Sister of the Sword

5

“This had better not be a jest.”

Zannian sat on his horse, flanked by Hoten and four other captains of his hand. To his right, Nacris reclined in her chair, hands folded together and pressed against her lips. The morning sun was behind the group, filling the mountain pass with long shadows and tinting the peaks crimson.

A scout had returned earlier that morning with an odd report: In the lower end of the pass leading out of the Valley of the Falls, he’d encountered a lone rider. The rider identified himself as Harak, son of Nebu, but would not approach. When the scout tried to approach him, the supposed Harak had told him to come no closer but to bring Zannian and Nacris at once.

Irritated by the lofty command, the scout started to argue, but movement on the slope behind Harak caught his eye. Something stirred, sending a shower of pebbles down the mountainside. The scout’s horse pranced amidst the cascade of stones.

Harak cast a glance at the slopes behind him and snapped, “I’ve been on a mission for our chief! Go now and do what I tell you! Bring Zan and Nacris here!”

The scout went.

He found Zannian in a black mood. Five raiders had deserted the night before, while patrolling the passes east of Yala-tene. In the past three days, more than twenty men had abandoned the siege.

The scout’s report caused the raider chiefs hazel eyes to narrow suspiciously. “Are you sure it was Harak? What’s he playing at? Why didn’t he just ride in?”

Though Zannian had accepted the necessity of Nacris’s plan to send for the ogres, most of the hand knew nothing about it.

Nacris gave her son a significant look and, glancing at the men in earshot, said, “Harak doesn’t know what’s happened since he’s been gone. He’s a cautious, clever fellow, that one.”

“Yes,” Zannian muttered, “too clever.”

Without explanation, he rounded up two dozen raiders and led them to the western pass. Most he left at the mouth of the ravine, as only he, Nacris, Hoten, and a handful of favored captains continued deeper into the pass.

Hoten hadn’t been nearby when the scout made his report, but the elder raider was observant. When they had left the other warriors behind, he said quietly, “Harak’s back, isn’t he?”

“Seems to be,” Zannian replied.

“Do the men know what’s coming?”

A sharp look. “What difference does that make?”

Hoten reined to a stop. “It makes all the difference, Zan! We’re the Raiders of Almurk. We follow the Master and do his will, but we are still men!”

Zannian swung his horse to one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Are you questioning my command?” he asked calmly.

Hoten stared at his leader, jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.

Four other captains, following behind, caught up to them and stopped, uncertain what was happening. When Nacris arrived in the next moment, she sized up the situation immediately.

“You two going to fight?” she asked.

“And if we did?” Hoten asked his mate through clenched teeth. “Who would you favor?”

“You’re both too important to this band to waste your lives fighting each other. Open your eyes! Can’t you see victory before us? It’s just down this pass, a league or so away. Do you really want to kill each other now, when the spoils of success are nearly in your hands?”

Zannian relaxed as she spoke. “You’re my mother’s mate, Hoten. Killing you wouldn’t be respectful.” Tapping his heels to his gray stallion’s flanks, the chief moved on.

Hoten glared from Zannian to Nacris and back for the space of a few heartbeats. Then he too started his horse moving again. When he caught up to his chief, he said in a low voice, “This is wrong, Zan, and we’ll all suffer for it.”

Zannian’s reply was loud and confident. “As the Master says, the only wrong in this world is failure. I won’t fail.”

They arrived at the spot the scout had indicated, but there was no sign of Harak. They waited. The morning sun pushed higher and higher, warming the shade-less canyon. To shift Zannian’s mind from his growing impatience, Nacris spun out old stories about her youth, her days with Karada, and her first mate, Sessan. The air grew hotter, and biting flies beset both horses and men.

“This had better not be a jest,” Zannian repeated

“Zan! Look!”

Far down the trail, shimmering in the heat-soaked air, a rider came. His pace was slow, and the steady clop of his horse’s hooves echoed off the high stone walls around them. Hoten wanted to ride out to meet him, but Zannian refused to let him go. He’d come this far at someone else’s beck and call. Now that someone would come to him.

The wavering image slowly resolved into a lanky, tanned rider with long, dark brown hair, riding a dappled brown horse. At Zannian’s command, the raiders fanned out in a semicircle. Nacris, unafraid, ordered her bearers to carry her out in front of the mounted men.

Her vision was still acute. “Harak!” she called.

The young raider urged his mount to a canter and loped in, nodding to his comrades. He stopped when his horse was head to head with Zannian’s.

“Greetings, chief,” he exclaimed, “and to your wise and ferocious mother.”

“Where are they?” Nacris asked eagerly, eyes alight. “Are they with you?”

Mischief danced in Harak’s deep brown eyes, but a look at the sweaty, impatient faces around him caused him to quell his normal impulse to be flippant. He twisted sideways on his horse, one arm sweeping out to gesture behind and above. He gave a loud, guttural call.

In unison, the raiders’ heads lifted. One man let out a hoarse yell.

“Ogres!”

Stepping out of cover, hulking figures ranged on both sides of the pass. The raiders were surrounded. Hoten, the captains, and the litter bearers were obviously alarmed. Swords and spears came up. Only Zannian, Nacris, and Harak remained calm.

“Be careful,” Harak said quickly, as several of the raiders brandished their weapons. “Ungrah-de is wary of humans. He says you can’t trust creatures with such small teeth.”

“Which one is he?” Zannian asked.

A sly look crossed Harak’s features. “Leadership among the ogres is determined by size—a most sensible practice.” He was himself a span taller than Zannian. “Ungrah-de is the biggest ogre here.”

Zannian picked him out immediately and raised his hands in the plainsman’s traditional greeting. “Great Chief! I greet you with open hands!”

Ungrah folded his tree-trunk sized arms. “Huh,” he called down. “You’re very small—smaller even than little Harak. How can you be chief?”

“I am chief by my wits, by my skill with arms, and by the will of my Master, Sthenn Deathbringer of Almurk.”

“Talking of old Sthenn, is he here?” asked Harak.

“Do not speak his name so lightly!” Zannian barked.

“He hasn’t returned yet,” Nacris told Harak. “We don’t know where he is.”

Ungrah clattered down the slope, followed by his towering warriors. Reaching the bottom, he strode toward the anxious raiders. The top of his head was even with Zannian’s, though the raider chief was on horseback.

“It’s well,” said the ogre. “Dragons are not fit company for warriors. They plot and plan and talk too much. I don’t fight beside dragons, only against them.”

The horses rolled their eyes and shied away from the ogres as they congregated around their leader. Ungrah-de noticed Nacris in her litter.

“Cripple,” he said bluntly. “Better to die than live less than whole. If I was crippled like that, I’d crawl off a cliff.” He translated this for his followers. They grunted in approval, sounding like a chorus of enormous boars.

Harak noted Nacris’s anger at the ogre’s high-handed words. “Ungrah-de, it was her idea to enlist your aid,” he said.

The raiders exchanged surprised looks at this bit of information. The ogre chief grunted deeply and shouldered a huge axe. Its head was an enormous chunk of grayish agate veined with lapis.

“Lead us to the place of stones,” Ungrah-de commanded, “to Arku-peli.”

He started down the canyon, his troop at his back. Zannian yelled, “Wait! We must bargain first, so you know what’s expected of you.”

Ungrah paused. “He made promises,” he said, and lifted a gnarled, hairy finger to Harak. “I agreed. The bargain is made. We will kill the enemies you failed to conquer.”

He and his monstrous warriors resumed walking.

Zannian turned, swift as a striking snake, and whipped out his sword. The point came to rest on Harak’s chest. “What did you promise them?” he growled.

Wincing, Harak tried to push the blade away, but Zannian dug in the tip. “Your mother said I should promise them anything for their help!”

“You will not sell my victory to those monsters!” Zannian snapped at Nacris.

“Then win it yourself!” she replied hotly. “Get on your horse and use that bronze blade on your enemies and not your followers!”

She spat a command to her bearers. They hoisted her onto their shoulders and started after the ogres. Harak carefully leaned away from the sword at his breast. Zannian, his eyes on his mother, allowed the blade to drop.

“By my blood, I will take the mud-toes’ village myself!” Zannian vowed. Silence answered his rousing declaration. He looked to his men. They were staring at him with expressions that mixed shock and horror.

“Ogres, Zan?” murmured one, his voice hoarse. “Are we to fight with ogres now?”

Another spoke up. “The spirits of my ancestors will rise in outrage if I fight alongside their murderers!”

“We dishonor ourselves, siding with those monsters!” Hoten said firmly.

Without warning, Zannian struck. The flat of his sword connected with Hoten’s head. The elder raider toppled sideways off his horse, stunned. One captain brought his sword up and thrust it at Zannian. The young chief swung his own weapon; at the end of its arc, the captain’s severed hand fell to the ground, still grasping his sword. The man gave a harsh cry of pain. He fell from his horse.

Zannian whipped his bloodied sword around and snarled, “Any one else dare draw on me?”

The other raiders pulled back out of reach. Only Harak held his ground.

Zannian turned on the smirking young wanderer. “I should slay you as a lesson to the rest!”

Harak lost his affected good nature for once. “Slay me? You should thank me! It wasn’t easy finding Ungrah-de or convincing him to help!” Zannian continued to regard him with hatred, and he added, “You know, if I were you, Zan, I’d hurry after those ogres. If the band doesn’t know they’re coming, they might attack Ungrah when he reaches the river. That would be bad in many ways.”

The truth of those words turned Zannian’s fury into action. “After them!” he ordered. Sullenly, his captains galloped after the marching ogres.

“I’d better go, too,” Harak said mildly. “Ungrah likes me, you see. I can keep things calm between you and the ogres.”

Zannian sheathed his sword with a clang. “Don’t cross me, Harak, or you’ll not live to see the end of this siege.”

“It’s a very bad habit, Zan, threatening your friends.”

“You’re not my friend!”

Harak looked down at the dying raider and the unconscious Hoten sprawled on the ground. “Thank my ancestors for that,” he said, and rode away.

Karada was riding across the high plain with her entire band at her back when the lead riders flushed six men on horseback.

The strangers tried to flee, but Karada’s superior horses overhauled them. Karada herself joined the brief melee, trading spear thrusts and sword cuts with a wildly painted rider. None of the strangers tried to surrender. All fought to the death.

Karada had the six dead men laid out for Beramun to see. The girl needed only a glance to recognize them.

“Zannian’s men! The men who killed my family painted their faces just the same!”

Karada shaded her eyes. “We’re still two days from the Valley of the Falls. Why would Zannian waste men scouting so far east? Is he expecting us?”

“All the messengers from Yala-tene were taken but me,” Beramun said thoughtfully. “Zannian could have learned of our mission from those he captured.”

Karada changed the marching order of her band. Those not fighting—children, elders, the captured Silvanesti—were sent to the rear. Instead of a long, slender column of riders, Karada’s warriors spread themselves out in a wide line, two ranks deep. This would allow them to sweep the savanna as they rode and shield their families, too. Karada kept Beramun by her side, since the girl could help guide them through the mountains. It had been many years since the nomads had traveled so far west.

She divided her fighting force into three parts. Pakito was summoned, and he arrived with Balif still in tow. Karada gave the giant charge of the right wing. Bahco was to have command of the left, and she herself would lead the center. Pakito left Balif with Karada and took his place on the north end of the nomads’ line.

The elf general looked trailworn, his long hair windblown and his fine clothes unkempt. Unlike some of the well-born elves, Balif never complained about his comfort or treatment. He seemed to regard his captivity as an interesting outing, like a prolonged hunting trip.

He looked down at the six dead raiders. “We had word of men like these in the west. Their deeds drove many humans into land claimed by the Speaker of the Stars.”

Karada spared him but a scornful glance. The nomads took up their new formation and surged forward. The wide line scared up all sorts of animals and game. Rabbits, wild pigs, deer, and every bird known on the plains took flight before Karada’s band. Edible game was taken down with arrows and the meat passed back to those on foot. Beramun expressed concern that their bold approach would warn Zannian they were coming.

“Maybe if they know we’re coming, they’ll get on their nags and clear out,” Karada said.

She had a stem of sweet grass in her teeth and a woven grass hat on her head to keep the sun off her face. Beramun marveled at her calm demeanor. She looked like a middle-aged hunter’s mate, foraging for roots. Of course, when she lifted her head, the light shone on the web of scars at her throat and in her hard hazel eyes, and she was again Karada, famed nomad chieftain.

“Do you have a plan of action?” Balif asked. Karada wouldn’t answer him, so he went on, “You’re a fine natural tactician, but you’re fighting an unknown enemy. They may outnumber you. They may have traps set for you. Stealth and surprise will greatly aid your cause.”

“This is not your fight.” Karada spat out the grass stem. “Once I beat this Zannian and get your ransom, I’ll have blades, mounts, and warriors enough to wrest the south plain from your leader, and all the elves in Silvanesti will not be enough to dislodge me!”

Balif pursed his lips and said nothing more.

The terrain began to break apart and rise. Rocky hills pushed through the green grass, and stands of trees appeared, pine and cedar mostly, with a few wild apple trees mixed in. Bahco and the left wing of the band, a hundred sixty-three strong, were lost from sight as they bore south around an intervening hill. Pakito’s wing, a hundred forty-four riders, forded a wide stream and disappeared into a grove of trees. Karada allowed a short rest for her part of the band. Horses were watered in the stream and noisily munched windfall apples.

Karada dipped her hand in the creek and brought the clear water to her lips. She swallowed, made a face, and said, “I forgot how stony the water is here.”

Beramun looked north and south, past the idle nomads. “I remember this stream,” she said quietly. “I crossed it lower down, the day the raiders caught Udi.”

Because Balif couldn’t dismount without help (his legs were still hobbled under the belly of his horse), Beramun filled a hollow gourd and took it over to him.

“Thank you, girl.” He drank deeply, then suddenly dropped the gourd. Beramun caught it before it hit the ground.

“Careful!” she chided. “Break the gourd and you’ll have to lap your water like the horses.”

“Will you ask Karada to come here, right away?” Balif’s polite words sounded more like a command than a request, but his tone was urgent and his face wore an odd expression.

“Don’t run or shout,” he added calmly. “Go to her slowly and return the same way. Do it now, Beramun.”

She put aside her surprise and did as he asked. Karada was enjoying the feel of the cool creek water on her feet, and it was hard to pull her away. Beramun persisted. When they returned to Balif, the nomad chieftain was still barefoot, her doeskin leggings draped over one shoulder.

“What do you want, elf?” she said, annoyed.

“You’re being watched from that stand of pines over there. At least two men, maybe more.”

Karada did not so much as glance in the direction he indicated. Her hard grip on Beramun’s arm kept the younger woman from turning.

“Raiders?” Karada asked.

Balif grimaced. “What am I, a dragon? I can’t see that far. Find out yourself.”

The word spread softly through the band. Slowly, casually, groups of three and four slipped into the pine copse. They circled wide, seeking hidden horses or spies on foot. They found nothing. When they reappeared empty-handed, Karada took the matter into her own hands. She nocked an arrow and loosed it at the tree Balif said housed the spy.

The missile had its intended effect. With a shriek, a figure tumbled from the pine. Karada ran to the spot. By the time she arrived, two more figures had appeared, weeping.

Beramun joined her. “Children!” she exclaimed.

They were two young hoys and a girl. The older boy had been in the tree, and Karada’s arrow had scared him so badly he’d lost his hold. The younger pair tried to comfort him, but they were so frightened they could do little more than cling to each other and cry.

“Be still!” Karada snapped. The weeping trio flinched and tried to obey.

Beramun knelt beside them, patting heads and cheeks. She recognized the beadwork on their dusty kilts. “You’re from Yala-tene, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” the smaller boy quavered.

“How did you get here?” demanded Karada. “How did you avoid the raiders?”

“Please, Karada,” Beramun said. “Be patient. They’re young and scared.” The nomad chieftain grunted and walked away to retrieve her arrow.

The children followed her movements with wide eyes. Beramun spoke kindly to them, shifting their attention back to herself.

Little by little, she drew from the children the story of how they had come to be here. They’d been sent by the elders of Yala-tene, they said, “through a crack in the mountain.” The elders had sent other children like themselves through this narrow tunnel and told them all to run away and hide from anyone on horseback.

When Karada rejoined them, Beramun related what the children had said, then asked them, “How long ago did you leave?”

“A night, a day, a night, and today,” said the smaller boy.

“Things must be bad for them to send children out alone,” Karada remarked.

The little ones began sobbing again. “Monsters have come!” wailed the girl. “The painted men have monsters to help them! They’ll pull down the big wall!”

“Monsters? You mean the green dragon?”

“No. The monsters have legs and arms like us, but they’re big and ugly, with teeth sticking out their mouths, and long, floppy ears—”

Karada inhaled sharply. “Ogres?”

Beramun jumped to her feet. “The Arkuden needs us. We must go to him right away!”

“Lady.” The little girl was tugging at Beramun’s kilt. “Lady, there is no Arkuden any more.”

The child’s declaration was like a spear through Beramun’s heart, and she froze.

Karada’s sunbrowned face turned paler than Beramun had ever seen it. The chieftain grasped the poor child by her shoulders and shook her hard.

“What do you mean? Where is the Arkuden?” she cried. The child could only sob.

A blow on her leg broke through Karada’s shock. The smaller boy had struck her with his walking stick. She set the girl down.

“What happened?” she asked, striving to keep her voice calm. “What happened to the Arkuden.”

“They killed him,” said the boy, pulling the girl away from her. “The green-skinned men killed the Arkuden!”