by Angus Wells
Chakthi scowled, and Hadduth whispered again into his ear. Morrhyn smiled, glad that path was taken.
Colun said, “Those look like good mountains. I’d take my Grannach there and build our tunnels again. How think you, Baran?”
Baran nodded and said, “Yes. Let’s go there.”
And Colun said, “We’ll be the Stone Guardians again, eh? And forbid Chakthi and any fools who follow him passage back.”
Baran grinned through his beard and glowered at the Tachyn and said, “Yes. We’ll seal off the hills and never let them through.”
Rannach said, “So be it. Let all who follow Chakthi strike their lodges and go with him. They shall go in peace—unharmed!—and cross the hills and never come back on pain of death. Save”—he stared fierce around—“any who come here like us—like exiles fleeing destruction and oppression—shall be welcomed. Any who come seeking that refuge the Maker gave us shall be welcome amongst the People.
“How say you?”
His question was answered with a roar of approval and agreement from all save those still loyal to Chakthi.
Morrhyn felt pride swell, and bright hope: Rannach had learned well in exile, and in the long, hard moons that followed. He had chosen a path that seemed to the Dreamer the best—the one that led to peace and a future fruitful to all the People. He seemed to inherit his father’s wisdom, and—hopeful—the wakanisha smiled at Rannach.
Who said, “Those who’d go with Chakthi shall quit this place tomorrow, before the sun stands noonday. Is that fair?”
Yazte said, “More than fair. I’d send them out now.”
Rannach said, “They need time. They’ve wounds also.”
Morrhyn blessed him for that.
Yazte shrugged and Colun asked, “Shall we Grannach go with them and guard their passage?”
Morrhyn waited again for Rannach’s decision, and was no less pleased when Rannach said, “Let them first take out their horses from the herd and all they own, and then warriors from all of the People escort them to the hills; those who’d go. All others are welcome to remain. But those who go with Chakthi shall be taken there by all the clans—the Commacht and the Lakanti, the Naiche and the Aparahaso, the Grannach—that all see them gone across the mountains, nor ever return save to swear loyalty to all the People and the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. That”—he looked to where Morrhyn sat smiling—“is my judgment.”
Chakthi scowled and climbed halfway to his feet, but Hadduth held him back again and whispered to him, and the Tachyn akaman, still sullen, acquiesced and began to smile.
And Morrhyn remembered another path his dreams had taken, and wondered again about the weight and the burden that duty gave him. But he closed his mouth on the warnings he’d shout because he knew this was a thing to be determined by men who were not Dreamers, and must decide their own fates. He was the Prophet and saw the many paths, but did he outline them all, then none had choice—which was the balancing of the Maker’s scales.
Yet still he wondered, as he looked at Chakthi and Hadduth, if it had not been better he told all he knew. That, or take a knife and drive it into both of them as they, together, had driven that blade into Racharran.
But he did not, only bowed his head and agreed with Rannach’s judgment.
It was the best he could do: the only thing he could do, and leave the People themselves.
The Tachyn still loyal to Chakthi struck their lodges not long after the sun rose. They gathered up their horses and their dogs and all else they possessed. They set their worst wounded on travois and began the long trek to whatever awaited them past the mountains.
Colun and his Grannach went with them, and an escort of all the warriors Rannach had decreed.
They were not so many—Dohnse was believed, and the Prophet’s dreaming—and for those who went with Chakthi and Hadduth, there was an equal number that remained behind.
They were welcomed into the clans still loyal to the People, though it was a sad welcoming, for much was lost. Not only Ket-Ta-Witko, but also those things that had made them what they were—and all of them knew those things were changed.
Chakthi and all who followed him seemed no longer of the People, but tainted by the sin of the Breakers’ dark wind, and all those who watched them go wondered at their fate, and what their anger might bring.
Morrhyn watched the long column go out and thought of what his dreams had shown him: if all was now well, and the People safe, or the Breakers come again because …
He set that doubt aside and asked, “What shall we call this land?”
Rannach said, “Ket-Ta-Thanne.”
Which meant in the language of the People The Promised Land.
Morrhyn nodded and said, “That seems fitting.”
And so it was named: Ket-Ta-Thanne.
And the People settled there—the Commacht and the Lakanti, the Aparhaso and the Naiche and the Grannach—and spread across the grass and into the mountains, and set up their lodges and built their tunnels, and dwelt in harmony, all of them—save Chakthi’s Tachyn, who had gone across the mountains the Grannach guarded to whatever lay beyond.
And while all remembered Rannach’s vow that Ket-Ta-Thanne should be always a refuge for exiles, it seemed they were the only folk in all those wide spaces, and none realized how soon they would be called upon to honor that promise.
44 A Desperate Enterprise
Arcole saw Flysse and Davyd settled safely in the dinghy, the packs amidships, and used Davyd’s knife to cut the mooring line. He shouldered the rowboat out into deeper water—all the time praying the tide was turned enough it should carry them upriver—and hauled himself on board.
“Keep low,” he warned. “Are we seen, hopefully they’ll think this only an empty, drifting boat.”
Obeying his own instruction, he crouched beneath the gunwales, endeavoring not to breathe in his own odor. God, but he smelled foul! And surely no chance to strip off his reeking clothing and bathe until dawn, at least. By then, were his calculations right—did the tide favor them, and the demons not halt them—they should be far enough from Grostheim that they might risk a brief halt. He thought their escape must go unnoticed for some time: even did the city withstand the siege, there would be confusion in its aftermath. Fredrik would doubtless report their flight to Wyme, but the governor would be fully occupied reorganizing his city. Likely he’d not consider the possibility of his servants fleeing into the arms of the demons, but rather think them hiding within the walls. Even did he reach the conclusion that they had fled past the walls, then surely he would think them dead at the demons’ hands. Pursuit by Militiamen seemed definitely unlikely.
But pursuit by the demons … That was another matter.
Arcole wondered what they were. His clandestine studies had suggested they were savage beyond belief, and the little he had seen of them supported this. But he had somehow supposed they should look other than men, yet the figures he had seen capering under the walls had appeared, at least relatively, human. They were not giants or deformed, as best he could tell, and whilst their faces had seemed unearthly, he thought that the result of paint rather than any demonic malformation. Still, he hoped he would not be presented the opportunity to study them at close quarters.
He felt the dinghy rock gently, and risked a swift glance at the riverbank. The twin landmarks of Grostheim and the blazing barges lay astern now—the current did carry them inland—fading slowly into the moonless night. Stars shone above, their light replacing the fiery glow so that the Restitution glittered as if sprinkled with quicksilver. They drifted closer to the bank than was comfortable, but he dared not ply the oars yet, for fear the demons spot them.
“I think we’re safe.” He reached back to stroke Flysse’s ankle. “In a while, I’ll use the oars.”
Then he cursed as something moved across the water behind them.
“What is it?” Flysse’s voice was husky with fear and nausea.
Arcole said, “I spoke too soon,” and looked
forward across the packs to where Davyd lay. “There are muskets in these?”
Davyd said, “Two, wrapped in oilskin, with powder and shot. Also three pistols.”
Arcole began to feel at the packs, seeking the weapons. His fingers found the hard outline of a musket and he cut the securing cords, dragging out the gun.
Flysse asked again, “What is it?” Her question was more urgent now.
Arcole slit the oilskin wrapping the musket and began to load. “Pursuit.” He looked back, ignoring Flysse’s gasp as she turned and saw what came after them.
It was a canoe. It sat low in the water, prow and stern curving up and over like the horns of some malign river beast. Four demons paddled the craft with a dreadful vigor; a fifth crouched in the nose. Arcole thought he held a nocked bow.
“Davyd!” He tossed the boy the knife. “Find the second musket and load it.”
Davyd began to slash at a pack. “I’ve never fired a musket,” he said.
“I have,” Arcole returned. “Only load for me. Flysse, stay down.”
“I can row,” she said.
“No.” Arcole shook his head. “They’ve four oarsmen. And”—he cocked the musket—“I need a steady hand for this.”
He settled back on the packs, sighting sternward over Flysse’s body. The musket was of cheap production, no more than a trade weapon, and he was accustomed to the finest: he prayed the thing fired true. He squeezed the trigger.
Water fountained ahead and to the left of the canoe. Arcole cursed and began to reload. The canoe gained: it seemed to leap across the surface. Arcole saw the demon at the prow loose an arrow; felt its passage past his face. He fired again.
The heavy lead ball burst splinters from the canoe’s curving bow. Davyd said, “Ready!”
Arcole took the offered gun and passed Davyd the spent weapon.
The shot landed to starboard of their pursuers, an arm’s length clear. Arcole cursed.
“Ready.”
Davyd’s voice was hoarse with terror, and his hand trembled as he gave Arcole the musket. Arcole said, “Gahame should sight in his guns better,” and was rewarded with a nervous laugh.
This one pulls to the left and fires short, he reminded himself, and that damned canoe is closing on us fast. He adjusted his aim, then paused as a shaft struck hard against the dinghy’s stern. Flysse gave a little scream and Arcole took a deep breath. The bowman nocked a fresh arrow. Arcole fired as he drew his string.
The demon screamed and fell back amongst the oarsmen: Arcole whooped gleefully as the canoe slowed and veered off course.
He took the second musket—this pulls right—and fired again. Chips flew from the canoe and a second agonized cry rang out.
“So demons can be slain!” Arcole shouted. “Davyd?”
The boy had the gun ready. The canoe turned farther into the river as the rowers lost their stroke, presenting a broader target. Arcole’s next shot sent a demon spilling overboard. Only two remained now, and it seemed they gave up the chase. One rose, sending a hatchet whirling toward the dinghy. It struck the stern and sank. Arcole fired again, aiming for the craft now, blowing a hole in the thin side, close on the waterline. Davyd held out a loaded musket, but he shook his head.
“Best we save our shot.” He gestured cheerfully at the canoe. “I think we’ve dissuaded them, and there’s but the one came after us.”
The canoe took on water now, settling deeper, and the surviving demons seemed more intent on avoiding a swim to the bank than continuing the hunt. They set to paddling shoreward, falling steadily astern as the dinghy drifted upstream.
“Flysse, you’re not hurt?” Arcole set the musket down. “Davyd?”
Flysse said, “No,” in a small voice. “Only afraid.”
Davyd said, “I’m hale,” as steadily as he could.
“You did well,” Arcole declared, “and we’re surely safe now.”
Flysse rose to find a bench. Reproachfully, she said, “You told me that before, no?”
“I did,” Arcole agreed solemnly. “But this time I think I’m right.”
His smile was infectious and Flysse began to laugh; soon Davyd joined in.
“And,” Arcole chuckled, “I told you I’d use the oars in a while. See how I keep my word?”
He found the oars and began to row.
By daybreak his hands were blistered and he thought his spine must soon crack, but he continued at his task until the sun was up and the river shone golden all around. Grassy banks drifted by, and stands of timber, but they saw no one, nor did any demons appear behind them. Arcole deemed it safe to rest and take stock: he turned the boat to the shore.
They beached on a strand of dark sand overhung by willows, their arrival sending a flock of twittering birds skyward. A heron squawked a protest and took lumbering flight. Arcole slumped at the oars and it was Davyd who sprang overboard to drag the dinghy ashore.
Wearily, his body aching, Arcole joined the boy, and with Flysse’s aid they manhandled the boat under the cover of the drooping willows. For a while they all three slumped on the sand, scarce able to believe they looked on a morning not bound by Grostheim’s walls. The river ran empty before them, and behind, past the willows, the bank rose higher than a man’s head.
“Are we safe?” Flysse asked.
“I’ll check.” Arcole made to rise, but Davyd motioned him back, saying, “I’ll go. You rest here.”
Arcole gestured his assent, and Davyd clambered up the bank to peer over the top.
“Grass,” he reported. “For as far as I could see, except for some trees. There are no houses, nor any people.”
“Good.” Arcole lay back against the dinghy. “I suggest we rest here awhile. Do we have any food?”
Davyd said, “I brought none. Only clothes and the weapons and such.”
“No matter.” Arcole grinned. “We shall feast on freedom, and perhaps tonight hunt our dinner. Meanwhile, the river shall be our bath. God!” He plucked at his shirt, grimacing. “I stink. A change of clothes will be a blessing.”
Flysse was abruptly aware of her undressed state. Arcole seemed too tired to notice, but Davyd kept his eyes averted, and when he did look toward her, his cheeks grew red. After all they had been through, it seemed almost amusing that her dishabille should embarrass him so, but his obvious discomfort was unnerving and she found her herself eager to be more modestly dressed.
“There are clothes in the packs?” she asked. And when Davyd nodded—not looking at her—she said, “Then I’d take mine and bathe.”
Arcole said, “Don’t go far, and be careful,” as Davyd opened the three packs and sorted out the contents.
He handed Flysse a sturdy linen shirt and a pair of buckskin breeches, a belt and a pair of high, soft boots. “I’m sorry.” His eyes darted about, looking everywhere but at her as his face flushed bright pink. “There are no …” He gestured vaguely. “No … um, small things.”
“No matter.” Flysse smiled as she took his offering. “These are ample.”
She carried the gear away, down the beach to where the willows screened her from the two men. Then all modesty was forgotten as she tore off her undergarments and splashed into the water.
Back at the dinghy, Arcole forced himself to examine their supplies. The map he had so painstakingly constructed was blurred from its watery journey, the ink badly run and most of his annotations now indecipherable. Even so, aided by his memory, he though it should serve them well enough; and Davyd’s loot was invaluable.
In addition to shirts and breeches and boots the twins of Flysse’s outfit, there were the two muskets, three holstered pistols, several horns of powder and bags of shot; three knives complete with sheaths, and two smallswords in plain leather scabbards. Also three tinderboxes, two canteens, and a collection of wire snares and fishing lines; the tarpaulins would serve as cloaks and tents both. Arcole voiced his appreciation.
“Sieur Gahame carries no …” Davyd coughed nervously, blushing, and i
n a mumbled rush, “Underthings. Nothing like that … So I couldn’t … I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Arcole grunted as he leaned forward to slap the boy on the shoulder. “God, Davyd, you’ve done us proud. I marvel you were able to gather all this.”
Davyd’s blush was replaced with a smile. “I am—was—a thief,” he murmured.
“A most excellent thief.” Arcole chuckled. “The finest thief I’ve ever known. How could we have won through without you?”
Davyd basked in the praise, embarrassment and fear fading. He felt Arcole treated him like a man, and that filled him with pride. Even better, the dream voice that had echoed in his head was silent now, gone with the terror he seemed to have left behind along the Restitution. He rose to his feet.
“Shall I make a fire?” he asked.
“Perhaps not yet.” Arcole shook his head and yawned. “The smoke might betray us, and the sun’s warm enough, no? Indeed, I think I shall lie here awhile and enjoy it—after I’ve washed off this stink.”
Davyd nodded, and they waited until Flysse returned. Her wet hair hung like liquid gold about her fresh-scrubbed face, and in her home-spun shirt and buckskin breeches she looked like some soldier-maid. The more when Arcole had her affix a pistol and a knife to her belt.
“I know nothing of guns,” she protested. “Neither how to fire nor to load.”
“I’ll teach you,” Arcole promised. “I’ll teach you both. And Davyd how to use that fine blade.”
It was not, in truth, a very fine blade, but serviceable enough; and the pleasure on Davyd’s face was ample reward for the lie.
“And now.” Arcole clambered stiffly to his feet, groaning as his aching back protested. “I shall bathe. And then sleep awhile.”
“Shall that be safe?” Flysse asked.
“Likely,” came the answer. “Surely necessary, for I doubt I can row again until I’ve rested.”
“I can,” Davyd said eagerly. “I can row while you sleep.”
Arcole felt no wish to dampen the boy’s enthusiasm, but neither did he trust him to handle the dinghy successfully. Once, he would have said it plain—careless of Davyd’s mortification—but now he was changed and looked to avoid giving the boy hurt. Indeed, he thought as he studied the earnest young face, Davyd was no longer a boy. Perhaps not yet quite a man, for all he took a man’s part in this venture, but surely no longer a boy.
