Amero’s brow knotted. “What decision?”
“I don’t know whether I shall stay here any longer.”
If Duranix had used his fear-inducing breath on Amero, he couldn’t have shocked him more. Choking, Amero asked his mighty friend what he meant.
“I’ve flown around the world,” Duranix said, lifting his horned head to the stars. “I’ve seen places and things no creature of this land, dragon or human, has ever seen before. Chasing Sthenn, I could not stop to study these distant countries. Now that he’s dead and the danger to Yala-tene defeated, I no longer feel at home in the Valley of the Falls.”
Duranix switched his steadfast gaze from the sky to the stone-walled village behind him. “My home is polluted,” he said flatly. “One human was stimulating. A nest of five hundred humans was barely tolerable, but this—hundreds of humans, horses, elves, ogres...” He flexed his battered claws. “I shall rest, then decide.”
Amero watched helplessly as Duranix spread his wings and flew to the mouth of his cave. The words, the arguments that came so easily to him a hundred different times a day, refused to form in his throat or his mind. How could Yala-tene continue without Duranix? How could he?
In a spray of phosphorescent foam, the bronze dragon pierced the rumbling waterfall and vanished into his lair.
15
When next the gang of former raiders went out to the crater made by the falling dragons, they found it gone—which is to say, completely filled in. In fact, it was mounded with earth to the height of a horse’s back. The ex-raiders leaned on their shovels and pondered this while their nomad guards muttered among themselves about spirit power.
Karada was sent for and arrived a short time later with Pakito, Samtu, and Bahco.
“You’ve been busy,” Pakito remarked to the prisoners. “Did you work all night?”
“Don’t be daft,” said his mate. “Two hundred men working all night couldn’t pile up this much dirt. What does it mean, Karada?”
Their chief rode slowly around the new mound, looking for clues to its formation. Her comrades and the defeated raiders trailed behind her. The ground around the pile was well tracked with the raiders’ footprints and the marks of the nomads’ horses but no other prints.
Two-thirds of the way around the mound, she stopped. “Do you smell that?” she asked.
Fetid but faint came the smell of decay from the heap of dirt.
“I know that stink.”
The speaker was the same tall, impertinent raider from yesterday. Harak, was it? He was leaning on his shovel behind the mounted nomads. When Karada turned to him, he gave her an impudent grin.
“What is it then?” she snapped.
“The green dragon’s den in Almurk smelled like this.”
Karada told Bahco and Pakito to ride to the west end of the valley to see whether Duranix and the green dragon were still there. The two men galloped off.
“Why bother?” Harak said. “Sthenn’s in that hole, moldering away.”
“Shut up, raider.”
They waited in silence until Pakito and Bahco returned. Both dragons were gone, Pakito reported. Duranix must have buried Sthenn’s body in the pit.
Since the prisoners’ task had been done for them, Karada ordered their shovels be exchanged for axes. They would cut wood—a great deal of wood—to construct a funeral pyre. Not only for villager dead, she intended it for Ungrah-de as well. She ordered it built here, next to Sthenn’s burial mound, and square, ten paces to a side.
“It will take many days to cut that much wood,” Pakito noted.
Karada reined her fractious mount about and said, “You have two days. Corpses can’t lie around forever; we’ll have disease.”
She rode off, leaving the giant in charge of the prisoners. Sullenly, the captive raiders marched back to camp to get stone axes. On the way, two of Zannian’s former lieutenants sidled up to Harak.
“Listen,” one hissed. “To cut that much wood, they’ll have to take us into the mountains.”
“Hmm,” Harak responded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“We can escape!”
The raider on Harak’s right, a runty bully named Muwa, said, “A lot of our men have already gone away! Why should we stay here and work like slaves? Let’s go!”
Harak glanced back over his shoulder at Samtu, riding nearby. “You won’t get half a league,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “These people know the mountains, we don’t. They’ll be on your backs like hungry yevi.”
“So we’ll kill them and take their horses! Are you afraid, Harak? What would Zan say?”
“Zannian’s in Karada’s hands. He put us here, so I don’t much care what he has to say about anything.” Harak spat on the trampled grass. “I don’t intend to live out my life as a slave, but I do plan to live longer than tomorrow.”
Scowling, the two raiders moved away. Harak saw them whispering to the other men, pouring their bitter poison into more eager ears. Fools, he thought. They still don’t know who they’re dealing with! Karada’s people could hunt them down and kill them without breaking a sweat.
Nevertheless, he said nothing to the nomads about his fellow prisoners’ plots. He lived by a simple code: Eat when you can, sleep when you need, and let those with power do as they will. When they clashed and fell, it was Harak who would survive, Harak who would thrive.
He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the command to halt. He continued on, not noticing the quick clatter of hooves behind him. Someone dealt him a stunning whack across the shoulders, and he pitched facedown on the ground.
“Stop that!”
“The fool didn’t do as he was told —”
“That’s no reason to strike him! Will you be like the raiders and abuse your captives?”
Struggling to regain his wind, Harak rolled over. A slender, strong arm braced him as he tried to sit up. Towering over him was the dark-skinned nomad with one arm in a sling: Bahco. He held his spear reversed, and it was obvious he’d hit Harak with the shaft. More intriguing was who had helped him. It was the beautiful black-haired girl, Beramun.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Aye, soon as my vision straightens,” he mumbled. In fact he could see just fine and had to force himself not to stare at her.
She helped him get to his feet, then rounded on Bahco. “I’ll speak to Karada about this!” she said. “It’s one thing to fight warrior to warrior, but you can’t beat your captives just because they’re slow or disobedient!”
“Don’t be a fool, girl,” replied Bahco sharply. “Any one of these men would cut your throat if they thought they’d get away with it.”
“That was Sthenn’s teaching. We must show them a better way,” she insisted.
Bahco shook his head at her foolishness and resumed herding the ex-raiders to their pen.
Beramun stood staring after Bahco, a frown on her face, until Harak spoke.
“Sitting high on a horse starts you thinking those on foot are just another kind of ox, to be goaded and beaten,” he said.
She turned her thoughtful gaze on him, but he pretended not to notice. Taking a step forward, he feigned pain, and Beramun rushed to his side to bolster him. She fit neatly under his arm. Harak settled his weight against her, and she easily bore up under the burden.
A fine girl and well made, he thought. Strong, too—in more ways than one.
“Is that better?” she said.
“Better.” Her eyes were like beads of jet, swept by long, soft lashes as black as her hair.
He must have looked too long or too hard, for Beramun grew nervous and slipped out of his grasp.
“You!” Pakito’s powerful voice carried all the way from the prisoners’ pen. “Tall one with the fast mouth! If you’re through pawing the girl, get over here!”
Beramun blushed and hurried away. Harak smiled slightly and started toward the towering nomad. He affected a stoop, exaggerating the effect of Bahco’s blow.