Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

Karada, cinching her sword belt tightly around her waist, ordered Beramun and ten scouts to dismount and search westward on foot for fresh signs. She and the remaining mounted scouts strung their bows and followed at a distance.

Time passed. The sun climbed to its zenith then began its journey down to the west. Beramun walked slowly, constantly scanning the horizon for movement. Her thoughts wandered back to Yala-tene.

How many days had it been since she’d left—twelve, fourteen? Did the walls still stand? Did Karada’s kindly brother Amero still lead the village? Or had he and the rest already fallen to the raiders, never knowing she had reached her goal?

Unconscious of the gesture, Beramun rested her hand against a spot high on her chest. Beneath her fingers was the green mark placed there by Sthenn—a smooth, iridescent triangle, a bit larger than a human thumbprint. The mark had nearly been her undoing when she first arrived in Yala-tene. She had no memory of receiving it, but Duranix said it stamped her as Sthenn’s property and had urged her immediate death. Amero had defended her against his powerful friend. Had her long absence changed Amero’s mind? Perhaps the people of Yala-tene now believed her to be doing the evil dragon’s work.

Beramun kept the mark hidden from Karada and her people. She couldn’t bear the thought that the same hatred and loathing she’d seen in the bronze dragon’s eyes might bloom in Karada’s clear hazel gaze.

The nomad on her immediate right, a dark-skinned fellow named Bahco, suddenly dropped to one knee. All along the line the scouts followed suit. With the pronounced heat-shimmer in the air, Beramun and the others would be invisible behind tall grass so long as they remained still.

She glanced at Bahco. His ebony skin was sweat-sheened, like her own. By following the line of his gaze, she saw dark figures moving against the bright horizon. The objects grew larger as she watched. They were closing. She and the other scouts dropped to their stomachs. Bahco crawled back to warn Karada.

Raising her head slightly, Beramun could make out six figures on horseback and, between them, four people walking on foot. Each pair of walkers had a long pole on their shoulders. A butchered animal carcass swayed from each pole.

Beramun sighed and relaxed a little. They were probably not Zannian’s men. Such a hunting party would likely not be scouting for a force of raiders.

They were approaching from the northwest, heading southeast, which would bring them obliquely across Beramun’s hiding place from right to left. As they drew nearer, sunlight flashed off the metal they wore, and Beramun fretted anew. Hunters avoided wearing metal, as the glare and clatter of it scared away game. Who were these people?

Someone came sliding through grass behind her. A dry, callused hand touched her forearm. She turned and saw the nomad chieftain crouched behind her.

Karada held a finger to her lips. Her bow was in her other hand. Beramun looked a question at her, but Karada’s face was like a mask of seasoned wood. The marks on her face and neck, which had given her the name “Scarred One,” stood out whitely against her tan.

Faintly, the strangers’ voices could be heard. One of them laughed. The odor of freshly killed game was strong now. Beramun didn’t dare lift her head higher for a better view. Instead, she slowly parted the grass stems in front of her, trying to peer through the summer growth.

Her caution was for naught. Karada suddenly rose to her knees and in one swift motion, nocked an arrow and loosed it. Beramun heard the flint-tipped shaft strike flesh; the sound was unmistakable.

Shouts erupted, and the riders urged their horses to a gallop even as Beramun wondered why Karada had given them away by attacking. All around her, the nomads rose from hiding places and picked off the mounted strangers. It was over in a few heartbeats, all six riders slain.

“Stand up, Beramun, and see who we’ve found.”

The nomad chieftain bent over the one she’d shot, turning his lifeless face to the sun and pulling off his helmet. A shock of pale hair was revealed—and sharply pointed ears.

“Elves,” Beramun breathed. “How did you know, Karada?”

The four bearers on foot had thrown down the deer carcasses they carried and stood in a huddle. They were elves too, dark-haired and more sunburned than their mounted comrades. When they heard the name of their captor, they fell to their knees in the trampled grass.

“Spare us, terrible Karada!” one cried. “We are not soldiers. We bear no arms!”

“You’re elves,” she replied coldly. “Why should I spare any of you?”

“We’re poor folk from the south woods,” said another, “hired to work for the great lord. Spare our lives, great chieftain! We will leave your land and never return!”

“What lord?” Karada asked. “Who leads you?”

“Lord Balif.”

Bahco, leaning on his bow, was startled. “Out here? Why would the commander of Silvanos’s host stray so far from home?”

“A hunting expedition, sir. Lord Balif delights in the hunt.”

“Don’t I know it.” Karada prodded the nearest elf with her bow. “How many soldiers are with him?”

He shook his head, exchanging a frightened look with the others. “I don’t know the number, lady.”

“More than what you see here?”

He looked around at the watching nomads, then said, “Yes. Twice this many, could be.”

Karada’s eyes shone. “So Balif goes hunting with fewer than a hundred retainers?” She punched a fist in the air. “I’ll have him! I’ll hang his head from my tent post!”

“But what about Amero and Yala-tene?” Beramun cried.

“What about them?” Karada said coolly.

Beramun was stunned by her indifference. “We have to help them. Now!”

Karada tossed her bow to Bahco and folded her tanned arms. “Amero can hold out a half day longer. I’ve waited too many years to get Balif at sword point!”

Beramun tried to argue, but the rising color in the nomad chiefs face told her it was useless. Love for her brother had given way to a dream of vengeance, a dream Karada would not deny herself.

From the bearers, they learned Balif’s camp was two leagues southeast. Karada sent riders to tell Pakito to bring the rest of the band forward. Her plan was to wait for nightfall, then surround the elves’ camp and take them while they slept. Beramun’s worry that it might be a trap was dismissed outright, reasoning the Silvanesti had no way of knowing the nomads had come so far west.

“As far as they know,” Karada said, smiling a bit, “we’re still in the foothills of Strar, where you found us. Everyone has been chased out of this region, right down to Miteera and his centaurs.” Her smile widened into a fierce grin. “Balif thinks he’s safe!”

The nomads rounded up the slain Silvanesti’s horses and prepared to join up with Pakito. Beramun was relieved when Karada ordered the captives bound rather than killed, and the woodland elves were led away by rawhide halters looped around their necks.

“I ought to burn them, as their masters tried to burn us on Mount Ibal,” Karada muttered. Her hazel eyes narrowed. “But I won’t. I’ve learned many things from the Silvanesti, but they are not my teachers in war.”

Beramun was relieved, then startled as Karada’s demeanor lightened abruptly. “I’ll have him at last! Balif will fall to me!” the nomad chief exclaimed. “It’s you, Beramun. You’re my good luck. Your coming has been a portent.”

Beramun shook her head sadly. “I did not come, I was sent.”

Unmoved, Karada turned her attention to the elves’ game. “Someone pick up that meat! Balif’s hunters went to the trouble to kill those deer. The least we can do is eat them!”