Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  “You’re sure, Major?”

  “As God’s my witness,” Var said. “Yes: I’m sure.”

  There was such conviction in his voice that Emmit nodded and holstered the gun. “I pray I do the right thing,” he said, and turned to the sergeant behind him, shouting that the Militiamen open the gates and let the people through. “What shall I do?”

  “Open the armory,” Var said, “and give us weapons; powder and shot; supplies. Then come with us.”

  “Sir!” Emmit saluted formally. “I place myself under your command.”

  “So far, so good.” Abram Jaymes came up to join Var as Emmit ran to unlock the stores. “I thought maybe I’d have to shoot him.”

  “I thought he’d likely shoot me,” Var said.

  “No one,” Jaymes remarked, grinning, “lives forever. Now let’s get our people onto those barges.”

  They set to organizing the evacuation. Not all had agreed to Jaymes’s plan, but enough stood with the man that the dissidents had no real voice. Those who agreed believed in liberation, in freedom and free choice, and their voice was the loudest, so that Grostheim emptied as they marched out to the river and the waiting barges, which filled up with folk armed with muskets and pistols and swords, all intent on defending their country and winning their liberty from invasion and the Autarchy, both.

  “It’s grand, no?” Jaymes remarked as the barges were poled out into the stream. “Look at that.”

  Var turned, staring back down the long deck at the flotilla of barges that followed them westward. It was a sight he’d never thought to see: branded folk manned the sweeps alongside freemen and soldiers of the God’s Militia, all willing to work together for the future of their chosen land. “There’ll be no turning back now,” he said.

  Abram Jaymes chuckled and spat tobacco into the Restitution. “There never was.”

  Var said, “No, I suppose not.” Then: “Shall we be in time?”

  “We’d best be,” Jaymes replied evenly. “Is Davyd right, then we win or lose in that damn valley. And I believe in that boy.”

  “Yes,” Var said, “so do I.”

  And in Salvation’s holdings, in the farms and mills and vineyards, men and women woke to the dawning of a new day, a new world. They did not properly understand it, only that a compulsion—a geas—lay upon them and summoned them to the valley. Masters looked at servants and smiled and handed out weapons. Indentured folk took up axes and sickles, and their owners nodded in approval and took up their guns and went with the branded folk to that conjunction of destiny, all hoping they come timely; none knowing if they should, only that they must, as if the world’s future pulsed in their veins and filled them with shared purpose.

  The valley stretched from north to south, a wide bowl contained within the curvature of the wooded ridges. The moon lit the grass, shining off the colorful tents of the Breakers, duller on the lodges of the Tachyn. Fires burned down there and the night was loud with the snorting of the lizard creatures and the nervous whickering of horses. The smell of dung was strong. The western entrance was broad, the only exit to the south, where the stream that flowed across the bottomland ventured out to meet the Restitution through narrowed walls. Save the Horde come over the eastern ridge, it must go out that way.

  “We can take them there,” Jorge Kerik said, angling a finger at the pass. “Two guns, and they’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Save they come up the ridge,” Arcole gave him back. “They’ve numbers enough to mount a frontal attack and overwhelm us.” He pointed along the ridge. “Or outflank us. And likely they’ve strong magic.”

  Kerik nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve seen battle before.”

  “I fought in the War of Restitution,” Arcole said, and grinned. “Against the Autarchy.”

  “An old war.” Kerik chuckled, liking this man. “Two guns overlooking the pass, then. The others on the ridgetop. What of these allies of yours?”

  “The People come from the west,” Arcole said. “Most likely they’ll come in through the far pass. Can Abram and Tomas raise their army, then I’d guess they’ll enter from the river side.”

  “And these Breakers be contained within the valley.” Kerik scratched his head. “Shall we be enough?”

  “Not alone. You’ve what—two hundred and fifty marines? The Horde could sweep over us—we need the others.”

  Kerik took a hip flask from his coat and swallowed brandy, passed the flask to Arcole. “Perhaps we should run.”

  “They’d outpace us,” Arcole said, confirming Kerik’s fear, “and go on to Grostheim. No, are we to win this fight, it must be fought here. Davyd says so.”

  “There are some redcoats still left in Grostheim,” Kerik said. “And the city’s strong walls.”

  “Even so.” Arcole shook his head. “Davyd says we must make our stand here. It seems that’s important, and so we must hold them here.”

  “If we can,” Kerik murmured.

  “Davyd says it must be so.” Arcole shrugged as if that were the end of any argument.

  “He’s a strange one,” Kerik remarked. “You trust him, no?”

  Arcole said, “Absolutely.”

  Kerik sighed. “Then I suppose I must, too; though God knows why.”

  “You feel it, don’t you?” Arcole said.

  Kerik said, “I feel very frightened. I feel trapped—I cannot run and I’ve too few men to fight. But also …” He hesitated, frowning. “I feel … that worlds collide here, and I had best heed you and Davyd.”

  “And pray,” Arcole chuckled, “that help reach us in time.”

  “Yes,” Kerik said earnestly, “that, too.”

  Davyd lay restless. The night was warm and a breeze rustled the timber topping the ridge. He dreamt of battle and it was as if he again saw the images that had come to him in the oak wood. He saw armies locked in combat, and fire walk the land—and all was confusion. He saw the Breakers prevail and the Breakers defeated; friends die and friends survive. He knew, even asleep, that the future must depend on the morrow when surely the Breakers would move, and knew that were they not held and halted, then all was lost. He knew that did not the disparate peoples of this new world come together the Breakers could not be defeated—that all depended on that conjunction of forces—and that if that alliance was not made, the Breakers should prevail.

  He cried out in his sleep to Morrhyn, seeking communication, and saw the wakanisha’s face briefly before flames hid it. He wondered if the words he heard truly spoke of the People coming or were only a cry of anguish.

  He woke dry-mouthed and sweat-beaded, opening his eyes on a sky that shone with the pearly light of burgeoning dawn. Birds sang and squirrels chattered, the grass along the ridge was dew wetted and the air promised a warm day, the sun already lighting the eastern horizon. Davyd wondered if it might not be his last day. From the marines’ positions came the smell of coffee and frying bacon, the muted conversation of men aware they faced a fight they might not survive. Davyd rose from under his blanket and checked the priming of his musket. He realized that his wounds no longer ached and wondered if that was some kind of sign. He bathed in the dew and combed out his braids, re-tied them. He no longer cared whether he was wakanisha or warrior: it seemed unimportant on this day. He stood, staring down the ridge at the wondrous colors of the Breakers’ tents, and knew the future of Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne, and all the worlds, hung in precarious balance. Then he made obeisance to the Maker, praying for victory, and went to find Arcole.

  “We must hurry: I dreamed of Davyd.”

  Kahteney nodded. “And I, brother. But shall we be in time? Can we be?”

  “We must be!” Morrhyn rubbed at eyes reddened for lack of sleep. It was not yet even close to dawn and all around men lay beneath their blankets. He clapped his hands and shouted, “Wake! We ride!”

  And because he was the Prophet none argued, but only rose and saddled weary horses and followed him to the east, to the valley.

  “We can ride
no faster.” Rannach held his mount to a gallop, shouting into the windrush. “The Maker knows, Morrhyn, but we’ll kill the animals at this pace.”

  Morrhyn stared fixedly ahead. The night shone bright with stars, lit by the glow of the New Grass Moon. His unbound hair flung out behind him and it seemed to Rannach, as he caught the Prophet’s blue eyes, that the cold brilliance of that moon shone there. He wished they might halt and set up their camp and he go lie in Arrhyna’s arms, Debo asleep across the lodgefire, and knew that could not be until this thing was settled. And then, he wondered, when it is settled, shall there be lodges and wives and children? Or are we riding to our deaths?

  As if in answer to his thoughts, Morrhyn shouted: “What else? Shall we abandon Davyd and Arcole? Abandon the world to the Breakers?”

  “No!” Rannach shouted back.

  “Then ride,” Morrhyn told him, “and must we kill the horses, then we shall go on afoot and fight on foot. But fight we must!”

  The oyster gray translucence of the early dawn grew sunlit. Light rose from the east and sent shafts of brilliance dancing heavenward. The horizon there grew bright, blue washing back the gray like a rising title, and then the sun itself showed, leaping up to fill the sky with blue and gold, hot and heady on the men who waited on the ridge.

  It was a while longer before the radiance lit the valley, and by then the Breakers were striking camp, folding their tents and stowing them on pack animals. The Tachyn did the same, stowing their lodges and mounting horses that fretted and stamped in the presence of the Breakers’ beasts. Chakthi was painted for war, stripes of yellow and white daubed across his vulpine face. He wore a hatchet and a knife on his belt, and a quivered bow was strapped across his back. He carried a lance decorated with the hair of men and women he’d slain.

  He looked at Hadduth and asked, “Is Rannach up there?”

  Hadduth said, “Even is he not, still you’ll have his head.”

  “Your promise? Else I’ll take yours.”

  “Akratil’s,” Hadduth said. “His and mine: we cannot fail.”

  Chakthi stared at his wakanisha and nodded. “Best we do not, eh? Else your life’s the forfeit.”

  Hadduth smiled, confidently. “We’ve all the strength of the Breakers with us, my akaman. We shall be mighty and ride down the world until all hail the Tachyn and their chieftain, and know us as conquerors.”

  “It had best be so,” Chakthi said, and heeled his horse to where Akratil mounted his strangeling beast.

  “We attack them?”

  Speech was somewhat difficult, for Chakthi’s mount skittered and pranced in such proximity to the animal Akratil rode. The Breaker smiled, reaching out to stroke the serpentine neck of the horned horse. “Are they still there and not fled,” he allowed, “yes. Why not? Do you send your warriors against them first.”

  Chakthi hesitated a moment, remembering the thunder that had greeted his assaults on Grostheim and the border forts, the damage those long-firing guns had inflicted.

  “They might have …” He recalled the owh’jika’s words. “Cannon.”

  “Are you afraid?” Akratil donned his helm, staring mockingly at Chakthi, who snarled under that red-eyed stare and shook his lance in defiant negation and shouted, “No!”

  “Then attack them,” Akratil said, languid. “And we’ll follow you. And do you fail, we shall destroy them.”

  “I shall not fail,” Chakthi declared. “I am Tachyn, and I am not afraid to die.”

  Akratil raised a gauntlet to indicate the eastern ridge. “Show me then,” he said, “how brave you are.”

  “I shall!” Chakthi raised his lance, shouting that his warriors join him.

  They grouped around him and he set out his battle plan, which was a simple charge up the slope to whatever waited there. He raised his lance again and pointed the head at the ridge.

  “We ride!”

  They charged.

  “They’re coming!” Sergeant Ordan bellowed. “Man guns and stand ready!”

  The limber guns were already loaded, fine powder in the priming tubes, waiting only for the touch of the slowmatches to ignite the charges and send the shot out against the enemy. Two were placed as Kerik had advised to fire down into the southern egress from the valley. Two more were set to cover the northern approach against flanking attack. The remaining five were angled down the slope, against such frontal assault as now came.

  “Wait!” Jorge Kerik shouted. “On my order, eh?”

  He watched the riders come out from the valley, across the bottomland, and up the slope. It was, he thought, insanely brave. Did they know there were horse cannon on the ridge? Were they only foolish? Did they understand modern warfare? No matter; they came to his killing ground and would die under the weight of his guns. Perhaps then he could ride away and be gone from this portentous valley. Save now he had a battle to fight and knew he must win it. Davyd and Arcole—though mostly Davyd—had convinced him of that, and so he gritted his teeth and watched the horsemen come screaming up the slope and waited until there was no chance at all his gunners could miss and dropped his hand and shouted: “Fire!”

  The salvo ripped the Tachyn from their horses like wheat torn by a storm wind. Grapeshot flailed them and canister burst in terrible explosions. Men and horses screamed together, and fell down all bloody; bodies rolled down the slope or lay with mangled limbs on the stained grass. Birds rose in panicked flight from the timber. Chakthi’s horse was blown from under him and the Tachyn akaman found himself stretched facedown, scrabbling at the ground as the firestorm of shot raged overhead.

  When it ended he looked up, cursing through gritted teeth, and shouted for his men to rise and follow him. His lance was gone, so he strung his bow and sent a shaft flying to the ridgetop. The arrow passed over the heads of the gunners, busy reloading the deadly cannon, and was answered with musket fire that crackled down the slope to slay more Tachyn. Some turned and ran; others rallied around Chakthi, who vented his rage in a shrill scream and charged.

  The cannon blasted again, and more Tachyn died; Chakthi saw his clan decimated. He was not sure whether the blood on his face and chest was his own or some slain warrior’s. He was consumed with rage and chagrin as he saw that he could not hope to take the ridge.

  “Back!” He waved at his surviving men. “Back!”

  “By God, but we beat them!” Kerik beamed at his men. “Well done, boys.”

  “They were the Tachyn.” Arcole spat a ball into his musket’s barrel and rammed it down. “The Breakers play no part yet.”

  “Even so!” Kerik was sanguine with his first victory. “They’ll find this ridge hard to take.”

  “Hard,” Arcole agreed, “but not impossible.”

  “No.” Kerik sobered, staring at the warriors massed below. “Shall your friends be long?”

  Arcole shrugged and looked to Davyd, who stood grim-faced, his musket held at the ready. “I don’t know,” he said. “I pray they come in time, but …” He shrugged. “We must hold them here, in this valley. We must, no matter the cost!”

  Akratil looked down at Chakthi and smiled contempt. “You failed.”

  “Had you ridden with us,” Chakthi snarled, “it might have been different.”

  “Indeed.” Akratil chuckled. “My people might have died.”

  Chakthi’s face was a blood-washed mask of rage, furious eyes staring out from the gore and the streaking of his paint. “Are you afraid, then?” he grated.

  Suddenly, Akratil’s sword was at his throat. “I am afraid of nothing,” the Breaker said, his voice no longer amused. Chakthi backed away and found himself surrounded by armored warriors who eased their dread mounts close so that he was ringed with scaley hides and gnashing teeth and could not escape the blade. “Heed me.” Akratil pressed the sword’s point home, so that a thick bead of blood ran down Chakthi’s neck. “I will show you what we do—I’ll take that ridge, and you shall ride beside me. Now find yourself another horse lest you go afoot. Bemnida
!”

  “Akratil?” The woman came from the crowd. Beneath her helm, her eyes were troubled as she glanced up at the ridge, at the bodies of the slaughtered Tachyn.

  “These new weapons disturb you?” Akratil demanded.

  “They seem …” she hesitated. “Very powerful. And—do I not miss my guess—protected by some magic.”

  “The magic is of no account.” Akratil waved a dismissive hand. “What power it had died with that foolish man, Talle. Only its memory lingers, and now they’ve only those things our cringing ally here names …” He looked to Chakthi. “What are they called?”

  Sullenly, Chakthi said, “Cannon.”

  “Cannon,” Akratil repeated, smiling confidently. “We shall overcome them, no?” Dutifully, Bemnida nodded.

  Akratil’s smile grew broader at the prospect of fresh slaughter. “We waste time here,” he said. “There’s killing to be done in this land and I’d move on to this city our friend has spoken of. But I’d not leave this troublesome group in our rear, so do you, Bemnida, lead the Horde out through that pass”—he pointed to the southern egress—“and I’ll join you when I’m done. It should not take long.”