Exile's Children (40 page)

He shook off the feeling as the passage turned upward and curved and then ran down and curved again, emerging on a ledge above the Javitz home-cavern. The shelf there was walled, and warded. Young Grannach stood guardians about the entrance, armored and armed with axes, hook-billed pikes, and long spears, proud in their shining new armor. Not one had yet seen an invader, and all were eager to fight. Colun felt a terrible pride and a terrible sadness as he answered their salutes.

“They're young,” Baran whispered as they went down the winding stairway, “and you're their creddan. They'd join you in battle, in honor. The young are like that—all brave and bloodthirsty. Were you not the same when you were young?”

“Ach!” Colun shook his head, sighing. “Was I? I cannot remember.”

“You fought hard enough against the Kraj,” Baran said. “At least, as best I remember. When Janzi brought his men against us …”

Colun silenced his friend with a weary hand. “That was then and, yes, I was young: I thought battle was glorious and honorable. Now I know better. And I know we face no such enemy as Janzi, but something worse. Far worse.” He halted, resting his hands on the parapet of the descending stairway so that he might look out across the vast cavern below. “Look; what do you see?”

Baran said, “Home. The Javitz caves. Brave folk, worth defending.”

“Yes.” Colun nodded, then reached up to unlatch his helm. He dropped it at his feet and ran weary hands through his thatched and sweaty hair. “Brave folk:
my
folk, and yours. I am their creddan; they follow me. Sometimes I think they follow me like sheep, and perhaps even to the slaughter.”

Baran frowned and asked, “What do you say?”

Colun shook his head. “I'm not sure. I know that these strangelings come against us and I am vowed to fight them. But the Kraj say that I bring the invaders on us because I side with the flatlanders. The Genji agree and the rest stand aloof.”

“The Kraj would claim that,” Baran said, “and the Genji? They are like mating worms, all wound together. But they still fight the invaders. As do the rest.”

“Because the invaders trespass on our mountains.” Colun's arm swept wide, indicating the vast cavern below, the mountains above. “But if they went by? If they passed through our lands into Ket-Ta-Witko and left us alone? I think some would allow that.”

“No!” Baran shook his head, vigorous enough dust flew loose in a could, and chips of stone. “Perhaps the Kraj, the Genji, because of the old memories, but surely not the Basanga or the Katjen.”

“Perhaps not.” Colun set his elbows on the parapet and rested his chin on his hands, staring morosely at the cavern, at the serried ranks of houses that climbed the walls like honeycombs to where the topmost curvature of the vast cave swung over like some rocky sky to meet the rising houses on the farther side, the roadways between climbing up the walls and dangling in the moss-lit air between like spiderweb ladders. And down the middle, where the cave flattened, a stream there all boundaried with chuckling children and women washing. “But I thought that of the flatlanders. I thought that when I brought them news of the invaders they'd surely rally, but what happened? They fell to fighting amongst themselves!”

“You told me that,” Baran said carefully. “But that was surely this matter of the maiden Arrhyna and the killing of—Vachyr, was that his name?”

“Yes.” Colun nodded. “But do you not see?”

Baran said, “No. Those are flatlander affairs, and I do not understand them.”

Colun sighed. “It seems plain enough to me. In some ways, at least; in others …” He shrugged. “I brought warning of the invaders to the flatlanders and they ignored it when they fell to squabbling amongst themselves. Racharran heeded me, and Yazte … But the rest.” He
shrugged again. “They'd sooner not know. They quote their Ahsa-tye-Patiko like a warding charm and believe that by ignoring the danger they dismiss it.”

“They're flatlanders,” Baran said. “They believe themselves safe behind our mountains.”

“Yes.” Colun ducked his head, slowly as a wearied horse. “And we Grannach, are we any better? We fight the invaders, but still argue that the fight is only for our own lands. That we are the Guardians of the mountains and nothing more. And the Kraj and the Genji argue one way, and the Basanga and the Katjen another, which is so much like the flatlanders, it frightens me.”

“What do you say?” Baran asked.

“That there is a kind of horrid pattern in all this,” Colun said, and sighed. “That invaders come against us and will doubtless move against Ket-Ta-Witko if we are defeated, and that our people and theirs seem equally divided. As if some fell wind blows over us all, to baffle us and confuse us, so that we dither and argue while all the time the enemy gains ground.”

Baran turned his head to study Colun, frowning at the expression he saw. It seemed to him fatalistic, as if the creddan already accepted inevitable defeat. “We've always argued,” he said. “It's our nature; but our arguments now are not about the invaders. All the families fight them.”

“True.” Colun smiled grimly. “But
how
do we fight?”

Baran wondered if the question was rhetorical and hesitated to respond. Then, when Colun said no more, he answered, “As we've always fought, family by family.”

“Exactly.” Colun nodded. “Each family to its own territory. As Javitz and Kraj and Genji and Basanga and Katjen; not as
Grannach.
”

“We are all Grannach.” Baran said, confused.

“Which comes first,” Colun asked, “Grannach or family?”

“Surely,” Baran said, “they are the same thing.”

“Are they?” Colun drew dusty fingers through his beard. “I am not so sure.”

Baran said, “I do not understand.”

“Suppose,” Colun murmured, “that the invaders succeeded in breaching our tunnels, suppose they entered the Javitz cavern. Would the Kraj or the Genji come to our aid? Or would they leave us to our fate? Would they say the Javitz fall because I brought flatlanders into the mountains and the Javitz suffer for my sin and so our fate is none of their affair?”

Baran paused before replying. Then he said, “Surely they'd aid us …” But his voice lacked conviction.

“We'd aid them,” Colun said. “But were it the other way around, I wonder.”

Baran said, “Surely …” And let the sentence die unspoken, aware he had no sound answer nor any sound conviction.

“That's what I mean,” Colun said, “about the pattern—about an evil wind. Listen. The flatlanders are bound by what they name the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, which is like the Order. But that all fell apart at their Matakwa; and for all I brought them warning, still they fell to squabbling amongst themselves and paid no heed to the larger danger. It was as if they could not see straight, but only see petty envies. And I fear the same might apply to us.”

“Do you say the invaders ensorcel us?” Baran asked. “That they send some magic against us?”

Colun sighed and shrugged. “I do not know; I can only wonder. But I tell you this, my friend—I believe we must stand together, that save we fight as
Grannach
—as a people undivided—we shall likely fall. And also that”—he barked a harsh and humorless laugh—“the other families would dismiss that fear. Or bring it to debate so long the invaders come before any resolution be reached.”

“We hold the tunnels still,” Baran said defensively, not liking the turn of this conversation.

“We hold the tunnels,” Colun agreed. “But for how long? The invaders are deep into the mountains now, deeper than any have ever penetrated, and they are so many.”

“I don't know what to say.” Baran shook his head. “You frighten me with this talk.”

Colun said, “I frighten myself. Ach, perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I've dealt too much with flatlanders. So!” He pushed away from the parapet, grunting as he straightened his back, and clapped the golan on the shoulder. “Do we go find some beer to wash the dust from our mouths?”

Baran nodded eagerly: it was far easier to fight than contemplate his creddan's abstruse and frightening philosophies.

They descended the great stairway to the cavern's floor and followed the paved way beside the stream until they came to a curving road that lifted up past the honeycomb terraces to a vaulting bridge spanning a crack in the mountain's belly, then along another walled roadway to Colun's dwelling.

Marjia met them on the balcony with a smile that grew wider as she saw her husband was unharmed.

“It went well?”

Colun said, “They died. Baran brought the tunnel down on them. It was thirsty work.”

Marjia laughed and bussed his cheek. “It always is. Come, I've a keg ready. And hot water.”

She beckoned them inside, past the low-arched doorway to an antechamber where a steaming bowl rested on a shelf of rock, soap and cloths beside.

“You'll wash first,” she warned. “Then slake your thirst.”

Dutifully, they obeyed. Colun set his helmet and ax aside and they went through the inner door to a wide room that shone all gently golden save where a fire burned cheerfully in the hearth, lending flickering overtones of red to the light emanating from the rock. Bright rugs covered the floor and two deep and amply cushioned chairs stood before the fire, a wooden table between. Colun ushered Baran to one and crossed to where the keg sat inside a niche. He filled two mugs and looked inquiringly at Marjia. She shook her head and told him she'd business below, did he want his dinner, so he brought the mugs to the table and set them down, then sank into the empty chair.

Both Grannach drank deep, and neither spoke until the mugs were emptied. Colun refilled them and Baran ventured an opinion.

“These … fears … you have. Should you not voice them?”

Colun wiped foam from his lips. “I did,” he said. “When I got back from Ket-Ta-Witko I sent word to all the creddans, speaking of my thoughts. The answer was they'd contemplate my words and give their answers in due course. Ach, Baran, old friend! You know what ‘in due course' is to us.”

Baran nodded. “We Grannach were ever a slow-moving folk.”

“But now,” Colun declared, “time moves fast. Perhaps too fast! I suspect we've not enough for lengthy contemplation.”

“You sound,” Baran said, “like a flatlander—all swift and hurrying.”

Colun chuckled. “So Janzi claims. He says I'm tainted by contact with the Matawaye.”

Baran shrugged: how to argue against time-honored tradition? The Grannach lived long, slow lives and were not given to swift decisions. That was the province of the flatlanders, all brief and hurried because they lacked the time to ponder things. They were fast-running water to the Grannach's stone. He wondered if Colun's stone had been worn down by the flatlanders' water.

“What do you think?”

Colun's question surprised him and he hid awhile behind his mug. Then, carefully: “I think we must fight as best we can.”

“And does that mean breaking with tradition?”

Baran felt pinned by Colun's eyes; guilty for his doubts. He drained his mug and said to Colun's back as the creddan rose to fill both their tankard, “I think that these invaders are such a threat as we've not known before. I'd not see our mountains fall to them.”

Colun sighed and was about to speak, when a clarion rang, belling loud through the outer cavern, softer in the chamber but nonetheless imperative. Both men sprang to their feet. Baran groaned. “Again? So soon?”

Colun said, “Things change apace, my friend. And do we not change as swift …”

He left the sentence dangling as he snatched up his helm and his ax and they both ran to the bridge, across that to the roadway and the battle awaiting them.

The tunnel was wide, a transport route between the different family caverns. It was not roofed so high the invaders' war beasts could fully raise their heads, and so they could not fight to fullest advantage. But still their slashing claws and darting, many-fanged jaws wrought terrible slaughter on the Grannach. And they came apace, slithering and scurrying so swift the golans had not enough time to bring down the rock but must fall back as they chanted their spells. And behind them, unhindered by the tunnel's roof, came the strangelings in their rainbow armor, like a bright flood intent on drowning all before it.

Colun swung his ax, sinking the blade deep into the paw that quested for his chest, and laughed as the beast screamed and snatched back the lusting claws. It limped on three legs then, and he saw his brave Javitz warriors run in to hack at the creature. He saw one taken by the fangs, and raised his ax high, swinging the blade down into the scaly snout, the jaws burst open by the blow so that the warrior was tossed loose. But he was still dead, his armor all pierced by the pressure of those dreadful teeth. Colun twisted his ax loose and struck again even as noisome breath gusted foul against his face. He felt the force of his blow in his arms and shoulders, as if he struck steel against stone. Then the ax was wrenched from his hand, the beast tossing its pierced head and screaming shrill as it writhed. He sprang back, but not quite fast enough to avoid the paw that caught him and flung him down—luckily, the Maker be praised, back clear of the creature's death throes.

He was hauled to his feet and dragged back down the tunnel. He struggled free of the helping hands and snatched up a dead man's ax. His head spun and his vision wavered, and in his ears he heard the Stone
Shapers' chanting all mingled in with the roaring of the living beasts and the screaming of the dying creatures. He saw the one he'd struck fall down, hind legs kicking, front scrabbling for purchase, even as the next came clambering over the body, and moved toward it. But hands clutched him and impelled him away, and then the roaring of the beasts was joined by the roaring of the mountain as the roof collapsed under the weight of the golans' chant and dust blew in a stormy cloud down all the remaining length of safe tunnel.