Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

They found Balif’s camp just where the bearers said they would, by a small tributary of the Thon-Tanjan. A palisade of sharpened stakes surrounded the tents, and a few mounted warriors stood guard, but the eighty-odd elves in camp were sleeping as Karada closed in around them.

Beramun had never seen bows used at night before. The effect was terrifying. With no more sound than the snap of the bowstring, lethal arrows came flying out of the darkness. Highlighted by the campfires behind them, the mounted guards had no chance. They quickly went down, and Karada sent ten nomads forward to break a hole in the hedge of stakes. Only a small gap in the palisade was opened before the nomads were seen. The rattle of bronze gongs roused the Silvanesti from their slumber.

“Form on me!” Karada called, placing herself at the head of a close column of riders.

“Do we give quarter?” asked Pakito, a giant on a mammoth horse.

The chiefs wheat-colored horse reared as her hands tightened on the reins. “Spare all who lay down their arms!” Karada shouted. “Now, at them!”

Three abreast, the mounted nomads charged through the gap made in the line of stakes. At first there was little resistance. Hastily donning what armor was at hand, the Silvanesti hung back around a central cluster of tents. Several javelins flew at the nomads, emptying a few saddles, but Karada was too canny to ride straight into the center of an aroused enemy camp. She sent half her warriors off to the left, circling just inside the palisade, while she led the rest to the right. A second wave of nomads, headed by Pakito, brought in torches and set fire to the outer ring of tents.

Fire blazed up, revealing the confusing scene. Beramun, armed with an unfamiliar sword, tried to keep pace with Karada. She did not strike a single blow, for the elves had done her no harm, but Silvanesti on foot around her did not realize this. A half-clad elf threw a spear at her. It seemed to leave his hand slowly, then gain frightening speed as it plunged at her face. She brought up her sword to deflect it, but a heedless, howling nomad rode in front of her and took the Silvanesti javelin in the ribs.

Shaking off her battle lethargy, Beramun rode through a gap in the churning crowd toward Karada. The Silvanesti adopted an interesting way of fighting their mounted foes. Instead of trying to make a line, they grouped into small knots of four to six warriors each, presenting a circle of sharp points all around them. They might have held off Karada’s band with this tactic but for the nomads’ bows. Whenever a knot of Silvanesti proved too tough to break, bows were called for and the defending elves picked off.

Between the two biggest campfires, a large contingent of elves had collected, led by a tall, fair-haired Silvanesti clad in a white shift stained with blood. Shouting in unison, the elves charged their mounted enemies and drove them back.

Karada shouldered through the melee. “Balif! It’s Karada! Yield or perish!” she cried.

The fighting continued, however, so the nomad chief called on the archers beside her, ordering them to spare the tall elf leader.

A quick thrum of arrows cut down several Silvanesti standing beside Balif. When he saw his companions felled, the pale-haired elf snapped an order. Within moments, the remaining Silvanesti grounded their arms. A few on the far side of the camp did not hear the command or would not obey it. They fought on until they were overcome, and more died.

By midnight, the fighting was over. Half the elves and a score of Karada’s warriors had been slain. The surviving elves were plainly shocked by the swift battle, and they sat disconsolately on the ground, lords and commoners alike.

Balif, slightly wounded, surrendered his sword to Pakito, who presented the elf lord to Karada.

Looking down on Balif from horseback, she relished the ironic change of fortune that had brought him into her hands.

“So, your life is mine now,” she said. “What do you say to that?”

Balif mopped sweat and blood from his high forehead. “I say I am wiser than even I knew,” he answered in a subdued voice.

She frowned, plainly at a loss. “What do you mean?”

“Years ago I spared you after the battle of the riverbend. Had I killed you, the leader of your band of nomads now might have no reason to spare my life.”

Some of the nomads laughed at this surprising reasoning, but Beramun was still puzzled. “If you’d killed Karada back then, this whole battle might not have happened,” she pointed out.

The elf lord turned to her, and she was struck by the strangeness of his eyes. They were like a cloudless sky, or watered rock crystal....

“Do I know you?” Balif said, pale brows rising. Even in defeat his manner was winning. She gave her name. “Well, Beramun, consider this: felling a single tree does not bring down an entire forest.”

The nomads laughed again, but Beramun was as mixed-up as ever, both by his subtle words and by his demeanor.

“You still talk too much,” Karada said harshly. “Stand where you are and keep silent!”

The captured elves were bound hand and foot and their camp thoroughly looted. Stores of fine bronze weapons, helmets, and breastplates were distributed to nomads who had distinguished themselves in the fight. Karada offered a long, yellow dagger to Beramun, but the girl declined.

“I’d rather learn the bow,” she said.

“Then you shall.” Karada tossed the dagger to Mara. “Put that in my baggage.” Mara slipped into the crowd, the bronze dagger clutched in her fist.

When Balif was separated from the rest and led away, it became obvious not all the nomads were in favor of sparing him. A man named Kepra, whose face bore the old marks of severe burns, argued forcefully for the elf’s death.

“Have you forgotten this?” he hissed, gesturing at his own face. “My mate and children burned to death at Mount Ibal in the fire his soldiers started!”

“Those Silvanesti were commanded by Tamanithas, not Balif,” Pakito said.

The elf general Tamanithas had long pursued Karada with fanatical fury. His soldiers had set fire to the dry grass on the slopes of Mount Ibal, killing over half her band eight years ago. Tamanithas did not long enjoy his victory. He perished in personal combat with Karada, two years to the day after the fiery destruction he’d inflicted.

“Balif is no better!” Kepra insisted, his voice rising. “Cut off his head, I say! You’ve spoken of doing just that many times!”

During the debate, Balif had sat quietly at the center of the emotional nomads. He now asked if he could speak, and Karada gave him leave.

“In the plan of life it matters little whether you kill me or not. The Throne of the Stars will continue, and Speaker Silvanos will find a new servant to carry out his will.”

The humans around him muttered and swore.

“That said, I must admit I do not want to die.”

His declaration was followed by loud suggestions the elf lord be mutilated or blinded. Beramun noticed that for all his seeming calm, Balif’s pallid face grew even whiter as he listened.

Karada let her people rant a while, then said, “A hunter does not injure an animal on purpose. She kills it or lets it go. There is no third way.”

“I could be ransomed,” Balif said. The word meant nothing to the nomads, so he explained. “Send word to Silvanost of my capture, and demand payment in exchange for my freedom. I’m certain the Speaker will barter for me, if the price is not too high.”

Nomads greeted the notion with enthusiasm. Once more there was much noisy wrangling, this time over what to ask for. It wasn’t lost on Balif that Kepra and a good number of other nomads remained silent, staring at him with unconcealed hatred.