Exile's Challenge (51 page)

“You are a great wakanisha,” Taza said, staring at the skeletal figure. It was a sorry sight: gaunt and filthy; near, he thought, to dying. “Morrhyn would not do that. He would not even give me pahé, or accept me as pupil.”

“Morrhyn,” Hadduth said, “is a fool. He fails to recognize the true source of power.”

“Which is?” Taza asked.

Hadduth laughed. “Morrhyn believes the Maker is divine—and perhaps He is—but He is surely not alone. There is another source … that you've seen.”

Taza said, “The golden warrior? The one who brought me through the Grannach caverns?”

“Akratil,” Hadduth said approvingly, “who is powerful as the Maker.”

“Surely he must be.” Taza nodded. “Is he like the Gray Wolf, and the Maker like the Brown Doe?”

“Old stories from an old world.” Hadduth set an arm around Taza's shoulders. “Ket-Ta-Witko is far away, and this is a new land, with new masters—new gods.”

“Shall you teach me to understand them?” Taza asked eagerly. “Shall you teach me to dream and become a true wakanisha?”

Hadduth said, “Yes, I shall. But first you must prove yourself.”

“Have I not already?” Taza protested, gesturing at the celebrating camp where Chakthi still paraded the screaming child. “I stole Debo, no? I brought him here, did I not? How else shall I prove myself?”

“Kill him.” Hadduth kicked the owh'jika hard in the ribs.

“I slew a man already,” Taza said. “I put my knife into Tekah when he tried to stop me taking Debo.”

“Then it should be easy now,” Hadduth said. “Prove yourself to Akratil.”

Taza thought a moment, and then decided that he had come too far to turn back. Did Hadduth demand a sacrifice, then he should have it: what matter another life now? He drew his blade and knelt down and thrust it hard into the owh'jika's throat, twisting the good Grannach steel until he felt the point grate on bone.

He could not understand what Thirsk said to him as the blood fountained and the owh'jika died: “Thank you.” But Hadduth was approving, and that pleased Taza.

“Now,” Hadduth said, “you are one of us.”

Debo screamed his protest as Chakthi carried him about the camp. He hated the dank forest and the sad lodges and the smell of the man who held him aloft. There was an odor of blood and sweat about the man that Debo had never known when Rannach carried him: an odor of decay the child could not define but only incognitively recognize and protest against. But he had no choice—Chakthi paraded him like a trophy, and his friend, Taza, only stood watching and smiling as if all his dreams were come true and the Green Grass Woman had touched him.

Debo wished he had never gone with Taza. It had seemed a great adventure at first, but now it became a terrifying thing and he longed for the comfort of his mother's arms, his father's presence. He beat his small hands against Chakthi's head and voiced what few curses he knew in condemnation of his traitorous friend. But Taza paid him no attention, and he knew he was lost.

And in Ket-Ta-Witko, in the blood-strewn valley of the old Meeting Ground, Akratil sat before a fire on which a man's body was spitted and knew that soon his dreams must become reality, and he lead the Horde onward in service of his dread master. Onward to the land his prey had fled to, where
he should destroy them, and all the others, so that nothing remained save destruction. They would not, he vowed, escape. He was unaccustomed to defeat—it sullied his honor. More, he served a dark force that knew nothing of sympathy, and should he fail …

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He would not fail! He looked to where Bemnida waited, a knife poised in her hand, ready to carve.

“I am hungry.”

Instantly, the woman set to slicing the choicest cuts from the body, layering them on a silver platter that she carried to Akratil, kneeling as she served him.

He said, “My thanks,” and stroked her hair, at which she smiled and made a sound akin to the purring of some great cat.

“Shall it be soon?” she ventured as Akratil selected a piece of bloody meat.

“Yes,” he answered, pleased with her loyalty. “Soon, my pretty.”

Bemnida stared at him with eyes filled with adoration.

The pahé filled Morrhyn with its comforting languor. The wa'tenhya seemed to shift and shimmer before his eyes, Kahteney becoming a blurred shape stretched out indistinct beyond the fire. The flames were far more interesting, for in their writhing he began to see the shape of futures possible and futures that might be, and even—he prayed as he felt his eyes droop shut—what he need do to deny the threatened terror.…

He woke thickheaded. The fire was gone down into embers, Kahteney slept on, and he could not tell what hour it was, night or day—only know the terrible urgency of the dreamt answers. He found the waterskin and drank deep, then crawled to where Kahteney lay and shook the Lakanti wakanisha awake.

Kahteney groaned, rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes, and said anxiously, “Must it be so?”

“I think,” Morrhyn said, “that there is no other way.”

“We might well lose Ket-Ta-Thanne,” Kahteney moaned.

“Do we fail the Maker,” Morrhyn returned him, “we shall surely lose Ket-Ta-Thanne. And more, besides.”

Kahteney said, “Yes,” in a tone that suggested he'd sooner reject the awful certitude of their shared dreaming.

“Then do we go tell them?” Morrhyn asked.

Kahteney gave him back, “Shall they listen? Even to the Prophet?”

Morrhyn shrugged. “Those who'll listen shall come with me. I only pray there be enough.”

Kahteney swallowed water, spilled more over his face and naked chest, and said, “We've no other choice, eh?”

Morrhyn said, “No.”

“Then do we go speak with Yazte and the others.” Kahteney sat up, reaching for his shirt. “Ach, Morrhyn my brother, is there any end to this?”

“Perhaps.” Morrhyn smiled wanly. “Perhaps, do we defeat them now. Can we defeat them now …”

Kahteney nodded and followed the Prophet from the dream lodge.

Lhyn felt her breath clog in her throat as she watched Morrhyn emerge, Kahteney on his heels. Both Dreamers wore the expressions of men who had seen more and worse than either would envisage, and at the same time seemed determined. She recognized that look: Morrhyn had worn it when he announced his intention of going to the Maker's Mountain, nor less when he returned with his awful news. She watched them hurry to Yazte's lodge, seeking to conceal her own fear as she felt Arrhyna's eyes on her, and Flysse's.

“Wait,” she said. “They'd speak with Yazte, and when that's done doubtless we shall be told.”

“What?” Yazte stared aghast at the Dreamers. “Do you know what you ask of the People?”

Morrhyn nodded. “Much.” His eyes fixed the Lakanti akaman with a pale blue stare that forbade denial. “But do we not attempt it, then Ket-Ta-Thanne and all the worlds shall be lost. Would you see that happen?”

Yazte shook his head like a bear woken from hibernation and resentful of the disturbance, but he said, “No; how can I?” He sighed and studied the wakanishas each in turn. “Best call a Council, eh?”

Davyd shivered, unsure whether it was the knowledge of his dreaming or the effects of his wounds that set his body to trembling. The Maker knew, but the dreams were bad. And did worse come to worst … He pushed the thought aside: there was no path left save onward in hope, even could he scarce dare own that precious commodity. He pushed clear of his blankets and rose to squat beside the fire. Spring came late to Salvation, and the early-morning air was chill. He wished forlornly that he were back safe in Ket-Ta-Thanne—save Ket-Ta-Thanne was no longer safe. Nor was safety anywhere did Chakthi and Hadduth succeed in their horrid design.

Rannach stirred and was instantly awake.

“Debo?”

“Tonight,” Davyd said. “They shall attempt it tonight.”

“Then we'd best find them,” Rannach said.

Davyd nodded. “I know the way now. It shall take us the better part of the day, but the Maker willing, we'll be in time.”

Taza had thought only to earn Chakthi's approval by bringing the Tachyn his grandson, that the akaman should welcome the return of his dead son's child. He had believed it must earn him his dearest wish—to become a true Dreamer—and that was now promised him. Hadduth had given his word that Taza should become his named pupil, that he be given the pahé and taught the dreaming ways. He had thought that Debo would be raised as a Tachyn, likely to be named akaman after Chakthi.

He had never thought on such plans as the outcasts held for the little boy, and for all his hatred of Davyd, his resentment of Morrhyn, he found what was planned abhorrent.

“It's the only way,” Hadduth explained, casual as if they
discussed the slaughtering of a deer. “Akratil and his Breakers are trapped in Ket-Ta-Witko. When Morrhyn opened the Gate, it closed behind us and left the Breakers there—save we open a fresh pathway, they must remain.”

“Is that so bad?” Taza asked, nervous now.

“Save they come here,” Hadduth replied, “we must remain like fugitives in these forests. Are we to own the grass of this land—and the grass of Ket-Ta-Thanne—we need their help. Akratil promises much! Did he not bring you safe through the Grannach caves? Do you doubt his power?”

“No.” Taza shook his head, remembering the golden-armored warrior. “But even so …”

“The strangers of this land own strange powers,” Hadduth said. “Without Akratil's aid we cannot hope to defeat them all. Surely we cannot hope to go back to Ket-Ta-Thanne.”

“But Debo …” Taza said.

“Must be sacrificed,” Hadduth replied. “He's the blood of both the Commacht and the Tachyn in his veins, and so links the two lands.”

“But he's only a child,” Taza said. “And Chakthi's grandson! Shall Chakthi truly slay his grandson?”

“To own this land—yes,” Hadduth answered. “To destroy Rannach and his Commacht—yes. So when the moon rises tonight, Debo shall be slain and his blood shape the gateway for the Breakers.”

Tomas Var learned more of Salvation's social structure as he rode outlaw from Grostheim with Abram Jaymes than he ever should have as an officer of the God's Militia.

Branded folk gave them shelter, hiding them in barns and outhouses, bringing them food unbeknownst to the masters, feeding their horses—even, when the animals grew too weary, supplying them with fresh mounts that they promised they'd claim had been stolen by savages.

“I don't understand,” Var said. “God knows, I am—
was
—an officer of marines. The Inquisitor's dog, isn't that what they called me? So why do they help? Why not give me up?”

“Don't you understand yet?” Jaymes spat a stream of liquid tobacco as Var shook his head. “I told you how folk feel about the Autarchy—about Evander an' Jared Talle. Now you're one of us—no better than a branded exile—an' so folks'll help you. So long, of course, that you're with me.”

“Who are you?” Var demanded. “Just
what
are you, Abram?”

Jaymes shrugged, gesturing at his dirty rawhides. “I'm just a scout, Tomas.”

Var shook his head. “No: you're more than that. Do you tell me?”

Jaymes laughed. Overhead a rat scuttled across the barn's straw. “I guess I can,” he said, “now that we're on the run together.”

“So?” Var chewed the last of the gristly bacon.

Jaymes thought awhile. Then: “I guess I'm an observer … an' a messenger, I suppose. I get to talk with a lot o'
folk, both high an' low.” His tone and face grew serious. “I get to travel around a lot, so I see most of what's going on in this country. I see the holders living high on the labor of all those poor folk with branded cheeks or arms—folk with money living off … What would you call it? Slavery?”

Var shrugged, not knowing how to answer: not having thought much on it before.

Jaymes continued: “I see poor folk sent over from Evander with scars on their bodies that mark them down as nothings—no rights, save to do what their owners tell them. Some poor man steals a loaf to feed his starving family an' what happens? Evander brands him and sends him to Salvation to be a servant. A woman picks a pocket because her children are starving, an' she gets a brand an' gets sent to Salvation, where she's a servant. Her owner wants to fuck her? Why, he's got the right, and if she argues, she's in the wrong. Think about it, Tomas—would you like that?”

Var thought again about Arcole Blayke and the pretty woman on the boat, and shook his head.

“No.”

“Then you know there's something wrong about this country,” Jaymes said. “And that's a start.”

Var nodded. “Yes.” Then, unthinking: “But what can we do about it?”

Jaymes chuckled. “Right now, not a lot. Stay clear of the Inquisitor. Run for the wilderness.”

“There's more.” Var dislodged a chunk of fat from his teeth. “And are we outlawed together, I think I should know.”

“I guess,” Jaymes agreed. “There's a feelin' here that Evander don't have the right to govern us. That the Autarchy's too far off to tell the people of Salvation what to do. An' that sending branded exiles over is
wrong
! There's a feelin' that Salvation should govern herself—no Inquisitors or governors or shiploads of soldiers, but we just get on with our own affairs. You want trade agreements, fine. You want to buy from us, or us from you, fine—we'll trade with you. But don't
dictate
how we live. Don't send redcoats to keep us in line, neither—” He spat. “—damn Inquisitors. Work something out, eh?”

Var nodded. “And marines?”

“You're not a marine anymore,” Jaymes said. “You're just a runaway now.”