by Angus Wells
“Yes.” Rannach loosed a gusty breath. “But only when he saw I’d not be shifted from my course.”
“He’s akaman,” she said.
Rannach said, “Yes,” again and sighed again. “And for such reasons I’d not be. And that disappoints him.”
“What,” she asked, “would you have done?”
“Were I akaman?” He laughed. “I’d have given my blessing and told Chakthi to set his head under his horse’s tail; and did it come to war, then so be it.”
Arrhyna felt pride warm her: that he could love her so well. But even so, he seemed foolhardy. She remembered friends and said, “It shall not, eh? Not now, not after what your mother told us?”
Rannach said, “Not by my hand. Ach, my father thinks I am foolish —he fears I’ll vaunt you before Vachyr and Chakthi! He thinks me a fool, even though I gave him my word. He think me entirely irresponsible.”
Against his shoulder she said, “Perhaps he is only careful of all the People. And knows the course Chakthi’s temper takes.”
“And so,” Rannach said, “He sent my mother to speak with me? Not come himself?”
“Had he?” she asked, thinking she already knew the answer, that she discovered momentarily layers of this relationship she had not suspected. “What then?”
Rannach snorted humorless laughter. “Likely,” he admitted, “we’d have argued. And I taken you out on that fine piebald mare, all around the Meeting Ground, both of us dressed in our finest, that all here could see my prize.”
“And rub Vachyr’s nose in it?” she asked. “And Chakthi’s?”
“Yes!” he said, and laughed honestly. “But you see how wise my father is? He sent my mother instead, knowing she might persuade me.”
Arrhyna feared his pride might get the better of his sense and moved closer against him. “I am glad,” she said, “that your mother succeeded.”
For a moment she thought this little battle lost, but then he relaxed and turned toward her. “As am I,” he said.
Neither of them heard Lhyn’s discreet cough as she left the promised food outside their lodge, and by the time they found it, it was cold and the dogs had eaten most of it.
The night was cool, the sky above the Meeting Ground a star-pocked expanse dominated by the gibbous moon that shone silvery on the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain as Rannach quite the lodge. Arrhyna had braided his hair, fixing the plaits that marked him as a warrior with little silver brooches of Grannach manufacture that glittered bravely in the moonlight. She thought he looked magnificent as he settled his blanket about his shoulders and bade her farewell.
“You’ll not attend?” he asked again.
She shook her head, smiling. “I’d not spoil so day with sight of Vachyr. His sullen face would be proud of her. “You can tell me what’s decided when you return. Or in the morning.”
Languidly, she stroked their sleeping furs. Rannach laughed. “You grow forward, wife.”
She grinned. “Also I’d tidy this lodge. I’ll not have your mother think me a slattern.”
“My mother,” he said, “likes you.”
“And I her,” Arrhyna replied. “And so I’d show her how good a wife I shall be to her son.”
“You are,” he said.
“So, now go.” She rose to touch his cheek. “The drums are calling, and I’ve work to do.”
Rannach smiled, studying her awhile as of he would fix her forever in his memory, then nodded and ducked through the lodge flap.
Folk were already moving toward the center of the camp, where a wide-spaced ring of fires marked the inner circle where the akamans and wakanishas gathered. The more senior warriors sat between the flames, an informal barrier between the gathered mass and those who would debate Colun’s news, Thus the clan leaders might talk with some degree of privacy, without undue interruption. Later they would speak with their clans, make their suggestions and hear the views of their own folk before returning to the Council, that consensus be reached. Such was the way of the People.
As Rannach approached the Commacht lodges, Bakaan stepped from the shadows. Zhy and Hadustan were with him, falling into step like a bodyguard.
“We waited for you.” Bakaan sounded excited. “By the Maker, I thought you’d never quit your lodge.”
Rannach grinned with all the lofty pride of a new husband. “I had good reason not to,” he said, “but I’d hear what Colun’s to say, and what the akamans decide.”
“Arrhyna does not come?” asked Zhy.
Rannach shook his head, trusting they’d see the splendid brooches. “She was”—he glanced from one to the other—“too tired.”
His friends howled laughter. Hadustan said, “And you? Do you need a shoulder to lean on?”
“I,” Rannach declared solemnly, “am strong. I can still stand without your help. Just.”
More laughter at that, then a sobering as they crossed the stream and skirted the edge of the Tachyn lodges. Bakaan said, “It is likely wiser she not attend. I hear that Vachyr and Chakthi spent the better part of this day skulking in Chakthi’s lodge.” He turned to study Rannach’s face. “You’ve made an enemy there, my brother.”
“Those two,” Rannach said loftily, “are beneath my contempt.”
“Even so.” Bakaan’s homely face grew serious. “A vicious dog is best watched, lest it creep up and bite you.”
“Or slain,” Zhy muttered.
“Is this why you escort me?” Rannach looked from one to the other, frowning. “Did my father ask this of you?”
They looked a moment shamefaced. Zhy shook his head; Hadustan laughed nervously. Bakaan said, “No, not Racharran.”
There was something hesitant about his answer and Rannach demanded: “Who, then?”
Bakaan licked his lips and said, “It was your mother.”
Rannach snorted. Hadustan said, “She’d not see her son harmed. And we know how fragile you are; so when she asked us, how could we refuse?”
“Your mother,” said Zhy, “is very persuasive.”
“And most careful of her son’s health,” said Bakaan. “Now, my own would never show such care for me. Why, did I walk in your boots, I think she’d send me into the Tachyn camp with her blessing.”
Rannach swung up hand in mock attack. Bakaan aped terror as Zhy laughed and Hadustan said, “We told her a warrior so mighty as you knows no fear, that Vachyr will likely hide behind lodge flap at your passing. But you know what mothers are.”
“And fathers,” Rannach said, then shook his head resignedly and laughed. “So you are my bodyguard.”
“Your devoted followers,” said Hadustan.
“A guard of honor,” said Zhy.
“That you come to the Council as a new groom should,” said Bakaan, and flipped a finger against a brooch hard enough that Rannach winced. “Looking splendid.”
Rannach said, “Gifts from Arrhyna’s parents,” and let his irritation fade away.
They came to the camp’s center and eased through the outer throng to the fire circle. The talking was begun, Colun standing as he told his story, his people in a group amongst the senior warriors. Rannach saw his father seated beside Morrhyn, Yazte and Kahteney on one side of them, Tahdase and Isten on the other; then Juh and Hazhe, Chakthi and Hadduth. There was silence as the Grannach spoke, and for a while after he was done, still silence. It was as though his words imposed a weight on the night the Council found hard to bear.
Then Juh spoke. “This is alarming news,” he said. Rannach wondered if the ancient dace wrinkled in concern or doubt.
“It is a matter hard of believing,” said Tahdase. “That a horde breaches the Maker’s wards?” He turned swiftly as Colun grunted. “It is no that I name our Grannach friend a liar, but this is unprecedented.”
Chakthi said, “I find it hard to believe.”
Rannach looked past the Tachyn akaman, thinking to see Vachyr standing close to his father. There was no sign of Chakthi’s son, and he wondered if Vachyr hid hi
mself in shame. Then all his attention was focused on the Council as his own father spoke.
“It is surely,” Racharran said, “hard to believe. But that does not mean it is not true. I have no doubt but that Colun speaks the truth.”
“Nor I,” said Yazte. “And so it seems to me that our decision must be what we do about it.”
“How so?” Chakthi’s tone was a challenge. “Is it true, then some horde has come into the land of the People Beyond the Mountains. What concern is that of ours? We’ve no dealings with the Whaztaye. They are not our brothers—what is their fate to us?”
“Did they enter the Whaztaye country through the gate,” Racharran said, “then they might well come down through our own mountains. And then it must surely be of great concern to us.”
“We should prepare for war,” said Yazte.
Rannach felt a thrill: was Colun’s description of these strangeling invaders told true, then they should surely be far finer enemies than even the Tachyn. He felt his blood run swifter along his veins: there would be glory to be won in such fighting.
“I think,” he heard Juh say, “that it is early to speak of war. The Maker set us Matawaye down here in Ket-Ta-Witko because this is our land: the place we belong. The Maker ringed the land with the holy mountains that we not be threatened, neither threaten those other folk who live in the places beyond. I wonder if we do not question the Maker’s wisdom when we assume the gates may be breached.”
He turned to Hazhe for confirmation; the Aparhaso wakanisha nodded his agreement.
Tahdase said, “Juh speaks wisely. Surely the Maker will protect us, and not allow this horde passage through the hills.”
“They slew the Whaztaye!” Colun said, rising to his feet. “In the Maker’s name, I tell you I saw them!” He raised his bandaged hand; slapped it against his thigh. “I got these wounds off them! They are not like any folk I have seen—they fight like demons, and they came over the lands of the Whaztaye like fire across the plains.”
“But, like fire, were halted,” said Tahdase. “Against the mountains.”
“For now.” Colun ducked his head, returning to the ground. “For now.”
Yazte asked, “You think they’ll come through?”
“That should be a hard-fought passage,” Colun declared. “Do they attempt our ways, we Grannach shall fight them down all the tunnels; down all the caverns. But we are not so many, and they are like a locust swarm. Do they attain the high passes …”
“Surely none can,” said Juh. An arm still corded for all it was thinned by age thrust up to indicate the encircling hills. “Men cannot breathe up there. Thus the Maker decreed.”
“Men cannot,” said Colun, “but I am not sure these creatures are men like you and me.”
“You slew them, no?” Chakthi asked; and when Colun nodded: “Then surely they are men.”
Colun made a helpless gesture and said, “Perhaps some. But you would as easily stem a prairie fire with flapping hands.” He looked around the circle, staring fiercely from under overhanging brows. “I tell you, they are a horde; a terrible flood. And you had best prepare.”
“Do you?” asked Chakthi.
“Yes!” Colun nodded vigorously. “My Grannach are ready to seal the secret ways with rock and magic. Our manufactories are turned to blades and shields and arrows; to spear points and armor. Oh, yes, we prepare.”
“Then,” Chakthi said, “we’ve both the Maker’s wards and your strength to defend us; and so Ket-Ta-Witko is likely safe.”
“These are our friends!” Racharran cried. “Shall we leave the Grannach to fight alone? To fight our battles for us?”
Rannach was proud of his father at that moment, disgusted with Chakthi’s response.
“It is not our battle yet,” the Tachyn said. “Does this horde move against the Grannach, then I’ll give them my support. Does this horde look to enter Ket-Ta-Witko, then I’ll bring my warriors to battle. But that time is not yet come! I say we trust in the Maker—these invaders shall not pass through the sacred hills. I say that Juh and Tahdase speak wisely when they tell us to trust in the Maker. I say we take no decision now, but wait.”
Rannach saw Yazte’s hand rise angry, halted by Racharran’s gesture. His father said, “Wait? Wait for what? This horde to come? Or Colun’s people to come tell us we are invaded? Shall we wonder if the fire burns and not go look? Only wait until we see the flames rise?”
“What do you suggest?” asked Juh.
“That we set watchers, at the least,” Racharran answered. “Warriors to guard the hills and speak with the Grannach. That we may know what threatens us.”
“I think my brother doubts the Maker,” Chakthi said. “Surely the Will promises us safety here.”
Tahdase leaned toward Isten, whispering a moment, then said, “This is the promise of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko: that we be secure here.”
Chakthi nodded gravely. Rannach saw Colun stiffen, and Racharran murmur with Morrhyn even as he reached out to touch the Grannach’s hand, silencing his angry retort.
Carefully, Racharran said, “I do not question the Will. But I ask the Council to consider a question: Are we tested? Perhaps the Maker chooses to test us.”
“And finds some wanting,” said Chakthi.
Juh motioned for silence. “It may be so.” He looked to Racharran, to Colun, at each akaman and wakanisha in turn. “If all we have heard is true, then it may well be a great test comes to us. If this horde our Grannach friend speaks of owns such strength as he describes, then we face a dreadful test; and we must think carefully about what we are to do. I say this is not a thing we can decide in a single Council, but a matter to sleep on, to ponder and approach with caution.”
Caution? Rannach thought. Colun brings warning of a horde come out of the Maker-knows-where with blood and fire, and we must ponder it? What we should do, old man, is what my father says—ready for the fight.
“This is wise.” Tahdase’s voice interrupted his angry thoughts. “We need time to think on this.”
“What’s to think on?” Yazte stabbed a finger in the direction of the Maker’s Mountain. “Do you doubt Colun? Are we to sit talking—thinking!—until this horde comes to us?”
“Shall it come tomorrow?” Tahdase addressed himself to Colun, who—irritably—shook his head. “Surely we’ve a little time?”
The Grannach shrugged and nodded reluctantly. Juh said, “And the wakanishas sit in Dream Council tomorrow, no? Can we not give it that long, at the least?”
“I support my elder brother,” Chakthi said.
“And I,” said Tahdase.
Juh smiled. “Then shall it be so? Shall this Council form again after our wakanishas have spoken? And we decide then?”
Tahdase and Chakthi ducked their heads in ready accord; Racharran and Yazte were slower, but—with scant choice left them—agreed.
“Then so,” Juh said, “let the wakanishas speak of this and all other matters on the morrow, and all well, this Council shall reconvene and we reach a decision.”
They seemed to Rannach blind as horses grazing downwind of a lion: oblivious of impending danger. All save his father and Yazte. He thought that Chakthi likely argued for procrastination only because Racharran argued for preparation. Juh, he thought, was an old man dreaming of a peaceful old age, disinclined to consider such turmoil as Colun warned of; and Tahdase was aged beyond his years, cautious as a rabbit with fox-scent on the air. He snorted his disgust loud enough one of the older warriors turned to fix him with a disapproving stare. Rannach knew what he would do were he akaman of the Commacht.
He turned his head to see the faces of his friends, and knew that they should be with him: their eyes burned with dreams of glorious battle.
“I’d speak with Colun of these warriors,” Bakaan whispered.
“When my father addresses the clan,” Rannach answered, “you shall have your say. And Colun will be about our camp tomorrow.”
Hadustan said, “Think you Racharran
shall speak for war?”
Zhy said, “It must be the decision of all the People. How say you, Rannach?”
“That my father,” he said slowly, “would do as he says—prepare.”
“And you?” Zhy pressed.
Rannach laughed. “I’d send warriors out now, to watch the hills. By the Maker! I’d lead them into the Grannach tunnels myself, to meet these invaders and defeat them before they set foot on our grass.”
“And we,” Bakaan said, “Would follow you into battle.”
“Yes,” said Zhy.
“Save,” said Hadustan with a lubricious grin, “that we are unwed warriors, whilst Rannach is now a married man.”
“I am myself,” Rannach declared, frowning. “Wed or not, what difference?”
Hadustan’s grin spread wider and even more lascivious. “I wonder,” he said, draping an arm about Rannach’s shoulders, “if there are not matters that need explaining to you, my friend. Had I the choice of riding out to face such creatures as Colun describes, or lingering snug beneath my furs with a woman like Arrhyna … Well, that should be no decision at all.”
Rannach caught his wrist and turned, twisting Hadustan’s arm even as he laughed. “Which?” he demanded.
“Why,” said Hadustan, “I’d send you out to fight, and I”—he fell to his knees, mimicking pain, pitching his voice high—“Oh, Rannach, you’re so strong. Stay warm under the furs, Rannach. Please, don’t leave me.”
Rannach chuckled and let him go as faces turned toward them. “Envy!” he said. “Perhaps someday you shall find a woman like Arrhyna. It is not likely because of your resemblance to an ugly horse, but perhaps the Maker will take pity on you.”
Hadustan rose, grinning, “And meanwhile she lingers lonely in your lodge … Oh, Rannach, I’m so alone.”
“Yes.” Rannach nodded solemnly. “For a fool, you speak wisdom.” He glanced toward the circle of the Council. The akamans spoke now of clan affairs, of disputed grazing and such other matters: none of interest. “I’ve duties you’d not understand. I shall go.”
“Oh, Rannach!” Hadustan cupped hands between his legs. “I believe I understand.”
