old trail songs until their repertoire gave out. In the silence, Nacris asked Zannian to lead them in a new song. He waved the request aside, but so many raiders roared for him, he relented.
Red-faced with drink, he said, “How about ‘The Endless Plain?’”
This was a slow, sad song, but the men cheered. Their chiefs singing voice was appreciated by all. Zannian began. He had a boy’s voice still, high and clear, and after a verse, the rest of the raiders joined in.
Not far away, Amero held up his hand to halt the village raiding party. Those on foot dropped to one knee, and the four impersonating raiders reined in their mounts.
“What is it, Arkuden?” someone hissed.
“Listen!”
“Come walk with me, lonely one
In summer sun or winter rain,
From mountains high to rivers low,
Across the open, endless plain.”
“I know that song,” Amero said.
Lyopi whispered, “I’ve never heard it before, but it sounds like they all know it.”
Amero was shaking his head slowly. “Not the words, the tune — but it can’t be! It comes from a song my mother sang to me. And she made it up! How could — ?”
“What’s wrong?” hissed the people farther behind. “Why are we waiting?”
Amero forced himself to shake off the strange feeling. Perhaps some passing nomad had heard his mother singing the song long ago.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The animal pen was between the great tent and the river. Lyopi and the other three mounted villagers split off, riding casually through the darkened edge of the raiders’ camp. Amero led those on foot around the right side of the camp, where a long-ago rock fall created a stony barrier to their progress. Carefully, the villagers climbed over the mound of loose rocks. On the other side, bathed in firelight, was the corral full of sleek, well-fed beasts.
Amero sent four of his people to the corral fence. It was hastily built of split tree trunks and stacked stones, with a few vines to tie it all together. The villagers weakened a wide stretch of wall, leaving only a few trimmed branches in place, then they crept back to the rockpile.
“Bring the oil,” he whispered. Pots of burlnut oil were passed forward. Amero took one amphora on his shoulder and slipped down the mound behind the large tent. He poured the brown aromatic oil on the hide wall. It oozed down, soaking into the sandy soil. More jugs were passed to him, and he spread oil all along the side of the tent.
A raider kicked through a flap and stepped unsteadily out. Amero froze in place. The drunken raider answered nature’s call and was about to go back in when he noticed the smell of burlnuts.
“Who’s cookin’?” he muttered. He slipped on the oily sand and fell against the tent. When his comrades came over to pick him up, the more sober ones smelled the oil too. While searching for the source, one of them spotted Amero and raised a cry.
“Now!” Amero yelled, jumping to his feet. “Do it now!”
The villagers had brought hot embers in clay bowls. At Amero’s command, they hurled these at the oil- soaked tent. The embers hit the hide wall in a shower of red sparks. An eyeblink later, the tent erupted in flames.
Raiders groped for their weapons and stumbled to their horses. In the midst of this drunken panic, Amero’s disguised riders galloped through the camp, waving spears and shouting contradictory orders. Lyopi yelled that the bronze dragon was back, breathing fire. Thinking the entire band was about to be incinerated, a sizable number of raiders bolted into the river to escape. Another group of raiders decided the fire was the work of their own slaves and descended upon the poor, sleeping captives. Beaten awake, they were forced to form a human chain from the blazing tent to the lake. Anything that could hold water was carried to the river, filled, then delivered to the flames.
Their mission of confusion done, Lyopi and her companions rode to the corral. Horses, oxen, and goats were jostling each other, lowing nervously.
The four mounted villagers entered the corral, shouting and waving their hands, driving the fearful animals against the fence. It gave way, and the beasts stampeded through the narrow path between the blazing tent and the stony hill. Amero and the villagers on foot ran after the fleeing stock, driving them toward the distant walls of Yala-tene.
The first few oxen had just climbed onto the ramp into the village when the raiders struck. Raggedly they swept forward. A few tried to turn the herd, but the terrified oxen blundered on, trampling anyone in their way Some of the villagers were trapped between the stampeding animals and Zannian’s outraged warriors. Many perished, but the herd kept going.
Amero’s thigh wound opened while he was running. He hobbled on until his leg failed completely, then went down hard. Fortunately the oxen were in front of him, so he was spared being trampled.
“Amero! Watch out!”
He looked up at the warning and saw an armed raider on a huge gray horse thundering toward him. The raider’s spear was aimed directly at Amero’s chest.
How many days had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? How many leagues? Duranix no longer knew.
After escaping the collapsed cavern, he’d tracked Sthenn across this vast, unknown continent, over plains and forest, lakes and desert. Though all he found were teasing traces of the evil creature — burned meadows, poisoned forests, slaughtered beasts — it was enough to keep him on the hunt. After six days of constant flight, Duranix came once more to the ocean.
It wasn’t until he climbed high to search the distant horizon that he saw the pattern in Sthenn’s destruction. All the burned and wasted land formed a marker when seen from above. Broader at its base and narrowing to a point, the blackened, poisoned areas formed a spearhead pointing due west. The spear’s tip was a blasted promontory overlooking the sea.
The meaning was unmistakable. Sthenn had gone west, and dared Duranix to follow.
How wide was the world? Duranix, who considered himself an intelligent and wide-ranging dragon, had no idea. Was there an end to the world, a place beyond which Sthenn could not flee? He wanted to think so. Otherwise the chase might go on and on, until both dragons were used up, worn out, and lost.
What choice did he have?
None at all.
Sparing a last thought for Amero and the humans of Yala-tene, Duranix flew on, his nose to the setting sun.
The raider’s spear plunged at Amero’s heart.
His injured leg useless beneath him, Amero closed his eyes and waited for the end.
Amid the shouting, the roaring flames, and the bellowing of the frightened oxen, he heard two horses collide and fall. Something hit the ground at his feet. Opening his eyes, he saw the raider who’d been about to spear him was down, as was his gray horse. A second, hooded rider had apparently rammed into him.
The hooded rider lost control of his horse. It bucked and reared, outraged or terrified by the inferno around it. Losing his grip on the horse’s mane, the fellow went flying off.
Thinking he was one of the villagers masquerading as a raider, Amero crawled to the downed rider. He was sitting up, shaking his head. He got to his feet and helped Amero stand. Arms around each other’s waists, they hobbled away as quickly as they could.
“You were lying there like a rabbit!” said the fellow, rough voice muffled by his hood. “Didn’t you see he was going to spit you?”
Teeth gritted against the pain in his leg, Amero growled, “I couldn’t move! It’s my leg — ”
“It’s not your leg that’s weak. It’s your head! But your scheme worked!”
