Exile's Challenge (66 page)

Chakthi heard their shouting and swung his horse around. He cursed as he saw the great mass of warriors charging, the Grannach running like fleet boulders amongst the horses, their torches slapping at Breakers' silken pavilions and the hide lodges of his own clan. Flame began to fill the valley as he saw Rannach at the head of the People and snarled, vowing to take the Commacht's head. He couched his lance and bellowed for his men to follow him.

Rannach saw him coming and urged his mount to a swifter pace, so that both akamans ran out in front of their warriors. Rannach screamed, “He's mine!”

Chakthi carried a hide shield, Rannach none, and Chakthi smiled wolfishly as he recognized his advantage. He crouched low on his saddle, his lance held firm between ribs and arm, angled to strike into Rannach's exposed belly. As they came together, he drove forward, looking to gut the Commacht and lift him from the saddle.

Rannach swung aside at the last moment, feeling the Tachyn's lance score across his ribs, his own deflected by the shield. He ignored the flash of pain and snatched his horse around to stab at Chakthi's back, but the Tachyn turned and danced his mount away.

“For Vachyr! For my son and all you did to him!”

Rannach shouted, “For Debo and the People!” And they charged again.

Closer now, their pace was slower, and as Chakthi's lance probed at his gut, Rannach shifted on the saddle and flung his own spear at the Tachyn's chest. Chakthi raised his shield to fend off the missile, and as he did, Rannach caught his pole beneath his left arm and kicked his horse to the side, so that the lance was torn from Chakthi's grip. He screamed a curse and drew his hatchet. Rannach drew his own from his belt and they came again together, the larger fight forgotten as they clashed, each man intent on revenge.

Chakthi's hatchet slashed air as Rannach ducked, reaching across to smash his blade at the Tachyn's ribs. Chakthi flung back, the movement disturbing his balance, so that his horse whinnied and began to rear. It was a Tachyn pony—battle-trained—and
it flailed its hooves and snapped its teeth at Rannach's bay. The bay was no more than a riding animal, and it shied from the smaller horse's attack. Chakthi brought his mount down and aimed a blow at Rannach's head. The Commacht twisted away and the swing lopped hair from the bay horse's mane. It screamed, panicking, and began to buck. Rannach cursed and heeled it away, then swung it round and forced it directly at Chakthi's mount.

The bay was terrified, but still it charged, smashing into the other horse so that the smaller animal was hurled back and sat down on its hindquarters. Rannach came out of the saddle in a reckless leap that carried Chakthi down onto the grass. They rolled together, locked in an embrace fierce and furious as any lovers', and came apart with upraised hatchets, and stared snarling at one another, knowing that one must die.

Chakthi still held his shield; Rannach drew his knife. Chakthi swung his ax and Rannach dropped under the blow, driving Grannach steel at the Tachyn's belly. Chakthi halted the stab with his shield and brought his hatchet down at Rannach's head. Rannach hurled himself aside, tumbling over the grass, and Chakthi roared and sprang forward, ax upraised.

Rannach came to his knees and flung his hatchet at the Tachyn. Chakthi brought his shield up, and as he did so, Rannach propelled himself forward, his knife outthrust.

The blade entered Chakthi's stomach and an expression of stark surprise bloomed in his eyes. Rannach twisted the blade and rolled away. Blood spread over Chakthi's shirt, spilling over his breeches. He chanced a glance at the wound and snarled and moved once more to the attack. Rannach ducked another blow—Chakthi, for all his insensate fury, was slower now—and slashed across the ribs. Chakthi grunted and swung again. Rannach caught the Tachyn's wrist and brought his knife up in a sweeping arc that severed the underarm tendons so that Chakthi cried out in pain and dropped his hatchet. He tried to bring his shield across, but before he could, Rannach smiled and drove the knife upward, under the Tachyn's ribs into the heart.

“For Debo and my father!”

Chakthi gasped. “I damn you, Rannach!” Then his eyes went blank and he fell down on the grass and spat blood and died.

Rannach stared at him a moment, then sheathed his knife and retrieved his hatchet and his lance, found the frightened bay and vaulted into the saddle.

Around him, the valley burned. Where the Grannach had torched the pavilions and the lodges flame rose high, taking hold of the grass so that all the valley blazed. The sky above was dark with smoke and the air filled with the sickly stench of burning flesh.

“The Tachyn are destroyed.” Yazte came out of the dancing light. “Now we attack the Breakers.”

Rannach ducked his head and they rode through the flames to where the People and the Grannach waited to charge.

“God!” Var stared in awe at the bloody barricade filling the pass. The bodies of animals and Breakers were piled there, ravaged by grapeshot and canister, pierced by musket balls. He looked up at the high walls and saw marines crouched there. Not knowing their ammunition was expended, he shouted, “Hold your fire! I'm Tomas Var.”

“Major?” A man stood, peering down. “By God, sir, but you've come timely.”

“Who's in command?” Var shouted.

“Captain Kerik's dead, sir. I'm not sure who commands now.”

Var frowned. “What of the Inquisitor?”

“Dead, sir. Slain by them savages in armor.”

“And Arcole Blayke? Davyd?” Var called.

“They fight with us, and bravely.”

Var smiled his relief. Then: “We're coming through. Where's the enemy?”

“All over, sir. We held them off this pass, but now they're coming up the ridge.”

“Contain the pass,” Var ordered, for all he no longer held any command recognized by the God's Militia. “We'll take them on the flank.”

“Sir?” the soldier called. “I think there are more savages coming across the valley.”

“They'll be friends,” Var shouted. “Save they attack you, don't fire on them.”

“Sir!”

“Let's go.” Var turned to Abram Jaymes, and they began to clamber over the horrid pile of ruined flesh.

The Breakers topped the ridge. Muskets were useless against them, but bayonets thrust into the joints of their armor to find the softness of yielding flesh succeeded, and they died. Not so many as the few remaining defenders, who now fought only to survive. To hold the ridge long enough that Davyd's promised support might come. No more than thirty marines remained hale. Nineteen more lay sorely hurt, unable to take part in the battle, but each one clutching a pistol they'd use on themselves: they understood the Breakers better now.

It all seemed lost.

“We're done.” Arcole wiped at the blood of a fresh cut. “We're finished.”

“No!” Davyd squinted through the smoke. “See, they've come.”

Arcole followed his comrade's gaze and saw the fire that filled the valley. It spread over the grass, but between the conflagration and the foot of the ridge, he saw the warriors of the People massed to charge. He recognized Rannach there, and fat Yazte, Morrhyn and Kahteney behind, Dohnse and Kanseah siding Rannach, and Colun with his sturdy Grannach.

The Breakers were gathering for their last charge, which must surely overwhelm the defenders. Akratil pranced his horrid mount before them, confident now, as he rallied his warriors and promised them victory. He raised his bloody sword and pointed at the ridgetop.

Then shouting came from the southern pass and Arcole turned to see Tomas Var and Abram Jaymes leading a great
mass of folk over the necrotic barrier there to come running down the valley. He began to smile, then saw Flysse amongst the Matawaye.

“God, what's she doing there?”

He stood, shouting that she go back, and a long, brightly painted arrow drove into his right shoulder. He grunted and found himself stretched on the grass. For a while there was no pain; then it seemed fire filled him, and he cried out as it burned down his arm and across his chest. He was unaware of Davyd dragging him back until he felt a pistol set in his hand and opened his eyes to see Davyd's worried face.

“I must leave you.”

“I'll come with you.” Arcole struggled to rise; could not, and fell back.

“Rest still,” Davyd urged. “I've not the time to remove the arrow, so lie still.”

Arcole groaned and tried to find his feet. They seemed detached from his body, he floating in some limbo world of pain and fire. He wondered if the Breakers poisoned their shafts. “Can you,” he moaned, “look after Flysse. And do I die, tell her I love her.”

“She knows that,” Davyd said, “and you'll not die.”

Arcole laughed and reached for Davyd's hand. Like poor Jorge Kerik, he thought. Am I dying? For an instant, they clutched hands, then Davyd was gone, running back to where the Breakers came again.

The People charged, and from the southern pass the army of Salvation attacked.

Akratil heard the shouting and swung his dread horse in a prancing circle. He sensed the conjoining of forces he could scarce understand, save they combined to deny him victory—save there was power come here that defied his own dark god's. It was as if minds once disparate—the Breakers' prey—now mingled; as if beliefs and hopes united to confront him and defeat him: he felt his magic dissipate.

He cursed, wishing he'd not come to this valley. For the first time he faced numbers he sensed he could not defeat. It was not so much the mass of them as their shared purpose. It
was, he felt, as if opposing forces had joined together to deny him, to defeat him. He
felt
the strength of that conjoined intent, the weight of its purpose, like a blade crashing against his shoulders. He screamed an imprecation at his malign god and raised his sword and shouted for his warriors to charge the ridge.

The People rode hard up the slope. The Grannach ran with them, and when they reached the hindmost Breakers, they began to hack at the weirdling beasts with their axes as the Matawaye sent showers of arrows against them, and closed with lances and hatchets and knives on the dread riders.

Then the folk of Grostheim were there and muskets and rifles clattered an awful tattoo, and—Akratil's dark-earned magic fled under that joining—all became bloody chaos.

Breakers were pitched from their saddles to fall under the axes of the Grannach. Men with the brand of exile stark on their cheeks fired pistols at beasts and Breakers alike, and closed with drawn swords and knives and axes and sickles and mattocks—whatever weapons they bore against the common enemy—even as the red-coated soldiery of the God's Militia fired precise volleys and fixed bayonets and drove in alongside the indentured folk and the masters. The people of Salvation fought together, and Davyd saw his dreams come true.

Then nightmare rode out of the carnage.

It was the golden-armored rider, mounted on his dread midnight horse, fury shining like hell's furnaces from under the ornate helm as Akratil rode toward him.

“You!” The Breaker angled his sword in accusation. “You are the one.”

Davyd leveled his musket and squeezed the trigger. The ball struck the golden armor and fell useless on the stained ground—whatever magic quit the Horde seemed still to pertain to Akratil. Who laughed and heeled the horned horse onward. Davyd flung the musket away and drew a pistol. Like the musket's shot, the ball echoed off Akratil's armor, and the Breaker swung his blade at Davyd's head even as the lethal unicorn horn of his horrid mount darted at Davyd's chest.

Davyd danced back, evading horn and sword, aware that the rider drove him into the woodland along the ridgetop. Suddenly they were separated from the rest, apart from the battle and moving amongst darkening trees, as if this final confrontation must be theirs alone. Horn and tusks probed at him even as fangs snapped close to his face and Akratil's blade swung deadly at his head. He threw himself to the side and the sword embedded in a tree. It was an oak, he noticed with a strange clarity he assumed was born of the knowledge of his own death, like those in the wood, where Taza had sought to kill him and perhaps brought on these events.

He swung around the tree, hiding and suddenly very afraid. He sensed, not knowing how, that this fight was his and none other's: save he slayed Akratil, the Breakers might still prevail.

He could not imagine how he might defeat so savage a warrior.

He saw, incongruously, that the day aged now. Shadows hung darker and deeper amongst the timber. He realized that he wore the wolverine skin poor, dead Tekah had given him, and that granted him some strength.

“You're beaten.” He ducked under a second swing, darted clear of the horse's probing horns. “See? Your people die.”

Akratil glanced an instant back and snarled, for it was the truth. The Breakers fell down under the guns of the Grostheim folk and the weapons of the People, the axes of the Grannach. Their pavilions burned in the valley below and only a few were left now. The Matawaye pressed in, and the Grostheimers, and the Grannach swarmed like limber rocks over the lizard beasts.