by Angus Wells
A white horse he recognized as one of dead Tekah’s string lay at the center of the shelf. Crows rose in protest of their arrival, and wolves and foxes, and likely other feeders, had ravaged the corpse, and from its flank a sizable chunk of meat had been cut. There was no sign of a fire, but cold droppings littered the grass, and when Rannach broke one open, he announced Taza a full day or more ahead.
“How can he travel so swift?” Dohnse asked of no one in particular, only voicing what they all wondered. “Does he not sleep, nor stop to eat?”
Davyd answered out of the surety that grew in him: “No. He does not sleep, but only rides. He eats in the saddle and feels nothing.”
They stared at him, all of them, and he abruptly knew how Morrhyn must feel when folk named him the Prophet and looked to him for answers he did not know he owned.
Then Rannach ducked his head as if in acknowledgment of Davyd’s power, and said, “Still, he’s my son with him, and must I ride all night and not eat, so be it. So—ride!”
They mounted and went on up through the foothills, Taza ever ahead, the slopes growing steeper, decked with only pine now, and that bleeding out as the heights rose, until only naked stone lay before them.
And still no sign of Taza.
23
Under the Hill
Taza’s last horse gave up before a great blank wall of gray stone that rose sheer to meet the twilight sky and lose itself in shadow. The animal snorted and went down on its knees, pitching Taza over its head so that he cried out as he struck the hard, cold ground and must stumble to his feet and limp back to retrieve Debo before the horse rolled and crushed the complaining child. He snatched the youngster loose, listening to his wails reverberate off the cliff and the surrounding crags, wondering if Grannach listened, or if the cries carried down the mountains to Rannach. The horse fell on its side and lay heaving; Taza ignored its discomfort as he worked his saddlebags loose and dragged the pannier clear. He soothed Debo’s protests and found a piece of jerky that he handed the child, who took the dried meat with a reluctant scowl. Taza took his hand and led him up the trail.
“Where are we going?” Debo asked around the mouthful of jerky.
“There.” Taza pointed upward. “To the high hills.”
“Why?”
“It’s our quest,” Taza extemporized. “You know how Morrhyn went on his quest, and then Davyd on his?”
Debo nodded.
“We do the same.”
“For the sake of the People?”
Taza nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, for the sake of the People.”
Debo grinned and asked, “Shall I be a warrior then?”
“Yes,” Taza promised. “A great warrior.”
The path he followed—by courtesy of Colun’s dreams, invaded by the force that guided him—went on past the cliff, climbing steep toward two jutting crags, their tips lit red by the setting sun. Eastward, the moon was up, its light not yet strong enough to illuminate his way, so that he must go slowly, burdened by Debo’s slight weight and the bulk of the saddlebags. Both were necessary: the one that he find a welcome beyond the mountains, the other that he own the sustenance to bring him and Debo safely through. He did not anticipate a welcome from the Grannach and knew that he must avoid them; nor less that he could: the voice had told him that, and shown him how. So he clambered wearily up the trail toward the crags, knowing that he must find a safe place to rest. He had gone four days now without sleep, and eaten little enough, but the voice had told him that once he gained the mountains he might halt and rest awhile—and he trusted the voice.
He climbed until the path gave out on a wide ledge like a shelf between the peaks. They bulked overhead, moon-washed now, all silver and black, with a cold wind blowing from between them as if in warning. He laughed at that and defied the wind or any other force to halt him, and found an overhang where he could build a hidden fire from the gnarly shrubs that grew here. He ate a little then, and gave Debo some milk, wrapped the child in a blanket, and himself settled cold to sleep, trusting the voice would come and show him clear the next step.
“He cannot travel so swift!” Rannach stared at the mountains as if he’d force his sight out through the darkness to where Taza hid. “Even killing the horses, he cannot.”
Davyd sighed, huddling closer to the fire. He ached now, his wounds throbbing in the high mountain cold, and he had absolutely no doubt but that Taza should reach Salvation—save he die in the high passes, and Debo with him. It was as if, he thought, Debo were a piece in some incomprehensible jigsaw, or the lure in some inexplicable game, his kidnap designed to draw Davyd back to Salvation; and did he go, then surely Arcole would follow, and doubtless Rannach. He thought on his dreams and wished there’d been the time to take the pahé with Morrhyn and Kahteney, and perhaps find answers. He surely had none, save what he gave Rannach back.
“He can; he does.”
“Because of what you fear, you and Morrhyn?” Rannach hesitated to speak the Breakers’ name aloud.
Davyd shrugged, not speaking. He wanted sleep; more, he wanted to understand. Had Taza not taken Debo, then perhaps this day Morrhyn would have named Davyd a wakanisha, and he begun the full initiation. Now, however, he seemed caught at some midpoint betwixt Dreamer and warrior—which Morrhyn had said could not be, and the dreams said could. Surely, he carried a musket he’d not hesitate to use were he threatened—the thought of returning branded to Grostheim was anathema—and at the same time relied on his talent to bring them safe through the forests. Rannach and the others deferred to him as they did to Morrhyn, as if he were already a wakanisha, and that made for a heavy burden.
“Perhaps,” he said at last. “I don’t know.”
“Do you not dream?” Rannach fidgeted impatiently as he stood. “You’re a …”
“No.” Davyd shook his head. “I’m not a wakanisha; neither a warrior. I don’t know what I am.”
“Davyd Furth,” Arcole said, “of the Commacht, who are of the Matawaye.”
Davyd nodded. “But am I not also a branded man, an escaped exile?”
“That, too,” Arcole allowed. “As am I.”
“Perhaps we’re no one thing,” Davyd said, “but different in different places.”
It was Arcole’s turn to shrug. “Surely we’re different in the eyes of Evander,” he said, “but I’d sooner live amongst the People.”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded. “But we’re going back to Salvation.”
He thought he understood then the burden Morrhyn carried, and Kahteney, and knew why they were so careful in choosing their successors. Taza, he knew, would be a Dreamer like the legendary Hadduth. And should he be any better, even were he eventually named? He let himself fall back, tugging his blanket tight. The Maker knew, but they’d surely start out again ere long, and until then he’d snatch a little sleep.
It was a strange dream, reality and revelation so intertwined that he must struggle to discern them.
Davyd rode a weary horse ever higher into the mountains, with Rannach and Arcole straggling behind. From a peak, Taza jeered, holding Debo above his head like a trophy, or in threat of murder. And behind Taza, vague as dawn mist, loomed a dreadful figure Davyd recognized from the dreams in the wood. Spiked golden armor glistened dreamy in the moonlight, matched by the trappings of the obscene horse the Breaker rode. The horse reared, pawing the night, its fanged mouth snarling. Then the rider fought the creature still and animal and man, both, stared at Davyd with fiery red eyes. Then the rider unlatched his winged helm and shook out a mane of fire-bright hair, and raised a taloned gauntlet to stab a finger at Davyd in … Davyd was unsure … condemnation? Or challenge? Perhaps contempt.
Surely the weirdling figure laughed, and for all there was no sound, still Davyd knew that laughter contemptuous. He raised a fisted hand, but the figure was gone—and Taza and Debo—and he saw them hurrying afoot through the underhill passages, the golden-armored Breaker and the great, dread horse trotting ethereal ahead.
And then he saw the forests beyond the hills and Taza was there, carrying Debo to an encampment of the People, save it was all tree-girt and not on the open grass. Folk came toward them, applauding them, and Taza handed Debo to a man Davyd knew must be Chakthi. The child stirred in fitful sleep, crying out at the disappointment.
And then the camp was ringed with folk in rainbow armor, all mounted on such beasts as he’d heard described and seen in his oak-wood dreams. The golden-armored man led them and it seemed to Davyd that he looked out from the dream at the reality and sneered in triumph. Then raised a hand and took the horde away, the Breakers and the Tachyn both, and went out onto the plains of Salvation leaving fire and destruction in his wake. And soldiers in red coats, and others in blue, came out to meet the horde and a great battle commenced, muskets and cannon filling the air with sound and fury.…
And Davyd woke to the rattle of thunder, lightning dancing atop the mountains, and found Arcole shaking him.
“We ride.” Arcole knelt at his side, passing him a horn cup of tea that was thankfully still warm. “Rannach will wait no longer.”
Davyd swallowed the tea in a gulp. “I must speak with him.” He rose, wincing as his wounds tugged tight.
Arcole nodded, and went with Davyd to where Rannach stood, ready beside his horse.
“Taza will reach Salvation,” Davyd said without preamble. “Our only chance is to beat him there.”
“You know this?” Rannach’s face was planed hard by the lightning, his dark eyes anguished.
“I dreamed it,” Davyd said. “I dreamed he brought Debo to Chakthi, and the Breakers were there.”
Rannach’s lips stretched in a feral snarl. Almost, Davyd stepped back from the accusation he saw in the Commacht’s eyes, but he stood his ground, pained for the hurt in his friend.
“There’s no chance we can catch him this side of the mountains?”
“No.” Davyd shook his head, filled with a terrible certainty. “He’s guided by the Breakers.”
“The Maker damn his soul,” Rannach snarled, then sighed and shivered, as if accepting some awful judgment. “What do we do?”
A part of Davyd’s mind found it odd that the akaman of the Commacht should ask of him their next step; another part was full of dream-born certainty, knowing what he must say.
“We must find an entrance to the Grannach tunnels and look to take him on the other side.”
Rannach nodded. “Then we shall do that.” He turned, shouting into the night. “We ride! We find the Grannach!”
It seemed to Taza as he rose and took Debo’s hand that they were not alone. The voice had come to him again in sleep, and shown him the knowledge stolen from Colun, but now it seemed the voice took on magnificent form and he blinked and struggled to discern it through the lightning-pocked night. It was hard—like trying to pin down the images of a dream—but he thought he saw a splendid figure kitted in gold armor, riding such a horse as had never trod the plains of Ket-Ta-Thanne before him, and the figure turned in his skull-hung saddle and beckoned Taza on, pointing to a trail that ran between the twin peaks, and Taza knew a way through the mountains waited there to receive him. So he smiled and all his weariness was gone as he followed.
He found an entrance to the Grannach tunnels that he opened with dream-stolen knowledge, and took Debo inside.
The storm grew stronger, the mountains lit all stark black and silver by the lightning bolts that crashed down as if determined to contest the mastery of the skies with the vast uprising hills. Thunder roiled, echoing off the peaks, and though no rain fell as yet, the threat hung pungent in the air. Davyd gritted his teeth, urging his mount up the trail after Rannach. It seemed the thunder dinned against his wounds, and he felt afraid and terribly weary, and longed for rest, knowing he should find none until their purpose was accomplished or they be slain.
And are we slain, he thought, what shall happen then? Shall the Breakers flood through Salvation and then come against Ket-Ta-Thanne? Shall the indentured folk die for Chakthi’s ambition and the Breakers’ lust? Shall the People?
Inside him, a voice said, No, and he felt righteous anger fill him and warm him so that he forgot his aching body and his desire for sleep and urged his mount on until Rannach’s stallion snorted a protest and Rannach turned in the saddle to look back.
“Soon,” Davyd called. “We’ll find an entrance soon.”
Rannach looked at him with anguished eyes and ducked his head. “Do you take the lead? You’ll know it better than I.”
Davyd did not know how he should, only that he would, and so he heeled his horse past Rannach’s stallion and led them on.
The tunnels smelled of stone and moss, and as Taza progressed deeper underhill light shone from the walls before him, fading behind like dying witchfire. None opposed his passage, and Debo was entranced with the journey, staring around and sometimes asking Taza where the Grannach were.
“Asleep,” Taza told him, “and we must go quietly that we do not disturb them.” Which Debo accepted, and only complained when his short legs grew weary, so that Taza lifted him up and set him in the pannier and carried him on through the silent passageway.
He supposed this was some tunnel the Grannach seldom used. Surely it was unwatched, nor was there much sense of use to it. There was no dust, but neither were there any signs of other passersby; only the strange light that glowed ahead and faded away behind. It was an eerie sensation, akin to his journey through the Matakwa camp, when he’d sprinkled his herbs unnoticed, all the time wondering if some fool such as Tekah might happen on him. And did he finger the knife he carried, still he felt a vast and certain confidence that he must succeed and claim his rightful destiny.
He came to a branching of the way and halted. Two tunnels went off to the left, and three more to the right. He stood within a circular chamber that appeared to be some kind of way station. A well stood at the center, flanked by stone-shaped benches, and around the cavity niches were cut into the walls with shelves inset that might accommodate a sleeping Grannach. More niches held food, which he raided, halting just long enough to satisfy his and Debo’s hunger, and allow the child to dabble his fingers in the well water.
“What is this place?” Debo asked. “Where are the Grannach?”
He had not thought Debo would talk so much, but as the child chattered on he answered the myriad questions, knowing that it were best he keep the boy happy: he did not know how far a voice might carry along the branching ways, and he must be careful.
After a while he rose and told Debo they must go on, not knowing which path to take, looking from one to the other, unsure. Then he saw the rider again, standing his dread horse within the ingress of a tunnel, and knew he was still guided and went that way, confident.
The trail curved around an outcrop of vertical cliff that thrust out from the mountains like the prow of some great ship sailing into the night. It reminded Davyd of the Pride of the Lord, and he felt a moment’s hesitation as he shouted for the column to halt. This, he thought as he studied the lightning-lit cliff, was not so different from boarding that other vessel: surely a journey to another new land.
“It’s here,” he said, not knowing how he knew, only that he did. “The entrance is here.”
There was no room on the trail for more than two other riders, and Rannach and Arcole brought their horses alongside, both staring at the blank rock and Davyd with a mixture of confidence and bewilderment.
Davyd dismounted, pain forcing out a grunt as his feet struck the ground, and went to the cliff. He placed his hands flat against the slick surface and, still not knowing what he did, shouted, “I am Davyd of the Commacht—I am Colun’s friend—and I’d ask entry.”
Light sparked across the sky as if in acknowledgment, and an area of imponderable stone became an opening in which a quartet of Grannach stood. They wore armor—mostly breastplates and helms, but one with grieves and pauldrons—and all carried spears and axes, wide-bladed swords sheathed on broad belts. One ste
pped forward and said, “I am Vitran. What do you flatlanders want?”
Davyd said, “Passage underhill; and swiftly.”
Vitran studied him awhile, the spear he held cradled across his chest as if he’d as soon use it as grant entry. Then he shrugged and stood back.
“Enter and we’ll talk.”
The cavern was large enough that it encompassed all the horses and the men. Ale was brought, and food, and discussion of the passage began in the slow and patient Grannach way.
It chafed on Davyd—far worse on Rannach—as Vitran insisted he hear a full explanation of all that had transpired: of Davyd’s dreams and Debo’s kidnap, the People’s opinion of Taza, of Colun’s thoughts and Morrhyn’s—all of it, at great length.
Finally he said, “And you’d ask us to bring you underhill to the Tachyn country?” And laughed. “Do you truly believe this … Taza?… can pass unnoticed through our mountains?”
Davyd said, “Yes: he’s guided by the Breakers.”
And felt a measure of guilty satisfaction as he saw Vitran’s swarthy stone face pale, and the gesture of warding the Grannach made.
Rannach said, impatient, “Davyd is a true Dreamer. Morrhyn would name him his successor.”
Vitran frowned and said, “But he carries a thunder-stick. You name him wakanisha, but he’s the look of a warrior. Does the Ahsa-tye-Patiko not deny that?”
“He is different,” Rannach said. “He guides us where we must go, and it does not matter to me. Only that I get my son back.”
“And you are akaman of the Commacht.” Vitran nodded ponderously. “I wonder what Colun would decide.”
“To bring us through,” Davyd said, “and swift.”
Vitran looked at him awhile, then nodded again. “You’ve Morrhyn’s look about you, boy, so I shall trust you. Swift passage underhill, eh?”
Davyd said, urgently, “Yes.”
“Into the land beyond?” Vitran said. And when Davyd voiced his agreement: “And your horses? We cannot drop them down our cliffs.”