Nacris and the remaining Jade Men were the last to go. Standing silent and immobile in the hot morning sun, the Jade Men’s green face paint and green clothing made them look like an orchard of weird, man-shaped trees.
Nacris looked them over proudly. “Sons of Greengall,” she said loudly, “our master has gone away to do battle against the beast whose range we have invaded. With the bronze dragon gone, there is nothing between us and victory but a few hundred hut-dwellers who think they can defeat us with tricks and traps and piles of stone. But we know better!”
One of the Jade Men raised his spear in salute, then plunged its head into the ground.
“No retreat!” he vowed. “We will not leave this valley without victory!”
“No retreat!” echoed his comrades. “Greengall! Greengall!”
Nacris let them chant a while, then held up a hand for silence. They quieted.
“We will make the river run red with our enemies’ blood!” she said. Leaning forward in her litter, she added, “But there is one villager you must not kill. I speak of Amero, called Arkuden, the headman of Arku-peli. The Master has given this man to me to use as I will. When the battle joins, I will point him out to you. Mark him well.” Her flinty eyes raked over the ranks of green men. “In my hands it will take him many, many days to die, and from him I will have the answer to my final vengeance. No one, not even my son, will deny me my due! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Green Mother,” they replied as one.
At her nod, they picked up their weapons and marched into the steep pass, the last of the invaders to quit the plain.
Despite their initial success, it was clear to the villagers they hadn’t won the war. All day, while they worked feverishly to strengthen their defenses, they knew they were being watched. Zannian’s band remained out of sight, yet from the crags above the swift river to the shadowed crevices beyond the ruins of the fallen bridge, a thousand hidden eyes saw everything being done on the open floor of the valley. Work stopped periodically as nervous villagers stood and stared at the far shore, trying to catch sight of the invisible menace. Calmer heads, like Huru or tough old Jenla, had to scold or cajole them back to work.
On Amero’s instructions, the east bank of the river was covered with obstacles to hinder the raiders. Stakes were pounded deep into the sandy loam and long vines were strung between them, creating tangle-traps. Though his people were exhausted from the night’s battle, Amero kept them working. Busy, they had less time to be afraid.
He walked among them tirelessly, offering encouragement, settling disagreements, helping out whenever any difficulties arose. He hammered stakes, braided vines, and even helped comb the shoreline for bodies and weapons washed up during the night. While working on this last task, he came across Beramun piling up raider spears and leather breastplates in heaps. A score of dead raiders lay nearby, stripped of arms. Some villagers were preparing a pyre for them.
“Greetings,” Amero said to the girl. “Are you well?”
“Well enough,” she replied. She threw two boiled cuirasses on the growing pile.
“I saw you on the bridge tower last night. You fought like a panther.” Beramun did not reply, but stood staring down at the debris of battle, arms folded. “I mean that as a compliment,” Amero explained awkwardly.
She shook her head, dismissing his words, then kicked the heap of stiff leather armor. “I helped make these,” she said. Tears welled up in her jet eyes. “There was another prisoner, a woman named Roki, my friend — ” A sob interrupted her words. “She and I escaped together, but she…”
Her misery made his heart ache, but Amero didn’t dare take her in his arms. He settled for taking her hand. The moment was fleeting. She noticed the others were watching them and freed her hand, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.
Hulami the vintner arrived with a caravan of travois loaded with food and drink.
“Arkuden!” Hulami called.
Without another word, Beramun slipped away. Amero drew a deep breath and let it sigh out.
“How goes the work in the village?” he asked the vintner.
Hulami handed her chief a skin of wine. “Well, thanks to the dragon, the north and south entrances are sealed, but the western baffle still has a gap. I asked Montu to organize a gang to finish the job, but the other elders in the village are protesting. They say if the last opening is blocked, everyone outside will be trapped if the raiders cross the river.”
“Blast them! We’ll see about that!” Amero shoved the wineskin back into Hulami’s hands. He named Huru to command in his absence, then stalked back to Yala-tene.
The western entrance was just as Hulami described, partially open. The filled section looked fine. Duranix had torn up boulders the size of small huts and wedged them into the gap between the baffle wall and the main wall. A hundred men pushing at once could never dislodge such mighty stones.
On the other side of the baffle, two villagers stood casual guard, leaning on their spears. One of them was Lyopi.
“Why isn’t this gap closed?” Amero demanded as soon as he was within earshot.
Taken aback by his bluntness, Lyopi replied, “The elders chose not to. How wall you and the others get back inside if there’s no opening?”
“If we fail out there and the wall stands open, the raiders will ride right through,” he snapped. “I won’t have the town’s safety endangered by stupid half-measures!” He cupped hands to his lips, calling, “Montu! Montu, where are you?”
“Calm down,” Lyopi said. “I thought the raiders had been turned back. Why so angry, Amero?”
“Many good people died last night to keep our village safe! Their deaths mean nothing if the village falls from carelessness!” Red-faced, he shouted for Montu again.
Since reason had no effect on his bad temper, Lyopi shouted back, “You’ll find the elders at the Offertory, Arkuden! Go and rant at them, not me!”
Without another word, he did just that.
The town was nearly empty, with so many people at the river camp or manning the walls. The Offertory felt especially abandoned. Before they’d left, the Sensarku had put everything neatly away. Their communal houses were closed and shuttered. The walls of the Offertory were as clean and white as ever, but windblown sand had drifted through the opening in the sanctuary wall, marring the spotless inner courtyard.
When Amero approached the cairn, a flock of crows rose squawking from the top, scattering ash and burned bones. Amero circled the cairn and found Montu and the remaining elders sitting on the sand. Slabs of roast were piled between them. Open pots of wine and cider lent their acid bite to the air. The elders were dining heartily on elk meant for the dragon.
“Greetings, victorious Arkuden!” cooper Montu hailed him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Amero demanded. They regarded him blankly. “Why didn’t you finish closing the western baffle?”
Adjat the potter said, “Arkuden, if we close that last opening, no one can get in.”
“That’s the purpose of the wall, idiot!” Amero shouted.
Stunned by his unusual harshness, Adjat said, “But you’re outside, with so many of our friends and kinsmen — ”
“And fourteen of our friends and kinsmen died last night to keep the enemy at bay! I won’t have you endangering the town out of misguided feelings for me or anyone else. Close the baffle at once! This very morning. Do you hear?”
“The Protector’s gone, and there aren’t any young men left to do the heavy work,” Montu protested.
“Then do it yourself!” he shouted. “Turn out every soul left in Yala-tene — the old, the young, the sick, the lame — and let them carry stones. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Arkuden,” said the cooper meekly. “Yes. We’ll begin right away.”
They put aside their meat and filed out of the Offertory. Following them, Amero added, “If you need ready stone, pull down these walls.”
The elders halted in a body, aghast. “Pull down the Protector’s place?” said Adjat.
“The Sensarku won’t protest,” Amero said coldly. “Leave the cairn if you must, but take all the stone you
