astonishment.
The axe fell to the floor. Clutching the copper bar, the nomad tried to wrench it from his body. Amero released his end of the bar as though it had scorched him. As the color drained from the nomad’s face, so too did horror whiten Amero’s features. The nomad’s knees buckled, and he fell facedown, driving the bar through his chest and out his back.
Amero’s mouth hung open as stared at the fallen man and the widening pool of blood around him. Though he’d seen men die many times before, he’d never killed anyone in his life.
He continued to stare at the dead man. He tried to bring a hand up to wipe sweat from his brow, but the hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t control its motion. Amero slumped on the edge of the fireplace and clasped his hands together tightly to stop their violent trembling. A hitter taste filled the back of his throat. He swallowed hard.
His paralysis was ended by the other nomad. The man grunted and began to stir against the wall. Amero jumped upright as though pulled by a string. He cursed himself as a fool — sitting here trembling like a child when the lives of his people were at stake.
Amero kept his eyes away from the dead man and concentrated on the living warrior, who could still pose a threat to him. Taking up a length of cord from his fallen apparatus, he went over and bound the semiconscious man’s hands behind his back. He then dragged him to the hoist and looked out.
Smoke was rising from the village — more smoke than from ordinary campfires. Though close to the deafening waterfall, Amero’s experienced ear caught other sounds: screams, shouts, the sound of animals and people in distress. He shoved the inert nomad into the basket and climbed in beside him. Once the counterweight was free, he sank quickly to the brewing battle.
At the foot of the hoist, a terrified group of children and mothers had gathered. They greeted Amero’s descent with frantic cries, which faded when they saw his grim face and bleeding chest wound.
“Arkuden, save us!” some cried.
He said nothing, but pushed the nomad out of the basket and proceeded to shake him awake.
“You!” Amero said. “You want to live, yes? Tell me, are all your comrades attacking through Cedarsplit Gap?”
“I’ll tell you nothing,” answered the bloody-faced man blearily.
There was no time for lengthy interrogation. Amero gave the nomad over to the older boys and girls and bade them guard him.
“Where’s the dragon?” asked one of the women, clutching two babes in her arms. “He’s supposed to protect us!”
“He’s not here,” Amero said bluntly. “We’ll have to defend ourselves.”
He had the spear left behind by the nomad he’d killed. Shouldering it, Amero hurried down the hill to join the fray.
Nianki slept like a child that night. Despite the sundering of the band and the strange death Pa’alu had chosen for himself, she felt oddly at peace when the time came for rest. It reminded her of the aftermath of a storm. Once the lightning, thunder, and rain disperse, the land lies supine, washed clean by the torrent.
The only thing that still disturbed her was that Amero had learned her secret. Just when she had won a measure of control over her passions, his knowledge threatened to upset her fragile equilibrium. She couldn’t look at him without having to fight down the horrible urge to blush, stammer, and run away
She abandoned her stuffy tent and took her bedroll to the ledge overlooking the lake. She spread the ram’s skin, wool side up, and lay down in such a way that she could see the lake between her feet. The dark glimmer of the water, coupled with the steady drone of the falls, soon lulled her to sleep.
Her rest was peaceful until near dawn. She dreamed a shadow fell across her face. Opening her eyes, she saw someone bending over her. His face was in darkness. She wanted to turn away, but she was paralyzed. She couldn’t even close her eyes. She could only lie there helplessly as he came closer and closer, wafting an icy cold breeze before himself. Just before the man’s lips touched hers, she saw a metal pendant glittering at his throat. Who was he? Why was he so cold? A single name formed in her mind: Pa’alu.
She woke, flailing her arms in horror.
There was no one there. Nianki hunched over, breathing hard. She uttered a curse and wiped the sweat from her cheek and brow.
The rocky ledge beneath her vibrated. Her imaginary battle with the unknown man had rolled her off the ram’s skin. Now her feet and hips rested on bare rock. A rhythmic vibration ran from the rock and into her body. Curious, Nianki pressed her ear to the ledge and listened.
Vibrations that strong and regular could only be hoof-beats!
She was up in a flash, striding toward the remains of the nomad camp. It was easy to find Pakito’s tent. His feet stuck out the end, and intertwined with them were Samtu’s smaller, paler feet. Nianki kicked Pakito’s soles. He rumbled threateningly and flung back the flap of his tent.
“What? Who’s there?”
“On your feet, Pakito! There’s trouble!”
“Karada?” He slid Samtu aside. She whimpered a little and tried to cling to his broad chest. “What trouble, Karada?”
“Nacris has come back!”
That sank in, and the big warrior was on his feet in short order.
Nianki went from tent to tent waking her greatly diminished band. In moments, eighty-six sleepy nomads assembled by the dragon’s cairn. All were armed, but few were more than half-dressed.
“We haven’t got much time!” Nianki declared. “The first sixty, follow me. Targun, take the others and pound on every door in Arku-peli. It’s time the mudtoes fought for their own valley.”
Karada and sixty warriors stumbled through the dark village toward the cattle pens. It was plain that if the rebel nomads were coming back, they’d have to use one of the passes at the northern end of the valley, of which Cedar-split Gap was the closest. At the top of the sandy hill that stood between the pens and the village, Karada halted her comrades.
“What is it?” asked Pakito, too loudly.
“Shh! Listen!”
The gap, lined with stone on all sides, focused the sound of massed horses into the valley. They all strained to hear, poised on the crest of the hill. The rumble was unmistakable.
“What’ll we do?” whispered Pakito.
“They think they’ll surprise us, catch us asleep,” Nianki said. “Instead, we’ll catch them.”
She spread her meager force out along the hill, just below the crest and out of sight from the other side. The warriors went down on one knee and leaned their spears forward, bracing the butt against their feet. If the renegades came galloping over the hill, they’d run smack into a hedge of waiting spear points.
Behind them, Targun, Samtu, and the rest rattled every door in the village. Some of the villagers came out to see what the commotion was, but most bolted their doors and tried to get a glimpse of the situation from their upper windows. They were the first to catch sight of the oncoming attack.
The cry went up. “Riders! Riders!”
“Brace yourselves!” Nianki told her warriors.
Waving torches, the first wave of horsemen swept down on the unguarded cattle pens, their agile ponies jumping over the low stone wall. They threw ropes over the gate and tore it down, then screaming nomads got behind the herd and started driving them out of the pen.
“They’re stealing our oxen!” wailed a villager.
Pakito eyed his chief. Karada shook her head. The warriors held their positions.
To her consternation, a sizable body of riders simply rode around the hill, along the pebbled shoreline. There was nothing between them and the village. Nianki was about to order her line to fall back when a second wave of mounted renegades, some eighty strong, came cantering over the hill. It wasn’t quite the headlong charge she wanted, but several of the riders did run into the thorny line of spears. The renegades recoiled, and showered the nomads on foot with stones and thrown spears.
“Hold your place,” Nianki said. “If something comes your way, knock it down before it reaches you.”
