The Arkuden shook his head, banishing those thoughts for now. To those around him, he said, “This is Zannian. He is my brother, mine and my sister Nianki’s.”
14
The days that followed were hard. Peace was restored, but it was a peace of exhaustion and pain. Much of the valley was wrecked or ruined, and many people were dead or severely injured.
Duranix stayed in the west end of the valley, keeping his somber vigil. Though he’d told Amero not to bother, the headman of Yala-tene sent several oxen to his great friend, who had to be famished after his long journey.
The raider band was utterly destroyed. When Zannian was finally taken, most of his remaining men rode out of the valley, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the vengeance they imagined awaited them now that the bronze dragon was back. A few others lingered in the mountains, curious to see how matters were resolved. Karada sent patrols to flush them out of the passes. Once they had been dealt with, all that remained were the raiders who had surrendered and those, like Zannian, who were sorely hurt.
Amero adamantly refused his sister’s suggestion that all captured raiders be put to death. He was heartily sick of bloodshed and wanted no more of it in the Valley of the Falls. Instead, he put the healthiest of the former raiders to work repairing the damage they’d done. Able-bodied men were set filling in the pits and ditches, rebuilding houses in the village, and restoring the despoiled orchards.
On a bright, sultry afternoon, four days after the dragons returned and ended the battle, a crew of ex-raiders filling the huge crater where the dragons had fallen found the answer to a great puzzle.
Word of their strange find spread quickly, and Amero, Karada, Balif, and Beramun hurried to the yawning pit. Karada was once more astride her favorite wheat-colored horse.
The pit was more than thirty paces wide and at least eight deep. A gang of ex-raiders, stripped to the waist in the heat, were standing around the crater rim, gazing down in the hole. Beramun recognized one tall fellow with dark brown hair who leaned on his shovel at the edge of the pit. It was Harak, to whom she had given her leggings.
Near the bottom of the pit a gray, oblong object lay embedded in the black mud. It looked like a block of limestone, but Harak, who’d made the discovery, said the so-called stone was in fact the top of Ungrah-de’s head. The combined weight of two dragons had driven him into the ground like a tent peg. Six other ogres had been found crushed in the pit, but their chief wasn’t discovered until the level of rainwater filling the hole had lowered.
Though the rest were content to take Harak’s word that this was in fact Ungrah-de, Karada wanted proof. She unbuckled her sword and handed it to Balif.
“Is this a formal surrender?” asked the elf.
Amero chuckled, but his sister did not. She descended into the pit. Her feet sank into the soft sides of the crater, and by the time she reached the bottom, she was muddy to her knees. Unperturbed, Karada bent down and probed the mud around Ungrah’s head.
She found the proof she sought in the form of a great stone axe. It was buried alongside the ogre, and it took her some time to work it free. Wiping away the thick mud that coated it, the head was revealed to be a massive chunk of grayish agate shot through with veins of lapis lazuli.
“It’s Ungrah’s all right.” Karada grunted, holding up the weighty weapon. “Send some men down to dig him out.”
“Why bother?” Harak asked, shrugging. “Why not just fill in the hole?”
Karada glared at the raider. “He was a mighty warrior. He deserves a warrior’s pyre.”
Harak’s wasn’t the only skeptical expression. Amero seemed about to comment, but the sight of his sister’s tired, drawn face halted him.
She climbed out, dragging the axe with her. When no one moved to carry out her wishes, she glowered at the idle prisoners.
“Well, dig him out!” she barked. Jerking her head at Harak and another fellow, she added, “You two—go! Bring his body out.”
With an impertinent shrug, Harak picked up his shovel and started down after the other fellow.
Karada sighed deeply, and Amero said, “You’re worn out. Why don’t you go to the lake and wash up?”
She nodded wordlessly. She asked Beramun to take her sword to her tent and to have someone carry the heavy, dirty axe there as well. Then, mounting her horse, she left.
Despite Karada’s instructions to get help, Beramun decided to carry Ungrah’s axe back herself. She had dragged it only a few paces, however, before Amero picked up the blade end, knees buckling from the weight, and helped her carry it.
Balif stayed at the crater to examine the dead ogres. He’d never encountered the creatures before, and he was eager to study their weapons and physique.
Amero and Beramun walked parallel, carrying Ungrah’s massive weapon between them. Normally hip-deep in grass and flowers by this time of year, the valley floor had been trampled flat by masses of horses and men. The customary smell of growing things was overpowered by the sweet-sour aroma of decay and death. Ahead, hundreds of round tents covered the center of the valley, sides tied up to admit cooling air. Though the nomads’ camp had been flattened by Sthenn during Es battle with Duranix, the hide tents were easy to repair and re-pitch.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Beramun said, sweat dripping from her brow. Though shared, their burden was considerable. “How long has it been?”
“From the day you arrived in the valley to today,” Amero replied, “four turnings of the white moon—one hundred twelve days.” Shaking his head, he added, “Such a waste! Think of all the lives cut short! All the crops not planted, animals not tended, lost days of work in the foundry—and for what?”
“So we could live free,” she said, a little surprised. “Wasn’t that why you were fighting?”
“Sometimes I forget. By the end, we were fighting just to stay alive.”
When they reached the outer tents in the nomad camp, their strange cargo attracted a limping, bandaged crowd. Injured nomads had remained in camp while others went to search for their children and old folks, hiding out in the eastern foothills. Others had been sent by Karada to scour the highlands south and east for the children of Yala-tene who had been sent out through the secret tunnel when it looked like the village would fall to Zannian.
Beramun and Amero located Karada’s tent. They edged through the entry flaps and hauled the monstrous weapon into the dark enclosure.
After they deposited the axe by the wall near the entrance, Beramun went into the shadowed depths of the tent to find water so they could wash up. Not only was Ungrah’s weapon muddy from being buried, it was smeared with gore from the furious battle.
Amero waited by the entrance. It appeared the large tent served as a storehouse as well as his sister’s dwelling. He couldn’t see very far inside, and he didn’t want to stumble around the dark interior, tripping over casks, sacks, and fragile amphorae.
Ghost-like, Beramun appeared before him. She held an obviously weighty leather bucket in front of her.
“Hold out your hands.”
He did so, and she doused them. When his hands were clean, they switched places so she could wash her own.
While she scrubbed and sluiced away the mud, Amero spoke, his voice low and serious. “Beramun, I want to tell you something.” She looked up quickly, eyes wide and worried. He shook his head, adding, “It’s not what you think. A lot’s happened since you left Yala-tene. I’ve learned many things since then. Important things. I learned... I belong with Lyopi.”
Beramun’s smile was like the sun flashing through dark clouds. Her hand gripped his. “That’s good,” she said gently. “I’m glad you found out. I knew it all along.”
When they were back outside, Amero asked, “Will you stay with us in the valley or join Karada’s band? I know she’ll take you in if you ask.”