Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  “Do you open, damn you?”

  From the wall above, Kerik shouted, “Are you truly the Inquisitor, you open them with your magic.”

  Talle mouthed a second, fouler curse and raised his hands. Var watched as they moved in the complexities of arcane knowledge, seeing Talle’s lips move but quite unable to grasp the words the Inquisitor spoke.

  Bolts slid back untouched by hands and the gates flew open. Talle rode through and halted as Captain Kerik came pounding down from the catwalk above.

  “Forgive me, Inquisitor; Major.” He cringed as he spoke. “You’ll understand why I had to be sure when I tell you what’s happened here. God knows, but it’s all chaos.”

  God knew, but it was.

  Var was horrified as he listened to Kerik’s account of the winter: Governor Wyme slain by Alyx Spelt, the major shot in turn; then officers slaughtered, men of the God’s Militia turning on one another, landholders fighting, traders fighting—until all Grostheim was reduced to anarchy and the only remaining authority was Var’s own marines, whose hold was tenuous and resented by freemen and exiles alike.

  “It was the ghosts,” Kerik finished. “Them and their dreams, I believe. Most of the refugees have fled back to their holdings—these days they think they’ll be safer there than here.” He looked anxiously at Var. “I’ve got our men stationed in the Militia barracks, Major. Got the place fortified. God, but we were attacked by redcoats even then. I never thought that I’d fight our own kind.”

  “You didn’t,” Talle interjected. “You fought men possessed of demons. You slew them, I trust?”

  Kerik nodded sorrowfully. “They left us no choice, Inquisitor.”

  “Good.” Talle rubbed his hands before the fire. “Hold no regrets, Captain—you did the right thing.”

  “Shooting redcoats?” Kerik asked mournfully. “It didn’t feel like the right thing.”

  “They had forsaken God,” Talle declared. “They were possessed.”

  Abram Jaymes nudged Var in the ribs and murmured, “Like them soldiers in the fort, eh?”

  Var nodded and asked of Kerik, “Any word from the border forts?”

  “None.” Kerik shook his head. “No pigeons have come in, nor riders. I’ve sent messages, but got no answers—the birds return with their pouches intact.”

  “The border forts are lost,” Talle said. “At least, for now. Forget them.”

  “What’s happening here?” Kerik asked.

  “We’re under siege,” Talle answered. “Salvation faces a terrible threat, and Grostheim stands alone.”

  “What,” Jaymes asked, “about the holdings? Are they under siege, too?”

  Talle shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps; perhaps not. I don’t care—only that we defeat the demons.”

  “How you goin’ to do that?” Jaymes inspected his fingernails, using a knife to extract the dirt there.

  Talle said, “I don’t know yet—but I shall! The Autarchy will not give up this land easily.”

  Jaymes nodded and turned to Kerik. “The branded folk affected by all this?”

  “No.” Kerik shook his head. “It seems like only the free folk are.”

  Jaymes grinned as if holding secret knowledge to himself. Talle spun to face the scout, demanding, “What are you getting at?”

  Jaymes shrugged. “It seems pretty obvious, don’t it? You got folk goin’ crazy from dreams—sent by the demons, you claim. But who goes crazy? Only folk with a vested interest, no? Folk who own land, or soldier for Evander to protect the landowners. No one else!

  “You say the demons want to conquer Salvation; we all know the savages want to claim the land. So, what you got here seems to me like a fight for the territory—you want it an’ the savages want it an’ the demons want it. The demons an’ the savages are workin’ together an’ they got the upper hand right now, it seems. God knows, but you lost your forts an’ you got a real problem here. Listen!” He gestured at the window. Shouts came through the glass, voices raised in protest and outrage, punctuated by the rattle of musketry. “What’s goin’ on out there?”

  It was Kerik who answered: “Likely another riot.” He glanced helplessly at Talle, at Var. “There’s little we can do to quell them: we’ve not enough men. Folk are mightily hungry, and the stores are already used up. Folk are starving, and with the governor dead …” He shrugged, unconsciously aping Jaymes. “I’ve had men killed on the streets.…”

  “But now,” Talle said, “I am back. Now order shall be restored.” He looked to Var. “Tomas, your first duty is to organize your men and get this city settled.”

  Var nodded. Then felt his belly chill as Talle added casually, “But before that, a small matter of discipline.” He gestured at Abram Jaymes. “Put this man in a cell, and once the square’s cleared—hang him.”

  Var said, “I’m sorry, but what choice do I have?” as the door closed on Jaymes.

  The older man said, “You always got choices; it’s just that sometimes it takes awhile to see them.”

  “What does that mean?” Var asked.

  And Jaymes grinned through the bars and said, “You’ll work it out, I reckon.”

  “I warned you,” Var said. “Why didn’t you get away before we came back here?”

  “Maybe I wanted to see what was goin’ on.” Jaymes shrugged and cut a plug of tobacco. “Maybe I wanted to see what you’d do.”

  “My duty, I trust,” Var said.

  “Sure.” Jaymes stuck the black wad in his mouth and began to chew. “But what’s your duty, Major?”

  It was a question that troubled Var as he went about his appointed tasks.

  Was it his duty to restore order to Grostheim with squads of marines that shot down looters and dissidents on Talle’s orders?

  His duty to defend Salvation against the incursions of the savages and—now, it would seem—their demonic allies?

  His duty to obey Jared Talle, unquestioning?

  He could no longer do that. He was full of questions, and could not help wondering if the Autarchy were not better abandoning Salvation, even setting free the branded exiles.

  Dear God, but it was not easy to play the part of loyal officer in the God’s Militia. Not when such doubts skirled like the freshening spring wind around his mind.

  Nor could he stomach the notion of Abram Jaymes swinging from the gallows tree, no matter Talle’s command.

  He did his best to restore some semblance of order and found, as he did, that he resented Talle’s methods the more: the inhabitants of Grostheim were frightened, terrified by the ghost-ridden winter, afraid of hunger, wondering what was to come; and Talle quelled them with magic or the bayonets of Var’s marines. It was, Var thought, a reign of terror, one greater fear imposing itself over another—Talle more frightening than any of the phantasmagoric demons that still stalked the streets—and he wondered again which was the worse.

  But as winter ended and the first fresh breaths of spring wafted the air, order was restored. And Jared Talle commanded that Var delay no longer in hanging Abram Jaymes.

  “I can’t,” he said through the bars. “God help me, but I can’t.”

  Jaymes shrugged and spat a stream of tobacco over the straw of his cell, scattering cockroaches. “What else you goin’ to do?” His voice was even, tinged with amusement. “You got your orders, no? The Inquisitor says you’ve got to hang me, so I guess you hang me.”

  “I could …” Var said.

  “Do what?” Jaymes asked.

  The Inquisitor’s dog? Was that all he was? He told himself No! and said to the prisoner: “I could help you escape.”

  “How?” Jaymes asked bluntly. “You goin’ to turn against Talle?”

  Var shrugged and shook his head in confusion.

  “You break me out,” Jaymes said with such calm as embarrassed Var, “Talle’s got to know about it. He’s the Inquisitor—he’ll know.”

  Var said, “Yes.”

  Jaymes said, “How’d you think to do it?”


  Var said, “I don’t know. Perhaps if I ordered my marines …”

  “They’d go against the Inquisitor?” Jaymes asked.

  Var shrugged again and shook his head again. “Some might; not all. Talle’s …”

  “Scary as all hell,” Jaymes supplied. “An’ got hex magic on his side, too.”

  Var said, “Yes.” And then: “But if I acted alone …”

  “We’d both be fugitives,” Jaymes said. “We’d have to run a long way from Grostheim to escape Talle. Maybe as far as the wilderness, even.”

  Abruptly, as if the scout’s words conjured up old memories, Var thought of Arcole Blayke. Had he not escaped indenture in Grostheim?

  “Did you ever hear of a man called Arcole Blayke? An indentured man?”

  “Sure.” Jaymes nodded. “Old Wyme took him on, but he ran out when the savages attacked. Him an’ his woman, an’ a boy indentured to Rupyrt Gahame. Likely all dead now—if they got past the heathens attackin’ the walls.”

  “But they got out,” Var said, wondering even as he spoke if he went mad. What am I doing? This is insanity: planning to free a man condemned by the Inquisitor? “They did escape.”

  Jaymes said, “We’d need sound horses.”

  Var said, “What about your mule?”

  Jaymes said, “I ain’t in love with the beast, an’ his absence’d be noticed. No—horses are better: two at least, an’ good runners.”

  Var said, “And supplies?”

  “Food for a few days,” Jaymes said. “Rifles an’ shot.”

  “Campaign gear,” Var said.

  Jaymes said, “Yes. We’d need to run fast—Talle’s not likely to let you go easily.”

  Var said, “No,” and realized that he was committed. That he was about to throw away a lifetime’s dedication to the Autarchy, to his career, for the sake of a draggle-haired old man who chewed tobacco and stank of sour sweat. But he could think of no other honorable path to take.

  “We can find shelter along the way,” Jaymes said. “I’ve got friends.”

  “Who’d hide us?” Var asked.

  Jaymes nodded. “Plenty.”

  Var swallowed, turning his tricorne hat between his hands. “If I do …” he said.

  “I’ll be grateful,” Jaymes said, and grinned. “An’ if you don’t, I’ll understand.”

  Var said, “I can’t let you hang. You don’t deserve that.”

  Jaymes said, “No; but nor do you.”

  Var shrugged and said, “I’ll let you know when,” and rose, quitting the cell block.

  A slow and satisfied smile spread across Jaymes’s weathered features as he watched Var depart.

  By God but he’d had high hopes of the major since first they met. The man seemed different to most officers of the God’s Militia—more amenable to reason, clearer-sighted—and now it looked like those hopes reached fruition. Jaymes had studied him carefully; cautiously at first, but with such increasing confidence as persuaded him to reveal more of Salvation’s hidden depths. That Var had taken his side against the Inquisitor back there on the river had been the final confirmation, and now the scout knew that Var took his part; even at cost of the major’s career. He nodded to himself, and settled on the narrow bunk chained against the inner wall.

  Var had given his word, and Jaymes knew that was good: the major would do his best to effect an escape, and then he must surely be totally committed to the cause. Still smiling, Jaymes stretched his lanky frame on the bunk and consigned himself to waiting.

  A false spring fell on Salvation’s coast. The sun shone and the winds grew warm. Flowers, all yellow and blue, sprouted along the shoreline behind the rolling dunes and the pines began to bud. Grass grew around the citadel and the gulls that had been the only occupants of the sky were joined by swallows. Frozen ground grew muddy and then hardened—firm as Var’s determination.

  Order—at least, of a kind—was restored. The gallows that had carried those first to argue Jared Talle’s rule had been occupied long enough that winter’s crows were sated and dissidence quelled, so no others took the place of the dangling corpses. The ghosts had gone, as if blown away on the new wind, and Jared Talle was confident that he had reestablished order. And that it was now time to hang Abram Jaymes.

  “Let it be ceremonial,” he told Var. “I’d have him brought out by your marines and hung before all the populace. A warning, eh? A rite of spring!” He lifted the decanter that had once belonged to Andru Wyme and filled both their glasses. “I know you felt a certain fondness for him, Tomas, but the man was offensive, no? And we need, I think, one last example.”

  “One last?” Var asked.

  “Absolutely.” Talle sniffed the goblet, savoring the bouquet. The windows of Wyme’s study were opened to the warm spring air and Var caught a waft of brandy and sweat, the sour odor that accompanied Talle. He wondered why he found that offensive and not Abram Jaymes’s musky smell. “We must quell any doubts of our authority—of the Autarchy’s power. The demons shall come against us soon, and I’d not have dissidents at our backs, eh? Better that all Grostheim—all Salvation—understand who’s the power here.”

  “And if they resent his hanging?” Var asked.

  “Who could?” Talle returned. “God, Tomas, the man insulted me, questioned my authority. Would you see him go free? Besides, what does it matter if they resent me—us—so long as they fear us and obey?”

  For an instant, Var wondered if the Inquisitor played with him, but Talle’s expression was entirely complacent, as if the man only enjoyed his contemplation of Jaymes’s demise and Var’s part in it, so Var smiled and ducked his head and said, dissembling, “I’ve a certain fondness for him, yes. He’s surely a character.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Talle chuckled. “But not so much as should jeopardize your standing here, eh?”

  Var shook his head, not liking himself for the silent lie.

  “So, then,” Talle said, “do you organize it and see him hanged on … do we say, Sunday? When all the indentured folk may come see him swing. Let all of Grostheim see him, eh?”

  Var nodded and emptied his glass. “I’ll see to it,” he promised.

  It was Thursday: he had three days to organize the escape. He no longer doubted but that he should; and God help him for what he did.

  Surely, he thought as he paced back to the barracks, it was a betrayal. But also an affirmation; though of what he could not be sure.… Friendship? New loyalties? He wished, sincerely, that he had never been granted this command, never met Jared Talle or Abram Jaymes, never seen Salvation. But he had, and the past could not be changed, only the future made better, and Tomas Var could not stand by to watch a man he deemed innocent hanged by the neck, no matter the cost to himself.

  So …

  … The horses were easy to arrange. It was not unusual that an officer requisition animals for riding beyond the city walls, and Var had a pair ready. The supplies—of trail food and blankets, such stuff as they’d need—he’d already organized. He had his own Hawkins rifle and had taken possession of Jaymes’s. He had powder and shot to see them through to God-knew-where, so he need only stow the gear on the animals and break Jaymes free.

  That, and wonder at his insanity—which he elected to ignore: Abram Jaymes was his friend and he could not retain his honor and watch the man die on Talle’s gallows.

  So …

  He went into the barracks and announced that the Inquisitor would interview the prisoner. He was Major Tomas Var—the Inquisitor’s dog—and none dared question him. Abram Jaymes was brought out from his cell in shackles, and when Var demanded the key it was given him. He pocketed the thing and gestured that Jaymes proceed him.

  They quit the barracks and stepped out into the square beyond. Jaymes shuffled awkwardly, hampered by the chains connecting his ankles. It was close on dusk. The new-come swallows darted amongst the buildings, black shadows against a sky the color of drying blood; gulls mewed, but otherwise a sullen quiet pervaded Grosthe
im. The guards outside saluted Var and watched him go with his prisoner. He crossed the square, Jaymes stumbling ahead, and took the avenue leading to the governor’s mansion, to where Talle sat ensconced.

  Then Var caught up and turned Jaymes into a side street. Under the shadow of a porch he unlocked the shackles and beckoned the man to follow him.

  Jaymes said, “About damn’ time. Those chains were startin’ to hurt me.”

  Var said, “Shut up.” He felt very afraid that Talle would somehow sense what he did—or already had, and that all of this was part of the Inquisitor’s malign game, and at any moment they be apprehended.

  Jaymes grunted and went after him; in the burgeoning twilight Var could not see his smile.

  “Here.” The horses were saddled ready, tethered beneath the outcrop of a partially burned building, a legacy of the winter’s riots. “Put these on.” Var tugged a dead marine’s greatcoat from the bundle stowed on Jaymes’s mount, a tricorne hat.

  “We playin’ at soldiers?” Jaymes chuckled. He seemed far less concerned than Var with the dangers of their situation.

  “Dammit, yes,” Var replied. “How else do we get past the gates?”

  Jaymes went on smiling as he pulled on the blue coat and settled the tricorne on his head. He seemed confident—far more so than Var, who waited nervously, wondering what madness possessed him that he throw away his life for this grinning old fool.

  “Major?” Jaymes aped a salute. “Shall I do?”

  “You’d best,” Var gave him back, “or we’re both dead.”

  “Well, let’s see.” Jaymes swung astride the patient horse. “I’m ready if you are.”

  Var nodded curtly, fear and irritation blending. “Then let’s go.”

  He turned his own mount down the alley, Jaymes following behind, and they rode toward the gates.

  The evening, for all of spring’s promise, was chill, but Var felt sweat bead his brow and trickle anticipatory down his back. The sun was set now and the darting swallows replaced by bats that swept like dark omens through the shadows. The clopping of the hooves sounded unnaturally loud, and Var wondered if the faces that watched them pass knew of his subterfuge. Cold, sharp fingers seemed to run down his spine as he momentarily anticipated the appearance of Jared Talle, the Inquisitor’s hands flung up in the arcane movements of hex magic. He was not sure which should be worse: sudden death at Talle’s hands, or the ignominy of arrest.