Exile's Challenge (63 page)

“They might have …” He recalled the owh'jika's words. “Cannon.”

“Are you afraid?” Akratil donned his helm, staring mockingly at Chakthi, who snarled under that red-eyed stare and shook his lance in defiant negation and shouted, “No!”

“Then attack them,” Akratil said, languid. “And we'll follow you. And do you fail, we shall destroy them.”

“I shall not fail,” Chakthi declared. “I am Tachyn, and I am not afraid to die.”

Akratil raised a gauntlet to indicate the eastern ridge. “Show me then,” he said, “how brave you are.”

“I shall!” Chakthi raised his lance, shouting that his warriors join him.

They grouped around him and he set out his battle plan, which was a simple charge up the slope to whatever waited
there. He raised his lance again and pointed the head at the ridge.

“We ride!”

They charged.

“They're coming!” Sergeant Ordan bellowed. “Man guns and stand ready!”

The limber guns were already loaded, fine powder in the priming tubes, waiting only for the touch of the slowmatches to ignite the charges and send the shot out against the enemy. Two were placed as Kerik had advised to fire down into the southern egress from the valley. Two more were set to cover the northern approach against flanking attack. The remaining five were angled down the slope, against such frontal assault as now came.

“Wait!” Jorge Kerik shouted. “On my order, eh?”

He watched the riders come out from the valley, across the bottomland, and up the slope. It was, he thought, insanely brave. Did they know there were horse cannon on the ridge? Were they only foolish? Did they understand modern warfare? No matter; they came to his killing ground and would die under the weight of his guns. Perhaps then he could ride away and be gone from this portentous valley. Save now he had a battle to fight and knew he must win it. Davyd and Arcole—though mostly Davyd—had convinced him of that, and so he gritted his teeth and watched the horsemen come screaming up the slope and waited until there was no chance at all his gunners could miss and dropped his hand and shouted: “Fire!”

The salvo ripped the Tachyn from their horses like wheat torn by a storm wind. Grapeshot flailed them and canister burst in terrible explosions. Men and horses screamed together, and fell down all bloody; bodies rolled down the slope or lay with mangled limbs on the stained grass. Birds rose in panicked flight from the timber. Chakthi's horse was blown from under him and the Tachyn akaman found himself stretched
facedown, scrabbling at the ground as the firestorm of shot raged overhead.

When it ended he looked up, cursing through gritted teeth, and shouted for his men to rise and follow him. His lance was gone, so he strung his bow and sent a shaft flying to the ridgetop. The arrow passed over the heads of the gunners, busy reloading the deadly cannon, and was answered with musket fire that crackled down the slope to slay more Tachyn. Some turned and ran; others rallied around Chakthi, who vented his rage in a shrill scream and charged.

The cannon blasted again, and more Tachyn died; Chakthi saw his clan decimated. He was not sure whether the blood on his face and chest was his own or some slain warrior's. He was consumed with rage and chagrin as he saw that he could not hope to take the ridge.

“Back!” He waved at his surviving men. “Back!”

“By God, but we beat them!” Kerik beamed at his men. “Well done, boys.”

“They were the Tachyn.” Arcole spat a ball into his musket's barrel and rammed it down. “The Breakers play no part yet.”

“Even so!” Kerik was sanguine with his first victory. “They'll find this ridge hard to take.”

“Hard,” Arcole agreed, “but not impossible.”

“No.” Kerik sobered, staring at the warriors massed below. “Shall your friends be long?”

Arcole shrugged and looked to Davyd, who stood grim-faced, his musket held at the ready. “I don't know,” he said. “I pray they come in time, but …” He shrugged. “We must hold them here, in this valley. We
must
, no matter the cost!”

Akratil looked down at Chakthi and smiled contempt. “You failed.”

“Had you ridden with us,” Chakthi snarled, “it might have been different.”

“Indeed.” Akratil chuckled. “My people might have died.”

Chakthi's face was a blood-washed mask of rage, furious eyes staring out from the gore and the streaking of his paint. “Are you afraid, then?” he grated.

Suddenly, Akratil's sword was at his throat. “I am afraid of nothing,” the Breaker said, his voice no longer amused. Chakthi backed away and found himself surrounded by armored warriors who eased their dread mounts close so that he was ringed with scaley hides and gnashing teeth and could not escape the blade. “Heed me.” Akratil pressed the sword's point home, so that a thick bead of blood ran down Chakthi's neck. “I will show you what we do—I'll take that ridge, and you shall ride beside me. Now find yourself another horse lest you go afoot. Bemnida!”

“Akratil?” The woman came from the crowd. Beneath her helm, her eyes were troubled as she glanced up at the ridge, at the bodies of the slaughtered Tachyn.

“These new weapons disturb you?” Akratil demanded.

“They seem …” she hesitated. “Very powerful. And—do I not miss my guess—protected by some magic.”

“The magic is of no account.” Akratil waved a dismissive hand. “What power it had died with that foolish man, Talle. Only its memory lingers, and now they've only those things our cringing ally here names …” He looked to Chakthi. “What are they called?”

Sullenly, Chakthi said, “Cannon.”

“Cannon,” Akratil repeated, smiling confidently. “We shall overcome them, no?” Dutifully, Bemnida nodded.

Akratil's smile grew broader at the prospect of fresh slaughter. “We waste time here,” he said. “There's killing to be done in this land and I'd move on to this city our friend has spoken of. But I'd not leave this troublesome group in our rear, so do you, Bemnida, lead the Horde out through that pass”—he pointed to the southern egress—“and I'll join you when I'm done. It should not take long.”

Honored by such trust, Bemnida ducked her helmed head in acknowledgment and turned away. Akratil selected warriors.

“They're moving.” Arcole crouched beside a hornbeam. “It looks as if they divide their force.”

Davyd stared down into the valley. “They'll look to destroy us,” he said. He seemed possessed of an awful certainty. “The bulk will go to the river, and some will remain to attack us. We must hold them here, Arcole.”

Arcole said, “We must do our best,” thinking that sheer weight of numbers must surely overwhelm them. Was Davyd right, then save the impossible happened and
all
the folk of this new world came together in common purpose, the ridge must soon be only the Breakers' killing ground. But he could not imagine the People and the branded folk and the masters and the redcoats of the God's Militia joining in such intent—surely not in time. He wished he entertained no such doubts, but when he looked at Davyd's haggard face, he saw his own pessimism reflected there.

“I know,” Davyd said, as if he read his comrade's mind. “But what else shall we do? We must hold them as long as we can, else all is lost.”

Arcole nodded, smiling grimly, and studied the disposition of the enemy. The Horde moved now, the larger bulk flooding like some ghastly rainbow title toward the eastern end of the valley, hundreds more massing at the foot of the ridge, preparatory to attack.

Kerik said, “I'd best move men to the pass.” He no longer seemed so sanguine.

Arcole watched the captain stride away. “What think you?” he asked Davyd. “Can we survive?”

“That's of no account,” Davyd replied. “Only that we hold them here long enough. Do the others come …” He shook his head fretfully. “It all depends on that, Arcole—that the others come.”

“We could surely use their numbers,” Arcole said.

“Not only that.” Davyd stared down the slope at the shifting Horde. “More than that. It's not only numbers shall win this battle, but …” He shook his head again, as if he pursued some half forgotten thought, or the memory of a dream. “Does not all Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne come together here—all the folk who live in this land, on both sides of the mountains—then we shall lose. Save the People join with the
branded folk, and the masters with their servants, then we are lost.”

“Masters fighting alongside their indentured exiles?” Arcole shook his head in turn. “Is that likely?”

“It must be,” Davyd said. “Save all the people join together, we shall lose this new land to the Breakers. Do you not understand?”

Arcole said, “No. I'd thought we might look for Abram's army of branded folk, and the aid of the Matawaye. But to think that the masters fight alongside their servants …” He rubbed the scar decorating his cheek.

Davyd said, “It has to be so. There must be a joining. Otherwise …”

In the valley below, a horn sounded and the Breakers formed into ranks. Arcole calculated there were perhaps a thousand remaining. Sunlight glittered on their armor, and as the wind veered round, he could smell the charnel reek of their mounts, the headily sweet scent of dung. He spat and crossed his fingers and said, “At least we've the horse guns.”

Davyd said, “Yes; and hope.”

The horn sounded again and the Breakers charged.

“By God, put your backs into it!” Abram Jaymes stalked the deck of the barge like some ancient galley-master. “Row, damn you! We've got a fight ahead we don't want to miss, so
row
!”

The oarsmen cursed him roundly and soundly, and bent the harder to their labors, propelling the lead craft swifter up the Restitution, the boats behind picking up their speed so that the flotilla ran like some pack of heavy dogs to its quarry.

“Shall we be in time?” asked Var.

“God knows.” Jaymes shrugged. “We best be, is Davyd right.”

The first wave was thrown back in confusion as the guns barked their terrible thunder and spread the slope with
smoke. But then the second wave came, the monstrous beasts emerging from the gray fog of the cannons' discharge like fleshed nightmares, and before the gunners had chance to reload, the Breakers topped the ridge and came amongst them. Swords and axes swung against bayoneted muskets, and men and animals died in bloody fury.

Arcole saw a Breaker top the ridge and fired his rifle into the armored chest. He saw the rider toppled backward from the weirdling beast he rode and the beast charge snarling on. He lurched aside, reversing his rifle to smash the stock against the scaly snout that swung toward him with snapping fangs long as the bayonets of the marines. Foul breath gusted in his face and he flung himself away, scrabbling for the safety of a tree. He ducked behind its cover and the lizard-thing came after him, clawing at the trunk like some vast and maddened bear. Then Sergeant Ordan stepped forward and fired his musket directly into the creature's gaping mouth. The thing jerked back, blood erupting from its neck as its eyes dulled. It swung its head and spat blood, and clawed the sergeant down even as he drove his bayonet into its chest. Arcole drew a pistol and fired into a dulling eye and the thing collapsed over Ordan's body. Arcole reloaded and looked for another target.

Davyd fired as Arcole had taught him: aim steady and squeeze gently, center the shot on the chest. He fired and reloaded with automatic precision, saw Breakers fall, and beasts, and all the while prayed to the Maker that the People come in time, and Abram Jaymes's army. And that Kerik's marines hold the Horde long enough in the valley that all come together. Else …

He pushed the thought away. No time for that; only to fire and reload and fire again. He could not, he thought incongruously, be a wakanisha now. A wakanisha did not kill, and he could not remember how many he had slain. He saw a screaming Tachyn run toward him, hatchet raised to cleave his skull, and triggered his musket to drive a ball into the man's belly, sending him spilling over the momentum of his own run so that he somersaulted and landed at Davyd's feet. Unthinking, Davyd slammed his musket's stock down against
the Tachyn's face, and drew a pistol as a second charged him, and shot the man cleanly through the right eye.

A dreadful calm owned him now. He felt given up to destiny, and accepted that what he did was all he could do. And was it wrong then the Maker had set him here in this place, and he could do no more save hope.

He crouched, reloading musket and pistol, and heard the cannon roar again.

“Back! Fall back!”

Akratil turned his dread horse, its horns all sticky and red, and waved his bloodied sword. This ridge was harder to take than he'd anticipated. He'd not faced such weapons as these folk used before, and they had wreaked carnage on his warriors. He took his mount at a gallop down the slope, thinking that the enemy was sore hurt. There could not be more than a few hundred of them—far less than the numbers he'd faced in that other valley in Ket-Ta-Witko—but they owned thunder and lightning, and he should have listened harder to Chakthi. The thought irritated him and he looked to find the Tachyn.