Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  And did any think of Taza, they set the thought aside: he would be judged, and were he guilty then surely the Council must know it and decide his sentence. But that was for the morrow: this night was for celebration.

  For most.

  It shall be soon now Are you strong?

  Taza said, inside his head, safe inside his lodge, Yes: are you with me I am strong.

  It shall not be easy, but the reward shall be great Are you sure?

  Yes. What shall be my reward?

  All that you want Davyd’s death, Morrhyn’s Respect. That the People lower their heads before you and shudder at your words

  Truly? So much?

  Truly. You shall be as thunder over the earth, mightier than the buffalo herds when they migrate You shall have dominion over them all

  And I need only do what you ask?

  What I tell you, yes. Shall you do that?

  Yes!

  Then only wait and I shall show you the way

  I shall!

  Good, we are agreed.

  “I’ve seen nothing,” Colun said, reaching for the flask. “The Tachyn—the Maker damn them!—seem to have given up their assaults. The forests that side are quiet.”

  “And you’ve seen naught of the …” Morrhyn hesitated at the unfamiliar word, “Evanderans?”

  “No.” Colun shook his head. “Nothing at all. Do they build these fort things, then it must be far away. Not where we can see them—which means a long way away.”

  “And yet …” Morrhyn hesitated, glancing at Davyd. “The dreams …”

  Colun shrugged. “I can only tell you what I know—that Chakthi no longer brings his Maker-forsaken Tachyn against our hills, and I have seen none of these … Evanderans? Neither the ones marked like our friends, nor the … soldiers?”

  Kahteney looked at Davyd and frowned a question. Davyd said, “I know only what I dreamed. I do not understand it.”

  “I think,” Morrhyn said, “that it were best we conduct the ceremonies and then build a wa’tenhya. Perhaps if you are formally named …”

  Davyd said, “Perhaps,” feeling unsure.

  Colun said, “Is there any more tiswin?”

  Those rites adopting the newcomers into the People were conducted the next day. While the sun yet trembled on the edge of the encircling hills, Arrhyna came for Flysse, Rannach for Arcole, and Morrhyn for Davyd, and they were led in silence to the center of the Meeting Ground, where all the Matawaye and the visiting Grannach waited. The previous night’s feast fire was built up again, and the three were led three times around the flames. Then each in turn, their sponsors asked their wishes, and they answered as they had been tutored: “I would be one with the People in the eyes of the Maker.” Then each sponsor walked the circle, asking did any present object, and when there came only a great shout of agreement, returned to the waiting adoptee and intoned formally: “The People accept you as one with them.”

  Then Morrhyn and Kahteney shook rattles over the heads of the new Matawaye, and gave them each the feather of an eagle, and spoke the ritual words: “Praise the Maker, and may He welcome these folk amongst us. May they become as one with us and be named as us—Matawaye.”

  The three lowered their heads as the sun came up over the peaks and struck full into the bowl. It illumined the grass and the lodges, light streaming radiant over the camp as if in blessing, and then all the akamans and both wakanishas cried out, and all the People came from where they waited to gather round in a great milling throng that threatened to overwhelm them with good wishes and hearty backslaps, and invitations to feast—though those were scarce necessary, for already meat was roasting on the fire and the chill dawn air filled with the succulent odor of venison and buffalo. Colun and Marjia came laughing, he with a flask and she with cups, and toasts were drunk and the celebratory feasting began.

  It was chaotic. For all they’d lived long amongst the People, they were now truly Matawaye and therefore welcomed anew. Arcole had no sooner settled beside Flysse, a buffalo rib dripping fat over his hand, than he was beckoned away by Dohnse, who’d offer him tiswin while Flysse was carried off by laughing women, and Kahteney came shyly, but nonetheless beaming, to invite Davyd to share quail’s eggs. The day, it seemed, was to be spent in celebration.

  “Your naming shall come later,” Morrhyn told Davyd when the young man found his way back to the central fire. “Tomorrow, perhaps; or the next day.”

  “And the dreaming?” Davyd asked, wiping grease from his chin. “You and I and Kahteney?”

  Morrhyn hesitated.

  Davyd belched—the Maker knew, but he’d eaten more than enough—and could not help a slight frown as he recognized a curious reluctance in the wakanisha. “That first, no?” he asked. “Surely it must be so—I tell you, Morrhyn, I dreamed that I was wakanisha and warrior, both; but you say that cannot be.” Now he hesitated, troubled by his own thoughts and the clouding of Morrhyn’s pale blue eyes. “So—were my dreams true, how can you name me?”

  Morrhyn had sooner this not come up: he elected to put his faith in the Maker and trust in those answers, but Davyd forced him to commitment. “I do not know,” he said honestly.

  “Then best put off my naming,” Davyd said. “At least, until you’ve dreamed.”

  Morrhyn nodded slowly. There was such wisdom in this young man as must surely make him a great wakanisha; and the Maker knew but Morrhyn would name him his successor, confident that could only be for the good of all the People. But it was as Davyd said, and that Morrhyn could not understand at all.

  “Perhaps best,” he allowed, hearing his own reluctance. “Do you and I and Kahteney dream, and then we shall decide.”

  Only sleep and I shall show you the way to all your dreams Forget what they said, for I shall make you strong enough that they cringe before your wrath and eat their laughter like bitter ashes

  Taza curled on his furs, comforted by the promises. The Maker knew, but they’d laughed at him when he made his rightful claim to naming, and that—for all the voice’s assurance—had hurt. They’d laugh at him? Not at Davyd, but at him; and soon look to see him tried before the Council. He had scant doubt of the outcome: all faces were turned from him, smiling toward the upstart Davyd.

  But they do not understand, the voice said. They do not understand what you are Heed me and they shall know.

  Into his furs, Taza murmured, “Yes.”

  Good, said the voice, gentle now as a mother’s caress. So listen, learn, and all shall be yours

  Taza slept and dreamed and knew in his dreaming what he must do: what must be done, and how.

  Colun turned restlessly, shifting from side to side so that his snores gusted like some loud and veering wind. Marjia retrieved her share of the sleeping furs and sighed, thinking that her husband had drunk somewhat too deep of the tiswin, and eaten too well—even for a Grannach—and therefore found sleep hard. She lifted up and gently stroked his craggy brow, and for a while Colun lay still, his breathing even, but then, when she thought him sound asleep, he began to stir again, snoring and mumbling.

  Finally Marjia prodded him—there were limits even to Grannach patience—and was startled when he lurched upright, reaching for his ax and crying out as if afraid.

  “What, what?” she murmured, clutching at the hand that quested after the moon-bladed ax. “There’s nothing, eh? Only dreams.”

  For an instant she did not recognize her husband’s face as he stared around, and held him tight for fear he strike out sleeping.

  Then Colun shook himself like a small bear emerging from a stream and shuddered and returned her grip.

  “Maker!” His voice was dry and harsh. “I thought …”

  “What?” Marjia looked into his blurred eyes and felt herself afraid. “Only dreams, my husband.”

  Colun rubbed at his face as if to wipe away some horrid taint. “I thought,” he said in a slow and hollow voice, “that I opened the tunnels to the Breakers.”

  “A dream, no more th
an that.” Marjia held him tighter. “Only a dream.”

  “It was as if,” he said hoarsely, “they came inside my head and turned me withershins.”

  “Old memories.” She clutched him firm as he trembled feverishly. The Maker knew, but she’d never known her husband like this. She’d seen him face the Breakers in battle and strike them down. She knew him brave, but as she held him and felt him shake in her arms like a youngling new-woke from nightmare, she felt a great dread rise in her.

  “Old memories?” Colun released himself from her grip that he find the water jug. “I’ve not had such before.”

  “You’ve not attended Matakwa,” she said, “not since …”

  “No.” Colun drank, splashed more water over his face. “Not since that last.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Shall this be the same?”

  “How so?” Marjia demanded. “Surely we are safe in Ket-Ta-Thanne.”

  “The Maker grant it so.” Colun relaxed a little, sighing near noisily as he’d snored. “But even so, it was as if some vile worm crawled through my mind, seeking answers I’d not give it. It …”

  “Hush, hush.” Marjia stroked his brow as if he were a babe. “Only dreams, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed. “I trust so.”

  “Surely so,” she told him. “Dreams born of too much tiswin and rich meat. Now sleep, eh?”

  Colun nodded and lowered his stocky body back amongst the furs. Marjia held him until he began to snore again, and this time she did not prod him but only watched, a sentinel in the lonely night.

  The herbs were easy to find. None watched him save when he walked amongst the People, and they were busy with their feasting, their welcoming of the newcomers—when he went away from the camp he went alone, easily able to find those plants the voice told him were needed.

  It was not much harder to place them where the voice urged—in water jugs and tiswin flasks, for he was a pariah and therefore like a shadow or an invisible thing. Even Tekah was occupied with the celebrations; never far from Davyd’s side or back, but less vigilant. Doubtless, Taza thought, anticipating the outcome of the trial.

  Save—he laughed silently, enjoying the thought of the disappointment he’d deliver, the anguish; most of all, the sweet taste of revenge for all his slights—there would be no trial did all go well. And it should: he no longer doubted any of the voice’s promises.

  He sprinkled the last of his herbs and stole a rib of buffalo, a chunk of meaty venison, and returned to his lodge to wait.

  The Moon of the Turning Year stood high and full over the Meeting Ground, bathing the sleeping camp in silver light. A night breeze rustled through the trees, like a reply to the soft laughter of the stream. An owl hooted from the timber and a nightjar called; in the high hills a gray wolf howled and was answered from afar. A dog barked briefly and was hushed by a sleepy man; the horses shuffled a moment and were quiet—they were safe here, amongst so many of the two-legs who rode them and fed them.

  And the People were safe. They slept comfortable in this new land, at this new Matakwa, and all was well.

  Taza came from his lodge shadow-decked and silent as a Night Walker. He was a Night Walker: the voice had promised him that—that he’d not be seen or halted, but only achieve his purpose and prove himself and own his vengeance in full measure. Taza smiled wolfishly and obeyed the dictates of his heart and the voice.

  Rannach’s lodge stood close on the center of the Meeting Ground. The big fire there was burned down now, banked against the night and spitting somewhat, its dulled glow out-washed by the moon so that the bodies sprawled around, all wrapped in furs and blankets, were like snow-covered corpses, unseeing. And Taza the Night Walker went invisible amongst them.

  Rannach’s stallion nickered softly as he approached, but the herbs he’d fed the horse dulled its senses and it gave no loud warning. Nor did the dogs bark: fed well on this feast day, they knew Taza—the Maker knew but he’d spent enough time in their company when the People ignored him—and watched him pass with sleepy, indifferent eyes.

  The lodgeflap was, of course, laced, but his knife was sharp and cut the cords easily. Taza slipped inside on his belly and stared around.

  The dung fire at the center afforded him a degree of red light that suited his purpose. He saw Rannach and Arrhyna in one another’s arms beneath the sleeping furs, little Debo in his cradle across the width of the lodge. All slept soundly as the voice had promised, lulled by the secreted herbs. Taza smiled and wormed his way to the cradle. He lifted Debo gently, and when the child stirred, stroked a fat cheek, the thatch of red hair. It was tempting to slide his blade between the ribs of the sleepers, across their throats, but he resisted that, knowing their dying cries might give him away and lose him everything the voice had promised. So he only took Debo and slithered out.

  He hugged the child to him as he made his way back toward his own lodge, where his horse waited, saddled ready.

  Then Tekah appeared, adjusting his breeches, sleepy-eyed.

  He stared a moment at Taza, blinking in the moon’s light like a day-woken owl.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was thick with slumber and tiswin.

  Taza said, “Chasing my destiny,” and held Debo in his left arm as he slid his knife into his right hand.

  Tekah said, “What’s that you’ve got?” And then gasped as he recognized the child Taza held.

  Taza said, “Shout and I’ll kill him.”

  Tekah said, “I’ll kill you,” and stepped forward with upraised hands.

  Taza moved to meet him, Debo a shield between them, and as Tekah hesitated, danced a farther step onward and slid his blade hard up into the soft flesh beneath the warrior’s ribs.

  Tekah gasped, his eyes starting wide. Taza twisted the blade and stabbed again, still holding Debo before him so that Tekah, even in his pain, dare not risk the baby’s life. Tekah’s mouth opened and Taza slashed the blade across his throat, cutting off the burgeoning cry, smiling as he watched Tekah’s eyes go dull and the man fall down onto his knees with one hand pressed to his belly, the other against his severed windpipe.

  He said something that Taza could not understand through the whistling of the blood coming from his throat and lowered his head as if weary. Taza stabbed him once more, in the neck, at the joindure with the backbone, and Tekah grunted and fell onto his face.

  Taza smiled and carried Debo off to where his horse waited.

  22

  The Chase

  Arrhyna stirred within the compass of Rannach’s arms, not full awake but seeking consciousness against the tug of drugged slumber. There was a wrongness she could not define, but only sensed—and knew, within the deepest parts of her being, that she must awake else all be lost. She forced her eyes open and looked around. The fire was a dull glow at the center of the lodge and Rannach slept on oblivious. Pale dawnlight entered through the laced lodgeflap. Too much light: with a start, she realized the cords were cut. Her eyes swung to Debo’s cradle and her shout woke her husband.

  “What?” Rannach blinked as he pushed up from the sleeping furs. “Arrhyna?”

  He saw his wife on her knees beside the cradle and assumed Debo suffered some illness. Groggily—in the Maker’s name, had he really drunk so much tiswin?—he clambered from the furs and moved toward her. And Arrhyna turned and on her face Rannach saw stark fear, utter panic.

  “He’s gone!” Her voice was strident. “Debo’s gone!”

  Shock sobered Rannach and dispelled the effects of Taza’s potion. He shivered as he saw the empty cradle, myriad possibilities flooding his mind, not one an explanation. He looked around the lodge—hopelessly, for the child could not hide there—and saw the cut lacings of the lodgeflap.

  “Maker, no!”

  He snatched on his breechclout and was gone from the lodge into the dawn chill, shouting. Arrhyna followed him, tugging on a robe with no thought of modesty as sleepy-eyed warriors and wondering women gathered.

  “Debo’s taken! Searc
h the camp!”

  Morrhyn came up, wrapped in a bearskin, followed close by Davyd, Flysse, and Arcole not far behind. “When?” he asked.

  “This night.” Rannach stared helplessly at the Dreamer. “Whilst we slept.”

  “Search Taza’s lodge!” Morrhyn wondered why his tongue was so furred, his head pounded so, and felt a terrible suspicion. But that must wait—for now the finding of Debo was paramount.

  Led by Rannach, they hurried toward Taza’s lodge, and found Tekah’s body. Briefly, guilty that he could not concern himself more with the man’s death, Rannach touched the corpse, dabbled his fingers in the blood pooled beneath and around.

  “He cools. He’s been dead for perhaps four hours.”

  They went on to Taza’s lodge and found it deserted, the crook-footed youth’s horse gone; and as warriors returned, that three other mounts were stolen, all fleet and sturdy.

  “Maker, but he planned this well.” Morrhyn spoke his thoughts aloud. Then clutched at Rannach’s arm as the akaman shouted for his horse. “No! Rannach, heed me—we cannot know where he takes Debo. Send men to find his tracks first, then go out. Until then, wait here.”

  “Where he goes?” Rannach took the wakanisha’s hand from his arm. “He goes there, no?”

  He stabbed an angry finger at the shadowy bulk of the distant mountains. Morrhyn felt a sudden chill that Rannach was so sure, and glanced swiftly at Arrhyna. Her eyes were wide, staring at her husband.

  “Why there?” she asked in a hollow voice.

  “Why, because he’d curry favor with Chakthi.” Rannach turned tortured eyes on them all, on Arrhyna and Lhyn, who stood beside her, on Morrhyn. “He’d bring Chakthi a grandchild.”

  “You knew?” Morrhyn asked.

  Rannach nodded. “I guessed. Vachyr raped my wife, no? And surely Debo bears a marked resemblance to the Tachyn.” He laughed a moment, bitterly, then warmer as he put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “It was nothing to me—Debo was my son, and I love my wife.”

  “I was not sure.” Arrhyna clutched him, wetting his chest with her tears. “I only knew I loved my baby.”