Children of the Plains

Chapter 19

After a stormy month, the valley grew quiet again. Fighting between nomads and villagers declined. Nianki seemed recovered and ceased her aimless wandering, muttering, and weeping. The rumor spread she cured herself by cutting her hair so severely, and later it became a common sight in Yala-tene to see men and women with closely shorn hair after bouts of sickness or bad temper.

The last big harvest from the summer gardens was due, and Amero asked Nianki to organize the nomads to help gather in the vegetables. She convinced nearly all of the three hundred nomads to work the harvest, realizing the hard work would be a good outlet for her people. The only ones who did not work were the very old, the very young, the ill, and one other: Pa’alu. He had disappeared again.

Duranix continued to wear the harness on his broken wing. Fine weather made him yearn to fly, and frustration at his inability to do so led to dangerous displays of lightning in the valley. Finally, Amero suggested the dragon leave the village for a while.

“Take a journey,” Amero said. “Explore.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” asked the dragon, waving his one good wing. “I cannot fly, and being human hurts too much.” Whatever human form he might take, he would still have a broken arm until his wing healed, and the more he shapeshifted, the longer the healing would take.

“Go as you are,” Amero told him. “You have four good feet. Use them.”

Duranix lifted one foreclaw and studied it. He frowned, considering his friend’s words. “Walking is so undignified,” he muttered.

“So is whining.”

The voice belonged to Nianki. Amero and the dragon turned to watch as she approached.

Her face was scrubbed clean, and she wore a new buckskin shirt and divided kilt, bare of any beadwork. Her hair had grown back just enough to cover her nearly bald spots, and she did not wear her chieftain’s headband. Aside from being thinner than before and having hair shorter than her brother’s, she looked well. She carried a large basket in one hand.

“I’m going to pick apples,” she said. “What about you?”

“I’ll be there soon,” Amero replied.

“I won’t be,” Duranix announced. He eyed Amero. “I’m going for a walk.”

Nianki nodded, bid the dragon good-bye, and departed to join the column of plainsfolk heading for the rope bridge. Her brother watched her thoughtfully.

“She’s come through it, whatever it was,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid for a while. I thought she’d lost her wits forever.”

“She’s a strong woman, but I don’t think she’s over her trouble, just coping with it more effectively.”

“Oh? What do you know about her trouble?”

The dragon bent his long neck, bringing his horned, bronze-scaled face down to Amero’s level. “She’s human and your sister. That’s trouble enough.”

They walked side by side through the maze of tents and lean-tos that was the nomad camp. Eventually the shelters became too dense for Duranix, and he detoured to the shoreline of the lake. He waded out until his claws were submerged. The buoyancy of the water made it easier for him to move.

“Where will you go?” Amero asked, following along the shore.

“West, I think. I’ve spent a lot of time in the east and south this year. I should have a wider look around. Sthenn’s been quiet since the Greengall incident, but it wouldn’t hurt to reconnoiter the western plains.”

They reached the foot of the bridge. To the right, the cattle and horses got wind of the dragon and began to mill about in anxiety. Duranix stretched low and slipped under the bridge. Once under, he climbed the west bank and stood erect, sunlight glistening on his wet scales.

“Have a good walk, and come back soon,” Amero said.

“I don’t know how far I’ll go, but I should return in two or three days.”

Duranix trundled away. Amero had never seen the dragon walk more than a few steps at a time. His rear legs had a wobble in them that Amero had never noticed before.

As he fondly watched the dragon depart, Amero suddenly realized he’d forgotten his reed hat. If he was going to work all day outside, he’d need the hat to keep the low autumn sun out of his eyes.

He walked briskly back to the foot of the waterfall. Soon he was descending in the hoist with the brown reed hat on his head. The scene beneath him was as still as a forest glade. The nomad camp was empty. A slight haze from burned-out campfires hung over the patched, irregular tents. Beyond the camp, a few solitary craftsmen stirred in the alleys of Yala-tene, but the village too was unnaturally calm. As he surveyed the scene, only one thing stood out — a lone figure leaning against the dragon’s offering cairn. Whoever it was, he took care to lurk on the shaded side, so it was impossible for Amero to see who it was.

The basket bumped into solid ground and stopped. Amero stepped out and tied off the counterweight. He detoured away from the lake, curious to see who was lingering by the cairn.

The tall, well-made person had his back to Amero. He was dressed in the skimpy clothes of a nomad and had waist-length chestnut-colored hair, drawn back in thick hank and held with a carved bone clip.

Amero’s footsteps echoed dully off the stone sides of the cairn. The man turned suddenly, revealing his face.

“Pa’alu!”

“Greetings, Arkuden.”

There was something in his manner — his voice, his posture — that reeked of menace. Backing up a step, Amero reminded himself of all the good services Pa’alu had rendered to the village and to Karada’s band.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked lightly.

“Here and there. Hunting. Watching.”

Amero had the distinct feeling he’d found a viper sunning on a rock, and his questions were as welcome as poking the serpent with a stick.

“We’ve missed you,” he said, choosing his wording carefully.

“Who? You? Karada?”

“All of us, I’d say.”

Pa’alu picked at the moss growing in the chinks between the stones. “Where is the dragon?” he asked.

Amero’s eyes darted around, searching for a convenient way out of this conversation. “Gone for a day, looking around. He does that.”

“And Karada?”

“She’s at the harvest.”

Amero heard movement behind him, but before he could react, he was thrown facedown to the ground. A knee pressed hard into the small of his back, and his wrists were secured by a long strip of rawhide. His captors rolled him over on his back. Glare blinded him until Pa’alu stepped over him, blocking out the sun.

“What’s this? Let me go, Pa’alu!”

“I thought you were clever,” Pa’alu replied coldly. “This place, this village of yours is full of clever things. But you’re stupid and blind.” He knelt and cupped his hands together. “I put her in your hands, and you never even realized it.”

“What are you talking about?” Amero demanded.

At a nod from Pa’alu, his companions hauled Amero to his feet. They were Hatu and Nacris. He was stunned to see these three working together. There were footholds on the backside of the rock pile, and using them, Hatu swiftly climbed atop the cairn. Pa’alu and Nacris boosted Amero up, and Hatu dragged him onto the stone platform. The depression in the center of the cairn, where Duranix’s oxen or elk usually lay, was filled with dry kindling and windfall wood. The sight filled Amero with horror. They wouldn’t -

Pa’alu climbed onto the cairn and stood over the helpless Amero. “It’s my turn to make an offering,” he said. “Too bad the dragon isn’t here to appreciate it.”

“You waited for Duranix to leave!”

“Yearling bucks can do little when the bull is with the herd.” He strained against the rawhide restraints and tried to get to his feet. Pa’alu calmly kicked him in the ribs. Gasping, Amero lay still.

To the others Pa’alu said, “It’s done. Tell the rest.”

Hatu climbed down and ran toward the bridge, the only way to the gardens across the lake. Nacris ran away too, but doubled back among the houses until she was within a few paces of the cairn. She hid in the shadows and kept her eye on the erect figure of Pa’alu, standing atop the dragon’s altar.

Slowly, his agony faded, and Amero was able to breathe again. He avoided moving too much, lest he provoke more punishment from his captor.

“Pa’alu, may I speak?” he said.

“Say what you will.”

“Let me go, Pa’alu. I don’t know what ill you think I’ve done you, but you’re wrong. I’ve done nothing knowingly to injure you. You must believe me!”

The plainsman’s face was as hard and empty as the high peaks around them. “I don’t do this on a whim, Arkuden. I’ve had many days and nights to think about it. I’ve been kicked about by chiefs and great ones with no more thought than if I were a pine cone — Karada, Duranix, Greengall, the elf priest, you. You’ve all made me do things I never wanted to do, but that’s over now.”

He’s mad, Amero thought in horror. Nianki’s insanity had passed from her to him.

Striving for a calm, reasoned tone, Amero said, “What did I do, Pa’alu? How did I hurt you?”

“You were given a great gift, and you scorned it. It’s true I didn’t mean for you to have it, but have it you did, and you turned your back on it.”

“Please,” said Amero. “I don’t understand. Tell me what this gift is.”

“Karada’s love.”

Amero heard the words, but couldn’t fathom them. Of course he had his sister’s love — why wouldn’t he? He didn’t want to challenge a madman in his delusions, but he didn’t understand at all. He was afraid there wasn’t anything to understand, that Pa’alu was simply crazed, and no amount of reasoning could bring light to the dark pit of his mind.

“I love my sister,” he said. “I know you care for her too, and she won’t have you.”

“Karada’s an idiot,” Pa’alu replied. “She thought love made a person weak. Then the amulet showed her how love felt, and you didn’t even notice!”

“Amulet?”

Before Amero could explore the puzzle of the unfamiliar word, the noise of an approaching crowd came to their ears. Pa’alu pulled a resinous pine branch out of the pile of wood and set to work lighting it with a flint. Horror washed over Amero.

“Pa’alu!” he said desperately. “What do you mean? What’s an amulet?”

Once the pine branch was flaming, Pa’alu sat down on the edge of the platform, letting his legs dangle over the side. He looked down at Amero.

“Not so clever, are you? An amulet’s a piece of metal, round, flat, with spirit markings on it. The elf priest made it for me when I gave him the yellow stone.”

Amero grimaced. Vedvedsica had gained the spirit stone after all.

“What was the amulet for?” he asked.

“To make Karada love. She was supposed to love me, but you picked up the amulet that night instead of me, and she was stricken with love for you.”

All at once the strange events since the feast came into focus. Nianki’s behavior, her odd, disturbing questions, all of it made sense now — terrible, frightening sense. The amulet caused her to love the one man in the world she shouldn’t desire. No wonder she nearly went mad!

Pa’alu stood up, the flaming torch in his hand. The sound of the crowd had grown much louder, though from his position lying atop the cairn, Amero couldn’t see them. Pa’alu faced the village houses, the direction people would come from the orchard. By listening and watching his captor’s face, Amero could tell when the villagers and nomads were close at hand.

There were shouts, and Pa’alu held the torch high above his head. Amero expected him to plunge the brand into the kindling with his next breath, but the crowd noise subsided, and he lowered the torch safely to one side.

“Pa’alu! Come down from there!” It was Nianki’s voice. “Throw the torch on the ground and free Amero!”

“I’m not taking your commands any more, Karada. This may be the day I die, but if I do, I’ll take Arkuden to the spirit world with me.”

There were shouts of “No!” and “Let him go!” and Amero hoped his people or Nianki’s would storm the cairn and save him, but he quickly realized that the torch was so near the dry kindling that no one dared move.

Duranix! Duranix, if you can hear me, I need your help! he thought frantically. How far away could the dragon hear him? A league? Two leagues? Ten? How far had the dragon walked in half a morning?

“Why are you doing this?” Nianki called out. “Amero’s done you no harm.”

“I’m doing this because you betrayed me — betrayed us! You promised us greatness, Karada. You said that under your leadership we would rule the plains! Yet we live in this tiny valley, relying on the favors of strangers, laboring for them in exchange for a little meat and a place to pitch our tents. Is this the greatness you promised, Karada?”

Her response was to throw herself at the cairn. She ran and leaped, landing halfway up the sloping stone sides. Without ready footholds, she had to climb, and that slowed her down. Pa’alu calmly shoved the torch into the pile of wood. Smoke curled from the broken branches, followed by a puff of red flame.

Nianki hauled herself up as far as the upper edge of the altar before she misplaced her foot and slid back to the ground. Pa’alu came to the edge and looked down at her.

“Amero!” she cried. Villagers surged around her, trying to reach the cairn before the fire claimed their chief.

While everyone was yelling and struggling, Nacris saw her moment and acted. She stepped away from the shadow of the house in which she’d been hiding. The crowd was between her and the cairn, and no one was looking at her. She picked up a loose stone.

“Free Arkuden! Death to the nomads!” she cried, and threw the stone.

The distance was short and her aim was good. The rock hit Pa’alu hard on the jaw. He reeled with the blow and toppled off the cairn. Flames erupted from the pile. More villagers surged forward, some of them echoing Nacris’s cry, “Death to the nomads!”

Nianki got to her feet in time to avoid being trampled. She shouted for order, but the crowd was too loud, too far gone in pent-up anger to hear her.

Makeshift weapons appeared: pruning forks, wooden hoes, rakes, stone hammers, and axes. Blows were exchanged. The press of the crowd drove Nianki straight into the stone side of the cairn. She was unarmed save for her flint knife, which she could not reach because of the weight of the throng at her back.

She struggled and cursed, her blood boiling as she watched her outnumbered people being clubbed senseless by outraged farmers, potters, and herdsmen. Nianki yearned to plunge into the fray and teach the villagers a lesson, but her first duty was to Amero, still bound atop the cairn.

Suddenly, the mob pinning her helplessly in place dissolved as the unarmed scurried to get away from the armed. She started climbing again, and this time desperation put new strength in her hands. By the time she made it to the stone platform, Amero was squirming frantically, trying to put some distance between himself and the flames. With only bark sandals on his feet, he kicked at blazing tree limbs.

“Amero!” She grabbed him by his shirt when he wormed his way close enough. Dragging him away from the fire, Nianki next climbed over him and sat astride his back, sawing at his bonds with her knife.

Rocks and thrown clubs whizzed by Nianki. She dodged them with uncanny flicks of her head and shoulders, never once looking up from her task. When the thong was finally cut, she slid aside. Amero dragged her down so she would be less likely to be hit by random missiles.

“What happened?” she said in his ear.

“Pa’alu’s gone mad! He meant to kill me, and Hatu and Nacris helped him!”

She stared, disbelieving. “Hatu?”

He nodded furiously. A hammer hit the rim of the platform and exploded in a shower of rock fragments.

“We’ve got to stop this!” Amero said.

“Any idea how?”

“I’ll try to calm my people! You’ll have to see to yours!”

Below, those nomads not knocked out in the first minutes of the riot fell back to the animal pens. There, they began bridling their horses and mounting amidst a hail of stones and other makeshift missiles. Once on horseback, the nomads closed ranks and charged, relying on their speed and weight to knock the villagers out of the way. They quickly cleared the pathways between the houses and trampled the best-armed group of villagers, a band made up of the sons and daughters of the village elders. Yelling war cries, the mounted nomads galloped to their camp. While the villagers retreated to their houses, the nomads pulled down their tents and lashed their gear to their horses.

Nianki came upon Pa’alu, painfully crawling away from the cairn. He’d broken a leg and several ribs in his fall. She easily overtook him and pinned him to the ground by planting her foot in his back.

“Now you must kill me,” he gasped, his face in the dirt.

“Kill you? I should roast you alive on the pyre you made for my brother! Were Nacris and Hatu involved in this?” she said.

“No.”

“Liar!” She put more weight on her leg and his broken ribs scraped together. He writhed in agony. “They put you up to this!” she hissed.

“No! I did this myself! So kill me!”

Nianki removed her foot and grasped Pa’alu by the hair, turning him over on his back. She said, “You’re going to live just long enough to tell the entire band this was a plot by Nacris to overthrow me!”

Pa’alu looked past the angry eyes of the woman he loved and into the face of death. A figure had appeared atop the cairn behind Nianki. She didn’t see him, had no chance to block or dodge the spear he threw; however, the weapon wasn’t aimed at her. It took Pa’alu low in the gut.

Nianki rolled to the side and jumped up, knife ready. She caught only a glimpse of the spear thrower as he leaped down from the other side of the platform. By the time she ran around the end of the cairn, Pa’alu’s attacker had escaped into the maze of village houses.

She cursed heartily and returned to Pa’alu. His eyes were still open, but his breath was shallow.

“Karada,” he whispered.

She bent low over him to catch his dying words. “Who else?” she hissed. “Who else is with Nacris and Hatu?”

“All of them.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a rasping, rattling wheeze. “Finish me.”

Knowing he’d betrayed her, yet feeling some pity at last, Nianki found it in her heart to fulfill this last request.

She pulled the spear out of his belly. It was a boar spear, with a broad flint head and an oak peg lashed to the shaft to keep the spear from going in too far to be recovered. She positioned the tip over his heart.

“Peace… to you… Nianki,” he rasped.

“There is no peace,” she replied. “Not while I live.” She leaned hard on the shaft. Pa’alu, so near death already, felt nothing, and his last breath escaped soundlessly.

She slumped against the stone side of the cairn, the bloody spear across her lap. Out of the swirl of dust and smoke appeared a towering figure, coming toward her.

Pakito.

Nianki straightened her back and wrapped her hands more tightly around the spear shaft. The last thing she wanted was a fight with Pakito, her most loyal friend and a formidable foe, but Pakito’s brother was dead, and by her hand — how would the mighty warrior take that?

Pakito dropped to his knees beside his brother. He closed Pa’alu’s eyes and, scooping up a handful of loose dirt, gave him a nomad’s benediction — he poured the handful of dirt on Pa’alu’s forehead.

“Pakito.”

“Yes, Karada?”

“I killed him.”

“I saw. Thank you.”

She sat up. “You’re grateful I slew your brother?”

“He was suffering. He’d been suffering in his mind for a long time. This was his cure, Karada.”

She rose and laid the boar spear on her shoulder. “I see the band is breaking camp.”

Pakito looked up at her. Tears streaked his broad, bearded cheeks. “I have your horse. Samtu, Targun, and a few others are guarding our mounts back at the corral.”

“I knew you couldn’t be with that viper Nacris.”

His anguished gaze never wavered. “I follow you, Karada.”

Nianki peered through the dust at the chaos of the collapsing nomad camp. “There’s more blood to be shed before this is done,” she said grimly. “Our blood I fear. I should have cleaned up all the traitors when Sessan was slain. You see the price for my generosity.”

Amero appeared. He had minor burns on his arms and legs, and a few cuts and bruises, but he was all right. He was alone — not a single villager dared leave the safety of their stone houses to stand with him.

He saw Pa’alu’s body and silently wished peace to the departed hunter. Then he turned to his sister and Pakito.

“The villagers will not come out,” he said. “Eight are dead, and many more are hurt. How could this happen?”

“Envy,” said Nianki. “Envy, jealousy, and spite. Nacris spread her lies in the band and turned more of them against me.” She nodded at Pa’alu’s corpse. “I see now she enlisted this mad fool to hurt me through you.”

Pakito’s broad shoulders shook with grief. Amero put a hand on his back and offered a few words of comfort.

The rumble of approaching horses grew louder. A column of mounted nomads appeared through the dust. Leading the column were three riders: Tarkwa on the left, Hatu on the right, and Nacris in the center. Three-quarters of the nomads had chosen to follow their new leaders. At the sight of her nemesis, Nianki drew back the boar spear, ready to cast.

“Stay your hand, Karada!” Tarkwa cried.

Nianki neither relaxed nor lowered her weapon. Pakito and Amero stood by on either side, ready to defend her.

“Get down off that horse, Nacris,” Nianki said. “I’d hate to scratch a blameless animal when I kill you!”

“You’re not going to kill anybody,” Hatu replied. “We’re done with you, Karada. Your cruel, mad ways have hurt the band long enough.”

“I made this band!” she said. “You were nothing but lone scavengers, running scared on foot from elf hunting parties. I made you into a band of free men and women. We took horses from the elves and made the plains ours. Is this how you repay me?”

“No one is more important than the band,” said Nacris. “You never understood that, Karada, and now you’re out. We don’t need you. We’re taking what we want from this valley and going far away from you, the elves, and your dragon-master. Stay here if you like, live in unnatural love with your brother, and serve that beast!”

Nianki flung the boar spear, but Tarkwa and Hatu put up their own weapons and blocked it. Nianki snatched the flint knife from her belt, but before she could advance toward her foe, she found herself held back by Pakito and Amero.

“Let go of me!” she cried.

“No,” said Amero. “I’m not ready to watch you die.”

“Very wise,” said Hatu, lowering his spear. “Continue your wisdom and give us what we want from your stores.”

“My people will starve over the winter without stored food,” he said.

“You’re in no position to resist,” Nacris retorted. “If you get in our way, we’ll burn your gardens, drive off your oxen, and flatten this village to the ground!”

Amero’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. Duranix was away and crippled. Though the villagers outnumbered the renegade nomads, Nacris’s followers were seasoned fighters, and with their horses to give them mobility and force, how could Yala-tene withstand them?

He felt Nianki’s taut muscles relax in his grip. Amero let go of her arm. Pakito did likewise.

“Here’s my offer,” Nianki said. “Leave, now. If I ever see any of you again, I’ll hamstring the lot of you — all but you, Nacris. I promise I’ll gut you like the yevi-spawn you are.

“You’ll take nothing from Yala-tene. Ride out now, each with your horse, spear, and tent. You’re nomads. I taught you how to survive on the plains and in the forests. Leave, and live. Take, and die. That’s your choice.”

Coming from anyone else in this situation — on foot, armed with a single knife, surrounded by enemies — such a declaration would have earned mocking laughter. However, the words, deadly calm and utterly serious, came from Karada. No one laughed.

Tarkwa, ever practical, broke ranks first. He rode past Amero without a word, heading out of the village. Slowly, others followed, guiding their horses in a wide, wary circle around Nianki. Nacris glared, but she didn’t bother trying to stop them. She knew she did not command the respect — or the fear — that Karada did. When Hatu joined the stream of riders, Nacris could he silent no longer.

She said, “You too? I thought you had more spine than this!”

“I’ve walked away from many previous lives,” Hatu said, urging his mount onward. “If I live, I can make another. Dead, I’m just carrion.”

Nacris was alone. The odds had shifted so completely against her, Nianki felt bold enough to reclaim her thrown spear. Scowling fiercely, Nacris twisted her mount’s head around and trotted after Hatu. She cast one glance backward as she rode. Nianki reversed her grip on the spear and jammed it forcefully into the sand, in the hoofprints of Nacris’s horse.

Slapping the reins against her horse’s neck, Nacris sped her departure.

It was nightfall before the villagers felt it was safe to leave their houses. The wounded were brought out for treatment, and the dead, who included Amero’s old friend and counselor Valka, were laid upon the cairn for cremation. Pakito gently added Pa’alu to the line atop the platform. Some of the villagers grumbled at a nomad being honored along with their dead, but Amero silenced them and applied the first torch to the pyre.

Standing side by side, watching the flames leap skyward, Amero said to Nianki, “Pa’alu told me about the amulet.”

She said nothing, only stared at the flames.

“I’m sorry,” he added.

“Why?” she replied. “Nothing has happened, and nothing will.”

“I’m sorry you had to suffer the way you did.”

She shrugged. “It’s nothing. Another scar. I have many.”

He wanted to comfort her, put his arm around her shoulder or take her hand in his, but he didn’t. Nianki had climbed a mountain to escape her feelings, and the last thing she’d want would be for him to climb up beside her and be within reach again.

Amero clasped his hands behind his back and moved away from his sister.

The glow of the funeral fire could be seen in the next valley, where the rebel nomads gathered to chew hard jerky and swig water from gourd jugs. At Hatu’s order, they were allowed only one small campfire to keep off the worst of the chill night air. It was a quiet and subdued band of plainsmen that camped around this small fire.

Nacris lay on her back at a distance from the campfire. Though she appeared to be staring at the starry sky, her mind was not on the jeweled heavens. Nacris was furious. She was so angry she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.

Nacris’s eyes flickered over to where Hatu walked among their comrades. He seemed completely unconcerned by their shameful defeat. She couldn’t hear his words, but whatever he was saying caused low ripples of laughter among the nomads gathered in this small valley.

Tears of fury welled up in Nacris’s eyes, and she dashed them away with one hand. She turned her face away from Hatu.

A line of red fire across the night sky made her blink, and she rubbed her eyes.

Another streak of light traced a path across the stars. And a third. And a fourth.

Several of her nearby neighbors noticed the display. A wave of exclamations worked its way across the band, until all eyes were turned upward.

The plainsmen were a superstitious lot and they fell silent as they watched. Even Hatu’s talk was stilled. The lights continued their frantic display for several long minutes, then began to decrease in number.

The plainsmen began to mutter fearfully. Many voiced the thought that the dragon had somehow caused this, that he was angered by their rebellion against his son and would wreak his vengeance on them.

Nacris wasn’t fearful. In fact, the sight of the racing lights brought an upwelling of joy to her leaden heart. She leaped to her feet, her eyes shining as brightly as the stars above.

“Don’t be stupid!” she said. “The dragon doesn’t control the stars! Such signs in the sky are omens. Don’t you see? The stars fell directly over our camp! It was a sign meant for us!”

The plainsmen looked unconvinced. Hatu stepped close to the fire, so its light illuminated him for all to see.

“Nacris is right,” he told them. “The mudtoes are feeling good right now. They think they’re rid of us, but they’re not. We needed this first fight to separate our people from Karada’s and to get rid of that fool Pa’alu.” Raising his voice, he added, “Now we know who’s with us, and who’s not!”

There were nods and grins around the campfire now, and Hatu’s words were passed along to those camped farther from the center.

Nacris hurried to him. “You mean to go back!” she exclaimed. “You always meant to!”

“Yes, we’re going back!” His face was hard, lines of anger etched in its surface. “I want my horse groaning under the weight of all the beef he can carry! I want my waterskins so full of wine they leak red on the trail behind us! I want that dragon’s head, but if he’s not around for killing, I’ll have the head of the Arkuden!”

“What about Karada?” asked Tarkwa.

“What about her?” Hatu demanded. “She’s no spirit-warrior, despite what some of you think. She bleeds the same as any of us. Are we going to slink away from her like a pack of whipped dogs, or will we be warriors and take what our might can get for us?”

The rebel nomads roared their approval. Even Tarkwa seemed fired with the fervor of revenge. “When do we strike?” he asked.

“Now! Tonight!” insisted Nacris.

Hatu shook his head. “Tomorrow. Let them sleep and think they’re rid of us. When the sun rises over Vulture Gap, we’ll hit Arku-peli like an avalanche!”