Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

Beramun frowned, shading her eyes. “There’s a lot of them—not just a party of elders.”

Karada turned her wheat-colored horse around to see for herself. Sure enough, a sizable troop of people was coming toward them from the village.

“Find Pakito,” she said tersely. “Send him to me. If you see Bahco first, send him too.”

“Why?”

“Probably nothing. Go on, do as I say.”

Beramun sprinted into the chaotic scene, darting to and fro around horses and collapsing tents. By the time Pakito and Bahco returned, the people from Yala-tene were clearly visible. There must have been two hundred of them, all heavily laden with bundles and packs.

Leading the marching villagers was the young hunter Hekani. When he reached the nomad chief, he signaled those behind him to stop. The burdened villagers gratefully set down their bags and rested in the morning heat.

“Greetings, great chief!” Hekani said. “We’ve come to join you.”

“What?” Bahco and Pakito exclaimed simultaneously.

“We want to join your band,” Hekani said, sweeping his arm back to encompass all the people behind him.

“What are you talking about?” said Karada. “You’re not nomads!”

“We shall be, if you’ll have us. Since the Arkuden’s death and the dragon’s departure, a lot of us felt it wasn’t worth going on here. Everyone you see this morning has chosen to leave Yala-tene and join with you.”

Karada looked pained, and Bahco said, “Not one in ten of you has a horse! And none of you is accustomed to walking long distances. How will you keep up with us?”

“There must be more horses on the plains,” Hekani replied.

“But you’re all just a bunch of mud-toes!” Pakito blurted, then looked sheepish. “What I mean is, life on the plain is hard, not at all like living in comfortable stone piles.”

“We’re not all so long off the plains that we’ve forgotten what it’s like,” retorted an older woman behind Hekani. “And life hasn’t been that easy in Yala-tene lately.”

“We fought Zannian longer than you did,” Hekani said proudly. “I’m a hunter myself. As for riding—well, we can learn, can’t we? You won’t have to take care of us. We have a lot of skills among us—flint knapping, metalworking, tanning, pot-making, gardening. We’ll make our own way, and share our skills with your people.”

Karada was shaking her head. “You’d slow the band too much.” She looked over the composition of the crowd and added, “Besides, if so many young folk leave, what will become of those who stay behind?”

From the crowd at Hekani’s back stepped Jenla, the planter. “I came with Hekani to answer that question, Karada.”

The nomad chieftain nodded at the formidable old woman, and Jenla said, “As near as I can tell, I’ve seen fifty-six summers. I know I wouldn’t have lived so long, had it not been for the Arkuden and his village. Now I’m too old to wander, and Yala-tene will be my home until I die.

“Many old people in the village feel as I do. We’ll stay in the valley, dragon or no dragon, Arkuden or no Arkuden. We have our gardens, our orchard, and our thick stone walls.”

Hekani spoke again. “For us”—he gestured to the crowd behind him—“that’s not enough. We want a leader of power and spirit. The Arkuden was strong in wisdom and kindness, but we’ve learned the hard way that’s not enough. Even having a dragon as our protector didn’t prevent the raiders from attacking us. The way to be free is to be strong. We want to follow you, Karada.”

She took a long time before replying, her eyes sweeping over them. Finally she spoke loud enough for all to hear, “If you think life will be better with me on the plain, you’re fools. Stay here. Grow your gardens and live inside your stone walls. That’s the best choice for you.”

Amid mutters from the crowd, she called to Pakito and Bahco, and the three of them rode off. A short distance away, they stopped and looked back. “They’re not leaving,” Bahco reported.

The villagers milled about where Karada had left them, watching them from a small hill west of the nomads’ camp.

Karada didn’t turn around, but said, “Let’s see what they’re made of. If they can keep up with us, I’ll take them in.”

“They’re not nomads,” Bahco objected.

“Neither were you when we met. You crossed the sea in a basket of logs, seeking a new land. Was I wrong to take you in when you asked to join Karada’s band?”

He grinned. “No. And we call those baskets of logs ‘ships,’ chief.”

She waved a hand, dismissing Bahco’s ships, then twisted right and left on her horse, saying, “Anyone seen our highborn hostage this morning?”

“Balif and his soldiers were waiting for us at sunrise,” Pakito said. “I told them to march with the raider-men. Might as well keep all our troubles in one pouch, eh?”

Karada sighed. “As if those were our only troubles! Very well, Pakito, lead the band into Bearclaw Gap. Bahco, hold back a hundred riders, and let the raiders and elves enter the pass ahead of you. You follow them through till we reach open ground again.” The two men nodded, and she sent for Targun.

The old nomad rode up to Karada on his dappled mare, the same horse he’d ridden out of the Valley of the Falls thirteen years earlier. Karada gave him charge of the travois and those folk on foot. He asked about the young people from Yala-tene still milling about on the hill.

“Ignore them,” she said. “If they can keep up with us, we might take them in.”

She gave more orders, and the nomad band sorted itself accordingly. Pakito led the foremost riders into Bearclaw Gap. As they rode away, Beramun, mounted now, cantered up to her informally adopted mother and was told to stay close to “learn how to lead a band.”

Beramun put her horse alongside Karada’s. Pakito’s nomads rode past, waving and calling their chiefs name. She did not return their salutes but watched impassively as they passed.

“Don’t you answer their hails?” Beramun asked in a low voice.

“Only in battle. All other times I assume a lofty air. It gives them confidence.” At Beramun’s confused expression, Karada smiled ever so faintly. “A stern face helps them believe I’m thinking deep, wise thoughts on their behalf.”

Beramun had a lot yet to learn about being chief. She laughed long and loud at Karada’s admission, and all the riders passing gawked at her in surprise.

The elves shouldered their packs and marched out. At their head, Balif set the pace.

“I’m glad to see the end of this valley,” Farolenu said, walking at his lord’s side. “Too much suffering and sorrow happened here.”

Balif made no comment, and they trudged in silence a while. Then the elf lord said, “What will you do first when we get home, Faro?”

“Bathe,” said the bronzesmith. “In heated water. And love my wife.”

“In that order?”

“Arikina, my wife, will insist on that order. What will you do, my lord?”

“I shall dine on nothing but fruit for thirty days—washed down with the rarest nectar in Silvanost. The coarse food these humans eat has aged me a century.”

Farolenu looked forward and back at the lines of humans on foot and horseback. “So many of them,” he remarked. “For short-lived creatures, they breed quickly!”

“Too quickly. Our sovereign and his counselors must understand that.” Balif spotted the mounted figures of Karada and the black-haired girl she’d taken as her daughter. “Many things need to be explained to the Speaker. Many things..

The elves tramped by the nomad chief. At Balif’s command, they fell into matched step, arms and feet swinging in unison.