by Angus Wells
He heard the roaring of their strangeling beasts, and the battle shouts of the Breakers; dying screams and the sound of breaking bones, of blades cutting into flesh. Then there was only fire and the roaring of flames, and he woke, sticky with sweat and panting, for he was filled with a terrible dread and could not properly understand the dream, only know that the future of Ket-Ta-Thanne and Salvation balanced on a knife edge, and the Horde was come.
He wiped a hand over his face and licked dry lips, clambered upright from the tumbled bed to find water that he gulped down before dousing his face. He thought he’d not the knowledge to interpret the dream correctly—it seemed all confusion and doubt—but that he must do something. Save he knew not what.
Morrhyn said, “We have no other choice. Save to see all we know destroyed. I’ll not stand by to watch that—nor you, I think.”
Yazte sighed. “You ask much of the People, Prophet.”
Morrhyn said, “Yes: much is demanded of us.”
Yazte drank tiswin and sighed again. “I cannot argue with you,” he said, “so let us go.”
Morrhyn smiled, then felt it falter as Flysse and Arrhyna approached. They wore the apparel of warriors and determined expressions—rawhide breeches and linen shirts, their hair tied back in approximation of the braids. Flysse wore a pistol on her belt and carried a musket; Arrhyna had knife and hatchet sheathed, a quivered bow slung across her back. Worse, to Morrhyn, was that Lhyn was with them and looked no less determined.
“We go soon,” he said, nervously. “What do you want?”
Flysse glanced at Arrhyna; Arrhyna glanced at Flysse. And together they said, “We are coming with you.”
Morrhyn said, “No! That cannot be—we go to war, and women do not fight.”
“You’re going, no?” Lhyn asked. “And Dreamers don’t fight.”
Morrhyn said, “It’s different. I cannot dream beyond these mountains any longer—there’s a Breakers’ spell on them—so I have to go.”
“As do I,” Arrhyna said. “My husband and my son are somewhere beyond those mountains, and I must go to them.” She made a gesture of respect. “Nor shall you stop me, Morrhyn. Even are you the Prophet, I shall go.”
“And my husband is there,” Flysse said, “and I’d go to him. I’ll not be stopped, Morrhyn. Do you try, then I shall find a way across.”
Lhyn said, “Best allow it, eh?” And smiled.
Morrhyn looked into her eyes and knew he was defeated by the power of women. Almost, he laughed—he was the Prophet, no? The People looked to him for guidance, yet he could no more argue with these determined women than halt an avalanche with his hands. So he shrugged and gestured that they join the column of the People winding up the mountain to where Colun had opened the Grannach’s secret ways that would allow the Matawaye into Salvation to seek loved ones, and—they hoped—defeat the Breakers. But he was not sure. There was such power in the Breakers as made him doubt, and he wished that the women were not with the party. But he could not argue with them, only smile at Lhyn and wonder at all the things that might have been had she not chosen Racharran—and lead the war party on.
He’d no taste for this duty—he was a wakanisha, a Dreamer, not a warrior, and surely the Ahsa-tye-Patiko denied the wakanisha’s right to fight in battle. But who else could lead the People? Yazte looked to him for guidance and Kanseah followed blind. Did he not take the Matawaye warriors through the mountains then none should go, and then … He’d sooner not think of that, for surely it must mean the Breakers conquer and all be destroyed, nothing left save ashes and dead bones. But did he deny the Will in taking arms?
He felt a hand upon his shoulder and turned to find Kahteney grim-faced at his side.
“I do not understand this,” the Lakanti Dreamer said, “but I know we must do it. Even does it fly in the face of the Will.”
Morrhyn said, “I no longer understand,” and shook his head.
Kahteney said, “Nor I, brother. Save that we must.”
Morrhyn nodded and looked to where Colun waited. “Do you bring us through to the other side?”
Colun nodded grimly. He was battle-decked, all in leather and metal, with his ax slung across his back and a wide blade sheathed on his belt. “My folk shall come with you,” he said. “Are we to fight them again, then the Grannach shall play their part.”
“We shall move fast,” Morrhyn warned. “We must.”
Colun laughed. “We can run swift, my friend; and your horses shall move slow through the forest. Needs be, we can ride double, eh? Nor would I miss this battle.”
“Then come.” Morrhyn smiled, sadly and proudly. “Are we to die, it shall be in good company. Nor less, do we triumph.”
“So, swift,” Colun said, and turned to shout that the ways be opened that the warriors of the Matawaye come through. Then faltered as he caught sight of Flysse and Arrhyna. “What are they doing?”
“They come with us,” Morrhyn said.
“Women?” Colun’s voice rang with disbelief. “You allow this?”
Lhyn spoke before any other: “He’s scant choice; and the Maker knows, I’d go were I not needed here. They’ve menfolk lost beyond your mountains.”
Colun opened his mouth to argue, but from behind him Marjia said, “As would I, husband. Save there must be some left behind to tend the young and the sick and the old.”
Colun looked at Morrhyn, who shrugged; then at Yazte, who raised thick brows in helpless acceptance; Kanseah only averted his eyes. So Colun raised his arms and said, “The Maker forfend I argue with women, for that’s an argument lost from the beginning. So—do we go?”
Morrhyn nodded and Colun shouted again that the ways be opened and the Grannach golans weaved spells that the face of the mountain part, and the men of the People—Flysse and Arrhyna with them—went under the hill to whatever fate awaited them beyond.
Morrhyn prayed as he led them in: Maker, be with us. Grant us strength, that we prevail. May Rannach and Arcole and Davyd and Debo be safe. Grant that we come timely and save them, and all the worlds. Grant that we defeat the Breakers.
He wondered if his prayer was heard, or if the Breakers now commanded the world.
Were that so, he thought dismally, then the account lay at men’s feet. Was it not Vachyr’s betrayal of the Will that had first set these dreadful events in motion? And after that, Rannach’s—when he, in turn, broke the Ahsa-tye-Patiko? But surely Rannach had atoned for that sin. And were not sufficient slain to atone in death and blood for wrongs?
I no longer understand, he thought. You showed me how to bring the People to this new land, and now we leave it to fight in a strange country, which I do not properly understand. They scar men and women there, and use them as slaves, and I do not understand that, but I am going to fight with them. And I do not know if I should fight, but I know that if I fail to lead the People to this battle they shall all die, and that I cannot bear.
Please … guide me.
Flysse wondered if Arcole survived. She felt a terrible fear that he was dead, which should leave a part of her lost forever. She thought on all she’d heard of Racharran, and wondered at Lhyn’s loss: how could she bear it? She thought she could not bear the burden of Arcole’s death, and in her turn prayed to the Maker that he be alive and return to her, or she die with him. The thought that they not be together was too hard to bear.
She took Arrhyna’s hand, and the dark-haired woman smiled at her wanly. Flysse thought that she had so much more to lose: not just a husband, but also a child. She said, “We’ll find them, eh? We’ll find them and bring them back safe.”
Arrhyna said, “The Maker willing.”
Flysse said, “Yes, the Maker willing,” and walked along the oddly lit tunnel, holding Arrhyna’s hand and praying it be so.
Hadduth crouched fawning like an eager dog at Akratil’s elbow. Chakthi faced the leader of the Horde, attempting to retain some measure of authority, of dignity, even as his eyes shifted nervous under the pressure of t
he Breaker’s unswerving red stare. All around, the forest rang with the sounds of weirdling beasts. Far off, as if driven away and mourning, a wolf howled. Those Tachyn dogs not already eaten by the Breakers’ animals skulked and hid, and children wailed, silenced by mothers simultaneously terrified and proud. The men of the Tachyn sat or stood, intent on the central fire, endeavoring—like their akaman and his wakanisha—to maintain some semblance of calm, of resolve. Chakthi had promised them conquest with this alliance, but now that the rainbow-armored Breakers were here, mingling with them, it was hard not to show the fear they felt.
These strange folk were destruction incarnate. They followed paths none of the People—not even outcast Tachyn—understood properly, as if destruction were their only goal. It was as if blood filled their nostrils and all they’d do was kill, like a wolverine or a dog gone mad.
On the edge of the gathering a warrior called Chappo asked one whose name was Goso, “Was this wise? Has Chakthi done the right thing, bringing them here?”
Goso had rather not been asked that question. He considered it most unwise to speak of these strange warriors where answers might be overheard. But Chappo nudged him in the ribs and so he said, “Chakthi deems it so, and Hadduth. So …” He shrugged.
“They smell of blood,” Chappo said. “They smell of death.”
And started as a soft voice said, “Because we kill; because that is what we do.”
Goso turned to find a tall figure at his back. It was a woman, her hair a mane of moonlit blond, her features fine, her eyes alive with laughter. She wore pale green armor that shone like the shell of a snapping turtle basking in the sun. She wore a long sword at her side and an ax was strapped across her back. She asked, mildly, “Do you object to that?”
Chappo said, “No … I … I only …”
The woman said, “I cannot believe you are truly with us,” and drew a knife that she plunged between Chappo’s ribs.
As Chappo died, Goso heard her say, “We’ll eat well this night.”
The Breakers with her laughed; the Tachyn who had seen the slaying cringed and gasped. Ripples of alarm spread, and doubt. The watching crowd separated and the discussion at the center paused.
Goso stepped a pace back, Chappo’s blood on his shirt. He clutched at his belt knife, then looked at the woman’s challenging smile and loosed his grip, hands raised in gesture of acceptance. He heard her say, as if from a distance, “I am Bemnida, and I serve my master, Akratil. Do you argue with us, you know your fate.”
Goso saw her eyes travel to Chappo’s body and nodded, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. He feared his belly should empty, for it was hard to see a friend slain so casually—harder still to hear it announced that friend be eaten. He wondered what manner of allies Chakthi had found.
From where he sat with Akratil, Chakthi watched uncaring.
Akratil said, “Not all your folk are with us, it seems.” He gestured to where the woman dragged Chappo’s body away.
Chakthi said, “So? They’ll follow me, do you give us this land.”
“Is that all you want?” Akratil chuckled. “That’s no large thing.”
“This land,” Chakthi said, his eyes shifting away, back, “and revenge for our banishment. Vengeance on Rannach—I’d have his head. And Morrhyn’s; and I’d take Ket-Ta-Thanne for my clan alone.”
Firelight shifted over ornate armor as Akratil shrugged. “Easily done. Which first?”
Chakthi glanced at Hadduth, and for all his own awe and—were he to admit it—fear of the Breaker, could not contain the contempt he felt at his wakanisha’s fawning. Hadduth was entranced: he stared at Akratil as if the man were a god whose every word was holy law. Chakthi felt anger stir and said, “Hadduth promised me Rannach. He said that Debo’s taking would bring me my son’s murderer.”
“It has,” Akratil said. “You know where they are.”
Chakthi snarled. “Yes! But they hide behind the magic walls of the fort! I cannot reach them there—the magic defeats us.”
“You, perhaps,” Akratil returned. “But us?”
“Give me Rannach,” Chakthi said. “The rest later.”
“The one,” Akratil said, “leads to the other. But Rannach—yes; and soon. Your grandson?”
Chakthi shrugged. “I promised you his life, no? Do you still want it, then it is yours.”
“It matters nothing now,” Akratil replied. “A sacrifice was required, and that we got. But perhaps he’d make good eating.”
Chakthi shrugged.
Akratil said, “So, we go first against this fort,” and laughed. “I’ll give you Rannach’s head, and those of any with him. My word on it.”
34
Downstream
The sun shone bright and warm out of a sky devoid of all save a few wind-shepherded flocks of rolling white cloud; swallows and martins swept the heavens, and Fort Harvie stank of corruption. Crows and magpies sat the walls, waiting for the living inhabitants to depart, and rats scuttled boldly to the corpses. They went ignored by the five men who watched the wilderness forest from the ramparts, where the breeze blew stronger and somewhat took away the stink of death.
Rannach asked, “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded miserably, wishing he were not. “Chakthi would have his revenge, and so they’ll come here first—to take your head, and all those with you.”
“And then?”
Davyd shrugged. “I dreamed no more than that. Salvation or Ket-Ta-Thanne? They might turn either way. But they are coming!”
“And the People?” Rannach asked. “Do they come?”
“I don’t know.” Davyd shook his head. “Perhaps. The Maker help me, Rannach, but I cannot know for sure.”
“You dreamed it,” Rannach said.
“And much else,” Davyd replied. Maker, but with this warm sun on him, why did he feel so cold? Save it be presentiment of his own death. “I am not Morrhyn, that I can give you the clear yea or nay of it. I only know that the People might come—or not—and the only thing I can tell you for sure is that the Breakers come here in search of you.”
Rannach grunted. Debo found missiles to hurl at the carrion birds so that they rose in skirling flocks above the fort—and then came back to settle anticipatory along the walls. Arcole translated for Var and Jaymes.
Var said, “Are these folk bad as you describe, then we’d best be gone, no?”
Jaymes said, “To where?”
Arcole said, “I don’t know. Can we get past them, through the wilderness? Perhaps reach the hills and find the Grannach?” He glanced at Davyd. “Or the People coming to our aid?”
In turn, Davyd translated for Rannach, who said bluntly, “Were I Chakthi, I’d put men all through the woods, so that none might pass unnoticed. I think it should be very difficult to go back.”
Var said, “If all this is true, then all Salvation stands in peril.”
Jaymes said, “You doubt it? You saw the ghosts, no? You know what they did in Grostheim an’ here. You know the other forts are likely the same, no?” He gestured at Davyd. “You think he’s wrong?”
Var shook his head reluctantly: “No.”
“Then we have to decide what we do,” Jaymes said. “Folk’ll need warnin’ of this, else it’ll be nothin’ but slaughter.”
“But what,” Var asked, “can we do?”
They looked to Davyd. As if, he thought, I were the Prophet; as if I need only dream and give them answers. Maker help me! He stared at the bright sky, watching the birds dart and swoop, and shook his head. “If we stay here,” he said at last, “I think we shall all be slain. I doubt the hexes on this fort can hold the Breakers out. And even can they, we shall starve. So we must go.”
“Where?” Arcole asked.
Davyd shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Well,” said Abram Jaymes, “if Rannach here thinks we can’t make it through the wilderness, there’s not too much other choice, eh?”
They looked at
him and he sniffed, spat tobacco, and said, “We need to leave, else we’re all dead, no? We don’t have enough horses to carry everyone—so we go by the river.”
Arcole said, “How?”
“We build us a raft,” Jaymes said, “an’ float downstream. We get away from this place.”
“To where?” Arcole demanded, touching the scar of exile that decorated his cheek. “Back to Grostheim and the gallows? I’d not welcome that. Remember that Davyd and I are branded exiles.”
“An’ I was sentenced to hang,” Jaymes said. “An’ Tomas here deserted his post to save my life, so likely he’s proscribed outlaw an’ renegade, too. An’ Rannach’s a savage Jared Talle an’ more’n a few landholders would shoot on sight. But what other choice we got? They need to know what’s coming at them.”
Arcole said, “I’ll not go back to Grostheim. What does it matter to me if that place dies? Let the Breakers have it, and damn the Autarchy. Let the God’s Militia fight the Breakers and the Tachyn—and may they slay each other.”
Davyd said softly, “They won’t: the Breakers will conquer. Save …” He broke off, shaking his head.
Var said, “Most of the garrison is dead. The madness took them and they slew one another. Andru Wyme’s dead, and Alyx Spelt. I think that only marines defend the city now.”
“An’ there’s another thing,” Jaymes said. “Grostheim’s full o’ folk like you—the ones with the brand on their cheek. You think they should die?”
“Not them,” Arcole replied. And looked to Var. “But why should I help your marines, or any other Evanderans? You brought us here, no?”
Var nodded. “Yes, I did. I served the Autarchy and obeyed my orders. But now …?”
“Can we not learn from one another?” Davyd asked. “Look at us! The Maker knows but we’re different, no? Rannach’s Matawaye and I’m a branded exile like you, Arcole. Major Var’s an officer in the God’s Militia, but he’s standing with us alongside Abram and talking of fighting the Breakers. And if we don’t fight them, then all is lost—Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne, both. You and Var fought the sea serpent together, no? Why not fight together now?”