Paul Cook: Brother of the Dragon

The import of this sank in, and Beramun exclaimed, “You’re going to Yala-tene!”

“Yes, and all my people.”

Beramun threw her arms around the scarred woman. “May all your ancestors bless you!” she shouted joyously.

Karada pushed the jubilant girl away. “They haven’t yet,” she said gruffly. “An old curse still burns in my blood, but I’ll go to save my brother and to kill a hated enemy. The good and the bad of it balance out, don’t you think?”

“It’s all good to me! I want Zannian cold and dead, too!”

“If he gets in my way, he will be.” Karada combed her wild hair with her fingers. “Beramun, right now I need you to tell me everything that’s happened in the west. I’ve not been over the mountains in twelve years.”

They talked far into the night, and Mara fell asleep with her head on Karada’s knee. Before dawn, Beramun gave out as well.

When she woke, the camp was in turmoil. Tents were going down in great puffs of dust. Travois were being loaded, and the whole of Karada’s band was making ready to depart.

Beramun watched in amazement as the nomads readied for the journey. Except for Zannian’s raiders, she’d never seen so large a band on the move.

Half the nomads carried bows and wore caps of hammered bronze. Their hair was long, men and women alike, and they rode tall horses. Like Karada, they had spirit marks painted on their cheeks or foreheads.

The other half of the band dressed less splendidly, in simple buckskins and woven grass hats. These included the elders of the band and mothers with small babies. They rode short, sturdier ponies, most of them dragging a travois behind.

Karada appeared, sitting tall and proud on her wheat-colored horse. The warm morning sun flashed off her polished bronze helmet and eased the harshness of the scars on her face and neck. With her white wolf fur mantle and tawny rawhide trews, she looked like the Spirit of the Plains in flesh.

Gazing at her, Beramun felt a lump grow in her throat. For the first time she understood why people followed this woman into peril and fought for her till death. If they could reach Yala-tene in time, Zannian and his ragtag raiders were done for.

Karada was leading a second animal by the reins. She tossed these to Beramun, saying, “Time you learned to ride.”

Beramun climbed awkwardly onto the sorrel horse. Once seated, it seemed she could see a league from her lofty perch. She held tight to the reins and the animal’s white mane.

“Pakito!” Karada shouted. A giant of a man with long brown hair appeared on foot out of the dust. Beramun stared. The fellow was more than two paces tall!

The chieftain asked him, “Are you ready?”

“No, but that won’t stop you!” the big man replied.

She laughed. “Lead the band out, Pakito.”

“Aye, Karada.”

The nomads formed into a rough column, four horses wide. The bow-armed nomads made up the outside columns, shielding those inside. Beramun was amazed to see the enormous Pakito mounted on an equally giant, gray-dappled steed. Towering over everyone, he shouted commands in a bull-like voice, and the nomads began to move.

Karada and Beramun sat to one side, watching the band pass. Mara rode by, perched on a long travois with some dusty, laughing children. Beramun waved, but Mara turned her face away. She had grown jealous of the favor Karada showed to Beramun.

The tail of the long column of people and horses at last came into view, and Karada asked, “Ready, Beramun?”

The girl gripped her mount’s reins tightly. “I am.”

“Good. We’ve a long way to go.”