Children of the Plains

Chapter 21

A day passed, then another, then five, and the renegades did not return. Nianki posted lookouts on the clifftops and across the lake to watch for trouble, but it seemed that Nacris, Hatu, and their followers had been defeated.

Though his wounds were not deep, Amero contracted a fever, and for many days his survival was in question. To provide the best care for him, a large open shelter was raised near the burned houses, and the people of Yala-tene took turns nursing him. While Amero was ill, his authority fell quite naturally to Nianki. No one disputed her orders now. The villagers, who’d seen her fight for them, obeyed her without question.

For Amero, the days passed like a single bad night’s sleep. At intervals he would open his eyes — it was daylight and someone was feeding him broth; it was night and someone else was smearing larchit on his wounds. After these brief moments of wakefulness, he would lapse back into a deep slumber.

Once, he heard people around him talking, and he recognized Nianki’s voice.

“Where did you try today?”

“South, in the lower valleys,” answered a different voice. “There was no sign.”

“If I know him, he’ll go back to familiar territory, the land of his ancestors.”

“And where would that be?”

“North,” Nianki replied. “The north plain, close to the mountains.”

“Then that’s where I’ll look.”

The voices ceased. After what seemed like only a moment, he heard some scraping noises, and the sound of water being poured. Cool dampness caressed his lips, chin, and forehead. He opened his eyes.

“Nianki.” His voice was a croak.

She dipped a scrap of chamois in the clay basin and squeezed out the excess. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Dry. Water?”

She lifted a hollowed gourd to his lips, using her other hand to support his head. The small sip of water he managed to swallow tasted wonderful.

“Who was just here?” he asked once he was resting again. “No one.”

“I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

She smiled. “You were dreaming again. You’ve been doing that a lot. You talk when you’re asleep, did you know that?”

“No.”

She gently wiped his neck and shoulders and rinsed the chamois again. He looked past her. His bleary gaze picked out movement — villagers moving to and fro, rebuilding their burned houses.

“How many people did we lose?” he asked.

“Twenty-three of the village, eighteen of my people.”

So many. He closed his burning eyes. “How is Duranix?”

“Arrogant as ever. He and Pakito and that old man Konza took off after the oxen Hatu’s riders chased away. Your dragon still can’t fly, but his senses are keener than a falcon’s, so I guess he’ll be helpful tracking the wayward beasts.”

He smelled the sourness of larchit paste. Nianki had peeled off the dressing of damp jenja leaves to apply a fresh layer of soothing paste to his chest wound. His eyelids felt weighed down by exhaustion. Fighting against the darkness that pulled at him, Amero yawned and said, “And how do you feel, Nianki?”

“I wasn’t injured.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She continued her ministrations, loading a twig with a gob of larchit paste. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she told him calmly. “Ever. Stop asking questions and get well.”

“Yes, Karada.” He sighed and allowed sleep to claim him once more.

Amero’s fever waxed and waned. On one of his good days, he was visited by Pakito. The giant warrior lifted Amero as though he were a small child and carried him outside.

The villagers and Nianki’s loyal nomads had formed a long human chain from the cliffs to the dragon’s cairn. Stones came down the line, passing from one pair of hands to the next until they reached the ceremonial rock pile. With a final heave, some of the sturdier nomads added the new stones to the pile. They must have been laboring for quite a while, Amero realized, for the cairn had almost doubled in length and width.

Reclining rather stiffly in Pakito’s mighty arms, Amero asked what was going on. Nianki, who had joined them, explained how the villagers needed some place to put the rubble from their ruined houses. At first they hauled the burned and broken rocks to the lake, then someone — no one could recall exactly who — suggested adding the rubble to the dragon’s altar. The idea took hold, and everyone joined in to complete the task.

“The dragon saved us, at peril to his own life,” explained Pakito. “We’re doing this to honor him, and you.”

“Where is Duranix?” asked Amero. It felt as though he hadn’t seen his friend in weeks.

“Sleeping off dinner,” Nianki said.

They watched the work in silence for a while. The cairn grew ever larger.

“The way they feel now,” Nianki said. “They’d pull down the mountain and throw it all on the pile, if it pleased the dragon.”

A chill mist filled the valley one night, and the next morning every stone and tree limb in the valley was coated with frost. The highest crags of the mountains turned white, and when the wind blew down from the heights, it brought the bite of winter with it.

The day Amero walked without a staff was the same day Duranix discarded his wing brace. Man and dragon faced each other on the sandy spit below the falls.

“Are you sure you don’t want your stick?” teased Duranix.

Amero raised his thin arms over his head and flapped them up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want your brace?”

The dragon spread his long, leathery wings and mirrored his friend’s movement, raising a cloud of grit. “No more braces for me,” he declared. “Today I fly!”

He launched himself into the air, wings flapping slowly. He drifted hack to the sand. Launching himself again, and working harder this time, he gained height. His long neck stood straight out from the strain, but he climbed upward in a wide spiral, testing his newly healed wing. It was exactly ninety days since he’d broken it.

Nianki appeared, draped in a mantle of white wolf fur. She watched Duranix disappear into the low clouds that roofed the valley. He roared with delight, and the eerie sound reverberated down the lake, causing people on both shores to look up from their work.

“Someone’s happy,” said Nianki dryly.

“Yes, me!” Amero turned in a little circle, showing her he wasn’t supported by anything. “See? I’m walking on my own.”

“It’s about time,” she replied tartly. “I was about to take Targun’s advice and shorten your walking stick a little bit each day. He figured you’d give it up when you discovered you were bent double.”

“Ha, thanks!”

Nianki turned away, and he followed her. They strolled down the water’s edge together.

“How goes the planting?” he asked. It was past time for the winter crops to go in, but so much work had been needed to repair houses and pens in the village, the second planting was late.

“It goes. The ground seems too cold and hard for anything to grow.”

“That’s all right. If anyone can grow vegetables through ice, it’s Jenla.”

Nianki nodded. “Smart woman. She should’ve been a nomad.”

They reached the southern end of the village. Piles of loose stones filled the circular holes where houses had once stood. These houses on the periphery had been demolished and their undamaged materials salvaged to repair the other homes. Most of the people who lived in them had perished in the fight.

“I’ve been thinking — ” Amero began.

“Oh, not again.”

He gave her a mock glare, then continued. “We’ve relied too much on Duranix to protect us. He is, as he will tell you himself, only one dragon. Yala-tene needs to be a safe haven, a stronghold that can survive even if Duranix is away for ten days or more. What we need is not a series of strong, individual houses, but a way to defend all the houses at once.”

The chill wind had strengthened. It whistled around her ears, as Nianki raised the white fur hood of her cloak. “How would you do that?” she asked, not really interested.

“As we do the cattle: put all the little houses into one big house!”

That caught her attention. She stopped and regarded him skeptically. “You want to build a house large enough to hold every family in Arku-peli? That’s mad! Even if you could, all those people living together wouldn’t last. They’d kill each other!”

Amero went to the stump of a wall, carefully lowering himself onto it. Many weeks of illness had left him with little stamina.

“I’m not talking about building a whole house to cover all the others, though that would be quite a feat.” He looked up at the overcast sky, a far-off expression on his face.

She sighed impatiently. “Get to the point, will you?”

“Sorry,” he said, looking at her again. He gestured with his hands, making a circle around himself and continued. “A wall, Nianki. We can build a wall around the village. That would keep any marauders out.”

She folded her arms. “You want to build a wall around the entire village?” He nodded. “Sounds like a waste of sweat and stone to me. All you really need is a hundred stout fighters to defend the place.”

“Every man and woman in Yala-tene could be trained to fight,” he countered. “Spears would be provided to every family, to be kept at home for use when there’s trouble.”

“All very well, but pairing off your mudtoes and having them whack each other a few times doesn’t make them warriors.”

“That’s where you come in.”

Nianki scoffing expression froze. “Me?”

“I want you to train them — teach them to fight like your best warriors. With you to train and lead them, Yala-tene will never have anything to fear.”

She leaned against the wall of the fallen house, feeling the cold stones press against her knees.

“Well?” he said.

A tiny flake of white floated down and came to rest on the back of Nianki’s hand. For an instant, the perfect miniature net of feathery ice crystals stood out clearly against her deeply tanned skin. Then, warmed by her body, the flake vanished.

“Snow,” she said. Nianki lifted her hooded face to the sky. More snowflakes were coming down now, but only a few.

“Nianki, will you stay and teach the people of Yala-tene how to defend themselves?” asked Amero insistently.

“No.”

He was taken aback. “No?”

“I’ve stayed too long as it is. It’s time for Karada’s band to depart.”

So saying, she stepped over the broken length of wall and strode quickly away. Amero opened his mouth to call to her, but she was out of sight before he thought what to say.

There was a rush of wind, and Duranix alighted on a patch of nearby open ground. He shook his head from side to side, sending a tinkling cascade of ice crystals to the ground. He flapped his wings before furling them, shedding more ice and snow in the process.

“I hate winter,” he declared, “but I love it that I can fly again.”

Amero said nothing. He was still looking off toward where Nianki had vanished.

Duranix used his foreclaws to preen slush and water from his horns and face. “Why so morose, Amero?” he said. “You’re walking, aren’t you? Or have your legs failed you? Is that why you’re sitting out here in the cold by yourself?”

Amero stood — a bit wobbly, but upright — and said, “Nianki won’t stay. I asked her to train the villagers to fight, but she won’t do it. In fact, I think she may be leaving today!”

Duranix leaned down to his far smaller friend. The brazen nail of one clawed digit tapped the crown of Amero’s head.

“Is there anything in there but bone?” he asked. Angrily, Amero brushed the claw away. Duranix added, “You astonish me, human. You asked her to do the one thing she can’t do and still respect herself. Don’t you realize that?”

“Well, no. I thought she was over the effect of the amulet.”

Duranix rolled his huge eyes. He forced himself to adopt a patient tone. “I don’t know if she’ll ever be ‘over it.’ Someone else will have to come along and win her heart.” He drew himself upright. “Not an easy prize.”

Together they walked to the enlarged altar. The villagers, with the help of Nianki’s band, had nearly tripled its size. Where once it had been a rectangular pile, it was now square, and over twenty paces to a side. When the rocks had kept tumbling down the sides, someone had thought to use the gray mud from the lake bed to hold the rocks in place. Soon the all the outer layer of rocks were stuck together with mud, which coupled with the yellowish sandstone, lent the altar a distinctly speckled appearance.

Konza and his eldest son, Tiphan, hailed Amero and the dragon as they neared the altar. They were an odd-looking pair. Tiphan had fashioned coats for his father and himself from cast-off bronze dragon scales. He had punched holes in the upper edge of the scales and, using hide strips, attached them in overlapping layers to two long cloaks. Though their demeanors were grave, both men clanked as they walked, and Duranix found the effect comical.

“They look like a pair of beetles,” Duranix observed in a low voice. Amero had to stifle a laugh; the description was apt.

“You’re walking again, Arkuden? That’s excellent,” Konza said. Tiphan, only sixteen, stood to one side looking grave. It was an expression difficult to maintain since Duranix kept exhaling gently on him, just to make his coat of scales clatter in the resulting breeze.

“Thank you, Konza,” Amero said, studiously ignoring the dragon’s actions. “I want to get back to work as soon as possible. I have many plans to discuss with you and the other elders — ”

“There are no other elders,” Tiphan said.

“What?”

“What my son means is, while you were ill, the surviving fathers and mothers of the village met and chose me to be their representative to you and our great protector.” Konza smiled widely. “We all felt the old way of council meetings and arguments was too slow and awkward to deal with the dangers of this new life of ours. From now on, you can tell me what you want done, and I will tell the villagers.”

Amero was astonished. “Tell you? But I don’t want to — ”

Duranix unfolded one wing just enough so that it came between Amero and Konza. “Arkuden shouldn’t be out in this weather,” Duranix announced grandly. “He’s still recovering. He’ll return shortly.”

Amero couldn’t reply with a mass of wing pressed against his face, but before he could free himself, Duranix whisked him into one claw and spread his wings to their fullest extent.

Without further warning, the dragon launched himself into the air, leaving Konza and Tiphan staring upward in awe and not a little confusion.

When they were aloft and heading for the cavern, Amero demanded, “What was that? And since when do you call me Arkuden?’”

Duranix ducked through the waterfall and landed on the cave floor. He used his wings skillfully to shield Amero, so not a drop got on him. The dragon threw several logs on the hearth and fanned the faint coals with his breath. Watching Duranix’s cheeks bulge as he blew stirred an idea in Amero’s agile mind — but he shook his head to clear his thoughts and returned to the issue at hand.

“What do they mean, I’ll tell them what to do? I wouldn’t feel right telling people twice my age what to do.”

“You’re so conservative,” chided Duranix, basking in the warmth of the blazing fire. “When this settlement began, you were just thirteen years old. None of the elders wanted to listen to you then, but they did, mostly because they feared me. Now you’re twenty-four. Many of the fathers and mothers who originally followed you here from the plains are gone. The younger ones have only known Yala-tene and you, and now they want you to lead them.” Duranix brought his tail around closer to the fire to warm it. “I think you should.”

“How can I? What if I make mistakes? People’s lives are at stake!”

“When Hatu came back to destroy the village, you fought back, even killed people. Why?”

“To save those I care about,” he replied.

“So!”

The fire crackled loudly. The hot yellow flames highlighted Amero’s drawn face, making the lines of worry etched in his countenance seem even deeper. The silence between them stretched on. Amero kicked at some pebbles.

“I guess I can try it Konza’s way. I’ll work hard, and find others to guide and counsel me,” he said finally.

“Your dedication is almost dragonlike,” Duranix replied.

Amero sat down on the hard stone floor and stretched out his tired legs. Despite the burden being placed on his shoulders, and the imminent departure of his sister, he couldn’t stop smiling. He knew the dragon had just paid him the ultimate compliment.

It took two days for Nianki’s band to pack their gear. Every inhabitant of Yala-tene insisted on providing the nomads with enough provisions to get them to the northern plains, where there would still be abundant game to hunt. In addition to their remaining fifty-three horses, Nianki’s band was given six tamed wolves, ten oxen, and nineteen goats. The oxen were harnessed to five large travois laden with dried fruit, vegetables, and clay jugs of Hulami’s best wine.

More surprising was the fact that ten villagers chose to go with Nianki. They were all young men and women whose families had perished in the battle. Starting anew in the valley of the falls was too painful for them, and they had asked to be taken into Karada’s band.

“You are welcome,” she told them, “though we have no horses for you.”

Young Valka, grandson of Amero’s old friend of the same name, said, “It’s as well. We don’t know how to ride your animals.” He grinned and added, “Yet!”

It was on a clear, cold day that Nianki formed her people at the foot of Amero’s bridge. The snow of two days past was only a light dusting, a harbinger of heavier falls to come. The trees and houses were covered with silver frost, and a blanket of mist rose from the lake.

Duranix joined the crowd of villagers who gathered to see the nomads off. He was in human shape, the first time he’d taken the form since breaking his wing. Konza and Tiphan were there in their coats of scales, though beneath them they wore furs to keep out the chill.

“Do you have enough food to get you past the Plains River?” asked Amero, looking over the heavily loaded travois.

“If we had any more, the oxen couldn’t drag it,” Nianki said. “Be at ease, brother. You’ve done right by us. More than right.”

Pakito was to lead the nomads who traveled on foot. With much genial shouting, the amiable giant stirred his small band into motion. There were many farewells as the villagers who had joined Karada’s band marched away, their tidy clothes and short hair marking them as different from their long-haired nomad cousins.

Samtu rode up in answer to Nianki’s call. Her belly was beginning to swell with Pakito’s child. She had been the object of much teasing, as nomads and villagers alike warned her that if the baby took after its father, she had a lot more swelling yet to do.

“Take the riders out,” Nianki told her. “Once across the river, split into two columns. I want one to ride on each side of the walkers, to shield them.”

Samtu nodded. “What track shall we follow, Karada?” she asked.

“Follow the river. It will lead us where we want to go.”

Samtu whistled through her teeth, and the riders mounted their horses. Only Targun remained behind with Nianki.

“Well, dragon, you’ll have more peace in your valley from now on,” she said, leaning down from horseback to offer her hand to Duranix.

He clasped her hand. “I doubt it, Karada. Many people know about the valley of the lake now, including all the nomads who fled the fight Nacris lost. And there’s Vedvedsica. He was here the night of the Moonmeet feast, prowling around for some reason.”

Duranix had finally told Nianki that Vedvedsica was the one who’d fashioned the amulet for Pa’alu. Now, at his mention of the cleric’s name, she frowned, recalling flashes of her bizarre dream about the city of elves. Then Targun, sitting on a horse by his chief, spoke, and she banished the images with a shake of her head.

“Do you think Silvanos will move against you?” Targun asked.

“I don’t think so. There’s little for him to gain here,” Duranix said. “The elves will keep an eye on us though, I’m certain.”

“I wish we knew happened to Nacris and that one-eyed wolf, Hatu,” Amero said. “They worry me more than the elves.”

Duranix arched one eyebrow and touched a finger to his forehead. From behind his back, he produced a small bundle, wrapped in a scrap of leather, and gave it to Nianki. She queried him with a look.

“A gift,” he said. “To be opened once you’re away from Yala-tene.”

With that, his human face actually reddened slightly. He bade them good-bye and walked away. The rest of the villagers drifted away as well, until only Targun, Nianki, and Amero were left by the foot of the bridge.

“Go ahead, Targun,” she said. “Watch after Samtu, will you? She looked like she might lose her breakfast at any moment.”

“Aye, Karada.” The elder plainsman gave Amero a silent, smiling nod and rode away.

Finally, it was just the two of them: Nianki on horseback, her white wolfs fur robe rippling in the breeze, and Amero, his leggings and sleeves stained with the soot of his hearth.

“Will you ever return?” he asked quietly.

“The world is a big place,” she told him. “When I’ve ridden all the way round it, I may get back here.”

“Might take a long time.”

“I think it will.” Nianki leaned down with her hand out, as she had done to Duranix. “You’re a good brother, Amero. Oto and Kinar would be pleased.”

He took her cold, callused hand. The mention of their parents brought a lump to his throat. He swallowed hard, and said hoarsely, “There is always a place at my fire for you, Nianki.”

She abruptly pulled free and slapped her horse’s neck with the reins. She cantered across the bridge, which swayed from side to side as they went. Nianki soon caught up to Targun and took her place beside him. Amero leaned against the last tall piling of the bridge and watched the nomads until they disappeared around the bend of the river.

Though he watched until she was lost from sight, Nianki never looked back.

Duranix, still in human form, found Amero hunched over the hearth that evening. He seemed to be shaking gently, rocking back and forth.

The disguised dragon put an awkward hand on Amero’s shoulder. “It will be all right.”

His friend raised his head. He hadn’t been shaking with grief as Duranix had thought, he’d been busy blowing on a bed of glowing coals.

Accustomed as he was to Amero’s strange ways, Duranix still had to ask, “Why are you doing that?”

“It makes them hotter,” he announced triumphantly. “I think I’ve found a way to melt bronze at last!”

Amero, Duranix decided, would be fine.

The nomads camped ten leagues from Yala-tene that night, not quite on the open plain but sheltered from the icy night wind by a pair of low hills. Tents were pitched, and the old rhythm of the wandering life slowly resumed. They could feel it inside, like the pulse of a second heart.

The stars were out, so numerous and so bright Nianki could see all the way back to the snow-clad mountains, or ahead to the flat, endless savanna. The Winged Serpent, the sign of Pala, was in his place in the heavens, as was Matat, the stormbird.

Dragon, Nianki corrected herself. Matat was a dragon. Like Duranix.

Alone by a campfire, she opened the leather-wrapped gift Duranix had given her. When she saw what was in it, she smiled briefly and tossed the whole bundle onto the burning wood.

Flames slowly ate into the square of oiled leather, curling around the traitor Hatu’s black eyepatch. Duranix’s parting gift to her was a little peace of mind about the safety of her brother and his people.

In a flicker of silent orange flame, the gift turned to ash.