by Angus Wells
The buffalo died, all of them, and their slayers gorged on some and left the rest all bloody and ruined and pointlessly slain. Then the manthings came down and carved off steaks and ribs and set to eating the meat raw.
They were easier to define against the dark shapes of the buffalo carcasses, and Racharran saw that there were no more than seven of them, and seven of the creatures. For a moment he thought of rescinding his own orders and attacking, but he knew—for all his outrage prompted him to believe otherwise—that such monstrosities as these could not be defeated by six Commacht. They were too terrible, too given to wanton slaughter: what they did had nothing in it of humanity, but only … otherness, such strangeness as spoke of generation outside the Maker’s creation. He felt he looked on blasphemy incarnate, as if all the darkness and ugliness of the very worst of sins were released into the world and become rapacious flesh.
He watched aghast, scarce daring to breathe for fear these things sense it and slay him before he had chance to tell the People what he had seen. He watched them end their feast, and the man-things call up the beasts and set saddles on them, then mount and ride away. He was ashamed he felt so glad when they went away from where he lay.
“What now?” Zhonne asked, his voice harsh with disgust.
Racharran thought a moment. Then: “I think those must be scouts.” He did not want to say what he knew he must, but he was akaman of the Commacht—he had a duty. So he said, “We must go after them and see where they go. Likely they join a larger band. We need to know how large, and where it is.”
“Likely we go to our deaths,” Motsos said.
Racharran said, “Perhaps. Would you turn back?”
Motsos glanced sidelong at Zhonne and Bishi, then shook his head.
“But a long way behind them, eh?” Lonah said. “And very wary.”
“Yes,” Racharran said, and forced his mouth to smile. “But look you, they go toward the Tachyn grass. Shall we dare that?”
It was a poor jest, but it elicited smiles, albeit grim.
“I think,” Lonah said, “that after what I’ve seen this day I am not much afraid of Chakthi’s wrath.”
“Then we go,” Racharran said. “And see what worse things lie ahead.”
The strangelings’ stranger mounts ran swift and sinuous, their wide paws better equipped for traversing the snow than the smaller hooves of the Commacht horses. Racharran held his men back—those paws left a clear trail, and he’d not risk battle with such beasts. At least, not yet, for in his soul he knew that fight must sooner or later come. But not yet, he prayed. Not until all the People understand and join together to face this threat. So he waited as the invaders disappeared into the snowy distance and only then took his men out.
They crossed the flat and, as the light began to fade, came to a band of low hills bearded with windblown pines. The tracks went into a gully that shone with harlequin patterns of shadow and starlight. Racharran halted at the entrance. He did not know if these creatures traveled by night or would make camp, but he was loath to stumble on them. He bade his men wait and himself went forward on foot. He saw, as he tracked them, that his own feet were easily encompassed by the massive paw marks: he clutched his bow tighter and willed his pounding heart slow down. Then, where the gully turned, he saw the reflection of fireglow on the snow and heard the rumbling growls of the beasts interspersed with guttural voices. He tested the wind. It was tricksy amongst the hills and dividing channels, but came mostly from ahead: he decided to chance it, and crept closer.
Hugging shadow as if it were Lhyn’s body, he moved into the angle of the gully and saw ahead a widening, a shallow bowl where the strangelings made their camp.
The riders sat about a fire, still armored save for their helmets, and he saw they were not, in the generalities of their shaping, so very different from men. He was surprised to see that three were female. This he assumed from the angling of cheekbones and lips, for all of them were of similar physiognomy and length of hair. He was even more surprised that they were so … the only word he could think of was beautiful. Their hair was long and fair, falling in soft, smooth folds about faces that, even planed and shadowed by the fire’s light, were lovely, as if physical beauty were cynically contrasted with horrid nature. Their brows were wide and smooth above large, gently slanted eyes, their noses straight, their mouths generous, their teeth broad and white, tearing at raw chunks of buffalo meat that dribbled blood down their chins so that they wiped and licked it from their fingers, laughing.
Racharran stared at them awhile, fascinated and horrified, and then to where their monstrous mounts lay on the snow. They were not tethered, and from time to time one rose and paced and growled before lying down again. He thought them all weird and horrible, and thanked the Maker the wind blew as it did and that they set out no guards. He supposed them too confident for that.
He crept away with held breath and returned to his men.
That night none of the Commacht slept nor lit a fire, but only sat huddled with their horses close at hand, praying the wind not change direction or the animals betray them with a snicker. When cold dawn came up, Racharran once more ventured into the gully. The invaders’ fire was only embers, their trail leading out. He called up his men, and they continued their wary pursuit.
Beyond the hills lay open plain, then forest, and they must hang back for fear their quarry sight them. But the tracks ran clear, as if the invaders had learned what they would and now returned to report.
It took them three days to traverse the forest, and when they reached the edgewoods they could see the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain far off in the distance, shining brilliant under the winter sun. Save for brief obeisance, they paid the peak scant attention, for their eyes were entirely occupied with what lay between the woodland and the mountains.
An army such as Ket-Ta-Witko had never seen camped there, spread bright and brilliant across the snow. Racharran stared in horrified wonder. These invaders did not put up such lodges as the People used, but rather great pavilions that might hold whole families and were all rainbow-striped and hung with gaudy banners that bristled and crackled in the wind. And amongst them, down the wide avenues between, went folk armored in colors to match the kaleidoscopes of the pavilions, so that the vast area covered seemed to shimmer and glitter with a myriad of hues that hurt the observing eye. Fires burned there, but seemingly only for their heat. Those invaders who ate consumed meat taken raw from the buffalo that stood penned and terrified to one side of the camp. On the other side were the riding beasts, not penned but watched by folk in black armor who wandered the perimeter of the unmarked enclosure with long goads like strange-bladed lances.
Racharran watched from the shelter of the trees and endeavored to calculate their numbers. He thought they must amount to more than three full clans.
“So do the People unite,” Motsos said, “we shall outnumber them.”
“If the People unite,” Racharran answered in a whisper. “And do not forget those beasts.”
“Do they fight as they slaughter buffalo,” Zhonne said, “then they must at least double the numbers.”
Racharran said, “Yes.” And then: “We go back. We must warn the clan.”
“And the others?” asked Lonah.
“We must warm all the People,” Racharran said, and sighed. “Save we unite, I think we are all lost. I think the worst is come upon us all.”
They moved back into the timber and mounted their horses, and then rode hard away.
29 Dark Dreams, Dark Promises
If it was strange to dream again after so long without such revelation, the dreams that came to Hadduth were stranger still.
It was as though a hand other than the Maker’s shaped the images. He could not say whose, but knew only that they were not, after a while, such dreams as he had ever known; and behind them, like fleeting movement caught in the eye’s corner, was such power as terrified and intrigued him both. At first, when he began his vigil, he
thought he suffered them as he would suffer nightmares; then he reveled in them, for they held out such promise as he had never known.
Seven days and seven nights he lay within the sweat tent before he was ready to confront Chakthi with what he had learned, or thought he learned.
He dreamed first—as had all the wakanishas of the People before that last, fateful Matakwa—of strange riders mounted on stranger steeds, whose paws left prints of fire across the grass, whose mouths gaped wicked fangs, and whose eyes burned as they drove the People before them like buffalo driven crazy by a prairie fire. He woke frightened then, crying out into the darkness of the sweat tent, and would have gone out and warned Chakthi that such danger as neither he nor the akaman could imagine came upon them and would destroy them, but he knew that was not what Chakthi wanted to hear and so forced himself to a semblance of calm and set more stones on the fire and ate more pahé root and returned to the oneiric world.
Then he dreamed that he stood before the awful riders and crouched in terror as they came down on him, save they did not trample him but turned their mounts around him in a circle and dipped their lances in recognition. Then from out of the circle came a figure mounted on the strangest horse Hadduth had ever seen, horns curling from its head, its coat the color of midnight, its eyes blazing as if fires burned within the sockets. On its back, straddling a great ornate saddle, sat a figure clad in armor that shone like the sun, who leveled a gauntleted finger at the cowering Dreamer and beckoned to him. Hadduth whimpered in terror, and the figure laughed and rode away. As Hadduth rose and watched them go, he wondered how he lived and why they spared him, because between him and them stood a wall of fire that ate up the grass as if it would devour all of Ket-Ta-Witko, leaving nothing behind save he.
The next time he dreamed, the rider halted and beckoned Hadduth to join him again, and when the wakanisha at first demurred, the figure laughed and set his awful horse to prancing so that Hadduth cowered and cried out and woke.
That dream came again and again, until he was afraid to resist and instead bowed his head and asked where the rider would take him.
The armored figure did not answer, but only beckoned him to ride with them, and he—afraid of what refusal might bring—agreed. And then he dreamed the Tachyn rode with them and they moved against the Commacht, and he saw Racharran taken and slain, and Racharran’s wife brought to Chakthi, who hailed his wakanisha as a brother and a great Dreamer, and vaunted him above all others in the clan.
From that dream he woke filled with pride, and after he had eaten the food brought him and drunk a little water, he took more pahé and returned more eagerly to the dreaming, which now showed him Rannach brought before Chakthi and slain, and the woman Arrhyna delivered to Chakthi, who thanked him and heaped praise on him, and gifts, so that he became greater than the greatest of the favored Tachyn warriors.
And then he dreamed he stood upon a hill and looked out over all the land that was Ket-Ta-Witko, and at his side was the warrior armored as if with the sun, all bright and glittering, who swept out a hand in which was held a great and burning blade and spoke. And though Hadduth could not understand the words, he knew they were of conquest and the elevation of the Tachyn over all others. He saw Chakthi climbing the hill, laboring, and looked to the shining warrior, who nodded his agreement that Hadduth reach out to aid Chakthi and bring him onto the hill to stand with them.
And Hadduth realized the hill was the Maker’s Mountain and that he stood higher than any man had stood before, and that Chakthi stood with him only by his leave. And the sun-bright figure gestured all around, at all of Ket-Ta-Witko and all that existed beyond, down the passages of time and dreaming at worlds beyond, and worlds that might be, and told Hadduth all should be his, all ruled by the Tachyn, if he would but heed the import of the dream and do that which should raise up his clan in conquest of all its enemies. None should stand before him, or higher than he, but bow and hail and fear him.
Hadduth woke, tempted and afraid. Such pride, such promises, flew in the face of the Maker and was contrary to all the Ahsa-tye-Patiko meant. But still, even so …
It was a heady seduction.
Were it possible, it must surely please Chakthi. He remembered vividly those other dreams, of Chakthi’s praise, his own elevation, the aggrandizement …
He ate more pahé and slipped once more into the dreaming.
When at last he emerged from the sweat tent he was gaunt and hollow-eyed, but he had Chakthi’s answer now: he told the akaman what Chakthi wanted to hear, and Chakthi was pleased, and feasted his wakanisha; and together, secretly, they prepared.
Racharran and his men came back to the Wintering Ground weary and alarmed. It was no pleasure to find his worst fears confirmed, and still less to see the faces of his people as he told them the disturbing news. When he was done, a long, deep silence filled the camp, and all the Commacht stared at him as if he were diseased and threatened to infect them with his plague. He waited for comment, but it seemed his news was of such moment, none could find their tongue.
“It’s as Morrhyn warned,” he said, and instantly regretted mentioning the absent wakanisha, for out of the crowd a man called, “Morrhyn? What’s Morrhyn to do with this? Morrhyn deserted us.”
“No!” Racharran answered. “Morrhyn lost his dreams—likely under the influence of these strange folk—and looks to get them back, that he might aid us. He risks his life for that.”
“But still he’s not with us,” said another.
All Racharran could do was shrug, for that was true.
“Even so,” he said, “this horde has come through the mountains.
These are the people Colun warned us of, and if they’re on the grass of Ket-Ta-Witko, then I fear the Grannach are defeated.”
“Come the year’s turning,” a warrior called, “we’ll defeat them.”
“I think we cannot.” Racharran shook his head slowly and sadly. “Surely not alone. They are many—far more than us Commacht—and the beasts they ride are ferocious as blood-mad lions. I wonder if they’ll even wait for the Moon of the Turning Year.”
“No one fights before,” the man said. “Not even Chakthi.”
“These are strangeling folk,” Racharran replied, “and not like us. I think they may not wait.”
Behind him, the chosen five nodded grim heads in agreement.
“Then what shall we do? You are akaman of the Commacht. Tell us what we should do.”
He recognized Lhyn’s voice and struggled not to smile his thanks for that support. Instead, he waited awhile as others took her cue and voiced the same question.
“We must prepare for war,” he said. “Even be it under the eye of the Breaking Trees Moon or the Rain Moon, we must be ready. Also, we must seek the support of all the clans. We must—”
A voice interrupted him. “The support of the Tachyn? Ach, that’s not so likely, eh?”
Racharran shrugged. “What comes is enemy to all the People, to the Tachyn no less than us. I’d ask Chakthi to set aside his … differences”—that elicited laughter, albeit cynical—“but first I’d send messengers to the Lakanti and the Aparhaso and the Naiche, to tell them what we saw and what we fear, and ask that they join with us. That might persuade Chakthi. I’d send out messengers with tomorrow’s dawn.”
He saw Lhyn’s face tense at that. She knew he must be one, albeit he was not yet a day returned. He held his own features still as voices buzzed, warriors speaking one with another, husbands with wives. A child cried and was hushed to silence; dogs paced fretful about the edges of the throng, as if they sensed the import of this meeting. In the sky, the sun observed them with a pale and indifferent gaze. Faint from the farther depths of the canyon came the belling of a bull buffalo, and overhead a flight of nine crows swooped low and unusually silent. Racharran wondered if that was a sign. Morrhyn could likely interpret it, he thought, but Morrhyn is not here. Perhaps Morrhyn is dead. He caught Lhyn’s eye and silently thanked her for her smile.
Then, slowly, the hum of conversation ceased and the clan looked again to their akaman.
“What is your decision?” he asked.
There was a silence that hammered on his ears. Then a man said, “You are our akaman and we cannot doubt your word. Tell us what you’d do.”
Other voices rose in agreement. The crows began to caw and wheel in circles above.
“I’d go to Juh,” Racharran said, “with Bylas. I’d send Zhonne and Lonah to speak with Tahdase; and Motsos and Bishi to Yazte. We have all seen these strangelings and can say what they do—and what we fear they shall do.”
“And Chakthi?” a man asked.
“Yes, Chakthi. He might not take my word, eh?” Racharran smiled, encouraging their support; encouraged himself by their laughter. “I’d first look to convince the Aparhaso and the Naiche and the Lakanti, then ask them, each of them, to send messengers to the Tachyn. Do you agree?”
His answer came shouted: “Yes! You are akaman of the Commacht and we follow you!”
He felt proud of his clan then; he hoped their trust was not misplaced and that he did the right thing. Surely he could not think of another course.
He wished Morrhyn was not gone away.
“You’ll go to Juh?”
Lhyn stirred the pot suspended over the lodgefire, her eyes downcast. The flames set red lights in her hair, and Racharran thought she looked beautiful and young. He felt old and tired. He wished he need not go; he wished there was no horde massing below the mountains. He shook his head, dismissing futile wishes: what was was, and he must face it.
He said, “Yes. Can I convince Juh, then Tahdase will likely follow. Yazte will believe Motsos and Bishi, do they go with my tokens of authority.”