“Since you have no shield, it would be unfair of me to use mine,” he explained.
“Use whatever you like,” Karada replied. She shifted her spear from an overhand, throwing position to an underhand thrusting grip. “Hah!” she cried, urging Appleseed forward.
Balif likewise launched his mount into motion. They met with a loud clang of metal and stone. A shout went up from the elf army.
The fine flint head of Karada’s spear showed a deep chip where Balif’s bronze blade struck it. Another blow and the flint would shatter.
Karada shifted her grip to present more of the hardwood shaft and lunged again. His sword hilt slammed into her jaw. Dazed, she raked her spear upward, opening a jagged cut on his forehead, below the rim of his helmet. Balif caught her spear arm with his free hand, pinning it back, and brought his sword down hard on Karada’s shoulder. Her wooden armor saved her from a serious wound, but it fell apart as the sharp edge of the elven blade cut the thongs holding it together. Karada twisted her horse around to shield her exposed side, then she hit Balif in the chest with the butt of her spear. He grunted, falling backward off his horse.
Unbidden, the elf army surged forward, eager to save their stricken commander. Balif jumped to his feet and waved them off. Karada took her horse back a few paces to gather room to charge. Shouting, she bore down on Balif. He stood awaiting her attack impassively, sword at his side. At the last moment, he raised his empty hands, fingers spread, and intoned two words in his own language. Appleseed stopped and rooted his hoofs to the ground. The stop was so sudden Karada had no time to prepare, and she went flying forward over the horse’s neck. She landed hard at Balif’s feet. By the time her head had cleared, she found herself staring at the point of Balif’s sword.
In spite of the blood trickling down his face from his forehead wound, his expression was calm and his sword was steady.
“Yield,” he said.
“I will not!”
“By my ancestors, you’re stubborn!” He sheathed his sword and extended his hand. “Come on, get up.”
She sullenly refused his help and stood on her own. The standard bearers, flanked by the elite riders from the center of the elf host, quickly surrounded Karada and their commander. One of the elves handed his commander a cloth, which Balif tied around his head to stanch the bleeding.
The older elf, who had a high, domed forehead and thin, unelven whiskers, sat silently on his horse, fingering a long wooden staff studded with colored stones.
“What will you do with the human, my lord?” he asked.
“A good question,” Balif said. One of his retainers found his helmet and offered it to him. Balif tucked the conical bronze helmet under one arm and said, “I could take her back to my lord Silvanos, as a captive.”
“I’d rather die,” Karada spat.
“I thought you would.” Balif sighed and gestured to his soldiers. The ring of javelins surrounding her lowered.
The older elf, his posture deferential, said something to Balif in their own tongue. Balif shook his head, saying, “No, Vedvedsica. I have a better idea.” Then he spoke to Nianki. “I think a better message would be sent to your people if I spared your life and sent you on your way.”
“Not a wise choice,” warned Vedvedsica quickly, all deference gone.
“No one asked you.” The sharp retort shut the elder elf’s mouth and brought satisfied grins to the faces of Balif’s retainers.
“You’re letting me go?” demanded Nianki.
“Just so.”
Karada tore off her bear’s tooth headband and hurled it to the ground. “No! Damn you, a warrior doesn’t let a dangerous enemy go free! Do you think I’m so harmless, I’m not worth killing?”
“On the contrary,” he replied, swinging back onto his horse. “You’ve caused much trouble to my lord Silvanos. Neither my lord nor I wishes to pursue a war against the plainsmen in our territory. By sparing you I send a clear message to your comrades that Silvanos’s rule is just and temperate. You’ll be deprived of your arms and your horse, and you’ll have to leave this province before the next conjunction of the red and white moons. After that time, if you attack subjects or property of my lord Silvanos, you’ll be declared an outlaw. You’ll be hunted down and killed without mercy. Is that clear?”
She did not reply. When the silence lengthened, the elves around her slowly recovered their javelins and broke ranks. Balif, Vedvedsica, and his retainers rode past her, down to the river to relieve the battered elf force there.
*
Line after line of elf warriors rode by Karada, inspecting her with cool indifference. She felt her face burn with impotent fury.
Appleseed was led away, and her spear was taken as a trophy by Balif’s squire. Seething, Karada turned her back on the elf host and walked away, toward the distant mountains.
She followed the trampled grass trail of the plainsmen who’d abandoned her. Before long she came upon a group of her people on foot, led by the towering Pakito.
“Karada! You live! The day isn’t totally lost!” said the giant.
“I live, if I can bear the shame of this day.” Balif hadn’t even left her a sword to fall on. “I’m pleased you made it and led these good men to safety,” she said, clasping Pakito’s burly arm. The remaining plainsmen who’d fought on foot gathered round her. She told them how she’d fought Balif and lost, and how he’d outlawed them all from the province.
“What’ll we do?” asked Targun, one of her oldest followers. “Where do we go?”
“Away,” she said. “We’ve lost, and all we can do is gather our strength and fight another day.”
“You mean we’re not giving up?”
She looked over all that remained of her once-proud band of followers. Tired, sore, bleeding from a handful of superficial cuts, Karada managed to smile in her old, fierce way.
“The land where our ancestors roamed will be the land where our children live,” she declared. “So long as we live, we can rise and fight again. Is that not so?”
“Aye!” Pakito shouted.
“Aye!” echoed the others.
“For now, we’ll go over the mountains,” she said, pointing northwest. “There are no elves there.”
Chapter 11
In winter the mountains slumbered under a thick layer of snow. The passes were filled with deep drifts, ice formed on every surface, and the cold air cut through the heaviest furs like a fine bronze blade. Summer was more agreeable, though often strange. Warm, humid air from the lowlands got trapped in the high passes, filling them with dense white fog that could linger for days.
This was the situation when Duranix and Pa’alu arrived at Vulture’s Beak, the highest pass in the mountains. On the eastern side of the peak the sun shone, and a dry wind flowed down the slopes to the plain. As soon as they crossed over to the western side, the world was wrapped in chill, damp mist.
“I should’ve flown,” Duranix muttered, rubbing his arms.
“Why didn’t you?” Pa’alu asked. He pulled a fur cloak from his pack and threw it around his shoulders.
Duranix did not reply. Of course, he could have changed to dragon form and carried Pa’alu along, as he did Amero, but he wanted time to get to know this barbarian better. There was an aura of menace about Pa’alu that Duranix couldn’t quite fathom. He needed to take the measure of Pa’alu before introducing him to the peaceful, sheltered world of Yala-tene.
Their rate of progress slowed as the fog closed in, leaving them to work their way along a narrow ledge. The drop-off might have been two steps away or two hundred; the fog made it impossible to tell. Even the dragon’s powerful senses were of little use. Between the muffling effect of his human guise, the cold, and the fog, he could discern little about their surroundings.
