Paul Thompson - Sister of the Sword

“If you want me dead, then I’m happy,” he declared. “And make no mistake—I will see again, and I will escape this blighted valley. I shall forge an even greater band of raiders next time. You’ll see! My mistake was getting involved with Nacris and the green dragon. They were twisted by ancient hatreds. I’ll create a new brotherhood of true warriors, greater than Karada’s band, and sweep all before me....”

So consumed was he by his grand dream that he didn’t notice Beramun had left him. Lyopi came and took the rope from her. The women embraced.

“Farewell and be well,” Beramun whispered.

“Peace to you, and all your kin,” Lyopi murmured back. Behind them, Zannian ranted on. Lyopi squeezed Beramun’s arms and asked, “Do me one favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Name your first son Amero, will you? He’d like that.”

Beramun felt tears start. She kept them in check and smiled.

“I will.”

She left the village by the west baffle and returned on foot to the nomad’s camp. She never set foot in Yala-tene again, nor met anyone who lived there for the rest of her long, long life.

Dawn was near, and still Karada kept her place atop the cliff. She did not sleep, for she did not want to dream. When she heard the rush of wings, she looked up and saw Duranix descending through the broken clouds.

He landed nearby. She saw he had something clutched in one foreclaw. When the dragon opened his talons, Mara’s limp form rolled out on the ground.

“I was beginning to think you’d lit out for good,” Karada said good-humoredly. She checked the girl. Mara had swooned from fear and the rush of traveling so high in the air, but she was very much alive. Karada quickly gagged her and tied her hands and feet.

Earlier, Duranix had carried Amero’s body to the cave they’d once shared. He swept aside the ashes from the old hearth and laid his friend there, piling loose stones over him. Then, with claws and fire, he sealed the outer openings—first the largest one behind the waterfall, then Amero’s smaller, personal entrance, where his hoist used to be. Lastly, the dragon closed the unfinished third entrance Amero had meant for Duranix to use when in human form. The cave was now secure, save for the vent holes. Duranix clung to the rocky ceiling with his claws and butted his homed head against the vents, breaking them open into a single hole large enough for him to crawl through.

Now, having returned with Mara, he and Karada would conduct their private justice.

With Karada in one foreclaw and the unconscious Mara in the other, Duranix stepped into the open hole and dropped back into the black cave. The fall into total darkness tested even Karada’s nerves. She gripped Duranix’s hard-scaled claw until she felt the rush of wind past her ears ease, signaling he’d opened his broad wings and was slowing their descent.

The dragon landed heavily. His massive hind legs took up the shock and spared his passengers. Setting Karada down, Duranix exhaled a small bolt of lightning into a pile of charred wood he’d scraped up earlier from around the cave. A smoky red fire flared.

Clomping across the rough stone floor, Duranix laid the unconscious Mara across the heap of stones that was Amero’s grave. Turning his huge, reptilian head suddenly, he said to Karada, “She’ll die slowly in here, of starvation.”

“Only if she chooses to.”

Karada went to the pile of stones. From her belt she drew a short bronze dagger—the same one Mara had used to kill Amero. She put the dagger in Mara’s slack hand.

The fire was already dwindling. Duranix picked Karada up in a hind claw and launched himself at the roof. When he reached the opening, he had to close his wings and grip the edge of the hole with his foreclaws. He worked himself through.

Putting the woman down, Duranix covered the opening with great slabs of gray slate and yellow sandstone. He was satisfied, but his companion wasn’t, not yet. Karada found a large stone and fitted it onto the pile, closing the last small gap.

They walked to the edge of the cliff. Below them the waterfall foamed and thundered.

“Where will you go?” she shouted over the water’s roar.

“I have a place in mind. A long way away, but the company promises to be congenial.”

“Human?”

His barbels twitched. “I said congenial. A dragon, if you must know, of my bronze race.”

“Female?” she asked. He nodded his horned head, human-fashion.

“I’m tired of humans,” Duranix replied. “Maybe in a hundred years or so I’ll be able to stand them again.”

She looked up at him. “Some of us won’t be around in a hundred years.”

He brought his huge face close, eyelids clashing like swords. “You’ll live longer than I,” he told her. “When my bones are dust and my scales gone to verdigris, plainsmen will sing of Karada, the Scarred One, the greatest hunter and warrior of them all. They already make up songs about you.”

“I don’t listen to such nonsense.”

“Sometimes there’s truth in nonsense.” He lifted his head and spread his wings.

“You’re leaving now?” she said. “The folk in Yala-tene will miss saying farewell.”

“It’s better I go now. Less trouble. Less fuss. Goodbye, Karada.”

She put out her hand, touching his massive flank. “Nianki.”

Duranix balanced on his rear claws, poised for flight. “Farewell then, Nianki. Be worthy of your honor in all things.”

He leaped from the precipice, flying through the cloud of mist perpetually suspended over the falls. For a while his bronze skin glistened in the first, faint light of dawn, then he was so far away all she could see of him was a black silhouette against the indigo sky.

Nomads breaking camp was always a noisy affair. Amid much shouting and grunting, the rings of tents came down, each hide hut sending up a cloud of dust when it collapsed. As was traditional, the older children struck the tents, under the supervision of the elders. While this was going on, warrior-age nomads saw to their horses and movable gear.

In the center of this maelstrom, Karada sat on her horse, strangely quiescent. She watched the dusty, churning proceedings with a detachment she did not ordinarily feel. Those close to her attributed her reflective mood to Amero’s death, and they were right.

Beramun approached on foot, black hair coated with yellow dust. She hailed her chief and adopted mother. Karada smiled down at her and held out a leather-wrapped gourd of cool water.

Beramun rinsed her parched mouth and spat out the resulting mud. “I bring word from Harak and the former raiders,” she said. “They want to know where in the column they should travel.”

“At the rear,” Karada said, taking back the gourd. “We’ve no horses to spare for them, so they’ll walk at the rear, with the travois.”

“Harak too?”

Karada sipped cool lake water. She’d grown to like its mineral bite again. “Harak too. I can’t favor him over the others, Beramun. They’d hate him for it. If the raiders prove themselves worthy, we’ll find mounts for them later on. And no, he can’t ride double with you. It’s too hard on the horse.” Seeing Beramun’s disappointment, she added, not unkindly, “Harak will not object, and his good behavior will make him all the more pleasing to his men.”

Beramun smiled. The excitement of leaving the Valley of the Falls more than compensated for a temporary separation from her mate.

Looking past Karada at the village, Beramun saw dust rising from the vicinity of the north baffle.

“Someone’s coming from Yala-tene,” she said.

Karada sighed. “More elders to talk us to death. I’ve never known folk who talk so much. Wasn’t ‘good-bye’ yesterday enough?”