“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!”
6
Blusidar’s island was no mere rock in the midst of the ocean. From high above, Duranix could just barely see it in its impressive entirety. Both shape and terrain were surprisingly regular. Though the coast had been etched by centuries of tides and tempests, the island was a nearly perfect circle. The outer edge was bordered by a wide band of sand dunes. A ring of steep mountains sat in the center, and a heavy belt of forest filled the area in between.
The odd regularity was a puzzle to be pondered at a later time. For now, Duranix remained convinced Sthenn was hiding somewhere in the forest. Days had passed without any sign of the green dragon. He must have been badly injured by Duranix’s lightning strike to remain hidden so long. Though a satisfying theory, it was also troubling. Wounded, Sthenn might be more desperate, more dangerous than ever.
Duranix floated on high, riding the steady winds available over the island. The sky was bright and cloud-free. Though he could see the natural life of the island with his usual clarity, he detected no visible trace of Sthenn. His deeper senses did not lie, however. His old enemy was near.
He descended to the mountain where he’d first encountered Blusidar. He hoped to see her again and scrutinized crags and crevices as he swooped in. She was nowhere around. Disappointed, Duranix alighted atop a forked pinnacle, balancing on the narrow peak with his tail spread out behind him.