Sister of the Sword

21

Bahco led half a hundred nomads to the elves’ camp. By torchlight, the men ran among the sleeping Silvanesti, kicking them awake, then holding them at sword point. A few elves fought back, and a real battle might have broken out had not Balif intervened. His considerable presence managed to calm not only his own soldiers but Bahco’s angry men as well.

“What’s this about?” the elf lord demanded once some order had been restored.

“The Arkuden has been killed!” Bahco snapped, his sword still in his hand.

Balif’s eyes flickered with surprise and concern. “How did it happen?”

After giving Balif the few details he knew, Bahco ordered his men to search the Silvanesti baggage. Balif’s protests were overridden as the dark-skinned nomad asked, “Is it true? Did the Arkuden trade bows and arrows for the secret to making bronze?”

“I had no dealings of that kind with the Arkuden.”

At that moment, the searchers found the hidden bows.

“No dealings?” Bahco raged, shaking a bowstave under the elf lord’s nose. “Then what are these—tent stakes?”

Balif drew his robe and his dignity close around himself. “Take me to Karada. I will explain everything to her.”

The nomads mouthed ugly threats as Balif walked out with Bahco. The elf lord wanted reassurances they wouldn’t harm his elves. Though Bahco refused to make such a promise, he raised his voice for all to hear and said, “If your people behave, my men will not harm them.”

Balif surveyed his small, outnumbered troop. “Sit down,” he said severely. “Do nothing and say nothing until I return.” When they hesitated, he commanded, “Do as I say!”

One by one, the elves complied, sitting down on their bedrolls and closing their mouths into thin, stubborn lines.

Bahco, Balif, and the newly discovered bows went back to Yala-tene. Amid the weeping, wailing crowd outside Lyopi’s house, Bahco found his chief. She seemed unnaturally composed. Her icy demeanor alarmed Bahco.

“Mind what you say and do, elf,” he muttered. “She’s very angry!”

Balif stepped out in front of Bahco and bowed to Lyopi. “Lady,” he said solemnly, “my deepest condolences. The Arkuden was a great and wise man. What aid may I give you in this dire time?”

She looked up at him, tears standing in her shadowed eyes. “Amero was sick of war. Please, whatever the cause, do not fight here.” Lyopi said this as much for Karada’s benefit as Balif s.

Wordlessly, Bahco handed Karada the bows taken from the elves.

She looked at them and her strangely calm face seemed to grow even more still. “So, it’s true,” she said.

“No, it is not,” Balif insisted.

She struck him across the face with a bowstave. The tough fruitwood cracked loudly, and Balif was knocked to the ground. People in the sobbing crowd exclaimed, reminding Karada of Lyopi’s stricture against violence.

Balif stayed where he was. Ears ringing from the impact, he put a hand gingerly to his face. The skin wasn’t broken, but he would have a tremendous bruise there—if he lived so long.

“Is this how you repay my trust?” Karada shouted at him. “Stealing our weapons? Your treachery has cost my brother his life!” Her face had gone ashen by torchlight, the scars on her throat standing out lividly.

“I did not steal the bows,” Balif said clearly from his position on the ground. “Nor did I exchange bronze-making information for them with the Arkuden or anyone else. My soldiers bought the weapons from members of your band, Karada. They traded gold and bronze for them. Shall I name the nomads who bartered with us? Better yet, to satisfy yourself of the truth of what I say, examine your warriors. Ask the ones carrying gold and no bows if they have adequate answers for why their weapons are missing.”

Karada regarded him wordlessly for the space of three heartbeats, then she exploded into action. She drew her sword and whirled in a circle, howling and slashing at the air. Villagers scattered, and even her own people backed quickly out of reach. Balif was happy he was still on the ground.

“Is there no honor left in Karada’s band?” she cried when her frenzy abated.

Silence greeted her question, then Balif announced, “I’m going to stand.” He waited for her reaction, but she simply stood there shaking with rage and grief.

He got to his feet slowly. “I did betray your trust, Karada,” he said, “but I had reasons for doing so. My people also had misgivings about my sharing the secret of bronze-making. They wondered if I was betraying my sovereign and my race, but there was no betrayal. Beneath the giving of metal and the taking of bows is a more important principle: peace. I did it for peace.”

Exclamations of disbelief greeted this. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Balif raised his voice and continued. “By giving you knowledge of bronze, I know I’m equipping you to be even more dangerous. That’s part of my goal. By making you more powerful, I hope to dissuade my lord Silvanos and his counselors from warring on you. If we both have bronze armor and blades, the cost of battle will be too high. I sought to bring home examples of your new throwing weapon for the same purpose. If we are equal in strength, no sane mind should crave war.”

Lyopi spoke up before anyone else could do so. “I believe you, Lord Balif. I think Amero would have approved of your actions, if he had known. Peace is what he wanted more than anything else—even more,” she added, choking back tears, “than he wanted the secret of bronze.”

Everyone looked to Karada, waiting for her response. It was a long time coming, but finally the sword fell from her hand. It rang loudly when it struck the ground.

“I’m taking back all the bows,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I’ll find who traded them to you and deal with them later. Go back to your camp, Balif. Stay there until we leave. I don’t want to see you or hear of you until then.”

Balif bowed curtly to her, then to Lyopi with more feeling. He vanished into the crowd. People gave way to him slowly, but no one raised a hand against him.

The crowd seemed reluctant to leave. Lyopi begged them to go home, though, and they slowly dispersed. Samtu took Lyopi, who was swaying on her feet, inside the house, and Pakito sent Bahco to post guards around the elves, to keep things calm. Finally, only the giant and his chieftain remained.

Karada picked up a torch left behind by a villager and trudged away, not toward the north baffle and her own camp, but west. Pakito would’ve followed, but she put a stop to that.

“Go back to Samtu, Pakito. Help her comfort Lyopi. I’m going to wait for Duranix.”

Dawn was not far off when Duranix crossed the last line of mountains before the Valley of the Falls. It was the still time, when most animals were asleep. Even so, the valley felt charged as he flew into it, replete with powerful emotions.

He crossed the dull silver triangle of the lake, heading for the village. Before the walls gained distinction from the dark cliffs behind them, Duranix saw a pinpoint of light on the stony beach between the town wall and his cave. Lowering a wing, he descended toward the light, which quickly resolved itself into a burning torch.

He landed. A solitary figure stirred beside the torch.

“Karada,” he said, keeping his great voice low.

“Dragon,” she greeted him. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” He asked how it happened. Karada explained about Mara. By the time she finished the story of bronze and bows, Duranix was practically speechless with astonishment.

Finding his tongue at last, he exclaimed, “After all we’ve faced—yevi, raiders, green-painted assassins, wild humans, elves, Sthenn!—Amero is murdered by a crazy child with a bronze dagger? Over some bits of metal and bent wood sticks?” He raised one hind claw and drove it down again. The resulting blow rang through the valley. “Where is the justice in that?” he demanded.

“There is none. Good-bye, dragon.”

She turned away There was a strange note of finality in her voice that penetrated the dragon’s preoccupation.

“You aren’t leading your band out now, in the middle of the night, are you?” he asked.

“I’m not leading them anywhere.”

Without warning, Duranix promptly shrank to human form and size, becoming a muscular man with golden yellow hair, clad in a deerskin kilt. He hadn’t assumed human guise in a long time, but it seemed appropriate just now.

Long ago, during her first visit to Yala-tene, Karada had seen Duranix both take on human shape and revert to dragon form. It was a remarkable thing to witness the enormous bronze beast compress himself into a human body, no matter how unusually tall and sturdy it was.

Taking her by the shoulders, Duranix gave her a shake. “What do you mean?” he asked. Then, his golden eyes widening, he added, “You are thinking of ending your life, aren’t you? You mustn’t do that!”

She pulled away from his hands. “You don’t understand. I’m already dead. My life was tied to Amero’s by more than bonds of kinship. Do you know I felt his death wound?” She put a hand to her side. “It was here, as if I’d taken the dagger thrust myself. I felt his death like an icy wave of water closing over my head. That’s how close Amero and I were!”

“Foolish woman! I felt it too! It woke me from a deep sleep. We who loved Amero were linked to him in spirit, not by mere bonds of friendship, blood, or desire. Just because you despair doesn’t mean your life is over or that it isn’t valued by others.”

“I can’t live, knowing he’s gone,” she declared helplessly.

“And if you kill yourself, what will that accomplish? Your spirit will still not be at rest. More importantly, what will become of your people? Who will lead them?”

“Pakito... Samtu... Bahco...”

“Will they be able to stand up to the Silvanesti? Can any of them hold your band together in the face of privation and defeat, as you have?” When she didn’t answer, Duranix glared at her, eyes flashing. “So you’re not content to take your own life, you’re willing to condemn your followers to defeat and slavery, too. What a selfish end! Is that how the Scarred One will be remembered—too weak to survive one blow, one death?”

His words kindled a spark in her at last. She took a step toward him. Duranix returned her angry gaze.

“I am not weak,” she said, memories of all she had survived—the deaths of her parents, capture by Silvanesti soldiers, deprivation, loneliness—flashing through her mind.

“Prove it then. Survive. Live as long and as well as you can! You honor your people and Amero’s memory by doing so.”

Karada closed her eyes tightly, swaying a little. When she opened them again she said, “What about you, dragon? What will you do?”

He looked at the walls of Yala-tene. “I don’t know. I’m sick of this place, sick of all the violent, smelly humans who infest my peaceful valley. For Amero’s sake, I can’t knock the village down and chase everyone away, so perhaps I’ll leave.” A memory of another place came to his mind. “Yes, I’ll go somewhere far away.”

She rubbed a hand over her red-rimmed eyes. “My band was leaving tomorrow. I’ll have to put off our departure until we’ve settled some things—the elves, the girl Mara.”

“Cut her throat and be done with it.”

“It isn’t that simple. There’s likely to be sympathy for her, once the story of the hidden bows gets around.” She inhaled deeply. “And there’s Zannian.”

“What has he to do with anything?”

“He lives because Amero wanted him to live. Amero believed he could teach our brother to be a peaceful man. I never shared his confidence in Zannian’s ability to change, and I’m not so forgiving of the raiders’ crimes.” She frowned. “But he is my brother, too. And now, my responsibility.”

Still in human form, Duranix went with her to Lyopi’s house and there viewed Amero’s body. With his gray-flecked beard, the man he’d become hardly resembled the inquisitive youth Duranix had plucked from a tree and saved from the yevi all those years ago.

What an evanescent thing is human life, the dragon thought. Was it the brevity of their existence that made them feel so vulnerable, fearful, and violent?

It was a question Amero would have enjoyed discussing with Duranix. No one present could do it justice, so the dragon kept his thought to himself.

Karada called a great council of her hand and the people of Yala-tene. The resulting crowd was so large they had to assemble on open ground west of the wall, near the hill where Amero’s friend and foundry master, Huru, had fought the raiders and died defending his village.

With everyone present except the Silvanesti and those nomads appointed to guard them, over sixteen hundred people were gathered to hear Karada, Lyopi, and the elders speak. The first matter addressed was how to honor Amero. The village elders suggested an elaborate funeral pyre, either on the valley floor or, as Jenla suggested, on the old Offertory in the village. Jenla’s idea was on the verge of being approved when Duranix arrived, still in his fair-haired human shape. He was taller than anyone present, topping even Pakito by a handspan, and caused a stir when he appeared.

After obtaining Lyopi’s permission to join the discussion, the dragon-man spoke against the use of the old Offertory. With its reminders of the Sensarku’s strange antics, he said this would not be a location that would please Amero.

Lyopi asked what he would suggest.

“Before the cave-in of the storage tunnels many years ago, you humans usually buried your dead,” Duranix replied. “I think Amero should be put in a special place in the mountains, sealed forever inside. Then there will always be a place you can come and be near him.”

Karada asked if he had a place in mind.

“My cave.”

This took the humans aback. Tepa spoke for all when he asked, “If the Arkuden is sealed in your cave, where will you be?”

“Far away,” said the dragon. “Once Amero is put to rest, I am leaving the Valley of the Falls forever.”

Consternation erupted. Villagers rose to their feet and cried out against this idea. Who would protect them if both Amero and the dragon were gone? Duranix listened implacably, unmoved by their fears.

Karada called roughly for silence. The anxious villagers gradually settled down.

Duranix said, not unkindly, “My friendship was with Amero. Though I think well of some of you, I’ve realized I can’t stay here any longer, minding your small affairs and defending you from your own vicious brethren. I’ve been too much with humanity these past thirty years. It’s time for me to go, to find and coexist with those of my own kind.”

They continued to plead with him; wondering plaintively how they would survive without their protector.

“How did you survive before you came here?” he asked vexedly.

“We wandered,” Jenla said. “But we can’t go back to those ways. Some of us are too old, and the younger ones know no other life than this.”

“Then we’ll stay here,” Tepa said stoutly, grasping her hand. “The soil is fertile, the hunting is good, and the Arkuden’s wall is high.” He looked to Karada. “And we have friends, if we need them, yes?”

The nomad chieftain nodded curtly, and the villagers’ anxiety was slowly replaced by hope.

It was agreed Amero would be placed in the great cave behind the waterfall. Duranix would seal all the entrances. The burial would take place before sundown that very day.

Some of the crowd had begun to move away, but Karada’s loud voice halted them, reminding them there were other matters to settle.

“First, the murderer of Amero must be punished,” she announced.

Adjat the potter, a distant kinsman to Mara, rose. “The girl has lost her wits,” he said bluntly. “She’s mad with fear and hatred of the Silvanesti.”

“So? Are we just to forget what she has done?”

Intimidated, Adjat replied, “Of course not. It just seems... wrong to condemn the feeble-minded.”

“Seems perfectly right to me,” Karada said. “Murder should be repaid with death. That is the way of the plains.”

“This is not the plains, great chief,” Hulami the winemaker said.

They argued fruitlessly a while, until Karada at last turned to Lyopi.

“You were his woman,” said Amero’s sister. “What do you say?”

“I’d gladly wring her neck,” Lyopi said, her voice tired but strong. Though Karada nodded sagely, the village elders looked appalled. Lyopi went on. “But I can’t. The wretched girl has known nothing but torment and fear since she left Yala-tene with Tiphan last winter. Maybe he’s the true author of this deed—abetted by Silvanesti taskmasters and her oppressive devotion to Karada.”

It was obvious Karada wanted to speak, but having asked Lyopi her opinion, the nomad chieftain kept silent.

Lyopi said, “I say exile her. Turn her loose on the open plain and let the spirits of the land and air decide her fate. That’s what our ancestors would have done.”

This verdict won instant favor from the villagers in the crowd, who were sick of bloodshed. The elders quickly approved exile for Mara.

Karada turned to Duranix in disgust. “Crazed as she is, she won’t last five days. Hunger, thirst, savage beasts... hers will be a slow, agonizing death,” she said. “Their ‘mercy’ is more cruel than my punishment!”

“Not killing her outright salves their conscience,” Duranix said darkly. “That’s what matters most to them.”

One last important decision remained.

“The man called Zannian, as everyone now knows, is my youngest brother, Menni,” Karada told the crowd. “Blinded in battle, he will likely never recover his sight.

It was Amero’s wish that Zannian remain in Yala-tene and he treated as his brother, not a defeated enemy. I don’t share this view. Zannian is a dangerous man, with no more honor in him than a hungry viper. Now that my brother is dead, Zannian should be dealt with like the snake he is.”

Beramun, listening quietly beside Harak until now, stood up. Lyopi nodded for her to speak.

“I suffered as much as anyone at Zannian’s hands. His men slew my family and enslaved me. He tried to take me by force, but I escaped. It sounds vain to say so, but I think he came to Yala-tene as much to recapture me as to conquer your village.”

Beramun glanced at Harak, who smiled and gave her an encouraging nod.

“I would gladly see him dead,” she continued, “but I think the only one who can rightly pass judgment on him is Karada. He’s her kin. Let her do with him what she thinks best.” Beramun sat down.

Karada looked enormously pleased.

Factions aligned themselves in completely different ways from when they’d debated Mara’s fate. The younger people of Yala-tene favored sparing Zannian, while the elders wanted him put to death. Hulami suggested exile for Zannian as well, but in his sightless state, nobody felt comfortable with that idea.

Lyopi stood up to speak. The crowd slowly quieted to hear her words.

“Much as I respect Karada and Beramun, I have to disagree with them,” she said. “Zannian should remain in Yala-tene.”

Karada opened her mouth to object, but the stalwart Lyopi pressed on.

“I don’t believe, as Amero did, that Zannian can be changed. As a vine is trained to a wall, so does it grow, and this raider chief was trained by a hate-filled woman and a black-hearted dragon. He’ll never be as kind as his brother or as noble as his sister.

“So let Zannian stay here,” she declared. “Let him live out his life as a prisoner of the people he sought to enslave. Let him live on our charity! Our pity will be a more bitter punishment than swift death would be.”

Her words, forcefully delivered, carried the day. As the conclave broke up, Karada sought out Beramun and embraced her.

“You are the daughter I need,” said the nomad chief. “Will you have me as your mother?”

Beramun blushed. “I’m gaining a mate and a mother in backward order! What do you say, Harak?”

Scratching his chin, he said. “If Karada can live with me, I can live with Karada.”

“You’re too clever, Wanderer,” Karada told him. “But if my daughter loves you, you have my tolerance.”

“And your trust?”

“That you must earn.”

Wrists tied behind her, Mara was blindfolded and thrown over a horse. Six nomads and four villagers escorted her. They rode west out of Yala-tene at sundown. Samtu and Hekani led the group upriver, then onto the open plain. Night was well underway when they stopped.

Samtu dismounted, pulling Mara off the horse. She cut the girl’s bonds and removed her doeskin blindfold. Trembling, Mara fell at Samtu’s feet.

“Don’t kill me!” she begged. “I did it to save us all from the Silvanesti!” She looked around at the other riders, eyes roving desperately in search of a sympathetic face. She found none. “Where is Karada? Let me speak to her. If she hears me, she’ll understand!”

Samtu was disgusted. According to Pakito, Karada’s last words to the girl had been a vow to kill her.

“The day you see Karada again will be the day you die,” she said. She gave the girl a single goatskin bag of water, a flint knife, and a pouch of dried fruit and elk jerky.

“Here’s food and water for four days,” Samtu continued. “You are exiled, Mara, daughter of Seteth and Evanna. If you ever return to Arku-peli or Karada’s band, you’ll be killed on sight. Now go!”

Peering fearfully over her shoulder, the girl moved away. At first she walked slowly, then picked up speed, and finally broke into a run. The last they saw of Mara, she was racing through the widely spaced pines, the fading twilight making her appear ghostlike and insubstantial. She was heading for the great savanna.

Hekani turned his horse around. “How long will she last?” he wondered.

“No way to tell,” said Samtu. “If she’s resourceful—and lucky—she might live a long time.”

“Do you believe that?”

The stout nomad woman thumped her heels against her horse’s ribs, starting the animal for home. “It no longer matters,” she said bluntly.

On the cliffs overlooking the village, Karada stood with Duranix, now restored to dragon form.

“Can you find her?” Karada asked him, her eyes sweeping the dark, distant countryside.

“Yes. Are you at peace with your decision?”

She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Peace? I’ve never known it and never will.”

Duranix thought this the truest thing she’d ever said. He’d never known a thinking creature less suited to tranquillity.

Rather than leaping into the air, Duranix fell forward off the cliff edge. Spreading his wings, he flew off to complete his final pact with the sister of his first and only human friend.

Zannian entered Yala-tene with a rope around his neck. This was as much to guide him as it was to restrain him. Bahco was leading him from horseback. The nomad was met by Lyopi and Beramun, and he handed the halter to Lyopi. Bidding the women good-bye, Bahco galloped away.

“So I’m in Arku-peli at last,” Zannian said. “I wish I could see it.”

Lyopi tugged on the braided rawhide rope to get his attention. “I’m Lyopi,” she said, “mate of Amero, your brother, once headman of the village.”

“Ah, yes. Mated for a day, weren’t you? Or was it less?”

Lyopi made a fist, but she only said, “Beramun is here, too.”

The name drove the smirk from Zannian’s face. He put out a hand. Beramun stepped aside to avoid it.

“I was hoping you would come,” he said, turning his head toward the crunch of her footstep.

“I leave with Karada tomorrow. Say what you want, then I’ll be going.”

“Out here? In broad daylight?”

“It’s night, and no one’s about,” Lyopi answered.

“Strange. When I heard Beramun’s voice, I thought it was a bright and sunny day.”

Lyopi gave the younger woman a sympathetic, inquiring look. Beramun shook her head, indicating his words held no pain for her. She held out a hand for the rope. Lyopi handed it to her, moved off a few paces, and sat down at the foot of one of the ramps leading up the inside of the wall.

“Lyopi is gone,” Beramun said. “Talk.”

“My guards tell me you’ve taken a mate, but they wouldn’t say who he was,” Zannian replied.

“Strange to say, he was one of your men. Harak.”

If she’d slapped him, she couldn’t have shaken the ex-raider chief more. His tanned face paled below the bandages around his eyes. His throat worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he forced a smile and said, “I can understand why he wants you, but how did he convince you to accept him? Did he use an amulet, as the nomad tried on Karada?”

She said nothing, refusing to be baited. Zannian took a step closer to her voice. She backed away, and he smiled unpleasantly.

“He’s known many women, you know. Cut quite a swath through the captives we took to Almurk. Had a taste for red hair, as I recall, so he’s changed just for you—”

She struck him open-handed across the jaw. No dainty girl, she rocked Zannian back on his heels. He laughed triumphantly.

“You must care if you hit me!”

Beramun backed away again, working to regain her composure. “Has anyone explained what’s to become of you?” she asked finally.

The odd lilt in her voice gave him pause, but he said jauntily, “With the Arkuden dead, I guess Karada will have my head on stick.”

“No.”

“What then?”

“You’re to live in Yala-tene, forever. The villagers will feed you and take care of you like a child. They’ll lead you where you need to go and keep you clean, but you’ll never be allowed outside the walls of the town.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s what the rest of your life will be like, great raider chief. Every day will be just the same, and you shall live and die in darkness.”

Zannian was shaken by the time she finished. He let out a howl, then lunged at her. Lyopi stood to come to her aid, but Beramun waved the other woman off as she easily evaded him.

“I’ll escape!” he declared, head whipping left and right. “My eyes will heal, and I’ll escape!”

“Your sight will never return. You’ll dwell in this village until you’re old and feeble as well as blind. And since you’ve told us there is no more Menni, now there will also be no more Zannian. You’re to have a new name, one befitting your new life—Horiden, ‘the Sightless One.’”

“Amero wouldn’t let you do this!” he said, voice rising high.

“Amero is dead, and this is not my doing. I would gladly grant your wish and take the head from your shoulders, but it wasn’t my decision to make.”

She expected him to rage or even plead for a warrior’s death, but he did neither. He mastered himself, then smiled broadly. That smile unnerved Beramun more than naked rage.

“If you want me dead, then I’m happy,” he declared. “And make no mistake—I will see again, and I will escape this blighted valley. I shall forge an even greater band of raiders next time. You’ll see! My mistake was getting involved with Nacris and the green dragon. They were twisted by ancient hatreds. I’ll create a new brotherhood of true warriors, greater than Karada’s band, and sweep all before me....”

So consumed was he by his grand dream that he didn’t notice Beramun had left him. Lyopi came and took the rope from her. The women embraced.

“Farewell and be well,” Beramun whispered.

“Peace to you, and all your kin,” Lyopi murmured back. Behind them, Zannian ranted on. Lyopi squeezed Beramun’s arms and asked, “Do me one favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Name your first son Amero, will you? He’d like that.”

Beramun felt tears start. She kept them in check and smiled.

“I will.”

She left the village by the west baffle and returned on foot to the nomad’s camp. She never set foot in Yala-tene again, nor met anyone who lived there for the rest of her long, long life.

Dawn was near, and still Karada kept her place atop the cliff. She did not sleep, for she did not want to dream. When she heard the rush of wings, she looked up and saw Duranix descending through the broken clouds.

He landed nearby. She saw he had something clutched in one foreclaw. When the dragon opened his talons, Mara’s limp form rolled out on the ground.

“I was beginning to think you’d lit out for good,” Karada said good-humoredly. She checked the girl. Mara had swooned from fear and the rush of traveling so high in the air, but she was very much alive. Karada quickly gagged her and tied her hands and feet.

Earlier, Duranix had carried Amero’s body to the cave they’d once shared. He swept aside the ashes from the old hearth and laid his friend there, piling loose stones over him. Then, with claws and fire, he sealed the outer openings—first the largest one behind the waterfall, then Amero’s smaller, personal entrance, where his hoist used to be. Lastly, the dragon closed the unfinished third entrance Amero had meant for Duranix to use when in human form. The cave was now secure, save for the vent holes. Duranix clung to the rocky ceiling with his claws and butted his homed head against the vents, breaking them open into a single hole large enough for him to crawl through.

Now, having returned with Mara, he and Karada would conduct their private justice.

With Karada in one foreclaw and the unconscious Mara in the other, Duranix stepped into the open hole and dropped back into the black cave. The fall into total darkness tested even Karada’s nerves. She gripped Duranix’s hard-scaled claw until she felt the rush of wind past her ears ease, signaling he’d opened his broad wings and was slowing their descent.

The dragon landed heavily. His massive hind legs took up the shock and spared his passengers. Setting Karada down, Duranix exhaled a small bolt of lightning into a pile of charred wood he’d scraped up earlier from around the cave. A smoky red fire flared.

Clomping across the rough stone floor, Duranix laid the unconscious Mara across the heap of stones that was Amero’s grave. Turning his huge, reptilian head suddenly, he said to Karada, “She’ll die slowly in here, of starvation.”

“Only if she chooses to.”

Karada went to the pile of stones. From her belt she drew a short bronze dagger—the same one Mara had used to kill Amero. She put the dagger in Mara’s slack hand.

The fire was already dwindling. Duranix picked Karada up in a hind claw and launched himself at the roof. When he reached the opening, he had to close his wings and grip the edge of the hole with his foreclaws. He worked himself through.

Putting the woman down, Duranix covered the opening with great slabs of gray slate and yellow sandstone. He was satisfied, but his companion wasn’t, not yet. Karada found a large stone and fitted it onto the pile, closing the last small gap.

They walked to the edge of the cliff. Below them the waterfall foamed and thundered.

“Where will you go?” she shouted over the water’s roar.

“I have a place in mind. A long way away, but the company promises to be congenial.”

“Human?”

His barbels twitched. “I said congenial. A dragon, if you must know, of my bronze race.”

“Female?” she asked. He nodded his horned head, human-fashion.

“I’m tired of humans,” Duranix replied. “Maybe in a hundred years or so I’ll be able to stand them again.”

She looked up at him. “Some of us won’t be around in a hundred years.”

He brought his huge face close, eyelids clashing like swords. “You’ll live longer than I,” he told her. “When my bones are dust and my scales gone to verdigris, plainsmen will sing of Karada, the Scarred One, the greatest hunter and warrior of them all. They already make up songs about you.”

“I don’t listen to such nonsense.”

“Sometimes there’s truth in nonsense.” He lifted his head and spread his wings.

“You’re leaving now?” she said. “The folk in Yala-tene will miss saying farewell.”

“It’s better I go now. Less trouble. Less fuss. Goodbye, Karada.”

She put out her hand, touching his massive flank. “Nianki.”

Duranix balanced on his rear claws, poised for flight. “Farewell then, Nianki. Be worthy of your honor in all things.”

He leaped from the precipice, flying through the cloud of mist perpetually suspended over the falls. For a while his bronze skin glistened in the first, faint light of dawn, then he was so far away all she could see of him was a black silhouette against the indigo sky.