plainsmen’s instincts were to head north, following the game herds as they migrated before winter set in. Karada’s trek east into the inhospitable mountains seemed like folly.
Karada paid no attention to the lessening muster. Their strength as a people lay in their unity. Leaving the band was a step backward for the deserters, a return to the hard, desperate days of lonesome hunting and gathering. If there were those in the band too weak to trust her, then she didn’t want them around anyway.
“Hatu,” she said, rising to her feet, “how far to the lake?”
He surveyed the gray peaks with his good eye. “Half a day,” he said. “Certainly by nightfall.” He pointed to a trio of nearby mountains. “The river passes through them on the north side of the low ridge. The lake of the falls is on the other side.”
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
Hatu had not been to the lake in ten years, and his memory played him false. By the time the sun had begun to dip below the western horizon, Karada’s band was barely in the shadow of the first major peak in the mountain range. They paused on the riverbank and ate cold rations from their vanishing supplies, not bothering to build campfires or forage for fresh food. This was usually the time of day the nomads made camp for the night, but Karada insisted they push onward.
She formed a mounted patrol of six, including herself, and rode ahead into the darkening valley. The rest were left under the leadership of Targun and Samtu, to follow at the best possible speed.
The sound of their horses’ hooves rattled loudly off the walls of the narrow valley. Signs of human life continued: tracks in the mud on the riverbank, signs that outcroppings of rock had been hammered away to make wider trails. By the side of one trail Karada and her scouts found a pile of stinking garbage — fruit and vegetable peelings, offal, and the like. It was becoming more and more obvious they were approaching a sizable settlement.
The valley walls closed in, and the river made a sharp bend to the right. The low thrumming sound they’d been hearing became a steady booming noise, heralding the great waterfall. The night was very dark, with only occasional glimpses of the stars through scudding clouds. Karada ordered her companions to halt at the river’s bend and stay out of sight. She rode forward slowly alone.
Even by filtered starlight the waterfall was a stunning vista. The river poured down the mountainside, fed by a thousand clear springs and the snows of a long winter. It gathered force and hurled itself over the cliff, losing a third of its volume to mist. What remained churned up a bright, clear lake, which narrowed once more into the river they’d been following.
The lake was bound by a narrow shoreline on the right, thickly covered with low plants and slender trees growing in unnaturally straight rows. The wider, left bank was even more surprising. A cluster of tall, beehive- shaped houses filled the land between the lake and the cliff wall. Smoke rose from every rooftop, orange firelight glinting from many of the second story windows. The wind changed, bringing to Karada the odors of pine smoke and cattle dung.
Hatu edged forward on horseback to Karada’s side. He looked over the scene and whistled softly.
“This is it! Sure has changed,” he said in an awed voice.
“Ride back to the main band, and tell Targun to bring everyone on. We sleep in Arku-peli tonight.”
Pakito and the other scouts rode up. After admiring the sights for a moment, Pakito said, “We’re on the wrong side of the river. It’s too deep to ford. How do we get across?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a ford upstream.” Karada wrapped the reins around her hand. “Let’s find out.”
They didn’t have to travel far before they found the bridge. The plainsmen crowded around the end of the bridge, marveling at its construction.
“Is it a plant? Did it grow here?” Pakito wondered. “It’s made of wood and vine — ”
“Human hands made it,” Karada said. “See the blade marks on the planks?”
Karada and the scouts waited until the column of people appeared, headed by Targun, Samtu, and Hatu — the latter on horseback.
Karada and Pakito rode across the bridge. It swayed under their weight but held up fine. The rest of the band followed, many of the younger members clinging to the supporting vines and moving nervously from handhold to handhold until they were on solid ground again.
“What do you suppose they’re like, these people?” Pakito murmured as they rode slowly toward the first line of houses.
“They’re very clever,” offered Targun.
“That they may be, but living under piles of stone is for lizards, not plainsmen,” Karada stated flatly. “And where are their scouts, their watchmen? We could be a war party of elves for all they know.”
“We’ve been seen.” Hatu pointed to the looming houses. “There are people moving inside those stone piles. They know we’re here.”
He was right. Karada watched the upper-story windows and saw heads and bodies silhouetted again the inside glow of firelight. Suspicious, she slowed her horse, and the rest of the band did likewise. Just as they were about to enter the shadowed lane between the lines of houses, the wail of a ram’s horn filled the night.
The tired, edgy plainsfolk on foot recoiled from the sudden alarm. Hatu and the mounted warriors drew swords or leveled spears, but Karada called for calm and ordered everyone to stand still.
A glow appeared between the houses. As they watched, it came nearer, bobbing gently. It soon resolved itself into a solitary figure on foot, carrying a blazing torch. It was a young man, whose hair was cut short in a strange kind of fashion. Hatu fingered his own long braid of hair and gave the shorn villager a disparaging sneer. He made a rude comment to Pakito about a bald goat he’d once seen. The big man laughed.
The light was poor enough the young man did not seem to notice their disdain. He stopped a safe distance away.
“You’re the largest group so far,” he said in a genial voice. “Welcome!”
“You don’t even know who we are,” Karada said coldly.
“More of Karada’s band, yes? Your people have been arriving steadily for the past few days.”
The plainsmen exchanged looks of surprise. Pakito asked, “How many of Karada’s band have come here?”
The torchbearer considered the question silently, tilting his head in thought for a few seconds, then replied, “Over two hundred, so far. How many are you?”
“Eighty-eight.”
“Quite a crowd! Well, follow me. I’ll take you to your comrades.”
The pale-faced, short-haired man started back the way he’d come.
Hatu muttered, “Our so-called comrades — those who abandoned us on the battlefield. How will they take to seeing us now?”
“That’s my problem,” Karada said quietly. “Whatever happens, don’t let the old folks or children come to harm.”
The mounted plainsmen followed the torch bearer in single file, Karada leading. They passed silently through the quiet village. A small wolf sprang out of the shadows and barked at them. Karada raised her spear to strike, then noticed the wolf was tied to a stake with a rope around its neck. Their guide came back and quieted the beast with a few soothing words and a pat on the head.
“You command beasts here?” asked Samtu.
“A few. They guard our homes and fight off their wild brethren.”
“Why should they do that?” Pakito asked from over Karada’s shoulder.
“We’ve tamed them. Settled life agrees with them, as it does the rest of us.”
The torch bearer went on, Karada’s people following him. Each one passed under the scrutiny of the tame wolf, who watched them with unblinking yellow eyes.
The copse of houses came to an end. A patch of sandy, open ground followed, in the midst of which was a tall, square pile of stones, quite unlike the domed houses. The top layers of stone were soot-stained.
“What’s this?” asked Samtu.
“Our place of offering. Here we give oxen and elk to our protector, the dragon.”
“Duranix,” the chief said.
Their young guide halted. “You know of him?”
