It had indeed. Villagers were herding the frightened animals up the waiting ramp.
The rumble of hooves behind them grew louder. Amero wanted to look back, but his unidentified comrade put on more speed.
“Run!” the fellow said. “Just run!”
Amero gave it all he had. The wound in his thigh continued to bleed, but he kept up his awkward, hopping run.
The fire had jumped to other tents and provided plenty of light. Darts were starting to fly, and the missiles thudded into the ground at their heels. Villagers ahead of Amero were hit, but he and his rescuer gained the bottom of the cattle ramp without further injury.
Blood coursed down Amero’s leg. Face chalk-white, he collapsed heavily against the hooded rider. The stranger threw down his weapons and grabbed Amero’s hands. He dragged the half-conscious man up the ramp even as darts and spears thudded around them. Halfway up the ramp, men from the village arrived and relieved the hooded man of his burden. Villagers on the walls hurled stones and spears, keeping the raiders at bay until Amero was safe.
A few daring raiders reached the ramp and urged their horses up. As soon as Amero was atop the wall, men with axes cut the ropes holding the ramp in place. The wide platform crashed to the ground. The villagers shouted and blew horns to signal the success of their raid.
In the midst of the chaos and celebration of their return, Hulami knelt by Amero. He gasped, “How many did we bring back?”
She repeated his question to the stockmen below and relayed their answer: “Twenty-nine oxen and forty-one goats!”
“Good,” he said. “Where’s the fellow who helped me? The one in the mask?”
Hulami looked around. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see him.”
“I owe him my life.”
Amero’s wound was tightly wrapped, and he was carried by litter to Lyopi’s house. The elders gathered outside, but Lyopi’s brother, Unar, stood before the door with his arms crossed. He would not let them disturb the weakened Arkuden.
“Is it serious? Will he live?” asked Hulami.
“He’ll live,” said Lyopi, arriving on the scene at last. “I won’t let him die!”
She pushed past her brother and went inside. The elders, buoyed by the night’s success and Lyopi’s confidence, headed for their homes.
“Filthy mud-toes! I’ll pile their heads up higher than their damned wall! The scheming rodents! Make me look like a fool, will they?”
Zannian’s fury went on all night. Once the fire was out, he summoned his chiefs and berated them as drunken, worthless fools. At his back, Nacris and Hoten listened impassively.
“From now on, I want a standing patrol of twenty men constantly circling the town,” he raged. “Not a mouse gets in or out of there, do you understand? I want corpses sorted and counted! All the dead villagers in our hands are to be put up on stakes in view of the walls! Hoten!”
“Here, Zan.”
“Since the mud-toes want to be tricky, we’ll be tricky, too. Get the slaves to cut branches from the spirit trees and plant them around the camp. In two days we’ll have a wall of our own, and they won’t be able to wander in uninvited!”
“Aye, Zan. It’ll be done at first light.”
“Do it now!” the young chief screamed. “No one sleeps for the rest of this sorry night!” He drew his sword and whipped it in circles around his head. “Mother! Bring me the Jade Men! I have work for them, too!”
The raiders dispersed to their tasks.
Zannian kicked through the ashes of his ruined tent, thinking black thoughts of what he would do to the villagers when they succumbed. His ugly reverie was interrupted by Nacris.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Are you ready now?” she said calmly.
“Ready for what?”
“The course I suggested. The ogres.”
Eyes blazing, Zannian made a fist and raised it to strike her. Nacris never blinked. She stood, braced with her single crutch, and regarded him calmly.
“If you weren’t my mother…” he snarled.
“What difference does it make how we win? What matters is that we conquer. Will you let me bring in Ungrah-de and his warriors? We’ll win with their help.”
Zannian lowered his fist. “Your other plans haven’t brought victory,” he said bitterly.
Nacris laid a hand on his shoulder. He was shaking with rage and frustration. “Be calm, Zanni,” she said. “The wise warrior is the one with the clearest head and the calmest heart.”
He stepped forward suddenly and engulfed her in his arms. Her crutch fell among the ashes. Putting his head down to her shoulder, he held her tightly and sobbed.
“Never fear, my son,” she said gently. “We will win.”
“I want the Jade Men,” he mumbled. “I want them to enter Arku-peli any way they can and bring back the Arkuden’s head!”
Nacris brought one callused hand up to stroke his hair. “All right. You’re a good boy, Zanni. You can have the Jade Men, but listen to me, will you? Do as I tell you, and everything will be as we want. I will take care of everything.”
His hands knotted into fists, gripping the back of her leather jerkin. “Yes, Mother.”
The nomads fed Beramun well and gave her a place to sleep with other girls. She slept poorly though, tormented by visions of Zannian’s triumph in Yala-tene. She finally gave up and lay awake, thinking of those good people degraded or killed by the green dragon. She couldn’t lie comfortably, her belly full, while the village was in peril. She must go back right away. She would try one last time to convince Karada to take her band to Yala-tene. If the answer was still no, then Beramun would go alone.
Beramun left the girls’ communal tent. It was well dark, and the red and white moons were up. Moonmeet was not far off. The camp was quiet, though she did see sentinels on the surrounding hills, ever vigilant against the Silvanesti.
Shouldering her gear, she set out across the open center of the camp toward Karada’s tent. When she reached the far side of the firepit, a figure flitted out of the darkness directly in her path. Fair skin and dark freckles stood out in the moonlight.
“Mara?”
The girl held a finger to her lips. “Please,” she whispered. “You must help me!”
“What is it? Do you want to return to Yala-tene?”
“No, it’s Karada. Something strange is happening to her. Come!”
Without waiting for an answer, Mara took her hand and dragged her into the chiefs tent. A low, smoky fire was still burning on the hearth, Karada, clad only in a light doeskin shift, was sitting with her back to the entry flap, facing the fire.
“Karada?” Beramun said, moving cautiously toward the woman.
The only reply was a vague muttering. Circling around, Beramun saw the chieftain was awake. At least, her eyes were open. Hair unbraided and disheveled, eyes wide and rimmed in red, Karada stared into the flames and spoke in a low, unintelligible voice.
Beramun knelt beside her. “Karada, are you well?”
“It’s hard. It’s very hard,” the woman said. Her eyes remained focused on the fire.
“What’s hard?”
“Living with a curse.”
Mara came up on the other side. To her, Beramun said, “Have you ever seen her act this way before?”
“No, never.” Mara was on the verge of tears.
