by Angus Wells
Two more days passed and hope—or its loss?—arrived with the dawning sun: Perico rode in with two hundred weary Aparhaso; and before the same sun set, Kanseah brought a smaller group of the Naiche.
Their explanations were echoes, like two voices chanting the same sad song:
“Juh would not listen,” Perico said. “I told him everything; him and Hazhe. But they would not listen! What else could I do? They said we were safe—that what came against us was come against the Commacht and the Tachyn for the breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko—that they’d think on it and in time decide.”
His face was haggard, near-gaunt as Morrhyn’s with fear and hunger, and his eyes roamed round in search of absolution.
Racharran said, “I warned Juh, and he’d not listen to me.”
“I told Tahdase and Isten that our people were dying,” Kanseah said. He was not in much better condition than Perico. “And that the buffalo were slaughtered, and Morrhyn had told me why—and by what. But they closed their ears!”
“They heard all of it,” Perico said. “And still did nothing!”
“Tahdase would know what Juh did,” Kanseah said, addressing himself to Morrhyn. “And until then, wait.”
Perico said, “Juh only listened to Hazhe—and Hazhe said it was the sins of Vachyr and Rannach brought the Breakers into Ket-Ta-Witko, and therefore they alone were likely to suffer.”
“I told them of the promise.” said Kanseah. “Everything you told me, but they blocked their ears.”
“What else could I do?” Perico asked. “Those who believed are with me.”
“I defied my akaman and my wakanisha,” said Kanseah. “I told all those who’d listen of the promise, and brought them out to join you.”
“They came with me,” Perico said. “All those who believe. Juh and Hazhe wait to die. They think they’re safe, but I know they’re not. The Maker forgive me, but I looked to save who I could.”
Their eyes searched out forgiveness: the assurance they had done the right thing. The lodge grew silent.
Morrhyn felt their pain and knew their doubt. It seemed to him much akin to his own. He prayed he be right as he said, “Those who hear the Maker’s promise shall be saved. Those who ignore it …” He smiled sadly. “I think they shall die for their disbelief. What you did was right—you have saved as many as you could. Those who refused the promise …”
He shrugged. Kanseah said, “Then we’re not damned?”
Morrhyn shook his head and answered, “No more than I.”
That night Morrhyn dreamed of approaching danger.
He rode a great white stallion that raced toward the Maker’s Mountain whilst from the opposite direction came the figure he had seen in his earliest dreams of the Breakers, armored in sun-bright gold, and mounted on the strange and horrid horse with burning eyes and curling horns. Who reached the pinnacle first should be the winner and decide the fate of the People.
He woke before the race was ended and hurried from his lodge to warn Racharran, his heart filled with awful dread.
Around the mid-part of the morning, with the sun shining warm on the muddied, trampled dirt of the Meeting Ground, Motsos, who had ridden out farther than most scouts, came back at a gallop to report sighting a column of twenty Breakers riding their strangeling mounts along the incoming line of the Aparhaso and the Naiche.
He’d no doubt, he said, that they followed the tracks. Before the day ended, he thought, they must find the Meeting Ground.
38 Time Running Out
It was easy to steal the shot, and no harder to conceal bags of powder. Sieur Gahame trusted his indentured folk—what use would they have for such things? But the muskets, the pistols, and the swords—Davyd had decided he should carry a blade, like Arcole—were more difficult. Such obvious thefts would be noticed, and so he elected to leave them until the last minute, when their absence would be noted too late.
Besides, folk had been purchasing more weapons recently, and ’sieur Gahame was likely to spot any missing.
It was not a matter the master discussed with his branded servants, but none in his employ could help but notice that muskets and pistols and blades were suddenly in great demand: ’sieur Gahame was delighted with the trade, of course, but even so, Davyd noticed he often wore a frown and spoke at length—and in whispers—with his customers. And when the boy spoke with Godfry or Laurens or Prestyr, they muttered darkly of unforeseen events and told him he was too young to understand.
But Davyd thought he knew the reason. He was, after all, a Dreamer; and of late his dreams were more vivid, more alarming. He had believed Grostheim a safe enough haven, but now, as spring advanced, the dreams of winter took on a starker note. They came more frequently, and bloodier, as he saw his oneiric shadows rampage through the streets. Often he woke sheet-tangled and all awash with sweat after finding himself ringed with hairless skulls that grinned from atop poles and warned him of his own death. He dreamed of burning walls and shrieking women, and always the sneaking, deadly creatures.
And then, as if in compensation, he would dream again of the wilderness as a haven, a succoring comfort that called out to him, promising safety. He understood those, if anything, less than the nightmares. He was, if not accustomed, then at least reconciled to dreams of danger. Dreams of safety he understood not at all. But still, somehow, they reshaped his thinking, and he no longer feared the wilderness beyond Grostheim’s walls. He saw it as both hazard and promise, and was ready to go there.
He would not remain behind when Arcole and Flysse fled.
That frightened him most of all—that they go without him. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that they should go. He knew Arcole planned it, no matter his friend’s hesitancy, and he retained that absolute belief in Arcole won on the Pride of the Lord: somehow, regardless of the odds, Arcole would find a way. Of Flysse he was less sure. She was, by nature, more cautious; and there remained, on those careful occasions he met them, that coolness, as if disagreements remained unsettled. He had tentatively asked of it, and got back bland responses that gave him no clear answers, only ambiguity and doubt. So he had done his best to shut it from his mind and concentrate on his own part in their great adventure.
It should have been easier had Arcole set a date, but he would not—or could not—and Davyd must be satisfied with “When the time is ripe” and “It depends on circumstances.” His dreams warned him those circumstances drew ever closer and he chafed at the delay, fearing Arcole waited too long.
And all the while, rumors grew to confirm his fears.
In a settlement the size of Grostheim it was hard to keep secrets, especially when farmers came in through the spring mud to buy guns and shot and powder. The masters spoke in whispers, but the indentured folk had ears and heard. And though it was not said openly, still it spread—like rot through wood, or a smoldering spark that takes hold on a carpet and burns its way to the curtains and then begins to eat the house’s walls.
There were holdings burned, they whispered. A neighbor had gone visiting and found only charred timbers and all the animals driven off. Another had failed to visit as promised, and on investigation his neighbor had found heads mounted on poles. The governor had sent out a patrol that had not returned …
Davyd traded his news with Arcole and Flysse, so they were better informed than most. Theirs was the surer news. Yes, the governor had sent out a patrol; and no, it had not returned. It was a column of fifty mounted infantry, commanded by a Captain Danyael Corm, and Arcole awaited his return when he might add the captain’s findings to his map and better assess the situation. And, yes, it seemed the column should have returned by then.
Davyd told them of his dreams, and Arcole told him to stand ready. They none of them said it aloud, but all thought it: the time loomed close, and they all grew afraid.
And all the while Grostheim buzzed lively as a beehive with rumor and more obvious signs of trouble. Folk began to come in from the outlying holdings, seeking the secur
ity of the city’s walls. The inns and rooming houses filled with refugees, and tents and lean-tos sprouted over every open space. The masters took to wearing blades and pistols in the streets. Major Spelt increased the guards along the walls, and Militia patrols tramped their rounds in greater numbers. And the indentured folk whispered when they might of what their fate should be did the unknown come. The presence of demons in Salvation was no longer a secret whispered by the masters, but common knowledge bruited about wherever folk met. Those brave farmers who had elected to remain on their land were considered doomed—if not already dead—and those who sought the safety of the city’s walls bemoaned the loss of their property and demanded to know what the Autarchy, in the form of Governor Wyme, intended to do.
The governor’s hands were as full as the streets. He must find the means to feed the newcomers, lest riots break out. He must organize accommodation, sanitation, and persuade reluctant owners to leave their animals outside the walls, lest the streets become impassable. He must sit in judgment over the inevitable quarrels of crowded, frightened folk.
And more—he must, with Major Spelt, ready for the attack.
He had worn himself close to exhaustion with the renewal of the hexes warding the city, and could not help but wonder if they should be strong enough. He knew only that Grostheim faced an enemy none had suspected, creatures that came, it seemed, silent as shadows to wreak bloody slaughter.
He doubted Evander could send help before the summer—if the Autarchy decided to send help at all. He had sent word back with Tomas Var on the Pride of the Lord, but then he had only suspicions, not the dreadful certainty of more recent events. And the Pride of the Lord must cross—God grant it did!—the Sea of Sorrows and all the wide ocean between this land and the Old World. He had requested that the Autarchy send reinforcements, troops, and, at the very least, one Inquisitor.
As that spring aged, Grostheim became a frightened city.
“I see no way to pass the walls.” Arcole turned from his most recent work: a copied map of the city. “There are but the two gates and both locked at dusk, always guarded. God, this is a prison! It needs no hexes to hold us, only wood and soldiers.”
Flysse watched as he pushed back his hair and almost went to him, he looked so hangdog. But not yet; she was not yet quite ready, not yet quite certain he’d take her with him did the chance present. She needed that reassurance, so she said, “And Davyd’s dreams? What of them?”
Arcole shrugged. “I don’t doubt them. This place will be attacked. But shall that help us?”
Flysse shrugged in turn. It had come to this between them: to this shrugging and cold discussion of tactics; it hurt her, but she could do no different. She was not yet ready to accept his apologies and protestations: she must know that he loved her as she loved him, and bear the hurt the while.
“It would occupy the guards.” Arcole frowned and rubbed his eyes. “We might go over the wall.”
“As it’s attacked?” Flysse shook her head. “Won’t the Militiamen be more alert then?”
“Yes, there’s that.” Arcole nodded and grinned ruefully. “But perhaps also somewhat preoccupied.”
“With attacking demons who’d likely kill us soon as the guards?” Flysse shuddered. “Surely there’s a better way. What if Davyd’s owner went out? Are the farms attacked so, then shan’t they need supplies? Might we not …”
“No.” Arcole waved her silent. “The farmers come in, not go out. God! There are whole families seeking the protection of Grostheim now, coming in like refugees from a war. Gahame’s not going to risk his neck, and even did he, he’d not take Davyd with him. Nor might we easily find passage on his wagons.”
“Then it would seem,” Flysse said, “that we are caught.”
“Yes, like pet rats in a trap. And I’d not see you caught so.”
He looked at her with sad and weary eyes, and she saw lines on his face that had not been there in the summer and felt her resolve waver. “Truly?” she asked.
He said, “Truly. What must I do, Flysse? What can I do? I’d give up my life for you. Do you not know that?”
She said, “I …” and shook her head, unsure of the answer. Afraid of giving up her resolve, afraid of what that secession might bring, its outcome.
He said, “I’ve spelled it out, no? I’ve told you I’ll give up these plans, do you command, and you said no. I’ve promised I’ll not flee without you—nor would I want to now! I’ve given you my word I’ll not deliver Davyd to needless danger. What more do you need? What more can I do? Can you not forgive me?”
He closed his eyes and sighed, breath gusting exhausted from his mouth. He spread his arms, then closed them across his chest, his head fallen. As if, Flysse thought, he hugged his pain. He seemed so far from the proud man she had known on the Pride of the Lord—the gallant she had fallen in love with and never thought could notice her—she felt her eyes water. It was almost too much to bear; almost.
She said, “Perhaps,” and hesitated as she saw hope light her husband’s eyes. He rose a little from his seat, as if he’d come to her, and she held up a preventive hand. “Perhaps soon. Arcole.”
“But not yet?” Hope faded; his smile was ragged.
“But not yet,” she echoed, wishing she might honestly tell him otherwise.
Captain Danyael Corm arrived tramp-ragged at Grostheim’s gates. He wore a beard and a rank odor of sweat, and his hair was turned all white. His uniform was lost and he could barely speak his name, nor was his horse in much better condition. They both stood haggard under the startled eyes of the watch.
When he succeeded in making himself known, he was brought swiftly to Spelt’s quarters. There, brandy eased his tongue, and he made his dazed report and was allowed to bathe. Dressed in a clean uniform, he accompanied the anxious Spelt to Governor Wyme’s mansion.
Arcole attended the governor as the two officers were ushered in. He served them brandy and pipes, and was dismissed by Wyme with a curt wave. He knew, from his clandestine investigations, that Corm had led the column of mounted infantry. He thought the man looked shocked, as if he had witnessed horrors his mind could not encompass. On Spelt’s grave face he read concern. He closed the door and contemplated eavesdropping, but Benjamyn was abroad and worrying about dinner: Arcole returned to his role of dutiful servant.
Wyme would add to his records, he thought, as he set places at the table, and all well unwittingly share them. He placed the silver platters and the crystal glasses with a smile that his fellow servants attributed to a settlement with Flysse.
They were not entirely wrong in their assumption.
The two officers sat late with the governor, and Wyme sat later still in his study. Arcole was required to help him there and bring a cushion for his withered legs; see the brandy flask filled and a glass set near, a pipe primed. Celinda was long abed, attended by Flysse.
Arcole stood rigid behind the crippled man as Wyme arranged the papers on his desk. He struck a lucifer as Wyme picked up his pipe and was rewarded with an absent nod.
“Thank you, Arcole. You may go now.”
Arcole bowed—God, it was still so hard to do that!—and asked, no harder, “Shall I await you, ’sieur?”
Wyme ducked his head: “I’ll ring, do I need you.”
Like summoning a dog, Arcole thought, but I’ll wait and read those papers when you’re done. And then I’ll know what you know—and use your knowledge.
He bowed again, though Wyme did not look up, and quit the room.
Flysse was alone in the kitchen and he told her. “Something’s afoot. Corm and Spelt are gone, and Wyme’s greatly troubled. I’m to wait for him, but once he’s abed …”
Flysse nodded and said. “Mistress Celinda was much troubled.” Then her eyes clouded and she asked, “What think you?”
“That we stand ready,” he said. “Tell Davyd to prepare us those guns.”
“Save only it be safe for him,” she returned.
“Save that,
” Arcole agreed. “But things go on, Flysse. Corm wore the look of a man bearing bad news.”
“And you’ll go find it out, eh?” She startled him then, when she reached across the table to touch his hand—a triumph, that—and said, “Take care.”
It was hard not to snatch up her hand, to kiss it, but he thought he could not bear further rejection. When she was ready, she would open her arms to him, and then he would go to her eagerly. But for now he only nodded and waited.
Long past midnight the bell rang, and Arcole went to Wyme’s study.
Grostheim’s governor was in his cups, and even had he not needed crutches to walk, still he should have needed a hand. Arcole lifted him onto the sticks and held him upright as he staggered bedward.
Wyme muttered, “Bad news; very bad. Measures must be taken. Strict measures, I tell you.”
Arcole thought that he would regret such admissions—did he remember them—come morning. He saw Wyme to his chamber and settled the drunken governor on his bed. He tugged off Wyme’s boots and helped the man out of his clothes—the while wondering how many times servants had done the same for him, and he as unthinking as the sodden baggage he now undressed. He felt ashamed, for what he did now and what he had done then.
As soon as Wyme began to snore, he left the governor and hurried to the kitchen.
“Are we the only ones awake?” he asked Flysse.
She said, “I think so. I’ve seen none else.”
“Then I’m to the study,” he said. “To discover what news Corm brought.”
“Take care,” she said. “I’d not see you caught. Not now.”
It was hard to resist the concern in her blue eyes. Easier to turn back and hold her, and make better what grew again between them; but what lay ahead might depend on what he found, and he’d live free with Flysse. He grinned and went away.
