by Angus Wells
Var hesitated a moment longer before he said firmly, “Yours!”
“Good.” Jaymes grinned and lowered the hammer of the pistol he’d held cocked beneath the table. “So let’s make plans.”
No military band played them out, which Jorge Kerik thought was somewhat of a pity, but all the bandsmen were dead, either by their own hand or slain in the rioting, so only frowning redcoats and sullen exiles watched the departure.
Kerik thought there should likely be a cheer as Jared Talle quit the city, for he knew the Inquisitor was hated as any savage or ghost-rider, but only silence followed them as the gates opened and they went through to what he felt was likely his death.
Talle rode at the head of the column—a black-suited figure slumped uncomfortably on the mildest horse Kerik had been able to find—leading a column of two hundred and fifty mounted marines. The hinterland to south and north of Grostheim was stripped of animals, and Kerik knew the farmers and millers and traders resented the loss, but what could he do save obey the command of the Inquisitor?
They rode with the ten horse guns: light weapons that could be carried swiftly to battle, loaded with the canister and grape that weighted the wagons behind, and withdrawn at speed. Kerik wondered if they should be enough. Each marine carried a musket and pouches of shot and powder in addition to the long bayonets that might be attached to the muskets. Kerik himself wore a brace of pistols and, as befit an officer, a sword. He let his eyes swing sideways to glimpse Jared Talle, who rode saddle-slumped and black-coated, his lank black hair drifting in the warm spring breeze, with no more defenses than his hex magic. Kerik prayed that be enough, for he somehow could not believe that powder and shot alone might be sufficient to defeat the enemy.
They rode on through what the People would name the Moon of Dancing Foals. Salvation’s grass grew fresh and green, and the sky shone blue and swallow-filled, lit by a warm yellow sun. They bivouacked around holdings and empty ground, pursuing the course of the Restitution until they came to a place where open country stood wide between low ridges that stretched down to the river, set atop with oaks and maples.
And Jared Talle raised his hand and shouted for the column to halt.
“We shall meet them here.” He turned to Kerik. “Set up your guns for slaughter. Do they argue, we shall slay them.”
“And if they do not argue?” Kerik asked, confused.
“Then,” Talle said, “we shall make such allies as the Autarchy’s never known.”
Kerik saluted and set to positioning his guns.
36
Into the Fire
The Horde swept like wildfire across Salvation, Akratil at its head with Chakthi following behind like some sullen dog, unwilling—or unable—to quit its cruel master. And was Chakthi the dog, then Hadduth was the jackal, cringing for favor, seeking to please both his masters, so that amongst the Tachyn, men spoke of ignominy and lost dignity. But never loud, for fear of their terrible allies. They remembered Chappo’s fate, and kept their complaining low: none would fall foul of the Breakers. They came out of the wilderness forest and descended on the tilled lands beyond like some locust horde, and even the Tachyn were horrified by what the Breakers did.
“We slay them all.” Akratil sheathed a bloody sword, setting a fresh skull on his saddle. “Men and women and children—all!”
Chakthi said, “But the children might be raised as ours.”
Akratil laughed and shook his head. “None live.”
Chakthi nodded, unwilling to disagree, afraid to argue. He felt sickened by the slaughter—not so much the slaying of the pale-faced intruders on his lands as at the killing of the children.
Akratil said, “You’d have sacrificed your grandson, no?”
“That was different.” Chakthi shrugged. “That was necessary—to bring you here.”
“And now we are come.” Akratil leered down at the Tachyn. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” Chakthi shook his head quickly, aware of how swift that curved blade could lift from the scabbard, “I am your servant, and do your will.”
“As should you, worm.” Akratil laughed again and summoned Bemnida to him. “Listen, do you take half our force northward and destroy what you find. Meet me back on the river, eh?”
“As you command.” Bemnida tossed away the morsel she’d gnawed. The child’s leg fell to the ground and was gulped up by her mount. “How long?”
“Seven settings of the sun.” Akratil reached across to fondle her long blond hair. “Deliver them to blood and destruction, eh?”
Bemnida smiled. “Is that not our way?”
Akratil said, “Yes. Now let them know that.”
Anton Groell threw his musket aside and stooped to the body of his wife. A shaft of bright yellow wood jutted from Liesli’s shoulder, and she moaned in pain as her husband lifted her in his arms.
The room stank of blood and gunpowder and smoke. The roof was burning and all the branded folk were dead; Anton had no more powder save the horn on his belt, and only enough shot for the pistol holstered there. He feared his wife was dying, and he’d not see her consumed in the flames of abomination’s making: he picked her up and staggered through the smoke to the rear of the holding. He ignored the cuts on his own body, the pain of the two arrows grating on his ribs. He kicked down the burning door and walked out through the smoke.
A painted face confronted him and, unthinking, he drew his pistol and fired. The face went away as Liesli screamed, and he mouthed apologies as he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. He ran, as best he could under the burden of her weight, toward the river.
There was a cornfield there, and the trunks were high enough to hide them. It came to him that he’d not reloaded his pistol, and he prayed none of the savages or the demons find them before he could settle his wife into the little dinghy and cast loose. He was no longer sure God stood on his side.
It seemed almost impossible in light of what he’d seen: demons come riding on weirdling beasts to attack his holding, and led by a woman who had screamed her name as if in challenge of all that was good and true and ordered.
“I am Bemnida, and I bring you death!”
That alone had chilled Anton Groell, for he could not imagine such horridly lethal intent in a woman’s mouth any more than what she had done after.
He had seen her strike down men and women and children as they fled for the safety of his house. And then seen her take up the body of a child and toss it to the thing she rode—which had chewed on the little corpse as if it were a tidbit. He had known true fear then.
But none so bad as this as he stumbled through the corn with Liesli across his shoulder. He dropped her twice, stifling her agonized cries even as he bit down on the pain of his own wounds. He wanted only to reach the dinghy and escape the awful carnage, but he could hear the shouting behind him, and the throaty crackle of his home burning. He began to cry, and staggered onward.
Then he was tumbling down the riverbank, Liesli screaming as the shaft imbedded in her body broke and drove deeper, he whimpering as pain flooded his body from his own fall.
He rose onto his knees and reached for his wife as he saw the dinghy, hope there in the little craft. And then a thing that was a lion and a lizard combined with other animals came charging down the slope. The rider wore armor of shining green and held a sword high.
As it swept down to take off Liesli’s head, Anton Groell heard the wielder shout, “I am Bemnida!” He could not see her face beneath the helmet, but he recognized that voice, and shuddered.
He saw his wife’s head go rolling down into the water and wished he’d recharged his pistol. He might then, at least, have fired one shot before the sword clove in his skull.
Even had Flysse not guided the Matawaye warriors out from the wilderness forest to the river, still they had likely found the trail the Breakers left, for it was as if flame ran across the land and they need only follow its swath. It sickened them, and firmed their purpose, and had any doubted the wisdom o
f this dread venture, then what they saw along their way confirmed the need to confront and defeat the Breakers. Nightly they prayed to the Maker for strength and victory.
“How can they do this?” Dohnse stared aghast at bodies sundered and burned, some spitted and carved like deer. “It shames me that the Tachyn ride with these folk.”
“It should not,” Morrhyn said. “It shames Chakthi and Hadduth, and those who ride with them, but it should not shame you.”
Dohnse shrugged and turned away. Kahteney asked, “Can we defeat them?”
Morrhyn in turn shrugged and answered, “We can only try.”
Yazte stared at the corpse of a child, roasted and gnawed like some suckling pig, and said grimly, “Must I die in the trying, then I give my life willingly.”
“And I,” Colun declared. “We must fight them.”
“Then let’s go on.” Morrhyn turned from the sorry relicts. He felt a tremendous sadness that such evil came again, nor less than the others a grim resolve that this be settled one way or the other. He did not think he could live in a world that also held the Breakers and their Tachyn acolytes. “Perhaps tonight I’ll dream of Davyd.”
Davyd watched Rannach mount the horse taken from Sieur Vitale’s stock. It was a fine animal: a deep-chested bay with the legs of a runner. Debo was settled on a piebald mare that reminded him of his own horse, smaller than his father’s mount, but still, the branded folk assured, fleet of hoof and possessed of stamina.
Rannach said, “Are you sure of this? I’d not leave you to fight alone, even though …” He glanced at Debo, who beamed to be once again ahorse.
“Yes.” Davyd ducked his head and spoke with far more conviction than he felt. “Do you go back and see Debo safe, then tell the People where we go—that way they shall find us swifter. Tell Morrhyn I shall do my best to dream.”
Rannach nodded. Arcole said, “And tell Flysse I love her. And are you able, send her back.”
“I doubt,” Rannach said, “I shall be able to do that, nor persuade Arrhyna, but no harm shall come to either one whilst I live. You’ve my word on that.”
Arcole said, “I know,” and they clasped hands.
“We’ll meet you where the Maker chooses,” Davyd said. “Farewell.”
“Farewell.” Rannach raised a hand in salute to all of them and beckoned Debo to follow, driving heels against the bay’s flanks so that the big horse snorted and began to run.
“So now it’s our turn.” Abram Jaymes shouldered his rifle and spat tobacco onto the grass. “An’ if Davyd’s right, we don’t have much time.”
Davyd said, “No,” and they went down to the landing stage, where Vitale’s folk had provided them with a dinghy.
They loaded what little gear they carried and Arcole and Var took the oars, bringing the small craft out to the current. Jaymes manned the tiller and Davyd sat at the prow, his eyes blank with apprehension.
“God, but this reminds me,” Var said.
Arcole grinned. “We faced an easier enemy the last time.”
Var smiled back. “I was afraid then.”
“And you’re not now?” Arcole asked.
Var whistled. “I think that this time I am even more afraid.”
“And I,” Arcole returned.
“The guns are all in place.” Jorge Kerik gestured at the wooded ridge that boundaried the eastern perimeter of the shallow valley. “Anyone entering here will be in easy shot. And must we withdraw …”
The chopping of Talle’s hand cut off his words. “We shall parley,” the Inquisitor declared, “and if they refuse my terms, we shall slaughter them.”
Kerik held his face rigid as he nodded. And if we cannot, he thought, then I shall order my men to run for Grostheim, for I wonder if you’re any longer sane. But all he said was, “As you command, Inquisitor.”
And they waited for the Breakers to arrive.
Davyd woke confused, opening his eyes on a sky all pocked with twinkling stars and the fat crescent of the burgeoning moon. Water slapped restless against the planks of the dinghy, punctuated by the rhythmic creak of the oars. Abram Jaymes manned them alone, with Var sleepy at the tiller and Arcole snoring softly in the thwarts. Davyd wondered an instant what had woken him, and why he felt such a terrible urgency.
It was not anything he could put into words—only a certainty, a conviction he could not explain but must obey. He sat erect, sleep sloughing off as he stared around.
“Turn in!”
“What?”
Abram Jaymes looked back from his oars so that the dinghy wallowed in midstream. Var grunted and set firmer hands on the tiller; Arcole stirred, clutching at his musket.
“Turn in!” Davyd gestured wildly at the north bank. “Here; now!”
“Why, for Godsakes?” Jaymes demanded. “We’re not more’n a couple days from Grostheim. Why here; why now?”
“Turn in!”
Jaymes stared at him awhile then shrugged, motioning that Var bring the tiller over. Var obeyed, but as he did, Davyd saw his expression: such as he might bestow on a madman.
Perhaps I am, he thought, save I … know
“What’s going on?” Arcole woke, coming upright with his musket cocked and raised to his chest. “Are we attacked?”
“No.” Jaymes spat a long streamer of tobacco over the river. “Davyd says we have to beach.”
“Why?” Arcole, in turn, stared at Davyd.
Maker, grant I’m right; please.
He swallowed, which was difficult with a mouth so dry. “We must,” he said. “I can’t explain, but we must.”
“There’s nothin’ here,” Jaymes said. “No holdings, only open land.”
Davyd rubbed at his temples. “There’s a valley,” he said. “A wide valley with timber along the ridges.”
“An’ a stream along the bottomland that gets real marshy when it rains,” Jaymes said. “Sure; it’s about two days’ walk from here, but what of it?”
“It shall happen there,” Davyd said.
“What shall happen?” Arcole demanded.
“The last battle. I have to go there.”
They all stared at him as the dinghy grounded on a stretch of sandy shore overhung with low-branched alders. He clambered wearily over the bow and held the little craft as Jaymes sprang into the water and manhandled the boat farther up the sand. He felt exhausted, and his old wounds throbbed as if in recognition. Arcole and Var jumped into the river to aid Jaymes. Water birds screeched a protest and splashed away. He looked at the river, rippled by starlight, silvery under the moon’s glow. It was, as best he judged by the moon’s position, close on midnight.
“Two days?”
Jaymes nodded. “If it’s the valley I’m thinkin’ of. But what’re you goin’ to do?”
“Go there.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Arcole said, “I shall come with you.”
“You don’t need to. I can go alone.”
“And die?” Arcole shook his head.
“All right.” Davyd looked at Jaymes, at Var. “But not you—you go on to Grostheim.”
“And?” Jaymes asked.
“Raise this army you spoke of,” Davyd said, not sure where the words came from, only that he must say them else the world fall down under the Breakers. “Bring all the folk you can to this valley. Armed for battle. Find us there, and so shall the People.”
“And then?” Var asked.
“And then,” Davyd said, “we shall either defeat the Breakers or die.”
There was a silence before Tomas Var said, “Do you forget Jared Talle?”
“No; he’s there already.” Davyd shook his head as Var’s eyes framed a question. “I don’t know how I know, but I do. He’s there, waiting.”
“For what?” Var looked at him out of eyes that now wondered.
“The Breakers,” Davyd said. “He’d ally with them.”
“He said as much to me.” Var swallowed. “But would he, truly?”
“Yes.”
Davyd looked out at the night, the river. The water flowed like passing time and he felt again the certainty. “He would.”
“Shall he succeed?” Var asked.
“I don’t know.” Davyd shrugged. It felt as if he raised a weight with his shoulders, a terrible weight that lay upon the certitude of his abstract knowledge. “Only that we must do what we can to defeat them all.”
“Then we’d best get goin’.” Abram Jaymes glanced at Var, then at Davyd. “It’ll take a while to reach Grostheim, an’ longer to raise folk—if we can.”
Var said, “I thought you guaranteed that?”
“Against Talle, yes.” Jaymes grinned; in the moon’s light his smile looked hollow. “But we’re talkin’ about a different enemy now.”
Var said, “Shall that stop us?”
“No; let’s go.” Jaymes shrugged and turned to Davyd. “Can you find the valley?”
Davyd nodded; the knowledge sat inside his skull like a lodestone pointing him to his destiny.
“Then we’ll meet you there soon as we can. Come on, Tomas.”
They shook hands, and then Var and Jaymes manhandled the dinghy clear of the strand and went away downriver. Davyd sighed and took up his musket and began to walk northward.
Arcole fell into step beside, not sure where Davyd led him, or to what; only that he must go.
He wondered if he was to die in Salvation, for it seemed a forlorn hope that the many strands of fate Davyd spoke of should come successfully together. How could the People find them in time, and even did they, were they enough to defeat the might of the Breakers? And how could Jaymes and Var raise an army of indentured folk to fight such horror? And Flysse was with the Matawaye—would she live? He glanced sidelong at his companion, no longer the gangly boy he’d brought out of Grostheim. Moonlight reflected silvery off Davyd’s white hair, and the long scar running down his face shone pale against the tan. He could see that Davyd was mightily weary and guessed the old wounds hurt him, but there was an expression of grim resolve on his face that forbore questions, so Arcole only cradled his musket and went with his friend to meet their destiny.
Almost, their horses collided, but Rannach swung his around at the last moment and brought the bay in a skittering circle to come alongside Arrhyna’s. They leant across to embrace. For a moment he held her and kissed her and smelled her hair, and wanted nothing more than to snatch her from the pad saddle and take her to their lodge. But she pushed him away and reached for Debo, taking the child into her arms, and they rode together as around them all the Matawaye warriors shouted their approval and danced their weary mounts in acclamation.
