Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  Flysse wondered if he was serious, and if she could approve. “Would you do that for Davyd?” she asked. “Truly?”

  “For Davyd,” Arcole replied, “yes. Sooner than come to blows over you.”

  “I hope,” Flysse said earnestly, “That there are folk in the ‘safe place.’ I’d not see you go back, husband. Not leave me again.”

  “Nor I.” Arcole spoke no less fervently. “But for now, all we can do is hope, eh? Let us reach this promised sanctuary, and then discuss Davyd’s future.”

  Flysse said, “Yes,” and snuggled against him, drowsy now.

  The forest rose steeper as they progressed westward, spurs of stone beginning to thrust through the timber as if the mountains clawed an anchorage in the lowlands. Often now they could see the heights like an enormous wall before them. Their passage slowed in consequence, for often they must clamber up vertiginous slopes or detour around those too precipitous to climb. Sometimes there were gorges so sheer they could only traverse the cliff edge until gentler terrain allowed them passage. The high waters of the river were left behind, lost in the maze of timber and undulating land, and they relied entirely on Davyd to guide them and still they must hide when he ordered.

  It seemed there were fewer demons roaming the woodlands now, and days passed when Davyd announced it safe to hunt, or delay as Flysse found mushrooms and wild onions and other plants that flavored the deer Arcole brought down, or the grouse and rabbits she snared.

  Davyd enjoyed those days, for Arcole taught him to stalk and—finally—allowed him a shot at a deer. He was mightily proud of his kill, and could not resist telling the tale of the hunt in great detail to Flysse. No less did he enjoy his continuing lessons with the smallsword, the more for Arcole’s praise of his burgeoning skill.

  “You’ve the makings of a fine swordsman,” Arcole announced to his delight. “Do you only practice, I think you shall be very good indeed.”

  Davyd beamed his pleasure. Flysse, watching them, was somewhat less pleased. It occurred to her that if her worst doubts were realized—if Davyd’s infatuation did not wane—he might make some indecorous approach and Arcole take offense. It might, she thought, come to a fight; and her husband taught Davyd his talents. As yet, the young man would stand no chance against Arcole’s superior skill, but if Arcole taught him well enough … Flysse prayed events not reach that turn—she’d see neither of them harmed.

  They continued to climb, the forest thinning as they moved ever deeper into the foothills. The beech and maple of the eastern edges gave way to spruce and tamarack, balsam fir, and their route lay often over open ground, across high shoulders of rock and slopes of littered scree. The mountains were no longer hidden, but always in sight, vast buttresses rising overhead, the peaks beyond misty with cloud. They seemed as much a barrier as sanctuary, for as their enormity was revealed, so it dawned on the travelers that the conquest of such monoliths was impossible. They would surely freeze or starve or fall to their deaths did they attempt to ascend that sky-challenging wall.

  But Davyd led them unerring as a scented hound. It was as if a lodestone lay inside his skull, guiding him to the unknown refuge of his dreams. He did not hesitate, and neither Arcole nor Flysse offered argument as he urged them onward, though their muscles protested the climbing and their bellies grew hollow as the game grew scarcer.

  The deer and rabbits of the lower forests did not venture there, and the great horned sheep that traversed the ledges defied hunting, too often leaping agile away before Arcole or Davyd had the chance to fire, those shot too often tumbling down into inaccessible ravines. They went often hungry and often cold, for kindling was harder to find and the nights grew chill; but Davyd insisted they must go on, and his companions followed.

  They went up through the foothills to the flanks of the true mountains, where only bare stone rose above and the only food was the fish they caught in lonely tarns. For days Davyd had dreamed only of the wind, of its promise, then one night, on a shelf that shone like polished onyx under the moon, he moaned and tossed about, and woke wideeyed and sweating.

  “They’re close!” he gasped, staring around, his hands instinctively finding his musket, clutching the gun to his chest. “Oh, God! We may not have time!”

  He sprang to his feet, ignoring his companions as he ran to the shelf’s edge, scanning the slopes below. Arcole bade Flysse secure their packs and hurried to join him.

  “What did you dream?”

  Davyd turned fevered eyes on the man. “Fire met the wind,” he moaned. “Always before, the wind has turned the fire back. This time it couldn’t I stood between, but when I tried to walk into the wind, hands of flame reached out to pull me back. Arcole, we must hurry!”

  “Yes.” Arcole surveyed the heights. “But to where?”

  The shelf was reached up a near-vertical slope, backed along most of its length by a sheer wall of impassable stone. To the north, it curved and fell down in a rocky jumble to a ravine where white water foamed. There, the cliff was climbable—but barely, and only with time-consuming difficulty. Were they on that ascent when the demons came, they would have no chance: the demons need only stand below and pick them off.

  Davyd said, “Up! It’s the only way.”

  “If they catch us there, we’re dead.” Arcole surveyed the cliff, the shelf. “Do we stand here and fight, we’ve surely a better chance.”

  “No!” Davyd shook his head. “We must climb. Do we stay here, we’re lost.”

  Arcole said, “Caught on that climb, we’re lost.”

  Davyd faced him. His eyes were wild and red with tortured sleep, shifting about as if he momentarily anticipated the arrival of the demons. “Trust me,” he croaked. “Arcole, you must!”

  Arcole looked at his face and nodded: it was impossible to argue with such fervor. “So be it.” He spun, calling to Flysse. “We must climb. Now!”

  Urgency was palpable as they ran toward her and she handed them their packs, fixing her own across her back. They thrust their muskets through the rolled tarpaulins and slung them in place. None spoke as they hurried to the farther end of the shelf.

  Then Arcole said, “Flysse, do you go first. That way …”

  He fell silent as a yammering shriek disturbed the morning. More rang out, as if wild dogs came running hot on their scent. They began to climb.

  It seemed madness to attempt the ascent. Leisurely, it should likely have taken the better part of the morning to reach the rimrock. It needed care, the cautious checking of hand- and footholds. Yet now they went incautious, swift as strength and rock allowed. Flysse had a brief wild image of frightened spiders running up a wall.

  The howling grew louder. She heard Arcole curse. An arrow clattered off the rock above her, sparking chips that fell like sharp rain against her face. She dared not look down, only climb and pray.

  Arcole lodged the fingers of his left hand on a jut of stone and tugged his pistol loose. It was difficult to cock the hammer without losing the priming, without loosing his precarious footing. He twisted round as far as he was able and saw a snarling, painted demon below, sighting down the length of an arrow. He fired, and the demon screamed, falling back. He jammed the spent pistol into his belt and went on climbing. He could not believe—did Davyd dream it, or no—that they could survive this.

  Davyd only climbed. A dreadful fear gripped him, far worse than the thought of crashing to the shelf below or any contemplation of an arrow striking. He would prefer that to falling into the hands of the demons—he knew his death should be slow at their hands. He somehow knew, as surely as if he dreamed it, that those creatures would recognize him as a Dreamer and punish him for that damning gift in ways worse than even an Inquisitor might invent. He damned himself for a failure—he was the Dream Guide! He should have anticipated this. He could not understand how he had failed, save all had been some weird, oneiric design to bring them to this impasse. Perhaps the demons had played with him, driving him to this place. Perhaps they had put the
dreams in his head.

  Then, suddenly as it had come before, he felt the wind touch his face, and—as before, when he had doubted—he felt he saw a light like a welcoming lantern at the mouth of a long, dark street. Almost, he lurched back, but his fingers and his toes held their grip and he clung only a moment to the sheer rock, not knowing he smiled. He felt once more confident—this was the only way. Had they remained on the shelf, the demons would have overwhelmed them with sheer weight of numbers. It still seemed entirely impossible, but this way—this fly’s climb—was their only hope.

  He heard Arcole grunt, “Climb, for God’s sake!” and realized he had halted. The crash of an arrow galvanized him and he went limber upward, strong now, as if the wind had toned his muscles, washed away fatigue. It remained hideously dangerous—likely still impossible—but hope drew him on, sure as baited hook to fish. Were he to die now, it should be in strength, not fear.

  Then panic threatened as he heard Arcole cry out and craned his head around to see his friend’s face contorted in a grimace of pain. A shaft jutted from his waist, above the hip. He feared Arcole must lose his grip and tumble down. He reached toward the man even as Flysse screamed.

  “No!” Arcole’s lips stretched back from gritted teeth. “Go on, both of you. It’s not so bad.”

  Davyd hesitated, and Arcole mouthed a foul curse. “Go on, I say. You can’t help me. Go on!”

  Still, Davyd hesitated. Arcole spat against the stone and eased upward until he was level with Davyd.

  “Do I fall, then I charge you with Flysse’s care.” His voice was hoarse, his breath labored. “She’ll need you. Now go on.”

  He began to struggle past, and Davyd saw the red stain spreading across his shirt. Flysse began to climb again: Davyd saw no choice but to follow.

  They clambered up, Davyd’s warning dream delivered just soon enough that they rose past the arrows’ range. The shafts clattered about their feet, then below them. Flysse and Arcole both climbed with grim determination, their faces to the rock, not looking back. Davyd risked a glance and saw demons mounting after them—three, then five, then seven; twenty or more below, shrieking as they watched the vertical pursuit.

  Up: fingers wearing ragged against the stone, leaving bloody smears where they found niches, toes scrabbling for footholds, lungs searing with the effort. And still the cliff lofted above, the demons swift behind. Flysse thought of slow bugs chased by lithe spiders.

  Then a shriek; another. Rocks fell. They flattened against the stone. More missiles went by them: demons were smashed away.

  Flysse screamed again, pushing back from the cliff as a face appeared above her. Almost she fell, but strong hands grasped her wrists and snatched her up, inward: into the stone.

  Arcole looked up at her cry and saw her disappear. It was not possible—no ledge or cave existed there, but still she disappeared. He fought the pain of his wound, shouting her name as he willed his exhausted body to fresh effort. Wildly, he wondered if the arrow had slain him, and now he clambered through that limbo the priests spoke of, punished for his sins. If so, he still felt pain—the arrow burned a fiery shaft at every movement. He had not known such agony since his branding. He shouted “Flysse!” again, and gaped as a face showed where no face could be. It was a round, thick-bearded visage that looked as if some mossy rock were carved in semblance of human physiognomy. He wondered if this were some other kind of demon. No matter: it had taken Flysse and he would go after her.

  Davyd felt more confident, but even so it was bewildering to see Flysse drawn into the rockface. And then Arcole, as he achieved the place. He climbed with a fury that took him past Davyd, and an odd face appeared, framed in shimmering dark light, as if it peered out from a night-washed cavern mouth. It smiled, exposing wide and craggy teeth, and reached for Arcole with large, knobby hands, and Arcole was gone.

  Davyd stared, wishing for the reassurance of the dream wind, the light, but all he saw now was empty stone.

  Then the face again, another beside, like clumsy clay effigies, both grimacing and beckoning. When they appeared, so did the shadow of the impossible cave. Their hands opened to take him, fingers powerful as the manacles he had once worn closing about his wrists. He felt his feet torn free of the cliff, and for an instant he hung in empty air. Then he was hauled, ungainly as a filled sack, into a cave.

  He landed gasping. Large, booted feet surrounded him, descending from sturdy legs clad in tanned leather. When he looked up, he saw a ring of bearded faces that made him think of the gnomes Aunt Dory had told him dwelt inside the hills and came out by night to steal away human children. They wore wide swords, and several carried battle-axes, the blades like lethal crescent moons. Their eyes were large and luminous, peering unreadable at the refugees. Davyd lay panting, turning his head to find his companions. Flysse crouched against a wall of stone, her gaze intent on Arcole. He lay on his face, the shaft of the demon’s arrow rising from his back. Davyd could see his shirt and breeches stained with blood; he could not tell if his friend still breathed. Behind them, where he and Arcole and Flysse had been pulled into the mountain—where the cavern’s mouth should be—there was only smooth dark stone.

  47 Under the Hills and Far Away

  Davyd stared at the blank stone, wondering for a moment if he lost his mind. Or perhaps he dreamed all this—the attack, the desperate flight, the impossible rescue—and would in a while awake. But he felt the rock against his back, and when he dragged a hand over the floor he felt his skin abraded, so he decided it was not a dream but only impossible. He caught Flysse’s eye and saw amazement and disbelief on her face before she returned her attention to Arcole.

  Davyd said, “This cannot be,” less in belief than for want of hearing his own voice, the reassurance that they were safe, if that were the case and they not hauled from the frying pan to be set in the fire. He looked at the odd, gnomic creatures and asked, “What are you?”

  They smiled—that baring of the teeth a comfort, for their expressions were friendly—and one tapped his chest and said in a guttural voice, “Colun,” and then a string of syllables Davyd could not understand, though it seemed they stood on the edge of comprehensibility.

  He said, “Davyd,” and touched a shaking hand to his own chest; then pointed at Flysse and said her name, and then Arcole’s.

  The one called Colun nodded and spoke again, gesturing the while at Arcole, and though Davyd could not understand him, the sentences had a reassuring sound, so when the craggy little man knelt beside Arcole to study the arrow, Davyd said to Flysse, “They mean us no harm, I think.”

  She seemed not to hear him but hovered protectively over Arcole, and when Colun touched her shoulder she flinched and swung desperate eyes to Davyd.

  He said again, more firmly now as conviction took hold, “They mean us no harm, Flysse. They saved us from the demons, no? And my dreams brought us to them, so surely they cannot intend harm.”

  She looked at him, and then at Colun. Tears ran down her cheeks as her eyes returned to Arcole, but she allowed herself removed from his side and took position at his head, cradling him and stroking his hair.

  Colun gently touched the arrow and spoke, gesturing with a knife he drew. Davyd gathered that he pantomimed the removal of the shaft and nodded and said to Flysse, “I think he’d take out the arrow.”

  “Is that safe?” Flysse asked. “Can he?”

  Davyd had no idea, but he thought that Arcole should likely die if such surgery were not performed; and knew it was beyond his capability. He nodded and said, “Can you remove it?” And when Flysse shook her head, “Then best we let … Colun?”

  The little man nodded enthusiastically, seeming somehow to comprehend the exchange. He beckoned two of his companion gnomes forward, indicating that one hold down Arcole’s legs, the other his shoulders. Then he smiled reassuringly at Flysse and slit Arcole’s shirt that it might be removed. Arcole groaned and stirred, but the little men held him firm as Colun examined the wound. Another o
f his kin approached with a torch and he turned his knife blade in the flame. Then, with a delicacy surprising in one who appeared carved from the rock itself, he applied the blade to Arcole’s skin.

  Arcole cried out; Flysse gasped as he bucked, her eyes wide and intent on Colun. Davyd winced in sympathy as blood welled from the cut. Colun bent closer, working the blade cautiously into Arcole’s back. Then he set one gnarly hand around the shaft and tugged it clear. The head came out all bloody and he studied it a moment, then said, “Chakthi,” which sounded to Davyd like a curse, and flung the arrow away.

  Another picked it up and broke the shaft in two, then went to where the cave mouth had been and set a hand flat on the stone and murmured softly. Davyd gaped as the opening reappeared and the broken arrow was hurled out—as if, he thought, they’d not have it contaminate this place of sanctuary. He watched bemused as some reversing cantrip was uttered and the hole once again sealed itself.

  He looked to see if Flysse had witnessed this fresh marvel, but she was focused entirely on Arcole. Nor did any of the gnomes heed the magic, as if it were to them mundane, and Davyd returned his attention to his wounded comrade.

  Arcole’s breathing was for a while ragged as a mossy compress was set on the wound and bandaged in place, but then it grew even, and when a gnome moistened his face and brought a cup to his lips, he murmured faint thanks. Davyd exhaled a sigh of relief; Flysse smiled gratefully.

  Colun shrugged and spoke, gesturing at where the cave mouth had been, his rocky features expressing distaste. Davyd understood none of it, save that several times a word that sounded like Tack-in was spoken, and Chakthi. He supposed they referred to the demons, and thanked whatever power sent him his dreams and had brought them there, for the rescue. He could no longer doubt that these odd, underhill folk were friends.