Exile's Challenge (19 page)

Chakthi nodded and asked, “Forts, are they all like the big wooden city?”

“No.” Thirsk shook his head. “They are like little cities: small, but filled with soldiers.”

“With muskets?”

Thirsk nodded eagerly. “And cannons.”

“Tell me again,” Chakthi said, “about cannons.”

Thirsk spoke, the words tumbling out, anxious to please that there be no more pain, telling Chakthi all he knew of cannon and forts and the soldiers of the God's Militia. When he was done, Chakthi nodded and appeared too lost in thought to strike him again. Had Thirsk retained any belief in God, he would have given thanks for that, but his faith was lost with his tattered sanity and his only belief now was in survival. He was become something less than human, and so he smiled and gibbered his gratitude as Chakthi tossed him a gnawed bone and walked away.

The Tachyn akaman found Hadduth seated outside the wakanisha's lodge, grinding pahé root.

“The owh'jika says they are building things called forts,” he announced, “that they will fill with their warriors. It says a thing called an army has been sent to drive us out.”

Hadduth ceased his pounding, set the pot and the pestle aside, and wiped his hands on his breeches. “What will you do?”

Chakthi squatted, staring past the wakanisha to the dense timber surrounding the camp. It was strange to live so enclosed, not out on the open grass, but Hadduth's dreams had confirmed his own desire to stay close to the mountains, and in light of all he'd learned it seemed now a wise decision. He listened to the wind singing through the firs and watched the flickering of sunlight, aware that Hadduth waited on him to speak, not caring. Let the Dreamer wait: he had failed in his appointed task, and it amused Chakthi to see him squirm.

Finally the akaman said, “I am not sure yet. The scouts
spoke of a great many warriors—both the bluecoats and the red—and they have the cannon.”

Hadduth nodded sagely. “The cannon are very dangerous.”

There was no need to elaborate. Both men knew the carnage the guns along the walls of the big fort had wreaked, and the Tachyn were not so many now.

“But if they build their forts and put the cannon in them …” Chakthi scowled, letting the sentence trail away.

Hadduth nodded again, thinking that it should be hard to conquer one, and if the strangers built a series.… He pushed the thought aside and held his tongue, waiting on Chakthi.

Who asked him bluntly, “What do you think? Have you dreamed of this?”

Hadduth swallowed. As he had told his akaman, his dreams had been few and difficult of interpretation since coming to this new land. Had he not turned his face away from the Maker he would have prayed to the deity—but that was not possible now, and could only invite punishment. Nor could he pray to the Breakers, who were, he supposed, left behind in Ket-Ta-Witko, frustrated by Morrhyn's cursed magic. But Chakthi demanded an answer, and Hadduth knew it had best be one favorable to his akaman's wishes. So he shrugged and composed a reply he hoped would please Chakthi.

“I have dreamed of a great river that comes from where the sun rises, only it is a river made not of water but of men. The men are all strangers, in the warriors' coats, and the river washes all before it and spreads across the land. But …” He raised a nervous hand as Chakthi snarled. “The river comes against the forest and is stopped, and can go no farther.”

“What does it mean?” Chakthi demanded.

“That we are safe here,” Hadduth gestured at the enclosing timber, “and that the grass is dangerous.”

“So we do nothing?” Chakthi's face darkened.

Hadduth shook a hurried head. “No—only be careful.” He thought quickly: it was not so hard to give Chakthi what he wanted. “We must strike against them when they least
expect it. I think when they are building their forts, before they are finished.”

Chakthi ducked his head, the scowl becoming a smile. “Your dreams prove my wishes right.”

Hadduth returned an unctuous smile. “My akaman is a great leader.”

Var located the site of the first fort and saw his force bivouacked behind perimeter defenses. Trenches were hurriedly dug, the displaced soil thrown up in makeshift walls with the cannon set to command the approaches, the tents and livestock at the center of the square. Talle was impatient, but Var succeeded in impressing on the Inquisitor the need to establish a basic command post before work on the fort proper might safely commence.

“The wilderness is close,” he gestured at the blue-looming forest edge, “and is Abram Jaymes right, then the hostiles might well be watching us even now.”

“Then might we not attack them?” Talle stared malevolently at the woodland, as if he'd pierce the shadows with his gaze. “Might we not mount a preemptive expedition?”

“Better that we set up our defenses first.” Var spoke carefully, marveling the while at Talle's apparent lack of understanding. “Are we to safely build all the planned forts, we shall need this one as a stronghold. And are we attacked whilst we build …” He paused, thinking that surely the Inquisitor must understand the importance of a basic command post.

But Talle only shook his lank-haired head and frowned a question. So Var continued: “We do not know the forest, Inquisitor; but the hostiles do—it's their home—and were we to venture into those depths too soon, why, they might well deplete our force drastically enough we could not complete our task.”

Talle grunted, scratching at a nostril. “I must trust your judgment in military matters,” he said at last. “But how long shall we delay here? I'd take the fight to the enemy.”

Var turned, indicating the men laboring in the trenches, those throwing up the earthworks. “It shall be some weeks,
Inquisitor. We'll need to enter the forest to fell timber, and that to be hewn to shape and raised for the walls. But we'll see it done.”

“We'll do our duty,” Talle returned. “And as quick as possible, eh?”

Var said, “Of course,” and watched the frock-coated little man stalk away with a sense of palpable relief.

“He getting impatient?”

Abram Jaymes came up to stand alongside Var, who grinned ruefully as he nodded. “He'd go out against them now.”

“They'll come soon enough, I reckon,” Jaymes chuckled. “Maybe he'll change his mind then.”

Var said, “I don't think Inquisitor Talle admits to changing his mind.”

The owh'jika had said the blue-coated warriors were the finest, but Chakthi thought them blind as the others. Had he the men to match the numbers massed about the site of the fort, he would have risked a full-scale attack; but his clan was small now, and Hadduth had counseled against a frontal onslaught. Chakthi's confidence in his Dreamer waned, but in this he must agree with the wakanisha. Indeed, he must agree that Hadduth's suggestion seemed the most likely route to success. So he only watched the strangers, his warriors hidden in the long grass and the undergrowth, until he saw clearly what they did, and how.

Soon he saw that the fort would be like the big wooden camp at the mouth of the river—all built of timber. He saw that the green-coated ones planned it, whilst the redcoats labored alongside and the bluecoats played watchmen. As the owh'jika had promised, it would be smaller, but if it were finished, Chakthi could see that it would dominate the river and a wide area around. It came to him that if the strangers built such places all along the edgewoods, raiding out of the forest must prove very difficult. But to build the thing the strangers must have timber—and for that they must enter the forest.

Chakthi watched until he was satisfied with his knowledge of their ways, and then planned his raid.

Each day, between three and five of the odd vehicles the owh'jika said were called wagons were driven into the forest. They carried men with axes, who set to felling trees, and were escorted by a party of the bluecoats. The felled trees were later hauled back to the burgeoning fort: the smaller specimens on the wagons, the larger waiting for horse teams that dragged them like great travois.

Chakthi curbed his impatience and waited, allowing the strangers to grow more confident; besides, he wanted to kill as many as he could in the first raid. He deemed the time right when five wagons came down the trail, carrying some fifty men, with perhaps as many marines marching in escort.

The Tachyn waited in concealment, even though Chakthi doubted the strangers had the eyes to read the forest's signs. Their faces were painted for war, banded white and black and yellow, and on Chakthi's signal they attacked.

Matieu Fallyn commanded the detail, and he was deploying his marines about the perimeter of the cleared area when the arrows came in a terrible rain from amongst the trees. He felt a blow on his shoulder that numbed his left arm before he felt any pain. He saw men falling around him, shafts sprouting like deadly weeds from their bodies, and saw the arrow jutting from his own. He cursed, confused an instant by the pain and the suddenness of the attack, then drew his pistol.

“Form square! Two ranks!”

The order was redundant—his men, disciplined veterans, were already shaping the defensive formation, the wagons at the center.

Fallyn aimed his pistol at the shadowy timber. “Front rank, fire!”

The muskets exploded a volley into the trees. Dirty white smoke billowed across the clearing; lead shot thudded, snapping branches, sending great chips of rent bark flying. Fallyn wondered if he heard screams: it was hard to be sure through the din.

“Second rank, fire!”

Another volley: the timber was momentarily hidden behind the smoke. The front rank, kneeling, was already reloaded and Fallyn shouted that it fire again. He holstered his pistol and tugged at the arrow; then could not stifle his cry of agony.

“Likely barbed. Best leave it for now.” Abram Jaymes was at his side, the Baker rifle cocked ready. “Less you want me to cut it out.”

“No.” Fallyn shook his head. “Dammit, where are they?”

Jaymes said, “In the trees. You won't see 'em unless they come at us head-on.”

The muskets were silent, the marines awaiting Fallyn's order. More arrows came, as if the forest itself flung the missiles. Fallyn saw marines fall, an engineer scream, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest; a horse shrilled, bucking frantically as it was struck in neck and hindquarters.

“Fire!” Then to Jaymes: “How many, d'you think?”

The guide shrugged. “A lot.”

“Can we beat them?”

“Depends.” Jaymes spat tobacco. “How much ammunition you got?”

“Every man carries a full pouch.” Fallyn fired his pistol into the smoke. He could see no target, but it seemed necessary to do something. “Shall that be enough?”

“Might be.” Jaymes had not yet fired his rifle. “Depends.”

“Dammit, give me a straight answer for God's sake.” Fallyn lost patience with the laconic guide. “Can we hold them off, or do we retreat?”

Jaymes said, “There's no straight answers with these folk, Captain. I don't know how many there are, so I can't say whether you got enough powder, or not. Might be they decide to quit, or …” He shrugged again. “Might be they don't.”

Fallyn struggled to reload his pistol and found that his left hand refused to work. Cursing, he thrust the gun into its holster and drew his sword, forcing himself to think calmly. It was not easy: he faced an unseen enemy who fought by no rules of warfare he knew. Who hid from sight as if, just as he'd heard the settlers muttering, the forest had spawned them. He wondered what to do. Not advance into the trees—certainly
not that. Hold the square? Hope—pray!—the savages or demons or whatever they were would give up? Hope the firing was heard and a rescue column came? Or retreat? They were not too deep into the timber, and he doubted the enemy would follow onto the open grass, where the fighting would surely be noticed by the main force.

Arrows still flew, not in that terrible rain now, but individually, as if the unseen bowmen taunted the intruders and picked them off leisurely. Matieu Fallyn envisaged his entire command slaughtered man by man. God, if only the bastards would fight face-to-face!

Fallyn's experience was all of open warfare, of frontal attacks in which army clashed with army. There was no honor in ambush. But this was a new world and a new enemy, and Fallyn knew he must adapt or die. He came to an abrupt decision.

“We withdraw! We fight our way back! Fix bayonets!”

He bellowed the order, his marines holding the square as engineers and Militiamen cut free the slain horses and loaded the wounded men onto the wagons. His shoulder throbbed abominably now and he turned to Jaymes.

“Cut this damn thing away.”

The guide nodded and lowered his rifle. He drew his big knife and hacked through the arrow, close to Fallyn's shoulder. The captain groaned as the shaft was moved inside the wound, and forbade himself to faint. Jaymes tossed the length of painted wood away and retrieved his long gun.

“Wagons are ready, Captain.” A sergeant of the Militia came through the smoke. “What about the dead?”

Fallyn cursed anew, glanced toward the wagons, and saw there was insufficient room for the bodies. “Strip them of their weapons and leave them.”

The sergeant nodded and was gone. Fallyn shouted for the marines to form around the wagons. It would be a difficult maneuver, the hindmost line marching backward over a trail rutted by the carts and the dragged timber. He prayed it would work: he could think of nothing else, save waiting here to die. He did not relish reporting his defeat to Inquisitor Talle.

They retreated, slowly, arrows still coming out of the trees,
answered by the disciplined fire of the marines. Fallyn did not know he staggered until he smelled Jaymes's buckskins and felt the guide's arm around his waist. He straightened, pushing free of the man's support, and turned to survey his stricken command.