Now it was Beramun’s turn to talk. She spared Mara nothing, beginning with the night she’d been captured by the raiders, through her escape from Almurk, to her final mission to find help for Amero’s people.
“If only these nomads would ride to the valley and settle Zannian for good!”
Mara brushed her tears away and composed herself. “They will go,” she said. “She is his sister, after all.”
“What? Who’s sister?”
“The Arkuden’s. Karada, born Nianki, daughter of Oto and Kinar, is the Arkuden’s sister.”
Beramun jumped to her feet. Nianki was Karada? She dashed to the tent flap and threw it open. There was Nianki — Karada — sitting on a stone, just outside.
Karada looked at her. “Where are you going?”
“To find you!” Beramun replied.
“Didn’t I tell you not to leave the tent?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you were Karada.”
The famed nomad warrior stood and ducked under the flap. Beramun backed inside, more intimidated than ever.
“She’s telling the truth, isn’t she?” Karada said.
“I believe her,” Mara replied, and bent to pick up the pieces of the broken water jug.
“So do I.” Karada crossed the tent to the hearth.
Unable to bear the suspense, Beramun demanded, “Well? Are you going to help us? Will you ride to Yala- tene?”
Karada gazed at the smoldering embers in the firepit. “No,” she said.
Beramun was stunned. “How can you say that? Amero is your brother!”
Like a viper striking, Karada turned and thrust a finger into Beramun’s face. “I know who he is,” she said coldly. “His troubles are his own, just as mine are my own. I never asked Amero for help against the Silvanesti. Why should he want me to save him from this Zannian?”
Beramun stood her ground, though she was shaking inside. “Because everything he’s ever done will be lost if Zannian wins — the village, the valley, all the people of Yala-tene. How can you let that happen?”
“He must rely on his own strength and not try to borrow mine.” Karada sat down on the warm hearthstones. Once she’d finished clearing away the broken jug, Mara came and sat at Karada’s feet.
“Mara didn’t tell you her whole story,” she said. Karada brushed her hand over the girl’s thick auburn hair. “After her leader abandoned her, Mara was captured by the Silvanesti.
They took her to Thalasbec, a town on the northern border of their forest. She was given to an elf warrior named Tamanithas, to work in his household as a slave. The Silvanesti were not cruel to her — at least, not in the way your Zannian is to his captives, but they broke her will until she was utterly compliant. She would be there still if I hadn’t raided Thalasbec in early summer.”
“You freed her?”
Karada shrugged. “Tamanithas is an old enemy. My warriors sacked the town, and I myself put the torch to his great house. As the flames took hold, Mara ran out, knife in hand, and attacked me.”
Beramun was surprised by this, and Karada explained. “So deeply had the elves taken hold of her. mind, she thought of herself only as their property and not as a free person. I might have slain her out of hand, but as I had torches in both fists, all I could do was knock her down. After setting the fire, I brought her back here. So far, all she’s done is transfer her slavish allegiance from Tamanithas to me. One day I’ll find a way to awaken her pride again.”
Beramun was touched by the tale, which in some ways paralleled her own, but she didn’t see what it had to do with saving Yala-tene. She said so.
“Raiders are nothing,” Karada told her. “There will always be violent, ambitious men willing to take from others by force. I have built my band up from nothing to take on the Silvanesti and end their tyranny.
“Five years ago I almost died fighting them. I led fourteen survivors — fourteen! — out of a fiery trap into the deepest wilderness I could find. Now we are seven hundred strong, enough to make life hard for any elves who try to take the northern plain from us. I intend to free humans like Mara who’ve been enslaved, their hearts and minds stolen by the elves’ subtle power. That’s why I can’t ride to Yala-tene, Beramun. A greater task awaits me here.”
Beramun sagged to the floor, crushed. She’d come so far, fought so hard, left Udi to die, had nearly been killed herself by centaurs, and it had all been for nothing.
“Stay as long as you like,” Karada said, rising to go. “The freedom of the camp is yours.”
Beramun shook her head wearily. “I must go back. People are counting on me. I want them to know I did my task.”
“I understand. You’re a strong girl. You’d do well in my band. If you live, come back and join us.”
“I don’t expect to live,” Beramun said flatly.
Chapter 25
Hoten emerged from the river. Nacris had an obsession about cleanliness and required him to bathe every few days. She herself bathed in a private pool dug behind Zannian’s great tent.
Hoten put on his leggings, kilt, and shirt. It was a hot evening, and he’d be dry soon enough. He saw more rafts, laden with wood for tonight’s fires, coming over from the west bank. The slaves were already erecting several large piles in the center of the camp. By the look of things, it was going to be another lively night.
The revels were Nacris’s idea. The bored raiders needed something to keep their morale up as they waited for the villagers to starve and weaken. Zannian had gone on a long ride, hunting the black-haired girl. In his absence, Nacris had begun the nightly feasts. The well-being of the band wasn’t her only motive. As she explained it, the defenders of Arku-peli would be greatly disheartened if they saw the abundance being enjoyed outside their walls.
There was a stir in camp as a column of riders arrived. Hoten hurried up the hill to see what was what. He soon heard Zannian’s name on everyone’s lips. Their chief had returned and was in a foul mood.
Six days he’d tracked back and forth across the eastern plain, and never once had he picked up Beramun’s trail. Hot, tired, and angry, he’d returned to camp and found preparations for a feast underway. Flattered at first, thinking Nacris had anticipated his return, his mood quickly turned black when he discovered the celebrations had been going on for days.
Hoten entered the tent in time to hear Zan dressing down his mother.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I gave no permission for festivities! You don’t lead this band. I do!”
“It was for the good of all,” she replied, unmoved by his temper. “The men need diversion.” She went on to describe her vision of the revels as a taunt to the besieged villagers.
Turning to Hoten, Zannian demanded, “Do you support this?”
“I didn’t at first, but the men’s spirits have definitely improved since we started.”
Zannian grudgingly gave permission for the carousing to continue. He washed his face and hands in the river and returned, only to be confronted with Nacris’s questions about his hunting expedition.
“So, you didn’t find the girl?” she said.
“No,” he answered sullenly. “There’s probably nothing to find but bones by now anyway. If heat and thirst didn’t finish her, a panther likely did.”
“I hope not. She was a brave girl. In another time, she would have made a fine member of the band.”
Zannian made a dismissive gesture. “Women can’t fight as well as men.”
“If I had two legs, I’d show you the folly of that statement,” retorted his mother.
The feast got underway. The great fires were laid, and whole oxen were carried in on willow frames to roast in the flames. Hulami’s captured wine had long since been drunk up, but the raiders had been making their own brew using the spoils of the orchard and gardens. Pulped apples and pears made a potent cider.
At sunset the meat was ready. Gorged on beef and cider, the raiders were in an expansive mood. They sang
