Exile's Challenge (64 page)

Chakthi sat blood-boltered on his borrowed horse and without thinking about it, Akratil swung a gauntleted hand to strike him from the saddle. Chakthi fell down and spat out blood, a broken tooth. He reached for his hatchet and Akratil kicked him in the face.

“I should take your head.” He walked his dread horned animal toward the Tachyn. “I should slay you and set your skull on my saddle with these others for what you've done.” He looked back at the slope. It was littered with the bodies of Breakers and their beasts. “I should kill you now.”

Chakthi darted away from the probing horns. “No! Listen!” He felt afraid. “Do we only go around them …”

“No!”
Akratil roared. “I do not go around things. I go over them and through them; not around them.”

“Please.” Chakthi cringed. “Let me take my warriors north and come against them from their flank. Then you charge upslope …”

The crash of cannon diverted them both.

Bemnida rode hard for the egress. She had far sooner fought with the others, but Akratil had commanded and she obeyed, and so she led the bulk of the Horde toward the pass and the river beyond.

Then the thunder came again and the ground around her exploded. Her mount began to prance. She was reminded of that other valley where rock had fallen, hills erupted, and knew this was different. This came not from the shifting of stone, which was magic and understandable, but from weapons she did not comprehend, that appeared to be set on the ridge above. She looked up, wondering at such strange creations, and saw the flash of flame and heard the roar, then a great whistling sound, and in the sunlight saw lines traced across the sky.

Then nothing.

The first burst of grapeshot pierced Bemnida's armor, her helm. It shot her through so that she fell from her saddle as the beast reared in its own pain and fell down across her as she screamed, and crushed her as she died.

The guns fired again, and muskets, angled down into the pass, and the Horde halted and swirled and fell back.

“By God!” Kerik shouted. “Keep firing, boys, and we'll hold them.”

The gunners, thankful to be free of the carnage on the ridge—and angered by the destruction of their comrades—bent with a will to their work. They loaded and primed and fired as the supporting infantry volleyed musket balls into the riders massed below. It was a slaughter—did these rainbow-armored folk own magic it was not such as knew the power of musketry and cannon, of lead shot. The Breakers were thinned and slowed by the valley's bottleneck pass, and all the marines need do was fire down until the track was filled and blocked with bodies.

Bemnida slain, the Breakers fell back in confusion. But even so there remained sufficient of them none on the ridgetop might hope to survive unless help arrived swiftly.

Kerik looked at the carnage and then at the sun. It was not yet far over the horizon. He wondered if he would survive this day, and pasted a smile across his face.

“Hold the pass, boys. Help's on its way.”

“Bemnida!” Akratil roared. “Where's Bemnida? I'll take her head for this!”

A warrior whose name was Beltyn told him, “She's dead,” and in his rage, Akratil swung his sword and took off the man's head. “We attack again,” he screamed. “Follow me!”

And again the guns flung them back in bloody carnage, and the Breakers chafed and cursed and knew the frustration of defeat.

The day aged: the sun traveled the sky and came toward its zenith, and in the valley and down the slope and on the ridge, the smell of blood was strong, the stench of death filling the air.

Akratil rallied his depleted Horde.

“They've power,” he acknowledged, “but still not so great as mine, nor so great as our god's. We must bespell ourselves against these new weapons, and then we shall ride over them.”

He ordered a fire built and the body of a man set on the blaze, alive and screaming. Chakthi objected that it be one his Tachyn, but not for long, and chose a warrior. Akratil called on the dark god he served, who was the antithesis of the Maker, dark to light, and bought strength. He raised his hands and sent that darkly summoned power out over his warriors, arming them against the hitherto unknown power of cannon and musketry, against black powder and lead shot.

“Now,” he roared, “we are invincible. Destroy them!”

The Horde charged, and even did the cannon on the slope roar out and slaughter Tachyn, and even some of the Breakers, still the dread warriors came amongst the beleaguered defenders to deliver terrible slaughter.

Davyd fired his musket and saw the ball deflect off the armor of the blue-clad rider. He braced the gun against the down-swinging
sword and flung himself clear of the gnashing fangs of the lizard-mount even as Arcole fired into the woman's back—the lead slug made no more impression than Davyd's earlier shot, and the rider went by, laughing as her blade carved a path through Kerik's marines.

“They use magic,” Davyd shouted. “By the Maker, Arcole, they've armored themselves against bullets.”

Arcole grimaced, reloading his musket. “Then what do we do?”

“Hold!” Davyd spilled powder down the barrel of his own gun, wondering if it be any use. “Hold them as long as we can. Do the others come …”

“Dear God, we can't hold them much longer,” Kerik gasped. “We're running short of powder, and we're almost out of shot.”

“We must,” Davyd said. “Even if we must fight them hand-to-hand.”

“Them?” Kerik barked a sour laugh. “Fight them with bayonets? Bullets bounce off them, no? What can we do, save die?”

Davyd said, “If we must. It's the world's only chance.”

Davyd wiped a face blackened by powder and listened to the moaning of wounded and dying men. A breeze had gotten up soft and malodorous with the stench of death—and it seemed to him that its song was mournful, counterpointed by the wailing of the hurt and the frightened snorting of the marines' surviving horses, the low-voiced conversation of men who believed they should die on this ridge. He wondered how many had already died—surely Kerik's men were sorely depleted—and if sufficient remained to hold the Breakers and the Tachyn penned in the valley. He wondered at the Breakers' magic, which allowed them to charge headlong into the volleys of musket fire and ride through unscathed. The cannon made some difference—as if the Horde's dark magicks were not quite enough to overcome that greater firepower—but still insufficient to halt the mass of beast-riders. Another charge, he thought, and likely the Breakers should ride over Kerik's men and leave them all dead behind as they went on to conquer all Salvation. And after that, deliver untold worlds to destruction.

He looked at the sun, high and hot now, and wondered where the People were—if they'd come timely. Then he made the ritual gestures Morrhyn had taught him and asked the Maker that it be so, asked that the Breakers be halted here, even must he give his life to that end. He realized that he no longer cared whether he lived or died, only that the Horde be halted and their threat forever ended. He wondered if Morrhyn had felt the same when the Dreamer climbed the Maker's Mountain. But there, so Morrhyn had told him, the Maker had vouchsafed him dreams, and therefore purpose. Davyd had no dreams to sustain him; it was as if the presence
of the Breakers filled up the world and clouded the nocturnal images. He wondered why he did not feel afraid, and then if Taza was with the Tachyn, and then thought on the betrayals that had led to this last battle.

Had Taza not envied him so, he wondered, might these events have been denied? If Chakthi had not taken his clan away, or Vachyr not kidnapped Arrhyna, or Rannach not slain the Tachyn … The thoughts whirled around his restless mind and he decided there was no answer, only the determination that it end here.

He glanced up from his musing as Arcole joined him. “Here, best eat.”

Arcole passed him a tin plate on which rested cold meat, a biscuit. Davyd nodded and took the food. He felt no appetite, but knew he should need all his strength.

“How are Kerik's men?”

“Angry. Angry and afraid.” Arcole shrugged. “God knows, but they've reason. And you?”

“It's strange,” Davyd smiled grimly, “but I don't feel any fear.”

“It can sometimes be that way.” Arcole settled beside him. “When you've a true purpose.” He sighed. “I wish I could see Flysse again.”

“Perhaps you shall.” Davyd could not taste the meat. “Perhaps Rannach found the People; I think that Morrhyn knows we're here.”

“And can find this place?”

Davyd shrugged. “At least Abram knows of it. But alone, his folk shall not be enough.”

Arcole nodded and was about to speak, but shouts rang from the north, and the rattle of musketry, the blast of the two cannon placed there. “God, they look to flank us!” He sprang to his feet.

Davyd followed him and they ran to the north, where shadows moved amongst the trees and the cannon's flame outlined the Tachyn who sought to come up stealthy.

Arcole fired and a warrior screamed and fell. Davyd took aim, then flinched as an arrow thudded into the tree beside him; perhaps he was not so resigned to dying. He fired instinctively,
and the archer coughed and toppled back into the bush that hid him.

The cannon roared again, the effect of their shot augmented by the trees ahead, so that terrible splinters and spinning chunks of jagged bark joined the discharge. Few Tachyn made it through that dreadful storm, and those who did were spitted on the bayonets of the marines.

The flanking attack failed, but even as it did, the Breakers came again up the slope, and toward the southern pass. Empowered by Akratil's magic, they rode oblivious of Talle's fading hexes, and the fire of Kerik's men sprang off their armor like raindrops from waxed cloth. They seemed impervious, and only at close quarters—as if honest steel prevailed over dark magic—could the defenders halt them. And even were the attackers finally thrown back, still more shot was used, more powder, and more marines left dead. They were down to only a few men now, surely not enough to halt another charge.

“We should consider withdrawal.” Kerik winced as a bandage was wrapped about his wounded arm. “Perhaps we could slip away and get to the river.”

Davyd said “No!” in such a tone as prompted the officer to stare at him.

Arcole said, “They'd find us, anyway. And were we on open ground …”

Kerik nodded and with his good hand, reached for his flask. His left was by now strapped to his chest and he fumbled with the flask before handing it to Arcole.

“Would you?”

Arcole grinned and unscrewed the stopper, passed the vessel back to Kerik.

“Well, it appears we stay and fight. So here's to …” He hesitated. “A clean death?”

“Victory,” Arcole said.

“At some cost,” Kerik returned. “I've but a handful of men left.” He looked at Davyd. “But we'll hold them long as we can. So—to victory, or death!”

He drank and passed the flask to Arcole, who sipped and held it out to Davyd. Davyd shook his head: it seemed to him
that he should have clear senses this day. He asked, “How long can we hold them?”

“I doubt we can withstand another charge.” Kerik shrugged, grimacing as the movement shifted his wounded arm. “That at the best. Do they attack en masse …”

“You failed.” Akratil stared contemptuously at Chakthi.

“We fought.” The Tachyn glowered sullenly. A bruise decorated his cheek where the Breaker had kicked him, and his mouth was swollen. “Nor did worse than you.”

Akratil nodded thoughtfully. “These folk are harder to take than I'd anticipated. These weapons they use are powerful.”

Chakthi said, “I warned you of that.”

“Yes.” Akratil smiled as might a man at a fawning dog. “And meanwhile, we are held here. We cannot go through that pass.”

“We might go back,” Chakthi said, “to the west, and skirt around this valley.”

“That,” Akratil declared, “is not our way. No; I shall overcome this obstacle.”

“How?” Chakthi demanded.

“That is for me to decide.” Akratil waved a languid hand in dismissal. “Now go away and leave me to think.”

Chakthi grunted and quit the silken pavilion, returning to his own lodge, where Hadduth waited.

“He treats me as if I am nothing.” He snatched at the tiswin the wakanisha proffered. “I am akaman of the Tachyn, yet he speaks to me as if I were …”

He shook his head, snarling in outrage. Hadduth said, “You fought bravely.”

“Ach, I know no other way!” Chakthi raised a hand and Hadduth cringed back. “Nor did I see Rannach. Indeed, I begin to wonder if he's here. Tell me where he is, Dreamer.”

Hadduth swallowed nervously. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “he has taken his son back to the People.”