“Well, a few old wanderers are no threat to us,” he said. “Take this fool out and stake him like the others. When we get all eight, the mud-toes will certainly give up.”
The bearded fellow made no move to leave, but exchanged a significant look with the other raider.
Zannian saw it and snapped, “What else?”
“He said one of the scouts is that black-haired girl, the one you offered the bounty for.”
Zannian leaped to his feet and took hold of the bearded raider’s tunic. “Are you sure?”
“He told us the names of all of them. Her name is Beramun, right?”
Zannian shoved the man away. “Get my horse,” he snapped. “Round up forty men and have them ready to ride!”
“Aye, Zan!” The two raiders picked up the unconscious youth by the heels and dragged him out. Zannian and Nacris were left alone.
“Any objections, Mother?” Zannian’s expression dared her to criticize.
She scratched a few random lines in the dirt. “Should I object?”
“Aren’t you going to say something about me wasting my time chasing that crow-haired wench?”
“No, Zanni. You’ve been sulking in this tent too long. Polish your sword, get on your horse, and go do something.”
Though he knew the childish nickname was meant to tease him, he merely grinned unpleasantly and said, “That I’ll do!”
“One thing,” she said, all jesting gone. “If there are survivors of Karada’s band out there, they’re not to be discounted. Any one of her warriors could whip ten of your yevi-spawned hirelings.”
“Pah!” he spat. “Karada died long ago. The Master told me so himself.”
“You’d be wiser not to believe everything the Master says.”
Zannian paused at the tent flap, unsure. His mother’s advice had lately proven valuable. He was inclined to listen to what she said.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“The Arkuden is seeking allies. So can we.” Nacris traced invisible lines on her palm with the willow twig. “I’ve been thinking about just such a move for a while now. There are some warriors I know who would not find Arku-peli’s wall much of an obstacle.”
“Who?”
“Ogres.”
Zannian uttered a single loud oath. “You’re mad! Bring ogres into our fight?”
“Why not?” was her cool response.
“Why not?” Zannian clapped a hand to his head. “Have you forgotten the ancient war between men and ogres? They nearly wiped out our ancestors! And you want to invite them here, to fight alongside us? By all the spirits! What’s to stop them from killing us?”
“We’re not weak, and ogres respect strength.”
“We’ve lost a quarter of the hand so far. How strong will we be when the last battle is fought?”
“There’s the Master too,” Nacris said.
Mention of Sthenn calmed Zannian. “True enough,” he replied, “but he’s far away, battling the bronze dragon. We have no idea when he’ll return.” He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s too risky. I forbid you to have any contact with the ogres. We will conquer by our own hands or perish in the attempt.”
Nacris was silent for a time, then said, “As you wish, Zanni. You’re chief of this band.” She smiled. “Now go! You have wild game to catch, don’t you?”
“Aye! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, brimming with newfound enthusiasm.
As soon as he’d gone, Nacris’s fingers closed on the willow twig, snapping it in two. The Arkuden’s desperate plan to find Karada did not worry Nacris. In fact, she wished his plan every success. She hoped Karada was alive and could be found. Let Karada ride headlong to her own destruction!
Nacris raised herself with her crutch and hobbled outside. She made her way slowly to the river’s edge. A gang of slaves was washing clothes, preparing food, and repairing broken weapons. She scanned those guarding the busy captives, looking for one face in particular.
“Where is Harak, Siru’s son?” she called out. The slaves kept their heads down and continued their labors.
“Horse corral,” replied an emaciated woman.
The raiders had set up a temporary corral to hold their spare horses and the goats and oxen taken from the village. Nacris had no problem finding Harak. The young raider was exercising a sable mare injured in one of the earlier attacks on Arku-peli.
She watched Harak closely as he rode. He was not hard to look at. His long hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was the same color as the sleek mare he rode. The early morning sunlight cast his chiseled features into sharp relief.
Work before pleasure, she mused, and called, “Harak! Come here!”
He pulled the reins sharply, bringing the mare around in a tight turn. The horse approached Nacris at a trot. Five steps away, Harak swung a leg over the animal’s neck and slid to the ground.
“Greetings, Mother,” he said pleasantly.
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your mother.”
“As mother to our chief, aren’t you mother to us all?”
“Mind your tongue, hoy, or the chief will have it out.” Nacris limped on her crutch to the shady side of the pen and sat on a convenient slab of rock. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”
Harak folded his lean body gracefully, and propped an elbow on the stone, close to Nacris. His expression was calculatedly winsome, and because he was so handsome and so obvious, she found herself smiling at him.
“How long have you been in my son’s bad graces?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
His pleasant expression didn’t alter. “You know very well. Since the captives broke free during our march across the plain.”
“The escape wasn’t your fault.”
He shrugged. “Tell your son that.”
“Zannian distrusts you.” Harak feigned surprise. She chuckled, saying, “Yes he does, and you know it. He’s afraid you’re smarter than he is, and he resents your prowess on horseback.”
“I am as my ancestors made me,” said Harak with blatantly false modesty.
“So you are,” Nacris retorted dryly. “Well, I have need of you. I want you to be my man, Harak.”
His dark brown eyes widened. “You flatter me. I thought you were Hoten’s mate.”
Nacris backhanded him. An old warrior herself, she had plenty of strength in her arms. The blow sent the insolent young man sprawling.
“Don’t banter with me, boy! I’ve known men who were worth ten of you, as warriors and as lovers. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”
Harak picked himself up. Brushing away dirt, he knelt again, this time out of her reach. His tanned cheek bore the red imprint of her hand.
“All right, Nacris. I’m listening. What do you want of me?”
“I want you to go on a journey. A secret journey, kept even from Zannian. Are you interested?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Power. Wealth. What else? You know I am favored by the Master. I have free access to his lair in Almurk. He’s collected many treasures in a thousand years of life. Do this task for me, and you’ll also be doing it for him. He will reward you.”
“What sort of treasure?”
“Bronze, copper, gold, rare ointments and poisons, and weapons of spirit power. Any of these can be yours for the asking.”
“Your word as a plainsman?”
Nacris put out her hand. “My word as a plainsman.”
Harak gripped her forearm briefly, sealing the bargain. “Where am I going?”
“Do you know the mountains that border Khar land on the northwest?” He nodded. “I want you to go there and seek out a certain chieftain named Ungrah-de.”
