Exile's Challenge (62 page)

“I've my orders,” Emmit repeated.

“From Jared Talle,” Var returned. “Do you bear such love for him?”

“He's the Inquisitor,” Emmit said doggedly. “He speaks for the Autarchy.”

“And I speak for Salvation,” Var said. “For Salvation and all the folk who live here.”

“Branded folk,” Emmit said, glancing across Var's shoulder at the crowd filling the streets.

“No.” Var turned, ignoring the leveled gun, to indicate the mass behind him. “See? There are freemen there! Owners alongside their servants; servants marching with their masters.”

“You'd overturn the world,” Emmit said.

“I'd see Salvation saved,” Var replied. “Listen! You've seen the ghosts, no? You've seen them ride the streets?”

Emmit nodded reluctantly: that was a memory he'd sooner forget.

“Well,” Var continued, “they're fleshed now, and coming here—save we halt them.”

“Let them,” Emmit declared, firmer than he felt. “We've
walls hexed by the Inquisitor, and cannon to use against them. They'll not take Grostheim.”

“They'll take it and burn it down and eat your flesh,” Var said. “And are they to be halted, then it must be soon, and in the right place. God, man! My marines are there and I'd go join them.”

“I've my orders.”

Var shrugged. “You've what? A hundred or so men left?” He again indicated the crowd at his back, restless now, even under the muskets of Emmit's soldiery. “Not enough to prevent us leaving, do we wish. You can shoot me, but what then? Do you want a bloodbath?”

Emmit frowned. Then: “No. But still …”

“There's no time to waste,” Var said, and raised his arms so that he stood totally exposed to the Militiaman's pistol. “Either shoot me and have done with it, or open the gates. Better, come with us.”

Emmit hesitated. Before him stood Major Tomas Var, clad in buckskins like some frontiersman—like the draggle-haired fellow holding a long Hawkins rifle across his chest that Emmit did not doubt but he'd use—and behind him all the branded folk in Grostheim and half the masters. He knew Var's reputation: a hero of the War of Restitution, the Inquisitor's dog, an officer elevated by the Autarchy for his knowledge of Salvation. Francys Emmit was young and inexperienced, and none too happy with his command. He'd thought the Inquisitor crazed to take Var's marines out and leave Grostheim stripped of defenses, and wondered what drove the man to go out hunting the ghosts. He'd heard the rumors—all had—that Jared Talle would form an alliance with the ghosts, and wondered if such communion was right. Now Var told him they were fleshed and come looking to conquer, and it appeared that most of the city agreed and was prepared to fight. Emmit thought that if he shot Var and ordered his men to open fire on the crowd, as duty dictated, then he and all his command must be overwhelmed and Grostheim left empty. Var stared at him, and slowly he lowered his pistol.

“You're sure, Major?”

“As God's my witness,” Var said. “Yes: I'm sure.”

There was such conviction in his voice that Emmit nodded and holstered the gun. “I pray I do the right thing,” he said, and turned to the sergeant behind him, shouting that the Militiamen open the gates and let the people through. “What shall I do?”

“Open the armory,” Var said, “and give us weapons; powder and shot; supplies. Then come with us.”

“Sir!” Emmit saluted formally. “I place myself under your command.”

“So far, so good.” Abram Jaymes came up to join Var as Emmit ran to unlock the stores. “I thought maybe I'd have to shoot him.”

“I thought he'd likely shoot me,” Var said.

“No one,” Jaymes remarked, grinning, “lives forever. Now let's get our people onto those barges.”

They set to organizing the evacuation. Not all had agreed to Jaymes's plan, but enough stood with the man that the dissidents had no real voice. Those who agreed believed in liberation, in freedom and free choice, and their voice was the loudest, so that Grostheim emptied as they marched out to the river and the waiting barges, which filled up with folk armed with muskets and pistols and swords, all intent on defending their country and winning their liberty from invasion and the Autarchy, both.

“It's grand, no?” Jaymes remarked as the barges were poled out into the stream. “Look at that.”

Var turned, staring back down the long deck at the flotilla of barges that followed them westward. It was a sight he'd never thought to see: branded folk manned the sweeps alongside freemen and soldiers of the God's Militia, all willing to work together for the future of their chosen land. “There'll be no turning back now,” he said.

Abram Jaymes chuckled and spat tobacco into the Restitution. “There never was.”

Var said, “No, I suppose not.” Then: “Shall we be in time?”

“We'd best be,” Jaymes replied evenly. “Is Davyd right,
then we win or lose in that damn valley. And I believe in that boy.”

“Yes,” Var said, “so do I.”

And in Salvation's holdings, in the farms and mills and vineyards, men and women woke to the dawning of a new day, a new world. They did not properly understand it, only that a compulsion—a geas—lay upon them and summoned them to the valley. Masters looked at servants and smiled and handed out weapons. Indentured folk took up axes and sickles, and their owners nodded in approval and took up their guns and went with the branded folk to that conjunction of destiny, all hoping they come timely; none knowing if they should, only that they must, as if the world's future pulsed in their veins and filled them with shared purpose.

The valley stretched from north to south, a wide bowl contained within the curvature of the wooded ridges. The moon lit the grass, shining off the colorful tents of the Breakers, duller on the lodges of the Tachyn. Fires burned down there and the night was loud with the snorting of the lizard creatures and the nervous whickering of horses. The smell of dung was strong. The western entrance was broad, the only exit to the south, where the stream that flowed across the bottomland ventured out to meet the Restitution through narrowed walls. Save the Horde come over the eastern ridge, it must go out that way.

“We can take them there,” Jorge Kerik said, angling a finger at the pass. “Two guns, and they'll be slaughtered.”

“Save they come up the ridge,” Arcole gave him back. “They've numbers enough to mount a frontal attack and overwhelm us.” He pointed along the ridge. “Or outflank us. And likely they've strong magic.”

Kerik nodded thoughtfully. “You've seen battle before.”

“I fought in the War of Restitution,” Arcole said, and grinned. “Against the Autarchy.”

“An old war.” Kerik chuckled, liking this man. “Two guns
overlooking the pass, then. The others on the ridgetop. What of these allies of yours?”

“The People come from the west,” Arcole said. “Most likely they'll come in through the far pass. Can Abram and Tomas raise their army, then I'd guess they'll enter from the river side.”

“And these Breakers be contained within the valley.” Kerik scratched his head. “Shall we be enough?”

“Not alone. You've what—two hundred and fifty marines? The Horde could sweep over us—we need the others.”

Kerik took a hip flask from his coat and swallowed brandy, passed the flask to Arcole. “Perhaps we should run.”

“They'd outpace us,” Arcole said, confirming Kerik's fear, “and go on to Grostheim. No, are we to win this fight, it must be fought here. Davyd says so.”

“There are some redcoats still left in Grostheim,” Kerik said. “And the city's strong walls.”

“Even so.” Arcole shook his head. “Davyd says we must make our stand here. It seems that's important, and so we must hold them here.”

“If we can,” Kerik murmured.

“Davyd says it must be so.” Arcole shrugged as if that were the end of any argument.

“He's a strange one,” Kerik remarked. “You trust him, no?”

Arcole said, “Absolutely.”

Kerik sighed. “Then I suppose I must, too; though God knows why.”

“You feel it, don't you?” Arcole said.

Kerik said, “I feel very frightened. I feel trapped—I cannot run and I've too few men to fight. But also …” He hesitated, frowning. “I feel … that worlds collide here, and I had best heed you and Davyd.”

“And pray,” Arcole chuckled, “that help reach us in time.”

“Yes,” Kerik said earnestly, “that, too.”

Davyd lay restless. The night was warm and a breeze rustled the timber topping the ridge. He dreamt of battle and it was
as if he again saw the images that had come to him in the oak wood. He saw armies locked in combat, and fire walk the land—and all was confusion. He saw the Breakers prevail and the Breakers defeated; friends die and friends survive. He knew, even asleep, that the future must depend on the morrow when surely the Breakers would move, and knew that were they not held and halted, then all was lost. He knew that did not the disparate peoples of this new world come together the Breakers could not be defeated—that all depended on that conjunction of forces—and that if that alliance was not made, the Breakers should prevail.

He cried out in his sleep to Morrhyn, seeking communication, and saw the wakanisha's face briefly before flames hid it. He wondered if the words he heard truly spoke of the People coming or were only a cry of anguish.

He woke dry-mouthed and sweat-beaded, opening his eyes on a sky that shone with the pearly light of burgeoning dawn. Birds sang and squirrels chattered, the grass along the ridge was dew wetted and the air promised a warm day, the sun already lighting the eastern horizon. Davyd wondered if it might not be his last day. From the marines' positions came the smell of coffee and frying bacon, the muted conversation of men aware they faced a fight they might not survive. Davyd rose from under his blanket and checked the priming of his musket. He realized that his wounds no longer ached and wondered if that was some kind of sign. He bathed in the dew and combed out his braids, re-tied them. He no longer cared whether he was wakanisha or warrior: it seemed unimportant on this day. He stood, staring down the ridge at the wondrous colors of the Breakers' tents, and knew the future of Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne, and all the worlds, hung in precarious balance. Then he made obeisance to the Maker, praying for victory, and went to find Arcole.

“We must hurry: I dreamed of Davyd.”

Kahteney nodded. “And I, brother. But shall we be in time? Can we be?”

“We
must
be!” Morrhyn rubbed at eyes reddened for lack of sleep. It was not yet even close to dawn and all around men
lay beneath their blankets. He clapped his hands and shouted, “Wake! We ride!”

And because he was the Prophet none argued, but only rose and saddled weary horses and followed him to the east, to the valley.

“We can ride no faster.” Rannach held his mount to a gallop, shouting into the windrush. “The Maker knows, Morrhyn, but we'll kill the animals at this pace.”

Morrhyn stared fixedly ahead. The night shone bright with stars, lit by the glow of the New Grass Moon. His unbound hair flung out behind him and it seemed to Rannach, as he caught the Prophet's blue eyes, that the cold brilliance of that moon shone there. He wished they might halt and set up their camp and he go lie in Arrhyna's arms, Debo asleep across the lodgefire, and knew that could not be until this thing was settled. And then, he wondered, when it is settled, shall there be lodges and wives and children? Or are we riding to our deaths?

As if in answer to his thoughts, Morrhyn shouted: “What else? Shall we abandon Davyd and Arcole? Abandon the world to the Breakers?”

“No!” Rannach shouted back.

“Then ride,” Morrhyn told him, “and must we kill the horses, then we shall go on afoot and fight on foot. But fight we must!”

The oyster gray translucence of the early dawn grew sunlit. Light rose from the east and sent shafts of brilliance dancing heavenward. The horizon there grew bright, blue washing back the gray like a rising title, and then the sun itself showed, leaping up to fill the sky with blue and gold, hot and heady on the men who waited on the ridge.

It was a while longer before the radiance lit the valley, and by then the Breakers were striking camp, folding their tents and stowing them on pack animals. The Tachyn did the same, stowing their lodges and mounting horses that fretted and stamped in the presence of the Breakers' beasts. Chakthi was painted for war, stripes of yellow and white daubed across his vulpine face. He wore a hatchet and a knife on his belt, and a
quivered bow was strapped across his back. He carried a lance decorated with the hair of men and women he'd slain.

He looked at Hadduth and asked, “Is Rannach up there?”

Hadduth said, “Even is he not, still you'll have his head.”

“Your promise? Else I'll take yours.”

“Akratil's,” Hadduth said. “His and mine: we cannot fail.”

Chakthi stared at his wakanisha and nodded. “Best we do not, eh? Else your life's the forfeit.”

Hadduth smiled, confidently. “We've all the strength of the Breakers with us, my akaman. We shall be mighty and ride down the world until all hail the Tachyn and their chieftain, and know us as conquerors.”

“It had best be so,” Chakthi said, and heeled his horse to where Akratil mounted his strangeling beast.

“We attack them?”

Speech was somewhat difficult, for Chakthi's mount skittered and pranced in such proximity to the animal Akratil rode. The Breaker smiled, reaching out to stroke the serpentine neck of the horned horse. “Are they still there and not fled,” he allowed, “yes. Why not? Do you send your warriors against them first.”

Chakthi hesitated a moment, remembering the thunder that had greeted his assaults on Grostheim and the border forts, the damage those long-firing guns had inflicted.