Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  Marjia said, “Let me.” And to Colun, “Do you support him?”

  Colun nodded and set a thick arm around Morrhyn’s shoulders, holding him up as Marjia spooned broth into his mouth. Some spilled down his chin, and inside him doubt laughed mockingly. He was the savior of his people, a man too weak to hold a bowl of broth who must be fed like a baby? He drank the first bowl and then another, and then sleep took him away again and he dreamed.

  It was no clear dream, with no clear answers in it, but like those others a thing of possibilities: all pessimism and hope, intermingled, as if he saw all the multiple threads of myriad lives and myriad deeds spun out to conclusions that might or not be real, action and interaction confused, outcomes multiplied. He saw the remnants of the Grannach in their caves, and the Breakers’ great army flooding down through the foothills onto the plains of Ket-Ta-Witko. He saw battles fought and the People die, slaughtered like the Whaztaye, and the Breakers claim all of Ket-Ta-Witko for their own. And come back into the mountains to hunt down the last of the Grannach, for they would leave none alive where they went, save it be for food or sport. And he saw them go on, beyond Ket-Ta-Witko into the other worlds, spreading destruction and death, conquering folk whose ways were strange and incomprehensible, and knew that if they were not halted, then they would take all the worlds for their and all the Maker’s creation be undone and only darkness rule.

  He saw Rannach and Arrhyna, snowbound in their lonely valley, and the horses they tended, and the new life swelling in Arrhyna’s belly. And he saw himself, speaking with them, and Colun, and then himself mounted and riding with Rannach across a landscape all wintry and warring, bringing word of what he knew and what the People must do. And he saw himself ignored and heeded both, and the strands divide as complicated as a spider’s web.

  He saw the strange ones of his other dreams, afloat on a great river that he did not know, hunted. And warriors strangely dressed, with weapons he did not understand that spat fire and killed at distances greater than any arrow might attain. And in that was again hope and despair, the division of possibilities, so that he felt as must a leaf caught and tossed all about in a great wind, and all he knew was that somehow the three were the hope of the People, though why or how he could not comprehend.

  And then, alternate to the destruction of all he knew and held dear, he saw again the answer—which was so enormous and frightening, it woke him.

  He lurched up from his bed, crying out; and Marjia was there, and Colun, holding him, confused as he wept for the enormity of what he knew and the impossibility of its achievement. And the knowledge that he must attempt it, though it cost him his life.

  “Soft, soft, eh? All’s well.” Marjia stroked his brow as she might stroke the brow of a child frightened by nightmare.

  “You’re safe here,” Colun said. “The invaders go by and know nothing of this cave.”

  “Safe?” He heard his own voice croaking. Marjia fed him more broth and he added, “None are safe. I must go.”

  Colun said, “Morrhyn, you’d not last a night out there. The Maker alone knows how you survived this far.”

  He said, “The Maker keeps me alive, that I do his bidding.”

  Had he not been so intent on supping the broth, he would have seen Colun look to his wife with brows raised in question of his sanity.

  He heard Colun ask, “Where did you come from? Where have you been?”

  He emptied the bowl before he spoke, and then between sips of a second told the Grannach of his quest: that all the wakanishas of the Matawaye were dreamless and that he had climbed the holy mountain and got back his dreams. They gaped and looked at each other in amazement and wonder, and at him as if he were a prophet, and he told them again that he must now go bring the word to the People.

  Colun frowned. “It will not be easy. The mountains are all winterbound now, and these Breakers are surely into Ket-Ta-Witko.”

  “Even so.” Morrhyn smiled his thanks as Marjia brought another bowl of broth. “I must attempt it.”

  “Not yet.” Colun pointed a stubby finger at the invalid. “You’re too weak yet. You must regain your strength.”

  Morrhyn said, “There’s not enough time. I must go.”

  “Ach!” Colun waved frustrated hands. “I can bring you down the mountain. Drag you on a sled if needs be! But what then?”

  “Rannach’s horses, no?” Morrhyn returned.

  Colun barked harsh laughter. “Think you you can sit a horse? Ride it across Ket-Ta-Witko with all the invaders—and the Tachyn—in your way? You’ll die, man! Likely when you fall off and break your addled head.”

  “Rannach will ward me,” he said.

  “Rannach’s banished,” Colun gave him back. “His life forfeit if he ventures onto the plains.”

  Morrhyn said, “Bring me to him, eh? Only that.”

  Colun dug fingers through his beard and shook his head. He was about to speak again, but Marjia forestalled him.

  “My husband speaks somewhat of the truth,” she said, ignoring Colun’s grunt. “Surely you are too weak yet to travel. You need to rest and flesh yourself, else you shall die along the way. What good that, eh? Shall you defeat yourself with manly pride, thinking you can do what you’re too weak to attempt? Listen—are you bound on the Maker’s journey, then you’d best equip yourself, no? Else you fail him.”

  “You believe me?” Morrhyn asked.

  Marjia and Colun both nodded.

  Colun said, “You’re the wakanisha of the Commacht, old friend. How can I doubt you after what you’ve told us? I like it not, but … Is it the Maker’s will, then so be it.”

  Marjia said, “It’s promise of a new world, free of these Breakers. I’d welcome that. But do you die, the promise dies with you, so you had best equip yourself to make the journey—which means you must rest awhile, to gain the strength for what you must do.”

  “But time passes,” Morrhyn moaned. “And all the while, the Breakers advance. I must go.”

  Colun began to speak, but Marjia waved him silent and said, “Then go. Stand up and go.”

  He smiled thanks for her support and slid the blanket from his shoulders, pushed back the furs that covered him. He was naked, but that was no embarrassment in face of what must come did he fail. He drew up his legs and began to rise … and saw the cave spin around and felt a great trembling weakness pervade his limbs so that he fell backward and would have struck his head against the rocky floor had Colun not caught him.

  “You see?” Marjia asked, the spike of her question blunted by her soft tone. “You cannot stand. How can you ride a horse?”

  He said, tortured, “I must go.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Surely you must, when you are fit to make the journey.”

  He said, helplessly, “Now. I must go now.”

  “And die along the way?” she asked again, still mild. “Shall that serve the Maker well? That you die with all that knowledge you own—his gift—to be lost with you?”

  He said lowly, “No.”

  “Then rest,” she said, sterner now. “Get back your strength and go out with some hope of survival. Colun will bring you to the valley where Rannach and Arrhyna are, and you can speak with them of horses and travel when you’ve the strength.”

  He nodded, knowing she was right for all the thought of delay filled him with terrible dread, and sank back into the furs and blankets, cursing his weakness even as his eyes closed and sleep took him and the dreams came back: hope and damnation all mingled.

  27 Winterfire

  The river swept broad and shallow around the bluffs, and in years past had left between them an oxbow lake like a defensive moat, its shores all thick with timber. The high ground ran back like the spread fingers of a giant’s hand, gradually closing the canyon in which oak and birch stood winter-bare and sparkly with rime. It was a long, wide canyon, easily large enough to contain both the Commacht and the small herd of buffalo that, like the clan, looked to live out the winter in this haven.
There were fewer buffalo now, and the Commacht lived better: even the rebellious young men agreed that Racharran had chosen wisely in bringing them to this place.

  As yet Chakthi’s Tachyn had not found them, or had gone to their own Wintering Ground as the White Grass Moon grew large in the sky. Surely that was Racharran’s hope, that there be no fighting during the cold moons that his people have a breathing space. It was a most strange year, the Commacht akaman thought as he stood before his lodge, his breath a whitened mist before him. First there had been Morrhyn’s dreams, then the chaos of the Matakwa, Colun’s warning and Rannach’s banishment, and then the war. Now winter fisted the plains in a hard white grip that saw too much snow come too early, the grass lost under its weight and the sky always either the dull yellow that presaged further falls or a pale gray unyielding as a Grannach blade, the sun a weak and watery eye that barely pierced the dullness. He set out watchers still, along the rimrock of the bluffs and amongst the timber surrounding the lake, but that was as much to give the young men something to do as for fear of attack. He did not, truly, think that even crazed Chakthi would press his war in such hard weather. But those Colun had spoken of … They were another matter.

  He drew his blanket tighter about his shoulders as he wandered, idly, it seemed, about the new Wintering Ground.

  The lodges of the clan sprawled back from the canyon’s entrance, the horse herds penned to the rear. He had seen to it that the lodges of the younger warriors were pitched around the perimeter, interspersed with those of older men, the defenseless ones toward the center. The canyon walls were high enough protection, and he thought that did attack come, then it must arrive from the mouth, where raiders must first ford the river and then swing around the lake. They would be seen, he thought, and easily fought off. But he prayed it not come to that: his people needed time to recover from the ravages of that bloody summer.

  Nor less, he thought, needed their Dreamer. Morrhyn, where are you? I do what I can, but I need you still.

  He felt a pang of guilt at that. It seemed not so long ago that he had accused Lhyn of thinking first of Morrhyn, their son only second. Now he did the same.

  Save surely it’s different, he thought. Rannach is safe in Colun’s care whilst Morrhyn is the Maker alone knows where, is he still alive. And had we ever need of a wakanisha, then it has been these last moons and now.

  He smiled as folk called greetings, showing them a face that exhibited only confidence and reassurance even as the doubts whirled like windblown snow about his mind. These were his people, his charge; it was his duty as akaman to protect and guide them, and for that he needed his Dreamer. Almost he cursed Morrhyn for that departure, and wondered yet again at the wakanisha’s warning, and Colun’s.

  He spoke cheerfully as he wound his way about the camp, but all the time his mind tossed fears and doubts and hopes around like a dog pack squabbling over a juicy bone. It was hard to be akaman, harder still without the advice of Morrhyn.

  “I’ve tea brewing.”

  He smiled with genuine pleasure as he came back to his own lodge and saw Lhyn by the fireside, the kettle hung there, and nodded and settled onto the fur she had spread, leaning back against the frame she’d hung with a thick bearskin.

  “That should be good,” he said. “Then I think I’ll ride out and check the scouts.”

  “Do you need to?” She poured the tea as she spoke.

  “It will encourage them. They’re young and they grow restless. It does them good that their akaman comes to take a part in their watch.”

  Lhyn shrugged. “You look tired,” she said.

  “I am.” He sipped his tea and smiled. “I’m tired of fighting and hiding and wondering what tomorrow shall bring. I wish things had not changed so, and that we might pass this winter like all the others.”

  “It’s not so bad.” She gestured at the wide confines of the canyon. “This is a good place you brought us to and there’ve been no attacks since the moon rose.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But …”

  “But?” she asked.

  “I cannot help thinking of what Morrhyn dreamed and Colun told us,” he said.

  At mention of Morrhyn’s name her face clouded a moment. Then she nodded and said, “We’d best be ready.”

  “Yes,” he said. And then, “I wish he’d come back.”

  Lhyn nodded, unspeaking, and Racharran emptied his cup and set it down, saying, “I’ll go check the scouts.”

  Like all the fighting men, he kept his favorite horse tethered by the lodge. He pulled the horse blanket away and set his saddle in place. The roan stamped and snorted, eager to run as he set his quiver in place and picked up his lance. He loosed the picket string and swung astride, fighting the anxious horse to a sedate walk as he went out through the tents, and only when he was clear of the circle, did he let it run.

  It was good to be mounted and galloping, with the wind in his hair, and for the little while it took him to reach the canyon’s mouth he gave himself over to freedom, to carelessness: it was a rare luxury. He checked the watchers along the lake’s shore, and then rode round to where the others sat about the feet of the bluffs. All gave back the same word: nothing moved on the plain beyond save snow, and all they watched was windblown white, wolves that dared not enter the canyon for the smell of men, and flights of hungry crows. They were bored; they’d go out ascouting: let them at least see what was out there.

  Racharran listened to them and finally agreed. He feared that if he refused, they’d go out anyway—alone and of their own deciding—which must erode his authority at a time he felt he must hold that command secure. So he sent off a scouting party—a group of seven young men with Bakaan as their leader, in compensation for his wound—and gave strict instructions that they go no more than five days’ ride beyond the canyon and come back swift with whatever news they had. They cheered his decision and galloped back to their lodges to collect food for the journey, and Racharran hoped they should return without news, only hungry and tired.

  He was disappointed.

  It was Bakaan who brought him the news.

  He was the only one left alive, and the horse he rode was close to dying from the wounds it bore, as if some giant lion had scored its flanks with lethal claws. Nor was the rider much better.

  They came back, both man and horse, all bloody and wearied from the fighting and the ride, and neither had the strength to ford the river, but the horse must be led across and Bakaan carried. And on the far bank, the horse stumbled and could go no farther so that a warrior took out his Grannach knife and slit its throat, which was a mercy, and shouted for women to come butcher the carcass for the camp’s dogs.

  They brought the man to Racharran, and when the akaman saw him, he had them bring him inside his own lodge and lay him down on soft furs beside the fire. He called Lhyn and other women to tend his wounds as all the clan gathered around, waiting to hear what word he brought back.

  “I fought them,” Bakaan said, the words slurred thick because his lips were divided by the cut that ran down his face from where his hair began to where his chin ended, and he spat out blood. “We all fought them.”

  “Yes, and doubtless bravely.” Racharran knelt close as Lhyn bathed Bakaan’s bloody face and glanced frightened at the hole in his belly that pulsed out blood in a thick and steady welling. “The Tachyn, were they?”

  “No.” Bakaan shook his head, his teeth rattling like the snakes on the summer prairie. “Not Tachyn: worse. They were demons! They ride creatures big as buffalo, but like lions, or lizards—all clawed and furry and scaled, together. And their masters! Oh, Maker defend us, they’re armored like rainbows and trick your eyes so that you can’t see them right. They were terrible …”

  His voice faltered. A woman pressed a cloth to the hole in his belly. Lhyn called for another to bring moss to staunch the wound. Racharran did not think it could be enough: Bakaan was dying. Before that final ending came, though, he needed to know what the young wa
rrior had fought, or who. He feared he knew, but still he must ask, even to drawing out Bakaan’s last breaths. It was his duty as akaman of the Commacht.

  “How far did you go?” he asked.

  “Full five days’ ride,” Bakaan answered slowly through gasps of bloody spittle. “To where the oak woods begin, past that big river where the catfish are in summer. We thought to camp awhile there and scout around. Ach!” He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as Lhyn set the compress to his wound.

  She looked at her husband, and in her eyes he saw the plea he leave Bakaan to rest. He shrugged: he could not grant that luxury, not until he had all the information the young warrior brought.

  “How many of them?” he said.

  Bakaan’s voice came fainter now, rising and falling like the wind. “Five, there were. Scouts, I think, but not such scouts as I’ve ever seen. Maker! They came on us so swift—those beasts they ride are faster than our horses in the snow, and killers, like their masters. They came on us as we rode out. We fought them as best we could, and ran when we saw we could not defeat them. They came after us …”

  “How far?” Racharran asked, suddenly afraid Bakaan led the strangelings home.

  “They halted at the river. By then, only three of us lived. Debo and Manus died along the way of their wounds, and I killed their horses, riding them back.” He turned his ravaged face to Racharran and smiled: it was a ghastly expression as his severed lips parted. “But I did not come straight back—I looked to confuse out trail. I rode toward the Tachyn grass.” He attempted a laugh that coughed out blood. “Better they find Chakthi, eh?”

  “Yes, you did well,” Racharran said. “You were brave.”

  “Brave?” Bakaan grimaced. “I was very afraid. I think we all were when we saw them. But we looked to heed you—we tried to come back with word, but they chased us down. Oh, Maker, we were like hunted deer to them, and they the wolves.”