Exile's Challenge (28 page)

“Stick him, damn you!”

He saw the Militiaman staring goggle-eyed as he dropped the strikerplate into position. Leveled the pistol at Gerry's chest and paced back along the edge of the scaffold as Gerry screamed an inarticulate cry and charged forward.

Var squeezed the trigger. A bloom of darker crimson blossomed on the scarlet of Gerry's tunic. The bayonet thrust toward Var, and he deflected the blade with the emptied pistol. Gerry stared at him, still moving forward. Var elbowed the musket aside as the dying body collided with him and the mouth opened to spit out hatred.

“Never your land! Ours! We shall destroy you!”

And at last the Militiamen acted: they came together to drive three bayonets into the body of Robyn Gerry, so that blood splashed over Tomas Var and stained his tunic even as he wondered what strange new magic was brought against Salvation.

Hadduth sat naked and sweating, staring into the flames that lit the interior of the wa'tenhya with flickerings of red and shadow, blaze and darkness alternating in dancing patterns intricate as his thoughts. The pahé tasted bitter on his tongue, in his throat, and he felt it trace its delicate path through his body even as he turned to stare at the owh'jika whose eyes belled huge and terrified as the thing gazed at the Tachyn wakanisha.

Hadduth chuckled sourly. Did Chakthi frighten him, why should he not frighten the owh'jika? Besides, the sorry creature was necessary to his task. He
would
satisfy his akaman—else likely, he thought, he should die when next the rage took hold of Chakthi. He was not yet ready to die; perhaps to sell his soul, if that was not already bought, but not to die. So he stretched his lips and said, “Take more.”

The owh'jika moaned and shook its head, shuddering against its bonds. Chakthi coughed laughter into the scented dream smoke and reached across the fire to spill more pahé into its mouth, forcing it to drink. Then he watched as the thing's eyes grew unfocused and closed, wondering idly if so much of the sacred root would kill the uninitiated. No matter: he could already feel the channels of the creature's being as if they were his own, look into its mind at all the secrets and the fears locked there. He sighed and felt his smile draw wider as his own eyes closed and he went away into the land beyond …

 … Where he stood on a grisaille plain, the earth gray and ashy and wreathed with tendrils of dull smoke that rose like despairing fingers to falter against a colorless sky. No sun shone there, neither any moon, and were there stars they were
lost behind and within the encompassing gray. He felt abruptly afraid and looked about him at a landscape that was devoid of feature—flat and stretching out in ashen parody of Ket-Ta-Witko's prairies in all directions. Save for the sorrily rising smoke, there was no movement, nor any sign of life.

And he realized he stood naked as a newborn babe: he moaned and cupped his hands about his groin, embarrassed and terrified.

And then, from far away across the featureless gray plain, he heard the pounding of hooves, like distant thunder rolling remorselessly closer, and saw off in the distance the sparks of fire struck from the ashen earth.

In moments the pounding filled up all the air and he dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his ears that he might block out that terrible thunder, but could not draw his eyes from what approached.

It was like the sun rising between the gates of hell, like the Storm Wolf charging the Grass Boy, save he was not the Grass Boy and had turned his face from the Maker and so could not anticipate divine favor.

And yet he could not close his eyes or turn his gaze away, for all the terrible splendor seared the orbs. He could only watch, submitted, as the dread horse galloped toward him, and see the night-dark skin, the blazing eyes, the horns and awful trappings of magnificent gold and obscene skulls, clattering bones. And on its awful back a worse rider: a man armored all in shining gold, whose hair spread loose as fire from beneath a concealing helm that revealed only eyes red as the ghastly mount's, and locked forever firm on Hadduth.

The wakanisha cowered, staring up as the rider reined in his mount and set it to prancing, sharp hooves sparking great flurries of flame from the dull soil. Hadduth thought his skull must be shattered and he bleed out his life in the dream land and never return to Ket-Ta-Thanne; and could not be sure that not be better than facing this creature, this majesty, he had at last summoned.

But the rider took off his helm and shook out his flame-red mane and fixed Hadduth with those eyes that were all fire, gestured with a gauntlet that was taloned cruel as any wolverine's paw, and said, “So, at last.”

Hadduth ducked his head and said, “Master.”

“Not Master but Akratil, the Master's servant as you are mine.”

Hadduth said, “As you will … Akratil.”

The flame-haired man danced his terrible horse in a circle around the crouching Tachyn, his words matched to the rhythmic pounding. “I am Akratil, worm, and greater than you as is a hawk to a ground-burrowing grub. But I am not the Master. He is greater even than I. He is death and destruction. He is the dark face of that mewling god you call the Maker.
Understand that!
”

“Yes,” said Hadduth from where he huddled, feeling the sparks the horse's hooves struck up, the fire of its breath, burn his naked skin. “Yes, Akratil.”

Akratil smiled as if a point were won—which, in truth, it was—and said, “And are you my servant, worm?”

Hadduth said, “I am.”

“And those sad creatures with you?”

“They wait on your guidance.”

“Good.” Akratil reined his horrid mount to a halt, looking down at the Tachyn. “I have waited long for this.”

“I called on you,” Hadduth dared say, “before. But …”

“I was not ready.” A golden gauntlet angled at Hadduth's face and the wakanisha lurched back for fear the talons rip out his eyes. “Nor you. Now I sense you are, and so I come.”

Hadduth ventured a nervous smile. “To conquer this new land?”

“Not yet.” Akratil shook his head and it seemed that fire flashed from his hair. “I am yet in that other land. Why did you call on me?”

Hadduth frowned, suddenly confused. “You know our fate?”

“Your fate is nothing to me,” Akratil replied. “Save you serve me and do my bidding.”

“I would,” Hadduth said. “Only that.”

Akratil laughed. It was the sound of lightning dancing on the earth, the sound of bones rubbing together, a storm wind shaking naked trees.

“Yet you failed me, worm.”

“I did,” Hadduth moaned, “all you bade me. Was there failure, then surely it was Chakthi's.”

“Who is not here,” Akratil said, and leant from the golden, skull-bedecked saddle to put his face closer to the wakanisha's, “whilst you are.”

Hadduth felt the heat of those burning eyes, the mingled odors of rotted meat and sulfur that came from Akratil's mouth, and cringed.

“So why,” Akratil asked, “should I not slay you?”

“Morrhyn opened the gate,” Hadduth cried. “And closed it behind the People. I could not prevent that!”

“And it left my Breakers shut out.” Akratil snatched at the reins, setting the blood-eyed horse to prancing again. “Locked from our prey. And now you'd ask a favor?”

“I'd bring you here,” Hadduth screamed, feeling the gray earth shudder all around him, aware of the horns and fangs that darted close. “I'd give you this world and all those escaped you.”

Akratil reined back the midnight horse; Hadduth ventured an upward glance.

“Think you that's possible, worm?”

“Within your power, surely.” Hadduth unlocked his arms from his head. “With my help.”

Akratil snorted scornful laughter. “
You
help
me
?”

“This is a strange land,” Hadduth said, “it is not like Ket-Ta-Witko. The People are not alone here: there are others, and they have strange powers.”

Akratil nodded thoughtfully: “Tell me, worm, and I shall decide whether you live or die.”

Hadduth began to speak, urgently.

The owh'jika was drained close unto death by what Akratil took from it, but that was of small concern to Hadduth. The thing had served its purpose and that was sufficient—it was not, after all, a true human being, not even one of the People, far less a Tachyn, and it had little use now other than as a recipient of Chakthi's wrath. Hadduth wondered if it might not welcome death as he dragged it from the confines of the wa'tenhya and left it shivering and naked in the forest chill. It
was still bound and he supposed that he would—did he remember—send someone to free it and feed it, but that was not important. He smiled hugely as he dressed, anticipating his akaman's pleasure when he told Chakthi of Akratil's gift, and how it might be used against the enemy. That should surely please Chakthi; and it was but the first step along the road to absolute victory. Yes, he thought, Chakthi would be mightily pleased, and the Tachyn raised high.

Celinda Wyme screamed when Var burst into the dining room, the glass she held dropping to the table to spread wine across the linen cloth like a great bloodstain. Her husband stared gape-mouthed at the disheveled officer, a frown forming on his pudgy face. Alyx Spelt's was disdainful, as if he considered Var's dramatic entrance in poor taste. Only Jared Talle exhibited no emotion, simply setting down his knife and fork and looking at Var with darkly questioning eyes.

“Forgive me.” Var offered Celinda a brief bow. He supposed he did look somewhat disreputable: Gerry's blood stained his coat and tunic, and likely his face. “Inquisitor, I must speak with you.”

Talle motioned that he continue, but Wyme raised a hand that still clutched a napkin and said, “Surely not here, Inquisitor. My wife …” He gestured at Celinda, who slumped back in her chair, ample bosom heaving as a servant flapped an ineffectual hand before her face. “Nathanial—smelling salts!”

Var said, “It were better told privately,” glancing at the servants, and Talle nodded, rising.

“The study, gentlemen.”

The Inquisitor led the way as if he owned the mansion, Wyme hobbling on his crutches behind, and it was Talle ordered the servant to stoke the fire and light the lamps, who bade the man leave. Wyme only slumped in an armchair, mumbling his thanks as Spelt brought him a glass of brandy.

“So, Major, what is it? You've the look of a street brawler.”

Talle settled his spindly frame behind Wyme's desk. Var
shed his coat and faced the sallow man, relating the evening's events.

“And the body?” Talle's head was cocked like a crow's; he seemed not much disturbed.

“I ordered it carried to the church,” Var said. “I thought …”

Talle husked laughter, cutting the explanation short. “You thought that were it possessed the holy ground of the church would hold it, no?”

Var shrugged and nodded; Talle laughed again.

“And the other sentries?”

“Ordered to remain by the body. To keep the doors locked and speak with no one.”

“Good.” Talle offered Var a thin-lipped smile. “That was wise. What else?”

“I told them,” Var said, “that I would return with you. They're frightened, Inquisitor.”

“Who'd not be?” Talle murmured, and glanced around the room. “Look at Major Spelt—does he not look frightened? And the governor?” His voice was dry enough it almost hid his contempt. Then the dark carrion eyes turned to Var. “Are you afraid, Major?”

Var felt embarrassed. For all he'd no great liking for Spelt or Wyme, still he saw no reason why Talle should humiliate them so. He licked his lips and said, “I am concerned, Inquisitor. A fellow soldier tried to kill me—for no reason I could discern—and that … Yes, frightens me.”

“Then we'd best do something about it, eh?” Talle rose. “Let us observe this thing.”

Var picked up his ruined coat and settled his tricorne in place. Talle waved Spelt back to his seat. “Stay here, Major; you and the governor. I'll send for you, do I need you.”

Spelt's face flushed bright red, but he offered no objection; Wyme looked only grateful. Talle strode thin-shanked from the study, shouting for a servant to bring his coat and hat. Var followed him. Like a faithful hound? he wondered. Like the Inquisitor's right hand?

What else could he do? Evander, the Autarchy, vested command in Talle and gave Var orders to obey. And was he not a faithful soldier of the Autarchy? Save … He pushed
the doubts aside. Time enough later to consider them; for now it was imperative that he know what agency had possessed Corporal Gerry to attempt his murder, and Talle was likely the only man in Grostheim could begin to uncover that mystery. So he matched his stride to the Inquisitor's as they trod the empty streets back to the square, and the church where Gerry lay.

The body still dangled from the gibbet; Var was vaguely surprised. Almost, he'd anticipated the corpse flinging free of the gallows and come dancing out to meet them, but there was only a waiting crowd, summoned by the commotion and wondering if some new demonic attack came against Grostheim. The square was noisy until Talle appeared, and then abruptly silent as the Inquisitor came through the crowd.

He heard Talle chuckle and realized the Inquisitor had caught his look toward the scaffold, his nervousness, as the man said, “That one shall do no more harm. His neck's well broken, and he's hexed besides.”

“Could he,” Var heard himself asking, “do otherwise?”

“Oh yes.” Talle chuckled as if it were an enormous joke. “Were his neck not properly broken, was he not well hexed … Why, Major, he might well jump down from the gallows to bid you the day's greeting and take you with him to hell.”

Var looked back at the corpse and felt his skin go colder than the night allowed. “I didn't know,” he said. “Not that …”