by Angus Wells
“Is that so bad?” Taza asked, nervous now.
“Save they come here,” Hadduth replied, “we must remain like fugitives in these forests. Are we to own the grass of this land—and the grass of Ket-Ta-Thanne—we need their help. Akratil promises much! Did he not bring you safe through the Grannach caves? Do you doubt his power?”
“No.” Taza shook his head, remembering the golden-armored warrior. “But even so …”
“The strangers of this land own strange powers,” Hadduth said. “Without Akratil’s aid we cannot hope to defeat them all. Surely we cannot hope to go back to Ket-Ta-Thanne.”
“But Debo …” Taza said.
“Must be sacrificed,” Hadduth replied. “He’s the blood of both the Commacht and the Tachyn in his veins, and so links the two lands.”
“But he’s only a child,” Taza said. “And Chakthi’s grandson! Shall Chakthi truly slay his grandson?”
“To own this land—yes,” Hadduth answered. “To destroy Rannach and his Commacht—yes. So when the moon rises tonight, Debo shall be slain and his blood shape the gateway for the Breakers.”
32
Sacrifice
Tomas Var learned more of Salvation’s social structure as he rode outlaw from Grostheim with Abram Jaymes than he ever should have as an officer of the God’s Militia.
Branded folk gave them shelter, hiding them in barns and outhouses, bringing them food unbeknownst to the masters, feeding their horses—even, when the animals grew too weary, supplying them with fresh mounts that they promised they’d claim had been stolen by savages.
“I don’t understand,” Var said. “God knows, I am—was—an officer of marines. The Inquisitor’s dog, isn’t that what they called me? So why do they help? Why not give me up?”
“Don’t you understand yet?” Jaymes spat a stream of liquid tobacco as Var shook his head. “I told you how folk feel about the Autarchy—about Evander an’ Jared Talle. Now you’re one of us—no better than a branded exile—an’ so folks’ll help you. So long, of course, that you’re with me.”
“Who are you?” Var demanded. “Just what are you, Abram?”
Jaymes shrugged, gesturing at his dirty rawhides. “I’m just a scout, Tomas.”
Var shook his head. “No: you’re more than that. Do you tell me?”
Jaymes laughed. Overhead a rat scuttled across the barn’s straw. “I guess I can,” he said, “now that we’re on the run together.”
“So?” Var chewed the last of the gristly bacon.
Jaymes thought awhile. Then: “I guess I’m an observer … an’ a messenger, I suppose. I get to talk with a lot o’ folk, both high an’ low.” His tone and face grew serious. “I get to travel around a lot, so I see most of what’s going on in this country. I see the holders living high on the labor of all those poor folk with branded cheeks or arms—folk with money living off … What would you call it? Slavery?”
Var shrugged, not knowing how to answer: not having thought much on it before.
Jaymes continued: “I see poor folk sent over from Evander with scars on their bodies that mark them down as nothings—no rights, save to do what their owners tell them. Some poor man steals a loaf to feed his starving family an’ what happens? Evander brands him and sends him to Salvation to be a servant. A woman picks a pocket because her children are starving, an’ she gets a brand an’ gets sent to Salvation, where she’s a servant. Her owner wants to fuck her? Why, he’s got the right, and if she argues, she’s in the wrong. Think about it, Tomas—would you like that?”
Var thought again about Arcole Blayke and the pretty woman on the boat, and shook his head.
“No.”
“Then you know there’s something wrong about this country,” Jaymes said. “And that’s a start.”
Var nodded. “Yes.” Then, unthinking: “But what can we do about it?”
Jaymes chuckled. “Right now, not a lot. Stay clear of the Inquisitor. Run for the wilderness.”
“There’s more.” Var dislodged a chunk of fat from his teeth. “And are we outlawed together, I think I should know.”
“I guess,” Jaymes agreed. “There’s a feelin’ here that Evander don’t have the right to govern us. That the Autarchy’s too far off to tell the people of Salvation what to do. An’ that sending branded exiles over is wrong! There’s a feelin’ that Salvation should govern herself—no Inquisitors or governors or shiploads of soldiers, but we just get on with our own affairs. You want trade agreements, fine. You want to buy from us, or us from you, fine—we’ll trade with you. But don’t dictate how we live. Don’t send redcoats to keep us in line, neither—” He spat. “—damn Inquisitors. Work something out, eh?”
Var nodded. “And marines?”
“You’re not a marine anymore,” Jaymes said. “You’re just a runaway now.”
Var could only say, “Yes,” because it was true, and he felt a sympathy for all Jaymes said, and the plight of the people he’d not before thought about. He had become, he supposed, a secessionist.
The moon rose thin above the trees, a slender crescent that Arcole supposed was the final remnant of the New Grass Moon, did Salvation’s calendar turn to the same rhythm as that of Ket-Ta-Thanne. From where he crouched upslope of the Tachyn encampment he could see the lodges clear, lit bright by the fires burning there as the outcasts prepared for that horrid celebration Davyd had forecast: he shivered, wondering—praying—that their plan be successful. God knew, but it was hazardous, and were he honest with himself he could not envisage it working—could not believe he’d survive this night—but there was no other choice, save to foresake Debo and let the Breakers in, and that he could not do. He checked the priming of his musket yet again and thought of Flysse—which filled him with a terrible loneliness, for he could scarce credit he might see her again.
“It can work.” Davyd’s voice came in an urgent whisper from the shadows. “It has to work, else …”
Arcole nodded into the night, neither knowing nor caring if Davyd saw. He believed all Davyd had said, all the dread warnings, and in that balance his life was nothing. He looked up at the sky, stars glittering through the overlay of branches, and said, very softly, “Flysse, I love you.”
“What?”
Davyd’s voice came gentle as the night wind rustling the timber, and Arcole shook his head and whispered back, “Nothing.” Then: “Shall Hadduth not dream of this?”
“Perhaps,” Davyd answered, “and perhaps not. The dreaming is strange, Arcole; it does not tell you everything—only show you possibilities. As if the Maker opens ways for us to follow, but leaves us the choice of which path we take. If Hadduth has dreamed of this, then we’re lost; but if he’s not …”
“Then we’ve a chance?” Arcole said.
“The Maker willing.” Davyd laughed softly, and Arcole struggled to find resolution, belief.
Rannach crept through the trees. The Tachyn celebrated, dancing about their fires, flasks of what he supposed was tiswin passing around. It seemed to him like some obscene parody of Matakwa, save these outcasts would deliver this world and all the others into the hands of shadow and death. He could scarce believe that even Chakthi was sunk so deep in evil, yet Davyd had said it was so and he could not disbelieve the strange white-haired young man. Morrhyn claimed him, and Morrhyn was the Prophet, touched by the Maker, so Rannach could only believe and do his best to rescue his son. It mattered nothing to him that Vachyr’s seed had shaped the child in Arrhyna’s belly: Debo was his son, and even was the intended sacrifice of less portentous moment, he could not relinquish the child. He loved Debo, fierce as he loved Arrhyna, fierce as he loved the People—and must he give up his life for that love, then so be it; it should be worth the price.
So he slunk toward the Tachyn camp, intent on pursuing Davyd’s desperate plan.
Debo sat sulking and afraid. He had been fed and set in the lodge, which was warm enough, but guarded, with the entry flaps laced tight, and he commanded to remain by the ug
ly man who claimed he was Debo’s grandfather, and the other, whose eyes frightened Debo.
The child could not articulate his fear, but in the depths of those eyes he recognized a dreadful loss, as if the man had given up his soul to dark powers and was no longer entirely of this world. Neither had Taza visited him, for he walked with the one named Hadduth as if they were become great friends—of which Debo had none here. He wished he had not gone with Taza, but remained amongst the People. He missed his mother and his father: he began to cry softly.
Taza drank deep of the tiswin. It was not so good as that made in Ket-Ta-Thanne, but it was strong and dulled his doubts. He felt Hadduth’s arm about his shoulders and laughed as the Dreamer murmured something he could not understand into his ear. It should be sad to see little Debo given to Chakthi’s knife—and even now the notion that a grandfather might sacrifice his son’s child stirred ugly feelings in his belly—but Hadduth had explained it was necessary, and promised so much that Taza must allow Debo’s death necessary.
He drank more tiswin and watched the moon climb slowly up through the trees, thinking of the golden-armored warrior whose name was Akratil, and whose power would imbue him.
Hadduth had promised that.
Rannach got in amongst the first lodges and moved toward the tent holding Debo. A dog barked; unthinking, he swung his hatchet and split the animal’s skull. The barking halted and none noticed: the Tachyn were too excited with their promised triumph.
Rannach moved on, cautious through the fire-lit shadows, dodging from lodge to lodge until he reached the one he’d seen from the vantage point where Arcole and Davyd waited with their muskets. He had little faith in muskets, but neither of his comrades was good enough with a bow that he’d trust them to cover his retreat, so muskets it was—and the Maker grant he bring his son out safe.
Like Arcole, he wondered if he should live out this night.
He found the lodge and paused. It was set back from the central area where the fire burned and no others close, as if Chakthi would hold Debo separate. The Tachyn buffalo symbols were painted on the hides, and other arcane designs that Rannach did not understand. Two warriors lounged outside, passing a flask between them. Rannach crouched, surveying the encampment, then drew his knife and began to slit the leather.
The hide cut easily enough, and as he parted the opening he saw the tearful face of his son. Debo stared at him, eyes widening in amazement and relief, and Rannach felt both a terrible sadness for Debo’s plight and a great joy that they were reunited. Debo vented a wail of delight, and Rannach whispered for him to be silent. But too late: already the lacings of the entry flap were tugging loose.
Rannach beckoned, and Debo came running to the gap. Rannach dragged him through and turned as a guard came hurrying around the lodge’s perimeter. Rannach pushed Debo aside, ignoring the child’s shout of protest, and turned his blade on the Tachyn. He dimly recognized the man’s face as the Grannach steel sank into the belly. He twisted the blade and the man screamed. Rannach cursed and drew his hatchet, smashing the ax down against the skull. The screaming ceased. Rannach prayed the sounds of celebration drown out the noise, and looked for the second guard.
A head showed through the cut in the lodge and he swung his ax in a sideways motion that drove the steel head deep into the Tachyn’s temple. The man jerked away on the impact, eyes wide as blood gouted, his head tossing from side to side between the opening. Rannach struck again, down hard into the apex of the skull, and saw the rising moon outline the dying of the light in the Tachyn’s eyes.
He sheathed blade and ax and snatched Debo up in his arms, began to run as shouting sounded behind.
Then the crackle of musket fire.
Debo hung sturdy arms around his neck, crying and laughing at the same time. Rannach said, “Hold tight and we’ll be safe, eh?”
Debo said, “Father,” and buried his face in Rannach’s shoulder.
A thrown hatchet sailed past them, and then a lance. Rannach sheltered his son with his body as Tachyn howled vengefully behind, and ran for the slope.
From above came the flashes of the exploding powder that propelled the musket balls down into his pursuers. He heard screams, and wondered how much shot his comrades had left. Enough to see him—and Debo!—safe? An arrow cut air beside his head.
He ran.
In the shelter of the overlooking timber, Davyd primed the musket as Arcole had taught him. Set powder in the pan and hiked the hammer back. He aimed down the barrel, trying hard to remember the lessons—downslope requires angulation, and a moving target is hard to hit. He squeezed the trigger and saw a Tachyn jump backward, the ax the warrior held flinging loose of his opened hand. He felt a savage satisfaction that—fleetingly—he doubted Morrhyn would approve of, and wondered what he became. Wakanisha and warrior, both, as his dreams had suggested? Or some abberation, neither one thing nor the other? Too late to wonder now; too late to hesitate. He reloaded and sighted again.
Rannach was coming up the slope, Debo clutched to his chest and Tachyn shafts flying after them, the man dodging from tree to tree, running fast as the gradient and his son’s weight allowed. Davyd fired and another Tachyn fell back; Arcole had taught him well.
To his right, Arcole’s musket blew flame and sound as if some explosive metronome ticked out its rhythm. In the twinned lights of moon and muzzle flash Davyd saw Arcole smiling, and wondered if he wore the same expression of grim delight.
Maker, forgive me, he thought, sighting on another man, and saw his ball blow red from the chest.
Then Rannach was there, Debo hung like a talisman from his neck, and Arcole shouted, “Withdraw! Fall back, or they’ll be on us!”
They went up the slope as Davyd had planned it, and then skirted through the pines, along a bluff that ran southwestward, down into a draw that took them full south. Hopefully the overlay of pine needles and dead ground would hide their tracks.
“They’ll think we run for the mountains,” Davyd had said. “Think we look for Grannach help—so we don’t. We circle around and go down into Salvation. They’ll inspect the hills and we’ll be south of them. We can circle back later.”
None had argued with him—he was the Dreamer—and so that was the way they went.
They found a stream and splashed through the chilly water, densely wooded banks to either side, with brush that hid them from sight. They could hear the Tachyns’ howls ringing through the trees, and from that concatenation tell that their pursuers divided into separate groups. Davyd prayed they escape, that their trail not be found, nor their hunters guess they ran not west but east.
“Sounds like a war, don’t it?” Abram Jaymes spat tobacco into the fire. “Might be we should kill them flames.”
Without further ado he opened his pants and set to carrying out his own instructions. Var joined him, listening to the rattle of familiar sounds.
“What d’you think it is?”
“Who knows?” Jaymes shrugged. “Muskets in the wilderness ain’t exactly usual. The savages don’t have none, save what they’ve stole, an’ no way to get powder or shot.… So.” He shrugged again. “I don’t rightly know what it might be. Best wait up here an’ see, I reckon.”
Var nodded, listening: two muskets, and a great deal of howling—as if folk were angry and in pursuit.
He said, “They’re coming closer. They’re coming down from the hills.”
Jaymes said, “Yes,” and checked his rifle.
Var picked up his own Hawkins, staring into the shining night where moon and stars played games with the trees. Light and shadow danced over the vast spread of pines, cold and lonely on the mountains beyond, which seemed to rise up to meet the heavens and meld land and earth into one solid firmament. None in Salvation knew what lay beyond. He felt very small and very alone, as if he were some jot cast loose into a world he did not properly understand or comprehend—and could not, properly, come to terms with—save he accept simple philosophies and forget all he’d known a
nd accepted for all the years of his life. He still wore his tunic—mark of the God’s Militia—but now he was outlaw and wanderer, cast out by his own decision, his own instinctive choice: lost in a wilderness from which came musket fire and savage howls. He wondered what he had done, casting his lot with Abram Jaymes.
And Jaymes said, “They get much closer, we might likely need to do somethin’.”
“Like what?” Var asked.
“Well,” Jaymes stared at the dense timber, “folks with muskets is most likely to be on our side, no?”
Var shrugged: “I suppose so.”
“So stand ready,” Jaymes said, “just in case.”
It had not all gone as Davyd hoped—the Tachyn had split into hunting groups and one had found their tracks where they came out of the stream. Fortunate for them, it was but a small group—eight or nine warriors—but still enough to slay them. Powder and shot ran short now, and Rannach labored panting under Debo’s weight and Arcole gasped for breath. Davyd thought he could not go much farther; it seemed his lungs burned fiery as the pain that scorched his ribs, and his legs trembled with the effort. He feared his plan had failed. They had run all night, and dawn was not far off; none of them could run much farther. Davyd thought they must likely stand and fight, and then die as the Tachyn sent back word to the others and all the outcast clan come against them.
They came through trees with the Tachyn closing behind, running as if all the hounds of hell bayed at their heels. Davyd and Arcole turned to fire back, horribly aware of the dwindling stock of powder and lead shot. Arrows flew by them, the two outlanders shielding Rannach and Debo with their bodies. The Tachyn were closer now, screaming in anticipation of triumph.
Then Rannach stumbled, his weary legs tripped on a spreading root. Debo shouted as he was spilled from his father’s arms. Rannach cursed and clambered to his feet.
“Enough!” He unsheathed his bow and nocked an arrow. “I can run no more. Debo!” He pointed at a massive pine. “Behind that, eh?”
