Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  Bryn said, “No,” and rose ponderously from the table.

  “What?” Sieur Vitale cocked his guns. “You argue with me?”

  Bryn said, “Yes. Listen—these men bring dire warning of …”

  “Quiet!” Vitale shouted. “Take them now! Else your life be forfeit!”

  “Sieur,” Bryn said, “only hear me out.”

  Vitale said, “No, damn you,” and aimed a pistol at Bryn’s chest. “You’ll do as I order, or I’ll shoot you. And you’ll do it now—take them!”

  Bryn said again, “No,” and his owner shot him in the chest.

  Bryn pitched back, blood spreading over his shirt as porridge sprayed from his mouth. He hit the wall behind and bounced off, falling down across the table, bowls and plates and cups tumbling under his weight. A woman screamed and children began to wail. Vitale snarled, pointing the second gun as Rannach’s hatchet spun through the dawn light to imbed in his chest, and at the same time Var’s pistol blasted, so that the landowner was thrown back through the open door and fell down on his back in the yard beyond.

  Davyd and Arcole reached for their muskets. Abram Jaymes sat still, spooning porridge.

  “I’d say,” he remarked, “that you’re committed now.”

  “What else could I do?” Var looked startled by his own actions. “God, but the man shot Bryn on no more than a whim.”

  “Bryn was a branded man,” Jaymes said calmly, “and that is how the Autarchy works.” He pointed a spoon at Rannach, who worked his hatchet from Vitale’s chest, wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt, and returned to the table. “He understands it better than you.”

  Davyd translated and Rannach shrugged: “Bryn was a friend,” he said, “and the red-faced man killed him. What else should I do?”

  “You see?” Jaymes said to Var.

  Var nodded. “I think I do.”

  Morrhyn swallowed the pahé and settled himself beside the fire. Kahteney lounged across from the flames, his eyes already wide and blurring as the dream root took hold. Morrhyn smiled and mouthed a silent prayer that the Maker show them what to do, where to go. And dreamed …

  Of Davyd and Arcole and Rannach, two strangers with them, floating down a great river that washed out into a vaster expanse of water he supposed was the ocean of which the outlanders had spoken. It went past a great, walled place that he knew must be the city they’d told him of, and from behind the walls he felt a disturbing presence, as if something evil as the Breakers lurked there.

  Then he saw the Horde moving over this strange land, and Chakthi’s Tachyn with them, allied, as if a prairie fire raged, sweeping over the grass, consuming all before it. He saw the flames encroach upon the river, threatening to burn up Rannach and the others, and they come to land, where folk with the scar on their cheeks gave shelter before they went on, toward the city.

  He did not understand why they went toward the city, and in his dreaming reached out to Davyd, seeking communion.

  It was hard to establish contact. The Breakers’ presence clouded the aetheral ways, their innate magic obfuscating the dreaming paths so that even when he found Davyd it was difficult to express himself clearly, or to understand Davyd’s responses.

  We are come to Salvation, he said. I dreamed we should.

  The Breakers are here, Davyd replied, allied with Chakthi and his Tachyn.

  Yes, I know. That’s why I brought the People here—to fight them.

  They hunt Rannach Chakthi would have his head.

  Chakthi shall lose his own: he’s a fool.

  Yes, but the Breakers use him. They follow us down.…

  Where are you? Morrhyn asked, and got back only the image of the river lit by fire and a golden-armored warrior he recognized prancing a horrid horse, laughing out of the flames. Then all was confusion, images and impressions—of awful peril and battle, factions he did not properly comprehend vying for supremacy. The river blazed, and the walled place, and out of the walled place came men who fought, though he could not, in the confusion, tell whom—the People or the Breakers, or both. He felt an urgent summoning, such calling as he had known when Davyd first approached Ket-Ta-Thanne, but could not properly define it for the intervention of the flames and the sound of thunder. He knew only that he must take the People toward that calling, and pray to the Maker that they come timely.

  He woke sweaty, groaning as he shifted, his head throbbing. He found water and splashed his face, then looked to Kahteney.

  The Lakanti Dreamer opened frightened eyes and said, “I dreamed of fire, of battle; but I could not understand it. Save that the Breakers threaten again.”

  “We knew that,” Morrhyn said, and swallowed water that his voice not croak. “Now we must find them, and fight them.”

  Kahteney said, “Yes, I know. But shall we survive this battle?”

  “That,” Morrhyn remarked, “is in the hands of the Maker, and in ours, but we must attempt it, no? We cannot ignore them—we’ve a duty.”

  Kahteney ducked his head: “Yes.” He seemed unhappy with that duty, and Morrhyn could understand his reluctance. The Maker knew, but the Breakers had almost destroyed the People in Ket-Ta-Witko, and now the Matawaye went out to war in a strange land filled with potential enemies. He wished it were not so, but could see no other path to take—not save the People run like panicked animals from the Breakers’ fire, and lose themselves and die. He tugged on shirt and breeches and ran fingers through his unbound hair and smiled at Kahteney with what he hoped was a brave expression.

  “So come, brother, and let’s to our duty.”

  Kahteney groaned and rose, dressed, and followed Morrhyn from the tent.

  Outside, the camp was awake. Yazte and Kanseah and Dohnse sat with Colun about a fire on which Arrhyna and Flysse cooked. All their faces turned toward the two wakanishas as they approached, and Morrhyn caught the tail of a conversation from which he judged the two women advised the chieftains that they were not servants to fetch and carry, and did the chieftains wish to eat, in future they could cook their own meals. It ended as the Dreamers came up, and Morrhyn nodded greetings.

  Flysse thrust a plate into his hands as Arrhyna served Kahteney, and in both their eyes Morrhyn saw questions.

  “They are alive,” he said, “but somewhere east of here. They go down a great river toward a walled place.”

  Flysse said, “The Restitution, and the place must be Grostheim.” She frowned. “Why would they go there?”

  Morrhyn shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps to warn the people there? The Breakers go after them, with Chakthi and his Tachyn.”

  “That whoreson allies with the Breakers?” Yazte spat into the fire. “I’d see my lance in his chest.”

  “Not,” Colun said, stroking his ax, “do I reach him first.”

  “You’re sure?” Arrhyna’s hands shook, tea spilling from the cup she held. “They are truly come again?”

  Morrhyn nodded. “And save we defeat them here, they’ll go on—to Ket-Ta-Thanne and all the countries of this world.” He smiled wanly. “We must find this river and follow it, for that shall lead us to Rannach and the others.”

  “I can help you.” Flysse set down her cup, her pretty face determined. “I can lead you to the river, and the river leads to Grostheim.”

  “And the Breakers?” Yazte asked.

  “We go to war, no?” Morrhyn looked at their faces. “We ride to save Rannach and Arcole and Davyd and Debo, but also to halt the Breakers. I think,” his confidence faltered a moment, “that this shall be the last battle.”

  “How say you?” Yazte asked.

  And Morrhyn answered: “I think that do we fail now, all shall be lost. Save we destroy the Breakers here, they shall destroy us and all those we left behind, and everything else in this world. And after go on to others and destroy them.”

  “Then,” Yazte said firmly, “let us go find them and fight them, and be it the last battle then we shall die as warriors of the People and the Maker take us to Him in
the Spirit World.”

  His sentiments were echoed by the others, and in a while the camp was struck and the great war band moved eastward.

  Captain Jorge Kerik stared in alarm at Jared Talle.

  “Are you sure, Inquisitor?”

  Talle met the officer’s nervous gaze with determined dark eyes. “Do you question me, Captain?”

  “No!” Kerik shook his head vigorously. “Save …”

  “Save what?” Talle asked, his voice brisk.

  “It must leave the garrison mightily undermanned.” Kerik hesitated to argue. The Inquisitor frightened him, but even so he felt a duty to his command. And now that Tomas Var was gone outlaw—presumed slain in the wilderness—he was, under Talle, the senior officer. And he thought the Inquisitor’s plan insane. “What with the suicides … the ghosts … we’ve not so many men. Do we take all the marines out, then who shall guard the city?”

  “There are sufficient of the God’s Militia,” Talle declared.

  Kerik had far rather not disagree, but even so he said, “We cannot be sure of the enemy’s position, Inquisitor; and do they outflank us to come against Grostheim …”

  “I can smell them!” Talle rose from behind Andru Wyme’s ornate desk in a swirl of black coattails. He strode around the bureau to stand before the nervous marine—and even must he look up into Kerik’s face, still he frightened the man. “I shall lead you to them. They’ll not outflank us!”

  “But are we enough?” Kerik asked desperately. “You speak of a horde, and I’ve only two and a half hundred of my men.”

  “Your men?” Talle chuckled. “Surely mine, no?”

  “Of course; forgive me.” Kerik shaped an apologetic bow.

  “To do with as I wish, no?”

  “Yes, Inquisitor.”

  Talle said, “Excellent. We understand one another.”

  Kerik wished Tomas Var had not gone.

  “So.” Talle hooked his hands behind his back and leant against the desk. “You’ve two hundred and fifty marines not tainted with this ghostly curse.”

  Kerik, standing instinctively to attention, ducked his head. “Two hundred and fifty able men, Inquisitor.”

  “And sufficient powder, shot—all arms—for a campaign?”

  “Yes, Inquisitor.”

  “Artillery?”

  “Ten horse guns, Inquisitor. Unless we strip Grostheim of cannon and take them.”

  “Could we?”

  “It should be mightily difficult, Inquisitor. The cannon are heavy and would surely slow us—besides leaving the city defenseless.”

  “Save for my hexes!”

  “Of course, Inquisitor. I did not mean to imply …”

  “No.” Talle waved a dismissive hand and for an instant Kerik feared he shaped a hexing spell. It was an effort to remain at attention as his heart raced; then he stifled a sigh of relief as the hand fell back and the Inquisitor smiled his ugly smile. “So, we’ve ten horse guns?”

  “With canister and grape shot,” Kerik said, “and trained teams.”

  “Good.” Talle nodded. The ducking of his head made Kerik think of the carrion crows he’d seen picking over corpses. “Then we shall go out to meet them. And do they … disagree … we shall destroy them.”

  Kerik said, “Yes, Inquisitor.” And then: “When shall we depart?”

  “The sooner the better, no?” Talle said. “How soon can you be ready?”

  Kerik swallowed bile. He was mightily tempted to delay, to make excuses that should grant him more time—perhaps ships might arrive from Evander with reinforcements—but Talle fixed him with those piercing black eyes and he could not dissimulate.

  “Three weeks, Inquisitor,” he said, making a swift calculation. “Perhaps four.”

  Talle frowned and Kerik felt sweat run down his back. “We must requisition horses,” he said. “Riding animals and stock for the limber guns. I’ll need to send out parties.…”

  Talle said, “Do it, on my authority. I’ll sign the papers, and can you do it in less time, I shall commend you in my next report to Evander.” He smiled. “Perhaps a promotion? After all, someone must take that traitor Var’s place.”

  Kerik nodded. “I’ll do my best, Inquisitor.”

  “Excellent.” Talle beckoned a silent servant forward. “Brandy! We drink to victory, eh?”

  Kerik nodded as the glasses were filled. “To victory!”

  The servant, whose brand stood pale and stark on the skin of his cheek, said nothing as Talle raised his glass and drank, and Kerik did the same.

  “Report at dawn,” Talle ordered, draining his glass, “and at sun’s set. Neither delay.”

  Kerik said, “Yes, Inquisitor,” and then, “No, Inquisitor,” and felt mightily grateful when Talle waved him away.

  He quit the room wishing his duty had not brought him to Salvation. He could not understand what transpired here—ghosts riding the streets? An officer of the God’s Militia betraying his command to rescue a ne’er-do-well convicted by an Inquisitor? An Inquisitor intent on stripping Grostheim of its defensive forces to go out and meet an unknown enemy? It made no sense. But Jorge Kerik was a mere captain of marines and it was not his place to question or argue with an Inquisitor, so he only wished and went about his duties, preparing for Jared Talle’s campaign.

  Davyd woke from restless dreams to find himself in a place he did not, for a while, recognize. Dreams and reality intermingled: the shooting of Bryn and Morrhyn’s voice inside his head, images of the Horde and a great mass of the People riding out of the wilderness; fire and clashing blades; bloodshed and defeat and victory, all entwined. He groaned and looked about, sitting up.

  He lay in a rumpled bed that stood beside a window, allowing in the pale light of early dawn. The bed was wide and took up most of the small room, which was timbered and plain, furnished with little else than a chest and a washstand. Memory returned: he was in the indentured servants’ quarters of the Vitale holding, and Sieur Vitale was dead. And Bryn. He rose and went to find the others.

  They sat around the table he remembered—Maker, but had he slept the whole day away? There was not time for that.

  “So,” Arcole greeted him with a smile, “you wake at last.”

  A woman handed him a tin mug filled with aromatic coffee and he sipped before he spoke, smiling his thanks.

  “You dreamed?” Rannach asked.

  Davyd nodded.

  Abram Jaymes said, “You bein’ a Dreamer, maybe you should tell us what to do.”

  Davyd felt his smile falter as he found Tomas Var’s eyes on him. The man was—no doubt of this any longer—a friend, but still he wore the uniform of a marine officer in the God’s Militia, and Davyd could not forget what the Autarchy did to Dreamers.

  Then, as if to put him at his ease, Jaymes said, “We were holdin’ a war council. But we figured we need your advice.”

  “We’ve buried Bryn and Vitale,” Arcole said, “and riders are out to alert the other holdings. But do we go on to Grostheim, or …”

  “The People are coming,” Davyd said. “They’ve come through the mountains with the Grannach, and they traverse the wilderness in search of us and the Breakers.” The room fell silent, save for the scuffling of the children who played excitedly with Debo. “Morrhyn leads them, with all the warriors.” He glanced nervously at Arcole. “Flysse is with them, and Arrhyna.”

  “What?” Arcole gaped. “In God’s name, why?”

  Davyd shrugged. “I don’t know, only that she is.”

  Arcole translated for Rannach and the Commacht assumed the same expression of amazement and concern. In the language of the People, Davyd said, “I think they insisted—I can’t be sure; only that they are with the band.”

  Urgently, Rannach said, “I must find her. I must take Debo back and see them both safe in the mountains.”

  “Nor would I,” Arcole said, “have Flysse come here. There’s too much danger.”

  “I think,” Davyd said slowly, ponderous unde
r the weight of the Dreamer’s responsibility, aware of the eyes upon him, all waiting on his words, “that you have little choice in the matter. They are here, and will not go back until we are all safe.”

  He hesitated to add, “Or slain.”

  Rannach said, “Tell me where they are!”

  “Moving toward us,” Davyd said. “I know no more than that. I think …” He paused, sipping coffee, unwilling to meet their eyes, “… that it can do us no good to seek them. They shall find us, or not; but we must go on.”

  How to explain dreams all clouded with confusion and doubt? He wished he owned Morrhyn’s certitude, but Morrhyn was the Prophet and he a mere acolyte. He fingered the warrior’s braids stranding his hair and wondered if he was even that still.

  Rannach said, “I’d not leave Debo in harm’s way.”

  In Evanderan, Abram Jaymes asked, “What we talkin’ about here?” And when Davyd explained: “It might not be so bad an idea. Listen—we already got word goin’ out to the holdings, an’ I’m taking word to Grostheim …”

  He broke off as Var interrupted, “With me.”

  “So maybe if Rannach here contacts his people, we can get together. Rannach can tell your … Matawaye? … where we’re goin’, and we catch the Breakers between us.”

  “Us?” Var asked. “Who’s this us?”

  Jaymes grinned and gestured at the indentured servants listening to their conversation. “The branded folk,” he said. “Them and others of the same persuasion. Maybe even your marines, are they of the same mind as you.”

  “Which is?” Var asked, suspicious.

  “That we need to defeat the Breakers,” Jaymes said. “That first, else they slay us all.”

  Var nodded, frowned, and asked, “And second?”

  “Second?” Jaymes set down his cup and smiled. “That we need to defeat that little black crow bastard, Talle, an’ make Salvation independent. Like we talked about, eh?”

  Var hesitated. “You speak of secession and civil war.”

  “Yes,” Jaymes said calmly, “that’s why I’d like your marines on our side.”

  Var said, “Our side?”

  “I reckon,” Jaymes said. “Which side are you on?”