moving inside those stone piles. They know we’re here.”

He was right. Karada watched the upper-story windows and saw heads and bodies silhouetted again the inside glow of firelight. Suspicious, she slowed her horse, and the rest of the band did likewise. Just as they were about to enter the shadowed lane between the lines of houses, the wail of a ram’s horn filled the night.

The tired, edgy plainsfolk on foot recoiled from the sudden alarm. Hatu and the mounted warriors drew swords or leveled spears, but Karada called for calm and ordered everyone to stand still.

A glow appeared between the houses. As they watched, it came nearer, bobbing gently. It soon resolved itself into a solitary figure on foot, carrying a blazing torch. It was a young man, whose hair was cut short in a strange kind of fashion. Hatu fingered his own long braid of hair and gave the shorn villager a disparaging sneer. He made a rude comment to Pakito about a bald goat he’d once seen. The big man laughed.

The light was poor enough the young man did not seem to notice their disdain. He stopped a safe distance away.

“You’re the largest group so far,” he said in a genial voice. “Welcome!”

“You don’t even know who we are,” Karada said coldly.

“More of Karada’s band, yes? Your people have been arriving steadily for the past few days.”

The plainsmen exchanged looks of surprise. Pakito asked, “How many of Karada’s band have come here?”

The torchbearer considered the question silently, tilting his head in thought for a few seconds, then replied, “Over two hundred, so far. How many are you?”

“Eighty-eight.”

“Quite a crowd! Well, follow me. I’ll take you to your comrades.”

The pale-faced, short-haired man started back the way he’d come.

Hatu muttered, “Our so-called comrades — those who abandoned us on the battlefield. How will they take to seeing us now?”

“That’s my problem,” Karada said quietly. “Whatever happens, don’t let the old folks or children come to harm.”

The mounted plainsmen followed the torch bearer in single file, Karada leading. They passed silently through the quiet village. A small wolf sprang out of the shadows and barked at them. Karada raised her spear to strike, then noticed the wolf was tied to a stake with a rope around its neck. Their guide came back and quieted the beast with a few soothing words and a pat on the head.

“You command beasts here?” asked Samtu.

“A few. They guard our homes and fight off their wild brethren.”

“Why should they do that?” Pakito asked from over Karada’s shoulder.

“We’ve tamed them. Settled life agrees with them, as it does the rest of us.”

The torch bearer went on, Karada’s people following him. Each one passed under the scrutiny of the tame wolf, who watched them with unblinking yellow eyes.

The copse of houses came to an end. A patch of sandy, open ground followed, in the midst of which was a tall, square pile of stones, quite unlike the domed houses. The top layers of stone were soot-stained.

“What’s this?” asked Samtu.

“Our place of offering. Here we give oxen and elk to our protector, the dragon.”

“Duranix,” the chief said.

Their young guide halted. “You know of him?”

“He came to our camp in human guise,” Karada explained.

“My brother followed him here. Do you know if one named Pa’alu is here?” asked Pakito.

“He was, but he isn’t now.” The torch bearer scratched his head and explained. “Pa’alu was here, but he left yesterday to meet small parties of your band arriving then. He was hoping to find Karada. He hasn’t returned yet. Actually, we’re quite worried about him.”

“This is Ka — ” Samtu began, but a glare from her chief stilled her tongue.

“We all have friends and comrades we hope to see again,” Karada said.

In contrast to the quiet, orderly village, the camp of the nomads was a riot of haphazard tents, lean-tos, and windbreaks of sand and loose stone. The young guide left Karada for a moment and ducked into a rambling tent made from spotted cowhide. He returned with Sessan and Nacris in tow then slipped away quietly.

Both nomads staggered as they walked, and their clothes were awry. They’d worked in the ox pens all day in exchange for two jugs of wine, most of which they’d already drunk.

Sessan looked up at his chief. “By my blood!” he swore in surprise. “You’re alive!”

Karada had noted the departure of their young guide, now she spat at Sessan, “I am. Why are you?”

He pressed the wineskin on Nacris and drew himself up as straight as he could. “I’m alive because I left!”

“You admit it, do you? You ran away from the battle!”

He swept his hand in a wide arc. “We had no chance,” he said solemnly.

Nacris upended the skin, gulping down more wine. She wiped her mouth and said, “How did you survive, eh?”

“I fought until captured. Balif stripped me of arms and turned me loose.”

“How can you live with the shame?” asked Sessan harshly. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw yourself from the cliff top!”

“Yes, I chose to live with our defeat. Any fool can kill herself, but I will rebuild the band and strike the elves again! I’ll make Balif curse the day he sought to shame me into quiet exile!” Karada stormed. “You want to speak of shame? Look at you, cowards and traitors, standing there! And addled with drink like a pair of loons! Is this the end of our band, our dream of a free land for our people?”

“The elf lord spared you,” Sessan replied heatedly, “but the rest of us would have been trampled into the grass had we stayed.”

Karada mastered her anger. “You disobeyed my command.”

“You’ve no right to judge us, no right to lead us. You would’ve let us all die in a lost cause!” Nacris retorted. She cast about wildly. “Ask him. These are sensible people here. Where’d he go — the Arkuden?”

“Who?”

“The village headman, the fellow who led you here.”

Karada said, “He left. And why should I ask a short-haired villager anything?”

More nomads came out of their shelters to watch the confrontation. Tarkwa, the other leader of the breakaway band, joined Sessan and Nacris.

“If we are to be one band, strong and united, there must be one chief,” Karada said. “The chiefs word must be obeyed. Anything else is chaos.”

Tarkwa, who was sober, said, “I cannot follow you, Karada. You speak of freedom for all plainsmen — that is my desire, too. But we can’t be free and be your children, trembling at your every order. What difference is there between serving elf lords or serving you?”

“I am one of you.”

“Not good enough!” Sessan sputtered.

“You care nothing for our lives,” Nacris cried. “You’d sacrifice us all for your own glory!” Many of the nomads behind her shouted approval of Nacris’s hard words.

Karada flinched, but she swung down from her horse and walked up to Sessan. She stood nose to nose with him, shoving Nacris away when the woman tried to wedge herself between her man and Karada.

“Will you fight me?” she whispered fiercely.

His reddened eyes betrayed fear, but he said, “Yes. Any time. Tomorrow!”

Her laugh was sharp and ugly. “Make it the day after tomorrow. I need rest and you need to sleep off your foolishness.”

Sessan stepped back and slammed his foot on the sand. “Daybreak, then. Here.”

Karada turned on her heel and remounted. “Look to your horse, Sessan. We’ll fight mounted, with spears, as plainsmen should.”

There was a murmuring behind her as she rode on to claim the high ground by the cliff wall for her tired band of loyalists. Samtu and Targun went to find food for the children. Hatu and Pakito were delegated to organize the raising of tents and tarps. Pakito tried to say something to her about Sessan, but he was banished with an angry gesture.

Karada flung her skimpy baggage to the ground and pulled the blanket off her horse. Without a further glance or a word to anyone, she strode down to the lake.

A wall of mist swirled up from the falls, enveloping her in a silver cloud. She stood up to her ankles in the chill water and removed all her gear and clothing. Kneeling, she threw handfuls of water on her face and neck. The dust of many leagues washed away.

She wished her many worries could be as easily lost.