Exile's Children (81 page)

Even so, he thought, it can be only a matter of time.

At his side, Rannach tensed his bowstring and grinned. “This is a good day to die.”

Racharran answered, “Yes,” and wished they might live.

“They come again!”

Kanseah's shout brought him to the edge. More Breakers attempted the ascent. They seemed like brightly colored insects as they clambered upward, limber for all the weight of their armor. Racharran angled his bow and drew the string to his cheek, let fly, and saw his shaft pierce an armored shoulder. The Breaker slowed, a hand falling free of its hold,
and Rannach's arrow drove down between pauldron and helmet. The Breaker jerked, arching back from the slope, and fell away. The body dropped and was trodden down as more rushed to the climb, careless of their dead. They seemed to Racharran not at all like men, but entirely insectile in their grim determination. He thought that did the warriors slay enough, the rest would likely use the bodies for a ramp and climb the cliff on a ladder of corpses. Save the Matawaye would run out of arrows before that, and it come to hand-to-hand fighting. He nocked a second shaft and took aim.

“Look! What do they do?”

Rannach pointed to where Breakers turned their weirdling beasts from the mass. Two groups there were, each of hundreds, riding off in opposite directions along the line of hills.

“They seek to flank us,” Racharran answered grimly. “They look to find an undefended place to climb.”

He turned, shouting for Colun, and indicated the departing Breakers.

“Leave them to us.” Colun bellowed for Baran to join him. “We'll crush them like bugs.”

He summoned his Grannach and sent a runner across the blockage of the pass to advise those on the farther side. Soon two parties of the Stone Folk went trotting to meet the flankers. Racharran sent a hundred warriors with each group.

And still the Breakers continued their assault.

“Shall we win?”

Arrhyna stroked absently at her rounded belly, staring toward the pass, her head cocked as she listened to the clamor.

“It's in the Maker's hands now.” Marjia stroked a stone against the edges of a blade. “I pray he favors us, but …” She shrugged.

Arrhyna looked down at her, seeing a face so calm, it seemed carved of stone. “I'd know how Rannach fares,” she said. “I'd go to him.”

“No!” Marjia looked up from her sharpening. “That's warriors' work up there. And you've a child to think of.”

“You fought.” Arrhyna scowled her frustration. “You told me of the fighting in the caves.”

“That was necessity.” Marjia inspected the blade and found it satisfactory; sheathed it on her ample waist. “And do they get past the men, I'll fight them again. But they've not yet, and so we've hope still.”

“Have we?” Arrhyna sighed and made herself settle beside the tranquil Grannach woman. “I told Rannach to have faith, but the moon shall
be full this night. And Morrhyn said that was when …” She, in her turn, shrugged.

“Then there's still time, no?” Marjia took Arrhyna's hands. “Perhaps Morrhyn shall wake soon and show us the way.”

Arrhyna clutched the comfort of the hard, warm hands and looked into Marjia's blue eyes. “Even does he,” she said softly, ashamed her faith faltered, “how can so many escape? He spoke of a new land but, even does he wake, I cannot understand how we shall reach it.”

“The ways of the Maker are mysterious,” Marjia said. “And not always for us to comprehend. That's the duty of your wakanishas, no? Perhaps our duty is only to believe, to have faith even where it seems impossible hope can exist.”

“Like here?” Arrhyna smiled sadly.

“Yes, like here.” Marjia answered her smile with one more confident. “Now, do we prepare food? Our men will grow famished—fighting's hungry work.”

Arrhyna nodded: better to work—to do what she could—than wonder if Rannach lived, or if at any moment Breakers should appear.

Motsos grunted as the arrow struck his shoulder, then cursed as his hand went numb and dropped his bow. The Maker-bedamned Breakers should not have the range—surely their bows could not flight shafts so far.

Unless …

He jumped back as a second arrow whistled past his head, and cursed again. Along the line he saw an Aparahso stagger, a bright yellow shaft protruding from his throat. Then a crimson shaft, and a black, sprouted from the man's chest and he fell down.

“Magic!” Motsos risked standing to shout his warning. “There's magic in their arrows!”

He heard his call taken up and passed along, and others scream out the same as they realized a new power was in play. He sat down and twisted his head to study the arrow thrusting from his shoulder. It was a pale blue, very much like the color of the sky, and as he grasped it, he wondered if the head was barbed.

When he tugged, he got his answer: yes. Fire ignited in his shoulder and he cursed some more and let go; drew his knife and gritted his teeth and set to cutting through the shaft. When he was done, his left arm hung useless by his side and he could no longer feel his fingers or move them: he hoped the head was not poisoned. He stretched on his belly and crawled back to the rim, intent on retrieving his bow. It was too
good a weapon to leave—a full winter in the making; the work of a peaceful winter when the world turned as it should and Ket-Ta-Witko had been safe.

The bow was fallen into a gap made by the Grannach. Motsos bellied his way forward and reached out.

His fingers were closed tight on the bow when the arrow pierced his eye. His last thought was that now he would see Bylas and the others again.

“Get back!” Racharran took a fistful of his son's shirt and yanked Rannach from the cliff edge. “There's magic in their shafts!”

Rannach struggled free, his face dark with anger. “Then how can we fight them?” He nocked an arrow even as he spoke. “Must we stand back and let them climb?”

Racharran clasped his arm lest he go back. “We fire only from cover! Only from safety!”

“And grant them the rim?” Rannach shook his head, breaking free. “They'll be on us like ants over honey. They'll take the hills and enter the Meeting Ground.”

“And swifter are we dead.” Racharran moved in front of his son. “Listen! Use your bow—yes! But only from a safe place, eh?”

Rannach smiled sourly. “Where's safe here, father?”

“Use the broken stone.” Racharran stepped aside and looked around. The cliff top was wide, and where it ran back toward the Meeting Ground there were stunted trees and scrubby bushes. The reinforcement waited there, watching the Breakers' bright arrows loft above the rim. He ran to them, thinking the Grannach's battle-axes should be useful now, and wondering how his allies fared.

His orders were swiftly issued and as swiftly obeyed: the waiting men were grateful for occupation and set to work eagerly.

Soon screens of bush and ramshackle bulwarks of felled timber were set along the rimrock. Little of it was sound enough to halt the bright shafts, but it provided some measure of cover for the People's bowmen. And Rannach was right: did the Breakers reach the rim, all was lost.

Racharran took up his own bow and found himself a place. The sun was warm on his back, and when he glanced up he saw the bright burning disc was gone past its zenith and moved toward the west. Soon the Moon of the Turning Year would climb above the eastern horizon, and then night fall.

He wondered how long that night might be.

He loosed an arrow and ducked as three shafts tore into the screen
of bushes. They were so colorful, like the armor the Breakers wore. He thought of those he'd seen, and how beautiful they were, and wondered at that—for it seemed somehow an obscenity that people so handsome should be so evil.

He fired again and risked a downward observation, cursing aloud at what he saw.

Too many of the Matawaye were forced back from the rim, and the Breakers climbed easier now. More were on the scarp, moving inexorably upward, and soon it must surely come to hand-to-hand fighting. And then … Racharran cursed again, for then surely all was lost.

Save …

Morrhyn, wake up!

His mouth and throat were dry and his eyes awhile unfocused. He felt both horribly weary and invigorated, as if he returned from a long and arduous journey and must soon begin another. He groaned and pushed the furs away and felt hands on him, a wetness on his parched tongue.

He swallowed and groaned and forced his eyes to see.

Lhyn's face hovered above him and he smiled. She looked so lovely; and also afraid, as if hope tantalized her and she not quite dare believe it.

He said, “We shall be saved,” and wondered if that was his voice croaking. He raised a trembling hand to the cup and drank again, and then spoke clearer, louder: “I've seen the way and we must be ready.”

Lhyn smiled as Kahteney's face appeared above her shoulder. “How?” the Lakanti asked.

Morrhyn shook his head and said, “There's not the time for the telling; later.”

Lhyn asked, “When?”

And he told her with absolute certainty, “When the Moon of the Turning Year shines on the Maker's Mountain.”

Kahteney said, “That might not be soon enough.”

Morrhyn frowned. “How so?” Then gasped. “How long have I dreamed?”

Lhyn said, “Days.”

“The Breakers are come,” Kahteney said. “They're beyond the hills now and coming up the cliffs. They've magic in their arrows and our warriors lose the advantage.”

Morrhyn pushed the furs aside, careless of modesty. “What's the hour?”

Kahteney said, “Dusk. Soon the moon will light the Mountain.”

Morrhyn looked about for clothing. “Then we've truly little time.” He felt his heart race.

Even now, when the Maker had shown the fulfillment of his promise, there was still doubt, still that sharp knife edge of time to walk.

No, he told himself as he dragged on breeches, I cannot doubt now. I must not! He showed me the way—he would not be so cruel as to show me that and then take it away.

Through the folds of his shirt he heard Kahteney ask, “What shall we do?”

He answered as his head emerged: “Strike camp. Ready the People for departure. Send word to the warriors—tell them they must hold the Breakers awhile longer and then fall back as the moon lights the Mountain. They must be
here
”—he struck the ground in emphasis—“when the time comes; else they'll be left behind.”

Hadduth spoke for the first time: “I'll take that word.”

He rose on the saying and ducked through the lodgeflap and was gone before Morrhyn had further chance to speak.

Morrhyn grunted, tugging on his boots. Doubt's dog barked as the skin fell down on Hadduth's retreating back. He had sooner kept the Tachyn Dreamer with him, but it was too late now—he could only hope his fears not be realized.

Lhyn said, “Shall you eat something?” And he smiled at her and shook his head, saying, “I've not the time. Nor you—we must tell the People, that they be ready.”

She nodded and he rose, hesitating a moment as his legs trembled and threatened to give way under him. Lhyn took his arm and he rested against her for a moment, and briefly thought of all the things that might have been and now never could. Then he stood erect and pushed the lodgeflap aside and went out onto the Meeting Ground.

Bats fluttered in the dying light, and already stars showed overhead. The moon hung massive above the hills, huge and bright and yellow, paling the fires that burned. There were folk outside, waiting, all their faces lit with expectation as he appeared; waiting for the Prophet whose word perhaps came too late.

He raised his arms, even though the only sounds were those of battle and the barking of excited dogs and the whickering of horses that wondered why they were not ridden in the fight.

He began to speak, telling them what they must do.

“There are too many!” Colun rested panting on his grounded ax. The crescent head was bloodied and his shirt and breeches were all dark with gore. “The Maker damn them, but they forced us back!”

“The Stone Shapers?” Racharran asked.

“Did what they could.” Colun wiped a hand through a beard all matted and bloody. “They sent the cliffs down, but still the cursed Breakers came. When Baran toppled stone on them, those still living rode farther along the foot, and we cannot match those beasts they ride for speed. They outdistanced us and found a place.”

“They're on the rim?” Racharran peered into the darkening night. “How far away?”

“We slowed them somewhat.” Colun smiled grimly. “The Stone Shapers cracked the hills—put a ravine between us and them they'll find hard to cross. But sooner or later they will; and the Shapers are exhausted. There's a limit to how much stone magic they can work before it drains them.” He gestured to where Baran squatted. The golan sat with down-hung head, his shoulders heaving as he breathed.

Racharran mouthed a curse and asked, “How many?”

Colun answered, “Hundreds, and more coming. They bring their beasts up now.”

“The Maker help us.” Racharran sighed and clapped a hand to Colun's broad shoulder. “You did well, my friend, but now …”

“Save the Maker aid us, save Morrhyn deliver his promise …” Colun shrugged, glancing up to where the full moon climbed the sky. “We're lost.”

Racharran cursed again, then shouted for Rannach.

When his son came, he said, “Listen, the Breakers are on the cliff, and before long …” He imparted Colun's news. Rannach scowled and asked, “What do we do?”

“You,” Racharran said, “take our reinforcements and fall back on the Meeting Ground. Take Perico and Kanseah with you, them and their men.”

“Perico's dead,” Rannach said. “I saw him fall.”

“The Maker accept his soul.” Racharran took his son's hand. “You take the Aparhaso. Form a battle line around the Meeting Ground.”