Sister of the Sword Read online

  Shouts outside ended the murdering frenzy. Time to depart. The leader gestured at the open doorway.

  He was the last to leave. With a final satisfied glance at the dead man, the leader of the Jade Men went out the door. He left his broken blade lodged in his victim’s ribs.

  Outside, the streets were alive with villagers shouting and brandishing torches and spears. The two guards were gone, either fled or carried off.

  There was no need for stealth now, so the Jade Men ran, heading for the ramp they’d used to enter Arku-peli. Near the White Tower they were confronted by a band of villagers. Stones and spears flew at them. One of the latter caught the trailing Jade Man in the back, and he went down, severely injured. He swiftly drew his knife and fell upon it rather than surrender to the outraged townsfolk.

  The alleys confused the fleeing youths, fragmenting the band of eight. The leader knew the way out yet did not call to the others. Like his men, he had taken an oath to say nothing until the mission was completed. None of them violated that oath – not even those who, confused and disoriented, blundered into armed search parties and were killed.

  The leader was the only survivor to reach the foot of the ramp. After racing up the ramp, he uttered his bat-call from the summit of the wall. The rest of his group hastily quit the shadows to re-form their living ladder.

  As he waited for them to be ready, the leader looked back over the village. Twin rivers of fire were converging on his position, two columns of torch-bearing villagers howling for vengeance. When several villagers reached the base of the ramp below him, the leader could wait no longer. He slid feet first down the sloping wall to reach his comrades.

  Rough stone tore at his legs. When he hit the uppermost Jade Man, the human ladder shuddered but held.

  The leader climbed quickly down his comrades’ bodies. As he passed a pair, they would disconnect themselves and follow him down.

  From the wall, villagers hurled stones, pots, and torches at the intruders. One pot filled with oil shattered on the wall, and a blazing stick that followed set it alight. The uppermost Jade Men were doused in flames, and the remainder of the ladder simply fell apart, burning.

  “Get them! Kill them all! Let none escape!” shouted a villager. Rocks and trash were replaced by lethal spears.

  Two Jade Men died in the fire. Three were swiftly impaled. Two more fell into hidden pit traps. It seemed none of them would escape. But when the leader finally threw himself to the ground, he found two of his comrades remained with him. All three lay on the lee side of the hill, panting and listening to the shouts of their furious enemy. Suddenly, one plaintive cry rose above the rest.

  “They killed him! They killed the Arkuden!”

  The wail was taken up by the rest of the villagers. Lying in the dirt, the searing pain of his scorched arms and back forcing tears from his eyes, the leader of the Jade Men smiled so broadly his parched lips cracked and bled.

  Arkuden, meaning “dragon’s son,” was the villagers’ name for their headman. Amero was dead.

  Mother and the Master would be very pleased.

  Chapter 2

  Harak was a long way from home.

  Not that he had a home, in the sense the people of Yala-tene did. Harak was a nomad and had always been a nomad, even before joining Zannian’s army. When he thought of home – which he rarely did – he thought of the wide, grassy plains where he’d been born. He was a long way from there now.

  Sitting on a cold stone slab high in the mountains of Khar land, surrounded by hostile and suspicious ogres, was not a place Harak wanted to be. He’d undertaken this insane errand at the behest of Zannian’s mother, Nacris. Crazy woman, crazy mission.

  Go to the mountains, she’d told him. Find the ogre tribe led by Ungrah-de. Promise them rich plunder if they will help us capture Arku-peli.

  It sounded simple the way she put it, but Harak had no real idea just how dangerous his task would turn out to be. Unlike the relatively gentle mountains surrounding the Valley of the Falls, the ogre homeland was higher and colder than any place he’d ever been. By day, wind roared through the passes like a torrential river, blinding him and his horse with driven grit. The air was so frigid and dry it sucked all the warmth from his limbs and caused his exposed skin to crack like old leather. By night the wind died, but sunset brought on cold more pervasive than any he had ever felt before. Furs hardly sufficed to keep the deadly chill away.

  Harak’s first night in the high pass was almost his last. He was well toward freezing to death when his horse, unhappy with the raw conditions, kicked him awake. Staggering to his knees, Harak managed to get a fire going before his eyes closed forever. The horse got a double ration of hay the next morning, as well a new name: Stone Toe.

  Harak’s travails didn’t end with the cold or the desiccating wind. He had to convince the ogres he met not to kill and rob him on sight. Some would not be persuaded, and time and again he was forced to flee. Those ogres not bent on murdering him presented another problem: how to locate Ungrah-de.

  Harak quickly discovered that “Ungrah” was a common name among ogres, and “Ungrah-de” merely meant “Big Ungrah.” Many of the creatures answered to that epithet. A great many.

  In the end, he found the one he sought by means of a stratagem. He presented a minor chieftain with a bronze Silvanesti dagger and hinted he had a very special gift for the great chief known as Ungrah-de.

  “Give gift to me,” said the lesser chief, who was named Garnt. “I’ll give it to Big Ungrah when next I see him.”

  Harak had no doubt his life would end immediately once the ogre extracted whatever goods he had. On the other hand, resisting Garnt’s request was likely to be less than healthy, too.

  Clapping his hands to his head, Harak howled, “Fierce One, have pity! I bear in my pack a blade cursed by the priests of the woodland elves. My master, the great chief Zannian, cannot wield this weapon himself, for the curse will strike down anyone who holds the blade, sending maggots to consume his flesh even down to the small bones! My chief seeks to rid both his people of this cursed blade and your mountains of the vile tyrant Ungrah-de. When the monster takes the weapon in his unworthy hand, the elf curse will infest him at once, and we shall be blessed by his death!”

  Garnt digested this. Harak was gambling on his host hating Ungrah-de, who by reputation was the largest and fiercest ogre in the highlands.

  Garnt asked to see the “cursed” Silvanesti weapon. Harak displayed a sword Nacris had sent along as part of the payment for the ogres’ aid. It was a fairly unremarkable bronze weapon with a ring of smoky garnets in its pommel. Harak made a great show of handling the Silvanesti blade with scraps of leather to keep from touching the bare metal.

  Garnt studied the sword for a long time. Harak could almost hear the turnings of his slow brain.

  “Such a gift must be delivered right away,” the ogre said at last. “One of my warriors will take you to Ungrah-de.”

  Harak bowed low, deliberately letting the bronze blade slip from his grasp and fall at Garnt’s feet. The massive ogre shuffled backward to avoid the touch of the “cursed” weapon.

  “You go now!” Garnt snapped, face paling. He sent an ogre named Ont to accompany Harak as guide and interpreter.

  A day later Ont was leading Harak through a lofty crevice between two of the highest peaks in the range. The air was so thin that Stone Toe’s breath came in labored, deep-chested gasps. Harak took pity on the horse and dismounted, leading him by the reins.

  Even Ont found the height difficult. He rested frequently, leaning a heavy arm against the unyielding mountain and breathing hard. During one of these breaks, Harak asked why the great chief lived so high.

  Ont’s knowledge of the plains tongue was limited, but he explained the mighty Ungrah-de, being much bigger than his fellow ogres, could breathe effectively at high altitude. It was clear Ont considered himself a mere youth in comparison to the great chieftain.

  Harak he dismissed as a
“bird,” the uncomplimentary epithet ogres used to describe any small and insignificant creature.

  Harak assumed the ogre was exaggerating. Ont was two full spans taller than Harak’s own considerable height and much more heavily muscled than any human. However, when they reached Ungrah-de’s camp, situated on a plateau below the highest peak in the entire range, he realized his guide was only relating the truth. Ungrah-de proved to a towering creature, and the males of his tribe all topped Ont by at least a handspan.

  With Ont interpreting, Harak greeted the celebrated Ungrah-de and offered him the gifts Nacris had sent. In addition to the Silvanesti sword, there were various other pretty items stolen by the raiders on their sweep across the plains.

  Painted pots and leather goods did not interest the ogre chief. Ungrah-de kicked through the pile of gifts at his feet until he came upon a rare item – a bronze scale. Cunning Nacris had included it intentionally. It was the same scale Duranix had sent to Zannian as a warning to turn back from Yala-tene.

  Ungrah-de picked up the scale in one hand, sniffed it, and said a single word to Ont.

  The smaller ogre, translating, turned to Harak and asked, “Dragon?”

  “Yes,” Harak said, “a scale from a bronze dragon.” Kneeling before this gargantuan ogre, he felt exactly as Ont had characterized him, like a bird, a sparrow in a ring of vultures.

  Ungrah asked a question, and Ont relayed. “You take from dragon?”

  A little embellishment never hurt a story. “No. My chief, the mighty Zannian, struck this off the dragon Duranix.”

  “Where is dragon now?” the chief asked, through Ont.

  Harak looked up at the hulking ogre. “Flown away, to the setting sun. The powerful Zannian chased him away.”

  Ont translated this. Ungrah responded with a sharp-sounding query.

  “He says, if your chief so strong, why need Ungrah-de?”

  “Tell the dread chief my people are worn down from long days of fighting. The villagers have chosen to hide behind walls of stone and refuse to come out and fight, face to face, like men – ah, like ogres.”

  Ont conveyed this reply. More of Ungrah-de’s warriors gathered around them. The chief thrust his jutting jaw forward, clacking his lower tusks against his upper fangs. He asked what was in the alliance for him.

  “Plunder,” Harak said loudly, spreading his hands wide. “All the horses and oxen you can carry off. Cloth, furs, and anything else in the village.”

  “Humans?” Ungrah asked slyly.

  Though it made his stomach churn, Harak nodded. “Yes. As many as you can take.”

  When Ont translated this, the ogres began talking all at once, bellowing, pointing, and gnashing their prominent teeth. Harak tried to interrupt but it was like whistling against thunder. Ungrah-de noticed the human trying to speak and roared for quiet.

  Ogres are taciturn and slow to speak, but once they get going, they’re equally hard to silence. When his bellow failed, Ungrah snatched a club from his belt and laid about with this huge persuader, knocking some of his warriors out cold. Others retreated out of reach, nursing bloody noses or spitting out cracked teeth.

  Ungrah shoved the end of the club in Harak’s face and roared a question. Ont, after shouldering his way out of the mob, translated.

  “He says what else do you have for him?” Ont added in a low voice, “Give cursed blade now. I pick you up and run when Ungrah die!”

  Harak nodded, feigning agreement, but he also noticed Ungrah watching them both warily. The chieftain, he was certain, had understood Ont’s words.

  Harak opened his fur coat and drew out the wrapped bundle. As he pulled the leather away from the sword, ogres around him grunted. Lacking metal themselves, they greatly prized the few pieces they acquired by raiding or trading.

  Obvious appreciation showed in Ungrah-de’s dark eyes, and one taloned paw moved as if to touch the blade. He hesitated.

  “It’s all right. Ont thinks it’s cursed.” Harak pulled away the rest of the wrapping and held the sword in his naked hands. “But it’s not.”

  Ont’s shaggy brows arched upward, and his wide mouth fell open in surprise. In the next instant, Ungrah took hold of the long sword (in his huge hands it resembled a dagger) and ran the keen point through Ont’s throat. Dark blood welled out of the wound. His knees folded and, gurgling, he toppled. Ungrah withdrew the blade smoothly. The treacherous ogre writhed on the icy turf until a pair of Ungrah’s troop finished him with their clubs.

  Harak was still staring at the dying Ont when he felt the warm, sticky tip of the elven sword pressed against his jawbone. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes to the wielder.

  “Great, dread chief,” Harak said carefully, “surely you won’t kill me after I have gifted you with such a blade?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Ungrah said, and Harak quickly realized his command of the plains language was far better than Ont’s had been. “Was this not a plot by little Garnt to murder me?”

  “Yes and no, great chief. My story was true. I am here to persuade you to return with me to the Valley of the Falls to fight alongside my chief, Zannian.”

  The sword moved forward a hair, breaking Harak’s skin. “What was this foolishness about the Silvanesti blade?”

  Despite the debilitating cold, sweat formed on Harak’s brow and slowly trickled down behind his ear to sting the tiny cut the ogre had given him. With the blade still pricking his jaw, he explained how he had duped Ont’s chief into helping him find Ungrah-de.

  “It’s good you slew Ont,” Harak finished. “If he had gone back and told Garnt you were not struck down by the curse, there might have been war between your bands.”

  Ungrah took the sword away from Harak’s face. “As I am a wolf, they are rabbits,” he scoffed. “Garnt’s tribe is no threat. Someday I will eat them.”

  Harak wondered queasily if that was a boast, or merely the simple truth.

  The chieftain bellowed commands, and the ogres erupted into action. Harak thought they were breaking camp, preparing to march to Zannian’s aid, and he grew puzzled when they began piling up a great heap of broken tree trunks and dry brush in the center of the camp.

  “Great chief, what’s happening?” he asked.

  “We go to your fight, but first we punish ourselves.”

  Harak’s questions were lost in a forest of giant, fur-clad bodies, dashing about the high, arid plateau in busy preparation. Though brutally strong, for their size the ogres were surprisingly agile and plainly inured to their harsh environs. He counted close to a hundred, of both sexes. They would be a powerful reinforcement for Zannian. Too powerful, perhaps. He wondered what would happen if the ogres decided to turn on their human allies.

  Embers were brought from the recesses of the ogres’ cave to the enormous pile of wood and brush in the center of the camp. Driven by the incessant daytime wind, the woodpile rapidly caught fire. Harak wondered if the creatures planned to immolate members of their own band.

  Pairs of female ogres appeared, carrying ox hides tied to poles. The skins had been sewn back together in the shape of their former owners, and they sloshed significantly.

  Harak’s brown eyes widened. The ogres used whole ox hides as wineskins!

  Wine proved to be too grand a description of the beverage that soon poured forth. The dark, brown brew smelled something like old ox hide and something like sour grain. They didn’t use drinking vessels but crowded around the skins, which were each held by a pair of females. The drinkers received a spray of brown brew in their gaping mouths. Harak learned an ogre’s prowess for drink was judged as much by the amount he could swallow in a single gulp as by how well he stood up to the wildly intoxicating effects.

  A muscular hand thumped his back. Regaining his balance, he turned to find Ungrah-de glaring down at him.

  “Man will have tsoong,” he rumbled, gesturing at the wineskins.

  It was obviously a test, not of manners but of strength. Offering his most charmin
g smile, Harak doffed his fur cap and said, “After you, great chief.”

  Ungrah snorted; vapor streamed from his flat, leathery nostrils in the frigid air. He preceded Harak to one of the waiting ox hides, swatting warriors aside like so many pinecones.

  The ogre females held the skin as high as they could to reach the chiefs gaping mouth. At a wave of his meaty hand, they pressed the sides of the hide together, directing a stream of tsoong into Ungrah’s mouth. The chieftain’s cheeks and throat ballooned as a river of brew flowed and flowed into his mouth. Harak’s own mouth hung open in shock. He was so amazed that he forgot to be disgusted.

  The females drained half the hide into their chief, stopping only because they needed to adjust their grip in order to dispense more. Ungrah stepped back and wiped his tusks with the back of one hand. His warriors roared his name.

  Whirling, the ogre chief took Harak roughly by the front of his fur cape. His pupils had shrunk to the size of jet beads.

  “You next,” he said. His breath was indescribably foul.

  Harak swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he said. He winked at the burly tsoong carriers, saying, “Ladies, be kind to a stranger and a human. Don’t drown me!”

  Ungrah repeated his remarks in his own tongue, and the females giggled, a sound only somewhat lower than an ox’s grunting.

  Harak offered a prayer to his ancestors, though he thought it highly unlikely any of that wayward crew could help him now. Opening his mouth, he shut his eyes and waited. A stream of brew hit him. The force of it drove him back a step. Gulping rapidly, he managed to keep up with the flow. Then it doubled.

  Tsoong washed over his face and down his chin. He tried tilting his head back, but that just allowed the liquid to run up his nose. Choking, he swallowed what he could, then finally turned aside, face purpling.

  The flavor was... well, awful didn’t even begin to describe it. Intensely bitter, tsoong had an aftertaste so sweet it made his jaw lock tight. And the smell! He was sure they must ferment it in the ox hides to get such a strong smell of putrid meat.