The dragon shook his massive head. “I could find no one brave enough to converse with me,” he said, sounding vexed. “The nomads are hiding in fear of elf retribution.”
Duranix backed away from the cairn. The flames had subsided a bit, and the balmy wind off the lake was blowing smoke and hot ashes. He moved off a few paces and unfurled his wings. Without another word, he leaped into the air and flew back to his lair behind the waterfall.
Amero took a deep breath and faced the crowd. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Duranix might have been able to save our people if he’d been here. He was away, working on our behalf, and he’s only one creature. He can’t be everywhere at once.” He searched the faces of the stunned, anguished people. “If any of you are unhappy with me, with what I have done, speak now. I will listen.”
For a moment no one said anything. Then Valka, father of Halshi, tottered to the front of the crowd. He was elderly, lame from old hunting injuries. Despite his gnarled limbs and twisted hip, he stood as straight as he could before Amero.
“I’ve lived twice as long as my father,” he said in a wavering, tired voice. “I’ve seen more of my children survive in the last ten years than in all the years before. I have a warm house, a bed, and much family around me. These things I owe to the great dragon and to his son.” When he used the word “son,” Pa’alu turned to stare at Amero.
Old Valka went on. “Halshi was my only daughter, a good girl, hard-working and cheerful. I’ll miss her, but I would rather she died in a cave at Yala-tene than out in the wild, poisoned by snakebite or torn to pieces by the yevi. Here, a hundred families knew her and can mourn for her. That’s as good a rest as any plainsman can hope for.”
Valka doffed his buckskin cap and bowed his head. “Be content, Amero. You’ve made my life more than I ever expected.”
By threes and fives and tens, the people of Yala-tene bared their heads and expressed sentiments like Valka’s. In the end, Amero found their gratitude as hard to bear as their grief. Weeping, he walked off alone into the darkness beyond the dying pyre.
Amero remained in the village until the fire was out. By then it was very late, and the crowd had dispersed, save for a few, like Valka and Pa’alu, who slept on the ground by the cairn. As Amero walked slowly through the quiet village on his way back to the cave, he passed by the remains of his copper experiment. He took a moment to kick apart the clay bowl. Instead of a cascade of separate copper pellets, the bowl contained a single mass of metal, all melted together. At least the day had one success, though he had no heart to celebrate it.
Chapter 12
By the time Karada reached the western slopes of the mountains, her band of followers had grown from forty-odd warriors on foot and horse to over a hundred. All along the route plainsmen left the line of march to collect their mates and children, most of whom lived in solitary camps in the eastern foothills. In the wake of their defeat, they feared the Silvanesti would sweep the countryside clear of humans, so they packed up their families and followed Karada west.
It was raining as the long, straggling procession of nomads wound its way along the twisting mountain passes. Most of them, Karada included, had walked all the way from the Thon-Thalas. What horses they had were given to a few trusted scouts, who rode ahead looking for potential trouble and locating the best trails.
The habit of leadership was strong in Karada. Though this ragtag collection of families was a far cry from the hundreds of warriors she had so recently led, they still saw her as their chief, and it was a role she could not easily relinquish.
She was constantly on the move, going from the head of the line to the back, encouraging the wounded and whipping the laggards into line. It became clear four days into the march that the elves were not pursuing, but still Karada wouldn’t allow her people to dawdle. She drove them over the mountains through the low, easy southern passes, and not until they reached the great open plain did she allow any rest.
The skies cleared, and while the younger hunters scoured the savanna for food, Karada held a council with the surviving leaders of the band. There weren’t many — Targun, Pakito, Hatu the One-eyed, and Samtu.
No one was surprised Samtu remained in Karada’s band despite being threatened by her own chief. Samtu owed everything to Karada. Her family had died when she was only five. Karada had found the girl wandering like a fox cub, naked and filthy, and raised her in a stern but caring way.
Karada’s seconds ranged themselves around a modest fire, sitting on whatever rocks or logs were convenient. Karada took a chunk of trail bread from her knapsack — the last bit of food she had — broke off a piece and handed the rest to Pakito. The trail bread went around the circle until it was gone, then Karada started a gourd of fresh water in its wake.
“Here we are, back again on the plains of my birth,” Karada said. “I wish it were for better reasons.”
“I can’t think of a better reason than being alive,” Targun said. Though Karada had never stopped to consider it before, he was the oldest man present and was showing his age. His once black hair was shot through with gray, his squat, powerful frame now seemed wasted and hollow.
“At least there’s good fishing here,” he added. “Nothing bigger than a minnow ever got up the blasted Thon- Thalas!”
They laughed a little. The water gourd came back to Karada. It was still heavy and sloshing. Her comrades had left much of the water for her.
“It’s late in the season,” she said. “We don’t have the time or the horses to hunt down enough game to feed the band.” She spat on the flattened grass. “Balif thinks he’s shown himself to be a generous conqueror by letting us go. The fact is, if we don’t do something, few of us will survive the winter.”
“What can we do?” Samtu wondered.
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Silence reigned. Finally, Pakito said, “We could find Pa’alu.”
“How will that help?”
The big man reddened. “He’s smart. He could think of something,” he said lamely.
“He’s smart all right — smart enough to run off and not come back,” jeered Hatu.
Pakito jumped up. “Watch your words, One-eye!”
“Have I said something untrue?” Hatu was no weakling himself, the last survivor of a family of four strapping brothers. His manner was always outwardly mild, but he was a tough, sometimes ruthless character. Even Karada respected him as a fighter.
“My brother never ran away,” Pakito said. “The chief ordered us to follow the dragon-man.”
“So where did he follow him to? The red moon?”
Pakito took a step toward him. Karada stopped the giant with a word.
“Sit,” she said. Pakito flexed his battle-scarred hands into fists, but he obeyed his chief and sat down.
“Fighting each other is worse than stupid,” she told them. “I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“I wonder about Pa’alu,” Targun said. Pakito glared, but the old man went on. “Pa’alu and the dragon-man, I mean. Did they go to the Place of the Dragon?”
“So what if they did?” asked Samtu.
“What of the settlement there? Might they help us?”
Karada slowly sat up straight. “I pondered that when Pakito told me how the dragon-man helped defeat some elves at the place of standing stones.” She made a fist. “I put away the idea because I thought we could beat the elves without help.”
“Things have changed,” said Targun.
“A dragon would make a powerful ally,” Pakito remarked.
“How can you bargain with such a monster?” said Hatu. “Long ago my brothers and I fought a dragon in those very mountains. He killed my father! For all I know, it’s the same beast.”
“It may not be. Should we pass up a useful ally for such a slender reason?” Karada said. Hatu did not reply. “You know the mountains, Hatu. Can you find Arku-peli?”
Long ago, a wounded elk had gored Hatu, costing him his right eye. He wore a patch on his headband that hid
