Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  Morrhyn felt his heart life. Not far, for far too much still hung upon those scales, but did the headstrong Rannach recognize his debt and show willingness to compensate, then there was hope. He smiled and said, “You grow up. You show your father’s wisdom.”

  Rannach’s face clouded a moment at mention of Racharran, but then he essayed a tight-lipped smile and said, “I dealt my father unfair, eh? I was angry with him for my banishment; I thought he should have supported me better. But now I think I see that what he did was all he could do, to keep the balance.”

  Morrhyn said, “Yes. It was as he told you—he is akaman of the Commacht, with a duty to his clan and all the People, and he could not do else. You could learn much from Racharran.”

  His face clouded as he said it, remembering a dream that showed one of the many paths—one he had sooner not take. Save he wondered if it was not one forced upon him.

  “What’s amiss?” Rannach asked. “You’ve the look of a man troubled.”

  Morrhyn shook off the memory. His way was clear and must it lead to that—to what he’d sooner not think of—then still he had no choice were the People to have any hope. Racharran would not turn away, he thought.

  He forced a smile and said, “Should I not be? I worry that we’ll not reach the People in time. So, tell me what you saw.”

  “Thirty Breakers,” Rannach answered, “moving across our path from south to north. They’re gone now.”

  “Then we proceed,” Morrhyn said. “No?”

  Rannach took his horse’s rein and lifted the blanket from the stallion’s head, swinging lithely astride the big horse. Morrhyn took the blanket slower from the mare’s head and mounted stiffly. He felt frail, and as they rode out from the hurst he could feel the mare’s spine thud hard against his withered buttocks even through his fur-lined breeches and the padding of his saddle. It was a sorry thing, he thought, to lose so much flesh that riding became so arduous a task. But then again, it was as he had told Rannach. All was balanced by the Maker, and had he lost flesh, still he had gained much else in compensation.

  He had hope now, where none had been before; and promised answers to the awful threat of the Breakers. So he turned his face to the sky and offered the Maker his thanks—and his heartfelt wish the People listen to him—and followed Rannach out across the snow, refusing to heed the doubt that came as they crossed the tracks the Breakers had made.

  30 The Wind Blows Cold

  Bylas saw them first: a column of twenty, weirdly mounted on those strange beasts, all armed with bows and blades and great hook-headed lances, their eye-bedazzling armor sparkling and shimmering like twenty different rainbows in the hard light of the winter sun. They came in single file down the draw, the creatures they rode padding swift and sure over the snow. He saw the beasts were not reined like horses, but only saddled, and guided by the rider’s knees and shouts. He remembered the wounds Bakaan and his horse had worn, and tested the wind. It blew from off the invaders, carrying a faint stench of meat and blood, as if they breathed out the memories of their carnage. He held his breath and slithered down from off the ridgetop. Racharran had given clear orders that he was only to watch—no more—and bring back word of what came against the People.

  He found his horse and looked to his fellow scouts, motioning them to hold silent as he murmured what he had seen.

  Motsos whispered back, “So do we return? Or do we trail them?”

  Bylas thought a moment and then said, “I think we’d best follow them and see where they go.”

  “And do they go toward the Wintering Ground?” Motsos asked.

  “Then we ride ahead,” Bylas answered,” and warn the clan.”

  “Can we outrun them.” Motsos stroked his horse’s neck. “We’ve seen them move, eh? Should they find us on open ground …”

  Bylas grinned sourly and said, “Yes. But even so, we must try. Do they find the Wintering Ground …”

  He left the sentence unfinished and Motsos nodded. They both knew there was little chance of outrunning those strangeling beasts over the snow, nor much better of defeating them; not five scouts against twenty.

  “So we ride.” Bylas turned his horse’s head to parallel the draw. “And carefully, eh? Lest they hear or see us.”

  The snow was hard enough that their hooves made little sound, and in a while Bylas lifted his mount to a canter that he might reach the timber beyond the draw and use that cover to see where the invaders went. He looked at the bleak sky and wondered if this was his day to die.

  Like all the warriors of the Commacht—like all the warriors of the People—he was prepared to give his life in defense of the helpless ones, in defense of Ket-Ta-Witko. That was a man’s honor, his understood duty. But he had seen the invaders before and could not help but doubt his chances against them. If it came to it, then he would fight, but he could not help but think it should be a useless battle that must leave him dead and the invaders go on to overrun the canyon and the clan, and leave nothing living.

  He prayed it not come to that, and heeled his horse to a faster pace, eager to reach the trees and see where the twenty strangelings went before they saw or scented his scouts. He hoped the Maker would for give him for hoping they turned toward the Tachyn grazing. Even with what he felt for Chakthi, he could not, honestly, wish such fate on the Tachyn, save it were better visited on them than his own clan.

  “Can you go on?” Rannach studied Morrhyn with worried eyes. “We can rest awhile longer if you need.”

  “No.” Against the protests of his body, Morrhyn forced himself upright. “We go on.”

  O Maker, he thought. You gave me back my dreams and showed me what I have to do, and for that I thank you. But could you not also have given me back my strength? I feel weak as a babe.

  But he got no answer, only the dull, numb aching that possessed his knees and sent pain stabbing down the length of his spine as he rose from his blankets and straightened his back. He felt old, and wondered if that was the payment demanded for the visions, for the knowledge of the many paths and the one true hope.

  If so, he thought, then so be it. I will pay it. I will pay my life if need be. Only let me bring the word to the Commacht and all the People, and they survive. If I must die for that, then I shall, willingly. Only let we who believe in you live and not be destroyed.

  He watched as Rannach shoveled snow over the embers of their fire, tugging his furs closer about his shivering body. Maker, how could he feel so cold? It sank into his bones and set his ears to drumming with the ache of it, his teeth to chattering hard enough he feared they might splinter. His scalp, even under the fur-lined hood, felt as if needles dug into his brain. He supposed it was because he had lost so much flesh, living in the cave and then on the descent, but…

  If that was the price…

  He willed his legs, his feet, to walk, one step after another until he had reached his borrowed horse and could lean against the mare’s warm strength. Set a hand on her neck and find the rein, swing up onto the saddle Rannach had already—young and strong and not at all exhausted—placed there.

  He fell down.

  Rannach lifted him from the snow, setting him tottery upright, leaning against the paint mare who snorted and shifted, threatening to spill him down again.

  “By the Maker, you cannot even mount a horse! We must wait and rest.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “We’ve not the time. Help me up.”

  “You’re too weak.” Rannach looked at him, eyes wide even as he frowned. Doubt was writ there in his gaze. “We’ll wait and eat. Gain strength, eh? I can hunt us food.”

  “Help me up,” Morrhyn said. “We’ve no time.”

  “But you’ll die. You’re skin and bones.”

  “I can still ride: I must. Help me up and I’ll ride. I’ll eat along the way.”

  “Eat what?” Rannach asked. “We’re safe here. I can hunt here.”

  Morrhyn held tight to the saddle, hoping the mare not move else he’d f
all down again. He said, “And wait for the Breakers to find us? No! We must find the clan and tell them. Now help me up. We’ve meat enough to keep us going.”

  “You need a winter’s eating,” Rannach said. “Just to put the flesh back on your bones.”

  “I’ll eat my fill when we’re safe. Now shall you help me mount, or shall I leave you here?”

  “Ach!” Rannach picked him up and threw him astride Arrhyna’s horse. “I should know better than to argue with a wakanisha.”

  Morrhyn gritted his teeth against the pain of unfleshed buttocks meeting horse’s spine, and smiled. “Yes, you should. Now let’s go on. The valley ahead is safe. But after …”

  “There were fifteen men,” Perico said, “after a herd of wintering buffalo. It should have been a good hunting—extra meat, and winter-thick hides. Only …”

  “Only?” Juh asked.

  “None came back,” Perico said.

  Juh looked at Hazhe: “What do you think?”

  The Aparhaso Dreamer looked at Perico and asked, “What did you see?”

  Perico said, “A herd of buffalo slaughtered, and our hunters with them. Tracks in the snow, amongst the blood, as if great lions had fallen on them all.”

  Hazhe looked at Juh, not saying anything.

  Juh said speculatively, “Was Racharran speaking the truth?”

  Hazhe shrugged. “Perhaps. I’d not doubt his word, save …” He turned toward Perico. “Those tracks. Like lions, you said?”

  “Like giant lions.” Perico nodded urgently. “Tracks larger than any horse’s hoof. And”—he looked from wakanisha to akaman—“there was so much blood. It was not a hunting, it was a slaughter. The buffalo were all torn apart, and our hunters with them. I saw horses with their bellies ripped out, and men without heads. As if …” He shook his head, the telling too enormous to comprehend.

  “As if Racharran spoke only the truth,” Hazhe said. “The Maker help us.”

  “The Maker help us,” Juh echoed. “I should have listened to him better.”

  “We could not know,” Hazhe said. “Not then.”

  “But now?” Juh asked.

  Perico looked from one to the other. He was only a warrior, and they the guardians of his clan: he assumed they spoke of matters beyond his ken, and trusted them to decide favorably for the benefit of all. Save he’d heard, like all the Aparhaso, of Racharran’s visit and what the Commacht akaman had said to his own chieftain of strangeling invaders such as the Grannach had warned of at Matakwa. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  “We must fight them,” he said.

  Juh and Hazhe turned toward him.

  He swallowed breath and summoned up his courage. “I saw our people slain,” he said. “And buffalo slaughtered not for meat or hides, but only, it seemed, for sport. If it’s as the Commacht akaman said, then I think we must ready for war.”

  He feared he had earned Juh’s displeasure, but the white-haired akaman smiled—albeit sadly—and said, “Yes. I was wrong to disregard Racharran. You see it out of younger eyes. So—you will take my promise to him: that the Aparhaso will listen to what he has to say, and fight these invaders with him.”

  Perico said, “Me?”

  Juh nodded and said, “You. You will go out tomorrow to the Commacht Wintering Ground and tell Racharran that I shall listen to all he has to say of how we fight these invaders. Bring him back if he’ll come. If not, bring back his word of what he’d have us do.”

  Perico nodded, thinking he’d bought himself an unwanted duty—it was a long, cold ride to the Commacht’s new Wintering Ground. But even so … He thought of the animals and the men he’d seen slaughtered. Might that journey defeat the invaders…

  “Before the sun rises,” he said, “I’ll be on my way.”

  The column seemed in no hurry. Bylas supposed that was because they scouted ahead of the main force, and then wondered how far behind that great army was. Did it follow after these twenty strangelings, or did it remain below the hills, awaiting the scouts’ reports? He stroked his horse’s winter-shaggy muzzle, murmuring softly, that the animal not give away his position. He thought the invaders’ own eyes magically gifted if they could see him through the trees, but perhaps they were. How could he know? How could anyone? Such folk had never before ridden the plains of Ket-Ta-Witko.

  He saw they came toward the wood, and made a swift decision.

  “We pull back. We’ll put the wood between us and them, and seek the shelter of the ridges.”

  “And do they come to the ridges?” Motsos asked.

  “Then we pull back farther. The canyon’s what, three days’ riding?”

  Motsos said, “For us. But for them …?”

  “Save they see us and chase us,” Bylas said, “I think they’ll ride slow. But listen, all of you. Does it come to a chase, we do not go back. You understand? We must not lead them to the canyon, but away.” He thought a moment. “You’ve the fastest horse here, Motsos. So, are we spotted, we run and look to confuse our tracks. When you safely can, break off and take word home. Warn Racharran.”

  “Leave you?” Motsos looked offended.

  Bylas said, “Yes! That the clan know is the important thing.” He set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And your horse is swift, eh?”

  Motsos nodded reluctantly. “As you say.”

  Bylas smiled. “As I say. Now, let’s mount and ride while we’ve the time.”

  They swung astride their horses and rode fast as snow and low-hung branches allowed. None were cowards, but all felt mightily wary of being found on open ground by what came after them.

  Tahdase’s lodge was warm, the fire merry as his young wife took the kettle from the flames and filled her husband’s and Isten’s cups. That duty done, she retreated demurely and set to decorating a shirt with brightly colored designs of summer flowers. Tahdase glanced at her and smiled fondly, wondering if he’d have the opportunity to wear the shirt or she have the time to finish it. He turned his face toward his wakanisha and motioned that Isten speak.

  The Dreamer looked aged. Crescents of shadow hung beneath his eyes, and those had a haunted look. He sipped his tea and voiced polite thanks before he spoke of what brought them together.

  “They say strange riders have been sighted. Such folk as Racharran’s men spoke of. They say there are buffalo slaughtered and left to rot.” He smiled a twisted smile and snorted sad laughter. “If anything can rot in such a winter.”

  Tahdase said, “I know this; I have heard what they say. What I need to know is who these strangelings are, and what they do here.”

  Isten stared at his akaman as if Tahdase were a child who should know better. “They are who Racharran’s men told us they are, I think. They are the folk Colun spoke of at Matakwa.”

  His tone prompted a brief narrowing of Tahdase’s eyes, a flash of anger that was instantly replaced with embarrassment as the young chieftain ducked his head and said, “Yes, all I’ve heard is as Racharran’s men told us. But …” He raised his head so that Isten saw the plea his gaze expressed. “What are we to do about them?”

  “Are they scouts,” the wakanisha said, “then they are the vanguard of that horde Racharran saw. Likely they seek the Wintering Grounds.”

  “And if they find them,” Tahdase said softly, “and they are all Colun and Racharran said they are, then we are in terrible danger.”

  At the rear of the lodge his wife gasped and pierced her thumb with the needle. Tahdase glanced briefly in her direction and returned his gaze to Isten.

  The wakanisha nodded gravely and said, “Yes.”

  “So what shall we do?” Tahdase asked.

  Isten met his gaze, thinking he seemed very young and frightened. The wakanisha felt very old. He said, “Had I my dreams …”

  “But you don’t,” Tahdase said sharply. “The Maker turns his face from you.” He saw the hurt in Isten’s eyes and added softer, “He turns his face from us all, no?”

  Isten nodded. “It would see
m so. It would seem what happened at Matakwa blights us.”

  “Then it’s the fault of the Commacht and the Tachyn?” Tahdase sprang on hope like a starving dog on a carcass.

  “Perhaps.” Isten gestured helplessly. “Surely the wards are broken, can these folk cross the mountains. Perhaps the Ahsa-tye-Patiko is broken.”

  “Not by us,” Tahdase said.

  Isten said, “I wonder,” in a slow and thoughtful voice. “I wonder if it matters any longer who owns the blame. Is the Ahsa-tye-Patiko broken, then it is broken, and I think that who broke it matters little in the Maker’s eyes.”

  Tahdase frowned. “How can that be? Was it broken by the Tachyn and Commacht, then surely these newcomers must descend on them.”

  “Our people die,” Isten said. “And have these strange folk come through the mountains, then surely the Grannach also die. Are they guilty? Were the Whaztaye guilty?”

  “I know nothing of the Whaztaye,” Tahdase said—defensively, Isten thought. “Not much of the Grannach. My father knew them, but I …” He shrugged.

  “The Grannach do not lie,” Isten said. “They are the guardians of the hills, and they do not lie. But they did warn us …”

  “Yes, yes,” Tahdase nodded. “And have these invaders come through the Grannach’s passes, then no doubt Grannach have died. And Naiche die, and likely other clans suffer. But what are we to do?”

  “I think,” Isten said, “that perhaps we should send riders to the Commacht and ask what Racharran does.”

  “Perhaps.” Tahdase stared awhile at the fire, rolling his cup between his hands. He seemed not to notice the hot tea that spilled out. “But first let’s send riders to the Aparhaso and ask what Juh does.”