Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  Before Davyd had chance to answer, Rannach said, “Then we leave them. We’ll go afoot.”

  “So be it,” Vitran declared. “And shall you all go?”

  Arcole spoke then. “Can we beat Taza, it were better only a few go.”

  Rannach said, “Why?”

  “Because,” Arcole replied, “you shall all be demons to the Evanderans, and are Davyd’s dreams all true then Salvation is likely alert, and any of the People shot on sight. Better only a few men, who can slip unnoticed through the forests and onward.”

  “How few?” Rannach demanded.

  “You,” Arcole said. “Me and Davyd. No more.”

  Rannach nodded. Dohnse and others protested, but Rannach voiced them down: “It shall be so—as Arcole says. I go with him and Davyd, and you go back. Dohnse, I name you leader, eh? Tell Arrhyna and Morrhyn what we do.”

  Dohnse scowled but offered no further protest, and it was decided. Vitran said, “Is all you’ve told me true, then best we go now.”

  Davyd looked at Arcole, exchanged a smile, and laughed as Arcole rubbed the brand on his cheek, knowing his comrade felt his own fears.

  Then they rose and began the journey back to Salvation.

  24

  To the Old Land

  Rannach had seen little of the Grannach’s underhill world, and nothing to compare with the marvels he observed as Vitran brought them through the passages at a steady trot. Light glowed from unknowable sources and intricate carvings wound about the walls and roofs. Time seemed immaterial here, a concept without place in the Grannach’s subterranean world, and when they reached the great cavern, Rannach had no idea whether he had trotted behind Vitran through all the night or only jogged a few hours.

  Vitran halted on an ornately carved balcony overlooking the cave, allowing his guests a moment’s breathing space in which to survey the vast hollow. Rannach stared about with wide eyes, then turned to Vitran.

  “How much farther?”

  “A ways yet,” the Grannach returned. “We’ll rest here awhile and then go on.”

  “My son is taken,” Rannach said. “I’ll not rest.”

  Arcole set a hand on the Commacht’s shoulder. “We need to rest,” he said. “The Maker knows, but we’ve ridden hard, and we shall need our strength to descend the farther slopes.”

  “While Taza has Debo?” Rannach shook off the placatory hand. “No; I’ll not rest till I’ve my son back safe.”

  “Do you not,” Vitran remarked, “I doubt you’ll get him back. You need sleep and food—heed your friend. Besides, I must speak with my fellows and send out search parties. If it’s as you believe and this child thief has found a way into our tunnels, then we’ll likely find him, and you shall eat breakfast with your son.”

  Rannach would have argued, but the Grannach allowed him no opportunity, starting down the broad stairway that descended from one side of the balcony to the distant cavern floor at such a pace that none had time to speak. Rannach could only follow, each jarring step—for the stairs were designed for the length of Grannach legs, not a Matawaye’s—reminding him that he was, indeed, mightily weary. Nor, he thought, would Vitran do other than what he said. Did the Grannach insist he rest, then rest he must—or attempt the tunnels alone, which he knew must be impossible.

  Save Taza did it, and were Davyd’s dreams true, then Taza would reach Salvation guided by the Breakers.

  The akaman of the Commacht felt remorse then, for all his thoughts were with his son and he had given few to the plight of the People, who likely stood in jeopardy were the Breakers come again. He wished Morrhyn were with him, to advise him, and glanced back at Davyd, wondering at the talent in the strange young man.

  Davyd came down the stairway with the look of a man suffering and refusing to admit the pain. His teeth were gritted, his hands locked tight about the musket he carried, as if he feared to drop the weapon. In the cavern’s strange light, his hair shone silver as moonlit snow and his eyes held the same expression Rannach had seen in Morrhyn’s. Then he caught Rannach’s look and smiled, and Rannach felt a great and sudden confidence. Had Morrhyn not chosen this man to be his successor? How then could Rannach doubt his ability?

  They reached the foot of the stairway and Vitran led them across an arching bridge that spanned a swift-running stream, connecting with another rising arc that brought them to an avenue where pillars of stone were shaped to resemble trees, dendrous branches all hung with stony leaves intertwining overhead. They went on to a steep stair that brought them to a house jutting from the cavern wall, and Vitran beckoned them inside.

  A woman, her brown hair straight and fastened with silver brooches, came bustling out, two curious children peering from around her full skirts. Vitran said, “This is my wife, Greta. The younglings are Tobah and Eryan. Greta, we’ve guests.”

  “That,” Greta replied, as if the arrival of three flatland strangers in her home were the most common thing, “I can see. And weary guests, by their look. Come, come.”

  Within moments, they were ensconced on cushions, mugs of ale in their hands, Greta bustling about her kitchen as she readied food. Tobah and Eryan peered from a doorway, their eyes wide and wondering, remarking in whispers on the strange height of the newcomers until Greta called them away. Rannach watched them go, his eyes filled with pain. Vitran left them there, announcing his intention of organizing the search parties and vowing that Debo should be returned ere long.

  “Shall he be?” Rannach asked Davyd.

  Who could only shrug and answer, “The Maker willing.”

  “And if he’s not?” Rannach’s hand gripped the clay mug so tight he feared it might shatter. “If Vitran cannot find him?”

  “Then,” Davyd said wearily, “we go into Salvation. Rannach, listen—I am not a wakanisha, not Morrhyn, that I can tell you sure what shall or shall not be. I can only tell you what I dream, and we do our best.”

  Rannach nodded slowly, his grip on the mug easing. He raised the cup and drank deep and said softly, “The Maker be with us, eh?”

  Davyd said, fervently, “Yes!”

  He was the Night Walker again, traversing the tunnels unseen, unheard. Debo trotted beside him or was carried in the pannier, and Taza felt no weariness or fatigue, but only the strength that filled him as he followed the ethereal figure in the golden armor. When he faltered, the figure would look back and beckon him on and his strength was renewed, so that he went on, remorseless, his body become an automatic thing that walked and ran and moved oblivious of weakness. He was, he thought, become power incarnate thanks to the gift of the voice that came from the golden-armored warrior, who must surely be powerful as the Maker Himself.

  Several times the dreamlike figure ahead halted and gestured that he hide, in side tunnels or niches—which he did, seeing the figure evaporate like dawn mist struck by the sun as swift-moving Grannach came by, all armed and armored so that he knew they hunted him but could not find him. He was the Night Walker, and possessed of such power as defeated all his enemies.

  He went on, oblivious of time as he was of hunger or fatigue. At way stations he took food and water, and once the figure allowed him a little rest, which he took in an unfinished tunnel where golan-shaped stone bled out against naked rock, and then went on again, toward his goal.

  How long he traversed the tunnels he neither knew nor cared—only that he moved toward his promised destiny—but in a while he came to a wall of blank stone and his confidence faltered until the golden figure laughed and rode his night-dark horse through the stone, and Taza followed and found himself looking out at a wide slope of shale-strewn rock that went down to a great swath of green pine that seemed to run on forever. The sun shone bright there, and from its angle in the sky he calculated it was early morning.

  He laughed and raised Debo in his arms and called out, “Chakthi, I bring your grandson to you.”

  Rannach chafed at the enforced delay, anxious to be gone. He ate the meal Greta provided and drank a second m
ug of ale, swiftly took the bath their hostess offered, but scowled when she suggested they sleep.

  “Where is Vitran?” he demanded. “Is there no word?”

  “Not yet,” she answered calmly, “but likely soon.”

  Rannach paced the chamber, his head ducked beneath the low roof, his hands fisting and unclenching, his lips drawn tight.

  “Heed me,” Greta said in the same voice she’d used when ordering her children to bed; Rannach ceased his restless perambulation and stared at her. He topped her by some spans, but the Grannach woman set hands on her stout hips and faced him square, as if he were a recalcitrant child. Abruptly, he nodded and found a bench, thus bringing his eyes level with hers. “My husband does all he can—if this Maker-bedamned kidnapper is in our tunnels, then he shall be found.”

  “And if not?” Rannach asked, his voice soft as a child’s pleading. “What then?”

  “Then you shall have all the help we Grannach can give,” Greta promised. “You know that, eh?”

  “Yes, I know that.” Rannach smiled as if muscles moved unwilling in his cheeks and jaw. “But my son is taken, Greta!”

  “I know; do you not think I understand your pain?” The Grannach woman nodded solemnly and opened her arms, pacing a step forward to stand face-to-face with Rannach. “I am a mother, no?”

  She put her arms around him and with a helpless cry he leant forward, his arms encircling her ample waist, his head drawn down to her shoulder. She stroked his plaited hair, murmuring softly as she might to a troubled child, and Rannach wept against her blouse.

  It was strange to see that proud man weep, and Arcole felt a curious mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. How should it be, he wondered, if Flysse and I had a child stolen from us? He touched Davyd’s shoulder and whispered, “I’ll take that bath, I think.”

  Davyd nodded unspeaking, staring at the strange spectacle of Rannach weeping on Greta’s shoulder. Does Arrhyna weep? he wondered. Does she pace the night thinking of her son? Does Flysse shed tears for Arcole? And then: Who cries for me? Shall I go back to Salvation to die at Chakthi’s hands, or under the musket fire of the God’s Militia, on the pyre of an Inquisitor’s witch-burning? And do I perish, who shall cry for me?

  And into his head came a voice that asked him, Does it matter? Are you not become more than you were?

  Am I? he thought. I dream now, and I am not afraid—no! I was not afraid, until now—when I must go back to where they burn Dreamers.

  But you’ve a duty, no? the voice asked. Morrhyn would name you his successor, and you shall lead the People in the dreaming ways. Surely the People would weep for you, were you to die.

  I don’t want to die, he said.

  And the voice answered, Few men do, but would you live forever?

  No, Davyd replied, only my natural span—but not yet.

  Perhaps you shan’t, the voice said, sounding somewhat amused. Perhaps you’ll live; survive and be the greatest wakanisha the People have known.

  That should be vanity, Davyd answered. Morrhyn is the Prophet, and I cannot be greater than he.

  Morrhyn doubted, the voice gave back. He was afraid—is, still—but he goes on, because he is what he is and knows his path in life.

  I don’t, Davyd returned. Am I warrior or wakanisha? Morrhyn says I cannot be both, but …

  Morrhyn does his duty, the voice said. His duty to the People and to himself, for the way he chose. Yours might be different.

  But the Ahsa-tye-Patiko explains this clear, Davyd said. That a man cannot be wakanisha and warrior, both.

  In Ket-Ta-Witko, yes, said the voice. It was so there; but you are in Ket-Ta-Thanne now, and soon shall go into that other land you name Salvation. Things change; perhaps it is time a new order was established. The Ahsa-tye-Patiko is not inviolable: it shifts and alters with men’s will … and other things.

  Tell me, Davyd pleaded.

  And the voice said, I cannot: you must decide for yourself. Choose your path!

  He said, “No; tell me. Show me!”

  And looked up at Arcole, who knelt above him and said, “God, but you were in the grip of nightmare. Are you awake now?”

  Davyd groaned and nodded: “Yes.”

  He sat up, realizing he lay on cushions, furs and blankets spread over him, in the outer chamber of the Grannach house.

  “Where am I?”

  “You fell asleep,” Arcole explained. “Can you go on?”

  Davyd said, “Yes.” And: “What’s happened?”

  “Taza’s gone,” Arcole explained. “He crossed through the tunnels with Debo and is gone into Salvation.”

  Davyd sighed. “Tea?”

  Arcole passed him a cup, said, “Rannach’s outside now, and anxious to go. Shall we?”

  Davyd sipped the tea. It was hot and strong and cleared his head so that he knew what he must do. The echoes of the dreaming voice still reverberated inside his skull, his ears, and he knew he took a path that should change all the differing worlds; nor less that he could do no other thing—save give up and die. Which he could not do, for that would be a denial of friendship and trust, and leave all the worlds open to the depredations of the Breakers.

  “Then we go back to Salvation,” he said. “But give me a while, eh?”

  “Rannach’s impatient to go,” Arcole said. “And all well, we might catch Taza before he reaches Chakthi’s camp.”

  “Even so.” Davyd pushed the blankets aside. “A moment, eh?”

  Arcole nodded and left him.

  Davyd rose and straightened his clothes. Found the bathing chamber and splashed water on his face. Then looked at his scarred image in the polished silver mirror and dragged unsteady fingers through his lengthened hair. A comb of delicate filigree stood in a clay pot and he took it out and worked it through his hair, unscrambling the long tangles until he was able to draw it all out loose around his shoulders.

  Like a wakanisha’s: like Morrhyn’s.

  Then he took the strands and worked them into braids that hung to either side of his face, like Rannach’s or any other warrior’s. Then he went back to the main chamber and picked up his musket and his bag, and went out onto the balcony to join Rannach and Arcole, who waited with Vitran.

  They stared at him, seeing the braids, and he smiled and said, “I had a dream.” And when Rannach started: “Not of Debo—forgive me—but only of what I must do.”

  Soft, Rannach asked, “What are you, Davyd?”

  And he answered the only way he could: “I do not know. Shall we go to Salvation?”

  “I’ve no answers.” Morrhyn looked helplessly at the anxious faces awaiting his response. Arrhyna’s was haggard, lined with concern for her husband and her son; nor less Lhyn’s, or Kahteney’s, or Yazte’s. Colun remained stone-faced. “I’ve no dreams, save they’ve reached the hills. Beyond that … nothing. Forgive me.”

  Kahteney said, “We’ve eaten pahé and learned nothing. It’s as if something blocks our dreaming, beyond the mountains.”

  “The Breakers?” Yazte asked, eliciting a cry from Arrhyna, a gasp from Lhyn.

  Morrhyn said, “Perhaps. Surely I doubt Taza acted alone in this.”

  “I can see no other way,” Kahteney offered. “Who else owns such power?”

  Yazte said, “Do I alert the camp? Shall they attack us?”

  “No.” Morrhyn shook his head. The Maker knew, but he felt weary and afraid and confused. It was as if malign power clouded his dreams—as once it had before—save this was different: he did not feel the threat he’d known when he climbed the Maker’s Mount; only sensed the same threat rested now with Davyd, in another country he could not enter, neither in dreams or physically. Somehow he knew that Davyd held the answer, but Davyd was gone beyond his dream-calling into the unknown land, all he could do was wait on the outcome.

  “I think,” he said, “that there shall be no attack. Not here, or yet. Perhaps later …” He glanced at Kahteney, who shrugged and ducked his head. “Perhaps across the mo
untains. I cannot say.”

  “I’ll take my people back,” Colun declared. “Do they come again, we shall be ready. They’ll not enter Ket-Ta-Thanne so easy.”

  “The Maker willing,” Morrhyn said, “they’ll not at all. I think this shall be decided on the other side of the mountains.”

  “So what shall we do?” Yazte asked.

  “I think,” Morrhyn said, hoping he said the right thing, “that the People had best remain here. Do we extend Matakwa, perhaps we’ll get word ere long.”

  Colun said, “Are the Breakers come again, I shall take my people home and ready the tunnels for war.”

  Morrhyn sighed and said, “That might be best, old friend. I pray it not be, but …”

  “We leave come morning,” Colun declared. “The ways shall be scoured and guarded, and none come through; on my life.”

  Morrhyn nodded and looked to where Lhyn sat with her arm around Arrhyna, who wept silently, and wished he understood more and could offer comfort. But could not—only voice the truth of his doubts, which were stark and unpalatable.

  Did the Breakers truly come again? Had those horrific destroyers of worlds somehow found the People down the trails of time and space? Followed them from Ket-Ta-Witko to Ket-Ta-Thanne like scented hounds, blood-struck with lust for destruction?

  How?

  Had someone called them? Was Hadduth so depraved he’d bring destruction down on all the scattered People, all this new world, or was Chakthi so bent on vengeance that he’d summon annihilation? Did they not understand that the Breakers were destruction incarnate? That they be only tools in the destroyers’ hands, discarded and ruined when the horrid purpose of the Breakers was accomplished?

  Morrhyn sensed no answers: only a terrible fear that folk he loved went into a strange land he did not understand, and his only hope for their survival was Davyd.

  “We’ll guard the Meeting Ground,” Yazte said. “Save the Prophet orders different.”

  The Prophet? Almost, Morrhyn laughed at that: what could he prophesy, save confusion and doubt? But he must put on a brave face and so he said, “Yes, let the People remain here ready. Extend the Matakwa, and does worse come to worst, then …”