by Angus Wells
He drank and passed the flask to Arcole, who sipped and held it out to Davyd. Davyd shook his head: it seemed to him that he should have clear senses this day. He asked, “How long can we hold them?”
“I doubt we can withstand another charge.” Kerik shrugged, grimacing as the movement shifted his wounded arm. “That at the best. Do they attack en masse …”
“You failed.” Akratil stared contemptuously at Chakthi.
“We fought.” The Tachyn glowered sullenly. A bruise decorated his cheek where the Breaker had kicked him, and his mouth was swollen. “Nor did worse than you.”
Akratil nodded thoughtfully. “These folk are harder to take than I’d anticipated. These weapons they use are powerful.”
Chakthi said, “I warned you of that.”
“Yes.” Akratil smiled as might a man at a fawning dog. “And meanwhile, we are held here. We cannot go through that pass.”
“We might go back,” Chakthi said, “to the west, and skirt around this valley.”
“That,” Akratil declared, “is not our way. No; I shall overcome this obstacle.”
“How?” Chakthi demanded.
“That is for me to decide.” Akratil waved a languid hand in dismissal. “Now go away and leave me to think.”
Chakthi grunted and quit the silken pavilion, returning to his own lodge, where Hadduth waited.
“He treats me as if I am nothing.” He snatched at the tiswin the wakanisha proffered. “I am akaman of the Tachyn, yet he speaks to me as if I were …”
He shook his head, snarling in outrage. Hadduth said, “You fought bravely.”
“Ach, I know no other way!” Chakthi raised a hand and Hadduth cringed back. “Nor did I see Rannach. Indeed, I begin to wonder if he’s here. Tell me where he is, Dreamer.”
Hadduth swallowed nervously. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “he has taken his son back to the People.”
Abruptly, tiswin was hurled in his face and Chakthi’s hands were on his throat.
“You gave me your word.” Chakthi’s voice was a growl, his eyes red with fury. “I’d find him here, you said.”
“Wait,” Hadduth choked, “listen to me, I beg you.” Chakthi eased the pressure on his windpipe a little. “If he’s not here, then we can find him. Later, when we own this land.”
“Later? I want him now!” Chakthi snarled. Spittle flecked his lips, saliva dripping from his jaw. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Hadduth croaked.
“You don’t know?”
As best he could with Chakthi’s powerful hands tight on his throat, Hadduth shook his head. “No, but …”
“What use such a Dreamer?” Chakthi asked. “You promised me Rannach, but where is he? You promised me victory, but we’re held like penned buffalo in this cursed valley. You promised me allies, but I am treated like a dog!”
Spittle fell onto Hadduth’s face and the pressure on his windpipe increased. He tried to speak, to scream, but all that came out was a strangled moan. Chakthi straddled him, staring down as he drove his thumbs harder against the yielding flesh, his fingers gouging into Hadduth’s neck. All his frustration, all his anger, focused on the wakanisha. It seemed to him that Hadduth had delivered him to this impasse, the Dreamer’s promises false, leading only to disappointment and humiliation. He tightened his grip.
He saw Hadduth’s eyes blur and begin to bulge. A red mist pervaded his vision as he watched the Dreamer begin to buck as lungs denied their fill of air protested, and felt Hadduth’s hands grasp at his wrists. Chakthi was the stronger and held the wakanisha down, so that Hadduth felt a terrible pain in his chest and in his head. His mouth opened wide in a desperate search for air. Chakthi saw his hands fall away and flop uselessly at his sides, and in a while his struggling ceased and he only lay staring blankly at Chakthi’s outraged face.
Hadduth’s final thought was terrifying: that likely now he must face the Maker and be judged for all he’d done. Then there was only darkness.
Chakthi held the dead wakanisha a long time, and when he loosed his hold there were livid bruises on Hadduth’s throat, and a swollen tongue that protruded from the gaping mouth. Chakthi rose and took hold of Hadduth’s hair and dragged the body from his lodge. He ignored the amazed stares of his warriors as he hauled the corpse across the grass to where the Breakers’ dread beasts were penned. A black-armored beast-master stood there and Chakthi deposited the body at his feet.
“Here, let your animals feed on this.”
Not long after, the Breakers attacked again. Somehow, as if sheer purpose and honest intent were enough to defeat their magicks, a score or so of marines still survived, and the Horde did not take the ridge. The Breakers retreated, but none still standing on the rim of the slope any longer entertained much hope save that they should die there.
Even so, none any longer spoke of retreat, but only that they must hold the dread attackers and ask whichever god they worshipped that help come in time.
Arcole wore a stained bandage about his head, where a sword had cut him, and another about his arm, where an arrow had pierced flesh. Davyd was one of the few lucky ones, as if the Maker Himself warded him against harm, for even though he stood in the thick of battle, no blade had touched him yet, nor arrow, nor beast. He wondered if he was saved for some greater fate.
“By God, they’d best come soon.” Arcole wiped blood from his knife’s blade and set a whetstone to the edges of the Grannach steel. “We cannot last much longer.”
“No.” Davyd tilted his head back, staring at the sky. The sun westered now, throwing long shadows from the trees. There was no birdsong, because in this bloody valley all the birds were fled, as if driven off by the presence of the Breakers and the awful carnage. The loudest sounds were the growling of the Breakers’ beasts; even the wounded were quiet now. “But last we must.”
“Or die,” Arcole murmured.
“Or that,” Davyd agreed.
“Here.” A marine came with coffee and a meager luncheon. “Captain Kerik’s compliments.”
“Where is he?” Arcole asked.
“With the wounded.” The marine eyed them curiously, as if he wondered at their origins, their presence here. Then he saluted and turned away.
Arcole chuckled. “No doubt he wonders what branded exiles do here, fighting alongside the marines of the God’s Militia.”
“Likely.” Davyd sipped the coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm. He longed to sleep. “And do the others come, he’ll wonder the more. But he’ll fight with them—with us—and that shall be a fine thing, no?”
Arcole nodded. “Like your dreams? All the folk of Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne come together?”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded in turn. “To save the world.”
“And do we,” Arcole murmured, “what after? You know that Abram and his folk shall declare independence, and then the Autarchy will send armies to claim back this land.”
“Then I suppose,” Davyd said, “that we shall fight another war.”
“I think,” Arcole said, “that I’ve had enough of war.”
Davyd only shrugged, unable to answer. Instead, he emptied his mug and forced himself to eat, then lay back on the grass and watched the sun, wondering if he should see it rise again.
Akratil said, “This shall be the end of it. This sunset shall see them swept from that ridge and slain. We shall avenge all our dead; Bemnida and the rest.” He raised his great sword and shouted, “Forward!” And in a great rainbow title that shone and glittered, prismatic, in the light, all the Breakers charged to the attack.
“There!” Morrhyn pointed ahead, to where a broad avenue afforded ingress to the valley. The air above the surrounding ridges was misty, as if a multitude of fires fed smoke to the sky. “Swift now!” He urged his tired horse to a gallop, bringing the warriors of the People with him.
Rannach flanked Arrhyna, Debo agog with excitement at her side, Flysse beyond, her blue eyes wide with concern. “Hold back,” he said. “This
is work for men.” He heeled his mount up to join Morrhyn, hefting a borrowed lance.
Flysse said, “I cannot: I must find Arcole. Arrhyna, do you keep Debo safe,” and set her own horse to a lathered gallop before the Commacht woman had chance to answer or argue.
“Come on!” Abram Jaymes raised his Hawkins rifle and stretched his long legs in a furious run. “Can’t you hear them?”
“God, but that sounds ferocious.” Tomas Var paced him, his own rifle cradled across his chest.
Behind them came a stream of folk—masters and branded men and soldiers of the God’s Militia, traders and tavernkeepers, servants, all Grostheim, all Salvation, represented. They had left the barges moored on the Restitution’s north bank and made a forced march across country. Folk had joined them from the outlying settlements, as if some common purpose, felt but not properly understood, brought them together. And now they could hear the crash of cannon and the rattle of musketry, see the pall of smoke that clouded the valley. Var prayed they be in time.
Akratil, cursing foully, shouted for the hornman to sound retreat and fell back down the slope to regroup at the foot. He could not understand such defeat—he was the conquering blade, the servant of oblivion and death, and he had worked powerful magicks to protect his people. But still they died—it was as if some concatenation of forces worked against him. He sensed destiny heavy in the smoke-sullen air, and vowed that his dark god should be served, and these paltry obstacles be swept away.
“By God, but we held them off!” Kerik waved a bloodied saber in triumph.
“They’ll come again,” Arcole said. Sweat ran down his face, cutting runnels through the powder stain, and blood oozed from a sword cut across his ribs. “But there’ll be fewer of them.”
“And of us.” Kerik’s elation dissolved as he looked around at the dead marines, the wounded. Then he forced a brave smile and shouted, “Well done, boys! Hold hard, and remember we fight for Salvation!”
Arcole noticed that he did not say, “For the Autarchy,” and smiled. Then: “Where’s Davyd?”
Kerik shrugged and Arcole turned, seeking his comrade. He saw Davyd slumped against an oak, spilling powder into the frizzen of his musket. He was pale under his own coating of powder, and it seemed to Arcole that his eyes were haunted.
“You’re hale?”
Davyd nodded. “It’s odd, no? I’ve taken no wounds.”
“You’re lucky.” Arcole shrugged. “Or blessed.” Davyd smiled wearily. “How much longer can we hold them?”
“Not long. Another charge, perhaps.”
“We must try to slay their leader,” Davyd said. “The one on the horned horse.”
“He’s charmed, like you.” Arcole regretted the unthinking words as he saw Davyd’s face tighten, and sought to redress the mistake. “I mean that he rides unscathed—I’ve taken shots at him, but always some other rider blocks my aim, or his magic deflects the bullet.”
“He serves his own god.” Davyd stared down the slope to where Akratil rallied his forces. “And his god’s dark, but powerful.”
Then the horn sounded again and again the Breakers charged.
Chakthi held his warriors back. Let Akratil and his Breakers take the brunt of those thunder-blasting cannon. They owned magic, and his Tachyn were sore hit by this battle, his clan reduced—so let the Breakers go up that ridge and he’d follow after. He reined his horse and watched as the Breakers urged their awful mounts onward.
The bulk of dead littering the slope slowed the Breakers’ charge. Only a few succeeded in climbing the bloody obstacle, and they were met by gunfire and bayonets. For a while.
“Oh, God, we’re out of shot! Stand firm!”
Jorge Kerik slashed his saber at a dismounted Breaker. The blade clattered on bright red armor and the Breaker swung a crescent-bladed ax at the marine. The curved head took Kerik’s legs from under him, and he screamed as he felt bone break, but even as he fell he cut at his assailant, deflecting a blow that should have taken off his head. Then Arcole was there, musket blasting flame directly against the armor, and the Breaker gasped and was thrown back.
The lead slug dented the armor, but did not penetrate. Arcole wondered if these creatures might be slain and swung the musket like a club against the crimson helm, hurling the warrior—man or woman?—back, and drew a pistol that he pressed against the slitted eye sockets. He squeezed the trigger and saw blood erupt from within the casque. The Breaker fell down and was still; Arcole turned to Kerik.
“I’m slain.” Kerik stared at his left leg, blood gouting from the stump. His foot lay close to the Breaker’s corpse. “But it was a fine fight, no?” His voice faltered.
“It was a fine battle.” Arcole knelt beside the dying man. “You and your men fought well.”
“We’re marines,” Kerik chuckled bitterly and reached for Arcole’s hand. “It was an honor to know you, Arcole Blayke.”
“And to know you.” Arcole took the hand and held it firm.
“Do what you can for my men, eh?” Kerik’s voice grew thick, his eyes glazing.
Arcole said, “Yes,” thinking that they should all die this day, and watched the light go out of Kerik’s eyes. He loosed the dead man’s grip and took up his musket and went back to the fight.
Morrhyn halted where the pass fed into the valley. For a moment he sat his panting horse with widened eyes as he stared at the battle raging up the far slope. He recalled the Meeting Ground in Ket-Ta-Witko, and the slaughter there, and wondered if he had brought the People to destruction. But Davyd was on that ridge, and he could feel the presence even through the Breakers’ clouding magic, like a bright beacon shining out of fog, and knew the Maker had led him here. Worlds turned here, and was this battle lost then worlds should die.
He looked to Rannach.
“This is our work now.” Rannach raised his lance. “To me!”
Yazte sided him; Kanseah and Dohnse. Colun slid down from the horse he shared, and the Grannach bunched around him as Rannach outlined his battle plan.
“See?” He angled his lance down the valley. “Chakthi holds his Tachyn back—we take them first, then the Breakers in the rear.”
“An uphill charge?” Yazte frowned. “Do they turn, they’ll run over us.”
“Shall we leave brave men to die?” Rannach asked, and Yazte shook his head, saying, “No!”
Dohnse said, “This is a good day to die.”
Morrhyn said, “The Maker grant we don’t. The Maker grant we prevail.”
Colun said, “A moment,” and called for torches to be made and lit. Then he grinned wickedly and added: “Even do we die, they’ll sleep rough this night.”
Rannach said, “We attack!” And set his mount to trotting across the grass, picking up speed as all the warriors grouped beside and around him and the earth began to thunder with the pounding of their hooves and the blood-scented air grew loud with their battle cries.
Chakthi heard their shouting and swung his horse around. He cursed as he saw the great mass of warriors charging, the Grannach running like fleet boulders amongst the horses, their torches slapping at Breakers’ silken pavilions and the hide lodges of his own clan. Flame began to fill the valley as he saw Rannach at the head of the People and snarled, vowing to take the Commacht’s head. He couched his lance and bellowed for his men to follow him.
Rannach saw him coming and urged his mount to a swifter pace, so that both akamans ran out in front of their warriors. Rannach screamed, “He’s mine!”
Chakthi carried a hide shield, Rannach none, and Chakthi smiled wolfishly as he recognized his advantage. He crouched low on his saddle, his lance held firm between ribs and arm, angled to strike into Rannach’s exposed belly. As they came together, he drove forward, looking to gut the Commacht and lift him from the saddle.
Rannach swung aside at the last moment, feeling the Tachyn’s lance score across his ribs, his own deflected by the shield. He ignored the flash of pain and snatched his horse around to stab at Chak
thi’s back, but the Tachyn turned and danced his mount away.
“For Vachyr! For my son and all you did to him!”
Rannach shouted, “For Debo and the People!” And they charged again.
Closer now, their pace was slower, and as Chakthi’s lance probed at his gut, Rannach shifted on the saddle and flung his own spear at the Tachyn’s chest. Chakthi raised his shield to fend off the missile, and as he did, Rannach caught his pole beneath his left arm and kicked his horse to the side, so that the lance was torn from Chakthi’s grip. He screamed a curse and drew his hatchet. Rannach drew his own from his belt and they came again together, the larger fight forgotten as they clashed, each man intent on revenge.
Chakthi’s hatchet slashed air as Rannach ducked, reaching across to smash his blade at the Tachyn’s ribs. Chakthi flung back, the movement disturbing his balance, so that his horse whinnied and began to rear. It was a Tachyn pony—battle-trained—and it flailed its hooves and snapped its teeth at Rannach’s bay. The bay was no more than a riding animal, and it shied from the smaller horse’s attack. Chakthi brought his mount down and aimed a blow at Rannach’s head. The Commacht twisted away and the swing lopped hair from the bay horse’s mane. It screamed, panicking, and began to buck. Rannach cursed and heeled it away, then swung it round and forced it directly at Chakthi’s mount.
The bay was terrified, but still it charged, smashing into the other horse so that the smaller animal was hurled back and sat down on its hindquarters. Rannach came out of the saddle in a reckless leap that carried Chakthi down onto the grass. They rolled together, locked in an embrace fierce and furious as any lovers’, and came apart with upraised hatchets, and stared snarling at one another, knowing that one must die.
Chakthi still held his shield; Rannach drew his knife. Chakthi swung his ax and Rannach dropped under the blow, driving Grannach steel at the Tachyn’s belly. Chakthi halted the stab with his shield and brought his hatchet down at Rannach’s head. Rannach hurled himself aside, tumbling over the grass, and Chakthi roared and sprang forward, ax upraised.