unable to go himself, the Arkuden asked for volunteers. Healer Raho’s brother Tehu offered to go. Bearing a leafy willow wand (an old trail sign used by the plainsmen to indicate a parlay), Tehu walked out to speak to Zannian.
His head was thrown over the walls the next day.
A week after Tehu’s death, Amero was conducting a council flat on his back in Lyopi’s house. Though his leg was healing, he still couldn’t stand.
“I’ve been pondering our enemies, and I think I see their weakness,” he said. “They do no useful work at all. If they can’t carry something off, they destroy it. Our gardens won’t be enough to feed them for long. They’ll have to forage outside the valley. Zannian’s authority has to be the only thing holding them together. If they get too bored and hungry, the band may fall apart.”
Lyopi took a soft scrap of hide from Amero’s forehead, rinsed it in cool water, and replaced it.
“We can’t afford to wait and hope they go away,” she put in. “Even if the band breaks up, some of them may remain in the mountains, robbing and killing. We’ll never get rid of them.”
“The Protector can clear these savages out,” said Montu stoutly. “We only need to hold out until he returns.”
“And how long will that be?” Lyopi asked. “Ten days? Ten times ten days? Suppose the next dragon to appear in the valley is not our Protector, but the green monster who leads the raiders?”
Her words ignited a spirited discussion. Duranix had been gone for so long some despaired of his ever returning. Half the elders supported Montu’s wait-and-see notion. The rest were swayed by Lyopi’s argument for action.
Amero let them wrangle. Not only did they need to vent their frustrations, but their various arguments helped him see all sides of the issue. Finally, he held up his hand for silence.
“I agree it’s dangerous to wait,” he said. “Though I believe with all my heart Duranix will defeat Sthenn, we can’t know when that will be. And if he destroys the green dragon but perishes in the fight, we’ll be left on our own.”
“Then what can we do, Arkuden?” asked Adjat the potter.
Amero rubbed his tired eyes. “I had a dream a few nights ago after drinking one of Raho’s herb brews. I dreamed of my sister Nianki. Most people believe she died fighting the Silvanesti. I believed it myself until Miteera told us how his people were saved when the elves were diverted by reports of Karada’s warriors to the east. Whether my sister lives or not, her band may still exist somewhere in the east. I propose we send scouts to find Nianki’s people and ask them to help us.”
No one spoke, but several elders exchanged unhappy looks. “Arkuden,” Adjat finally said, “what if your sister is dead, and her nomads are no better than Zannian’s raiders?”
“Then we’ll have to think of something else.”
“Do we have time for all that?” Lyopi wondered.
“I think it’s a good idea!” Tepa said suddenly, and everyone stared. The old beekeeper had fallen into a deep melancholy since the loss of his friend Jenla. Speaking now, his usually gentle face flushed with fury. “I remember the Arkuden’s sister well. With a hundred followers — with fifty! — Karada could settle this Zannian and his pack in no time.” He stood up. “Arkuden, I’ll go. I’ll find your sister and bring her and her people back here!”
Udi put a hand on Tepa’s arm. “No, father. The Arkuden needs you here. I’ll go.”
“So will I.”
They all turned to see Beramun standing outside Lyopi’s door. The girl wore a hooded calfskin cape to keep the drizzle off. A long spear leaned against her shoulder.
“May I come in?” She addressed her question not to Amero or the elders, but to Lyopi. The older woman waved Beramun in.
“You know the danger,” said Amero. “Hunting humans on foot is what the raiders do best, and they have yevi to help them.”
“Is it any safer here?” Beramun replied grimly. “When the food runs out and we’re all too weak to wield a spear, what will become of us then?”
“You’re not one of us,” Lyopi said. “What’s to stop a nomad like you from gaining the open plain and never coming back?”
“Lyopi!” Amero exclaimed.
“If I wanted to run, I could have left any night,” Beramun said. “As for this scouting trip, you’ll need more than just Udi and me, but I know six or seven others who’re ready to go as soon as you give the word.”
One by one, they all turned to Amero. He looked away, lost in thought for a moment, then held out his hands.
“Help me up.” Lyopi and Montu boosted him to his feet. His wounded thigh burned unmercifully, but he gritted his teeth and kept himself upright.
“Udi, pick eight in all. Choose good runners over good trackers this time.”
“Aye, Arkuden.”
“Let Beramun be one of the eight.”
The young woman, who’d matured considerably since the night her family had been killed, smiled at Amero.
“Don’t look so grim,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll find your sister, and we’ll be back.”
Udi and Beramun left to collect the rest of their expedition. Beramun waved jauntily as she disappeared into the evening rain.
“I’m sending her to her death,” Amero murmured.
Lyopi rolled her eyes. “Nothing short of a mountain falling on her can kill that girl,” she replied tartly.
Amero swayed, his face growing even whiter, and she slipped her shoulder under his to prop him up. “You should worry about yourself and the rest of Yala-tene. Beramun can take care of herself.”
He shifted his weight off his bad leg. Lyopi’s arm around his waist steadied him. In the face of her calm good sense, Amero felt very weak and foolish. Like the ache in his leg, his futile love for Beramun seemed to fade only when Lyopi was near.
Clouds closed in, filling the valley with heavy, wet fog. Everything became damp. Leather softened and stretched, wood swelled, and a coughing sickness spread among the idle raiders. To boost morale, Nacris had a score of stolen oxen slaughtered and the meat distributed to the men. The hides she ordered sewed into a large tent for her son, who held nightly revels there with his captains amid heaps of fresh fruit, vegetables, and beef from the stolen stocks of Yala-tene. No matter how many war stories were told or how much wine was drunk, conversation always returned to the same subject: how to take Yala-tene.
“Fire’s the way,” one of Zannian’s young roughnecks stated. “Tie tufts of dry grass to our darts, light them, and fling them over the wall!”
“If you can find any dry grass in this valley, I’ll eat it,” said another raider as water dripped from every seam in the tent. “Besides, our darts can’t make it over the walls.”
“Fear’s what will do it!” said an older warrior. “I say we line up all the prisoners we’ve taken and chop their heads off, one by one, until the mud-toes give up.”
“Idiot,” Hoten growled. “Why would they give up when they see how harshly we treat our captives?”
“To save the lives of their kinsmen!”
“Idiot.”
Slumped on a pile of furs, Zannian toyed with the bones left on the trencher in front of him. His black eye was now greenish-yellow, the healing remnants of the bruise caused by Amero’s blow. His head still ached periodically, and large draughts of wine didn’t help. The stalemate in the valley gnawed at him. They had beaten the mud-toes in pitched combat more than once, yet the villagers wouldn’t give up. How could he deal with such stubborn, impudent enemies?
His war captains were bereft of inspiration. He listened to them argue — silent, disappointed, dispirited.
“Sometimes I think you’re the best man here,” he muttered to Nacris, seated on his right.
“I am the best man here,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”
“What do you think we should do?” asked Hoten, resting his rough hand on hers.
“Nothing.”
