by Angus Wells
“These folk have escaped us—for now! But amongst them are some I’ve spoken with in dreams, some who take our way. Some, I know, have chosen our path. They’re mine: I’ve their scent in my nostrils, and I can find them. I can find them in the night, when they sleep; and when they dream of conquest and vengeance, they leave their spoor on the shadow trails, along all the roads of blood and darkness. They shall show us where they are, and bring us to them.”
He smiled a horrid smile, his face still handsome but also torn and burning, as if the malign purpose that made him what he was shone through, the skull beneath the skin exposing its deformity.
Bemnida stared at him, adoringly.
“We shall leave this world, to find the other where our prey has gone. They shall not escape us! Set up the pavilions here, and feed the beasts on the fallen. We wait here until I find the way. But know this—I shall find it! It matters not where they are, or when. We shall find them and destroy them. We shall reive them and their new world; we shall give it all to death, that they know the price of betrayal and dishonor.”
2
Sanctuary
Arcole held his musket across his chest, thumb ready on the hammer, finger tensed against the trigger. For all these folk appeared friendly—and surely Davyd felt no doubt of their benevolence—they still looked to him altogether too much akin to the demons, and had Colun betrayed him and Flysse and Davyd, then he’d sell his life dear. They could not escape, not with the mountains at their back and their Grannach escort and these others there in such numbers as must surely overwhelm them, but he’d not die easy: he’d come too far, chanced too much—he’d take as many as he could with him, should they prove hostile.
“They’re friends.” Davyd’s voice was urgent, nor less the hand that clutched Arcole’s, pinning it still that he not fire. “Listen to me! They’re friends, I tell you!”
Arcole glanced sidelong at the redheaded youth. There was an authority born of conviction in Davyd’s voice, as much in his green eyes. He seemed no longer the boy, ever willing to follow, but a man now, commanding in his certainty.
Behind him, Flysse said, “I believe Davyd is right, Arcole.”
Her voice was soft—not quite emptied of nervousness, but still calm, as if she would accept Davyd’s judgment, as if she elected to his belief rather than her husband’s suspicion. Arcole looked at the silver-haired man whose eyes shone bright as a winter sky, whose mouth was stretched in a smile, as if old friends came at last to home after too long away. He seemed only welcoming, and Davyd was a Dreamer, whose talent had brought them safely here.
“You’re sure?”
Davyd said, “I’ve dreamed of him,” and turned confidently to the man. “Morrhyn?”
The white-haired man lowered his head in agreement and touched his chest and said the name again, then pointed at Davyd and spoke his name. Davyd laughed before he nodded answer. Morrhyn opened his arms, and—to Arcole’s great surprise—Davyd stepped forward into the embrace as if the father he had never known came back from the sea to greet him.
Arcole frowned, confused, and turned to Flysse. “This goes beyond my understanding.”
She smiled and hooked an arm through his, which made it quite impossible to use the musket even had he deemed it necessary, and said, “Do you trust no one? Surely Colun’s proven his friendship; surely Davyd’s proven his dreaming.”
Arcole shrugged, guilty now, and said, “Yes. But even so, they are much like the demons.”
“Davyd explained that,” she said. “Colun told him they all came from the same place, no? But these folk are enemies of the demons, and it was Colun’s Grannach saved us from them. And nursed you back to health.”
Arcole nodded. “I know, but …”
He had no opportunity to say more, for Davyd was standing before him, the man called Morrhyn at his side, and all the rest clustering round, speaking amongst themselves and to the newcomers as if this was some great and anticipated event for which they had been waiting.
Then Morrhyn raised a hand and silence fell. He spoke with Davyd, the words quite incomprehensible to Arcole or Flysse, so that Davyd must translate.
His young face creased as he struggled with the unfamiliar language. “This is Morrhyn.” He ducked his head toward the white-haired man. “He welcomes us to this land, where we shall be safe from …” He shrugged. “This is difficult, but I think he said from the demons or anyone else who chases us.”
“Difficult?” Arcole frowned. “I hear noises like water over stones, or the wind in the trees, but you understand? How?”
Davyd’s face assumed an expression that was both embarrassed and delighted. “I don’t really know,” he said, “except … I think Morrhyn taught me in dreams.” He shrugged. “Like in the Grannach caverns? When I could almost understand Colun? It’s as if …”
He hesitated, faltering for the words. Morrhyn touched his shoulder, spoke, touching his forehead and Davyd’s, gesturing at the high hills, his hands moving in a pattern that was itself language.
Davyd chuckled and ducked his head as Arcole watched in disbelief, aware he witnessed some kind of communication that lay just beyond his comprehension.
“You remember I told you I’d dreamed of a man like Morrhyn?” Davyd said. “Well, I did; and he dreamed of me. Of us. He knew we were coming—that’s why the Grannach were waiting for us, and Morrhyn’s people. They’re called …” He hesitated, stumbling over the name so that Morrhyn repeated it slowly. “Matawaye. They live here, the Grannach in the mountains.”
“I understand none of this,” Arcole said.
“Nor I,” said Davyd. “Not really; only that it happened and I can understand them. Or most of what they say, at least.” He frowned. “I’ve much to learn, but Morrhyn says—I think—that I shall. And you, in time. But most important, we’re safe here. The demons cannot pass through the mountains.”
“Nor Wyme’s Militia?” Arcole asked.
Davyd chuckled. “Through the mountains? Didn’t you say they’d not even come into the wilderness?”
Arcole nodded. There was magic at work here, such as he failed to comprehend. He was familiar with the hexing powers of the Evanderan Autarchy, knew somewhat of prophetic dreaming, but this was something else: as if the passage through the mountains imbued Davyd with the gift of tongues. Or it was as the young man said—that Morrhyn had reached out in sleep to teach this odd and guttural language to the youthful Dreamer.
For surely Davyd understood sufficient that he might play the part of interpreter: urged on by Morrhyn, he began to introduce folk.
The tall young man whose black hair was fastened in two long braids with silver brooches was named Rannach, and he was some kind of leader. He was very handsome, his features aquiline and somewhat stern until he smiled, and then only sunny. Arcole held out a hand, which Rannach stared at in confusion; then Rannach touched his own to his chest and extended it palm outward. It was, Arcole supposed, the manner of greeting in this unknown land, and he aped the gesture, at which Rannach and the others beamed in approval.
The fat man—though Arcole guessed muscle lay beneath those generous folds of flesh—was named Yazte. He was older, his dark braids paled with strands of gray, his eyes twinkling as he gave the newcomers greeting.
Then Kahteney—whose hair, like Morrhyn’s, was unbound, his eyes deep-set, like pools of blue water in the weathered cragginess of his face—smiling grave greeting. Arcole noticed that neither he nor Morrhyn bore weapons other than belt knives, and as the introductions were made he thought that Davyd said these two were wa-can-eeshas, which appeared to be some title that set them a little apart from the others.
Finally there was Kanseah, whose hair was braided like Rannach’s, dark red as a fox’s brush. He was, as best Arcole could judge, of an age with Rannach, but lacked that one’s authority, smiling shyly as he welcomed them and quickly retreating, deferring to Rannach and Yazte, who in turn appeared to defer to Morrhyn and Kahteney.
Arcole sensed
some subtle order here. Rannach and the other—ak-ah-mans, he thought they were called—carried weapons: long-bladed knives and hatchets. Without any suitable frame of reference, he could think only in terms of his homeland, assuming the ak-ah-mans were military leaders and the wa-can-eeshas like the Inquisitors, owners of such magical powers as rendered sharp steel and powder unnecessary. Save neither Morrhyn or Kahteney seemed like Inquisitors, who were, in Arcole’s experience, cold and arrogant men. These two seemed only kind, and he obeyed as Morrhyn beckoned, indicating that they follow him down the valley.
Colun and his Grannach fell into cheerful step beside, like an honor guard of animated rocks whose marching song appeared to be “Tiswin,” accompanied by a great smacking of lips and much laughter.
Arcole felt Flysse take his hand, and looked, bemused, from where Davyd walked in lively, if not entirely understood, conversation with Morrhyn to her eyes. They danced with excitement, blue as cornflowers in the summer sun. She was smiling happily, her blond hair dancing loose about her lovely face. “We’ve come amongst friends,” she said. “Oh, Arcole, I believe we are safe at last.”
He looked from her back at their escort and nodded. “Yes,” he allowed, “I think we have.”
Surreptitiously, he eased the musket’s hammer down, the striker plate clear of the pan. Then wondered if it was the slight sounds of those mechanisms or something else that prompted Morrhyn to turn his head and smile. Arcole smiled back and slung the gun from his shoulder.
Morrhyn said something to Davyd and the youth turned. “Morrhyn wonders what our muskets are,” he said. “I think the Matawaye have no such weapons.”
“I’ll show them, does he wish,” Arcole replied. “But if they’ve no powder, we’d best reserve what little we have. In case …”
He let his voice trail off, shrugging and smiling: he’d lived too long with fear of pursuit. In case of what? For fear Governor Wyme send Militia after them? Wyme must surely assume them dead, slain by the demons besieging Grostheim or the wilderness beasts, starved or drowned. Grostheim might no longer exist, nor its governor live, and it was unlikely in the extreme that even did Evander retain its foothold in this new, strange land much effort would be expended on the capture of three indentured servants. He touched the scar burned onto his cheek, the E that marked him for the Autarchy as an exile, branded that all know him for a felon, condemned to lifelong servitude in the western territory across the Sea of Sorrows. He looked back at the sky-assailing mountains that divided what Evander claimed from this new land beyond and laughed. Save Colun’s Grannach allow it, no Militia could pass those peaks; nor the demons surmount that cloud-challenging barrier. No: save for hunting, they’d not need conserve either powder or shot. They’d come amongst allies here: it was an odd sensation to feel safe.
“What do you laugh at?” Flysse asked.
“Our good fortune,” he replied. “That we find sanctuary at last.”
They came down from the neck of the valley to its girth, where the pine-clad walls spread out around a swath of lush grass, a stream laid like a blue ribbon along the center, alders and silvery birches clustering the banks. Four tents stood there, unlike any Arcole had seen before, high structures of tanned hide painted with bright colors that as they came closer he saw were idealized depictions of animals. One was decorated with horse heads, another with wide-winged eagles, the third with what looked like turtles; the fourth was undecorated. Farther down the grass, horses grazed, their forelegs hobbled that they not wander too far; and before each tent stood frames that were hung with round shields and leather quivers that held bows and arrows, long lances propped against the wood. Smoke rose lazy in the summer sun from a central fire that was surmounted with a spit on which the butchered carcass of a deer hung ready to eat. The slight breeze skirled around as they approached, bearing the odor of the roasted meat, and Arcole sniffed, feeling his stomach move in anticipation.
He had been so intent on the scene he’d not realized Colun walked beside him until he heard the Grannach chortle, and looked down to see the rocky little man rubbing his stomach and beaming, pointing at the meat and then his mouth, then slapping Arcole enthusiastically on the back. Or as high as he could reach—which still set Arcole to stumbling. The Grannach were small and it was easy to forget how strong they were.
Colun said something that sounded encouraging, for all Arcole could not understand—God, would he ever comprehend the language of his new home?—so he nodded and smiled back, and walked toward the tents.
It seemed to him, as they all took places on the grass around the fire and the meat was carved, that this was a temporary camp, such as hunters or scouts would make. There were no women or children, nor any signs of long habitation. Instinctively, he counted the horses: one for each Matawaye—had he got that name right—and six more. He assumed three were pack animals, so likely the remaining trio was for him and Flysse and Davyd to ride.
He swallowed juicy meat and looked at Morrhyn, at Davyd: Could they truly have known how many horses to bring? Where to come, and when? From the look of the grass, he guessed they’d not been here longer than a few days. So—had Colun sent word? Or was it all done sleepy, in dreams? Davyd was a Dreamer, but his nocturnal sendings were all of warnings or safety—of where danger lay and where refuge. Which was gift enough, Arcole thought, to have brought them safely out of Grostheim and then along the Restitution River to the wilderness. And then to hide them from the demons (had Colun not said they were called Tack-in, or some such word?) and—God, it was still hard to believe—persuade them to climb that blank-faced cliff with no possible hope of escape and arrows striking sparks all about them until the blank rock opened and the Grannach pulled them in to safety. And now this welcoming party, as if it was all ordained.
He realized he was staring when Morrhyn smiled and spoke with Davyd, who said, “I think I’m not lonely here. I think Morrhyn is a Dreamer, and Kahteney. I think that’s what wakanisha means.”
His young face was lit with excitement as he spoke, and wonder danced in his eyes. Hardly surprising, Arcole thought, for God knew but Davyd had lived the better part of his life frightened of his talent, terrified it become known and he be taken by the Autarchy, to be burned at the stake. The Autarchy was ruthless in its persecution of all those not its servants who were gifted with magic. That he found himself come amongst folk who cheerfully accepted the dreaming talent must seem to him like passing welcomed through the portals of heaven.
“That’s good,” Arcole said, “that you’re with friends. Perhaps you’ll be a wakanisha.”
He meant it as a joke, but Morrhyn—seemingly understanding the gist of it—nodded and touched Davyd’s shoulder, saying, “Wakanisha,” then more that he accompanied with gestures. It seemed to Arcole that he said Davyd would be a wakanisha in time. Davyd only smiled, somewhat embarrassed now.
“And the others?” Arcole asked. “They are … ak-ah-mans?”
Again it seemed that Morrhyn understood the meaning of the unknown words. He was, Arcole decided, a most intelligent and perceptive man. He said, “Akaman,” nodding, and indicated Rannach, Yazte, and Kanseah, appending to each other words that sounded like Kom-acht, La-kan-tee, and Nigh-chee. Arcole could not tell whether he gave them surnames or further titles and looked helplessly to Davyd for explanation.
“I think,” Davyd said after a further exchange with Morrhyn, “that those are the names of different … I’m not sure … perhaps families, or people …” He groped for the correct word.
“Tribes?” Arcole wondered. “Different clans?”
Davyd spoke again with Morrhyn, who answered slowly, with much gesturing, pointing at each akaman in turn and then at the tents—or, Arcole guessed, at the symbols painted on the leather—repeating the unfamiliar names. When he was done, Davyd said, “I think that’s it, that they each lead a clan. Rannach is akaman of the Commacht, Yazte of the Lakanti, and Kanseah of the Naiche.”
Those discussed listened attenti
vely to all this, and when Davyd fell silent, nodded encouragingly and spoke all at once, Colun and his Grannach joining in, so that for a while there was a babble that sounded to Arcole somewhat like the noise of a squabbling dog pack.
He leaned close to Flysse and whispered, “Shall we ever understand them?”
“Likely in time,” she answered cheerfully. “We’d best, no? For we’ll likely spend the rest of our lives with them.”
A sudden chill gripped Arcole then, for Flysse had calmly stated a truth that he had not yet entirely accepted. He had planned to escape the clutches of Evander, to escape his life as a branded servant, largely in reaction to indenture. That they might well live out their lives in the wilderness had been a dream that he had not properly faced; indeed, he had not truly thought far past the fact of escaping. Now they were come far beyond the aegis of the Autarchy and stood on the doorstep of a new life amongst their saviors. He knew there could be no turning back, but the immensity of what lay ahead for a moment daunted him. These folk—these Matawaye, had he the name aright—appeared, for all they were friendly, to be little more than savages. Looking at their primitive weapons, their hide tents, he doubted they built cities, thought they likely grubbed some kind of existence from the land. There would be no gaming salons where they lived, nor soirees, nor grand balls—none of those things he had, unconsciously, associated with freedom.
He felt the muscles of his face grow taut, the dead tissue of his brand seeming to burn an instant. Exile to Salvation had been enormity enough. God knew but he’d objected to that, but even so … Grostheim, for all it was a poor facsimile of what he had known, was at least a city of a kind. It had been populated with folk who spoke a language he could understand, and in the governor’s mansion there had been some small measure, even for indentured servants, of those things he accepted as normal: a glass of wine, albeit stolen; the sound of music, even could he not ply the keys; a pipe of pilfered tobacco. There should be none of that here, he thought. Nor any turning back now: freedom, he realized, had a price.
