He nodded his acceptance.
Karada slipped her sword back into its leather scabbard. When the hilt slid home, Beramun leaped to her feet and cheered. A surprising number of nomads did likewise.
Puzzled by the acclaim, Karada said, “All of you, listen. This is a temporary alliance! When the fighting ends, the elves must give up their weapons again.”
Balif’s pale brows rose. “One way or another, we’ll be disarmed. Either we triumph and our arms belong to you, or we perish and our bones belong to the crows.”
The rest of the band saluted his brave good humor, but Karada did not smile.
Alone in the excited crowd, the girl Mara sat quietly, looking first at her chief, then at the cool and confident Balif. Her face contorted briefly, but whether from fear or hatred or something else only Mara could say.
While her people prepared themselves for the hard ride ahead, Karada rode off into the hills alone. In a lonely ravine, she dismounted, tying her horse to a scrub elm. She’d taken only twenty steps up the gully before, clasping both hands around her stomach, she doubled over in agony.
Amero is dead.
She’d lost siblings before. One sister had died before learning to walk, and marauding yevi had killed her baby brother Menni. Yet the news—Amero is dead—burned through her body like a blazing brand.
Putting her back to a tree, she fought for breath. Though she hadn’t seen her brother in a dozen years, it had always been enough to trust he was alive and well in Yala-tene, protected by his steadfast people, the bronze dragon, and a stout stone wall. Now that he was gone, it felt as if something inside her had been torn out.
She knew the depth of her feeling was unnatural. Long ago, a jealous member of her band named Pa’alu had used spirit power on her, trying to compel her love. The talisman miscarried, and instead of undying passion for Pa’alu, she was stricken with an unsisterly love for her own brother. Ever since, she’d grappled with the insidious influence. The struggle had nearly driven her insane, but from deep within she found the strength to live with the impossible compulsion. Live with it. Not conquer it.
Karada slid down the tree trunk, rough bark snagging her buckskins. She would never love again. She knew this in her heart. The abnormal flame she’d carried concealed for Amero had consumed her. It could never be kindled for anyone else. Lifting her eyes to the empty sky, she grieved, weeping for Amero and for herself.
The tears went on for a long time, too long. She found she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t command the gulping sobs that wracked her. At last, disgusted by her weakness, she drew the bronze dagger from her belt. Baring her left arm, she pressed the keen-edged blade against the tan skin between her wrist and elbow. Blood stained the golden blade as she drew it across her arm. The wound hurt, but not enough, so she made a second cut above the first. And then a third.
With a few exceptions, the Silvanesti supported their lord’s offer to fight Zannian. The common soldiers volunteered to the last elf. After all, it was better than being left behind, sitting in the dirt and wondering when one of these angry, unpredictable nomads would take it into his head to slay them. However, all six of Balif’s noble officers declined to fight. They objected to taking orders from Karada—a human, a woman, and an enemy. Balif listened to their arguments then dismissed them to idle captivity.
“Guard them well,” he told Pakito. “They’re honorable elves, but once I’m gone, they may not feel inclined to sit by and await ransom. I wouldn’t want their lives wasted.”
Leadership of the nomads remaining behind was given to Karada’s old friend, Targun. Though the oldest man in the band, his once-black hair nearly all gray now, Targun was one of the chieftain’s most trusted lieutenants. Only Pakito and his mate, Samtu, had been with Karada longer. Old Targun had his charges organized in no time.
Children were told to use pine boughs to sweep away their tracks as they departed, hiding their whereabouts even from their own people. If the battle went badly, none of Karada’s warriors could be forced to tell where their loved ones were hiding.
Warriors watched in silence as their families disappeared into the hills. Many wondered where Karada was. No one had seen her since the elf lord proposed his startling alliance. The nomads knew better than to look for their leader. She often went off on her own, and there was no questioning her when she did.
Beramun found herself standing next to Samtu, as the woman waved farewell to her children. Bearing five children in twelve years had left Samtu’s short frame rather stout, and her dark hair bore strands of gray, but she still rode at Pakito’s side and fought like a nomad half her age. Now, though, the warrior woman’s face reflected her sadness at seeing her children depart.
The obvious pity on Beramun’s face seemed to embarrass Samtu, and she busied herself with freshening the spirit marks on her face. Beramun asked about the significance of the marks and, obviously grateful for the distraction, Samtu explained. The nomads wore the painted streaks as a sign of unity. The marks were meant to resemble the scars Karada had received in her fight with the yevi so many years before. It was that first fight that had made their leader strong.
Beramun didn’t understand why Karada painted the marks on herself, since she had the real scars after all.
Samtu, shrugging, repeating what Karada had told her people: “Some scars can’t be seen unless you draw them on your skin.”
As the last of the family members disappeared around a low hill, Bahco discovered Mara crouching among the tethered horses. He told her to go with Targun, to run and catch up, but she refused, digging in her heels and fighting him as he tried to pull her out of hiding.
Karada reappeared on the other side of the camp, her left forearm tightly wrapped with a fresh strip of doeskin. The altercation between Bahco and Mara drew her, and she arrived in time to see the girl bite Bahco’s hand. Furious, the warrior pushed the combative girl to the ground and planted a foot on her back to hold her there.
When Karada gestured at him to let the girl up, Mara scrambled to her on hands and knees and clung to her chiefs leg.
“I serve you, Karada,” she pleaded. “Let me go with you!”
“Stand up, Mara,” Karada said severely. “You’re not a dog.”
The girl stood. Her doeskin shift was dirty and her curly hair matted. Impatiently, Karada combed through the rusty brown tangles with her fingers.
“Such a strange girl,” she said. “What do you think you can do with us? We don’t have a travois for you to ride, and you’ll never keep up with us on foot.”
“Let me ride with you!”
An impatient shake of her head, then Karada said, “I could burden Balif with you. He’ll be walking with his elves—”
“No!” Mara shrieked, jerking away from Karada’s hands. “I won’t go with them! I hate them! Let me ride with you!”
Beramun came forward, leading her own horse. She took in the situation immediately.
“Mara can ride with me,” Beramun said. “My horse is big enough to carry us both.”
“She’ll only get in the way,” Bahco said, glaring and rubbing the hand Mara had bitten.
Green eyes narrowed at the dark-skinned man, Mara shoved her hands into slits cut in her shift, reaching for something inside. Nomad women often carried seeds and roots they gleaned in a pouch inside their shift, but Beramun doubted the girl was going to offer Bahco food.
Grabbing her elbow, Beramun pulled her away, saying, “Come. Ride with me or go with Targun. That’s your choice.” She got on her horse and put out a hand to Mara.
Mara looked away from Karada’s unhelpful expression to the outstretched hand. Finally, with Beramun’s assistance, she mounted awkwardly. The two girls rode away.
Karada sighed, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. “That girl’s touched, Bahco. Don’t be so rough on her.”