by Angus Wells
But it was hard. The doubts dinned always in his ear and he wondered if he clutched at phantasms, or if somehow the strangeling invaders sent malign influences into Ket-Ta-Witko to lure and twist and weaken. He could only hold hard to that vision of the holy mountain, trust in the Maker, and commit to his chosen path.
He heard the hoofbeats fade and wondered how long he had held his breath. He was not much used to fear, not this kind, and he licked his lips and wiped a hand across his brow as the paint horse rose grumbling to its feet. He walked the beast up the slope, halting awhile below the ridgetop until he was certain the Tachyn riders had gone. Then he mounted and continued westward.
There was dust to the south where the riders had gone, and he wondered if the Tachyn rode against his own clan or the Lakanti: Yazte had answered Racharran’s call with war bands that struck into the Tachyn grazing. But not enough: the Lakanti had their own affairs to tend, the summer hunting, the planting, and must also ward their borders against Chakthi’s madness. Morrhyn wished he might have spoken with Kahteney, but that had not been possible, as if, somehow, fate turned and twisted to deny sensible dealing and turn the world all to chaos.
And the others, he thought as he heeled the paint down the ridge’s farther side toward a stream flanked with sun-washed alders, choose not to see or know, but rather ignore the madness. Juh holds his Aparhaso aloof, and Hazhe offers no help; neither Tahdase nor Isten, who follow Juh’s lead and wander to the farthest reaches of their grazing, as if this war has no concern for them. If they came to us, to stand against Chakthi’s insanity, then perhaps it might be ended and the People stand together.
Against what? doubt whispered in his ear.
Against those dreams I had, he answered himself.
But those were only vague and you’ve none now. You’re dreamless.
Colun’s warning, he told the speechless sky. The invaders who have conquered and slain the Whaztaye.
Who are beyond the mountains, held back by the Maker’s promise. Do you now question that? Do you question the Ahsa-tye-Patiko? Do you set yourself above the Maker?
No, he moaned into his horse’s mane. But I question men, and Chakthi, and what comes to this land.
He saw the country ahead blur, and realized that tears filled his eyes. He wiped them away, telling himself he must be strong and go on, because there was no other way. He thought then of that vision of the Maker’s Mountain and for a moment felt its strength again, and that spurred him so that he went onward, knowing he had no other choice.
He crossed the stream and rode up through the alders to a wide plain where buffalo grazed. The herds migrated southward now, and in better times the clans would have drifted with them, the People and the beasts joined in natural union: the Maker’s providing. Now there were only the buffalo, the Commacht living slim, the warriors without time to cull the herds for want of fighting Chakthi. It would be a hard winter without their meat.
He marveled at the size of the herd and turned the paint horse around its farther edge as the guardian bulls lifted up their bulky heads and snorted challenge. He skirted the herd and went on across the plain. Low hills marked the far skyline, and he thought he would find those heights by dusk and make camp, setting out traps. If he could not eat buffalo meat, then perhaps he might snare a rabbit or a partridge.
Or perhaps go hungry: his life seemed all “perhapses” now.
As it was—a sing? He could not decide—his snares took two fat rabbits and he ate well, and in the morning woke to find magpies chattering in the trees. A flock swooped overhead and clustered around in noisy observance, which he decided was a favorable sign. But then, as he quit the timber for the wide swath of open grass beyond—all rolling down off the ridgetop to a sweeping valley that stretched across westward to another bundle of low hills that lay like a shadow across the horizon—he saw a flight of crows. They swooped down toward him and cawed loud and spun circles in the sky above so that he ducked in his saddle and thought it must be a sign countering the good fortune of the magpies.
He reined in and studied the expanse of grass ahead. It was very wide—likely a full day’s riding to cross—and flat, devoid of timber. He thought that if Tachyn found him there, he should have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and should die.
And does that matter? he asked himself. He made obesiance to the Maker and urged the paint horse forward.
The Tachyn came from the east: five horsemen riding hard to intercept him.
They came up from a dry wash with whoops, and lances raised, and he heeled the paint to a gallop even as he knew they must overtake him and prick him from the saddle, his quest undone and wasted. He thought a moment of the bow he carried and then as quickly discarded the thought: he might take one or two—he was not so bad a bowman—but still he’d die, and nothing be solved or resolved. So he left the bow wrapped in its quiver behind his saddle and reined in his horse, waiting for them.
“I am in your hands now,” he said to the blue, unyielding sky.
White cloud streamed there, and the wind that blew it rustled the grass and set his unbound hair to fluttering about his face. That was the only thing marked him wakanisha, but he doubted Chakthi’s men would care even did they notice. As Racharran had warned, they’d likely kill him easy as they slew the defenseless ones.
His horse fretted, snorting and stamping, and he reined it tight, forcing it to stand even as his heart set to pounding and he felt the breeze chill the hot sweat beading his forehead.
The Tachyn drew closer, slowing when he made no attempt to escape or use his bow. One man came out in front, his face and bare chest all banded with war paint, and raised his lance high and sideways so that the others slowed further until their horses walked, spreading in a wide circle around Morrhyn.
The leader came forward, the sun sparking brilliant off the Grannach brooches that fastened his plaits. He couched his lance and came on until the sharp-edged head touched Morrhyn’s chest.
He said, “You are very brave. Or mad.”
Morrhyn said, “I am very afraid, Dohnse. I do not know if I am mad, but perhaps I am.”
Under the paint, Dohnse’s eyes narrowed. “I gave you life once,” he said. “Did you believe that was a lifetime’s promise?”
“No.” Morrhyn smiled tightly. “Neither did I think we’d meet again.”
Dohnse leaned a little way forward in his saddle so that the lance point pricked through Morrhyn’s shirt. The wakanisha held himself rigid. He felt a small trickling down his chest and belly and wondered if it was blood or sweat.
“I do not understand you,” Dohnse said.
Morrhyn resisted the temptation to look down, to see what damage the lance had done; instead, he held the Tachyn’s gaze. “I scarce understand myself,” he said.
Dohnse frowned. “You are mad. Our clans are at war, and yet you ride alone? Why did you halt?” He waved his lance at the quivered bow behind Morrhyn’s saddle. “Why do you not fight?”
“There’s enough bloodshed already. I’d not deepen that pool.”
Dohnse scowled and asked, “Are you a coward?”
Morrhyn only shrugged in answer.
Dohnse said, “When you came to us at the ford I thought you were brave.”
Morrhyn said, “I was concerned for my clan. I am still: for the Commacht and all the clans.”
“Ach! You speak in riddles.” Dohnse spun his horse in a tight circle, lance indicating the warriors ringing Morrhyn, waiting. When he halted again, his lance stood poised. “You are concerned for the Tachyn?”
“For all the People,” Morrhyn said. “For the Tachyn and the Aparhaso and the Naiche and the Lakanti and the Commacht. For the Grannach too. I fear a thing comes to Ket-Ta-Witko that shall destroy us all, save we face it together.”
The lance point drooped a fraction and he felt a small flush of hope. Dohnse said, “You speak of the Grannach’s warning? Of the dreams?”
Morrhyn said, “Yes.”
Dohnse sa
id, “Hadduth has explained that to us, that those dreams were dreams of this war.”
“And Colun’s warning?” Morrhyn asked.
“Of no account,” Dohnse returned him. “The Grannach spoke of events beyond our borders. We place our trust in the Maker, in the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. We believe the Maker shall hold back these invaders—if they truly exist.”
“Hadduth says this?” Morrhyn asked. And when Dohnse nodded: “Think you the Ahsa-tye-Patiko is not already broken? Perhaps that weakens our defenses.”
“Rannach was the one defied the Will,” Dohnse said.
“And Vachyr,” Morrhyn said.
Dohnse looked a moment troubled. “Vachyr paid with his life. Rannach yet lives.”
Morrhyn said, “In exile, banished. His life forfeit if he returns.”
“But Vachyr lies in the trees,” Dohnse said. “The ravens eat his flesh.”
Morrhyn nodded. “And many more feed the ravens; it shall be a hard winter. And is the Will all forgotten, then perhaps these invaders shall come through the mountains. And what then?”
“We fight them. But first, we’ll take blood-payment of you Commacht.”
“There’s blood already paid.” Morrhyn said. “Ours and yours. Women weep in the lodges of my clan; children mourn their fathers, and husbands their wives. Is that all our future, Dohnse? To fight one another until your clan or mine is all destroyed? And do these invaders come—shall we fight them together or clan by clan?”
“I …” Dohnse lowered his lance somewhat, shaking his head. “I do not know. These are matters for the wakanishas and the akamans. I am only a warrior: I do Chakthi’s bidding.”
“I think that you are more than just Chakthi’s liegeman. I think you are a man of honor. I thought that when you granted us the crossing of the ford.”
“Ach!” Dohnse danced his horse. “I paid for that! It did not please Chakthi.”
“But was still,” Morrhyn said, “the honorable thing.”
“Perhaps.” Dohnse brought his horse to rest, and the lance back to Morrhyn’s chest. “But it served me ill.”
Morrhyn said, “But perhaps the Maker well.”
“You weave words.” The lance rose, pricking again. “You look to escape. Why should I not kill you? I should stand high in Chakthi’s eyes did I bring him your head.”
“Likely you would.” Morrhyn wondered how he managed to speak so clear when his throat felt so dry and his tongue so thick with fear. He felt his body awash with sweat, but he was chilled and must fight the temptation to shiver. “Chakthi would likely take some pleasure in that.”
Dohnse said, “Much pleasure. The head of the Commacht wakanisha? Chakthi would feast me for that, I think.”
Morrhyn was surprised to hear himself laughing. Perhaps, he thought, I am mad. Aloud, he said, “A poor prize, my head. Empty of dreams: useless as a holed bucket.”
Dohnse said, “You lie.”
“No.” Morrhyn shook the head in question. “I cannot dream. That’s why I am here.”
“Best you speak fast,” Dohnse said, “because I tire of this wordweaving. I think I shall kill you soon.”
“I’ve no dreams,” Morrhyn said wearily. He wondered if it was not better that this Tachyn slay him: it should be an ending, a resolution of a kind. “Only darkness. I come here because I’d go to the Maker’s Mountain. I had … a vision … The mountain called me. I left my clan to go there; I hope that the Maker will give me back my dreams. Perhaps give me answers to this madness.”
“What madness?” Dohnse asked. “We fight in Vachyr’s name, for Tachyn honor.”
“Tachyn honor?” Morrhyn said. He felt a great weariness, as if he carried a tremendous weight that bore him down and set all his body to aching and numbness. All these words—those spoken by Dohnse now and those voiced by his own clan—they all seemed a wordy fog that swirled and turned and cried out meaninglessly, speaking of small things when larger events loomed, and none to see them clear or ward against them. For a moment he thought it should be a great relief to let it go: that Dohnse drive that point into his chest and take his head back to Chakthi. But he could not forget his duty, his responsibilities, and so he said, “And the Commacht fight for honor. And the defenseless ones die; and Ket-Ta-Witko stands like a blinded deer awaiting the invaders’ arrows.”
He sat back in his saddle, thinking that the blow must come now, wondering how it should feel to die. But the lance dropped and Dohnse said, “You speak all the time of these invaders, but say you cannot dream. How can you know?”
“What does Hadduth say?” Morrhyn asked. And saw Dohnse’s eyes narrow again, and cloud. And heard doubt in the Tachyn’s answer.
“What I’ve told you—that the dreams were of our war.”
“Were?” Morrhyn looked at Dohnse’s face, seeking to read it through the paint. “Those are old dreams, Matakwa dreams. What of now?”
Dohnse shook his head, braids flying, brooches glittering bright as the lance’s point. He gave no answer.
Morrhyn’s lips stretched in an unwilled smile that was less triumphant than resigned. “None, eh? Hadduth’s blind as I?”
Dohnse said nothing, which was answer enough.
Morrhyn said, “Listen to me, Dohnse! Hear me out and then decide if you’ll slay me. But in the Maker’s name, hear me first.”
Dohnse hesitated awhile, then nodded and Morrhyn felt a little spark of hope rekindled. Which was, he thought, like a sprig of dry moss lit in the teeth of a blizzard. But it was all he had, so he said, “I’ve lost my dreams, and from your silence I believe Hadduth’s lost his. Am I wrong, then slay me—but first tell me that Hadduth still dreams. This I ask you, in the name of the Maker!”
Dohnse turned his face away. Morrhyn saw him swallow, then spit, and knew—horrid confirmation!—that he was right.
“So, the wakanishas of the Commacht and the Tachyn both no longer dream. Strange, eh? As if some black cloud blows over Ket-Ta-Witko, leaching out our gift. Perhaps from over the mountains, eh? Think on it, Dohnse! Is it not strange that the dreams are gone, and so soon after Colun’s warning? And did Colun speak the truth—Have you ever known a Grannach to lie, Dohnse?—then they threaten the Grannach passes and might come against us. Not against only the Commacht, or the Tachyn, but against all the People! And what do we do? We fight—Tachyn against Commacht and Lakanti—and the Aparhaso and the Naiche go away, pretending this is none of their affair. The People stand in disarray, Dohnse! Like a deer herd scattered by wolves, all easy for the taking.”
“Words,” Dohnse said, but unconfidently. “Clever words to justify Vachyr’s slaying. And to save your life.”
“My life?” Morrhyn threw back his head and laughed. “My life is nothing! Take it if you will; it should be a weight off my shoulders. And Vachyr’s slaying? I do not justify that, save to tell you Rannach’s punishment was decided by the Council, in Matakwa, by all the akamans. Even his own father!”
A slow moment, then, as Dohnse sat his horse and a flight of summer geese winged overhead, the calling loud in the heavy silence. The grass rustled in the breeze and clouds stretched out like passing time above and the sun sat heavy and indifferent in the sky.
Then Dohnse nodded and said, “That was so.”
He looked directly at Morrhyn, and the wakanisha saw a question in his eyes.
“I have no easy answers,” he said. “Nor any promises or pleas. Only that I felt called to the Maker’s Mountain and that is why I am here, alone. And if you must kill me, then do it.”
Dohnse leaned sideways from his saddle to spit again. “You truly think this?” he asked. “That these invaders the Grannach warned of send their magicks to steal the wakanishas’ dreams?”
Morrhyn said, “I think it may be so. I cannot say for sure.”
“And you would go to the holy mountain to find out? To get back your dreams?”
Morrhyn nodded.
Dohnse said, “I think you are mad.”
“Perhaps I am.
How could I know?”
“It should be a sin against the Will to slay a madman. And I think you are mad.”
Morrhyn shrugged.
Dohnse said, “This shall serve me ill when Chakthi hears of it, but I’ll not take a madman’s head.”
Morrhyn thought: Maker, thank you.
Dohnse said, “Go! Ride hard and pray for me.”
“I will,” Morrhyn promised, and turned the paint horse past Dohnse’s gray as the warrior shouted for the Tachyn to let him go, calling out that he was a crazy man and must surely earn them the Maker’s displeasure were he slain.
There was yet some honor left, he thought, and therefore also hope.
The Fat Moon filled up and waned as he went on, replaced by the Moon of Cherries Ripening, and he wondered how much time was left or if it was all eaten up by Chakthi’s hunger. He wondered how his clan fared, and if he rode into the arms of the invaders. That, he thought, should be a great joke: to come so far in search of answers only to die at the hands of the problem.
But he dismissed that thought: there remained in the hinder part of his mind the certainty he had known before Matakwa, confirmed by Colun and his Grannach—that terrible danger came against Ket-Ta-Witko. It was a certainty that nagged at him like an unhealing wound, and nightly he prayed the Maker give him back his dreams that he might know for sure and know how best to advise the clan and the People. But still no dreams came, only empty-minded sleep, so that he came almost to fear it, for it was like going down into blindness, and had his body and his horse not required the rest, he would have pressed on. He felt the attaining of the holy mountain was his only hope.
And so on he went, hiding whenever riders showed in stands of timber where he stood with hand across his horse’s muzzle and his own breath loud in his ears, or crouched in washes and ravines as hoofbeats and shouts announced the passage of enemies he looked to save. He crossed rivers and passed by or through herds of buffalo. Often he went hungry: he relied on his snares for food and what he could forage from the land, and never looked to hunt the deer or wild pigs he saw. It was as if, dreamless, nightmare creatures bayed at his heels, propelling him forward, running desperately to a safety he could only hope existed.