Exile's Children (82 page)

“I'd sooner stay here,” Rannach said. “With you.”

“No.” Racharran smiled. “I need a man I can trust down there.”

Obstinately, Rannach said, “Send Yazte. Or Chakthi.”

Colun shook his head. “The Breakers will come from that direction too.”

“The Lakanti and the Tachyn will hold that side,” Racharran said, urgent now. “And I'll hold this with our Commacht.”

“And we Grannach,” Colun said.

“And the Grannach,” Racharran allowed. “But I'd know the defenseless ones are warded. I charge you with this duty, Rannach. Do you hold the Meeting Ground secure.”

For a moment it seemed Rannach would argue, but then he ducked his head and said, “As my akaman commands.”

Racharran said, “As your father asks, eh?”

“Yes,” Rannach said, “And you?”

“I'll hold here,” Racharran said, “as long as we can. Then we'll fall back. The Meeting Ground shall be our last line of defense.”

“Save,” Colun said, “that Morrhyn wakes.”

Racharran said, “Save that, yes.”

Rannach only grunted and clutched his father's hand. Then he turned and ran to where the reinforcements waited, shouting for them to follow him.

“He grows up,” Colun said.

“Yes.” Racharran's smile grew melancholy. “But not likely to old age.”

“Perhaps Morrhyn shall wake.” Colun shrugged. “Even now.”

“Perhaps.” Racharran looked at the moon. Its light planed his face with shadows. “But he cuts it fine.”

He nocked his last arrow and went stealthy to the rim, intent the shaft should count. The defenders ran short now, and even did they employ the Breakers' shafts, those were fashioned for longer bows and clumsy fired from the shorter Matawaye bows. Soon there would be no more arrows—nor Stone Shapers to send falling rock—and the Breakers would gain the rim and it come to close fighting.

Racharran tossed his bow behind him and did the only thing he could think of now, which was to shoulder loose the woody barricade and send it tumbling down the cliff. Then he moved back, drawing hatchet and knife, and waited for the first Breakers to surmount the rimrock.

Dohnse saw Hadduth crouch down at Chakthi's side, his mouth close against the akaman's ear. He wondered what news the wakanisha brought, and felt a sudden rush of hope when Chakthi's mouth stretched out in a smile and he nodded vigorously. Akaman and Dreamer clasped hands and then Hadduth went scuttling away, back
toward the Meeting Ground. Chakthi, still beaming, beckoned Dohnse to him.

“Morrhyn has woken!” Chakthi's hand grabbed hard on Dohnse's wrist. “When the moon lights the Maker's Mountain, he says we shall be saved!”

“Praise the Maker!” Dohnse smiled: there
was
still hope. “Praise Morrhyn!”

“Yes, praise them both.” Chakthi loosed his grip and pointed across the walled pass. “Go tell Racharran. He trusts you, no?”

Dohnse nodded. “I think he does. But what do I tell him?”

“That—” Chakthi paused a moment. He smiled still, and it seemed to Dohnse a smile of triumph, of promises met and prayers answered. Dohnse wondered why it made him think of bared fangs. “Tell him that we must hold the rimrock that long—until the moon lights the Maker's Mountain—and then fall back. It must be done swift—Morrhyn will see the defenseless ones safe through—” Chakthi paused again, as if gathering his thoughts. “I know not how, only that Hadduth told me Morrhyn knows the means, and we must hold until then. So—tell Racharran that I shall hold this side until then. And does he hold the other, all shall be well.”

Dohnse nodded. Inside his head he voiced a prayer of thanks to the Maker, and to Morrhyn. Aloud, he asked, “And Yazte and his Lakanti; the Grannach?”

Chakthi's smile flattened. “I'll tell Yazte to take them back,” he said. His smile widened again. “Tell Racharran I'd make good all our past differences. I'd earn back my honor: that I claim that right! Tell him we Tachyn shall hold this side alone—so that the Lakanti and the Grannach have a better chance at Morrhyn's promise. Now go!”

Dohnse said, “I'll come back to fight beside you.”

Chakthi shrugged carelessly: “If you can. If not, go with the Commacht.”

Dohnse nodded and ran to where the Commacht stood.

The Moon of the Turning Year climbed the sky. Morrhyn watched, unsure whether he willed it to rise faster or slower—to bring swifter the promise, or delay the departure that more might live. He knew it could not be long before the Breakers gained the hills and came down onto the Meeting Ground; he prayed there be enough time.

He clutched his furs closer as the night wind skirled sparks up from the fires and brought the sounds of combat to his ears. He wondered if
he truly heard so clear, or if it was only imagination that belled out the roaring of the Breakers' weirdling beasts and the clatter of steel, the shouts and screams of dying men.

Around him in a wide, expectant mass, the People waited. The lodges were struck and packed, the horses eager, the dogs darting and barking, knowing some great movement was afoot. Children cried, unnerved by what they felt and could not understand.

Rannach and Kanseah and all their men stood in a wide ring about the Meeting Ground, and it seemed to Morrhyn that he could smell their anticipation like sweat on the wind.

The moon climbed up—so slowly. It lit the Meeting Ground and spread its light over the hills and slowly, slowly, carried that light toward the Maker's Mountain, which stood yet faint against the stars.

Lhyn touched his elbow and he smiled at her, seeing how the moonlight shone on her hair. Arrhyna was with her; and Marjia, with all the Grannach women and their rocky little children; and Nemeth and Ziel; and all their belongings with them, horses and dogs and loaded travois.

Waiting.

He prayed they all come safely through.

And watched the moon pursue its slow ascent and listened to the sounds of battle.

And the distant barking of doubt's dog, which—now, when all hung poised on the moment of the promise—he had no time to listen to.

“Tell Yazte to go.” Racharran smiled gratefully at Dohnse. “Tell him to take his Lakanti and all the Grannach down. Does Chakthi wish to gain honor, then let him. Tell him I'll hold here as long as I can.”

Dohnse said, “I'd stay with you.”

Racharran clasped his hand. Said: “You honor me with that; but, no. Better you take back my word.”

Dohnse said, “I'll take it and come back. Save you forbid me.”

Racharran said, “I'll not forbid you. But why?”

Dohnse shrugged. “We'll not all leave this place, eh? I think that I shall likely die this night, and I'd sooner die amongst the Commacht than with Chakthi.”

Racharran said, “As you wish. But listen—not all of us shall die, and do you live, you've a place amongst the Commacht. If you wish.”

Dohnse said, “I do,” and smiled and ran away, back to where Chakthi waited for his message.

•   •   •

The Breakers gained the cliff top now, and for every one that fell it seemed three more clambered over the rimrock.

They came relentless, careless of their own dead, and the defenders grew weary. Matawaye and Grannach fell, and still bright arrows flew, and the defenders of Ket-Ta-Witko fell back—and fell dead—and fought the invaders down every bloody footstep pacing out the invaders' advance toward the Meeting Ground.

Racharran's arms ached, his muscles throbbing as he wielded hatchet and knife against armor that deflected his blows, save when he chanced his life and went in close to strike where armor joined and left an opening through which he could drive a blade, or drive his hatchet down on helm or upswung, sword-bearing arm.

But he fought on—all the warriors fought on—even as the roaring of the Breakers' beasts came echoing down the night to tell him they'd crossed the Grannach's ravines to attack from the flanks and came down out of the hills to close around the Meeting Ground.

Colun fought beside him, and he knew the Grannach creddan wearied no less than he. It was odd to see a Grannach wearied, but Colun's ax swung slower and, more often than not, his blows failed to cut the rainbow armor that came flooding over the rimrock so that he must hack and pound, and grunt and gasp at the effort.

“Fall back!” Racharran shouted as best he could out of lungs all robbed of wind, and a throat parched dry. “Fall back to the Meeting Ground!”

His people needed not much urging: the Breakers supplied that goad, like a floodtide ramming against a fragile dam. Like some terrible, inexorable force that washed and ground down anything standing against it. Racharran ran with them, back from the cliff edge over which Breakers now clambered unhindered, away from the approaching roars of blood-hungry beasts.

He looked at Colun and said, “Go back. I'll hold them.”

Colun said, “No! I'll die here with you.”

“No!” He set his knife to the Grannach's chest. “You're creddan of all the Grannach now. Take your people to Morrhyn's promise! You owe them that! They'll need you, where you go.”

Colun said, “And you? Shall the Commacht not need their akaman? Your People not need a leader?”

“Rannach is akaman now.” Racharran pricked his knife harder against Colun's chest. “Tell the People that, eh? Tell my son; and tell Lhyn. But go!
Now!
”

Colun stared at him, ignoring the blade, and asked, “Is this truly your wish?”

Racharran said, “Yes! Now do you go, or shall it all be a waste? Look—you see the moon?”

Colun raised his eyes: the Moon of the Turning Year shone yellow above them. The disc stood high now and its light struck the Maker's Mountain bright as the sun at noon.

The snowcapped pinnacle glittered, shining pristine. It blazed under the moon's brilliance like a torch defying darkness. Its peak shone as white-hot against the Grannach's eyes as smelting metal, its flanks all lit like white bridal robes: all full of promise.

Racharran said, “Go!”

And Colun ducked his head and took his old friend's hand and said, “Yes; do you command it.”

“I do. Take your people to safety; and can I not join you, watch over my people. Be the Stone Guardians again.”

Colun said, “I will,” and called his folk to him and led them toward the Meeting Ground and the promise.

Morrhyn raised his arms, wide spread, as if he'd em brace the moonlit Mountain. Limned bright now by the Moon of the Turning Year, the pinnacle appeared larger than ever, rising vast and majestic against the sky. It seemed to swell, inflated and enlarged by the moon, climbing the night so that its bulk hid the stars and all the surrounding hills. It seemed that only the Mountain and the moon existed, twin promises of escape, of refuge and salvation. And between those enormities, under them as if quelled by their majesty, there was silence. The light that descended from above and which reflected off the Mountain seemed to leach out all sound. The clamor of the battle faded and the animals fell silent, and none of the waiting People spoke.

Morrhyn began to chant, soft at first but then louder, his voice rising in a shout that echoed over the Meeting Ground, and all the People took it up and raised their voices in unison, in prayer to the Maker that he grant his promise and take them away.

Then it seemed white fire burned about the peak, as if the eternal snow ignited and blazed, a beacon so bright that even the moon was dulled beneath its radiance. Morrhyn fell silent, and the People with him, as if that enormous light stole their voices. But none took their eyes from the Mountain, even as tears formed and it seemed they must be blinded.

So all saw the beacon swell and from it come a great arcing ray of
brilliance that fell on the Meeting Ground and all the people there. Shadows flung long, and men and women clutched one another in hope and fear. It was if a gate opened where no gate could be, nor any opening that men understood, for it was an opening in the very fabric of existence, as if within the light the air itself was rent, exposing a wide hole—at first black within the radiance, but then clearer, so that through it they saw…

 … Another land: a new and promised land where mountains rose under a sky of pure blue and the grass stretched out lush, and clean rivers ran. It was at first as if the gate afforded such a view as an eagle might own, high and wide. But then that vista hurtled closer, as if the eagle stooped, and through the gate they saw the grass as if it were but a few short steps away, and they needed only pace out that distance to be there.

None moved. The light burned from off the Maker's Mountain, and at the center of the Meeting Ground the gate stood, white light arching over the earth of Ket-Ta-Witko, over the soil of the new land beyond.

Sound returned: the dreadful roaring of the Breakers' beasts and the clatter of steel, the shouts and screams that spoke of dying.

Morrhyn shouted, “Go! Go through!”

But still none moved, only stood awed.

Morrhyn took Lhyn's shoulder and pushed her forward. “Go!”

She shook her head.

“The Maker fulfills his promise!” He shouted into her face. “Shall you ignore it now?”

Again she shook her head and softly said, “Let yours be the first foot to tread that place.”

“I cannot.” He let go her shoulder. “I must wait here for the last to come.”

She said, “Then I'll wait with you.”

He looked to Arrhyna, but she in turn shook her head and said, “I go with Rannach.”

He turned about. All around, faces paled and stark in the brilliance stared at the gate. A horse stamped and whickered as if impatient with the awestruck People. Almost, Morrhyn cursed them for their reticence, fearing their reverence should delay them and even now see them fall victim to the approaching Breakers.