Exile's Challenge (30 page)

Var gasped. This was Corm's bedroom, and it was lit even brighter than the chamber beyond. Lanterns hung from the ceiling and candles stood on chairs and trunks, shelves, the floor. Wax pooled on unpolished boards and flames trailed upward, threatening to set the Sailing Ship ablaze. The single window was shuttered and bolted like the other, and also hung with hawthorn. Var noticed that the door latch was similarly draped, and that the smell of powder smoke was stronger.

It came from the wide bed, where Captain Danyael Corm, freshly shaved and dressed in full uniform, lay with a pistol in his still right hand. The heated muzzle had scorched the sheets. The discharge had exploded most of Corm's skull so that the dirty wall and the pillows behind his head were obscenely
decorated with red, and sticky patches of grayish white that Var recognized as brain matter.

Talle said, “So, a suicide,” and clicked his tongue against his teeth briskly. “And one who hangs his portals with hawthorn. Do you know what that means, Major?”

Var said, “Witchcraft?” surprised his voice came out so steady.

“That's the old belief,” Talle replied. “That hawthorn protects against evil spirits. What do you think?”

He seemed to Var less appalled than intrigued. Var said, “I don't know, Inquisitor.”

Talle chuckled. Var wondered if the candle flames truly shifted, or if that was only his imagination. Through the powder stink he could now smell Corm's blood. He stared at Talle.

Who said, “Perhaps it did once. But no longer, eh? Look at him.”

Var had rather not. He was not squeamish—could not be, an officer of marines—but there was something horribly pathetic about Corm's demise, as if a fellow officer had given up to fear. Of what? he wondered.

“The servant spoke of dreams,” Talle said, “and voices that were not his own. And now we find his master in sorry rooms lit like some cathedral, hawthorn hung around, with a pistol in his hand and his brains … Well.” He gestured at the painted wall.

Var said, “What does it mean?”

“That we must examine him,” Talle answered. “Like your Corporal Gerry.”

To himself, Var said, Oh, dear God, no. And to Talle: “As you will, Inquisitor.”

Talle said, “Quite. So, do you get his boots?”

Var sighed, not caring if Talle heard, and obeyed.

“They truly go mad?” Chakthi stared at his Dreamer, his smile ugly with pleasurable anticipation. “They slay themselves?”

“It is as Akratil promised,” Hadduth confirmed.
“Through the owh'jika we've a pathway to their minds, and Akratil uses that.”

Chakthi nodded. The firelight planed his face harsh, the lines there entirely predatory. “It was good to take the owh'jika,” he murmured. “The thing is useful.”

Hadduth hoped his akaman remembered whose idea that had been, but held his tongue. Chakthi was gone a long way into madness and his reactions were no longer at all predictable. He waited on Chakthi's next question.

The Tachyn leader stared awhile at the flames, then asked, “How long before our allies come?”

Hadduth shrugged. “I cannot say yet. I use that gift Akratil gave me to weaken the strangers, but when he will come I cannot say.”

Chakthi glanced at him, frowning, and the wakanisha added hurriedly, “The Breakers are a law unto themselves. I cannot command them—only ask their aid. But that's promised, and surely proven by what Akratil does now.”

“Valuable allies,” Chakthi agreed, his eyes fastening on the Dreamer's like a stoat's on a frightened rabbit. “But I'd not wait overlong on their arrival.”

“No,” Hadduth agreed, “but meanwhile our enemies destroy themselves. Think on it, my akaman! That they turn their weapons against one another? Is that not a great gift?”

“Yes,” Chakthi allowed. “But still I'd blood my own steel.”

“And shall,” Hadduth promised, “as soon as Akratil is ready.”

There were no hex signs on Corm's body—save they'd been painted on that missing section of his skull—and Talle declared himself satisfied. Var wondered if he should dress the body, but the Inquisitor called him away.

“Send men,” he ordered. “This one must be burned, too; and dropped in quicklime.”

Var frowned. “Is that truly necessary?”

“Oh, yes.” Talle paused at the bedroom door, fixing the marine with a wickedly mischievous smile. “Unless you'd chance the dead walking.”

Var felt a chill run down his spine. He glanced back to where Corm lay, and on the floor beside the bed, where a decanter and an overturned brandy glass stood, saw a scrap of paper.

“What is it?” Talle sounded irritated as Var turned back.

“This.” Var retrieved the paper. It was stained with spilled brandy and in one corner speckled with blood. The hand that had inscribed its message was remarkably firm, as if in the final hours of his life Corm had found calm. He read aloud: “ ‘I had believed them gone, left behind. I believed the Inquisitor had driven them out, but he has not. I do not think he can, for they are too strong. They have haunted me these past weeks, and bid me to murder, and I am too weak to resist them longer. I have seen disgrace enough and cannot countenance further ignominy. Therefore I elect to take my own life, which course shall, I trust, leave me with some little honor. Pray for my soul.' Signed, Danyael Corm, Lieutenant GM.”

Talle grunted, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

Var asked, “What does it mean?”

“That he took his life because he was haunted.” Talle favored the body with a speculative gaze. “Brave man or coward? I wonder which.”

His tone was dry, as if he pondered some academic problem. Var said, “Haunted by what?”

“His meeting with what he thought were demons?” Talle shrugged.

“And they returned to urge him to murder?” Var said. “Like the corporal?”

Talle smiled at him, as if pleased with his acuity. “We did well to promote you, Var; you've a sharp mind.”

Var was not sure whether he should feel flattered or patronized. He asked, “There's a link?”

“All's linked,” Talle replied, giving no clear answer. “Let's find some friends of our dead corporal, eh?”

Thoroughly confused and more than a little disturbed, Var followed the Inquisitor back through Grostheim's dark and chilly streets to the Militia barracks. There a Captain Mylle
confirmed that Lieutenant Minns had taken Corporal Gerry's body outside the walls to burn and detailed six men to collect Corm. Before the squad left, Talle had it from each of them that they were not close friends of Gerry, and slept in a different part of the barracks. Then Mylle routed out the corporal's friends and bunkmates. There were some dozen of them, in varying states of undress, and all agreed that of late poor Robyn had been plagued with dreams, crying out in his sleep in a strange voice that seemed quite unlike his own.

“And you?” Talle fixed the nervous soldiers with his bird-bright eyes. He smiled, which seemed akin to the greeting of an executioner his victims.

Amidst a vigorous shaking of heads and a loud murmur of denial, eyes turned toward a single man.

“Your name?” Talle locked his gaze on the soldier.

“Eban Stour, Inquisitor.” He came instinctively to full attention. “Militiaman in the God's service, sir.”

“Are you?” Talle asked mildly. “Truly?”

“I am!” Stour barked, as if on the parade ground. “Devoted to the service, Inquisitor.”

Mylle said, “He's a ten-year man, Inquisitor. Says he wants to sign for another ten.”

“As he would,” Talle murmured, “were he … infected.”

“Sir!” Stour shifted his eyes far enough sideways to see Mylle; back to Talle. “Inquisitor! Permission to speak, sirs.”

Mylle glanced at Talle, who nodded, so that the captain gestured that Stour proceed.

“We all dream, sir. I'm perhaps a little noisier than most, but that's all there is to it.”

“What do you dream?” Talle asked in the same gentle voice that Var distrusted so much. “Tell me, eh?”

“I dream of conquest,” Stour said, and his voice shifted down several octaves to become a harsh, guttural grunting such as Var had heard emerging from Gerry's mouth. “I dream of taking this land from you, who have no right to be here. I dream of slaying you all.”

And suddenly as Gerry had launched himself at Var, Stour sprang forward to fasten his hands on Talle's throat.

The Inquisitor fell in a swirl of black coattails, borne down by the impact of the attack. So abrupt was it, none moved for long moments, but only stared aghast and unbelieving at the impossible assault. Var saw Talle raise his hands and move them—presumably to work some Inquisitor's hex magic—and Stour's hands trap Talle's wrists and pin them even as the soldier drove his teeth like some rabid dog's at the Inquisitor's throat. Talle screamed—which Var must reluctantly admit he enjoyed—and wriggled like a pinned black worm against the floor.

Stour fastened his teeth hard in the Inquisitor's neck and Var felt the fascination of the spell break. He drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and snapped down the strikerplate. Set the muzzle to Stour's head and squeezed the trigger.

Powder discharge blackened Talle's face as Stour's head was blown clear of his throat. Var saw red wounds there as the soldier jerked out his death throes, and remembered Corm's ravaged skull as he stared at his immediate handiwork. The Inquisitor's dog?

Galvanized by the explosion of Var's pistol, Mylle and the others captured Stour's body. Var helped Talle to his feet.

The Inquisitor fingered his windpipe and coughed; examined his bloodied fingers and looked at Var.

“Thank you, Major Var. I owe you my life.” His voice was hoarse.

“It was no more than my duty,” Var said. “And surely you'd have slain him with your magic.”

For a surprising instant Talle's eyes wavered, as if he were not certain of that outcome. Then he said, “Surely; but still I thank you.”

Var ducked his head in acknowledgment and set to reloading his pistol. Talle touched his throat and muttered, and the wounds began to heal. When he spoke again, his voice was sound: “Take him out and burn him with the others.”

Captain Mylle looked back in confusion: “The others?”

“Yes! And quickly, lest I lose my temper.”

Mylle summoned the gaping soldiers to pick up Stour's body.

Talle said, “After the fire, quicklime. You understand?”

Mylle ducked his head and did as he was ordered.

They carried the corpse away and Var asked, “Inquisitor, what's happening here?”

Talle fingered his throat, the teeth marks not all gone yet, and said, “New magic. A different magic for a new world.”

The smoke was faded long before the three horsemen reached the wood, but the drifting smudge had hung long enough against the blue that they were able to guess its source—not least because Tekah recalled showing Davyd the hurst.

The young Commacht cursed and heeled his mount to a gallop as the oaks came into sight. Rannach brought his big stallion alongside, Arcole matching his pace so that they flanked the anxious warrior. Rannach reached out to touch Tekah's shoulder, slow him.

“Easy, brother. Best we approach cautious, eh?”

“And is he hurt?” Tekah flung his akaman a troubled glance, turned it on Arcole. “Or dead?”

Rannach said, “Even so we go in wary. Is he there still …”

“Where else
can
he be?” Tekah's voice was grown strident with concern. “In the Maker's name, Rannach, we've sought him every other place since Taza found his horse.”

“Yes.” Rannach nodded, his aquiline features thoughtful. “Since Taza found his horse.”

Tekah said, “I'll have an accounting of Taza for that.”

And Rannach answered somberly, “Do we find him there, I shall have answers of Taza. But not until Davyd tells us his side. Until then …”

He couched his lance and set the stallion to a canter, his eyes all the while scanning the ground ahead, the wood, as if he momentarily anticipated ambush.

Arcole held his musket across his thighs, finger loose on the trigger, thumb set ready against the hammer. Rannach's
wariness, Tekah's concern, invested him with a mixture of emotions, not least the fear they'd find Davyd dead.

God, it had been long enough since Taza brought the buckskin in from the north, and the People had spent time searching there. Yazte still had his Lakanti out looking—and had Tekah not remembered … God—Maker!—whatever You call Yourself, he thought, only let Davyd be alive. Let us find him. Please! It was hard to hold the gray horse down to Rannach's canter. Like Tekah, he'd sooner have gone charging in, save he knew Rannach was wise in this. Had aught happened to Davyd, then the Maker alone knew what lurked inside the wood.

He was vaguely surprised to find himself praying; the more that he prayed to the deity of this new land, not the god of his lost home.

They came to the edgewood and saw the remnants of a fire, long burned out and doused by the rain that had fallen that morning. Sodden ashes lay scattered over charred grass beside a stream that wound inward through overhanging trees, tracks beside that Arcole could not read.

But the two Commacht could. Rannach said, “Is it him, he built this fire as a marker. See?”

Tekah nodded as the lance angled down, inward, and said, “And those others?”

He nocked an arrow as he spoke, and Rannach answered, “Yes: wolverine.”

Arcole felt a chill run down his spine, like iced talons scraping his backbone. He brought the musket's hammer to full cock: he had heard stories of wolverines.

“So, do we see?” Rannach settled his lance firm between elbow and ribs, not waiting on an answer—not needing to—as he heeled his horse onward and into the wood.