Paul Thompson - Sister of the Sword

“I hope never to know,” Tepa murmured. He rested his forehead in the palm of one hand and sighed deeply. His own son, Udi, had been one of those sent out with Beramun several weeks ago to find the Arkuden’s sister. The raiders had caught Udi, and his dying body had been displayed on stakes before the walls of Yala-tene. As yet there was no word of Beramun.

As the old man dozed, Hekani slipped around the hearth to be closer to Lyopi. He was very tall, all knees and elbows. Fate had shown him to be a formidable fighter. He’d slain two of the invading Jade Men by himself.

“What shall we do?” he asked, voice low out of deference for the sleeping man. “Our food won’t last twenty days. There’s been no sign of the last scout the Arkuden sent out. Unless the dragon returns to save us, I doubt we can hold out much longer.”

Lyopi nodded her agreement and prodded the dying fire. The fact that Beramun’s body hadn’t been exhibited by the raiders had given Lyopi hope the girl had made it through. But perhaps the girl wanderer had taken to her heels, leaving the certain death of Yala-tene behind.

The flickering flame went out, leaving only a shoal of glowing coals. “There are,” Lyopi said slowly, as though choosing her words with care, “tunnels in the mountain.”

“The storage tunnels? What of them? They’re all dead ends.”

“Two are; one isn’t. Amero found a fissure in the rock while hunting for copper ore. He had some men widen the cleft. It runs all the way to the cliff top overlooking the village. Amero had both ends concealed with slabs of rock.”

Hekani was stunned. “Why haven’t you spoken of this earlier? We can escape!”

Lyopi shook her head and said, “The passage is too narrow to allow more than one small person through at a time. It would take days for the population of Yala-tene to get out—those who would fit—and the tunnel could collapse at any time. Escape was never the plan. It was too risky even to consider, but now...” She lifted hollow eyes to his. “The children. We might get some of the children out. They could escape over several nights, scatter in the mountains. It will be dangerous, but at least something of Yala-tene might survive.”

Hekani rocked back on his hands. “I say, fight it out! You saw them out there yesterday—there aren’t so many left! We can beat them!”

“Moonmeet is in two days. They claim they’ll have a way to tear down our wall.”

“They’re bluffing! They can’t overcome our wall. All they can do is threaten and scare us.”

“I am scared,” Lyopi said softly. “How many do we have left who can fight?”

Hekani thought a moment, then answered, “Able-bodied men and women—one hundred and sixteen. Old folks and children who can help—one hundred forty and nine. Hurt or sick ones who can’t fight at all—two hundred and eighty-eight.”

“And how many have died?”

He turned away from her intense gaze. “I don’t know. I’ve only been war chief since the night of the Jade Men.”

Lyopi rose suddenly. She draped a horsehair blanket around the sleeping Tepa. Hekani took his leave, throwing on his cloak and retrieving his spear.

“Be strong, Lyopi.” he said proudly “We’re not lost yet!”

He strode away in the rain. Once he was gone, Lyopi discovered a well of tears she had not yet exhausted. She leaned her head against the door and wept. The sound of her crying was lost in the rush of rain down the dark, empty street.

“This had better not be a jest.”

Zannian sat on his horse, flanked by Hoten and four other captains of his hand. To his right, Nacris reclined in her chair, hands folded together and pressed against her lips. The morning sun was behind the group, filling the mountain pass with long shadows and tinting the peaks crimson.

A scout had returned earlier that morning with an odd report: In the lower end of the pass leading out of the Valley of the Falls, he’d encountered a lone rider. The rider identified himself as Harak, son of Nebu, but would not approach. When the scout tried to approach him, the supposed Harak had told him to come no closer but to bring Zannian and Nacris at once.

Irritated by the lofty command, the scout started to argue, but movement on the slope behind Harak caught his eye. Something stirred, sending a shower of pebbles down the mountainside. The scout’s horse pranced amidst the cascade of stones.

Harak cast a glance at the slopes behind him and snapped, “I’ve been on a mission for our chief! Go now and do what I tell you! Bring Zan and Nacris here!”

The scout went.

He found Zannian in a black mood. Five raiders had deserted the night before, while patrolling the passes east of Yala-tene. In the past three days, more than twenty men had abandoned the siege.

The scout’s report caused the raider chiefs hazel eyes to narrow suspiciously. “Are you sure it was Harak? What’s he playing at? Why didn’t he just ride in?”

Though Zannian had accepted the necessity of Nacris’s plan to send for the ogres, most of the hand knew nothing about it.

Nacris gave her son a significant look and, glancing at the men in earshot, said, “Harak doesn’t know what’s happened since he’s been gone. He’s a cautious, clever fellow, that one.”

“Yes,” Zannian muttered, “too clever.”

Without explanation, he rounded up two dozen raiders and led them to the western pass. Most he left at the mouth of the ravine, as only he, Nacris, Hoten, and a handful of favored captains continued deeper into the pass.

Hoten hadn’t been nearby when the scout made his report, but the elder raider was observant. When they had left the other warriors behind, he said quietly, “Harak’s back, isn’t he?”

“Seems to be,” Zannian replied.

“Do the men know what’s coming?”

A sharp look. “What difference does that make?”

Hoten reined to a stop. “It makes all the difference, Zan! We’re the Raiders of Almurk. We follow the Master and do his will, but we are still men!”

Zannian swung his horse to one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Are you questioning my command?” he asked calmly.

Hoten stared at his leader, jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.

Four other captains, following behind, caught up to them and stopped, uncertain what was happening. When Nacris arrived in the next moment, she sized up the situation immediately.

“You two going to fight?” she asked.

“And if we did?” Hoten asked his mate through clenched teeth. “Who would you favor?”

“You’re both too important to this band to waste your lives fighting each other. Open your eyes! Can’t you see victory before us? It’s just down this pass, a league or so away. Do you really want to kill each other now, when the spoils of success are nearly in your hands?”

Zannian relaxed as she spoke. “You’re my mother’s mate, Hoten. Killing you wouldn’t be respectful.” Tapping his heels to his gray stallion’s flanks, the chief moved on.

Hoten glared from Zannian to Nacris and back for the space of a few heartbeats. Then he too started his horse moving again. When he caught up to his chief, he said in a low voice, “This is wrong, Zan, and we’ll all suffer for it.”

Zannian’s reply was loud and confident. “As the Master says, the only wrong in this world is failure. I won’t fail.”

They arrived at the spot the scout had indicated, but there was no sign of Harak. They waited. The morning sun pushed higher and higher, warming the shade-less canyon. To shift Zannian’s mind from his growing impatience, Nacris spun out old stories about her youth, her days with Karada, and her first mate, Sessan. The air grew hotter, and biting flies beset both horses and men.