Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  “My brave Flysse.” He answered her smile and touched her cheek. “We’ll soon enough wash away Grostheim’s filth in the river, eh?”

  She nodded and let him lead her to the screens.

  The smell grew worse, and worse still past the canvas. Davyd stood waiting for them, a kerchief wound about his mouth and nose. He brought two more from his pockets, passing them over.

  Arcole said, “God, Davyd, your plan stinks,” and laughed. “But it’s a good one.”

  Davyd nodded. Above the kerchief his eyes looked no happier than Flysse’s. “It goes under the wall,” he said. “The governor had it dug when the streets filled with refugees.”

  “It’s fitting, no?” Arcole knotted the cloth in place. “We’re no more than waste to Wyme. Do I lead now?”

  Without awaiting an answer, he began to pace along the line of canvas, toward the wall. Flysse followed, Davyd bringing up the rear.

  The screens ended just before the wall, and Arcole stepped into the trench. Filthy water climbed above his knees, disturbed insects rising in a horrid, buzzing swarm around his head. He offered Flysse his hand and she followed him, fighting the urge to vomit, trying to ignore the things that floated in the latrine. It was easier to ignore the cannonades thundering above.

  Between the screens’ edges and the wall lay a few feet of open ground. They ducked down, gagging on the miasma, and reached the opening. The wall’s timbers were cut ragged here, splintery stumps ending scant inches above the foul water.

  Arcole said, “Keep low until we reach the river.”

  Davyd touched Flysse’s shoulder and said, “It’s not too far.”

  She smiled her thanks, and voiced a silent prayer they all survive.

  Arcole said, “Ready?” And when she nodded: “Stay close.”

  He went down on hands and knees, lowering himself until only his head and back stood above the fetid stream. As he crawled under the wall, he must duck down, all his body sinking beneath the flow.

  Flysse wished she might take a deep breath, but knew that if she did she would surely empty her stomach. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth tight, then followed her husband. She feared she would panic as she went under the wall, crawling blind through a clinging mud she had rather not think about.

  It seemed to last a ghastly eternity, but she still had breath in her lungs when a hand grasped her shoulder and lifted her up. She gazed at Arcole, unspeaking, as she dragged the befouled kerchief from her face and spat, staring about as Davyd’s dripping head emerged.

  Arcole stood to her left, flattened against the wall. The trench curved rightward ahead, meeting the river a hundred feet or so distant. The Restitution glimmered red in the cannon’s discharges, and the sound of gunfire on this side of the wall was deafening, as if they stood in the heart of a storm.

  Indeed they did, Flysse thought, for in the awful light of the cannonades she saw Grostheim surrounded by demons.

  They stood in groups, some along the riverbank, some close to the walls. Some ran back and forth, as if to draw the defenders’ fire; others capered, waving weapons in challenge. All screamed; and all of their faces were leering, painted masks. They seemed careless of the volleys from the walls, even when canister shot tore through their ranks. Their hatred seemed almost palpable.

  Flysse could not see how it might be possible they reach the river safely, how they might then escape. She thought they must die here.

  Speech was pointless in the din, and Arcole grasped her elbow, indicating they must crawl again. Mindlessly, numbed by the terrible sounds, she obeyed. She glanced back at Davyd and saw his eyes huge with barely controlled terror, in a face gone ashen under its coating of filth. She reached back, taking his hand and squeezing, then began to crawl.

  Perhaps it was the stench—perhaps it was good fortune—but none of the demons stood near the trench, and none came close as the three pressed onward. They reached the river and Arcole turned westward, hugging the shallows. A wooden jetty lay in that direction, designed to accommodate barges plying inland. Five burned at their moorings, and the flames that had taken hold of the jetty favored the desperate enterprise—the demons kept clear of the conflagration.

  All three ducked low as they moved upriver, shedding their cloaks and letting the Restitution wash off a measure of the encrusting filth. Flysse wondered if she would ever feel clean again, or safe.

  The air grew warmer as they approached the burning barges, and a film of ash drifted over the water. Arcole motioned that they halt. The riverbank stood high enough that they were hidden from view as he gestured at the blazing jetty.

  “We must swim to get past that.” He looked to Davyd. “Can you manage that?”

  Flysse felt embarrassment that she had entirely forgotten Davyd’s dread of water, and proud of Arcole that he had not. Davyd reached down to splash his face. Cleaned of filth, it looked wan, the bonfire night drawing deep shadows beneath his eyes.

  “Have I a choice?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Not really,” Arcole replied, and gestured at the bank. “Save …”

  Davyd grinned: Flysse thought she had seen such smiles on dead faces. “I can try,” he said. “But …I can’t swim.”

  “You wrapped these well.” Arcole lowered his pack into the water. “See? It floats. Do you hold on to yours and let me pull you.”

  Davyd swallowed, spat, and nodded. Arcole turned to Flysse, brows raised in silent question. She said, “I can swim. But these skirts hamper me.”

  “There’s fresh clothing in these?” Arcole gestured at the packs, and when Davyd nodded again: “Well, we all need a change, no?”

  Flysse understood his meaning: she unlaced her bodice and shrugged it off, then the skirt and petticoats. She was not sorry to see them drift away, though Davyd’s blush prompted a match that warmed her cheeks. Modestly, she hid herself in the river.

  “Come, then.” Arcole set Davyd’s hands on the oilskin parcel. “Hold tight and trust me.”

  Davyd closed his eyes as he felt himself towed out into the current. Panic threatened as he felt the river tug at him, but he rested his chin on the pack and clenched his teeth, telling himself he had no choice.

  He kept his eyes tight shut, his hands rigid on the pack’s cords, until his feet touched bottom once again. Then, warily, he opened an eye and looked around. He was sure a demon must loom over him, or the hulk of a burning barge collapse on him, but he saw only the Restitution’s south bank and the dinghies moored there. He began to chuckle hysterically.

  Arcole clapped a hand across his mouth, silencing him, and reached to help Flysse. Davyd blushed anew as she came out of the water: her underthings clung to her so that she seemed like some scantily clad water nymph. He looked away and asked, “What now?” He thought his voice echoed his unwilled excitement.

  Arcole said, “The tide’s turned, I think,” and gestured at a dinghy. “So we take one of these and float away.”

  40 Waiting for the Dream

  The ambush was swift and furious: none sought battle honor in this fight, only to destroy the Breakers that the People might survive.

  Racharran led fifty warriors out, Yazte the same number, and also Chakthi. Their strategy was quickly decided and they rode hard, guided by Motsos, split into two groups where the incoming tracks ran between a thick stand of timber and a low ridge. This, all well, would be the killing ground. The Commacht concealed themselves amongst the trees as the Lakanti and the Tachyn hid behind the spur.

  The Breakers appeared around the mid-part of the afternoon, their weird mounts padding swift over the muddy ground, wide heads lifting as their nostrils flared to test the breeze. As they came abreast of the ridge’s downslope, the foremost pair roared, baring vicious fangs. The riders slowed them, hands rising in warning.

  Racharran set a buffalo horn to his lips and blew a long clarion.

  His Commacht broke from the shelter of the trees, flighting arrows as they raced down the line of Breakers. Simultaneous
ly, Yazte led his warriors in a charge down the ridge to hit the head of the column as Chakthi brought his Tachyn out to attack from the rear. Shafts feathered beasts and Breakers alike, and the afternoon grew loud with pained and angry roaring.

  Racharran spun his horse around and charged back. Briefly through the confusion, he saw that Yazte blocked the way ahead, the Lakanti riding the war circle, from which they sent arrows directly into the Breakers midst. Behind, the Tachyn pushed forward, denying the invaders’ scouts escape. But the enemy seemed not to think of that possibility and only fought, driving beasts that sprouted arrows like the quills on a porcupine at the Commacht and the Lakanti. Chakthi’s men had an easier time, firing at armored backs and furry, scaled rumps.

  The difference in numbers was great enough that it should have been a brief contest. But such was the strength of the Breakers’ rainbow armor—and such the power of their strange beasts—that even though half their number fell in the first charge, still the survivors claimed a toll. The fallen slowed them, but they counterattacked with grim ferocity, beasts clambering over the dead and dying to reach the ambushers, tearing at their own in their bloodlust when the wounded hampered them. All was confusion. Horses shrilled as talons ripped them or fangs closed bloody on necks and hindquarters. The Breakers’ long swords and ugly pikes swung and thrust: not all the unseated warriors fought clear.

  Racharran fired his last arrow into the gaping maw of a beast already decorated with shafts and barely avoided the claws that reached for him even as the creature roared and died. Its rider, armor hung with shafts like battle trophies, sprang clear of the dying thing and hefted a long blade at the Commacht akaman. Racharran swung his horse clear and drew his hatchet. The way ahead was blocked with bodies and he wheeled his mount toward the timber, circling back even as Motsos sent a shaft into the Breaker. The armored figure—man or woman? Racharran cared not—staggered and then came on. Racharran charged back, knees urging his horse sideways, away from the swinging sword, as he brought his ax down against the helm.

  The Breaker fell onto hands and knees, and Motsos rode it down, spinning his mount in a prancing circle that smashed hooves against the Breaker until the body lay all broken on the ground, blood welling from the armor’s joints.

  That was the last; there were no more left alive, and those beasts that still spat and snapped their fangs were dispatched with shafts fired from safe range.

  Five Commacht were dead and five more wounded. Three Lakanti were slain and seven bore cuts. Two Tachyn had fallen and three boasted wounds. It was a fearsome thing that so few of the enemy made such claim. Racharran thought on what should happen did all the horde come to the Meeting Ground, and his face grew somber.

  “We slew them!” Motsos wiped beast-blood from his face, laughing triumphantly. “Ach, but we slew them all! We taught them a lesson, no?”

  Racharran nodded and forced himself to smile. Twenty scouts killed—how far from the main force and how long before they were missed and others sent? How long before the Breakers found the Meeting Ground?

  How long before Morrhyn fulfilled his promise?

  The Council lodge was crowded. Perico and Kanseah sat in awkward representation of their clans, unaccustomed to such elevation, for they now found themselves treated as akamans, equal to the rest. Mostly, they stayed silent and only listened.

  “Our scouts must range farther.” Racharran looked around for confirmation. “Theirs got too close. And should the whole horde come …”

  “Shall those we slew be missed?” Yazte asked, his question echoing Racharran’s fear. “Will they send others?”

  Racharran said, “I do not understand these people. They are not like any warriors I have fought.”

  He smiled brief apology to Chakthi for that, and the Tachyn waved a dismissive hand, answering the smile with his own. Since the fight he was better trusted; even fat Yazte spoke civilly to him now. He looked to Morrhyn and said, “You dreamed of this—can you not tell us what else might come?”

  Morrhyn sighed and shook his head. “I know only that we must wait for the Grannach.” He made no mention of Rannach: for all Chakthi had led his warriors in this day’s battle, still he could not entirely believe the man was honest, that behind his newly mild demeanor there did not yet lurk resentment. “I think that until they come, the Maker will not reveal his plans.”

  Chakthi shrugged. “I think they’d best come soon.”

  “That’s true.” Yazte nodded ponderously and said aloud what they all knew: “Food’s short, and folk grow restless. They wonder if all our flight was useless.”

  He raised a hand, signing apology to Morrhyn. The wakanisha nodded. “I know,” he said softly, “and had I better answers, I’d give them. But …”

  There was silence awhile, ominous. Then Racharran said, “Two days’ ride, at least.” He glanced sidelong at Morrhyn. “With so many defenseless ones, we’ll need ample warning.”

  The others grunted their agreement. Morrhyn lowered his head. He felt wretched: a prophet with insufficient answers, only his faith to sustain him—and that beset with horrid doubt.

  Across the fire Kahteney favored him with a supportive smile. Hadduth sat expressionless, his narrow face a mask that gave away nothing.

  “If,” Yazte said, and hesitated; coughed as if reluctant to go on, “if they do attack, this is not a good place to fight.”

  “We’ve no other choice.” Racharran shrugged. “I’ve thought of that; I’ve a plan of sorts.”

  Chakthi said, “To what end?”

  “They can come only from the one direction,” Racharran said. “The hills ring us here, so they must come in through the pass.”

  “Shall we meet them there?” Yazte kept his eyes on Racharran, not looking at Morrhyn. “That should mean fighting mostly afoot.”

  “True.” Racharran smiled grimly. “But are the Grannach with us, their stone magic should work to our advantage.”

  “To block the pass?” Chakthi asked. “Send the stone down on the Breakers?”

  “That, yes,” Racharran said, “And our warriors on the heights.”

  “And the defenseless ones?” asked Yazte.

  “They run for the high hills.” Racharran gestured to where the mountains rose. “Hopefully, with Grannach guides. We can, at least, give them some time; and we go after.”

  Chakthi said quietly, “If the Grannach come.”

  “Yes—if.” Racharran looked at the Tachyn out of troubled eyes. “If not, then we must fight alone. But still, there’s Morrhyn’s promise. And I’ve faith in that yet!”

  Morrhyn smiled his thanks, but he saw that the rest only looked at him with the same closed expression Hadduth wore.

  That night he dreamed again of the white stallion racing for the Mountain. And as before, that goal was contested by the armored figure on the weird horse. Sometimes it seemed he ran ahead of the Breaker, sometimes that the Breaker ran faster. It was as if they galloped the sky, for the hills that ringed the majestic pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain were as nothing to their steeds, no more than ruts and furrows. He heeled the stallion to ever greater efforts, and the great horse responded willingly. But the Mountain seemed no closer, and he could not tell who might reach it first.

  He woke nervous, his mouth dry and his head throbbing with a dull ache that reverberated against his eyes. He thought he still heard the stallion’s hooves pounding, the gusting of its breath, but then he realized those sounds came from beyond his lodge and felt a rush of terrible panic.

  Had the Breakers come?

  He threw off his sleeping furs and, naked, unlaced the lodgeflap to thrust out his head.

  The sky was yet dull, dawn no more than a faint promise on the eastern horizon, but the Meeting Ground woke noisy. Dogs barked and he heard people shouting. His heart beating fast, he tugged on shirt, breeches, and boots, and draped a blanket about his shoulders as he hurried out.

  Then he shouted his joy as he saw the line of Grannach moving throu
gh the lodges, Rannach and Arrhyna leading their horses at the head, Colun and Marjia striding beside them.

  There were too many for the Council lodge, so they all sat as if in Matakwa, circled within a ring of guardian warriors, all others—both the People and the Grannach—standing beyond and listening eagerly. What grim news there was was swiftly exchanged, and they settled to discussing the future.

  Colun said, “The Breakers own the mountains now. There is nowhere safe.”

  “Nor the grass,” Racharran said. “Nowhere in all Ket-Ta-Witko.”

  Colun grunted as if this were no more than he expected and combed his beard with stubby fingers. “So, Morrhyn?”

  All eyes turned toward him: those of the men seated about the inner circle and the ring of guards, and all those beyond. Silence descended; even the dogs fell quiet. The morning was yet young, the sun barely above the treetops, the surrounding hills still shadowy. But when he turned his face toward the Maker’s Mountain, he saw the pinnacle bright-lit, shining like a burnished golden blade raised against the sky. The eternal snow still decked the uppermost heights, but it was lit all golden, and glittered so that it was hard to hold his eyes open against that illumination. But he did, even as he felt tears stream down his cheeks, and so he saw the white stallion that reared up over the Mountain, hooves pawing the heavens, and felt all his faith come flooding back, washing doubt away.

  For long moments he stared, watching the burning Mountain and the ethereal horse, and then both were gone. The horse shook its head and became a drifting cloud; the Mountain became again a looming peak not yet touched by the sun.

  He wiped his face and said, “You saw?”

  Colun stared at him. Racharran shook his head. Kahteney asked, “Saw what?”

  He pointed toward the Mountain and saw incomprehension on their faces. He felt his mouth stretch in a triumphant smile.

  When he spoke, his voice was confident.

  “The Grannach are come,” he said, “and now the Maker will reveal his promise. This I know.”