By the time he arrived at the entrance, nomads had already swarmed onto the baffle and were making their way into the village. The people of Yala-tene lined the walls to cheer them. Gratitude poured out of every hoarse throat.
Beyond the wrecked barricade, Amero stopped. He could see them coming. His throat tightened, and his hands trembled. Beramun’s raven hair was painted dark crimson by the setting sun. In front of her, a tawny woman of forty summers clambered over the boulders and rubble. It was Nianki indeed, and how strong she looked!
Where the obstructions ended and the wall began, Karada and her party halted. She looked up and saw the assembled villagers waiting for them. Standing on the wall directly above her was a bearded man in tattered clothes. He was hollow-eyed, battered, and cut about the hands and face. A handsome woman with a thick chestnut braid of hair stood at his side, gripping a much-used spear.
Karada felt her heart beat hard, the pulse pounding in her ears. The setting sun was behind the people on the wall, leaving their faces in shadow. Yet she knew the bearded man. Though her voice, when at last she could speak, sounded questioning and strained, she knew him.
“Amero?”
“Nianki!” the man called joyously, spreading his arms wide.
No one else in all the world called her by her birth name. It was Amero. He was alive.
She didn’t remember climbing the last bit. Next thing she knew she was on the wall, arms around the apparition of her brother. He was solid and real, no spirit, and when he drew back from her, she saw the old gleam of wit in his hazel eyes.
“I can hardly believe it! You saved us!” He was grinning so wide his face seemed ready to split.
“You called me,” she said quietly, moved. “I came.”
11
Vast was the relief felt in Yala-tene that night. The desperate, hungry villagers poured from their homes, embracing any nomad who would stand still for it. Though not plentifully supplied themselves, the nomads shared what provender they had with Amero’s people. It was not a celebration—everyone was too tired for that—but the feeling of doom over the valley had eased.
Beramun was enthusiastically greeted by all. Even Lyopi, not overly fond of the nomad girl, honored her courage and perseverance. When Beramun told them Karada’s band had met the three children from Yala-tene and that the children were safely hidden with the non-combatants outside the Valley of the Falls, the villagers gained hope that the rest of their young might have made it as well.
Amero, Lyopi, and the village elders left the safety of the wall for the first time in many days and went to Karada’s camp. There they met Bahco and renewed their acquaintance with Pakito and Samtu, both of whom Amero had known from his sister’s last visit to Yala-tene a dozen years before. The villagers were presented to Balif, who greeted the Arkuden and his people with great courtesy.
Unlike his hard-riding captors, Balif had taken the time to wash after the day’s fighting. Dressed in a sky-blue robe and girded by a cloth-of-gold belt, he looked every bit the elf lord.
“How is it you’re here fighting alongside my sister?” Amero asked.
“It’s the fault of the moon,” was Balif’s reply.
Conversation around the great campfire died. “Moon?” asked Lyopi.
“Just so. I was on a hunting expedition north of the Thon-Tanjan during the dark of the white moon, and the catch was meager. My hunt master recommended we return to Silvanost and try our luck later, but I knew the moon would return soon and the hunting would improve. I insisted upon staying on the plain a few days longer.” He squared his angular shoulders and tried not to look irritated. “Two nights later we were taken unawares by Karada’s band.”
“You might as well blame Beramun as the moon,” Karada said, sipping cider. “It was she who brought us west.”
Sitting in the circle behind Karada, Beramun blushed as all eyes turned to her.
Balif explained that the ogre threat had persuaded him to offer his sword to Karada’s cause.
Amero gripped his sister’s hand and smiled. “I always believed you were alive,” he said. “I knew you would come.”
“Yes, he only feared you’d arrive after the village was razed,” Lyopi said dryly.
Amero protested amid general laughter. While he was distracted, Karada freed her hand from his and moved away, ostensibly to refill her cup.
Talk continued, with confessions of faith balanced against admissions of doubt. The conversation remained light until Pakito said, “Tomorrow, will the raiders really stand and fight?”
The camp grew quiet. Burning wood hissed and popped in the fire.
“They will, and so will the ogres,” Karada said.
“How many ogres are there?” asked Bahco.
“You saw them all today,” Hekani said. “About two dozen are still breathing. There were thirty, once.” Hekani smiled grimly. “We took care of a few already.”
“Beating them will take new tactics,” mused Karada. “Maybe new weapons...”
“Filthy monsters,” Samtu muttered. More loudly, she said, “These raiders are outnumbered. If they were wise, they’d ride out tonight and leave the ogres to fend for themselves!”
“You can’t count out the raiders,” said Beramun. “Zannian has spent his entire life preparing to conquer the plains. It’s all his mother and the green dragon have trained him for. He won’t give up that dream. As long as Zannian lives, there will be no peace on the western plain.” Since she knew the raiders better than anyone, her words carried weight.
In the silence that followed her harsh pronouncement, Amero yawned widely. Apologizing, he said, “I think it’s time for rest now. I know we villagers will sleep easier tonight.” Lyopi was already asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. He shook her gently awake.
Lyopi and the elders went ahead while Amero remained to thank their saviors again. He clasped Balif’s hard, slender hand. The elf’s face reminded him of painted pottery—attractive, yet cool and stiff. Amero could not fathom what lay beneath.
When he stood before Pakito, the genial giant disdained the hand he offered and instead grabbed the Arkuden by both shoulders and gave him a hearty shake. Once Amero regained his balance, Samtu kissed his bearded cheek, then departed with her towering mate.
Amero found himself facing Beramun. In the firelight, the black-haired girl was as achingly beautiful as ever—more so, he decided. Life with Karada seemed to agree with her. When she first stumbled into the Valley of the Falls, she’d looked gaunt and hunted. Now she had fleshed out and acquired the tan worn by all Karada’s nomads.
“How can I thank you?” he said, not daring to touch her. “You saved everything.”
“You’ve thanked everyone enough,” she joked. “And I was but one of many. The spirits were with me, and I lived to find Karada.”
“Tomorrow should see the end of it.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, smiled briefly, and left.
Last to receive his good-night was his sister. She stood a few steps away, looking awkward, almost shy. Amero knew of the curse she lived with, but he could not treat her like a stranger. He held out his arms. She didn’t move, so he stepped forward and embraced her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He could feel it, so he drew back. “I’m sorry,” he said for her ears alone. “I don’t mean to distress you.”
She only shook her head, so he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Amero tried to leave, but he found he couldn’t. Karada was gripping the front of his shirt in her clenched fists. She looked at her hands in surprise, as though they belonged to someone else, and released him.
“Watch yourself tomorrow,” Amero said, then his gaze slid past her. “It’s no victory if I lose you.”
The campfire was at his back, and its light reflected off a pale face in the shadows behind his sister. Karada had told him how she’d released Mara from Silvanesti bondage. He’d greeted the girl with relief, surprised and pleased to know she hadn’t died as the villagers had thought—on an ill-fated journey to find spirit stones out on the plains. Mara hadn’t returned his good feelings but had regarded him with an odd wariness.