Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  “Yes, he was brave.” Racharran nodded. “Now let’s find him, eh?”

  It was not difficult: the winding pathways of the breaks were all marked with blood and bodies. Horses lay clawed and gutted and the Commacht warriors were cold in the snow, their weapons clutched in frozen fingers and the armored corpses of the invaders strewn around them. Their courage made Racharran proud, but even so … For all the Commacht dead, there were only three invaders slain, and two beasts.

  Bylas was the last.

  His horse lay under the body of an invader’s mount, whose jaws were closed around the lance driven deep into its throat. Some way beyond, where the break twisted back on itself in a direction opposite to the Commacht’s Wintering Ground, Bylas lay locked in the embrace of a figure armored in sunny yellow. His hatchet was buried in the invader’s helm, his knife between the joindure of breastplate and tasset.

  Racharran said, “He died well.”

  Motsos grunted sorry agreement and asked, “Shall we gather them for burial?”

  “No. There were twenty of them, you said, no? Three are slain, so the rest go running back. I’d know where; and where the horde is now.”

  “They deserve honorable burial,” Mostsos said.

  “Surely they do,” Racharran agreed. “But we’ve not the time, are we to defend the clan.”

  For a while Motsos stared at him as if he’d argue, but then he shrugged and said, “Yes, I suppose it must be. But the Maker knows, I do not like this—to leave brave men unburied?”

  “Think you I do?” Racharran answered.

  He waited until Motsos shook his head then said, “So we go on; and see what danger comes against the clans.”

  Hadduth said, “We must play this careful. Racharran will be slow to trust your word, I think.”

  “Yes.” Chakthi nodded, his newly wound braids falling about a face scrubbed clean of mourning white but dark with contained anger, and ugly anticipation.

  “You cannot go,” Hadduth said, “nor I.”

  “No.” Chakthi smiled, which was like the snarl of a cornered beast. “But who shall we send?”

  “Who might they trust?” Hadduth mused. “Amongst all our people, who would they believe?”

  Chakthi thought a moment, and his feral smile stretched wider. “There’s one,” he said, “who’s aided them in the past. They’d trust him, no?”

  “Dohnse?” Hadduth matched his akaman’s smile with his own.

  “Twice now he’s met the Commacht wakanisha and let him go,” Chakthi said. “Surely they’d trust him.”

  “Yes!” Hadduth chuckled. “Let it be Dohnse.”

  “Is it much farther?” Morrhyn studied the bleak white plain ahead. Nothing moved there save skirling snow, tossed by the wind: it was as if they were the only living things in all Ket-Ta-Witko. Had he not known better, he might have believed the Breakers were already come and gone, and the People left slaughtered behind. But that surely could not be. The Maker could not be so unkind and no army had passed them, nor had they come on scenes of battle—he did not count the sad corpses they’d found where warriors had skirmished and died. Had the true slaughter begun, there would have been more, far more: he shivered at the thought and turned toward Rannach.

  The younger man shrugged. “It was long ago—I was a boy. But …” Like Morrhyn, he stared at the empty plain. “I think it cannot be far.”

  “I pray not,” Morrhyn said, and drew his furs tighter, his face lost under the shadow of the hood. And silently, for he’d not let Rannach hear his doubts, I pray we be in time.

  He turned his face toward the sky. Its blue was like ice on a river, the sun a watery eye that sank too rapidly westward. The Frozen Grass Moon rose in the east, narrowed almost to disappearing. Soon the Rain Moon would be up, but he doubted it should deliver its promise. This awful winter had too strong a hold, as if it locked white fingers on the land and would not let go.

  “So, onward.” Rannach heeled the stallion out from the trees. Morrhyn followed, staring glumly at the horse ahead. It was mightily thinned, ribs visible and head bowed down. Arrhyna’s mare was in no better condition, and he added to his prayers the hope the animals lasted. Without them there was no hope at all.

  “Should we become separated, it is as before.” Racharran fixed each man with a commanding stare. “We leave the fallen.”

  He waited until they had all given reluctant agreement. They liked the order not at all, nor he any better—but the word they carried outweighed the importance of any one life.

  “One of us at least must get back,” he said, “and tell the clan what we’ve seen.”

  “And then?” Motsos asked. “And what if you are … ?”

  He paused, unwilling to speak his fear. Racharran voiced it for him. “If I am slain,” he said, “then as many of you as can must get back, to warn the clan. We’ll need brave warriors, if …”

  Like Motsos, he let his voice trail off, eyes shifting to the sheltering timber, his mind carrying his sight past the trees to the horde encamped on the snow beyond the forest. Even did that great mass advance slowly, still it must come down on the Commacht soon after the Rain Moon rose. Did it move swift—he pushed the thought away. Surely it could not: surely so vast a horde must come slow, seeking food along the way. They were not such warriors as he knew, but still they must eat—as must their horrid beasts—and the need to provide for such an army must surely govern its pace … surely?

  He forced a smile. “Do they find the Wintering Ground, we must be ready.”

  Motsos said, “Perhaps they’ll not.” But his voice was low and his face expressed no belief in his own words.

  Racharran said, “The Maker willing. But best we prepare, eh?”

  Motsos nodded and showed his teeth in an answering smile that was patently false.

  “So let’s ride.” Racharran stood. “I’d be home fast as we can.”

  Though what good speed should do them, he did not know; save they get back to die amongst their loved ones. Even did that horde divide to attack the clans one by one, there were still enough to overwhelm the Commacht and the clan die like animals cornered in their lair. He spoke of defending the canyon, but that could be only a brief defense against such numbers, against the savagery of the invaders. The canyon was as much trap as refuge, but he could think of no other course—this snow was no battleground for the warriors of the People, who fought from horseback, running and raiding. This snow—this Maker-cursed winter—favored only the invaders. He wished Morrhyn were there to advise him; he wished his fellow akamans had listened to his wakanisha. But wishes were no more tangible than the wind and he must face the grim reality that before long he should likely see his people all slain, and the best he dared hope was that they give a good account of themselves and take no few of the invaders with them into the spirit world. It seemed a sorry hope, and he could not dismiss the anger he felt that Juh and the rest had chosen to ignore his warnings and had sat back complacent as the invaders came through the mountains into Ket-Ta-Witko.

  But that, like ephemeral wishes, was pointless: they had, and now it seemed they would pay the price. He wondered if the Maker truly turned his face from the People, for all that had happened that last year. Did he consign his creations to destruction for the breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko? Were Morrhyn there, he might explain it; but he was not, and Racharran could not. All he could do was lead his people in such war as he knew they could not survive.

  His heart sat heavy as he mounted and led his men away, back toward the canyon.

  None spoke as they rode, and he thought likely they shared his own gloomy vision of the future. It would be, he thought, a sorry homecoming.

  They were two days out from the canyon when they saw the riders. There had been no sign of the invaders’ scouts—as if they’d learnt all they needed and drew back to the horde—and what slowly crossed the snow ahead were two figures on horses whose gait told of near exhaustion. Racharran saw no need to halt, nor need of
caution, but rather felt a great curiosity. Perhaps the other clans had learned of the horde and sent messengers. Surely too late, but even so … He urged his mount to a faster pace, closing on the riders.

  They turned to face the oncomers as if readying for fight, and as they did, Racharran gasped and shouted, “I know that horse! By the Maker, that’s Rannach’s stallion!”

  “And that pretty mare he gave Arrhyna,” Motsos called back. “Do they come home?”

  For an instant, Racharran wondered if he would welcome that, or if he rather preferred they remain in the mountains. He supposed this meant they at least lived—albeit surely for only a while longer.

  He closed the distance and saw his son raise a lance in greeting. Then the second figure threw back the hood of its cape and he wondered who rode with Rannach.

  When Morrhyn said, “Greetings, Racharran. Do you not know me?” he could only shake his head and gape.

  35 Messengers and Doubts

  Lhyn came to meet them as they rode in from the canyon mouth, her eyes bright as she saw Racharran come safe home, then starting wide in unalloyed amazement as she recognized her son. Unthinking, careless of dignity, she broke into a run. She was not alone—most of the clan came with her, eager to hear their akaman’s news, no less surprised than she to see Rannach with him.

  And Arrhyna? Surely that was the paint mare Arrhyna rode, but could it be Arrhyna slumped there, all swathed in concealing furs? A measure of trepidation tainted Lhyn’s joy, for that second figure sat the horse like one at the limits of exhaustion. She glanced back and saw Nemeth and Zeil hurrying forward.

  Then she gasped as the figure pushed back the concealing hood and she saw the snow-white hair framing a face that even so emaciated she knew. Her steps faltered as eyes that seemed to burn from out of the dark and skeletal features fixed on her, and the thinned mouth stretched out in a smile.

  “Morrhyn?” She came on slow, looking from one to the other. “Rannach?”

  Around her the Commacht fell silent, staring fixedly at the men they had likely thought dead, surely never to be seen again. Racharran halted his horse and slid from the saddle.

  “We’ve unexpected guests,” he said. “And much news.”

  It was hard to tear her eyes from her son, from Morrhyn, and she glanced sidelong at her husband. “Good or bad?”

  Racharran said, “Both. But we’ll speak of that later.”

  She nodded and went to the two men, still mounted. Morrhyn, she thought, because he needed help to climb down, Rannach because he seemed unsure of his welcome. She had no thought of the Council’s decree then: only that her son was come home. She raised her arms and he came off the weary stallion into them. His embrace was strong, but she thought him very thin, even gaunt.

  He said, “Mother, it’s good to see you.”

  She only shook her head, lost for words, and held him, her cheek against his, her hands touching his face as if she’d reassure herself he lived and was real, and not some phantom come to taunt her. When she was satisfied, she let him go and looked to Morrhyn.

  The wakanisha was dismounted now. He looked smaller, sunk in on himself, yet somehow larger. That, she decided, was his eyes—they blazed with such purpose as she’d not before seen, as if their light alone animated his wasted body. She embraced him as she had embraced her son, and against his chest said, “Morrhyn, I am happy to see you back. I am happy you live.”

  He smiled—she could not help but think of a corpse’s grin—and said, “As am I.”

  Then Racharran was there, and Nemeth and Zeil, asking of Arrhyna; and the wives of the dead scouts, inquiring of their husbands.

  Racharran spoke to them, and to Arrhyna’s parents Rannach said, “Arrhyna is safe—or was the last I saw her. I left her in care of Colun’s Grannach, in a valley where no Breakers have come. Also …” He hesitated, grinning, proud and embarrassed both. “Also she carries a child, a son.”

  They laughed and beamed their pleasure even as the widows of the dead began to keen. Lhyn wondered if she had not sooner known her son remained safe there, and then …

  “How can you know it’s a boy?” she asked.

  Rannach said, “Morrhyn told me,” as if that were the most natural thing in all the world.

  She looked again at Morrhyn then. He stood tottery as an old man. Had Racharran not supported him, she thought he must fall down in the trampled snow. She looked again at his burning eyes and saw the truth there.

  “You dream again,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ve much to tell you; to tell all the clan. And not much time for the speaking. We’ve none of us much time; none of the People.”

  It was as if a wolfwind blew icy through the warmth of a lodgefire, and Lhyn shivered. Racharran said, “I’ve the gist of it, but we must talk in clan Council.”

  Lhyn stared at him and was afraid of what she read in his eyes. She looked at Rannach and Morrhyn and said firmly, “Tonight. These two needing feeding first.”

  Morrhyn said, “It should be better now.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “First, warmth and food. Tonight you can address the clan.”

  For a moment she thought he’d argue, but then Racharran nodded and turned toward the encircling crowd and raised his arms for silence—which was scarce necessary for they all hung on every word—and said, “Our wakanisha is come back with much news. But he is weary and hungry, and would rest awhile. So—build up the fires, and when the moon rises we shall speak of the future and what we must do.”

  Lhyn noticed that Morrhyn raised his face to the sky then, as if he’d check which moon might rise and the time before its coming; and felt again afraid.

  The lodge was warm, which was an unfamiliar sensation, and his belly was full, which was no more familiar. Had his body its way, he’d have slept—just closed his eyes and rested back against the luxury of the furs and drifted off into sleep: it should be so easy.

  And so hard: the clan waited on him and he owed a duty to the Commacht and to all the People, entrusted him by the Maker. Enough had fallen to the Breakers—Racharran had told of Bakaan’s death, and Bylas’s, and all the others—and he’d lose no more.

  He wished his body were not so frail and waved off Lhyn’s offer of tiswin for all he thought it might vitalize him. He took tea instead, and summoned up his thoughts and said, “It’s as I told Racharran along the way—save the People leave, we shall all be destroyed.”

  Lhyn asked, knowing she need not but still compelled: “You’re sure? It’s much the Maker demands of us.”

  Morrhyn said, “Yes: I am sure. Save we do this, we are all lost. The Commacht and all the People.”

  Racharran said, “Leave? It’s surely hazardous here; but even so …”

  Rannach said, “They defeated the Grannach. They came through the mountains.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Racharran said. “But …”

  Sharply, Rannach said, “What?”

  His father shrugged and answered, “I’ve looked to band the clans—after Matakwa; after the first killings by these … Breakers, you name them?”

  “They name themselves so,” Morrhyn said, “because they break worlds, because they break the Maker’s Will.”

  Racharran nodded, turning to his son. “Even so. I believe you—trust you!—but still you were banished by the full Council. Shall the other clans trust you? Or call for your life, for breaking that edict?”

  Rannach threw back his head and laughed. “My life, father? I’ve chanced that coming here. Not against warriors of the People, but against the Breakers! I left my wife in the mountains! I—”

  Morrhyn clutched his angry, outflung arm, silencing him. “I asked Rannach to bring me back,” he said. “And Arrhyna urged him go, because it was the only way. He chanced his life for the People.”

  Racharran ducked his head. When it lifted, he said, “Forgive me, my son. I am proud of you: I welcome you back, and shall fight any who seek to execute that sentence.”


  “Save,” Rannach said, “it shall likely be the Breakers who slay me, do you not listen.”

  “I listen,” Racharran said. “It’s the others I fear are deaf.”

  Morrhyn sighed and said, “Are they, then so be it. But the Commacht can survive! If …”

  Racharran waved him silent. “I know. But to leave … everything? That’s a hard departure, no?”

  Morrhyn said, “It’s the only way, else we all die. Do the rest listen, then good. But if they refuse—the Commacht, at least, might live.”

  Racharran nodded. “Yes, so be it. But I’d make this offer to the rest.”

  “If there’s time,” Morrhyn said.

  It had not been easy to convince the Commacht that flight was the clan’s only hope. There were no few who still saw Morrhyn’s departure as betrayal, and those who could scarce envisage the journey west in such bleak weather; others claimed that journey could only leave them easy prey to the Breakers, and more could not believe the promise.

  The talking had gone on well into the night before the cold had driven them to their lodges, and had resumed the next day. Morrhyn had spoken as eloquently as he could, and his fierce words and penetrating eyes had persuaded many. Then Rannach had spoken, of his sojourn in the valley and the sad news the Grannach brought. Racharran had told of his own encounters with the Breakers, and had summoned those warriors who had seen the enemy and lived to speak. Another night and another day were spent debating it, but finally, as the sun fell behind the canyon walls, the last doubters allowed themselves convinced and it was agreed.

  And then the messengers began to arrive.

  Perico came very slowly across the river with his right hand lifted up and the fingers spread wide in sign of peace, or the Commacht he knew watched from the slim moonshadows of the trees might slay him else. He thought few might be welcomed here, in so well-armed a camp—which, he thought, was unusually abustle. Indeed, almost as if the Commacht prepared to move.

  Save no clan moved from its Wintering Ground in such weather; not with the Frozen Grass Moon barely faded and the Rain Moon yet to come.