by Angus Wells
Rannach pushed them hard, allowing but a single halt to rest and water the horses, riding through the night as if demons bayed at his heels.
In time, the eastern horizon shone pink as the heart of a river-washed mussel shell, and the moon faded reluctantly behind the mountains. The landscape ahead glowed gold and red as the sun came up, chasing herds of white clouds across the paling sky. Birds rose in chorus of the dawn and insects joined their song.
The tracks turned eastward, and showed the tired signs of weary horses.
Bakaan said, “Soon; he’s slowing.”
Rannach hefted his lance, the Grannach blade sparking sunlight in glittering shards against the morning. “Yes, soon.”
It was the voice of a questing wolf, scenting prey.
Bakaan said, “Remember your promise.”
“To Arrhyna?” Rannach spoke harshly. “Or to my father?”
Bakaan shrugged. “Better alive, eh? That he face the humiliation …”
Rannach looked into his friend’s eyes and offered no answer.
Hadustan said, “He’s not running for the Tachyn grass. Look.” He angled his lance in the direction of the tracks glistening dewy in the rising sun. They went toward a dense stand of pine and maple that shone dark green in the burgeoning light. “I think he looks to lose us there, but if we ride hard around …”
“We might lose his trail,” Rannach said.
“Or get ahead of him,” Hadustan answered.
Rannach said, “He might double back, and then we lose him.”
Bakaan said, “This is your hunt, brother; it’s your decision, but I believe Hadustan is right.”
Rannach’s hands flexed indecisive on lance and rein. His head dropped as he thought, chin resting awhile against his chest before he looked up and said, “We ride for the wood. It might be Vachyr watches us. So …” He thought a moment longer; then said, “It’s not so large a wood, eh? So—Bakaan, do you patrol this side in case he does double back; Zhy and Hadustan, you ride the edges. I’ll go around.”
“And if we find him?” Zhy asked. “Remember, we’re still within the Meeting Ground.”
“Take Arrhyna from him!” Rannach’s voice was the snarl of an outraged lion. “How, I don’t care. Only take her back.”
Zhy said, “I doubt he’ll give her up easy.”
“Do we find him,” Hadustan said, “then we’ll ask him gently to release her. And if he refuses, well …” He raised his lance, turning the pole so that the blade caught sunlight.
“Does it come to that,” Rannach declared, “the crime is mine. I take responsibility.”
Bakaan said, “We’d not let you do that, brother.”
“Does Vachyr fall to me, I want to boast his slaying,” Hadustan said.
Rannach shook his head, slower now, and smiled. “I could not ask for finer friends, or better brothers. But is there payment to be made, then I claim it. You agree?”
“Time passes.” Zhy glanced skyward. “Do we ride, or sit here talking?”
Rannach said, “We ride!” And heeled the stallion onward.
Morning came warm, shifting transitory with the moods of this New Grass Moon: one day chill, the next like summer. Morrhyn stepped from his lodge with the sun on his face and stared up into a sky all decked with drifting billows of white cloud, like snow-colored buffalo charging across the blue. The only birds he saw were the crows that gathered annually about the Meeting Ground: none ill-omened, nor had he dreamed. He had sunk weary into his furs, to wake hoping Vachyr and Rannach both lived, and there be no cause for war between the Commacht and the Tachyn.
O, Maker, he asked as he looked toward the Mountain, Might it not be so? Could you not intercede and stay their hands, their anger?
He did not anticipate an answer. The Maker moved mysterious; and did the deity hear, then the reply would come in kind, not plain words. The wakanisha sighed and spat into the grass, and settled to the preparation of his breakfast. He thought he could not expect Lhyn’s hospitality this morning.
Rannach held the stallion to a gallop around the edgewoods. His companions rode slower behind him, and as he left them behind he told himself they must be right. Hadustan’s guess must be correct. The Tachyn grass lay that way and the Maker-cursed wife-thief would run for that safety. He’d not dare risk the Meeting Ground, not with a stolen bride.
Rannach felt the pulsing of the stallion’s brave heart between his legs. It matched the pulsing of his own. The blood ran hot and heavy in his head, dispelling hunger and lack of sleep. He knew only desperate hope and the heat of anger. The promises made to his father were forgotten: his wife was stolen—a crime demanding blood-payment.
He rounded the wood as the sun touched its midmorning point, and eased the tired stallion to a halt. Not far off, the grass ran smooth and green to the banks of a river that sparkled blue and silver. Willows bowed over the water and herons waded there, and from the timber, crows rose in raucous chorus. Rannach scanned the wood and turned his horse toward the stream. He walked the animal until the beast was cooled and no longer panting, all the while praying he not be wrong, that Vachyr should appear. Then he watered the horse, even knelt and slaked his own thirst; splashed water on his face and told himself that if he could, he would try to leave Vachyr alive.
It should not be easy, not after what Vachyr had done. But if it were possible … Yes, perhaps even better than killing him, to bring him back captive, slung shamed over the saddle of his own horse, to face the condemnation of the Matakwa—of all the People. To see Vachyr and his father both condemned. That, and keep his promise to Racharran.
Save only Vachyr had not harmed Arrhyna: that he could not tolerate.
He swung into the saddle and walked the stallion back toward the wood.
The crows were not rising now in morning’s flight. They came in waves, first from their central roosting, then closer, as if riders disturbed them. Rannach hefted his lance, fixed his shield firmer about his left arm, and faced the timber.
Vachyr came out. He rode a chestnut gelding that moved tired. He held a lead rein in his left hand, attached to Arrhyna’s piebald mare. Rannach’s wife lay across the saddle, her hands and feet lashed firm, her auburn hair spilled loose about her face, so that Rannach could not see it.
He raised his lance and shouted, “Ho! Wife-stealer!”
Vachyr halted. He looked weary, and angry. Long scratches ran down both his cheeks. He let go the lead rein and allowed Arrhyna’s piebald to walk toward the water.
“So, you found me.”
Rannach said, “Yes. And now I am going to take you back—so all the People see what you are.”
Vachyr smiled an ugly smile and said, “And also tell them what I’ve done to your wife. Shall you be proud of that?”
Rannach looked at the mare as she passed him. Arrhyna groaned and raised her head, the curtaining hair parting so that he saw the bruises decorating her face. She said, “Kill him,” through swollen lips.
“I’ve had her,” Vachyr shouted. “Last night I took her!”
Rannach watched the piebald mare go by. Then he vaulted from the saddle and ran to halt the horse. He cut Arrhyna’s bonds and eased her to the ground. The horse walked free as he cradled his bride in his arms. He stroked her face, easing her hair away. It was painful to look at the bruises.
Arrhyna said, “I fought him. In the Maker’s name, I swear I fought him!”
Rannach said, “I know. He dies for this.” All thoughts of returning Vachyr alive were forgotten, burned away in the heat of his rage. He vaulted astride the bay and couched his lance.
Vachyr laughed and said, “Remember, we’re not off the Meeting Ground yet.”
Rannach shouted back: “Fight or die!”
Vachyr answered: “Do you harm me, you shall be condemned for shedding blood at Matakwa. Can you bring me back alive, then your wife faces disgrace. Listen! Let me go and I’ll say nothing of the pleasure I took of her. How say you?”
Rannach
glanced at Arrhyna. Her lips moved, and though he could not hear what she said through the pounding of the blood in his head, he recognized the words she shaped: “Kill him!”
He shouted, “Yes!” and heeled the stallion to the charge.
Vachyr brought his shield across his chest, leveled his lance. The bay gelding sprang forward as he drove his heels against its ribs. Both horses were battle-trained: they attained their full pace in instants. Both men were warriors: they steered their mounts with knees and heels, shields protective, lances poised to strike.
They came together and Rannach caught Vachyr’s lance on his shield, turning it up and away as his own drove at the Tachyn’s belly. Vachyr twisted sideways in his saddle, using his shield to deflect the thrust. Rannach’s lance scored a bloody line across his ribs and he was pitched sideways across his horse.
Momentum carried them apart; both hauled their mounts around to charge again.
Rannach’s lance took Vachyr in the groin. He felt the Tachyn’s pierce his shield and ride up fiery across his shoulder. It was a distant sensation: he was entirely concentrated on Vachyr’s face, which split in a wide and awful grin. He saw Vachyr lifted from the saddle, spilled backward off the gelding even as he seemed to slide along the length of the lance; it protruded from his back. Rannach went by and turned the pole, depositing Vachyr on the grass.
He swung the stallion around.
Vachyr rested on hands and knees. His breeches and the ground between his legs was dark. His head hung down, and he blew like a wounded buffalo. Long streamers of bloody spittle hung from his mouth.
Rannach shouted, “Look at me!” And when Vachyr’s head slowly rose, “For Arrhyna!”
He charged and drove his lance through Vachyr’s chest, leaving the Tachyn pinned like a bug to the grass.
He came out of the saddle before the stallion halted, leaping down to clutch Arrhyna in his arms and stroke her hair, her damaged face. He held her gently, afraid of giving further hurt.
She said, “I am spoiled, husband.”
He shook his head and said, “No! Not in my eyes.”
She put her arms around him, nestling into his embrace and, against his chest, said, “He forced me.”
Rannach said, “His sin, not yours.”
“And what shall you tell the Council? When the Matakwa asks about this?”
“That Vachyr stole you,” he said, “and rode away with you. And that I slew him for that.”
“On the grass of the Meeting Ground?”
She raised her head to look into his eyes. When he saw the bruises again, it was hard to hold back the tears, but he nodded and said, “Yes. And am I condemned for that, it shall be worth it—to have you back.”
“I must tell them,” she said, “that all the People know why you slew him.”
Rannach hesitated an instant—there was pride, disapprobation to be considered, gossip—then he smiled and said, “All that matters to me is that I have you back. Must you speak of what transpired, then so be it. But I do not ask you to do that. You need say only that Vachyr stole you, and I won you back. That is all that matters to me.”
Arrhyna looked a long time into his eyes. Then she said, “I am fortunate in my husband.”
Rannach shrugged and smiled and said, “No less than I in my wife.”
10 Of Things to Come
Morrhyn chewed on the pahé root, his gums and tongue numbing as the drug took effect. He saw Hazhe reach out to toss a scoop of water over the coals, and it was as if the Aparhaso Dreamer moved in slow motion, the rising steam billowing no faster than a lazy cloud in the summer sky. Hazhe caught his eye and smiled solemnly, his gray head nodding in decorous rhythm. Morrhyn smiled back and rested against the hide-covered frame, letting his gaze rove—slowly—about the Dream Lodge.
The sides of the wa’tenhya glowed in the morning sun and fragrant steam hung misty about the interior. Kahteney lounged to Morrhyn’s right, his eyes already fogged, mouth gone slack. On Morrhyn’s left, Is ten beamed; past him, Hazhe went on nodding. Across the seething coals Hadduth sat with closed eyes. Morrhyn wondered how much the Tachyn wakanisha knew of Arrhyna’s kidnap, how much was his design. He thought it likely Chakthi’s idea, but probably embellished by Hadduth. He thought that sooner or later—inevitably—there must be a confrontation; as he had warned Racharran, it had been planned cleverly, leaving no opportunity for accusation without insult.
Then he felt the numbness in his mouth spread out through his skull, encompassing his mind so that he fell back, his eyes wide and blank, incapable of closing as they stared at the unfolding images of the dream he now shared with all the wakanishas of the Matawaye.
• • •
Racharran sat with Colun outside the akaman’s lodge. The Grannach was entirely recovered from his drunkenness—a recuperative ability Racharran envied—and sat cross-legged before the six of the folk he had brought with him, all eager to speak of their experiences with the strangeling invaders. Lhyn, not yet ready to forgive her husband, bustled within the tent, emerging to shake blankets or comb furs with sidelong glances of disapprobation at the men.
Racharran maintained a dignified, if somewhat nervous, expression. It was not easy: he worried no less than Lhyn about their son. Often, as his clan came to speak with him of Colun’s news and the deliberations of the Council, he thought that it were better he go to Chakthi and plead with the Tachyn akaman for peace, for unity. But he doubted Chakthi would listen, nor could he quite bring himself to go supplicant to a man he despised.
So he sat and listened to the folk of his clan, told them what he knew and what he believed, and watched them hear out Colun and his Grannach, then walk away, knowing they should come back to express their opinions, that he take back the decision of all the Commacht to the Council.
He looked to where the Dream Lodge was pitched on a shelf of stone above the Meeting Ground. It was set apart that the wakanishas not be disturbed, close to the flank of the Maker’s Mountain, where wide-limbed cedars shaded the grass and the pinnacle of the holy Mountain rose above.
He wondered what they dreamed with the pahé in them and what answers they would bring out from the wa’tenhya. He felt afraid.
There was fire, and dread riders on beasts that stamped flame from the grass, fanged jaws clacking in anticipation of prey. They were unknown and horrid, but their masters were worse. They rode in rainbow colors that should have been beautiful but were not: were, rather, malign as a cyclone-spoiled sky, like once-bright flesh decayed and spoiled. They carried poles on which skulls rattled, those empty sockets no less empty than the bearers’ eyes. Mouths opened in soundless laughter and shrieks of triumph, all proclaiming the same awful challenge: “We come!”
Before them stood a mountain wall Morrhyn did not recognize but nonetheless knew to be the farther side of those peaks that ringed Ket-Ta-Witko, seen as once the Whaztaye must have seen them. There were no Whaztaye in the dream, only the strangelings who came on inexorable, like a brilliant, dreadful tide, closer and closer to the hills.
Morrhyn shuddered in his trance. He wished to wake—this vision awed and terrified him—but knew he must not, that he must suffer the images and glean from them what knowledge he might for the sake of all the People. He knew that sweat beaded his face: it was chill as the wind in the Frozen Grass Moon and hot as the sun in the Moon of Ripe Berries. He felt afraid.
Rannach wound Vachyr’s body in the Tachyn’s blanket as Arrhyna bathed. He wondered what should happen when he brought the corpse back to the Meeting Ground, and found it hard to care. He had got back his bride, and he had slain Vachyr in honest battle. How could he be blamed? Was he accused of truce-breaking, surely the Matakwa must understand: Vachyr had stolen his wife. Surely that was the greater sin.
He waited until Arrhyna was done with her bathing and then loaded the body across Vachyr’s horse. He helped Arrhyna into her saddle and climbed astride his stallion.
Arrhyna said, as he took up the rein of Vachyr’s
animal, “Do you want to do this? Do you want to go back? You had best be sure, husband.”
Rannach said, “As I told you, yes. But you need not say anything.”
“Still, he did what he did.”
“Do you love me?” Rannach said.
Arrhyna said, “Yes. More than life.”
“Then it does not matter what he did. Only that you love me, and I you.”
Arrhyna smiled. Rannach heeled his stallion, Vachyr’s bay gelding snorted protest at the weight of the body, and they rode toward the wood.
“I cannot doubt the word of the Grannach.” Racharran gestured at the squat folk seated around him. “Does Colun say the Whaztaye are slain, then I’d not gainsay him. It is my belief that such folk as might broach the gate are come; it is my belief we should prepare. But you must make up your own mind. Speak with the Grannach, if you wish; and tell me later what you’d have me do.”
Zeil nodded and said, “Yes, that’s wise. Chakthi would not speak so openly.”
Racharran said, harsher than he intended, “I am not Chakthi.”
Zeil said, “No, and I thank you again for accepting me into your clan. You’ve news of our daughter?”
“No.” Racharran shook his head. “Only what you know—that she was taken and Rannach went after her. You shall know as soon as I when news comes.”
“Thank you.” Zeil ducked his head.
Racharran sighed and looked to where Lhyn busied herself with the fire. The day aged now, the descending sun hurling red light against the slopes of the Maker’s Mountain. Eastward, the moon rose into a swath of gentian blue, like a teardrop on a blanket. Crows roostered loud and heavy-winged herons flapped homeward. The Meeting Ground was hung over with the smoke of cookfires, the air redolent of roasting meat, loud with the sound of the People. All of it as it should be, and always had been, save that …