Paul Cook: Children of the Plains

“Pakito.”

“Yes, Karada?”

“I killed him.”

“I saw. Thank you.”

She sat up. “You’re grateful I slew your brother?”

“He was suffering. He’d been suffering in his mind for a long time. This was his cure, Karada.”

She rose and laid the boar spear on her shoulder. “I see the band is breaking camp.”

Pakito looked up at her. Tears streaked his broad, bearded cheeks. “I have your horse. Samtu, Targun, and a few others are guarding our mounts back at the corral.”

“I knew you couldn’t be with that viper Nacris.”

His anguished gaze never wavered. “I follow you, Karada.”

Nianki peered through the dust at the chaos of the collapsing nomad camp. “There’s more blood to be shed before this is done,” she said grimly. “Our blood I fear. I should have cleaned up all the traitors when Sessan was slain. You see the price for my generosity.”

Amero appeared. He had minor burns on his arms and legs, and a few cuts and bruises, but he was all right. He was alone — not a single villager dared leave the safety of their stone houses to stand with him.

He saw Pa’alu’s body and silently wished peace to the departed hunter. Then he turned to his sister and Pakito.

“The villagers will not come out,” he said. “Eight are dead, and many more are hurt. How could this happen?”

“Envy,” said Nianki. “Envy, jealousy, and spite. Nacris spread her lies in the band and turned more of them against me.” She nodded at Pa’alu’s corpse. “I see now she enlisted this mad fool to hurt me through you.”

Pakito’s broad shoulders shook with grief. Amero put a hand on his back and offered a few words of comfort.

The rumble of approaching horses grew louder. A column of mounted nomads appeared through the dust. Leading the column were three riders: Tarkwa on the left, Hatu on the right, and Nacris in the center. Three-quarters of the nomads had chosen to follow their new leaders. At the sight of her nemesis, Nianki drew back the boar spear, ready to cast.

“Stay your hand, Karada!” Tarkwa cried.

Nianki neither relaxed nor lowered her weapon. Pakito and Amero stood by on either side, ready to defend her.

“Get down off that horse, Nacris,” Nianki said. “I’d hate to scratch a blameless animal when I kill you!”

“You’re not going to kill anybody,” Hatu replied. “We’re done with you, Karada. Your cruel, mad ways have hurt the band long enough.”

“I made this band!” she said. “You were nothing but lone scavengers, running scared on foot from elf hunting parties. I made you into a band of free men and women. We took horses from the elves and made the plains ours. Is this how you repay me?”

“No one is more important than the band,” said Nacris. “You never understood that, Karada, and now you’re out. We don’t need you. We’re taking what we want from this valley and going far away from you, the elves, and your dragon-master. Stay here if you like, live in unnatural love with your brother, and serve that beast!”

Nianki flung the boar spear, but Tarkwa and Hatu put up their own weapons and blocked it. Nianki snatched the flint knife from her belt, but before she could advance toward her foe, she found herself held back by Pakito and Amero.

“Let go of me!” she cried.

“No,” said Amero. “I’m not ready to watch you die.”

“Very wise,” said Hatu, lowering his spear. “Continue your wisdom and give us what we want from your stores.”

“My people will starve over the winter without stored food,” he said.

“You’re in no position to resist,” Nacris retorted. “If you get in our way, we’ll burn your gardens, drive off your oxen, and flatten this village to the ground!”

Amero’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. Duranix was away and crippled. Though the villagers outnumbered the renegade nomads, Nacris’s followers were seasoned fighters, and with their horses to give them mobility and force, how could Yala-tene withstand them?

He felt Nianki’s taut muscles relax in his grip. Amero let go of her arm. Pakito did likewise.

“Here’s my offer,” Nianki said. “Leave, now. If I ever see any of you again, I’ll hamstring the lot of you — all but you, Nacris. I promise I’ll gut you like the yevi-spawn you are.

“You’ll take nothing from Yala-tene. Ride out now, each with your horse, spear, and tent. You’re nomads. I taught you how to survive on the plains and in the forests. Leave, and live. Take, and die. That’s your choice.”

Coming from anyone else in this situation — on foot, armed with a single knife, surrounded by enemies — such a declaration would have earned mocking laughter. However, the words, deadly calm and utterly serious, came from Karada. No one laughed.

Tarkwa, ever practical, broke ranks first. He rode past Amero without a word, heading out of the village. Slowly, others followed, guiding their horses in a wide, wary circle around Nianki. Nacris glared, but she didn’t bother trying to stop them. She knew she did not command the respect — or the fear — that Karada did. When Hatu joined the stream of riders, Nacris could he silent no longer.

She said, “You too? I thought you had more spine than this!”

“I’ve walked away from many previous lives,” Hatu said, urging his mount onward. “If I live, I can make another. Dead, I’m just carrion.”

Nacris was alone. The odds had shifted so completely against her, Nianki felt bold enough to reclaim her thrown spear. Scowling fiercely, Nacris twisted her mount’s head around and trotted after Hatu. She cast one glance backward as she rode. Nianki reversed her grip on the spear and jammed it forcefully into the sand, in the hoofprints of Nacris’s horse.

Slapping the reins against her horse’s neck, Nacris sped her departure.

It was nightfall before the villagers felt it was safe to leave their houses. The wounded were brought out for treatment, and the dead, who included Amero’s old friend and counselor Valka, were laid upon the cairn for cremation. Pakito gently added Pa’alu to the line atop the platform. Some of the villagers grumbled at a nomad being honored along with their dead, but Amero silenced them and applied the first torch to the pyre.

Standing side by side, watching the flames leap skyward, Amero said to Nianki, “Pa’alu told me about the amulet.”

She said nothing, only stared at the flames.

“I’m sorry,” he added.

“Why?” she replied. “Nothing has happened, and nothing will.”

“I’m sorry you had to suffer the way you did.”

She shrugged. “It’s nothing. Another scar. I have many.”

He wanted to comfort her, put his arm around her shoulder or take her hand in his, but he didn’t. Nianki had climbed a mountain to escape her feelings, and the last thing she’d want would be for him to climb up beside her and be within reach again.

Amero clasped his hands behind his back and moved away from his sister.

The glow of the funeral fire could be seen in the next valley, where the rebel nomads gathered to chew hard jerky and swig water from gourd jugs. At Hatu’s order, they were allowed only one small campfire to keep off the worst of the chill night air. It was a quiet and subdued band of plainsmen that camped around this small fire.

Nacris lay on her back at a distance from the campfire. Though she appeared to be staring at the starry sky, her mind was not on the jeweled heavens. Nacris was furious. She was so angry she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.

Nacris’s eyes flickered over to where Hatu walked among their comrades. He seemed completely unconcerned by their shameful defeat. She couldn’t hear his words, but whatever he was saying caused low ripples of laughter among the nomads gathered in this small valley.