need from the Offertory walls.”
“Very well, Arkuden.”
Sentinel horns blared. Amero cast about wildly, seeking the source of the alarm. The horns were too close to be the lookouts on the cliffs. They must be on the town wall.
He raced through the streets to the western entrance, irrationally fearing that the raiders had somehow jumped the river and were advancing on the wide-open town. As he ran up the ramp, he spied Lyopi among the crowd and worked his way to her.
“What is it?” he demanded, out of breath.
“Look there.” She pointed. Dust was rising from the orchard and gardens across the lake.
Everyone stared, crestfallen, but Amero said, “This was bound to happen. They failed to overwhelm us last night, so now they’ll try to get around us. They’ll try to land at different points along the lake and river. We don’t have enough people to defend the whole shoreline.”
“Will Duranix come back in time to stop them?” Lyopi asked.
Everyone atop the wall looked to Amero, waiting for his answer. He realized he couldn’t lie to them. “Duranix flew away to fight the green dragon,” the Arkuden said. “That means we’re on our own, but so are the raiders.”
There was complete silence for several heartbeats, then an elderly woman spoke up. “Can we win, Arkuden?”
“We’ll win.” He managed a smile. “Those savages fight only for lust and loot. We fight for our homes, our lives, and the lives of all who come after us. They are many, and ruthless. We are few, but determined. We’ll win because we must.”
No one cheered, but several heads nodded in agreement.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Lyopi turned to go back to her guard post, but Amero caught her by the arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what? Shouting at me? I’m not a child. I’m not going to cry because you raised your voice to me.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry for more than that. I’ve been acting like a fool half my age.”
He saw a teasing light glowing in those familiar brown eyes. “Half what age, Amero? You never stopped being a boy.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said ruefully. “I feel like a lost child right now. Duranix is gone, Beramun cares nothing for me, and I need all the friends I have left.”
He leaned forward to kiss her. Lyopi turned her face slightly and he kissed her cheek.
“Go,” she said, giving him a none-too-gentle shove. “If we’re both still alive at midsummer, we’ll be friends again.”
She was right, of course, he thought ruefully. His boy’s heart was still there, inside the breast of the desperate headman.
As he was leaving, Amero spied Montu leading a long line of villagers toward the last gap in the wall. Each carried a sizable rock in his or her arms. When he saw that, he finally believed his own proud words. They would win. They had to.
Hoten stood at the water’s edge below the orchard. While his horse drank from the lake, he took in the distant view of Yala-tene. This was the broadest part of the lake, but he could easily make out features of the village in the distance. There was the wall, and a white peak that looked like some sort of altar above the yellow sandstone defenses, and beyond it was the tumbledown heap of stones and timber that served as the village foundry. Between the southern edge of the wall and the great waterfall was an open stretch of rocky beach a quarter-league long. Some obscure wooden structures were clustered at the foot of the falls.
Looking up, Hoten eyed the high cliffs behind the town. That was the place to be! From there, one could rain fire and death on any part of the village. If the raiders could gain those heights, Yala-tene would be forced to surrender. Unfortunately, because of the intervening mountains, lake, and waterfall, the only route to the eastern cliffs involved leaving the valley and journeying far to the south, through a lower pass, then north again through the eastern foothills. Such a trip would take many days, through territory infested by centaurs, elves, and the warlike human nomads of the east — not a practical strategy.
Hoten started back to the old bridge site to confer with his chief. On his way through the orchard he found eight of his warriors standing idly around the base of a young apple tree. He demanded to know why they were lazing about.
“Hoten, look at this!” one man exclaimed. He snapped off a slender green stem from one of the apple tree’s low-hanging branches. He thrust the sprig into the dirt, directly in front of Hoten’s horse, then stood back, arms folded.
“What are you playing at, Kej?”
“Wait! Just wait!”
A minute passed. The men kept looking from the twig to Hoten and back, and grinning broadly.
“Somebody tell me what’s going on — now!” Hoten demanded.
“Look here!” Kej pulled the twig out of the ground. It wasn’t a twig any longer; a thin tangle of roots hung from the broken end.
“Eh?” Hoten dismounted and took the twig from Kej. “That’s impossible!”
The men pulled up other twigs they’d planted before he arrived. Each had a tuft of fine new roots. Hoten reluctantly accepted the evidence of his eyes.
“This is some rich soil!” Kej said, laughing.
“Shut up. There’s something strange at work here.” Taking the rooted stem with him, Hoten mounted his horse. “You men get to work,” he ordered. “Zannian will be here soon, and I don’t want him to see you idling around watching plants grow!”
He rode away. At the bridge site, the standoff was still going on. Raiders rode to the water’s edge, yelling and shaking their spears. Across the river, a block of villagers, drawn up on the facing slope, stood stolidly behind their cowhide shields.
Zannian slumped on his horse, chewing a strip of venison.
“Zan, the gardens are ours,” Hoten reported, “but there’s something you need to see.”
He held out the twig and explained what he’d observed. Zannian listened but didn’t believe it any more than Hoten had at first.
The chief held out a hand. Hoten put the tiny apple tree sapling in it. Not bothering even to look at the twig, Zannian threw a leg over his horse’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground. He shoved the tender shoot into the grainy sand by the water’s edge.
“I’ll make you a wager, Hoten. If this sprig grows noticeably by tomorrow, I’ll give you the pick of any horse in the band.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Zannian’s grin was feral. “You get the honor of leading the first attack across the river.”
An honor indeed. Zannian knew the initial attack would be the bloodiest fight in the valley.
“Well, what do you say?”
“I don’t need a new horse, hut there is a wager I’ll make with you.” His chief nodded for him to continue. “If that sprig is larger by tomorrow, I want your mother for my mate.”
Zannian couldn’t have been more surprised if Hoten had asked to mate with the green dragon.
After staring at him for several startled moments, the chief burst out laughing and said, “I’ll take that bet, but I won’t call you father if you win!”
“And I won’t call you son,” Hoten replied.
There was no disputing the outcome of the bet. By the next morning, the tiny sprig was a sapling a pace tall and as thick as Hoten’s thumb. Zannian was fascinated. He waved aside Hoten’s sincere thanks for Nacris’s hand, then called for more shoots to be cut from the orchard and transplanted to the bridge site.
“Why plant more?” asked Hoten. “We have the whole crop abandoned by the mud-toes.”
“I don’t want them for food. I have another use for them.” Zannian explained, and Hoten’s eyes widened in surprise.
