Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  Arcole said, “And if we do bring word? What then?”

  Abram Jaymes answered: “A new order, a different world. Not Evander’s rule, but Salvation’s. No more branded folk—only free men an’ women. Nor any Inquisitors or the God’s Militia or governors—only folk who live here; free.”

  Arcole looked at Var, who ducked his head in agreement and said, “I find I’ve come to agree with Abram. Evander’s no more right to claim this land than these Breakers, or Chakthi. Salvation should have the right to govern itself, free of the Autarchy.”

  “And shall the Inquisitor agree this?” Arcole smiled dubiously. “Or the soldiers of the God’s Militia? Shall the landholders agree to free their branded servants? Shall all those folk who came here to make their fortunes agree to sever ties with Evander?”

  “They might just agree to be independent,” Jaymes said. “Talle’s not exactly popular, nor the Autarchy. An’ remember—there’s more branded folk in Salvation than free men.”

  Davyd said, “Are the Breakers not defeated here, they’ll conquer and go on.” He frowned at the blue sky. “Likely to Ket-Ta-Thanne first, but then across this whole world. That should be a dreadful slaughter, Arcole.”

  “My marines will fight,” Var said. “But they’re not so many; and are they unready.… ”

  “You ask me to aid that which put this on my face.” Arcole touched the scar on his cheek. “I committed no crime, save to kill a man in a duel of his own choosing—and for that, Evander branded me and made me exile.” His voice grew bitter. “I was sent indentured to this land for that, and now you’d ask me to aid the ones who did that to me. Why should I?”

  “I’d ask you to help the branded folk,” Jaymes said.

  “And I’d see the Breakers defeated,” said Davyd.

  Arcole said, “I’d go back to Ket-Ta-Thanne. Let the Breakers have Salvation.”

  “It cannot be that way.” Davyd shook his head. “Do the Breakers conquer Salvation, then they’ll next come to Ket-Ta-Thanne, against the People.”

  “Then let us warn the People,” Arcole said. “Let’s go back to the mountains.”

  “No, we cannot.” Davyd shook his head again. “It’s as Rannach says—those paths are too well guarded.”

  He turned to the Commacht akaman, translating what was said, and Rannach stared hard at Arcole.

  In the tongue of the People he said, “Do you remember when you first came to us? I saw that mark on your face and could not believe men could do that to one another. I said then that I’d aid all like you—I say it again! We must warn these folk of what comes against them.”

  “Even do they slay us?” Arcole demanded.

  “Even so,” Rannach answered. “We’ve a duty to the Maker, no?”

  Defeated, Arcole shrugged: “So let’s build that raft.”

  They gathered wood as the sun stalked fast across the sky—lengths of timber and barrels for buoyancy; ropes to lash the makeshift structure together. It seemed barely large enough to hold them all, and surely not the horses that they turned loose. They gathered up what supplies they could find and stowed them ready to mount on the raft. At least Arcole and Davyd had ammunition for their muskets, powder and shot in ready supply from the fort’s armory.

  The day lengthened, shadows spilling deep beyond the walls as the sun closed on the wilderness forest and began to decorate the timber with dancing light and shadow in harlequin patterns that tricked the eye and hid the shapes that came out from the trees.…

  For they were hard to discern. Their armor seemed to take in light and throw it back all tricksy, so that they rode as if between day’s light and night’s, and could not be clearly seen but only came on astride slavering beasts that defied imagination in their ghastly delineaments.

  Davyd felt them coming and shouted for the others to hurry with the raft, but even forewarned he was horrified by what he saw. Tekah had described them to him, and Rannach and Morrhyn, but … what were they, that they sat such creatures? That they wore such armor; that from them emanated so awful a sense of wanton destruction? He felt his belly cramp and his hands shudder as he leveled his musket and squeezed the trigger.

  He could do no more: he felt a great calm possess him, and something go away from him and something else open before, perhaps better. He had wanted—so badly, so much—to be a wakanisha, as was Morrhyn. To follow the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, which denied the Dreamer warrior’s rights—the right to kill. But as he saw the Breaker slung from the saddle to tumble backward over the strangeling beast’s hindquarters and dropped fresh powder into his musket, spat a ball into the muzzle, tamped it down and sighted again, he felt only the savage satisfaction he’d known as he slew Chakthi’s warriors.

  He sighted on the animal—what was it: lizard or lion?—that still charged roaring at the walls and put a ball between its eyes. The thing dropped, an obstacle that tripped those behind, and he shouted—needlessly, for all the others could surely hear the roaring—“Make haste!”

  The rifles of Var and Jaymes cracked, Arcole’s musket a deeper sound. Then they were clambering aboard the raft, Rannach and Arcole and Var pushing the fragile craft out from the bank, hauling themselves onto the planks as the current took hold and they began to drift downstream. Debo stared at the approaching riders and wailed in terror. Rannach thrust him down, unshipping his bow. Davyd reloaded his musket and thought better of firing—he was not so good a shot that he might find a kill from the swaying platform, but surely he felt a great desire to slay such abominations as charged to the river’s bank.

  He stared at them as arrows cut the air and splashed into the water. The sun was far westered now, the light translucent as it faded, drifting over their rainbow armor so that they seemed to dance in light and shadow, the Tachyn who rode with them drab figures, mundane in comparison for all their war paint. The Breakers were beautiful as tempting sin, and that contrast of beauty and evil was such as spun his mind. He thought he understood Hadduth’s seduction, and Chakthi’s, and wondered how the People had fought such beings—his musket stood forgotten in his hands as he stared, awed. It was as if the terrible grandeur of the strangeling folk entranced him.

  Then powder blasts evaporated his reverie and he saw Jaymes and Var turning their rifles on the Breakers as Arcole and Rannach dug makeshift paddles into the river, propelling them away, farther out toward midstream. The Breakers and the Tachyn, both, howled in frustration and set their mounts to running alongside the Restitution. Shafts flew, but the raft rode the current now and moved swift through the burgeoning twilight. The sun settled behind the distant mountains and the waning moon spread the river with silver ripples. In time, the arrows ceased, and the howling, and then they only drifted eastward, toward Grostheim.

  Morrhyn stared at the great spread of forest, wondering if he did the right thing in bringing the People here. There lay before him a vast wilderness, all high timber and steep stone that seemed to stretch on forever as if all the world was become forested and there was no grass left. It was not a place for horses, not at all like the clean plains of Ket-Ta-Thanne, but rather, he thought, all dark and gloomy—a fitting place for Chakthi’s Tachyn. He felt troubled: it was as if the very air became redolent of evil.

  “I do not like this,” Kahteney said, glancing about as if he anticipated momentary attack. “This place is …”

  He shrugged, and Morrhyn said, “Yes, my brother; I know. But still …”

  Yazte asked, “Do we camp here or go on?”

  Morrhyn looked to Colun, who said: “A little farther and there’s a good place. I’ll send scouts out, but I think there are none of Chakthi’s folk close.”

  “Are there,” Yazte said, “let’s slay them and get on. I do not like these woods.”

  None did: the People were plainsfolk, accustomed to open spaces, not the confines of the wilderness forest. Their horses found the steep slopes difficult to negotiate, the tangled roots of the great trees a constant danger; the thick brush and low branches a
constant nuisance as they came down from the high hills to where Colun suggested they camp.

  “There are no Tachyn close,” he told the war leaders when his scouts came back, “nor Breakers, I think.”

  “Then we halt here this night,” Morrhyn said, “and tomorrow go out in search of Rannach and the others.”

  “And the Breakers,” Yazte grunted. “And Chakthi’s Tachyn; and whatever else faces us here.”

  Morrhyn said, “Yes. What else can we do?”

  Yazte only shrugged and asked Colun if the Grannach had any tiswin with him.

  “You promised me his head!” Chakthi gestured furiously at the moon-shadowed river. “His head, you said! Your word, you said! And now? See? They’re gone, and we cannot pace them—they escape us!”

  “You lack patience. Do you doubt my word?”

  Akratil turned his horned mount away from the Tachyn’s. The smaller animal was frightened of the sable creature, and in his rage Chakthi swung it hither and yon, prompting it to dance. He clutched the ax he’d anticipated swinging against Rannach’s neck and glowered at the leader of the Breakers.

  “His head!” he repeated. Spittle flecked his lips and his eyes stood wide with rage. “You promised me his head and now he’s escaped us.”

  “You doubt my word?” Akratil asked again.

  And Chakthi answered: “Yes!”

  Akratil said, “Fool,” and swung the golden reins over so that the sable, nightmare horse came shrilling against the lesser animal and ducked its horrid head and drove its central horn deep into the chest of the Tachyn animal.

  Chakthi’s mount screamed and struggled to free itself of the impaling horn. Blood spurted from its mouth and nostrils as the Breaker’s dread beast gouged deeper. Then it faltered and fell, pitching Chakthi from the pad saddle. The sable creature snorted and shook its head free.

  The Tachyn akaman landed on his face. Rose to his knees with an expression of mingled outrage and amazement, and swung his hatchet.

  Akratil laughed and swung his terrible sword.

  The head of Chakthi’s ax was severed from the pole. It dropped to the grass and Chakthi, propelled by the momentum of his attack, followed it down. Once more he pitched full length as Breakers laughed and Tachyn watched in nervous apprehension. He spat and pushed to his knees, but as he began to rise Akratil’s blade touched his throat and Chakthi found himself looking up into the red-lit orbs that shone from the carapace of the golden helmet. A bead of blood escaped his neck as Akratil leant from the saddle.

  Chakthi froze. Slowly, he shifted backward from the sword, still on his knees, and Akratil heeled the dread horse forward, so that the blade remained firm against the Tachyn’s throat.

  “Shall I take your head? Or shall you apologize?”

  Breakers pressed in close, ringing them round, and Chakthi swallowed. Blood trickled down his neck now, disappearing beneath his shirt. He stared at Akratil with maddened eyes. For all the snorting of the Breakers’ beasts and the nervous wickering of the Tachyn’s horses, the night was suddenly very quiet.

  “Well?”

  Akratil’s voice was soft, amused as if it were nothing to him to slay his ally. Chakthi swallowed again, his eyes flickering from side to side, finding no support, only the fear of his warriors that they’d brought something greater to their aid than they could know, or fight. He saw their reluctance, and Hadduth nodding that he should do as the Breaker said, and spat again.

  “I … apologize.”

  The words were hard to find, harder to say, and Chakthi realized that he hated Akratil no less than Rannach and his cursed Commacht, or the outlanders who claimed the land he thought his own. He felt a terrible frustration. Was he to obtain his goals, then he needed the Breakers; but he was akaman of the Tachyn and to be forced to this groveling was a dire hurt that seared his twisted soul.

  “Good.” Akratil’s sword came away from Chakthi’s throat. “I do not appreciate those who doubt my word.”

  He sheathed the blade, motioning that Chakthi rise, and when the Tachyn did, brought the horned horse sideways, slipping an armored foot from the stirrup. He smiled as he kicked Chakthi in the face, sending the Tachyn tumbling backward to fall again onto the grass.

  “Never question me.” His voice rang through the night, commanding. “Doubt me again and I shall slay you and wear your miserable skull like these others.” He set the sable animal to prancing so that the skulls hung from the saddle rattled and shook. “Do you understand?”

  Chakthi wiped blood from his mouth and ducked his head.

  “Good.” Akratil chuckled. “You hate me, eh? That’s good—hatred is good: it fuels us.”

  Humiliated, Chakthi could only stand and glower at the Breaker. Akratil laughed again and said, “But I’ll make good my word—you shall have that head you want so badly, and more besides.”

  35

  Fire and Water

  The night grew older and the screaming of their pursuers faded into the darkness. The moonlit glittering of the Breakers’ armor disappeared behind, whilst ahead the Restitution stretched wide and silvery, running to the sea, the raft carried swift on the current, twisting and turning as eddies swirled. None spoke for a while as muskets and rifles were reloaded, then Abram Jaymes said, “We lost them for now.”

  “To find Grostheim?” Arcole grunted. “That’s to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  “We’ll find a holding first,” Jaymes said confidently, “an’ rest up awhile. Put the word out.”

  “And the owner shall accept us?” Arcole demanded. “Likely,” Jaymes replied, “he’ll not have much choice.” Arcole stared frowning at the grizzled man. Var said enigmatically, “Abram has many friends, I discovered. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  Arcole was, when a little before dawn Jaymes steered the raft in to the north bank, where a jetty thrust into the river, the shadowy bulk of a cluster of buildings showing beyond, squat and dim in the gray light. They beached the craft and made their way up the sloping bank, Jaymes in the lead. Rannach carried the sleeping Debo in his arms. A dog began to bark and Jaymes halted them with an upraised hand.

  “Wait here.”

  He went forward and the dog stopped its barking, and a while later he returned.

  “Come on.”

  They went to the lesser house, where branded folk were already rising, preparing to go about their duties. There were six men and six women, and a cluster of children who stared in goggle-eyed amazement at the visitors.

  “This is Bryn.” Jaymes indicated a hulking man whose long hair almost hid the scar on his cheek. “He’s a friend.”

  “Welcome,” Bryn said. “Abram’s told us about you.” He gestured at the table, which the women were setting with breakfast. “You’ll eat with us?”

  Rannach was nervous, glancing around as if anticipating some trick, an ambush. Then a smiling woman came to him and said, “Ach, but the wee one’s sleepy, no? Give him here and I’ll set him abed.”

  She reached for Debo and Rannach jerked away; Debo stirred in his arms, opening sleepy eyes. Davyd translated and Rannach allowed his son to be taken and set down on a bed recently vacated by one of the indentured children.

  “Why do they help us?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Jaymes answered through Davyd. “I told them you’re not one o’ Chakthi’s clan, an’ they know what we’re trying to do.” He grinned. “Besides, they trust me.”

  “You risk much,” Var observed to the table at large. “What if your … owner … discovers us?”

  Bryn shrugged massive shoulders. “Abram told us what you done for him.” He spooned porridge into his mouth and spoke past the mush. “That was a decent thing, I reckon—we all reckon. And things are changing in this land. Does Sieur Vitale object, then …” He chuckled. “We’ll object back, I reckon.”

  He glanced around, his eyes met with nods of agreement, murmurings of assent.

  “Do you speak of insurrection?” Var asked
. “You’d overturn your master?”

  “Didn’t you?” Jaymes asked quietly.

  Var thought a moment, then nodded.

  “He’ll have a choice,” Jaymes said. “To join us, or not. That’s fair, no?”

  Again, Var thought awhile and then ducked his head in agreement. “So what’s our plan?” he asked. And grinned: “Or, rather, your plan?”

  “Bryn here’ll stock us with food,” Jaymes said, “an’ carry word to the next holding about what’s coming.… ”

  “You’ll run away?” Surprised, Var addressed himself to Bryn. “You’d risk that?”

  “In light of what Abram’s told me,” Bryn said, “yes. Wouldn’t you?”

  Var shrugged. “You chance much.”

  “There’s much at stake,” Bryn said. “And I can reach the Freynche holding in a day and be back the next. And they’ll send word on to the Stottyr farm—and they’ll send it on until all the holdings know what’s coming. So at least the branded folk’ll be ready.”

  Var nodded. “And us?”

  Jaymes had no chance to answer, because the door flung open and a short, red-featured man strode in. He wore the marks of a heavy drinker on his nose and in his eyes, and a brace of pistols on his belt. He looked angry; then amazed as he saw his indentured folk’s strange visitors.

  “What in God’s name is this?” he cried, gaping at Rannach. “A God-cursed savage on my land?”

  He drew both pistols and leveled them at the table.

  “Who are you?” He answered his own question: “By God, that’s Abram Jaymes, no? And you are the turncoat.” He glared at Var. “Sworn to God’s duty, eh? And you took this scum from prison. What are you doing here?” His angry eyes took in Arcole and Davyd. “And these with brands on their cheeks? Runaways, eh? Bryn, take them! We’ll deliver them all back to the Inquisitor in Grostheim.”