Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  Juh rose and walked to the circle’s center, where Rannach stood. He must raise his head to look the younger man in the face, and when he did, Rannach could not interpret his expression. He adjusted his blanket about his shoulders and turned slowly around, speaking loud that all hear.

  “As was agreed, I have spoken long with Tahdase of the Naiche and Yazte of the Lakanti, and we have reached a decision. Shall our judgment be accepted by all?”

  Rannach was the first to answer yes, Racharran the second. Chakthi said, slower and enigmatic, “Be it fair.”

  Juh turned hooded eyes on the Tachyn and said, “It was agreed by you, brother. Will you argue now?”

  Chakthi’s lips worked, the clay splitting in myriad lines that distorted his features even further. Hadduth touched his elbow and spoke in his ear, and Chakthi lowered his head so that his ashy hair curtained his face. From behind that camouflage he said, “I will hear your judgment.”

  Juh took this for assent and turned to Rannach.

  “This is our judgment; it was not easily reached. There are many arguments, both for you and against you. That you broke the law cannot be denied …”

  From Chakthi’s mask, like a ghostly moan, came: “The law is clear—his death.”

  Juh ignored him. “… But neither can it be denied that Vachyr transgressed when he stole your wife, and we believe her testimony. Therefore, the first crime was undoubtedly Vachyr’s.”

  Rannach stood stock-still. Like the sparks lofting from the fires, he felt an ember of hope rise.

  “So,” Juh continued, “there is a balance here. It is our belief that had Vachyr not gone against the Will, you would not have broken it. But”—he raised a hand from under his blanket as if to quench the disagreement none had voiced—“still it is as I have said: that wrong cannot be justified by wrong.”

  Rannach felt the ember die.

  Juh said, “Our brother Chakthi has called for your life. Your father has offered blood-payment. Chakthi has refused that and would see you slain. What say you?”

  Rannach was startled. He had anticipated judgment—readied himself for death—assuming the verdict already decided: the one way or the other. He had not thought to be asked his opinion.

  He looked at Juh and saw no dissemblance in the ancient eyes, only patience and sorrow. He fought the impulse to turn toward his father. He said carefully, “I slew Vachyr in fair fight. I told him I would take him back to face judgment of his crime, but he taunted me and my temper rose—I took up my lance and slew him.”

  “And these taunts? What were they?”

  Rannach said, “Insults,” and glanced swiftly at Arrhyna. “I’d not speak of them.”

  Arrhyna broke from her mother’s arm, and Lhyn’s, and rose to shout, “Vachyr boasted of raping me!”

  Softly, that only Rannach hear him, Juh said, “There’s honor in you.” Then louder: “Our judgment is this: that Rannach of the Commacht had just cause to slay Vachyr of the Tachyn, and so we would not take his life. But that he shed blood at the time of Matakwa was wrong, and therefore we have decided that Rannach be banished from the lodges of the People. Let him go away and live lonely. Let none succor him, neither his own clan nor any other. And should he come again onto the grass of the People, then his life is forfeit. This is our judgment: let it be done.”

  Rannach bowed his head, accepting.

  Chakthi sprang to his feet, shrieking, “No! I’ll see him dead. I do not accept this!”

  Hadduth clutched at his shirt, but the Tachyn akaman would not be silenced. He slapped the wakanisha’s hand away and strode to where Rannach stood, and Juh, looking furious from one to the other. Juh set himself before Rannach even as Racharran and Yazte rose, moving forward. Even shy Tahdase was on his feet.

  “He must be executed!” Where the clay split around his mouth, Chakthi’s lips spat foam. His eyes burned fierce as flames. “He slew my son and I’ll have his death!”

  Undaunted, Juh said, “Judgment is delivered, brother.”

  Chakthi raised a hand. Warriors of the Tachyn and the Commacht surged forward. The men of the Lakanti came to Yazte, those of the Naiche to Tahdase, the Aparhaso to Juh. Like the fires’ sparks, voices rose bellowing against the night. Men roared and women screamed; dogs set to barking, and from the corrals the horses shrilled.

  It was a Council like no other.

  Only Rannach was still in the midst of the turmoil. He wondered if death was not preferable to banishment. He saw Chakthi’s enraged face, the clay all split and broken now like a shed concealment, glowering at him, and old Juh shielding him. Then his father and Yazte and Tahdase were there, confronting the Tachyn akaman, their warriors facing Chakthi’s men. He saw Chakthi’s fisted hand come down against Juh’s face, and the old man stagger. He caught him and held him turned from the attack, feeling blows land hard against his head and shoulders before the maddened Chakthi was fought back.

  Juh said, “My thanks. Now let me go.”

  Rannach nodded and released him to his men. The warriors of the clans stood faced against one another. Juh touched his bruised cheek and pulled his blanket about his shoulders as if he felt a chill wind blowing, then moved to stand between the angry factions.

  “Is it come to this?” His voice rang out vigorous for all his years. “Is all the Will forgotten? Are we become squabbling dogs?”

  Slowly, driven by his outrage, the warriors drew back. Hadduth took hold of Chakthi’s shirt and tugged hard, wary as if he clutched a rabid hound. Racharran took his son’s arm and pulled Rannach back. Yazte and his Lakanti formed a defensive line between the Commacht and the Tachyn.

  “Judgment is delivered,” Juh shouted. “It is as was agreed, and it is binding. Rannach shall quit this place by the setting of tomorrow’s sun, and not again come to the grass of the People, else his life be forfeit.”

  Small amongst the bodies of his Aparhaso warriors he looked to where Chakthi stood. “And any who deny this or defy it breach the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. Let Rannach be gone by tomorrow’s sunset. Let none hunt him or seek to delay him. Until this Matakwa is ended, it is so.”

  Chakthi looked him back, and in no less a voice said, “This Matakwa is ended now. There is no peace now. There is only war.”

  Juh gasped and raised a hand as if to touch Chakthi. “What do you say, brother? Your grief speaks wild and I ask you to think again. We’ve much to discuss yet, for the good of all the People.”

  Chakthi glared hot-eyed at the older, smaller man. His lips curled in an expression that was sneer and snarl together, the clay fragmenting further. “I say there is no justice here.” A hand swept a dismissive arc. “I say that I am not your brother—save you give me Rannach.”

  Doggedly, Juh said, “Judgment is delivered on that, brother, and in the name of the Maker I ask you accept it.”

  “No!” Chakthi howled his answer.

  To Racharran, Yazte said urgently, “Do you go? Take your son away and swift, before this comes to blows!”

  Racharran hesitated, then nodded and motioned for his people to quit the fire circle. Behind them the night echoed with angry cries.

  It was a Matakwa like no other.

  Arrhyna wept, clinging to Rannach as they were hurried away. Tears rolled down Lhyn’s cheeks; Racharran’s face was held in rigid composure. Morrhyn stared back at the tumult they left, his belly knotted and cold with dread. Nemeth and Zeil went pale-faced and troubled, Colun and his Grannach trotting to hold pace with the longer-legged Commacht.

  As they reached the akaman’s lodge, the Tachyn were already quitting the Council fires, led by Chakthi and Hadduth, storming shouting through their camp. Children began to wail; dogs barked furiously. Racharran paused, issuing brisk orders that warriors align themselves along the stream for fear Chakthi’s rage engender an attack. Yazte and some thirty or forty warriors of the Lakanti, the Aparhaso, and the Naiche came running, skirting the edge of the Tachyn lodges to join the Commacht men.

  “Ho, brother!” Th
e Lakanti akaman was flushed, waving a large hand to halt Racharran. “Old Juh suggests we play guardian.”

  Racharran frowned and said, “We need no guardians, brother. We can defend ourselves.”

  “Juh is a cautious man.” Yazte was panting, more accustomed to riding than running. “But in this I agree with him, Chakthi is crazed, and should his clan share his madness, it were better they face us than your warriors, that there be no further claim of insult or injury. He thinks—and I think him right—that Chakthi will not dare attack all the clans.”

  Racharran’s eyes narrowed and Morrhyn said, “This is wise. The Maker knows, we’ve trouble enough without there be more bloodshed.”

  Racharran looked toward the Tachyn lodges and grunted his assent. “So be it. Now I’d speak with my son, and …” Like the clouds scudding across the moon, a shadow darkened his face. “See him on his way.”

  “Soon and safely, eh?” Yazte nodded toward the shouting Tachyn. “Likely Chakthi will have riders seeking him ere long.”

  Morrhyn said, “The judgment was that none pursue him or raise hand against him until this Matakwa ends.”

  Yazte grinned sourly and said, “This Matakwa is ended. Chakthi takes his clan away.”

  “He cannot!” Morrhyn stared aghast at the Lakanti. “What of the invaders? What of the truce?”

  Yazte shrugged, grimacing. “Kahteney shall explain—I’d best attend here. Ho, Kahteney! Where are you?”

  The Lakanti wakanisha came hurrying out of the crowd. He took Morrhyn’s arm, leading him aside as Racharran and the others went on.

  “Chakthi quits the Matakwa,” he said. “The Tachyn strike camp this night, and none can dissuade him. He swears vengeance on Rannach and all the Commacht.”

  “Oh, Maker!” Morrhyn turned toward the great white peak of the holy mountain. Its pinnacle was dark with windblown cloud, as if it hid its face. The play of moonlight and shadow across its flanks suggested falling tears. “What madness is this?”

  Kahteney said, “Tachyn madness; Chakthi’s madness. Listen—after you quit the fires he called again for Rannach’s death, and had men not stood between him and Juh, I think he’d have struck the old one again. Juh and Tahdase and Yazte tried to reason with him, but there’s no placating a wounded lion, eh? He’ll quit the Meeting Ground tonight, and he declares the Matakwa therefore ended and Rannach fair game. Also, he promises war with the Commacht soon as he’s buried Vachyr.”

  Morrhyn began to speak, but the Lakanti Dreamer hushed him. “You’ll need tell this to Rannach, and advise Racharran also. Tell them the Lakanti stand with them, but no other. Tell them to ride wary, for Chakthi is crazed and I think he’ll stop at nothing.”

  “But the truce?” Morrhyn cried. “The invaders?”

  “The one forgotten,” Kahteney replied, “and the other? Chakthi and Hadduth deny the danger; Juh and Tahdase prevaricate.” He barked a sour laugh. “Are our fears fleshed, my friend, the People are in terrible danger.”

  Morrhyn looked again toward the mountain, but its apex was still hidden. Worse comes to worst, he thought, like nightmare taking form. He took Kahteney’s hand. “As you say, I must inform Racharran. My thanks, friend.”

  Kahteney nodded, mouth stretching in an unhappy smile. “We Lakanti stand with you. Now go.”

  “Yes.” Morrhyn turned and ran after his akaman.

  Behind him, from across the stream, warriors of the Tachyn bellowed insults and challenges. He prayed none cross that fragile barrier; there was already enough broken this night.

  “Would he dare?”

  Morrhyn looked at Lhyn’s teared face and wished he might offer her better comfort. But that was not his place, nor now within his capability, and so he ducked his head and said, “Kahteney believes he would; I believe he would.”

  Racharran looked to Rannach and said, “Then you must go tonight. Now!”

  Rannach said, “I am not afraid of Chakthi. I’d not run like a frightened dog from that whoreson.”

  Racharran inhaled a deep breath and let it out slow, holding back the anger and the disappointment that threatened to edge his response. His son, he thought, was like some youngling buffalo bull newcome to his prime: all bristling and audacious and aware only of his strength and desire and pride. “Were it Chakthi alone,” he said, “I’d back you in the fight. But it would not be Chakthi alone. He’ll hunt in a pack like the dog he is, and not even you can defeat all the Tachyn.”

  Rannach said, “Then send warriors with me. Or”—he looked about the fire, at the kindred and friends who sat there—“let me come back to the Commacht grass.”

  Racharran shook his head, avoiding his wife’s eye. “I cannot. You heard the judgment.”

  “Chakthi defies it,” Rannach said. “Is it then still binding?”

  Racharran said, “I thought you understood. You said you understood.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  Racharran sighed and said, “You did not understand. Those are the arguments of youth, without forethought. Honor is honor; my honor is mine, Chakthi’s his.”

  “Chakthi,” Rannach said, “has no honor.”

  “No.” Racharran shook his head in agreement. “But I do, and you do. And so we are bound by promises that men like Chakthi ignore. Judgment was delivered, and it binds us, else we forfeit our honor.”

  Rannach frowned, pondering this. At his side, Arrhyna stifled tears, a hand across her mouth.

  Morrhyn said, “There’s more to think on. The Tachyn strike camp: the Matakwa is ended. Chakthi promises war: shall he find us on the trail? Better were the clan on our own grass before the Tachyn come against us. As your father says, Rannach, you must go quickly, and alone. The Ahsa-tye-Patiko is already broken, and does your father defy the judgment of the Council, then surely we further offend the Maker. I think we shall need his goodwill in the times to come.”

  As he spoke, he kept his eyes firm on the young man’s face that he not see Lhyn’s expression; but he could not block his ears to her moan, and it cut him deep.

  Colun spoke then, his voice startling them, as if a boulder ground against its moorings overhead. “We Grannach are not bound by this judgment,” he rumbled. “Juh spoke only of the People, that none of the Matawaye succor him. Is that not so, Dreamer?”

  Morrhyn said, surprised, “I suppose … Yes. What do you say?”

  Colun shrugged, succeeding in spilling tiswin down his shirt. “That he come with us. The Matakwa is ended; those fools blind themselves to what threatens Ket-Ta-Witko and there’s no reason for us to linger here, so we go. Let Rannach come with us. We’ll ward him, should Chakthi attempt anything.” His beard opened to expose teeth parted in a wolfish grin. “Let him try attacking Grannach warriors.”

  Racharran asked, “You’d take him into your tunnels?”

  “Perhaps not that, but into the hills, into the wild places where you do not go. Nor could Chakthi come against him.”

  “It should need be this night,” Racharran said. And looked to Rannach. “Would you agree to this?”

  “Have I another choice?”

  His father answered, “Death is your other choice.”

  For a while their eyes locked, then Rannach lowered his head. Lhyn loosed a cry that was part anguish, part relief. Arrhyna said, “I come with you.”

  Rannach said, “It will not be easy. You would fare better with the clan.”

  She said, “I am your wife; you are my husband.”

  He said, “Yes,” and took her hand and smiled. “So be it.”

  Racharran said, “There’s another thing, do you agree.”

  “What?” Rannach frowned. “Have I not agreed enough?”

  Racharran shrugged and glanced at Morrhyn. “You might be our sentry. Do these invaders breach the mountains, you might bring word.”

  “And defy the judgment?” Rannach mocked his father with his pantomimed outrage. “Come forbidden back to the grass?”

  Racharran refused the bait.
Gravely, he ducked his head and said, “Do these invaders come, then the judgment will surely be forgotten. To have word early would surely absolve the crime.”

  He looked to Morrhyn for confirmation. The wakanisha pursed his lips. “These are strange times,” he said. “The Ahsa-tye-Patiko offers no guidance in this. But … Yes, I think it must be so. It should be for all the People, no?”

  “Even,” Rannach said, “for Chakthi and his Tachyn?”

  Morrhyn asked, “Would you give even them up to what I fear comes?”

  Rannach thought a moment, then grinned and said, “I’d sooner slay Chakthi myself.”

  “Then your answer is yes?”

  Rannach nodded. His father smiled sadly and said, “Then do we strike your lodge and see you equipped?”

  “As,” Rannach replied, “my akaman commands.”

  Arrhyna said, “Might I bid my parents farewell?”

  Rannach told her, “Of course. But swift, eh?”

  She nodded and rose to embrace Lhyn, then hurried from the tent. Rannach held his mother close and whispered, “I shall see you again. I thought to die this night, but now I think the Maker smiles on me and I shall live.”

  Lhyn took his face in both her hands and said, “I pray it be so, my son. I pray we meet again in better times.”

  She touched her lips to his cheek and let him go. Morrhyn could see the tears she held in check. Almost, he wept himself: it seemed all order was disrupted and he could not know what blame to apportion to Rannach, what to Chakthi, nor what to himself or even—he made the sign of warding—to the Maker. He rose and took Rannach’s hands.

  “For what worth it has, you go with my blessing. The Maker guard you and see you safely home again.”

  “Thank you.” Rannach turned to Colun. “So, do we go?”

  The Grannach grunted and emptied his cup. “Strike your lodge and fetch your animals,” he said. “We’ll be ready.”