Exile's Challenge (54 page)

Rannach cursed and invoked the Maker's name; Arcole asked, “What do we do?”

Davyd shook his head, unable to say more.

Tomas Var said, “These are the ones Talle would communicate with?”

“Talle?” Arcole asked. “Who's Talle?”

“An Inquisitor.” Var scanned the terrain beyond the walls. Their pursuers appeared to have gone, dissolved into the shadows or returned to the fire. “His name is Jared Talle. He's …”

“A sorry, miserable bastard,” said Abram Jaymes, “who's made Salvation his province worse even than that fat cripple Wyme. He raised the dead here.”

“He thought to …” Var shrugged, hesitating. “Communicate with the … Breakers? He thought to utilize their powers on behalf of the Autarchy—that together they might conquer worlds unknown.”

Arcole said, “He's mad.”

Davyd only shuddered, wondering what had come into this world and what he might do to halt it.

Rannach frowned and said, when their words were explained to him, “The Breakers kill everything! They slew the Whaztaye and half the Grannach, they would have slain us, had we not fought them and Morrhyn opened the gate to Ket-Ta-Thanne. They must be stopped, and if this Jared Talle
believes he can deal with them, then he is corrupted as Chakthi and Hadduth.”

“Likely he is.” Arcole barked a cynical laugh. “He's an Inquisitor. But what can we do? The Maker knows, we're stranded here in this damn fort, and if Davyd's right, then they're come.”

“Davyd
is
right,” Rannach gave him back. “Davyd is a wakanisha such as we've never known, and he will find an answer. Morrhyn believes in him, no? Should we not?”

Davyd heard their words dimly through the tension that seemed to vibrate his body. His heart raced, and it was as if his bones shuddered so that every wound, each scar, throbbed with pain. The very air seemed to him to bear the taint of evil, washing acidic over his skin. He knew the night was cold, but his face burned. He felt old and weary and would have sooner curled up and gone away into death's sleep than face what he
knew
must lie ahead: it seemed too much, too many demands on his tired soul. He wished Morrhyn were there to advise him. He said, in both tongues, “I must sleep.”

Abram Jaymes said, “I don't rightly understand much of this, but we should be safe here awhile, so why not? You surely look weary.”

Arcole said, “Here, I'll help you,” and took Davyd's musket away and put an arm around the snow-haired young man and led him down from the parapet to a room where he lit a fire and set Davyd to rest on blankets and makeshift pillows and left him there.

 … Where Davyd dreamed.

 … Of fire and blood and the Horde, and Var's blue-coated marines fighting alongside the People; and of a terrible fire that consumed the world, and all the worlds; and of branded folk striding alongside soldiers, and of himself lashed to a stake as the flames took hold and filled his nostrils with the stench of his own burning flesh …

 … And of confrontation with a warrior armored all in gold, mounted on a dread horse, who brought a great, curved sword sweeping down against him …

 … And finally of Morrhyn, who strode a familiar tunnel, lit by the Grannach's magic, his seamed face determined, as if
he moved toward some terrible conclusion. It seemed to Davyd that the Prophet marched at the head of an army, as if all the warriors of the People followed behind. Davyd saw Yazte there, and Kanseah, and Dohnse; Colun and his sturdy Grannach fighters, and—dimly, this confusing—Flysse and Arrhyna, each dressed in warlike garb, with weapons that usually the women of the Matawaye did not carry. Then the images blurred, as if flame filled the tunnel and in their place was a vision of the Horde riding in such fire that consumed all else, as if worlds burned on their arrival.

He heard the roaring of their strangeling beasts, and the battle shouts of the Breakers; dying screams and the sound of breaking bones, of blades cutting into flesh. Then there was only fire and the roaring of flames, and he woke, sticky with sweat and panting, for he was filled with a terrible dread and could not properly understand the dream, only know that the future of Ket-Ta-Thanne and Salvation balanced on a knife edge, and the Horde was come.

He wiped a hand over his face and licked dry lips, clambered upright from the tumbled bed to find water that he gulped down before dousing his face. He thought he'd not the knowledge to interpret the dream correctly—it seemed all confusion and doubt—but that he must do
something
. Save he knew not what.

Morrhyn said, “We have no other choice. Save to see all we know destroyed. I'll not stand by to watch that—nor you, I think.”

Yazte sighed. “You ask much of the People, Prophet.”

Morrhyn said, “Yes: much is demanded of us.”

Yazte drank tiswin and sighed again. “I cannot argue with you,” he said, “so let us go.”

Morrhyn smiled, then felt it falter as Flysse and Arrhyna approached. They wore the apparel of warriors and determined expressions—rawhide breeches and linen shirts, their hair tied back in approximation of the braids. Flysse wore a pistol on her belt and carried a musket; Arrhyna had knife and hatchet sheathed, a quivered bow slung across her back.
Worse, to Morrhyn, was that Lhyn was with them and looked no less determined.

“We go soon,” he said, nervously. “What do you want?”

Flysse glanced at Arrhyna; Arrhyna glanced at Flysse. And together they said, “We are coming with you.”

Morrhyn said, “No! That cannot be—we go to war, and women do not fight.”

“You're going, no?” Lhyn asked. “And Dreamers don't fight.”

Morrhyn said, “It's different. I cannot dream beyond these mountains any longer—there's a Breakers' spell on them—so I have to go.”

“As do I,” Arrhyna said. “My husband and my son are somewhere beyond those mountains, and I must go to them.” She made a gesture of respect. “Nor shall you stop me, Morrhyn. Even are you the Prophet, I
shall
go.”

“And my husband is there,” Flysse said, “and I'd go to him. I'll not be stopped, Morrhyn. Do you try, then I shall find a way across.”

Lhyn said, “Best allow it, eh?” And smiled.

Morrhyn looked into her eyes and knew he was defeated by the power of women. Almost, he laughed—he was the Prophet, no? The People looked to him for guidance, yet he could no more argue with these determined women than halt an avalanche with his hands. So he shrugged and gestured that they join the column of the People winding up the mountain to where Colun had opened the Grannach's secret ways that would allow the Matawaye into Salvation to seek loved ones, and—they hoped—defeat the Breakers. But he was not sure. There was such power in the Breakers as made him doubt, and he wished that the women were not with the party. But he could not argue with them, only smile at Lhyn and wonder at all the things that might have been had she not chosen Racharran—and lead the war party on.

He'd no taste for this duty—he was a wakanisha, a Dreamer, not a warrior, and surely the Ahsa-tye-Patiko denied the wakanisha's right to fight in battle. But who else could lead the People? Yazte looked to him for guidance and Kanseah followed blind. Did he not take the Matawaye warriors through the mountains then none should go, and then
 … He'd sooner not think of that, for surely it must mean the Breakers conquer and all be destroyed, nothing left save ashes and dead bones. But did he deny the Will in taking arms?

He felt a hand upon his shoulder and turned to find Kahteney grim-faced at his side.

“I do not understand this,” the Lakanti Dreamer said, “but I know we must do it. Even does it fly in the face of the Will.”

Morrhyn said, “I no longer understand,” and shook his head.

Kahteney said, “Nor I, brother. Save that we
must
.”

Morrhyn nodded and looked to where Colun waited. “Do you bring us through to the other side?”

Colun nodded grimly. He was battle-decked, all in leather and metal, with his ax slung across his back and a wide blade sheathed on his belt. “My folk shall come with you,” he said. “Are we to fight them again, then the Grannach shall play their part.”

“We shall move fast,” Morrhyn warned. “We must.”

Colun laughed. “We can run swift, my friend; and your horses shall move slow through the forest. Needs be, we can ride double, eh? Nor would I miss this battle.”

“Then come.” Morrhyn smiled, sadly and proudly. “Are we to die, it shall be in good company. Nor less, do we triumph.”

“So, swift,” Colun said, and turned to shout that the ways be opened that the warriors of the Matawaye come through. Then faltered as he caught sight of Flysse and Arrhyna. “What are they doing?”

“They come with us,” Morrhyn said.

“Women?” Colun's voice rang with disbelief. “You allow this?”

Lhyn spoke before any other: “He's scant choice; and the Maker knows, I'd go were I not needed here. They've menfolk lost beyond your mountains.”

Colun opened his mouth to argue, but from behind him Marjia said, “As would I, husband. Save there must be some left behind to tend the young and the sick and the old.”

Colun looked at Morrhyn, who shrugged; then at Yazte,
who raised thick brows in helpless acceptance; Kanseah only averted his eyes. So Colun raised his arms and said, “The Maker forfend I argue with women, for that's an argument lost from the beginning. So—do we go?”

Morrhyn nodded and Colun shouted again that the ways be opened and the Grannach golans weaved spells that the face of the mountain part, and the men of the People—Flysse and Arrhyna with them—went under the hill to whatever fate awaited them beyond.

Morrhyn prayed as he led them in: Maker, be with us. Grant us strength, that we prevail. May Rannach and Arcole and Davyd and Debo be safe. Grant that we come timely and save them, and all the worlds. Grant that we defeat the Breakers.

He wondered if his prayer was heard, or if the Breakers now commanded the world.

Were that so, he thought dismally, then the account lay at men's feet. Was it not Vachyr's betrayal of the Will that had first set these dreadful events in motion? And after that, Rannach's—when he, in turn, broke the Ahsa-tye-Patiko? But surely Rannach had atoned for that sin. And were not sufficient slain to atone in death and blood for wrongs?

I no longer understand, he thought. You showed me how to bring the People to this new land, and now we leave it to fight in a strange country, which I do not properly understand. They scar men and women there, and use them as slaves, and I do not understand that, but I am going to fight with them. And I do not know if I should fight, but I know that if I fail to lead the People to this battle they shall all die, and that I cannot bear.

Please … guide me.

Flysse wondered if Arcole survived. She felt a terrible fear that he was dead, which should leave a part of her lost forever. She thought on all she'd heard of Racharran, and wondered at Lhyn's loss: how could she bear it? She thought she could not bear the burden of Arcole's death, and in her turn prayed to the Maker that he be alive and return to her, or she
die with him. The thought that they not be together was too hard to bear.

She took Arrhyna's hand, and the dark-haired woman smiled at her wanly. Flysse thought that she had so much more to lose: not just a husband, but also a child. She said, “We'll find them, eh? We'll find them and bring them back safe.”

Arrhyna said, “The Maker willing.”

Flysse said, “Yes, the Maker willing,” and walked along the oddly lit tunnel, holding Arrhyna's hand and praying it be so.

Hadduth crouched fawning like an eager dog at Akratil's elbow. Chakthi faced the leader of the Horde, attempting to retain some measure of authority, of dignity, even as his eyes shifted nervous under the pressure of the Breaker's unswerving red stare. All around, the forest rang with the sounds of weirdling beasts. Far off, as if driven away and mourning, a wolf howled. Those Tachyn dogs not already eaten by the Breakers' animals skulked and hid, and children wailed, silenced by mothers simultaneously terrified and proud. The men of the Tachyn sat or stood, intent on the central fire, endeavoring—like their akaman and his wakanisha—to maintain some semblance of calm, of resolve. Chakthi had promised them conquest with this alliance, but now that the rainbow-armored Breakers were here, mingling with them, it was hard not to show the fear they felt.

These strange folk were destruction incarnate. They followed paths none of the People—not even outcast Tachyn—understood properly, as if destruction were their only goal. It was as if blood filled their nostrils and all they'd do was kill, like a wolverine or a dog gone mad.

On the edge of the gathering a warrior called Chappo asked one whose name was Goso, “Was this wise? Has Chakthi done the right thing, bringing them here?”

Goso had rather not been asked that question. He considered it most unwise to speak of these strange warriors where answers might be overheard. But Chappo nudged him in the
ribs and so he said, “Chakthi deems it so, and Hadduth. So …” He shrugged.

“They smell of blood,” Chappo said. “They smell of death.”

And started as a soft voice said, “Because we kill; because that is what we do.”

Goso turned to find a tall figure at his back. It was a woman, her hair a mane of moonlit blond, her features fine, her eyes alive with laughter. She wore pale green armor that shone like the shell of a snapping turtle basking in the sun. She wore a long sword at her side and an ax was strapped across her back. She asked, mildly, “Do you object to that?”

Chappo said, “No … I … I only …”

The woman said, “I cannot believe you are truly with us,” and drew a knife that she plunged between Chappo's ribs.