Exile's Children (6 page)

He shook his head, his frown deepening. Morrhyn wondered how long that debate had lasted, how many of the Whaztaye had died meanwhile.

“Finally, it was decided that we could not accede to all they asked.” Colun sighed noisily. “The Maker set us down where we belong and charged we Grannach with the securing of the hills. Besides, we had not enough food to satisfy them all, nor are you folk who live under the sky happy in our caves and tunnels, and we could not know how long this war might last.”

Morrhyn wondered if the shadow that flitted across the craggy features then was doubt at the charity of that decision. Even so, he thought, Colun does no more than speak the Will correctly.

“It was not a decision we reached easily.” Colun drank tiswin, as if to cleanse the memory. “But it
was
reached, and by all my people. We told them
nay,
and that we would instead send our strongest warriors out into the foothills and fight this stranger horde did it come there.”

“Lift your leg,” commanded Lhyn, “so I can bandage it.”

Morrhyn marveled that she could remain so practical as Colun unwound his tale. His own attention was focused entirely on the Grannach's words. He should likely have let Colun bleed to death telling this story.

Colun raised his leg and then, with obvious relief, tugged up his breeches. “Ach, I do grow somewhat faint. Perhaps I might eat now, that I not lose my strength?”

Lhyn turned to the cookfire, filling a platter with bread and meat that she passed to the beaming Grannach. When she raised the kettle, he shook his head and patted the pitcher of tiswin. Morrhyn and Racharran each took a platter, absently transferring food to their mouths as they waited on Colun.

He emptied his dish and asked for more before resuming. “Where was I? Yes, we made our decision known—which saddened the Whaztaye—and sent our strongest down with them to the foothills. Ach, but they were truly a sorry lot we found there. It seemed as if all the folk were gathered like animals driven from their grazing by a fire, come up into the hills in hope the flames not reach so far.

“But they did … The Maker knows, they did! We spoke with them there, to learn what manner of foe we faced, and what we heard was strange.”

His second platter cleaned, he set it aside and drank tiswin. Then: “They spoke of such creatures as I'd not ever heard of; of terrible war
riors whose only love seemed slaughter, who rode aback strangeling beasts of no better humor than their masters. They came, the Whaztaye told us, out of the western hills, out of the Maker's gate.”

“That cannot be!” Racharran's patience dissolved at this announcement. “The gates are closed by the Maker's own hand. What you describe surely could not be.”

He looked to Morrhyn for support, and in his eyes the wakanisha saw both stark rejection of Colun's statement and a measure of dread. Morrhyn was abruptly reminded of his dream—of all his recent dreams—and felt a terrible fear. Was this their inspiration? Did they portend this horde? He heard a clatter, and turned from Racharran's agitated gaze to see Lhyn retrieve a fallen dish. Her eyes were wide, darting from him to her husband to Colun. He said carefully, “Do we hear all of this tale before we declare ‘yea' or ‘nay,' ” and looked to the Grannach.

Colun shrugged. “I did not believe it at first either, but I saw the Whaztaye gathered there like frightened beasts, by the Maker! They had what sheep they'd not eaten with them, though they did not last long, and I knew some terror was abroad. Whether it came through the gate or was some thing of the Whaztaye's own making I did not at first know, but then I saw them …”

His skin, as much as was visible under his beard, was the color of old stone, but Morrhyn thought it paled. And when he drank this time it was as though he needed the tiswin to fortify his tongue against the telling.

“They came like a storm, like a grass fire. Swift as that, and as heedless.” He paused and drained his cup, shaking his head. “By night, it was. I think they prefer the night: they fight fiercest then, as if they are creatures of darkness and abhor the sun. It was in what you name the Moon of the Turning Year: the time before your New Grass Moon rises, when snow still covers the high hills and the rivers run strong with melt. We saw them from our heights, like a black wave lit by the moon, rolling across the grass to where the Whaztaye had set their lodges. They came so swift! Nor was there halt or hesitation—they only attacked, like rabid wolves, and just as senseless. They seemed uncaring of hurt, almost—Almost, it seemed they welcomed death, as eager as they slew.

“It was a terrible slaughter. The Whaztaye are not fighters, and they fell before these … creatures … like … like their sheep to wolves! The children and the women, the old folk—the defenseless ones were slaughtered as thoughtless as you'd crush a bug. I confess that I wished then we had granted them leave to enter our tunnels! I'd sooner we had done that and asked the Maker forgive us after, for I wept at what I saw done there.”

He broke off, reaching for the pitcher. Morrhyn wondered, as his head lowered, if he hid a tear.

“The men died too. Some fled and were cut down; others stood their ground and died. We Grannach are of sterner stuff, however, and rallied to defy the horde. It was like …” He frowned, staring awhile into the flames of the cookfire as if he saw the battle refought there. “It was like defying an avalanche, like damming a flood with no more than your bare hands. Remember, we fought on our own ground, those hills as familiar to us as your plains to you—we'd that advantage. But even so we were driven back, steady as snow under the springtime sun. We retreated, so ferocious were our enemies, and had we not our caves and tunnels, I think we should have died there, like the Whaztaye.

“Ach!” He chopped air as if he held his battle-ax still. “It shames me to say it, but retreat we did. Though”—he smiled wickedly—“we left not a few of them slain. I believe we taught them not all the world's folk are such easy prey as the poor Whaztaye.”

“What are they?” Racharran's voice was soft, his expression troubled. “What cause do they follow?”

“I did not,” Colun said somewhat tartly, “engage them in conversation. What they are, where they came from, why they engage in such slaughter—these are things I do not understand. I know only that they are savage beyond belief, and now command all the land of the Whaztaye. For all I know, they hold the lands beyond too.”

He shrugged and drained his cup, his face abruptly a mask of disappointment when he found the pitcher empty. Unspeaking, Lhyn brought another, and he drank with relish.

“But you held them?” Racharran asked.

“In a way.” Colun nodded doubtfully. “We slowed their advance somewhat in the ravines and the defiles. But only slowed it—they are careless of losses. In the Maker's name! I saw them press on across the bodies of their dead and wounded with no more thought than they gave the Whaztaye fallen. On and on they came, even when we sent rocks crashing down, avalanches that buried them by the score; and every time we thought them halted, they came again. Like ants, they were: remorseless. We had no choice but to fall back until we reached our secret places. Had we not those refuges …” He sighed and shook his head. “We went into the tunnels and sealed the entrances behind us. Then we licked our wounds awhile and debated what to do.”

Morrhyn asked, “The seals held? These … invaders … could not breach them?”

“Not then,” Colun answered. “When I left, the seals held intact. But …” He spread his hands wide. “Did the Whaztaye speak aright
and they
did
come through the farther mountains, then they've such powers as I've not seen before; nor ever believed could be. Still, when I departed the tunnels were secure. And do these creatures gain entrance, the passage shall cost them dear. But if they succeed …I deemed it wise to warn you.”

“And our heartfelt thanks for that,” Racharran said.

Morrhyn said, “What did they look like?”

Colun shrugged again and told him, “I never saw their faces—I saw only their armor, which is not like any I have seen before. Like insects they were, all bright, shiny colors that hid their faces and their forms.”

“They were not men?” asked Morrhyn.

“They have two arms, two legs,” Colun said, “and they've each a head. But are they men, I cannot say. I thought them demons.”

Wakanisha and akaman exchanged a look. Racharran said, “This news must be brought before the full Council.”

Morrhyn nodded and said, “Yes, and must be discussed in Dream Council.” He turned to the Grannach. “You'll tell all this again?”

Colun said, “Do you ask it,” and favored them both with a somber stare. “I fear this threatens us all. Perhaps all the world.”

“I'll send word now.” Racharran stood, crossing to the lodge's entrance.

When he stepped outside, Morrhyn saw that the sun was up, the wind abated. Streamers of white cloud ran out across a sky of pure blue and all the Matakwa camp was awake, loud with cheerful laughter. He turned to Colun's gruff voice intruded on his thoughts.

“You dreamed of this?” the Grannach asked.

“Perhaps; I'm not sure.” He felt that doubt dissolving even as he spoke. “I've had such dreams as deny clear interpretation.”

He told the detail of his recurring dream, and when he was done Colun said, “And the other Dreamers?”

“One at least,” Morrhyn advised. “Save he believes it a scrying of different trouble.”

Colun gestured that he explain and Morrhyn told him of Kahteney's interpretation. “Perhaps,” the Grannach murmured, “you are both right.”

“How so?” asked Morrhyn. “Trouble with the Tachyn is scarce so fearful as what you've described.”

“Save,” Colun said grimly, “that does this horde find a way into Ket-Ta-Witko, it were better the clans fight unified, not betwixt yourselves.”

Morrhyn felt a hollow place open inside him at that, and for a while
could only stare aghast at the craggy little man. Then all he could find to say was “Yes.”

Racharran came back on the heel of the affirmative, halting as he saw Morrhyn's face. “What is it?” he demanded. “Some new alarm?”

Morrhyn reached out to clutch his wrist. “There must be peace between the clans.”

Racharran studied his friend and ducked his head in confirmation. “All well, there shall be. In light of Colun's news, I doubt even Chakthi can harbor such petty grudges.”

“Even so.” Morrhyn did not release his hold. “Do you impress that on Rannach? And in council seek to bind Chakthi with solemn vows?”

“I shall,” Racharran promised. “Even now messengers go out with word. I've asked that we sit in Council this night.”

Morrhyn had a single akaman and he could only wait until the messengers returned with their answers. He loosed his hold and reached unthinking for a cup. He had raised it to his lips and drunk before he knew Colun had filled it. He did not taste the tiswin, only the heat spilling through the void inside him. Across the fire he saw Lhyn watching him, her eyes clouded.

“Rannach,” he said. “I'd ask him to hold our camp this day—to his lodge, if he will—that he not flaunt Arrhyna before Vachyr or Chakthi.”

“I'll go.” Lhyn spoke before her husband, motioning that Racharran remain seated. “Likely he'll take it easier from me.”

Morrhyn said, “It matters little how he takes it, only that he obey.”

Lhyn nodded, pale-faced, and was gone, and then the three men could only wait.

Arrhyna hid giggling and naked beneath a fur as Rannach cursed and tugged on his breeches. It was not unusual that a new-wed couple find themselves the target of friends' tricks, and already her husband's had played their share. She supposed this calling of his name was another, but for all she could not find it in herself to object overmuch. These Commacht were a cheerful folk, unlike her own Tachyn, whose mood reflected their akaman's. Since Chakthi's wife had died, he had become a surly, sullen man, his temper shout, his judgments swift and brutal, and that dour temperament seemed to infect all the clan. There was not so much laughter amongst the Tachyn lodges. She frowned as she thought on how he had treated her parents, then smiled at the thought that they were now taken in by the Commacht. Racharran seemed a kind man, if somewhat stern, and most assuredly of far graver disposition than his son. She watched as Rannach—her husband now!—laced his breeches, admiring the way muscle corded and flexed across his broad shoulders. Did he curse, it was good-natured, and the Maker knew, he was so handsome, she so fortunate.

Her smile faded as he flung back the lodge flap, an oath dying on his lips, replaced with a mumbled apology.

“Mother, forgive me. I thought …”

He stepped back, inviting Lhyn to enter. Arrhyna drew the fur up to
her chin, wishing there had been more warning of this visit. What would Lhyn think of her, lying abed with breakfast not even thought about yet? She bit her lip at sight of Lhyn's face, but then the older woman smiled.

“What apologies are needed are mine to offer.” Lhyn ducked her head in Arrhyna's direction as Rannach draped a blanket about his shoulder. “You're settled, daughter?”

Daughter
. Arrhyna liked that: it seemed a further seal laid on the happiness of her future. She nodded from behind the fur and said, “I am … Mother.”

“My son”—this with a mock stern glance at Rannach—“treats you well?”

Arrhyna blushed and giggled and said, “He is a fine husband.”

“Whose attentions I'd not deprive you of.” Lhyn smiled still, but behind her friendly expression Arrhyna could detect … She was not sure: fear was her strongest impression. Despite the fur, she felt a sudden chill.