by Angus Wells
“And you’ll ride out again?” she said.
“What other choice have I?” he asked.
Lhyn sighed and said, “None. I only wish …” She shook her head and fell silent.
He asked, “What do you wish?”
She looked up then and met his eyes, saying, “These are not such times as allow us wishes, eh? Only duty.”
He said, “Yes,” and reached for the flask of tiswin she’d set beside him.
“Will they agree?” she asked.
He filled a cup and drank before he answered: “I don’t know. The Maker willing, yes; but …”
“It should be better were Morrhyn here,” she said, staring at the pot.
Racharran said, “Yes, but he is not. And so …”
“You must do what you can,” she finished for him.
“What I can think of,” he said. “And hope it’s enough.”
Lhyn said, “Yes. I’ll pray it is.”
The Aparhaso wintered in a thick-timbered valley, wooded down all its length with beech and birch and hemlock. No buffalo sheltered there, but Juh’s clan had no need of such provision, for they had fought no war that year and had enjoyed the time to hunt and stock themselves well against the cold moons. They had a well-fed look, all plump and content, which contrasted with the two thin Commacht who rode in on horses not much fatter than their owners.
Juh was surprised to see them; Hazhe no less. Racharran saw alarm on both their faces as he reined in his horse before Juh’s lodge and waited on the Aparhaso akaman’s invitation to dismount.
It came slower than it might, for Juh seemed not quite able to believe his brother chieftain had come avisiting in the Moon of Breaking Trees, but then he beckoned them down and offered formal greeting. He looked a moment at the crowd that had followed them, then bade them enter his tent and called for men to tend their horses. Inside, he gestured them to settle on the spread furs and offered tiswin as Hazhe closed the lodgeflap.
The wakanisha piled more dung on the fire and took his place beside his akaman. Both studied the two Commacht with sympathetic eyes.
Racharran sipped the tiswin, thinking that he had rather been offered food and tea, but Juh’s wife appeared to have gone off somewhere, and the silver-haired akaman gave him no other choice.
There was a lengthy and cautious silence as they drank. Then Juh said, “It is my pleasure that you visit us, but it is … unusual. In such weather?”
Racharran set down his cup and said, “These are unusual times, my brother. I’ve such news as cannot wait the year’s turning, but must be decided now.”
Juh motioned that he continue, and Racharran told of his scouting and what he had seen—what he believed it meant for the People.
When he was done, Juh looked to Bylas, who ducked his head and said, “It is all as Racharran has told you.”
Juh looked then at Hazhe. The Dreamer frowned and asked, “What does Morrhyn make of this?”
Racharran said, “Morrhyn is not with us. He went away to the mountains to get back his dreams.”
The two Aparhaso exchanged a glance, and Juh said, “Then this is all you thinking?”
“What else can I think?” Racharran asked. “I have seen what I have seen. What do you think?”
Juh drank tiswin and said, “That no one fights in winter.”
“Not the People,” Racharran said, echoes of his own folk’s response ringing in his head. He had hoped—prayed!—that Juh think deeper and wider. “But these strangelings are not like us.”
“No,” Juh agreed. “But even so—to attack when the Moon of Breaking Trees rides the sky? Surely none do that.”
“They are not like us,” Racharran said again, and looked to Hazhe. “What do you dream, wakanisha?”
Hazhe’s face gave him all the answer he needed, and before the Dreamer had a chance to answer, he said: “Like Morrhyn, eh? No dreams at all?”
Hazhe shrugged shamefaced, glanced sidelong at Juh, and shook his head.
“It’s as Morrhyn said,” Racharran declared. “There’s a dark wind blows across Ket-Ta-Witko to cloud the minds of the wakanishas and confuse us all.”
“But Morrhyn is gone away,” said Hazhe. “In such dark times, should he have not stayed with his clan?”
“He did what he thought best,” Racharran said, aware he sounded defiant, “what he believed he must. He will come back.” If he can, he thought. If he’s not already dead.
“Be he with you or not,” Juh said, “still you ask much of us.”
“I ask you to defend Ket-Ta-Witko,” Racharran said. “I ask you to face this enemy that shall surely destroy us do we not unite.”
Juh raised a hand mottled with age and said, “Slowly, slowly, my brother. I do not doubt what you tell us you have seen; I do not doubt some great horde has crossed the Grannach mountains, perhaps even defeated the Stone Folk. I do not doubt they are terrible—remember that I heard Colun speak at Matakwa and I know the Grannach speak true. But …”
“What?” Racharran ignored all protocol: he heard prevarication in Juh’s voice—all but and but—and feared his warning should go ignored. “But what?”
Juh sighed and raised his silvered head to the lodge’s smokehole. “That the Moon of Breaking Trees is up,” he said, “and my people are content in their Wintering Ground. That none fight across the snow, and it should be hard to persuade my warriors to leave their warm lodges and their wives. Not until the Moon of the Turning Year, at least.”
“That is the Will,” Hazhe said. “The Ahsa-tye-Patiko.”
Racharran ground his teeth, biting back his rising temper: was he to persuade them, he must not lose it, not show the anger their complacency roused. They seemed to him as men who looked on building storm clouds and told themselves the sky was clear and no rain would fall. He took up his cup, afraid his hand should break it, and sipped tiswin and said, “Morrhyn suggested the Ahsa-tye-Patiko is broken, by all that happened at this last Matakwa and after.”
Hazhe looked at Juh, who said, “That is a matter between you and Chakthi. What bearing has it on what you ask?”
Hazhe said, “That argument were better explained by Morrhyn. Had he not gone away.”
Racharran said, “But he has, and so you’ve only my word.”
“Which we do not doubt,” Juh said. “Only your estimate of the time.”
Racharran fought his face and voice to calm. “I think that do we not band together, then these invaders shall come upon us like a storm wind and blow us down like dead trees. All of us!”
“That is your opinion,” Juh said, nodding solemnly. “And I respect it. I shall think on it and speak of it, and give you my decision.”
Harshly, Racharran asked, “When?”
Mildly, Juh replied, “When I’ve thought it over and discussed it with Hazhe and my people.”
Racharran said, reining his frustration as he would an unbroken horse, “How long shall that take?”
“As long,” Juh answered, “as it does. Until then, you are my guests, and welcome here.”
Racharran nodded, knowing he could get no better answer, fearing what it should be. He looked at Hazhe, praying the Dreamer came to his side, and got back only an impassive gaze that offered him neither answer nor hope.
• • •
“They’re blind!” he said, his voice harsh with anger. “They choose it, like children tugging the blankets over their heads to fend off the night fears. They’ll not listen! They close their eyes and hope the night stalkers will go away.”
“You’re angry,” Lhyn said. “Because they’d not heed you.”
“Yes!” Racharran leaned forward to take up the flask and pour more tiswin. “I’m angry because they ignore the threat, and because they’ll die for it. Because we all might die for it.”
“You’ve done what you can,” Lhyn said. “What more can you do?”
He said, “I don’t know. The Maker help me, but I don’t know.”
Lhyn came to res
t beside him and filled his cup. “Perhaps Morrhyn will come back with answers,” she said.
“Perhaps.” Racharran gusted bitter laughter. “And perhaps the Maker will burn up the strangelings. Perhaps he’ll wipe them off the grass before they slay us all. Or perhaps we shall all die under their blades, and the Maker turn his face away and condemn us for our stupidity.”
The news had not been good: no better from the others than what he had brought back from Juh’s Aparhaso.
Zhonne and Lonah had returned from the Naiche’s Wintering Ground with word that Tahdase would follow Juh’s lead—which meant that the Naiche would not consider fighting until Juh gave the word, until the snows were gone.
Most surprising had been Yazte’s response.
Motsos and Bishi had told Racharran of warm welcome and promises of food and support for the Commacht—but no promise of warriors until the Moon of the Turning Year rose. They said that Yazte had lost men to the Tachyn for his support of the Commacht during the summer’s war and would not lose more, nor go out bellicose before winter’s end. Not until his clan was fat-fed and rested, he said. But then, did Racharran call him to war with the Tachyn or any others, he would come with all his warriors and drive either Chakthi’s people or any others from off the grass of Ket-Ta-Witko.
That hurt Racharran the most: he had believed that Yazte, of all the akamans, would see the awful truth and come to unity. Without at least the Lakanti, he doubted any of the People could survive what he was convinced must soon come against them. Without any agreement, any unity, he thought the Matawaye must soon fall to the invaders, and his heart turned sour at the ignorance of his brothers.
“I must send scouts out,” he told Lhyn. “To watch for what comes.”
“Yes,” she said, doing her best to hide her own fear, wanting to lend him strength. “What you think is best.”
He said, “I’m not sure what that is anymore.”
“You’ll do what’s right,” she said. “You always do.”
“Do I?” he asked.
She said again, “Yes. You lead the Commacht.”
“It used to be,” he said, “with Morrhyn’s guidance.”
“It used to be.” Her eyes closed a moment. “But not now. Now only you lead us.”
“I wish,” he said, and closed his own eyes as she touched his face, “that I had his guidance now.”
She said, “Yes, but he’s gone.”
“I wish,” he said as she touched him and her hands moved from his face to his chest, “that he were not. I wish he were here.”
Rannach draped a blanket over the stallion’s head and passed the rein to Morrhyn. Arrhyna’s paint mare, which she had given the wakanisha to ride, was already masked. Either animal might panic at the sight or scent of what lay ahead, and that must surely bring their desperate journey to a swift ending.
“Be careful, eh?” Morrhyn asked.
Rannach nodded without speaking and slipped away through the trees, to the edge of the copse, where he could better see the obstacle across their path.
Colun had brought them out of the valley, through the Grannach’s secret ways, to the very edge of the Meeting Ground. There he had left them, reiterating promises that Arrhyna should be safe with his people who would await Morrhyn’s return—if he survived—in readiness for what the Dreamer hoped to achieve. None of them was sure it could be accomplished. It was, as Morrhyn explained, one possible path amongst the multiple branchings of all the possible futures, the reality of its success dependent on frail men making the right choices.
And were they to have any hope at all, then Morrhyn and Rannach must survive the journey.
They had ridden swift as weather and terrain allowed from the Meeting Ground, and struck out directly for the Commacht grazing. Rannach would have taken a more circuitous path—it occurred to Morrhyn that the young warrior matured and grew more cautious with the knowledge that Arrhyna carried his child—but the wakanisha had pressed him to speed. It was a gamble. Rannach’s preferred way would have skirted well clear of the Tachyn lands, which should surely be the safer trail, but longer, more consumptive of time, which Morrhyn knew they lacked. Did they not come timely to the Commacht, then they might as well fall to Chakthi’s men; it would make no difference. Death was death, no matter which the hand that dealt it.
So they chanced the Tachyn and rode hard across the snow, pushing their horses to the limits of their endurance, comforted by their one advantage: Morrhyn had back his dreams.
It was Rannach who chose the details of their path and Morrhyn who set the general direction, warning when they need slow and when they need hide, when to skirt around and when to wait. He dreamed each night now, and daily thanked the Maker for the return of his talent. It was as if a strong, clean wind blew through his dreams, sweeping away the obfuscating darkness. The last night had told him they should go cautious through this hurst, for danger lay ahead.
Now he held the blanket-blinded horses and waited for Rannach’s return. The trees stood bare-branched and draped with icicles that shone in the morning sun. Small birds darted scavenging about, and through the latticework of naked boughs he could see the sky all cold and wintry blue. It prompted thoughts of objective eyes, that studied him judgmental and indifferent. His breath came out in steaming clouds, and even through the furs he wore he could feel the terrible cold. He drew the two horses closer, seeking their warmth. He could not remember so harsh a winter, and wondered if that were somehow connected to the coming of the Breakers into Ket-Ta-Witko. Surely they commanded powerful magicks: perhaps they brought bad weather with them. But if they did, he thought, then surely the Maker fought them, for the sun shone and the snow was frozen hard enough that it did little to slow the animals. It should be worse were there blizzards, or the ground all muddy. And then he thought that the Breakers must be no less able to travel fast over the frozen landscape, and smiled unhappily: what favored him and Rannach must also favor their enemies—it seemed all balanced on a knife’s edge, the outcome yet to be determined. He shivered, leaning against the paint mare’s neck, wondering.
Then Rannach came back. Under the hood of the furry cape he wore, his eyes were wide with wonder and horror, and it seemed a measure of blood had drained from his dark skin. He held his bow with an arrow nocked, as if he needed the comfort of the weapon.
“The Maker alone knows,” his voice was hushed and harsh, “I’ve not seen such things, such creatures!”
Morrhyn said, “I know.”
“How?” Rannach asked, then shook his head. “Of course! In your dreams.”
Morrhyn nodded.
“There was a column,” Rannach said. “Thirty of them, all riding … things.”
Again Morrhyn nodded, and said, “Like giant lions, lizards, and rats, all together, eh?”
“Yes.” Rannach stared at the Dreamer. “And the riders were all armored. They looked like bright beetles. I think it should be hard to fight them. Those creatures they ride would likely terrify our horses.”
“Likely,” Morrhyn agreed. “But the Maker willing, we’ll not fight them. Only escape.”
Rannach lowered his eyes to the bow he still held, as if he’d forgotten it. He eased the string down and set the shaft back in his quiver, then looked again at Morrhyn.
“Is that the only way? To give up Ket-Ta-Witko?”
Morrhyn shrugged, the movement lost under the furs he wore. “That or die.”
“None other?”
Morrhyn shook his head. It was a hard answer, but all he had to give. The dreams had shown him that.
Rannach looked awhile at the bleak and sun-bright sky, and then shook his head and sighed. “It shall be no easy task to persuade the People. The Commacht shall surely take it hard; the rest …”
“Shall listen or not,” Morrhyn said. “The world turns, like”—he smiled cynically—“like a stone that exposes the dark, grubbing things beneath. Save we cannot turn the stone back, only go away from it.”
&nb
sp; “Or fight them,” Rannach said. It was hard to know whether he made a statement or asked a question.
“You’ve seen some few of them,” Morrhyn said, “and know they must be hard to fight. You’ve heard Colun speak of them, and know what they do. It’s too late even to try turning the stone back. They are here now, in Ket-Ta-Witko, and they’ll overrun it all save we can convince the People of the Maker’s promise.”
Rannach drew a hand across his mouth. His eyes were haunted as they found Morrhyn’s. “Is this my doing?” he asked, low-voiced. “The reward of my sin?”
Morrhyn wished he need not answer, but truth was truth, and it was a time for such honesty else all be lost. So he said, “It’s as I told you back in the valley, an accretion of sins. Yours was one.”
“Then am I damned?”
“The Maker’s kinder than that,” Morrhyn said. “He offers redemption, forgiveness. You atone for your sin by what you do now in bringing me back. Bringing the promise of salvation.”
“And Arrhyna?” asked Rannach. “What of her? You said she’d sinned also.”
“In small measure, I think,” Morrhyn replied. “And was it not Arrhyna who persuaded you to guide me? Had she not spoken up, would you have quit the valley?”
“No.” Rannach shook his head. “Not save she told me to go.”
“Then I think she also atones.”
“And Chakthi?” Rannach asked.
Morrhyn hesitated. He’d known no dreams of the Tachyn. He’d seen in sleep the Commacht and the Lakanti, the Aparhaso and the Naiche, find that salvation the Maker offered—would they but listen and heed—but nothing of Chakthi’s clan. Remnants of the dark wind’s fog still hung about them, as if the Breakers’ magic clung stronger there. He said, “We must bring the word to Chakthi also. What he does after …”
He shrugged, and Rannach barked a sour laugh and said, “I’d never thought to save Chakthi.”
“But you’ll try, no?” Morrhyn asked urgently. He could not say it clear—that should be too great a revelation, such as might upset all his hopes—but he willed Rannach to agreement.
The younger man looked into his eyes and nodded. “I must try, no? I must atone for what I’ve done, else …” He shuddered. “I’ve the feeling that do I fail you, Arrhyna and our child must die; and the Grannach and the Commacht, and all the People. It’s as you taught us the Ahsa-tye-Patiko says, no? All’s balanced, and is that balance disturbed, then compensation must be made, else the scales swing wild and all suffer.”
