Exile's Challenge (12 page)

Var heard something akin to despair in the harsh voice. “With your aid, Major,” he said carefully, “I hope we shall be successful. I must rely on your knowledge in this.”

“And I'm to answer to you, eh?” For an instant unconcealed anger sparked in Spelt's eyes, then was replaced with resignation. “Ah well, are those my orders, I must obey, no?”

“We are all under orders,” Var said tactfully, seeking agreement between them, some kind of truce. “I had no choice in this.”

“No, I suppose not.” Spelt's mouth curved in approximation of a smile. “And you'll earn your rank out here, Major; no doubt of that. So,” he grew brisk, “do we see your men safe ashore and settled in their billets?”

Var nodded. There was much he'd ask Spelt, much about the man's manner that disturbed him, but that must wait.
He'd see his troops settled first and then obtain a full account of the situation.

Time had done nothing to mellow Chakthi, nor banishment damped his rage: it ate him like a cancer, impossible to ignore, oblivious of reason, seeking only destruction. It defined him and made him what he was, which seemed now something other than human. Even Hadduth was afraid of him.

He had led his depleted clan away from Ket-Ta-Thanne under the watchful eyes of the Grannach and those warriors appointed by Rannach to escort the Tachyn to the mountains and beyond, and that ignominy festered: a new wound struck into the scar of the old. Had he thought he might prevail, he would have turned and fought, but the fighting in Ket-Ta-Witko and the desertion of so many—might whatever gods ruled here damn them!—left him with not enough warriors to chance the combat, and he could do nothing save obey the upstart Commacht. It had rankled, that the People listened to the slayer of his son, and he must go skulking away like a dog driven out from the pack, his tail between his legs and his pride sullied. That it was a fate of his own manufacture was obliterated by the heat of his anger and a consuming desire for revenge. It burned inside him like a fever, and he swore daily that the time should come when he would go back through the mountains, slaughtering the Grannach before he washed the plains of Ket-Ta-Thanne in the blood of his enemies. It was a sickness that devoured him from inside, so that even those still loyal walked careful around him, never sure of his rage's direction.

And to find that the land eastward of the mountains was claimed added fresh fuel to his hatred's fires. He had thought that land all his, and found some small solace in the knowledge that none of the People save his Tachyn rode there. He had thought of it as his kingdom—and then discovered there were others, firstcome.

So he had set out to destroy them. It was not difficult: they were sorry fighters, and mostly fled in terror when he sent his warriors against their strange wooden lodges. Then the red-coated ones had come, and they were better fighters, but still
not hard to defeat. They tramped the grass like blind buffalo, clumsy and unaware of the land's ways, as if they knew nothing of the country they disputed and were afraid to enter the forests. Had they any power, it was in their strange weapons, which seemed to Chakthi near mighty as those of the Breakers. They had metal—which the Tachyn now lacked, save what they had carried with them, for there was no longer any trading with the Grannach—and they carried the long sticks that spat thunder and killed at a great distance.

“Muskets.” He said the word aloud, savoring the sound and its secret knowledge. “Gunpowder.”

“Master?” The thing tethered like a ragged dog outside his lodge stirred, eager to please.

Chakthi glanced at it and spat, the gobbet landing on the thing's face. It smiled and ducked its head as if in gratitude. To the Tachyn it was less than an animal, it was
owh'jika—
nameless and without honor, despised.

Once it had been a man whose name was Owan Thirsk. That man had owned a farm, had a wife and indentured servants: considered himself fortunate, even wealthy. Then the Tachyn had come and taught him better: now he was Chakthi's creature, alive—unlike the others of his holding—on whim of the akaman, and sickeningly grateful for that small scrap of what he saw as mercy.

Hadduth had shown wisdom, Chakthi thought, when he suggested they take one of the strangers alive.

“Listen,” the wakanisha had said, wary of his akaman's reaction, “this is a new land and my dreams are very strange here, so that I cannot understand them all; not properly.”

Chakthi raised his face from the fire at that and fixed Hadduth with burning eyes. “Your dreams were very clear in Ket-Ta-Witko,” he said coldly. “You told me what to do there, and it brought us here. Kill Racharran, you told me, and the Breakers shall favor us. They will give you Rannach, and we Tachyn shall be mightier than any clan.” He fingered the hilt of his knife as he spoke, his mouth stretching out in parody of a smile. “Ach! Tell me why I should not kill you?”

Hadduth felt his throat tighten at that, aware his death was
a distinct and imminent possibility. Had Chakthi been wild in Ket-Ta-Witko, here he was like a wolverine maddened by a souring wound. The wakanisha answered quickly.

“It was Morrhyn spoiled that. Morrhyn! He climbed the mountain and so thwarted our plans. He spoke with the Maker there.”

“You told me the Breakers were mightier than the Maker,” Chakthi replied. “That they serve a greater god.”

“They do!” Hadduth raised his hands, not sure if he extolled the might of the creature who had visited him in dreams or set a defense against Chakthi's simmering wrath. “How else could they cross the mountains of Ket-Ta-Witko, defeat the Grannach?”

“And be defeated,” Chakthi snarled, “and all your plans come down in ruin, and we come here outcast.”

“To a new land,” Hadduth said, urgently. “Which we shall own—all of it!”

“Save we fall to the thunder-sticks,” Chakthi said. “They are not true warriors, but they have that power. And we are few now. Thanks to you! And where are the Breakers now?”

“Waiting, I think.” Hadduth thought fast: he sensed his life lay in the balance of Chakthi's fury. “I think that Morrhyn worked such magic as hid his trail, and therefore also ours. But they will find us: I seek them nightly in my dreams, that they come again and raise us up.”

“And meanwhile this land is not ours.”

“It shall be,” Hadduth promised, hiding his fear and putting confidence in his voice. “Listen—we must find out what these strange people do, what they think. We must find out how many there are, and why they are here.”

“How?” Chakthi asked, watching his Dreamer's face as he drew his knife, enjoying the alarm he saw. “How shall we do that?”

“We must take one alive,” Hadduth said. “We must learn their language.”

“I've heard them,” Chakthi said. “They scream and shrill like frightened birds. How can we learn that?”

“Take one alive,” Hadduth promised, “and I'll show you.”

Like Major Spelt, Grostheim itself exuded an air of tension, as if the city awaited further attack. Folk met the long column of blue- and red-coated soldiery with cheers, as if rescue were come, but Var saw hollowed eyes and thinned cheeks, as if sleep and food were both in short supply. No less could he help noticing the signs of damage, where roofs or whole buildings had burned down, the charred remains often as not inhabited by people who appeared to live under the canvas pitched there. Also, the place seemed more crowded than he remembered, the sunny afternoon more redolent of Bantar's poorer quarters than this airy western clime. He inquired of Spelt just what had happened, but the older man was again become taciturn, waving a stained hand and suggesting Var wait until they gained the privacy of Wyme's mansion, where a full account might be delivered. After some moments of awkward silence Var asked after the billeting of the column.

“There's too many for the city,” Spelt replied. “You're prepared to bivouac?”

“Of course.” Var chose to ignore the insult implicit in the question. How else might he proceed against the demons? “We're equipped for a campaign in the field.”

“Then best establish camp beyond the walls.” Spelt gestured vaguely to the north. “Save you'd turn my men out of their barracks, and those not enough for all your force.”

It was difficult to maintain an air of friendship in face of the man's morose humor, but Var refused to let his irritation show. Instead he kept his tone amiable and said, “I'd not see your men put out, and mine had best learn to live rough; so do you show us where, and we'll dig in.”

Spelt grunted in reply and said no more as he brought Var to the north gate, where the Militiamen stationed on the wall stared at the newcomers with the expressions of wearied soldiers sighting a relief column. Var's curiosity grew, but he made no comment as Spelt took them through the gate and indicated where they might bivouac.

The area lay between the city walls and the Restitution River. Var recalled that timber warehouses had stood there, beside a series of riparian wharfs that served the river traffic. Now none remained, save as ruins, fire-blackened and fallen in.

Spelt said, “The demons,” by way of explanation, then turned his head to observe the column.

Var saw that he crossed his fingers and spat. The gesture was surreptitious, but Var could hardly fail to see it. Spelt offered a shamefaced grimace and shook his head, as if denying his fellow officer's unspoken question.

“I'd best see to feeding them. After shipboard rations they'll doubtless welcome fresh meat.” Spelt barked his odd laugh again. “Not that we've overmuch to spare.”

Var sensed the man spoke to conceal his embarrassment. “You're short? What of the farms?”

Spelt shrugged. “Too many untenanted, or left to the indentured folk. Why d'you think we're so crowded?”

Var said, “I'd wondered,” and was about to question Spelt further, but the major was already calling up an attendant officer, issuing instructions that supplies be issued the newcomers. Var found his reticence disturbing. He remembered Spelt as a brusque man, yet there was something about him changed, and Var sensed it went beyond resentment at his usurpation. But now was not the time to question him; Var hoped he should be more forthcoming in company with the governor and Jared Talle.

Wyme sat behind his ornate desk, a decanter at his elbow, a brandy glass clutched in his right hand. Sunlight fell slanting across his round face, and Var saw he sweated. The brandy rippled as Wyme's hand shook; Var wondered if that was the product of fear or Talle's presence. Perhaps for Wyme there was no difference—surely the Inquisitor was an ominous figure, settled like a black crow in an armchair, his eyes sharp, darting from Wyme's face to the two officers as if he accused them all of some unadmitted sin.

“The troops are settled?”

Var nodded. “And Major Spelt has arranged for provender.”

He glanced at Spelt, seeking again to establish some communication between them, but Spelt's gaze was shifting nervously from Wyme to Talle.

“Then do we begin.” The Inquisitor gestured at chairs as if it were his study, not the governor's, they occupied. “Sit.”

“You'll take brandy?” Wyme indicated the decanter.

Before Var had chance to reply, Spelt nodded and found himself a glass. He filled it close to the brim, brows raised in inquiry as he looked to Talle and Var.

Talle only shook his head, fingers drumming impatiently on the chair's arm. Var said, “A measure, if you please.” Did Talle disapprove, then damn him—surely they could retain some degree of civility. He smiled his thanks as Spelt passed him the glass.

“Now that we all are gathered, Governor,” Talle's voice was soft, “do you advise us of the situation.”

Wyme was clearly troubled as his garrison commander, save where Spelt was taciturn the governor waxed loquacious, reiterating his earlier reports.

Talle cut him short with an imperious hand. “We know all this. Major Var returned this news to Evander—that's why we are here. Do you speak of more recent events.”

Wyme mopped at his beaded brow and gulped a measure of brandy. “Yes, of course. Forgive me … I … So much has happened.”

“Then tell us of it.” Talle's voice grew sharp: Wyme licked his lips. “Commence with events after Major Var's departure.”

“More attacks.” Wyme's eyes shifted from the Inquisitor's penetrating stare as if he sought some avenue of escape. “Refugees began to come in to Grostheim, quitting their farms.”

“And you did not order them to return?” Talle's voice was cold with disapproval. “How shall this land be settled if every farmer comes running in to Grostheim at the first hint of trouble?”

“No. I … How could I?” Wyme shook his head helplessly, his cheeks glowing. Sweat ran into his eyes like tears and he produced a kerchief, dabbing at his face. “They were free folk.”