Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

“Face the honor!” Balif cried. All the elves’ heads turned toward Karada, rendering her a salute usually reserved for the highest Silvanesti. If the nomad chief was surprised, she didn’t show it, staring ahead impassively with a lofty air.

At the tail of the long column, winding its way across the valley floor to Bearclaw Gap, Targun waited with the unmounted nomads. Most of them were children who rode the travois with the baggage. As he wiled away the time until it came his moment to move, Targun glanced at the crowd of villagers still clustered and waiting on the hill a hundred paces away.

Targun was reminded of how he and his mate had come to Karada’s band after the death of their adult son. They’d been as forlorn and anxious as those villagers. His mate was now long dead, but Targun felt moved to do something he rarely did—act without Karada’s approval. He picked a boy from the idle nomad children and sent him to the leader of the villagers with a message: Karada says if you keep pace with us, you’re in.

He could tell when the message was delivered. A few villagers jumped to their feet. The motion spread throughout the crowd until everyone was standing. A cheer went up. Targun pulled the brim of his woven straw hat down and hid a satisfied smile in his gray beard.

Thus did Karada’s band depart the Valley of the Falls. Once out of the mountains, she kept her word and released Balif. The elf lord gave her back the bronze sword she’d returned to him before the battle with the ogres and raiders. It was the same weapon he’d used against Zannian. Farolenu had restored the battered blade to shining perfection. Karada accepted the sword without emotion.

“Farewell,” Balif said. “Until we meet again, peace to you, as your people say.”

“What makes you think we’ll meet again?” she asked.

“Our lives are entwined. Haven’t you noticed?”

Karada colored, her tan face growing pink.

“So we will meet in battle?” she asked with affected brusqueness.

“I hope not. I’d hate to cross swords with a comrade.”

He did not salute, but waved breezily as he led his small band away. Karada was silent until Beramun teased, “You’ve made a friend, it seems.”

“He’s not a friend,” Karada replied stiffly. “Just a very good enemy.”

Not long after Balif and the elves departed, Karada relented and let the two hundred men, women, and children from Yala-tene join her band. As Hekani said, the villagers brought with them much learning and many new skills. In one generation, bronze became common, not only for blades and arrowheads but even for homely tools and personal decoration. Raising crops in temporary gardens brought more food to the nomads, and their numbers waxed larger.

In time the nomad band became so large it could scarcely move or feed itself. Small groups split off from the main body to start their own bands in other regions. The descendants of Pakito and Samtu rode far west, beyond the once forbidding Edge of the World, and populated the lands of the sunset. Another group, led by Bahco and his children, returned to the northern seashore. When Bahco died, full of years and rich in descendants, his body was borne back across the waves to his birthplace, the seafaring lands.

Of the fifty men who had been raiders, half became full-fledged members of Karada’s band. The others drifted away, becoming lone wanderers or falling back on thievery. Karada gave the task of suppressing the backsliding raiders to Harak, It was her way of testing him, and Beramun’s mate did not fail. Every last outlaw was captured or killed, four by Harak alone.

The former raider stayed with Beramun always, and together they had six children. Their firstborn son was named Amero, and he grew to be a warrior as wise as he was fierce. He was a great favorite of his grandmother Karada, and the only one allowed to call her Nianki.

Karada lived to great age, surviving her last brother by more than two decades. In later years she left command of the band to Beramun and spent her days hunting and riding, often alone on the savanna for many days. Her feats and adventures became entwined with legend. By the time her hair was white, she took a grandchild with her on these journeys—either young Amero or her granddaughter Kinarmun—and from her they learned the ancient secrets and skills.

She ranged far and wide, and many nomads thought they saw her, silhouetted against the sunset or in a bright wreath of stars. The wanderers learned to wave respectfully to any lone figure they encountered on the plain, since any solitary rider could be Karada, watching over all the children of the plains.

Far away in time and place, the dull red orb of the sun sank toward the sea. From his perch atop the cliffs, Duranix surveyed his circular island home. In the years since leaving the Valley of the Falls, he’d grown to immense size, due in part to the spirit power infused into him long ago, but also from the diet of whale and kraken he enjoyed in the waters surrounding the island.

Aloft, Blusidar circled, leading their two offspring in their first flying lesson. She was a much better flyer than her older, heavier mate, though not as patient with her hatchlings’ mistakes. The young dragons’ stubby wings fanned hard, trying to keep up with their mother’s swift progress.

A peculiar sensation filled Duranix’s chest. It began as a small cold spot, deep within the massive layers of flying muscle. The feeling spread outward, a creeping numbness more puzzling than alarming. When it reached the tips of his claws and the crown of his horned head, it vanished as swiftly as it had come. He could remember feeling this way only one other time, and the meaning of the sensation was instantly clear.

Blusidar alighted on a ledge above him. She called rough encouragement to the dragonlets still struggling through the air, then turned with concern to her mate.

“What troubles you?” she asked.

“I fear a friend is gone,” he said quietly, meeting her wide golden eyes. “An old friend.”

“One of your humans,” said Blusidar with a sniff.

“No. Karada was no one’s human but her own. That was her curse and her strength.”

Their male hatchling, Seridanax, fluttered by, screeching for help. Though Blusidar did not approve, Duranix caught his small son in his great claws and soothed him, saying, “Don’t be afraid, little one. I will protect you.”