Paul Thompson - Sister of the Sword

Karada regarded him wordlessly for the space of three heartbeats, then she exploded into action. She drew her sword and whirled in a circle, howling and slashing at the air. Villagers scattered, and even her own people backed quickly out of reach. Balif was happy he was still on the ground.

“Is there no honor left in Karada’s band?” she cried when her frenzy abated.

Silence greeted her question, then Balif announced, “I’m going to stand.” He waited for her reaction, but she simply stood there shaking with rage and grief.

He got to his feet slowly. “I did betray your trust, Karada,” he said, “but I had reasons for doing so. My people also had misgivings about my sharing the secret of bronze-making. They wondered if I was betraying my sovereign and my race, but there was no betrayal. Beneath the giving of metal and the taking of bows is a more important principle: peace. I did it for peace.”

Exclamations of disbelief greeted this. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Balif raised his voice and continued. “By giving you knowledge of bronze, I know I’m equipping you to be even more dangerous. That’s part of my goal. By making you more powerful, I hope to dissuade my lord Silvanos and his counselors from warring on you. If we both have bronze armor and blades, the cost of battle will be too high. I sought to bring home examples of your new throwing weapon for the same purpose. If we are equal in strength, no sane mind should crave war.”

Lyopi spoke up before anyone else could do so. “I believe you, Lord Balif. I think Amero would have approved of your actions, if he had known. Peace is what he wanted more than anything else—even more,” she added, choking back tears, “than he wanted the secret of bronze.”

Everyone looked to Karada, waiting for her response. It was a long time coming, but finally the sword fell from her hand. It rang loudly when it struck the ground.

“I’m taking back all the bows,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I’ll find who traded them to you and deal with them later. Go back to your camp, Balif. Stay there until we leave. I don’t want to see you or hear of you until then.”

Balif bowed curtly to her, then to Lyopi with more feeling. He vanished into the crowd. People gave way to him slowly, but no one raised a hand against him.

The crowd seemed reluctant to leave. Lyopi begged them to go home, though, and they slowly dispersed. Samtu took Lyopi, who was swaying on her feet, inside the house, and Pakito sent Bahco to post guards around the elves, to keep things calm. Finally, only the giant and his chieftain remained.

Karada picked up a torch left behind by a villager and trudged away, not toward the north baffle and her own camp, but west. Pakito would’ve followed, but she put a stop to that.

“Go back to Samtu, Pakito. Help her comfort Lyopi. I’m going to wait for Duranix.”

Dawn was not far off when Duranix crossed the last line of mountains before the Valley of the Falls. It was the still time, when most animals were asleep. Even so, the valley felt charged as he flew into it, replete with powerful emotions.

He crossed the dull silver triangle of the lake, heading for the village. Before the walls gained distinction from the dark cliffs behind them, Duranix saw a pinpoint of light on the stony beach between the town wall and his cave. Lowering a wing, he descended toward the light, which quickly resolved itself into a burning torch.

He landed. A solitary figure stirred beside the torch.

“Karada,” he said, keeping his great voice low.

“Dragon,” she greeted him. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” He asked how it happened. Karada explained about Mara. By the time she finished the story of bronze and bows, Duranix was practically speechless with astonishment.

Finding his tongue at last, he exclaimed, “After all we’ve faced—yevi, raiders, green-painted assassins, wild humans, elves, Sthenn !—Amero is murdered by a crazy child with a bronze dagger? Over some bits of metal and bent wood sticks?” He raised one hind claw and drove it down again. The resulting blow rang through the valley. “Where is the justice in that?” he demanded.

“There is none. Good-bye, dragon.”

She turned away There was a strange note of finality in her voice that penetrated the dragon’s preoccupation.

“You aren’t leading your band out now, in the middle of the night, are you?” he asked.

“I’m not leading them anywhere.”

Without warning, Duranix promptly shrank to human form and size, becoming a muscular man with golden yellow hair, clad in a deerskin kilt. He hadn’t assumed human guise in a long time, but it seemed appropriate just now.

Long ago, during her first visit to Yala-tene, Karada had seen Duranix both take on human shape and revert to dragon form. It was a remarkable thing to witness the enormous bronze beast compress himself into a human body, no matter how unusually tall and sturdy it was.

Taking her by the shoulders, Duranix gave her a shake. “What do you mean?” he asked. Then, his golden eyes widening, he added, “You are thinking of ending your life, aren’t you? You mustn’t do that!”

She pulled away from his hands. “You don’t understand. I’m already dead. My life was tied to Amero’s by more than bonds of kinship. Do you know I felt his death wound?” She put a hand to her side. “It was here, as if I’d taken the dagger thrust myself. I felt his death like an icy wave of water closing over my head. That’s how close Amero and I were!”

“Foolish woman! I felt it too! It woke me from a deep sleep. We who loved Amero were linked to him in spirit, not by mere bonds of friendship, blood, or desire. Just because you despair doesn’t mean your life is over or that it isn’t valued by others.”

“I can’t live, knowing he’s gone,” she declared helplessly.

“And if you kill yourself, what will that accomplish? Your spirit will still not be at rest. More importantly, what will become of your people? Who will lead them?”

“Pakito... Samtu... Bahco...”

“Will they be able to stand up to the Silvanesti? Can any of them hold your band together in the face of privation and defeat, as you have?” When she didn’t answer, Duranix glared at her, eyes flashing. “So you’re not content to take your own life, you’re willing to condemn your followers to defeat and slavery, too. What a selfish end! Is that how the Scarred One will be remembered—too weak to survive one blow, one death?”

His words kindled a spark in her at last. She took a step toward him. Duranix returned her angry gaze.

“I am not weak,” she said, memories of all she had survived—the deaths of her parents, capture by Silvanesti soldiers, deprivation, loneliness—flashing through her mind.

“Prove it then. Survive. Live as long and as well as you can! You honor your people and Amero’s memory by doing so.”

Karada closed her eyes tightly, swaying a little. When she opened them again she said, “What about you, dragon? What will you do?”

He looked at the walls of Yala-tene. “I don’t know. I’m sick of this place, sick of all the violent, smelly humans who infest my peaceful valley. For Amero’s sake, I can’t knock the village down and chase everyone away, so perhaps I’ll leave.” A memory of another place came to his mind. “Yes, I’ll go somewhere far away.”

She rubbed a hand over her red-rimmed eyes. “My band was leaving tomorrow. I’ll have to put off our departure until we’ve settled some things—the elves, the girl Mara.”

“Cut her throat and be done with it.”

“It isn’t that simple. There’s likely to be sympathy for her, once the story of the hidden bows gets around.” She inhaled deeply. “And there’s Zannian.”