by Angus Wells
Chakthi watched until he was satisfied with his knowledge of their ways, and then planned his raid.
Each day, between three and five of the odd vehicles the owh’jika said were called wagons were driven into the forest. They carried men with axes, who set to felling trees, and were escorted by a party of the bluecoats. The felled trees were later hauled back to the burgeoning fort: the smaller specimens on the wagons, the larger waiting for horse teams that dragged them like great travois.
Chakthi curbed his impatience and waited, allowing the strangers to grow more confident; besides, he wanted to kill as many as he could in the first raid. He deemed the time right when five wagons came down the trail, carrying some fifty men, with perhaps as many marines marching in escort.
The Tachyn waited in concealment, even though Chakthi doubted the strangers had the eyes to read the forest’s signs. Their faces were painted for war, banded white and black and yellow, and on Chakthi’s signal they attacked.
Matieu Fallyn commanded the detail, and he was deploying his marines about the perimeter of the cleared area when the arrows came in a terrible rain from amongst the trees. He felt a blow on his shoulder that numbed his left arm before he felt any pain. He saw men falling around him, shafts sprouting like deadly weeds from their bodies, and saw the arrow jutting from his own. He cursed, confused an instant by the pain and the suddenness of the attack, then drew his pistol.
“Form square! Two ranks!”
The order was redundant—his men, disciplined veterans, were already shaping the defensive formation, the wagons at the center.
Fallyn aimed his pistol at the shadowy timber. “Front rank, fire!”
The muskets exploded a volley into the trees. Dirty white smoke billowed across the clearing; lead shot thudded, snapping branches, sending great chips of rent bark flying. Fallyn wondered if he heard screams: it was hard to be sure through the din.
“Second rank, fire!”
Another volley: the timber was momentarily hidden behind the smoke. The front rank, kneeling, was already reloaded and Fallyn shouted that it fire again. He holstered his pistol and tugged at the arrow; then could not stifle his cry of agony.
“Likely barbed. Best leave it for now.” Abram Jaymes was at his side, the Baker rifle cocked ready. “Less you want me to cut it out.”
“No.” Fallyn shook his head. “Dammit, where are they?”
Jaymes said, “In the trees. You won’t see ’em unless they come at us head-on.”
The muskets were silent, the marines awaiting Fallyn’s order. More arrows came, as if the forest itself flung the missiles. Fallyn saw marines fall, an engineer scream, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest; a horse shrilled, bucking frantically as it was struck in neck and hindquarters.
“Fire!” Then to Jaymes: “How many, d’you think?”
The guide shrugged. “A lot.”
“Can we beat them?”
“Depends.” Jaymes spat tobacco. “How much ammunition you got?”
“Every man carries a full pouch.” Fallyn fired his pistol into the smoke. He could see no target, but it seemed necessary to do something. “Shall that be enough?”
“Might be.” Jaymes had not yet fired his rifle. “Depends.”
“Dammit, give me a straight answer for God’s sake.” Fallyn lost patience with the laconic guide. “Can we hold them off, or do we retreat?”
Jaymes said, “There’s no straight answers with these folk, Captain. I don’t know how many there are, so I can’t say whether you got enough powder, or not. Might be they decide to quit, or …” He shrugged again. “Might be they don’t.”
Fallyn struggled to reload his pistol and found that his left hand refused to work. Cursing, he thrust the gun into its holster and drew his sword, forcing himself to think calmly. It was not easy: he faced an unseen enemy who fought by no rules of warfare he knew. Who hid from sight as if, just as he’d heard the settlers muttering, the forest had spawned them. He wondered what to do. Not advance into the trees—certainly not that. Hold the square? Hope—pray!—the savages or demons or whatever they were would give up? Hope the firing was heard and a rescue column came? Or retreat? They were not too deep into the timber, and he doubted the enemy would follow onto the open grass, where the fighting would surely be noticed by the main force.
Arrows still flew, not in that terrible rain now, but individually, as if the unseen bowmen taunted the intruders and picked them off leisurely. Matieu Fallyn envisaged his entire command slaughtered man by man. God, if only the bastards would fight face-to-face!
Fallyn’s experience was all of open warfare, of frontal attacks in which army clashed with army. There was no honor in ambush. But this was a new world and a new enemy, and Fallyn knew he must adapt or die. He came to an abrupt decision.
“We withdraw! We fight our way back! Fix bayonets!”
He bellowed the order, his marines holding the square as engineers and Militiamen cut free the slain horses and loaded the wounded men onto the wagons. His shoulder throbbed abominably now and he turned to Jaymes.
“Cut this damn thing away.”
The guide nodded and lowered his rifle. He drew his big knife and hacked through the arrow, close to Fallyn’s shoulder. The captain groaned as the shaft was moved inside the wound, and forbade himself to faint. Jaymes tossed the length of painted wood away and retrieved his long gun.
“Wagons are ready, Captain.” A sergeant of the Militia came through the smoke. “What about the dead?”
Fallyn cursed anew, glanced toward the wagons, and saw there was insufficient room for the bodies. “Strip them of their weapons and leave them.”
The sergeant nodded and was gone. Fallyn shouted for the marines to form around the wagons. It would be a difficult maneuver, the hindmost line marching backward over a trail rutted by the carts and the dragged timber. He prayed it would work: he could think of nothing else, save waiting here to die. He did not relish reporting his defeat to Inquisitor Talle.
They retreated, slowly, arrows still coming out of the trees, answered by the disciplined fire of the marines. Fallyn did not know he staggered until he smelled Jaymes’s buckskins and felt the guide’s arm around his waist. He straightened, pushing free of the man’s support, and turned to survey his stricken command.
The arrow entered his mouth as he parted his lips to shout encouragement. It pierced the soft flesh of his throat and emerged from the back of his neck, his cry drowning in blood. Jaymes caught him as he fell and manhandled the stumbling officer to the closest wagon, heaving him bodily on board. Ahead, down the avenue of felled timber, the guide could see the open prairie. He doubted Fallyn would.
“It was a good fight,” Hadduth declared. “You slew many strangers, and surely they’ll be afraid to come back into the forest.”
He gestured at the warriors dancing their victory. Tunics of blue and red and green were waved aloft, and hanks of bloody hair, and all the clan was gathered to watch and celebrate. Only Chakthi seemed dissatisfied.
“As many got away,” the akaman muttered. “And they took all the muskets. I wanted to capture those.”
“There will be others,” Hadduth said. “And now these new-come warriors have learned to fear the Tachyn.”
“Perhaps,” Chakthi allowed. “But there are still many of them.”
“But they must surely be afraid now,” Hadduth insisted, “and even if they dare the forest again, we can attack them again.”
Chakthi studied his wakanisha through narrowed eyes. “I think they want very badly to build their forts,” he said, his voice so cold Hadduth flinched back, “and that one fight does not win our war. If I led them, I should come back with more men—so many none would dare attack me.”
“The war is not yet won,” Hadduth agreed quickly, “but still it was a great victory.”
“It was a little fight!” Chakthi’s voice rang with contempt. “And I would win this war. This is my land, and I’ll not share it.”
Hadduth was about to speak, but Chakthi silenced him. “Listen, Dreamer! I have spoken with the owh’jika and he says his kind are many—far more than we Tachyn—and that they will send big canoes loaded with warriors to fight us. Like in your dream, eh? Before that happens, I want this land emptied of the strangers, so that the rest are afraid to come here. To do that, I need allies. Do you understand?”
Hadduth nodded. “You know I seek our allies in my dreams.” His voice was nervous.
“Do better than seek them,” Chakthi said. “Find them, and bring them here!”
12
A Choice Is Offered
None had objected when Morrhyn suggested Davyd eat the pahé root, and he had gone many times to the wa’tenhya and drunk the bitter brew and gone away into dreams. For days he had lain there, unconscious as broth and water were dripped between his lips, and then awoke understanding the language of the People. It was what Evander would call a miracle: he thought of it as Morrhyn’s magic.
Nor less Arcole and Flysse, whose acceptance by the People was total. It was as if they came amongst friends who took them in and gifted them with clothing and a lodge, even horses, and considered the act of giving an honor. Lhyn and Arrhyna took Flysse beneath their wings and set to teaching her their language and their customs, whilst Rannach and Yazte performed similar services for Arcole. Both outlanders soon felt at home, as if Salvation were a dark dream left behind when they crossed the mountains, and could not imagine ever returning there. Why should they, when they dwelt amongst such hospitable folk? And did they entertain any doubts, they were not for themselves but for Davyd—for it was clear that Morrhyn discerned in the young man some great purpose, and looked to shape his future.
Davyd studied Morrhyn’s face as the wakanisha spoke. It was dark as old leather, seamed like the sunbaked bed of a dry stream, and starkly planed, all sharp angles and hollows. It should—would, worn by any other man—have been forbidding in its ageless gauntness, but the bright-burning blue eyes radiated such compassion, and the wide mouth smiled so often, it was instead kindly and wise. It was easy to see why the People named him Prophet, for all he resisted the title, claiming he was only a Dreamer blessed by the Maker. But Davyd—even now he knew the story—still thought of him only as Morrhyn, his tutor and his friend.
“And shall there be a Matakwa this year?” he asked in the language of the Matawaye. He was fluent now, thanks to the pahé.
“Yes.” Morrhyn nodded solemnly.
“Why was there not one held last year?” Davyd wondered if he saw humor sparkling in the blue eyes, as if Morrhyn held back some announcement that excited him. “Surely the Ahsa-tye-Patiko says the People should meet yearly.”
“That is true,” the wakanisha agreed, “since first Grass Woman and Buffalo Dreamer went to meet the Stone Boy, but I think the Maker forgives us the lapse. At least, I dreamed he does.”
“But why did we not meet?” Davyd did not notice that he named himself Matawaye.
“Because,” Morrhyn answered, smiling, “this is not Ket-Ta-Witko but Ket-Ta-Thanne, and things change.”
Davyd frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“We are not long come to this new land,” Morrhyn explained, “neither we Matawaye nor the Grannach, and we both need time to settle here, to find our way.” He sighed. “We remember what that last Matakwa delivered, and that’s a sour memory—the People were worried by that.”
“But that’s in the past,” Davyd protested, “and in Ket-Ta-Witko.”
“Even so.” Morrhyn shrugged, the movement almost lost beneath his furs. It was the Moon of the Turning Year and the air was yet chill. “We had nothing to trade, nor the Grannach. The akamans went alone—a little Matakwa. Kahteney and I held Dream Council on the matter, and that was the answer the Maker sent us. Also, there was another reason.”
Davyd waited, and when Morrhyn failed to continue demanded, “What other reason?”
The wakanisha grinned and said, “You, and your friends.”
“Us?” Davyd was taken aback. “Why us?”
“Matakwa is for the People and the Grannach,” Morrhyn replied. “For those who understand the Will. It was not fitting three strangers ignorant of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko attend, and we’d not leave you to fend for yourselves.”
Davyd opened his mouth to speak, bit back the words and frowned again.
Morrhyn chuckled at his forlorn expression. “You did not understand then,” he said, “but now …”
“There shall be a Meeting this year?” Davyd was excited by the prospect. “Because we do?”
“Yes.” Morrhyn nodded, his eyes twinkling. “And because it is time …” He hesitated deliberately.
Davyd refused to rise to the bait, playing Morrhyn at his own game, waiting.
“It is time you became truly Matawaye. Do you agree, the ceremonies shall be held at this Matakwa.”
“I agree!” Davyd cried.
“And the others, Arcole and Flysse? They speak our tongue well enough now.”
“They will!” Davyd nodded enthusiastically. “I know they will.”
Morrhyn said, “That is good. Now, do you tell me of your dreams?”
The Prophet thought long on what he heard, and spoke at length with Kahteney of all Davyd told him. The Maker knew, but this youngster owned the talent in abundance. His conviction that Davyd was destined to become his successor was confirmed daily, even had he discussed it only with Kahteney. It was not yet time to make that announcement—Davyd was powerful in his dreaming, but still disordered, still affected by remembered fear. Sometimes, when Morrhyn shared the dreaming, he saw Davyd’s visions consumed by flames, the image of Davyd chained to a stake and burning superimposing itself. Morrhyn could not comprehend a people that condemned Dreamers any more than he could comprehend the setting of a hot iron to a man’s face, a woman’s shoulder, that they be marked as slaves and sent into exile. He thought Davyd’s people very strange.
They had explained those horrid customs, and the iron rule of the Autarchy, and all who listened were horrified. Such folk as they described seemed monstrous to the Matawaye, alien as the Breakers. And across the mountains were hundreds, perhaps hundreds of hundreds, more who wore the mark of exile. Rannach had even spoken of crossing the hills to offer refuge to the indentured folk, but that was in the heat of his disgust and Morrhyn had persuaded him to set the idea aside. For now, at least.
“We are not long come to Ket-Ta-Thanne,” he had told the young akaman. “Look at us—we live all huddled like a wary buffalo herd, nervous of the changing wind. Let us first find our way about this new land, find our clan territories and live like true Matawaye again. Then, perhaps, we can think of the wider world.”
Rannach said softly, apologetically, “It was delay delivered the People to the Breakers.”
“Then, yes,” Morrhyn agreed. “But then all we wakanishas had dreamed of approaching danger.”
“And not now?” Rannach asked. “Arcole says that all their warriors carry muskets, and they have the things he calls cannon, that are like giant muskets. He says they claim the land they name Salvation, and that council that brands men and women and sends them into slavery would conquer all the world. What if they decide to cross the mountains? Should that not be like the Breakers again?”
“It would,” Morrhyn replied, “but I have not dreamed of that, nor Kahteney, and so I do not think it is a present danger.”
Rannach grunted, dissatisfied. “It sits ill with me to know there are others like Arcole and Flysse and Davyd. It seems to me a sin against the Ahsa-tye-Patiko.”
“For us it surely would be a sin. But they are not like us, eh?”
“Ach, no!” Rannach made a gesture of dismissal, as if the very thought of comparison was distasteful.
“Wait,” Morrhyn urged. “I like none of this any better than you, but it is not the time to start a new war.”
“I’d not go to war. Only steal away those who’d find sanctuary with
us.”
Morrhyn had reached out then to clutch Rannach’s wrist. He felt proud of the young man’s ardor, and equally afraid the old, hotheaded Rannach should gain sway. “First you would need cross Chakthi’s land,” he said, “and that would not be easy. Nor the return, if you came with some number of refugees. And do these people claim to own the branded ones, then I think they would send their warriors after you. Better to wait, no?”
And that had contented Rannach somewhat, though he still spoke at length with Arcole of the strange folk across the hills, as if he would learn all he could of their ways. Which was, Morrhyn supposed, the mark of a wise leader—to think ahead, to learn about potential enemies and prepare to face them. The Maker knew, but that was what he had argued in Ket-Ta-Witko, and none but poor, dead Racharran listened to him. Did he now fall into that same complacent trap, he wondered? Surely he did not dream of danger from over the mountains, but then, before, the dreams had dulled and clouded under the malign influence of the Breakers. Could that same curse descend again?
He told himself no; surely the Breakers were left behind and no longer a threat. Surely it was common sense and not complacency that prompted him to urge caution on Rannach. But that the case, why did he dream as he did of Davyd? That the youth was vital to the future of the People he could not doubt—the dreams made that much clear, but not much else. They did not explain how or why Davyd was so important, and Morrhyn could only instruct him in the lore of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and endeavor to train him as a Dreamer and wait for revelation. In his own good time, he told himself, the Maker will surely reveal all. And meanwhile, he did not want Rannach to cross the mountains: he thought he could not look into Lhyn’s eyes were he to approve that venture.
Davyd’s voice returned the wakanisha to the present.
“Shall I get my braids at the Matakwa?”
Morrhyn was startled: did Davyd not understand? Surely he had guessed what future Morrhyn planned for him.
