Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  Talle said, “I’m hard to kill.”

  “Yes: I seen that.” Jaymes emptied his glass and looked to Var for another measure. “But still … I reckon they could kill you if they want. I reckon they got magic big as yours.” He looked Talle in the eyes. “How else they been making such trouble here?”

  Talle smiled. “That’s what I need to know; that’s why I need you.”

  “An’ if I refuse?” Jaymes asked.

  Talle’s smile grew broader, thin lips stretching back over stained teeth like a rabid dog’s. “I could hex you,” he said.

  “Sure.” Jaymes nodded easy agreement. “But could I scout like you want then?”

  Talle shrugged, acceding the point: “Or I could have you hanged.”

  “An’ I be no good to you at all,” Jaymes said. “Quite,” Talle allowed. “So what do you say?” Jaymes glanced at Var and asked, “Who else comes?” Var looked at Talle and said, “I am commanded by the Inquisitor.”

  “So?” Jaymes asked again, this time directing his glance at the black-clad man.

  Talle said, “Perhaps only we three. What do you suggest?”

  “Three,” Jaymes said, “could slip in easier than any of your Militiamen. God knows, but they move noisy, an’ the … whatever you want to call them … are likely to hear ’em coming long afore they arrive. Hear them an’ slay them.”

  Talle looked at Var, a question in his eyes.

  Var was surprised the Inquisitor bowed to his knowledge. He shrugged and ducked his head and said, “In this, I’d be governed by Abram.”

  Jaymes chuckled as Talle said, “Then so be it. Only we three.”

  Governor Wyme was no less pleased to be left again in command of Grostheim than was Alyx Spelt. Neither man had thought to see his command returned him, but when the Inquisitor announced his imminent departure, accompanied by his dog, who left his marine contingent under Spelt’s orders, both men were delighted. Not least to see the usurpers of their power gone out to what they believed must be certain death.

  That they must face the problems of a dissenting populace, of dwindling food and ghosts in the streets, did not occur.

  They both believed the Inquisitor and his dog must die out in the forest snows and welcomed that demise, anxious to show Evander and the Autarchy that they could prevail.

  They were wrong, but that should be learned later.

  27

  Strange Meetings

  The Restitution was frozen too hard to carry any river traffic, so they rode out shrouded in furs against the bone-numbing cold, Abram Jaymes leading a pack mule behind his own lop-eared animal. Each man wore a furred coat, hooded and well padded, and Var carried a new Hawkins rifle—requisitioned, like all their gear, from Rupyrt Gahame.

  It was, inevitably, slow going. Jaymes’s mule handled it best, plunging lustily through the deep snow as Var’s and Talle’s horses ducked and struggled complaining through the drifts. Var had thought perhaps the Inquisitor might clear them a way. He had seen, in the War of Restitution, magic-wielders open tracks through snow to allow attacks, assaults. But Talle made no such offer—neither explained why not—and they could only move at such pace as the animals allowed until they reached the harder inland snow, unaffected by the salty wind blowing in from Deliverance Bay, where hooves did not break through nor drifts deny them passage.

  That was a full day clear of Grostheim; two more at least before they reached the closest holding where they might find honest lodgings under a sound roof, with a fire burning in the hearth. Var longed for such shelter, and wondered if he grew soft, for he knew they must make camp that night under the sullen sky, in the snow. He gave thanks to God that Abram Jaymes was knowledgeable of Salvation’s winters—there were none such in Evander or any other land he’d visited—and had procured from Trader Gahame thick furs and sound canvas tents, charcoal to light fires, and had thought to bring kindling and dried meat.

  It was all very different from a military campaign: three men alone, he thought, as they halted on Jaymes’s advice to pitch their tents. The wind got up and sent snow skirling against the canvas as if winter sought to blow down their refuge.

  They were camped under a bluff where knobby pines grew wind-twisted and gnarled, scrubby brush coming down to the ice-edged river, which was all one great expanse of dimly shining silver, hard as lost hope. Jaymes gathered brushwood and built a fire that sparked and crackled in the blustering wind, trailing sparks horizontally across the darkness. The scout brewed tea that he fortified from a bottle of trader’s brandy, and Var was surprised to see Talle drink deep and ask for more before they ate. Overhead, the sky hung sullen, empty of anything save threat. It began to snow as they ended their meal and retreated to their tents: Var wondered if that might not be some portent.

  The next day the sun shone cold: an unforgiving eye that stared at the three travelers from out of a colorless sky that blew a harsh wind into their faces as they moved westward. The landscape around them was bleak, snow-clad and desolate, and they moved unspeaking, the wind tearing conversation from their lips before the words might be heard. Frost coated the manes of the animals and the furs of the riders; snow crunched crisp under the hooves, and their breath gusted thick billows of steam into the freezing air.

  A day later they reached the closest homestead. It was inhabited—close enough to Grostheim that the holder and his wife felt safe—and they put up their wearied animals in a warm barn and saw them fed by indentured folk, and accepted the comfort of the hearthfire and the food.

  The holder’s name was Anton Groell, a man in his middle years, not yet either old or young, though strands of gray stretched through his beard, and his eyes hung nervous on Jared Talle.

  “I’m not quitting,” he said. “I kept this holding going through the troubles, and I’ll not let it go now.”

  “Why should you?” Talle asked amiably. “Have you problems now?”

  Groell shook his head.

  Talle said, swinging his dark eyes from Groell to the man’s wife, “You’ve not seen ghosts? Riders in the snow?”

  “No. Nothing like that.” Groell stared at the Inquisitor as if he were mad, but made no further comment.

  Talle nodded and said, “Excellent. Come morning, I’ll hex your steading against attack, and you’ll be safe.”

  “Thank you, Inquisitor.” Groell tapped his head in obeisance.

  Talle smiled his thin-lipped smile and nodded benignly, which Var found most unusual. He caught Jaymes’s eyes on him and shrugged in answer to the unspoken question he read there.

  Nor did the Inquisitor grant any answers when they were escorted by the grateful homesteader to the small room usually occupied by the house servants—the branded folk were turned out into the barn—and settled to sleep. Var found it awkward. He’d speak with Talle of what, exactly, the Inquisitor thought to do, and why, and could not for Jaymes’s presence—he yet felt the weight of his duty to the Autarchy. No less, he’d speak with Jaymes and discover the scout’s opinion of their mission and Talle’s curiously pleasant attitude.

  But he could do neither, for the room was small—sufficient only for the indentured husband and wife who would usually sleep there. Talle, claiming precedence, took the bed, leaving Var and Jaymes to spread their blankets on the floor so that any discussion became impossible—especially when the Inquisitor’s loud snores filled the room.

  The next day Talle was affable as ever, even gracious in his thanks for the breakfast Liesli Groell provided, and the supplies offered by her husband. He hexed the house and all its outbuildings and fences, watched by the holders and their branded folk alike, all marveling at his magic, convinced they should be safe from any attack.

  The sun was already close on its zenith before he was done, shining bleakly out of a sky the color of polished steel. Breath gusted great gouts of steam and the waiting horses stamped impatient hooves on hard-frozen snow. Var and Jaymes stood watching Talle at work, mugs of hot tea fortified with homemade br
andy in their hands.

  “What’s he up to?” Jaymes asked with his customary bluntness. “Around Grostheim he was a real bastard, but now he’s actin’ nice as apple pie with hot custard.”

  Var said, unthinking, “I don’t know. I don’t understand it either,” before he realized he spoke with the grizzled scout as with an equal. And then that he did regard Jaymes as an equal: he felt abruptly confused, and hid his face in his cup.

  Then Talle called: “So, it’s done. Shall we ride on?”

  Groell and his wife were profuse in their thanks as the trio mounted, the man even clutching Talle’s hand as he voiced his gratitude.

  Var had never seen the Inquisitor allow another to touch him, but Talle only smiled down and nodded like the Autarch granting a blessing.

  And it remained so at every holding they encountered: Talle was a fur-clad crow come with help and blessing, hexing farms and vineyards and mills with smiling visage and only kind words for the holders; even for the few indentured folk who dared approach him.

  “Why not?” he answered when, at last, Var broached him. “Am I such a tyrant?”

  Var was mightily tempted to answer yes, but forbore that response, settling instead for equivocation, saying, “This hexing of farms and such delays us.” He gestured at the bleak landscape. “The snow delays us, when I’d thought we hurried to the wilderness.”

  “Did I say we hurried?” Talle asked. “Should I ignore the plight of these far-flung holdings?”

  Var shrugged, thinking that all this hexing might well have been done the previous summer—when Talle had looked only to get the borderline forts built and seemed to give little, if any, thought to the homesteaders—and said, “There are a great many holdings along our way, Inquisitor; and a great many more beyond.”

  Talle nodded. “True, Major,” and said no more, but only urged his horse after Jaymes’s mules.

  Var sighed, accepting he should get no clear answer, and followed in the tracks.

  “What’s he up to?” Jaymes let his mule slow enough that Var came alongside. His voice was a low murmur, conspiratorial. “He’s not behavin’ like his usual unpleasant self.”

  Var frowned, glancing back, fearing Talle might overhear. But the Inquisitor only sat his mount, the reins loose in his hands, allowing the horse to follow the two animals in front. He seemed lost in thought, unaware of the muted conversation.

  Var said, “I don’t know; only that whatever it is slows us.”

  “It surely does,” Jaymes nodded. “An’ I thought he was in a hurry.”

  Var shrugged, unable to offer any other answer.

  “It’s almost like he wants to spread as much of his magic as he can around Salvation,” Jaymes murmured. Then frowned himself. “It’s almost like he’s settin’ up a trail of some kind. Like he’s deliberately leavin’ signs for the ghosts to find.”

  Var stared at the scout and wondered if he was right.

  They were two days out from the first fort when the ghosts appeared.

  It was close on twilight, the landscape painted by the settling sun, all gold and blue, the shadows of the copse that sheltered them thrown long across the unending whiteness, the night wind starting up to prick scatters of snow from the branches of the trees. A flight of crows winged overhead, raucous in its protest of the cold and the poor pickings. Jaymes had built a fire and seen the animals fed; Var helped him with the pitching of the three tents as Talle sat warming his hands.

  Then out of nowhere appeared a group of riders.

  It was as if the sun flickered in its setting behind the distant mountains and blinked the dread group into existence. Or as if, Var thought as he felt his blood run cold and reached instinctively for his new Hawkins rifle, old memories came back to haunt him. He cocked the long gun, aware of Jaymes’s hammer clicking into position, and glanced sidelong at the scout.

  Jaymes stood with squinted eyes and readied rifle. Var thought he saw sweat on the man’s dirty face. He turned a little and saw Talle rising from his place beside the fire, coattails swirling as the Inquisitor’s arms spread as wide as the smile on his narrow face.

  The riders came across the snow. God! Var recognized those things they rode: lizards and lions combined, with great padded feet that sprouted claws soft as honed steel, scales and fur combined, the eyes slit and red above jaws that gaped eager to rend and gnaw, exposing fangs like blades. Nor any easier to behold the creatures that sat the ornate saddles, for they were dressed in such armor as seemed to fold into the sunset and the shadows, flickering rainbow-hued to defy clear vision and trick the eye.

  Only the leader could be clearly seen, and Var knew him from before—and felt the terror he’d known when the clawed hooves of that midnight horse had fallen ethereal on his body, and that ghastly horned head descended to pierce his chest.

  He did not know he’d fired his rifle until, in the aftermath of its discharge, he heard the boom of the heavy-caliber cartridge echo off the trees, and saw the powder smoke swirl before him.

  And heard the laughter that exploded from beneath the golden helmet even as the great curved sword angled at his chest, glittering in the fire’s light as the rider urged his dread mount closer.

  We’ve met before, have we not? The voice was simultaneously musical, deep and resonant, and at the same time like a cold wind whispering through a graveyard. Var shivered, struggling with numb fingers to reload the unfamiliar Hawkins rifle. And you were frightened then. Did you think I’d slain you; did you think you were dead? Do you oppose me now, you shall be Dare you that?

  “Perhaps he’ll not, but I shall!”

  Jared Talle stepped away from the fire, trudging over the snow to confront the golden-armored rider. He seemed not at all afraid or perturbed, but rather pleased, as if this weird meeting gratified him.

  Ah, the one who spreads magic

  Var felt the awful chill depart as the magnificently armored figure turned its attention to the Inquisitor, who said, “I wield magic, yes. Does that frighten you?”

  Fresh gusts of laughter came from under the golden helm.

  Your magic frighten me? No, it does not.

  “Then why,” Talle asked calmly, “are you come to shout at me? At me and my companions, like some schoolyard bully?”

  The red eyes beneath the golden helm flared in outrage. The sword rose. Var heard Abram Jaymes’s rifle go off, and Talle laugh and shout into the night, “Leave off, my friends. Shots cannot harm these phantasms; nor they harm us.”

  No?

  The leader raised his blade anew, drove heels against his dread mount’s flanks and brought the awful beast charging forward. Var forced himself to concentrate, to prime the flashpan and aim the rifle, even knowing it useless: it was all he had against such creatures.

  Talle only stood, hands shifting as he muttered words too low to be heard. The golden blade cleaved through his skull, through his lank hair and the narrow face beneath—and still he did not move. Hooves rose above him and pounded down, claws descending to the snow, through his furs and his black suit—and he only smiled. The snarling head dipped and drove its unicorn horn through his chest—and he laughed and waved his hands and shouted, “Begone! You are nothing. You are no more than snow on the wind; shadows! You cannot harm me or frighten me, because I am stronger than you.”

  Are you? The golden-armored man reined back his horrid horse. Who are you?

  “I am Jared Talle, the Inquisitor.”

  And I am Akratil, who shall drive you away and destroy you.

  Talle said calmly, “I think not. I think I shall destroy you.”

  The fantastic shape that was Akratil brought its awful mount swirling around in a circle. Behind, the others sat uneasy, their lizard mounts pawing snow Var vaguely noticed was not at all disturbed by their movements.

  Akratil said, We shall see, man We shall see who destroys whom, and was gone.

  Talle said, “Yes, so we shall.”

  The fire spread sparks into the gusty n
ight. A lonely owl hooted.

  Abram Jaymes said, in a hushed voice, “What was that?”

  “Our enemy,” Talle said. “Not yet in this world, but growing ever stronger.”

  Var asked, “What are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Talle answered. “Not for sure, but they empower the hostiles, I think. They are, if you like, the demons.”

  Var steadied his hands and his breathing; lowered the Hawkins rifle. “Is that why you’ve lingered, Inquisitor? Is that why you’ve hexed every holding we’ve come across?” He wiped sweat from his brow. “Is that why we’re out here alone?”

  Talle beamed and said, “Absolutely, Tomas. I’d let them know who they face.” His smile faded into a chill equal to the land around, the night. “And I’d know just what they are—to which end we must capture a hostile.”

  Abram Jaymes said, “I don’t rightly understand any o’ this.”

  “How should you?” Talle insulted the scout. “The dreams that drive men crazy in Grostheim? You thought the hostiles sent them? No—that was the creature you saw. Doubtless it works with the savages, but the savages have no power of their own, save what these creatures give them.”

  “They was real enough when they attacked the city,” Jaymes said.

  “Of course.” Talle shrugged. “And were defeated, no? But now they’ve new strength—got from the true demons.”

  “Are they part of this land,” Var asked, “the true demons?”

  “I think not.” Talle shook his head. “Were they, they’d have physical form. But, as you saw”—he drew a line from his skull to his abdomen—“I was no worse cut than you, Major, when you saw them first.”

  Var nodded, shuddering at the memory. Jaymes asked, “An’ the crazy folk in Grostheim, what about them?”

  “All had encountered the savages,” Talle said. “Every one—I ascertained that before we left. Don’t you understand?”

  Var and Jaymes said in unison, “No.”

  “The savages and the demons work together,” Talle said. “One has summoned the other, or followed the other: it matters little. What does matter is that we destroy them—all of them!—so that Salvation is saved for the Autarchy.”