Ungrah-de hailed Zannian, saying, “We heard the fight coming our way and came to join you.” His brawny arms were stained to the elbows with his enemies’ blood. “Your men are running away.”
“Kill as many as you like, great chief!” Zan snarled. “It will encourage the rest to fight!”
Nearby, the nomads broke through the raiders. Upon seeing the ogres the nomads wavered, but they were many and the ogres few, so they resumed their charge. Ungrah’s warriors did not look as though they could withstand a mounted attack, but they turned the nomads’ spears with their stone-faced bucklers and chopped them down with broad sweeps of their axes. Zannian reorganized his remaining men behind the firm line established by Ungrah-de. The nomads made a few forays against the formidable monsters, but these were bloodily repulsed.
Horns blared, and the nomads drew back several score paces, forming into two blocks. Zannian saw the larger block, on his right, was commanded by a huge man riding an equally tall horse. The nomads on the left seemed to be led by a muscular young man with richly brown skin and short, black, tightly curled hair. There was no sign of a female chief, the Karada of legend.
There was much posturing and spear shaking, but as horses and riders calmed, the two bands drew farther apart. The sun was not long from setting, and the nomads had the blazing light in their eyes. Across from them, many raiders were reeling on their animals, nearly overcome by exhaustion.
Into the open ground between the two forces rode five nomads on four horses. The giant and the dark man were two of them. The third was a slender woman with long black hair. In the midst of the ruin of his dreams of conquest, Zannian felt a surge of fire in his veins when he recognized Beramun.
His elation was tempered by the sight of the fourth horse. It carried two women: one, a red-haired girl Beramun’s age, Zan dismissed immediately; the other, older and browned by years of sun, merited a longer inspection. The older woman wore a fine bronze helmet of elven make. Her jaw and throat were streaked with livid, white scars.
Beside him, Hoten drew in a breath sharply. “Karada!”
“Are you certain?” Zannian demanded.
“In my youth I rode with her band,” was the awed reply. “That’s her.”
Zannian gave a low growl of annoyance. “First the Arkuden and now Karada. Too many dead people are still alive.”
He and Hoten rode out together with Ungrah-de striding along between their horses. They came within six steps of the nomads and stopped.
No one spoke. The only sound was the ogre’s loud breathing and the sound of horses’ tails switching away flies.
Hoten broke the impasse. “Greetings, Karada,” he said, hailing his former chieftain.
She squinted against the flare of the setting sun. “I know your face. You’re... Hoten, son of Nito. You were in my band, many years ago.”
He nodded, thinking it strange that her recognition should please him so.
“Now you ride with these savages?” Pakito growled at him. “Yevi-spawn!”
So much for old memories.
Zannian said, “Speak, Karada. Why have you come here?”
“To save my brother and his people. I may be too late for one but not the other.”
Zannian did not enlighten her that Amero lived. “You don’t belong here. Go back to the east. Battle the Silvanesti, and leave this land to us.”
“You are the invaders!” Beramun spoke up. “Murderers and looters! Go back to the stinking forest you call home and tell your dragon master you have failed!”
The raider chief turned his horse’s head toward her. “I saved you from the Master more than once, girl. Have you no gratitude?”
“Speak to me, raider,” Karada said severely. “I give you this leave: he gone from the Valley of the Falls by sunrise tomorrow, or your corpse will rot where it falls.”
“This one is a warrior,” Ungrah said suddenly. His dark eyes had not left Karada’s face since she’d first spoken.
Hearing the imposing creature speak their language startled the nomads. Ungrah went on. “Even in the high mountains we have heard of the Scarred One. I see now the tales are true.”
“This is not your fight, ogre,” she replied. “Withdraw, and none shall hinder you.”
“My fight is any I choose. Killing the wall-people was just work, but now I think this fight will be good. I will wear your skull with pride, Karada.” He rattled the trophies hanging from his armored chest.
In answer, she drew her long bronze sword. Zannian and Hoten tensed, ready to fight. Ungrah stood his ground, feet planted firmly, both massive hands resting on the head of his axe, unmoving as a mountain.
“To the death then, is it?” said Karada, looking from the ogre to the raider chief.
“It is,” Zannian said.
Ungrah and the raiders turned to go. They’d taken several steps before she spoke again.
“I have Nacris.”
The simple words halted them. Hoten tried to see his mate’s fate in Karada’s expression, but the nomad chiefs face was like the eastern cliffs—hard and unyielding.
“Does my mother live?”
Something flickered across Karada’s face. “Mother?”
“Does she live?” Zannian snapped.
“For now. If I return her to you, will you leave the valley?”
“No.” Hoten’s protest was overridden as Zannian said, “We did not come all this way to fall short now! Karada is my mother’s blood foe. Nacris would rather die at her hands than be spared by her!”
The raider chief kicked his mount into motion, leading his sullen men back to camp.
Before he turned to follow them, Ungrah-de said, “When the sun is next overhead, we will meet here and test our strengths, arm to arm. Until then, savor your blood, Karada. Tomorrow it will stain the soil at my feet.”
Though the other nomads, even giant Pakito, were visibly affected by the threat, Karada turned her back on Ungrah and rode back to her band.
High atop the walls of Yala-tene, Amero and his companions watched the nomads and raiders parley, unable even to discern who the participants were. Yet, Amero was almost certain that one of the nomads was his sister. She was on a wheat-colored horse, and something about the way she sat the animal struck a chord in his mind.
When the two groups rode away from each other, he was filled with joy. Surely the raiders were defeated! What else could they do but abandon the siege and leave the valley?
Amero saw the nomads return to the north baffle and set up camp beneath the walls. A body of men marching in close order down Cedarsplit Gap joined the nomads. It wasn’t until they were much nearer that it became apparent the warriors on foot were elves.
“What does this mean?” asked Hekani, who’d come over from the west baffle once the ogres had retreated. “Silvanesti fighting alongside nomads? Such things don’t happen!”
“What about men allied with a green dragon and with ogres?” replied Lyopi tartly.
“I don’t know what’s possible, and I don’t care! It is a great day!” Amero declared. Worn down to raw courage and sheer nerve, the other villagers could only agree.
Amero hurried to the north baffle, eager to see his sister after so long a time. Beramun would be there, too—brave girl! He longed to see her again and do honor to her courage. Alone of the scouts he’d sent to find Nianki, she had survived and brought the nomads back to save them.