Lyopi lifted the steaming kettle from the coals and set a tall beaker of red wine into the hot water. “Like thatch?” she said. “Sounds scratchy.”
“It’s not,” Karada assured her. “I’ve handled it. It’s softer than doeskin and more flexible.”
Lyopi was openly doubtful. Amero smoothed over the potential argument by raising an important, if painful subject.
“What’s to be done with Nacris and Zannian?” he asked.
“I’ll deal with Nacris before I leave this valley,” Karada said firmly. “How is my business.”
“And Zannian?”
“Brother or not, I know him no more than I know that insolent Harak. Zannian has done great harm to the people of Yala-tene and elsewhere.”
“But he’s your family,” Lyopi protested. “How can you think of killing him?”
“What do you propose?” said Karada. “Shall we let him go if he promises to be a good boy?”
“He’s blind! What harm can he do?”
“Nacris is crippled, and look what evil she wrought. I know you both are sick of blood, but it’s weak and foolish to let Zannian or Nacris live. The woman’s mad. She’d do anything to harm me or Amero. Zannian was raised to think of her as his mother, so he believes as she does. He called that green monster ‘master’ and did its bidding! How many people have died for his ambition? Any man who does things like that is not my brother!”
Karada folded her arms and looked away into the dark periphery of the house. Amero gazed at the fire. Lyopi looked from one to the other, then turned her attention to the warmed wine. She filled three cups and handed them out.
Amero sipped, feeling the gentle heat pervade his limbs. The aching wound in his leg felt better.
“Nacris is lost,” he said after a long silence. “Like a mad dog, it would be a merciful thing for her to die. Since Nianki took her, she’s Nianki’s to deal with.”
Lyopi nodded her agreement. Karada said nothing.
“Zannian’s different,” Amero went on. “I don’t believe he’s completely lost to madness and evil, like Nacris. He’s young, and he is our brother. I believe we can turn him back from the path Sthenn and Nacris put him on.”
Karada drained her cup dry. “You give speeches like an elf. Speak plainly.”
“Let Zannian remain in Yala-tene. He may be blind forever. Perhaps I can find Menni somewhere, deep inside him.”
Karada put her cup down. The clay clinked loudly on the stone hearth.
“The man who obeyed a green dragon, murdered his own kind, and made an alliance with ogres deserves death,” she said. The flat certainty of her words brought a worried frown to Lyopi’s face. Karada, however, had decided to argue no further, for she added, “But if you wish it, brother, I won’t challenge you. I’ll take Nacris, and you can keep Zannian.”
The strange bargain was made. Amero felt lightened by the decision. Watching him smile and take mulled wine from Lyopi, Karada felt cold. He thought the danger was past, but as long as Nacris drew breath, Karada sensed the hag’s venom was still working.
16
The hills west of the valley echoed with the thud of axes on wood. Forty-one captive raiders had been brought to the wooded slopes to harvest trees for the great funeral pyre. The captives were accompanied by five villagers, led by Hekani, who showed the prisoners how to roll logs into the river and haul them upstream by means of long straps.
Guarding the captives were a dozen nomads, commanded by Bahco. He’d formed a harsh attitude toward the ex-raiders and kept them hard at their task all through the morning.
Just after midday, the puffs of breeze from the west ceased. It grew glaringly hot, even though the sun was blunted by a whitish haze spreading from horizon to horizon. Work slowed as captives and captors alike wilted in the heat.
Hekani returned from the pass with the men who’d taken in the last load of logs. He mopped his brow and studied the sullen, lifeless sky.
“Something’s going to happen,” he said to Bahco, shaking his head. “The air is heavy, but it doesn’t feel like rain.”
From their vantage point, they could see the beginning of the open plain. It was high summer, and the savanna was hip-deep in grass, a great, rippling sea of green. Even the lightest zephyr would start the grass nodding, but at this moment, not a stem was bent.
The raiders sensed the strangeness, too. Harak and five others had been lopping branches off felled trees with blunt stone axes. They halted and stood staring at the sky and hills.
“This isn’t good,” said one raider. “It’s like the Master was here again.
“Don’t be stupid, Muwa,” Harak replied. “Sthenn’s dead and buried. There’s no need to dig him up to explain the weather.”
“Then tell us your explanation, wise one!” taunted Muwa.
“I saw this kind of sky before—nine years ago, up north. An Ember Wind is coming.”
The captive raiders exchanged looks of disbelief. “That’s only a fable!” Muwa declared.
“I’m telling you, I went through it once when I was a boy. The wind blew for six days, and ten people in my clan died. It blows hot and dry and brings pestilence sometimes, and other times, madness.” Harak smiled. “Which would you boys prefer?”
“I prefer a change of scenery!” exclaimed Muwa. “We won’t wait for dark. Who’s with me?”
A pair of nomads rode up. “Why have you stopped working?” one demanded.
“They’re afraid of the Ember Wind,” said Harak. He wove his fingers together and cracked all his knuckles with a single flex.
“Get back to work!”
Muwa held up his axe threateningly. “I’m a free plainsman, you can’t force me to work like a slave!”
“Seems I heard those same words from Zannian’s slaves,” said Harak dryly.
“Shut your mouth!” Muwa bellowed and charged at him, swinging the axe. The nearest nomad tried to interpose his horse between the men, but before he could do so, two raiders jumped from the log at him. In moments, the second rider found himself beset by angry raiders. They grabbed his ankles and dragged him to the ground.
Harak dodged Muwa’s clumsy attack. The axe hit the elm’s trunk and stuck there. Bracing his hands behind himself on the felled tree, the lanky raider kicked out, his feet finding the center of Muwa’s chest. The man went flying, and Harak tossed the axe away.
The rebellion spread quickly. All over the hillside, ex-raiders attacked their guards. Isolated and outnumbered, the nomads were overthrown and subdued. Shouting wildly, raiders claimed the nomads’ horses. They galloped away, often two men on one animal, ignoring the pleas of their comrades on foot.
The last pair of nomads still mounted turned tail and rode back up the pass. Raiders jeered and threw stones after them.
Harak put two fingers in his teeth and whistled loudly. The raiders’ chatter died.
“They’re going to fetch Karada,” Harak announced. “Are you going to wait here for her or make good your escape? Don’t think about it too long, friends.”
Back on his feet, Muwa said, “Let’s go, men! Scatter!” Harak did not move. He kept his place astride the elm tree trunk.
“Harak! Aren’t you coming?” asked a raider breathlessly.
“No,” he replied.
Nearby, a nomad groaned and pushed himself up on his hands. It was Bahco, who’d been knocked senseless and his horse taken.
“That one’s still breathing,” Muwa said. “Somebody finish him off!”
Two men moved to carry out Muwa’s suggestion. Harak rolled off the log to intercept them. The nearest raider was unarmed, and Harak easily threw him to the ground. The other man had a lopping axe, which he swung clumsily. Harak spun away, grabbing the axe handle behind its heavy stone head. He thrust out a foot and tripped his opponent. The raider fell and rolled over in time to see the blunt axe head coming straight down at his face. He screamed and clenched his eyes shut.