Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  His own warriors danced their horses around him, urging him to attack, telling him they could easily sweep these upstarts from the slopes.

  He said, “No! We are yet bound by the Will. Find Morrhyn and bring him.”

  A man raced back along the nervous column to where Morrhyn rode with Lhyn and brought the wakanisha to Racharran.

  The akaman pointed his lance at the Tachyn and then at the river. “Twenty and twenty to either side,” he said, “and likely as many hidden ahead. I’d not fight them if I can avoid it, but they may not grant us that choice. What are your thoughts?”

  Morrhyn nodded, recognizing the true purpose of Racharran’s question, of the summons: to emphasize the wakanisha’s position, establish his authority. These last nights, there had been mutterings amongst the impatient warriors—that their Dreamer lost his power, could no longer warn of hazards to come. Even now he saw faces turned dark and doubting toward him, waiting on him.

  “The Ahsa-tye-Patiko is clear on this,” he said. “Each clan is granted safe passage home, and to deny that is to deny the Will, to risk the Maker’s anger.”

  From amongst the warriors came a voice he recognized as Bakaan’s: “Chakthi denies the Will at his pleasure! Are we to die at his whim?”

  Racharran’s voice cracked through the morning. “We are Commacht! Would you forget the Will, then go join the Tachyn.”

  Morrhyn saw Bakaan frown and lower his face. He said, “They do not attack yet.”

  “Not yet.” Racharran looked again toward the river. “But when we reach the ford?”

  Maker guide me, Morrhyn thought. Have I offended you, punish me, not all the clan. “That would surely be the place,” he said. “But why reveal themselves? I wonder if Chakthi has some other design in mind.”

  “What else could it be?” Racharran asked.

  Morrhyn turned in his saddle to study the watching Tachyn, the river ahead. “Perhaps …” He gathered his thoughts, not knowing if the Maker granted him insight or if it was his own intuition. “Perhaps Chakthi seeks to share his sin. None saw him when they attacked before.” He looked around: men shook their heads. “Perhaps this is like the kidnap—that Chakthi would draw us into a trap and claim his hands clean, that these warriors act unknown to him. Perhaps he’d lure us into a breaking of the Will.”

  A man barked laughter and shouted, “What matter? Are we attacked now or at the ford, the defenseless ones shall suffer. Why do we not charge them?”

  Morrhyn thought that Racharran would answer, but the akaman sat silent, leaving the response to him. He said, “It is a Racharran says—we are Commacht: we hold to the Will. Let Chakthi bloody his hands, not ours.”

  The same man demanded: “And so we go like dew-eyed deer to the slaughter?”

  Racharran was about to speak, but Morrhyn reached out to touch his wrist and silence him—the akaman had passed him this burden: now he would carry it as best he could. “I think they may not attack,” he said. “I think perhaps they look to draw us into a charge, and after claim it was we made the first move.”

  “I would,” the man declared. “Make the first move.”

  His cry was answered with shouts of agreement and approval, and all the while the column moved slowly on toward the ford and Morrhyn knew he must do something to hold his people to the Will, that the angry warriors not defile the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. He looked again at the Tachyn: they waved their lances in challenge, and the breeze carried their jeers.

  He said, “No! The first move is mine.”

  His voice was loud and firm: it stilled the warriors. Racharran stared at him, eyes framing a question. He said, “I shall go to them and ask them what they do.”

  He felt afraid. He thought the Tachyn should likely slay him, and then was ashamed of his fear, thinking that did he fail to act, the Commacht should likely charge and the Will be further broken. He heeled his horse forward.

  Racharran moved to halt him, said: “Not alone.”

  “Yes, alone.” Morrhyn forced a smile and lied. “I think not even Chakthi’s warriors would slay a wakanisha.”

  And do they, he thought, then what shall it matter? If I can no longer dream, what use am I? No matter what Racharran says. And if I succeed, then perhaps I shall strengthen the Will, perhaps persuade the hotheads to observance. He fixed Racharran with his eyes and turned his horse past the akaman’s and drove his heels against the flanks, lifting the animal to a canter, shouting back in as firm a voice as he could manage: “Wait here!”

  The day was warm: he felt chilled as he rode away from his people and his belly felt hollow. He let his eyes wander sidelong, seeing the Tachyn riders match his pace. As he passed the ridges’ ends and came toward the river and the narrow ford, they descended and swung toward him. He could see none others hidden and reined in a little way from the water. The Tachyn closed on him, and he gentled his mount as the animal scented his fear and began to prance. His throat was dry and still he felt a great desire to spit, which he resisted, endeavoring to sit calm as he anticipated an arrow driving into his back, his ribs, his chest, or the sudden charge that would plant the lance’s point in his belly and lift him from the saddle.

  Instead, the Tachyn warriors wheeled their horses in a circle about him, round and round, as he sat holding his own in check. They called out, jeering, telling him the Commacht were cowards and afraid of the mighty Tachyn that they send a Dreamer in place of warriors. Some came in close to strike him and he swayed in the saddle, wincing at the blows, waiting for them to tire of the ritual.

  When they did and slowed their circling to ring him, waiting, he said, “Why do you do this?”

  They seemed a moment taken aback, then a warrior he did not recognize answered, “Because you are a Commacht and a coward.”

  He said, “I am Morrhyn, wakanisha of the Commacht. Who are you?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “I am Dohnse.”

  Morrhyn nodded and asked, “Are you Chakthi’s man, Dohnse?”

  The Tachyn frowned, confused, and said, “Of course.”

  Morrhyn assumed him the leader and stared at him. It was very hard to ignore the men milling about, the weapons they brandished. He asked, “And where is Chakthi?”

  Dohnse said, “He takes our people home. He takes Vachyr’s body home.”

  Morrhyn said, “And Hadduth? Where is the wakanisha of the Tachyn?”

  Dohnse’s frown grew deeper, the bands of color decorating his face twisting. He said, “Hadduth rides with the clan.”

  “He should be with you,” Morrhyn said. “That he might interpret the Ahsa-tye-Patiko for you.”

  Dohnse drew his rein tight, prompting his mount to dance. He looked uncomfortable, hid it behind a scowl. “What of the Will, Commacht?”

  “We are homebound from Matakwa.” Morrhyn angled his head back, indicating his own waiting clan, not taking his eyes from Dohnse’s face. “And the Will is clear on that—to attack is to defy the Maker.”

  Under the paint, the scowl, it was hard to read the Tachyn’s face, but he thought Dohnse looked an instant ashamed. He watched as the man shook his lance and then his head.

  “Rannach broke the Ahsa-tye-Patiko when he slew Vachyr.”

  Morrhyn said, “Yes; but Vachyr broke it first when he stole Arrhyna. And the Council decided Rannach’s punishment. Even now he lives in the wild places, alone.” He stabbed a hand toward the west, toward the distant shadow-shapes of the mountains and the faint, shining bulk of the Maker’s Mountain. “It is for the Maker to decide whether he lives or dies now. As it is for the Maker to decide the right and wrong of defying the Will. Shall you accept that, Dohnse? Shall you accept the Maker’s wrath?”

  Dohnse looked in turn toward the mountains and shaped a sign of warning. “Chakthi has declared war,” he said, less confident now. “Why should I not kill you?”

  Morrhyn said, “Because you would then break the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, Dohnse, and would surely earn the Maker’s displeasure. I am a wakanisha, and I tell
you it would be so. Must be so! The Will is clear on this, and do you break it you must suffer his anger. You and all others who defy him. Shall you accept that anger alone? Or shall you go back and ask Hadduth, Chakthi, to take a share?”

  Dohnse chewed awhile on his lower lip, his horse curveting, then grunted and said, “Why should I listen to you, Morrhyn of the Commacht?”

  Morrhyn said, “Perhaps because I came to you alone, that I might speak with you of the Will and find a way whereby you can avoid the Maker’s anger. Perhaps because I’d not see further bloodshed in defiance of the Will.”

  Dohnse said, “Our clans are at war, Dreamer. How can there not be further bloodshed?”

  Morrhyn would have sighed, save that must be interpreted as a sign of weakness, and he thought that if he showed any sign of weakness now he would die, and then the Commacht ride down on these misguided men and the Will be all shattered. So he steeled himself and said, “Perhaps there cannot. Save do you take lives now, you condemn yourselves in the eyes of the Maker and I’d not see you suffer that fate. Neither you or my clan.”

  “You weave clever words.” Dohnse shook his lance in frustration and fury, but Morrhyn thought he saw a measure of doubt in the man’s eyes. “I am Chakthi’s man. I obey my akaman.”

  “Who is not here,” Morrhyn said. “And thus able to claim his hands were clean, does this all come to killing. Neither him nor Hadduth, eh? Only you and your men—who shall suffer alone the Maker’s judgment.”

  He saw the doubt grow larger. “Listen,” he said, “there is a way past this. A way that leaves you with honor, nor condemned before the Maker.”

  Reluctantly, Dohnse asked, “How? What way is this?”

  Morrhyn pointed at the river. “The boundary of our grass, that. Leave us cross—let the defenseless ones go over unharmed—and then the strictures of the Will are obeyed. Once over, we are on Commacht grass and this war Chakthi brings us shall no longer defy the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. Grant us that crossing and you shall not be condemned. I tell you this as a wakanisha.”

  Dohnse pondered awhile, then said, “I must speak of this with my people.”

  Morrhyn nodded. He sat his fretful horse as the Tachyn spoke amongst themselves. Before him the river burbled unconcerned, and above the sky stretched blue and hard in the spring sun, the mare’s tails all strung out on the wind. He saw a hawk riding the aerial currents, hovering still as the cold, chilled center of his being as he waited for the Tachyns’ decision. It seemed to him a frozen moment in which he could hear the nervous pounding of his own heart, and he thought that if the Tachyn decided in favor of his suggestion, then perhaps there was still some little hope, some honor left. He saw the hawk stoop as Dohnse spoke again.

  “It shall be as you say.” The Tachyn thrust his lance in the direction of the ford. He seemed torn, between, Morrhyn thought, fear of the Maker and fear of Chakthi. “Let your defenseless ones cross, and all your coward warriors. We shall not attack.”

  “My thanks.” Morrhyn ducked his head. “It is good to find honor yet exists amongst Chakthi’s people.”

  Dohnse frowned and spat onto the trampled grass. “Do not try my patience, Dreamer.” He flourished his lance. “Go tell your people they cross with my permission.”

  Morrhyn waited no longer, but turned his horse and heeled the animal back. The Tachyn parted for him, watching him with sullen, angry eyes, and all the way he felt an unpleasant prickling between his shoulders, resisting the urge to gallop or to look back.

  “They say we can cross unharmed,” he told Racharran.

  A warrior—Bakaan again, he thought—snorted and said, “They say? We could ride them down.”

  Racharran asked, “Are there more? Could it be a trap?”

  “I think not.” Morrhyn shook his head. “I saw no others. I spoke to them of honor and the Will.”

  Racharran nodded and said, loud, “That was a brave thing you did. So …” He raised his lance, waving the clan onward. “We cross in peace. Let no man break the Will.”

  He urged his horse forward and the Commacht came down between the ridges in an eager human tide. It was ever good to reach home again, but now the sweeter for what lay behind them; and if war lay ahead, then at least it should be fought on their grass, where the bones and blood of the ancestors nurtured them and made them strong. They came cautious to the river, the warriors yet alert along the flanks and to the rear, then forming defensive as the women and children and old folk made the crossing. The Tachyn disappeared back into the copses and Dohnse kept his word, so that all came over unscathed.

  As Morrhyn waited, watching the horse herd and the dogs go splashing over, Lhyn came up beside. She rode a paint pony, leading a roan that dragged a travois on which was loaded hers and Racharran’s lodge, and all they had brought with them to Matakwa. The sun shone bright on her hair, so that the strands of silver glittered, enhancing the gold, and for all her face still reflected the loss of her son, she was smiling.

  She said, “That was bravely done. I was afraid for you.”

  Morrhyn said, “I told Racharran they’d not dare harm a wakanisha,” even as he felt a flush of pleasure that she had been concerned for him.

  “They might have,” she said. “They are Chakthi’s people.”

  He shrugged, wishing he might reach out to touch her. It was as if those moments of danger heightened his senses and in their passing left him restless and needful of contact. He wished he might hold her; that it was his lodge loaded on the travois, and his blankets she’d come to that night. He thought that at that moment he had never desired her more.

  “I was afraid,” he said, and smiled sheepishly. “I feared they’d kill me, But …” He shrugged again.

  “But what?” Lhyn asked, and reached out to touch his hand.

  He shivered at her touch; it seemed he could feel the pulsing of her blood. He felt sure she must know this, and what his eyes surely said to her. He stretched his smile wider in camouflage and said, “Some of them yet honor the Will.”

  “Then we’ve hope,” she said. “Are there such warriors amongst the Tachyn still. And such men as you with us.”

  He said, “Perhaps,” and wished they not have this conversation and she go on to leave him lonely with his thoughts: it was hard to love another’s wife.

  Then Racharran came splashing back across the river and the moment was—thankfully for Morrhyn—ended as the akaman saw to Lhyn’s crossing, and after that the last of the clan went over, and then the rearguard and all the Commacht came again onto their own grass.

  The Tachyn struck thrice more as they moved toward the summer grazing. The New Grass Moon waned and the nights were lit only by stars as the Moon of Dancing Foals gathered strength and the attacks were fought off with no Commacht slain and only minor casualties, but still they were savage reminder of Chakthi’s vengeance-bent rage.

  And still Morrhyn did not dream. He could not, it seemed: as if a darkening veil fell over him when he found his blankets. He slept—as he had told Racharran—like a babe: either dreamlessly sound or always waking unaware of what roused him, other than unknown terror. Once on the relative safety of the summer grass he raised himself a sweat lodge and passed long nights there seeking communion with the Maker and that oneiric world that foretold—or should have—the events of the mundane, but nothing came save sweat and blank, dark night. He ate the pahé root and still did not dream: he came to fear the Maker had taken away the gift and he become useless to his clan and all the People. He wondered if he had failed his duty, or if Colun’s invaders stole his ability, and could not decide. He knew only that he no longer dreamed, and could not decide. He knew only that he no longer dreamed, and could no longer forewarn or guide his clan. He felt then that the fear he had known when he faced Dohnse was just a small thing, and not at all to be compared with this.

  And as his inner darkness grew, so did the war, as if the one thing were somehow linked to the other, or both controlled by some greater darkness that sp
read like malign twilight across Ket-Ta-Witko.

  Racharran took his clan deep into the Commacht territory, far from the boundaries where usually they would be safe. Then, when no attacks came for a while and the Commacht were somewhat lulled into a sense of security, the clan divided, as was customary, into lesser family groups that drifted to their preferred grazing. It was not the way of the People to fight great battles, but rather skirmishes, fast raids, and ambuscades, small bands of warriors striking into a clan’s territory to hit and run. Usually when they fought, it was over horses or disputed grazing, hunting rights. That Chakthi sent his people into battle envenomed purely with his own malice was a strange thing that the Commacht found hard to understand. But send them he did, and himself at the head, his face painted with the colors of war and vengeance, his shield daubed all black in mourning for Vachyr. He wore his hair still loose and foul with ashes and dirt, so that those who saw him and lived said that he wore the look of a ghost or a demon. Neither did his belligerence follow any pattern familiar to the clan. He brought his warriors in large bands, deep into the Commacht grazing, and after striking did not return to his own territory but pressed on, like a prairie fire blazing unchecked across the grass. Nor did he spare those considered by custom and the Ahsa-tye-Patiko inviolate: women and children, old men—the defenseless ones—died. He poisoned springs with corpses and damned streams with the rotting bodies of slain horses; where food was grown he trampled and befouled; and when no Commacht were available, he slew game, leaving the meat to rot. It was a war such as the Commacht had never known: it filled them with both fear and hatred. And still Morrhyn could not dream, but only give what advice he could.

  He suggested to Racharran that the akaman bring in the scattered groups, that the clan band all together in such size as might daunt the Tachyn. It was an unknown thing, but they fought an unknown war, so Racharran sent out riders and all the Commacht drew together in one great defensive mass.

  This in itself created problems, for with so large a band the grazing was soon worn out and they must often move nomadic, and the presence of so many people in one place frightened off the game so that hunters must travel farther afield after the buffalo and the deer, which left them vulnerable to the raging Techyn. It was as if Chakthi’s madness infected his clan, and Morrhyn wondered what insanity must grip Hadduth, that the Tachyn wakanisha raised no objection. But that, in light of his own problems, was a small consideration.