Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“He must rely on his own strength and not try to borrow mine.” Karada sat down on the warm hearthstones. Once she’d finished clearing away the broken jug, Mara came and sat at Karada’s feet.

“Mara didn’t tell you her whole story,” she said. Karada brushed her hand over the girl’s thick auburn hair. “After her leader abandoned her, Mara was captured by the Silvanesti.

They took her to Thalasbec, a town on the northern border of their forest. She was given to an elf warrior named Tamanithas, to work in his household as a slave. The Silvanesti were not cruel to her — at least, not in the way your Zannian is to his captives, but they broke her will until she was utterly compliant. She would be there still if I hadn’t raided Thalasbec in early summer.”

“You freed her?”

Karada shrugged. “Tamanithas is an old enemy. My warriors sacked the town, and I myself put the torch to his great house. As the flames took hold, Mara ran out, knife in hand, and attacked me.”

Beramun was surprised by this, and Karada explained. “So deeply had the elves taken hold of her. mind, she thought of herself only as their property and not as a free person. I might have slain her out of hand, but as I had torches in both fists, all I could do was knock her down. After setting the fire, I brought her back here. So far, all she’s done is transfer her slavish allegiance from Tamanithas to me. One day I’ll find a way to awaken her pride again.”

Beramun was touched by the tale, which in some ways paralleled her own, but she didn’t see what it had to do with saving Yala-tene. She said so.

“Raiders are nothing,” Karada told her. “There will always be violent, ambitious men willing to take from others by force. I have built my band up from nothing to take on the Silvanesti and end their tyranny.

“Five years ago I almost died fighting them. I led fourteen survivors — fourteen! — out of a fiery trap into the deepest wilderness I could find. Now we are seven hundred strong, enough to make life hard for any elves who try to take the northern plain from us. I intend to free humans like Mara who’ve been enslaved, their hearts and minds stolen by the elves’ subtle power. That’s why I can’t ride to Yala-tene, Beramun. A greater task awaits me here.”

Beramun sagged to the floor, crushed. She’d come so far, fought so hard, left Udi to die, had nearly been killed herself by centaurs, and it had all been for nothing.

“Stay as long as you like,” Karada said, rising to go. “The freedom of the camp is yours.”

Beramun shook her head wearily. “I must go back. People are counting on me. I want them to know I did my task.”

“I understand. You’re a strong girl. You’d do well in my band. If you live, come back and join us.”

“I don’t expect to live,” Beramun said flatly.

Hoten emerged from the river. Nacris had an obsession about cleanliness and required him to bathe every few days. She herself bathed in a private pool dug behind Zannian’s great tent.

Hoten put on his leggings, kilt, and shirt. It was a hot evening, and he’d be dry soon enough. He saw more rafts, laden with wood for tonight’s fires, coming over from the west bank. The slaves were already erecting several large piles in the center of the camp. By the look of things, it was going to be another lively night.

The revels were Nacris’s idea. The bored raiders needed something to keep their morale up as they waited for the villagers to starve and weaken. Zannian had gone on a long ride, hunting the black-haired girl. In his absence, Nacris had begun the nightly feasts. The well-being of the band wasn’t her only motive. As she explained it, the defenders of Arku-peli would be greatly disheartened if they saw the abundance being enjoyed outside their walls.

There was a stir in camp as a column of riders arrived. Hoten hurried up the hill to see what was what. He soon heard Zannian’s name on everyone’s lips. Their chief had returned and was in a foul mood.

Six days he’d tracked back and forth across the eastern plain, and never once had he picked up Beramun’s trail. Hot, tired, and angry, he’d returned to camp and found preparations for a feast underway. Flattered at first, thinking Nacris had anticipated his return, his mood quickly turned black when he discovered the celebrations had been going on for days.

Hoten entered the tent in time to hear Zan dressing down his mother.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I gave no permission for festivities! You don’t lead this band. I do!”

“It was for the good of all,” she replied, unmoved by his temper. “The men need diversion.” She went on to describe her vision of the revels as a taunt to the besieged villagers.

Turning to Hoten, Zannian demanded, “Do you support this?”

“I didn’t at first, but the men’s spirits have definitely improved since we started.”

Zannian grudgingly gave permission for the carousing to continue. He washed his face and hands in the river and returned, only to be confronted with Nacris’s questions about his hunting expedition.

“So, you didn’t find the girl?” she said.

“No,” he answered sullenly. “There’s probably nothing to find but bones by now anyway. If heat and thirst didn’t finish her, a panther likely did.”

“I hope not. She was a brave girl. In another time, she would have made a fine member of the band.”

Zannian made a dismissive gesture. “Women can’t fight as well as men.”

“If I had two legs, I’d show you the folly of that statement,” retorted his mother.

The feast got underway. The great fires were laid, and whole oxen were carried in on willow frames to roast in the flames. Hulami’s captured wine had long since been drunk up, but the raiders had been making their own brew using the spoils of the orchard and gardens. Pulped apples and pears made a potent cider.

At sunset the meat was ready. Gorged on beef and cider, the raiders were in an expansive mood. They sang old trail songs until their repertoire gave out. In the silence, Nacris asked Zannian to lead them in a new song. He waved the request aside, but so many raiders roared for him, he relented.

Red-faced with drink, he said, “How about ‘The Endless Plain?’”

This was a slow, sad song, but the men cheered. Their chiefs singing voice was appreciated by all. Zannian began. He had a boy’s voice still, high and clear, and after a verse, the rest of the raiders joined in.

Not far away, Amero held up his hand to halt the village raiding party. Those on foot dropped to one knee, and the four impersonating raiders reined in their mounts.

“What is it, Arkuden?” someone hissed.

“Listen!”

“Come walk with me, lonely one

In summer sun or winter rain,

From mountains high to rivers low,

Across the open, endless plain.”

“I know that song,” Amero said.

Lyopi whispered, “I’ve never heard it before, but it sounds like they all know it.”

Amero was shaking his head slowly. “Not the words, the tune — but it can’t be! It comes from a song my mother sang to me. And she made it up! How could — ?”

“What’s wrong?” hissed the people farther behind. “Why are we waiting?”

Amero forced himself to shake off the strange feeling. Perhaps some passing nomad had heard his mother singing the song long ago.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The animal pen was between the great tent and the river. Lyopi and the other three mounted villagers split off, riding casually through the darkened edge of the raiders’ camp. Amero led those on foot around the right side of the camp, where a long-ago rock fall created a stony barrier to their progress. Carefully, the villagers climbed over the mound of loose rocks. On the other side, bathed in firelight, was the corral full of sleek, well-fed beasts.