“What about our Dreamwalker? Maybe she can guide us.” Rehobim turned his hot gaze on Intyr, who was sitting off to the side, staring into nothing. She had not spoken in days and had to be fed or she would not eat. Shakre found herself wondering what nightmares she saw in her dreams.
“Pastwalker,” Rehobim continued, “What would you say?” All eyes turned to Rekus, who paled.
“I do not…” the tall, thin man stammered. “I cannot find…” His voice trailed off and he looked at the ground. He hardly ate anymore either.
“But you had many words before, Pastwalker. Tell us, shall we cling to the old ways? Shall we look to the past for answers and wait meekly for Kasai to find us yet again? How well did that go for us?” Rekus would not meet his eyes. Shakre remembered that he offered himself first for the question when the burned ones surrounded their village. At the time she had thought he did this from a desire to set an example for his people. Now she wondered if he had done it out of guilt, when everything he said would not happen did.
“See?” Rehobim said to Elihu. “Our Walkers have nothing.” Several Walkers had come in with the refugees and his gesture encompassed them. None of them spoke. “Yet we have food in our bellies. Our fire burns strong and fuel for it is plentiful. No guidance comes from the past. Down here our dreams are our own. Down here the plants do not strike at us at every turn. The game does not turn on us. There is no threat from the Mistress, Azrael. She is gone, or dead. Tu Sinar is dead. The gods that enslaved us are dead. Without them we are once again our own masters. We do not need those who guided us when the gods’ venom waited for us at every turn. We do not need them.” He shot a contemptuous look at Elihu. “Even if you do not like this new truth that makes you irrelevant, it does not change things. We no longer need you.”
To Shakre’s surprise, Elihu said, “Your words are true. The dangers we faced on the Plateau are not the same as those here. But this does not mean that there are not other dangers, traps we would be wise to avoid setting foot to, nooses we want to keep our necks from. Nor does it mean that now you shall be our leader and tell us what to do.” He stared steadily at Rehobim, his posture relaxed, his voice calm. There was nothing in his demeanor or voice that could be construed as a challenge. But neither was he backing down.
Rehobim was readying a reply when Youlin came forward. Her slight form was swathed in furs, though it was warm enough down here that most Takare were wearing simple tanned leather, and her face was hidden in her hood. “Do not discount the past as a source for answers, Rehobim,” she said. He looked startled, which was not surprising as Youlin generally supported him. She turned to face the gathered Takare and her eyes glittered from the darkness of her hood. “But the problem is we have not been looking far enough into the past. For too long we have focused too much on the tragedy of Wreckers Gate, when we were deceived into fighting against our own kin. “I say we look further back, to the time before that. To the time when we were feared and respected by all the outsiders. A time when nations trembled at the sight of us. It is time to stop abasing ourselves before the mistakes of the past.
“There is a lesson in Wreckers Gate. A valuable lesson that we should never forget. But it is not the lesson our Pastwalkers have been feeding to us for centuries. Raising our weapons against our own people was a grievous mistake, but that mistake pales before the much larger one.” She waited then, letting that sink in for them. Those Takare who had been engaged in other tasks around the camp had ceased them as she spoke and walked up to hear what she had to say. Now every ear waited in anticipation of what she would say next.
“Our mistake was casting our weapons aside.”
Though Shakre was expecting the words, still she was stunned, and she was not the only one. What she said contradicted the very foundation of what the Takare had made themselves into since the tragedy of Wreckers Gate. And while it was clear they were moving away from that foundation, still it was a shock to hear it said aloud so bluntly. There was almost a gasp from the Takare.
“Our mistake goes back to when we allowed the Kaetrian Empire to enslave us. It was we who should have been the masters. The Empire should have been ours. Instead of throwing our swords down we should have turned on the Empire and drenched it in blood until the life of each Takare we had been tricked into killing was repaid a hundredfold.”
For a long moment every Takare was still as they struggled to absorb this idea which had perhaps never been voiced by one of theirs before. Shakre and Elihu exchanged looks. This was the culmination of all she had feared ever since the first appearance of the outsiders and Shorn, when the kind, gentle folk she had lived among for two decades awakened and became something else. The ripples of change that had washed against the Takare in the past months had morphed into a flood. What would be left when the water receded? Shakre wondered.
“Let me lead you to a different time in our past,” Youlin said. “Let me show you a time when all feared us and none raised a hand against us without paying the highest price, that you may see how far we have fallen…and how high we will rise.”
She began to chant then, taking them with her on a journey to the past, a journey that would define their future…
The bodies were frozen when the Takare warriors rode up to them. Snow had fallen overnight and the bodies—six of them—were partially covered in a white, gauzy drift. They lay in a short canyon, a spot where the trail dropped down to follow a stream as it wound between two low cliffs. The ambush had been brutally efficient. The victims had not even had a chance to run or defend themselves. They lay in the snow in single file, each pierced by several arrows that had clearly been fired from above. Three were elderly, two men and a woman, and the other three were barely into their second decade, their faces carrying the smoothness of adolescence.
The leader of the warriors—a broad-shouldered man with his hair tied into multiple braids and a scar that ran across his forehead—held up his hand and his followers came to a halt, their horses’ breath steaming in the frigid air. The warriors numbered ten, both men and women. Their mounts were of excellent breeding, their saddles finely tooled and their cloaks rich with gold thread. They wore hardness like armor and anyone observing them would be quick to see the contradiction between their finery and the cold look in their eyes. Their weapons were plain but of the highest quality and worn from countless hours of use. They sat their horses with the coiled grace of cats, compressed lethality that could explode in any direction at a moment’s notice. They stared at the bodies on the ground dispassionately. Those on the ground, though dressed more simply, still had something in their features that spoke of kinship with the warriors who looked down on them.
“This must be answered,” said one of the warriors, a tall, lean woman with graying hair and twin swords strapped to her back.
“As it will,” said the leader, touching the sword at his side. His horse snorted and stamped its foot. “Skeler!” he called. At his call a woman appeared at the other end of the short canyon. She was dressed all in red and a strung longbow was in her hand. When they had first spotted the bodies she had peeled off from the rest, disappearing into the surrounding forest.
“They went south,” she called. “The trail is easy to follow.”
The leader nodded, then returned his gaze to the frozen corpses. “The answer will come soon, my brothers and sisters,” he said to them, then spurred his horses through them, the rest following.
They reached their destination in the mid-afternoon, a sleepy village sitting in a clearing at the base of a small hill. The village had a stout palisade around it and probably three dozen homes, including several of brick that were more than one story. The warriors made no effort to conceal their approach and long before they reached the village the alarm bell tolled. Men ran from fields around the village and soon the palisade bristled with bows, swords, axes and pikes. Men in mismatched armor hurried back and forth.
The Takare warriors stopped a bowshot away from the village a
nd arranged themselves in a line facing the main gate. For a time, they just stood there, staring at the village while its defenders shifted nervously. Then the leader lifted his hand and opened the clasp that held his rich cloak in place, letting it fall to the ground behind his horse. The rest of his warriors followed suit. A sound of dismay rose from the defenders as they saw the red sashes each man and woman wore. Every citizen of the Empire knew those sashes: the Takare. The most feared warriors in the known world.
A handful of defenders broke then, jumping down off the rampart and fleeing into the village. A while later they could be seen climbing up to the ramparts at the rear of the village and dropping over the palisade to run away.
“Answer them,” the leader said to the graying woman with the twin swords strapped to her back. She nodded and trotted around the side of the village. She moved almost leisurely, as if she had no concern that they would escape.
“It wasn’t us!” one man yelled. He had a shock of red hair and the thick forearms of a smith. “The ones you want ran off this morning!”
The Takare did not reply, sitting on their horses and watching.
More cries arose from the village and there seemed to be an argument going on. Then the main gate creaked open. A rotund, nearly bald man stuck his head out. He withdrew and more voices were raised. Moments later he reappeared, arms pinwheeling as he sought to keep his balance. Once he did, he stood there, his eyes fixed on the frozen warriors, wiping his hands over and over on his clothes. Straightening his shoulders, he walked toward the silent warriors.
“Uh…Lords and Ladies,” he stammered. “I am Trel, the mayor of this town and I have come to…” His voice trailed off as a scream came from the forest on the other side of the village, quickly stilled. His face turned pale and sweat ran down his face.
“Our brothers and sisters have been killed,” the leader of the Takare said. “The killers came here.”
“Yes, they came last night…but they left.” The mayor’s eyes darted up and down the line of silent killers, seeking something that he could not find. “We told them—”
He was still speaking when the leader’s sword flashed into his hand and took his head from his body. Slowly he toppled to the ground.
At a gesture from the leader the warriors began to walk their horses forward. Cries rose from the defenders on the wall and a handful of arrows flew out. Most of the warriors simply slapped the missiles aside as if they were flies, but the leader grabbed the one aimed at him out of the air. Then he snapped it in half and threw it on the ground.
The defenders held their positions for a few more seconds, then broke and scattered.
The leader stopped before the gate. One of the warriors, a young man, slid down off his horse and ran to the wall. He climbed it easily and dropped out of sight on the other side. Moments later the gate swung open and the warriors entered the village.
Eight of the warriors entered. One stayed outside and circled the walls to watch for those who escaped the net. By the time it was dark the village was in flames and the warriors were riding away. Their people had died, and they had given answer.
Youlin brought them out of the vision and looked down on them. “This is the past we must remember,” she said hoarsely. “When we were truly great. When those who spilled Takare blood repaid the debt ten times over.”
As she finished speaking a great shout went up from the Takare and weapons were thrust into the air.
Shakre and Elihu exchanged looks and then made their way through the cheering throng and into the darkness. “They belong to him now,” she said to him when they were away.
Elihu sighed. “I tried. I did not think I could stop him, but I had to try. He may not carry it so lightly in the future. Leadership is a heavy burden, heavier than he knows.”
“What do we do now?”
“What we have always done,” he told her lightly. “We live. We wait. We do not know what tomorrow may bring.”
She shook her head in admiration. Always Elihu had been like this. No matter how dire the situation, he always seemed to bob to the top. Nothing held him down.
Later, as Shakre was preparing to sleep, Werthin appeared out of the shadows and stood there. She did not see him come, and was only aware of his presence by the nuances of his Song whispering inside her. Elihu was already lying inside the rough shelter they had built up against one of the tall trees.
“I will go with them in the morning,” Werthin said. His eyes were cast down and something in the way he held himself made him seem very young. It struck Shakre then that he was not even as old as her own daughter, Netra. If the world was normal, if so many things were different, he might be standing before her shyly asking her permission to court her daughter.
“I know you do not approve,” he said hastily, “but I must go. I heard your words and I will guard my heart, but I must fight or give up who I am.” He hung his head miserably.
Shakre put her hands on his shoulders and waited until he looked into her eyes. “I understand,” she said softly.
“You are not displeased with me?” He sounded incredulous.
“Not at all. You have heard my words. It is all I could ask.” She smiled at him. “Return safely, Werthin. Your people need you.”
He nodded vigorously. “Thank you. I will hold your words inside.”
She watched him disappear into the darkness and the heaviness inside her lifted somewhat. One, at least, heard her. Perhaps there would be others.
Shakre watched the next morning as Rehobim prepared to lead his warriors against Kasai’s forces once again. There were nearly fifty warriors with him now, grim faced men and women strapping their weapons close, and packing away food and water.
“I would like to say only one thing,” she said, walking up to him. She would not change any hearts, she knew that. But the words were there and she must say them or live with the regret.
Rehobim spun on her. “More words to weaken us?” he hissed. “Mercy for those who seek our blood?” Youlin stood nearby, lost in the depths of her hood, but Shakre felt her eyes on her.
“No. I offer only a reminder, to go with what Youlin showed us last night.” Rehobim hesitated, but the others were watching and Youlin made a gesture that seemed to indicate her approval. Finally, he nodded and she turned to the warriors and raised her voice.
“Youlin Pastwalker is right. We cannot cling to the past. That past is gone. It died with our reluctant god.” She motioned to the shattered remains of the Plateau that loomed over them. Smoke still rose from it in a few places and the wounds on its face were raw and new.
“I ask only that you remember your history. Remember who you are. All of it.” Some frowned. The rest looked confused. “What made the Takare great was your mastery. Your struggle was always to master yourselves, not others, to rise to greater and greater heights through defeating the greatest enemy of all—the enemy inside each one of us. You were great because this was your focus and you could not be swayed.
“Now it is time to fight again and I wish only to remind you of this. You fight an external enemy, but your greatest enemy is still within.” Her eyes flicked to Rehobim, who stiffened. “Those you fight do not have the courage of the Takare. It will be up to you to show them what true courage looks like.
“It will be up to you to show them what it means to be Takare.”
She turned toward Rehobim and Youlin. “May the spirit of Taka-slin go with you.”
There was silence when she finished. Here and there were knitted brows as people absorbed the import of her words. Rehobim glared at her, but there was nothing he could really say. He turned away and began issuing orders for their departure.
Thirty-three
Late one afternoon Shorn and Netra stopped on a small hill dotted with cedar and scrub pine and looked at a house tucked in the hollow below them. It was made of gnarled cedar logs and packed earth and a rough barn stood nearby. No one seemed to be about.
“I’ve been here be
fore,” she said. “I spent the night here on my way north.”
Shorn simply stood there, watching. The sun glinted off his copper skin and his eyes were in deep shadow.
Netra closed her eyes and slipped inside herself, listening to the currents of Song that eddied around them, hoping for any sign of Grila, Ilan or their sons. Fearing that instead she would find the dark, burned feel of those marked by Kasai. A moment later she opened her eyes. “It’s empty. They’re gone.”
There was no wagon. Had they ever returned from the town? Did a burned man come on the town while they were there? Were they charred corpses now, or did they carry Kasai’s mark on their foreheads?
She started warily down the hill toward the house. Even though she sensed no Selfsong here, that didn’t mean there was no one here. The fact that Bloodhound had been able to sneak up on her like that worried her. Somehow he had been able to mask his presence; maybe others could too.
There was a charred spot near the barn, some blackened bones poking up through the ashes, marking the spot where they had burned the calf with the thing growing inside it.
The front door was closed but it yielded to her and they went into the shadowed interior. The place was neat, the rough mattresses stacked against the wall, plates and bowls on the shelf, cookpot hanging over the dead fire. On the table was the brush Grila had used to brush Netra’s hair. She picked it up, feeling her throat close, and turned to Shorn.
He looked bigger than ever in that tiny room, bent over to keep from hitting his head. He seemed to fill half the space. Some sacks hung from the walls and there were several wooden boxes. He began to go through these, looking for food. It felt like stealing and she started to protest, but then said nothing. Clearly Grila and her family didn’t need it anymore. He found some dried meat and stuffed it in his pack.
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