Exile's Challenge (38 page)

He would not admit it, but his wounds pained him. The hard riding jarred his ribs where the wolverine's claws had scored him, and he feared the stitches should burst loose and he begin to bleed. The two horses he led behind dragged on his arm and threatened to turn him in the saddle, which dragged the more on his wounds. He thought this as hard or worse a ride as that first terrifying arrival in Ket-Ta-Thanne. And then of how he had mastered horsemanship, and learned the ways of the People, and of Morrhyn's teachings and all they promised, and of how much he loved his life amongst the Matawaye.

And then—for the first time, he realized—he thought of Tekah's body, all cut and bled out, lying alone in the cold gray light of yesterday's dawn, and he felt a great resentment of whatever power or madness of ambition had driven Taza to murder his friend, to kidnap Debo, and he felt suddenly strong. It was as if righteous anger filled him and dulled the pain of his wounds, lending him strength, and he knew that he
would
go on, would not succumb to weakness.

He clenched his teeth and urged his horse onward, aware of Arcole's eyes on him, troubled. Finally, as they slowed their pace to accommodate a narrow trail that wound tortuously up between high walls of naked blue-black stone topped with solitary pines, Arcole asked, “Can you do this? Might you not better return?”

“No.” Davyd fixed his comrade with a blazing gaze and shook his head. “I go on.”

Arcole shrugged and fell silent. Davyd wished he had given his friend some better response than that look, but he could not: only go on, aware of the anger burning through him, spreading as if feverish. It went past the kidnap of Debo, the murder of Tekah, to encompass all those things might mean, all Morrhyn's reluctantly voiced fears, the warnings of his own dreams in the oak wood. Suddenly he knew beyond doubting that if Taza were guided by the Breakers, then he would stop at nothing to defy and deny and resist whatever foul intentions the invaders had. He would go back into Salvation without demur to fight the greater enemy. He would risk burning for the sake of the People—
his
People now—and perhaps no less for all those other unfortunates beyond the mountains who carried the brand of exile on their bodies. He saw again—as his horse labored up the steep incline and the two spare mounts labored behind—the content of his dreams, and knew with a sudden and frightening certainty that he rode to meet them.

If only, he thought, I knew the outcome.

Save that, as Morrhyn had ofttimes told him, was uncertain. Must be: the Maker did not lay out the paths of men in sure and guided lines, but left the trails open and branching, that men might choose their own way.

Taza, he thought, had chosen his way, just as Chakthi and Hadduth had chosen theirs. And theirs had led to disaster—would Taza's? He vowed that were it in his power, it should not. He would do what he could to prevent that, even unto his own death.

He turned again in the saddle as he topped the rise and came out onto a flat shelf ringed with windblown pines all bent and angled like old, withered men sat talking in a circle, and smiled genuinely at Arcole.

“I'll survive,” he said, hoping it be true. “Morrhyn's potions ease me, and I
can
ride.”

Arcole nodded, still disturbed by that look, and then looked away as Dohnse shouted.

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.

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!”