The killing blow never landed. When next he opened his eyes, he saw Harak standing over him, grinning. The axe head was embedded in the ground, just brushing his left ear.
“The others left you,” Harak told him. “Better ran if you want to catch them!”
Harak laughed as the raider scrambled to his feet and ran.
The leading edge of the wind reached the woodcutting camp. It was hot, from out of the north, and dry as a lizard’s dream. Harak’s prediction was coming true, and his good humor vanished.
Nomads and villagers, recovered from their beatings, were rising to their feet. Everyone clustered around Bahco, sheltering in the lee of an oak.
“Where are Tanik and Harto?” Bahco asked.
“Two of your men rode off,” Harak said, raising his voice above the wind. “I guess they went for help.”
Angry the raiders had escaped, some of the nomads began to shove Harak and upbraid him.
“Leave him,” Bahco said sharply. “This man saved me and maybe all the rest of you.” He told them how Harak had fought off the men coming to kill him, then frightened the rest away by reminding them Karada would be coming to avenge their rebellion.
“Why’d you stay behind?” Hekani asked.
“I’ve seen what Karada does to her enemies. I’d rather be her prisoner.”
Hekani laughed, but the nomads openly sneered. They had more respect for the escaped raiders, who had fought for their freedom, than for this slippery character.
The hot wind coursed steadily, not gusting like a normal breeze. Sheltered only slightly from the desiccating air, the men grew parched. Though Harak warned them not to venture forth, one by one they slipped down the hill to the river to drink their fill. Fighting back through the Ember Wind, they returned drier than if they’d stayed put.
Soil once rain-soaked now dried to powder and rose into the air as dust. Coughing, the men huddled together behind the tree, flying grit stinging their exposed flesh.
After an interminable time, a column of riders came thundering out of the pass. At their head was Karada, face wrapped in doeskin against the vicious wind. Bahco went to greet her. He explained what had happened, and how Harak had fought to save their lives, yet called himself a coward to explain why he didn’t flee with his raider comrades.
Karada’s eyes narrowed. “Watch him closely. I don’t trust clever men.”
The horseless nomads and villagers doubled up with Karada’s riders. She gave the order to return to their camp. The horsemen faced about and started back up the pass. Soon, only she and Harak, still on foot, remained. She looked down at him from her tall horse.
“Why didn’t you escape?”
“It’s not my time yet to go,” he said. “Aren’t you going to bring them back? They’re flouting your authority.”
“You mistake me for Zannian. I don’t command, I lead. My band follows me out of loyalty, not fear.” She shrugged, adding, “And if they live through the Ember Wind, perhaps they deserve to be free.”
“You know the Ember Wind?”
“There isn’t much on the plains I don’t know.”
She extended her hand. Harak took hold, and she hauled him up behind her.
“You’re strong,” he remarked, settling in close. “Don’t forget it,” she said.
He didn’t. All the way back to the valley, Harak kept his hands carefully at his sides.
The Ember Wind could not sweep directly through the Valley of the Falls, as the valley ran east-west through the higher range of mountains, but it closed in above the valley, creating a strange and strained atmosphere. The air inside the valley grew still and unnaturally humid. Overhead, clouds tore by at a reckless rate, glowing yellow by day and deep orange at sunrise and sunset. The sky appeared to be on fire, which is why the name Ember Wind had arisen.
Much wood had been gathered for the funeral pyre, though not enough for the grand mountain of flame Karada had envisaged. Logs and brush were laid in courses around the mound where Sthenn lay buried. The dead slain in battle were brought out by the remaining captive raiders. Wrapped in hides or shrouds of birch bark, the bodies were put on each course of kindling. No distinction was made between raider, nomad, or villager. Some of the Yala-tene elders objected to this, but Karada silenced them, saying, “Anyone who died fighting is a warrior. Causes mean nothing to corpses—they’re all in the land of the dead now.”
Two days after the Ember Wind’s arrival, the pyre was nearly complete and a method to ignite it needed to be found. There wasn’t any oil left in Yala-tene to soak the timbers, and the freshly cut wood wouldn’t be easy to light, especially in the unnaturally humid air. While the preparations continued, the elders sought out Amero. They found him on the village wall with Lyopi, Balif, and several elves. Lyopi suggested Duranix, and Amero agreed to ask the dragon.
The Arkuden walked to the top of the ramp leading down into the village. Lyopi, the elders, and the elves stayed back, watching him. Amero folded his arms and closed his eyes.
Duranix. Duranix, can you hear me? He repeated his call three times before the dragon answered.
I can always hear you, was the testy reply.
We need your help. We need to burn the bodies of those who died in the battle, only we don’t have the means to make so great afire. Would you help?
I will if you’ll stop pestering me.
Amero backed up a step, taken aback by the dragon’s harsh tone. He thought, It will mean a lot to everyone. We must do this, or face plague and wandering spirits.
Very well.
“He’s coming,” Amero said quietly.
A long interval passed, so long that Amero felt his face redden.
Finally the thundering falls burst apart as the powerful bronze body punched through to open air. Duranix spread his great wings. The elders let out a concerted gasp. Though they had known Duranix a long time, he’d not been seen much recently. Duranix had grown enormously during his time away as a result of being infused with wild spirit power by Tiphan, the ill-fated leader of the Sensarku. The bronze dragon had been poisoned by Sthenn, his limbs rotting away, when the misguided young villager released the power he barely understood to heal Duranix. Heal him it did—and accelerated his growth by almost a hundred years.
The villagers were filled with awe, but the Silvanesti were no less impressed, though they tried harder to conceal their amazement. Duranix flew toward them, swelling rapidly in size. Repair work in the streets of Yala-tene came to a halt as the shadow of the dragon fell across the town. Nomads and ex-raiders placing the last bodies on the timber terraces of the funeral pyre paused and looked up when the great beast hove into view. As the dragon drew closer, they could see that the injuries he’d sustained in his battle with Sthenn were healing well, and his left eye was no longer swollen shut.
The remaining raiders were stricken with fear. Some of them fell to the ground, terrified Duranix might be as capricious and vindictive as their former master. They had often seen their master in his hideous disguise as Greengall or in his natural, decrepit form. But no face the ancient green dragon ever presented could match the power and majesty of Duranix in his prime.
Duranix paid no heed to any of them. He landed on the pile of masonry rubble left by his collision with the town wall. The funeral pyre was complete, and Duranix ordered everyone back.
He opened his wings and vaulted into the air. It was late afternoon, and the weird orange sky glow reflected red and gold from his bronze hide as he climbed almost vertically. Golden fire trailed from the tips of his wings and his homed head, making a shimmering path many paces long in his wake. People below exclaimed in wonder, and even the elves could not hide their astonishment.
“Is he always so flamboyant?” asked Balif, coming up to Amero’s side.
“No,” Amero said, gawking along with everyone else. “He usually draws lightning from the clouds. I don’t know where this new yellow flame comes from.”
The dragon reached the underbelly of the scurrying clouds and hovered. Silent orange fire rippled up and down his wings, flying off the tips in streams of bright fiery balls. Abruptly Duranix tipped to one side and plunged down, his jaw dropped open, and golden fire burst forth.
The mound trembled, then erupted into flame. Duranix held his mouth agape for some time, playing a stream of fire to and fro across the heap of logs and kindling. When he finally snapped his jaws shut, the pyre was blazing from end to end.
No one cheered, wept, or made any sound at all. A thousand pairs of eyes—villager, nomad, raider, and elf—stared at the mountain of fire billowing up from the flat valley floor. Even after Duranix landed on the west side of the pyre, brilliant orange lightning continued to flicker down from the Ember Wind clouds, striking the funeral pyre time and again.
Against the low roar of the flames, a lone voice could be heard singing.