Exile's Children (90 page)

“Who's the master?” Arcole shouted.

“Sieur Bayliss,” came the reply. “Him and the mistress quit the
holding weeks back. Told us to hang on, he did. Said he'd have soldiers come to bring us in.”

“Grostheim was under siege when we … departed,” Arcole called. “I know nothing of this Bayliss.”

The man gaped. He turned to his companions, an expression of bewilderment on his bearded face. A younger fellow pushed to the fore and shouted, “You're exiles, no? Indentured folk like us?”

“Exiles, yes,” Arcole called back. “But no longer indentured. We chose to quit our … employment. We're headed west.”

The young man turned slowly in that direction, staring at the distant shadow of the forests as if he struggled to comprehend Arcole's words.

“You're runaways? You're going into the wilderness?”

“To live free,” Arcole returned.

“And you don't bring help?”

“I fear not.”

“The masters'll hunt you down.” The older man spoke again, goggling now, as if their presence might somehow contaminate him. “The governor'll send Militiamen after you.”

“The Militiamen are otherwise occupied,” Arcole gave back. “Or were when we left. The demons came in force against the city, and I doubt we'll be missed.”

“No soldiers,” a woman cried. “No help. Oh, God, we're done for.”

The young man said, “You've a boat.”

“A very small boat,” Arcole said. “Barely large enough for us three. Surely too small for ten people, or even seven. Besides, you're safer here than in Grostheim.”

The young man looked set to argue, but the older put a hand on his arm and said, “He's right, Gerold. We'd swamp that little thing. And if he speaks the truth about Grostheim …”

“He does,” Flysse called. “The demons are all around the city—we fled in the confusion.”

“The what shall we do?” asked the oldster.

Arcole said, “You've not yet been attacked?”

“Not yet,” came the answer in a tone of despair.

“Did Bayliss leave you weapons?” Arcole asked.

The man frowned as if the question were nonsensical and shook his head. “We're indentured folk, not allowed weapons.” He touched his brand to emphasize his words. “The master took all the muskets and pistols with him.”

Arcole said, “A kindly master, eh?” in a tone of contempt.

The young man said, “You've guns.”

“Only these,” Arcole replied. “Which we shall need, I think.”

Gerold hefted the ax he carried; Davyd raised his musket across his chest. Surely it could not come to a fight? His dream had suggested no danger. He caught Gerold's eye and for a moment they stared at each other, then the ax was lowered and Gerold muttered, “God, does it come to this? We all wear the brand, no? Shall we fight one another?”

Davyd said, “I'd not.”

Arcole said, “It's the masters to blame—the Autarchy of Evander. They use folk like us as they will, but when danger threatens—then they run, looking only to save their own skins.”

Gerold said, “That's true, but of little comfort. What's to become of us?”

“Have the demons not yet attacked this farm,” Arcole said, “then perhaps they never will. You may be safe here; surely safer than did you try for Grostheim.”

Gerold spat and said, “So we're to remain; tend the master's herds and fields while he hides behind the city walls. And then, does he return?”

Arcole said, “You might keep the place for your own. Or you could follow us into the forests.”

“The wilderness?” Gerold shook his head vigorously, spitting and crossing his fingers. “That's where the demons come from, no? I'll not go there.”

“Nor I,” agreed the oldster. “Nor any of us. But, friend, might you not stay? We'd stand a better chance with your muskets.”

“Would you fight the Autarchy?” Arcole asked. “When Bayliss comes back—if he does—would you claim this farm for your own?”

It was as if he suggested some great obscenity. The old man stood with dropped jaw, and Gerold stared at Arcole as if he were crazed. The others shook their heads and voiced denial.

“Then what of us?” Arcole pressed. “You ask us to stay—to risk our lives, perhaps, in your defense. But when Bayliss returns, you'd welcome him—and hand us over?”

Gerold, at least, had the grace to blush. The old man shrugged and said, “That's the way of the world, no? The masters rule and we serve. What else can we do?”

Arcole said, “Save you've the courage to stand up for yourselves, nothing. But we go west, to freedom.”

“More like to your deaths,” the old man grunted.

“Perhaps.” Arcole smiled. “But is that our fate, we'll die free.”

“At least rest here awhile,” the old man suggested. “We've food aplenty.”

Arcole shook his head. “I think not. The day's young yet, and we've a way to travel. Fare you well.”

He wasted no more time, but set to propelling the dinghy out into the stream, away from the dock. The exiles stood watching, their expressions hopeless.

“Might we not have stayed?” Flysse asked.

“Why?” Arcole returned. “There's nothing for us there, save likely they'd seek to take our guns. And should Bayliss come home, hand us over.”

“Think you they would?” she asked. “Truly?”

Arcole nodded. “Those were defeated folk. They've accepted their lot—Evander's beaten them down.”

From the bow, Davyd said, “I was afraid that Gerold was going to attack us. I feared I'd have to shoot.”

“I didn't,” Arcole replied calmly. “I trusted your dream.”

Davyd pondered that awhile, then grinned. “Yes,” he said. “I dreamed true, no?”

“You did,” said Arcole. “You did, indeed.”

They floated on, the days steadily warmer as spring gave way to summer, pulling to midstream where Arcole's map showed holdings—they none of them felt any desire to repeat their sad encouter with the hapless folk of the Bayliss holding. When their food ran low, Arcole shot—he could not think of it as hunting—a cow or a hog from the herds now roaming loose over the empty farmlands. Flysse demonstrated her rustic skills, filling the canteens with fresh milk, or finding vegetables to supplement the meat. Twice, she brought them eggs.

Davyd tried his hand with the fishing lines, but had no luck, and Arcole would not yet permit him to fire the musket for fear of wasting shot. Had he not dreamed, he would have felt useless; but the dreams came often now, and he grew more adept in their interpretation. It seemed that his ability increased as they drew closer to the wilderness.

Three times he warned against the danger of landing, and they duly saw demons on the shore, pushing on until night hid them and they deemed it safe to beach the dinghy. Three more times he urged they hold to midstream, and demons appeared along the bank, pacing the boat until the terrain or the sweeps of the river denied them further pursuit. And all the time the shadow line of the forests grew more distinct, no longer a faraway goal, but daily more real. The wilderness began to assume a looming physical presence, and Davyd spent more
and more time each day scanning its nearing edges, seeking to find the mountains beyond.

When his surveillance was rewarded, he doubted the evidence his eyes gave him. Ahead, it was as though a vast brush had painted a line of darkness across the horizon. The pale, bright green of the grasslands gave way to darker hues, green and blue and black: the wilderness forest. That enormous swath was wide enough, but it in turn was dwarfed by what stood beyond and above. It seemed the forests climbed to meet the sky, save a wall of stone stood above the timber as if supporting the heavens. He could scarcely believe anything so massive existed in all the world as those great peaks. They ran as far as he could see to north and south, cloud shrouding the summits, their flanks all blue and gray above the green darkness of the treeline, sparkling white higher up. He thought that if safety lay there, it should be certainly very hard to find, for he could not envisage how anyone might climb such a barrier.

But on more nights than one, it was if a voice whispered from the mountains, calling him, summoning him to them. He could not understand it, but he believed—in his blood and the marrow of his bones—that he must go there, must bring Flysse and Arcole to that refuge. That he must play his part of Dream Guide.

As the forests loomed ever closer, so the signs of habitation fell away. Arcole's map showed no more holdings, and the animals grazing the riverside pastures thinned. They held a council and decided to rest awhile, long enough that Flysse might smoke meat for them to carry with them. Arcole was loath to chance the forest's hunting: he feared all their shot might be needed against more savage creatures, and indeed Davyd's dreams now suggested great peril lay ahead. It was as if they must pass a test of some kind before they could hope to gain the promised sanctuary, and often as he dreamed of the mountains and safety, he dreamed of fire and demons. But did he wake sweating, gripped by remembered terror, still there was a boon to the delay. Arcole taught him and Flysse to use their weapons, and began to teach Davyd the rudiments of swordplay.

The lessons were, of necessity, sparse, the use of powder and shot limited, but the basics were conveyed and afforded them both a small sense of security. Davyd thought that at least, did the demons fall on them, they might now give a fair account of themselves. Even so, as nightly he dreamed of threat, he longed to be gone. To face whatever lay ahead must surely be better than this waiting. He felt only relief when Flysse announced their supplies ready, and Arcole declared it time to go.

Timber flanked the Restitution now, and the current grew daily stronger. The banks narrowed, rocks began to show, and when the first cascade appeared, Arcole declared it time to leave the dinghy and proceed on foot.

It was strange to walk again; stranger still that their way wound amongst vast trees, branches spreading wide and leafy overhead so that the sky was more often than not hidden and they marched in shadow dappled with harlequin patterns of filtered sunlight. Birds sang but were seldom seen, and startled beasts—deer and boars and bears—surprised them, fleeing half glimpsed from their approach. They none of them felt at ease. They had Davyd's dreams to set their nerves on edge, their ears straining to discern the unfamiliar forest sounds, their eyes scanning the crepuscular woods. They momentarily anticipated the onslaught of demons, coming screaming out of the trees.

Arcole took the lead, Davyd the rear, and they followed the river because it led them westward toward the mountains, and that was the direction Davyd's dreams told them to go. It was hard traveling, for the land soon rose, the river tumbling down over steep falls or cutting a way through rocky gorges, the banks often impossible to traverse, so that they must meander deeper into the forest and trust their ears to tell them where the water ran. But westward, always westward, the tree-shaded sun on their backs in the mornings. on their faces come the afternoons.

And did Arcole head their little column, it was Davyd who guided them now.

The content of the dreams still frightened him, but he was at peace with the ability. Indeed, he was proud of his role as Dream Guide and grew daily more confident. When he urged caution, Arcole listened, and Flysse studied him with wide and wondering eyes. Davyd could not help luxuriating in her admiration any more than he could resist the pleasure he felt at Arcole's trust, but it was easier to resist his guilty thoughts under the burden of responsibility. When he took his turn on guard and images of Flysse came hot into his mid, he pushed them away—there was too much danger here to allow such distractions. And when he slept, it was not Flysse who invaded his dreams, but images of demons and peril, and the sense of a hazardous maze to be traversed before they might reach safety.

That remained a promise. When he dreamed of flight from yelling monsters or of raging flames, there was always, behind the nightmare images, that vision of the mountains, and the sense of a cool wind, protective against the fire. He could still neither explain nor understand it, only
know
that sanctuary lay ahead. He thought the wilderness changed him; surely, he felt, he was no longer a frightened boy looking to Arcole for protection, but now a man. He thought, even, that he felt hair on his chin, and was proud of that.

Four days into the forest he dreamed that they should hide, and consequently they passed the next day huddled in a cave beside a waterfall. Arcole, spying from the rimrock, advised that a band of some twenty or more demons went east along their backtrail. The following morning Davyd announced it was safe to continue, and they clambered cold and damp from their hiding place.

Soon after that he urged they detour, away from the river, and Arcole agreed without demur, even thought the going was hard and they neither saw nor heard demons.

One night he forbade them a fire. It had rained that day and they were soaked, but still Arcole concurred and they found a place where pines had toppled, one bringing down another across a shallow bowl, roofing the hollow so that it was hidden from casual sight: had Davyd not dreamed of such a place, they would not have found it. They gathered deadfall branches, constructing a shelter that was as much camouflage as protection against the night's cold, and leant against one another for warmth. Arcole and Davyd sat to either side of Flysse, close, and it was impossible for Davyd to ignore her proximity until voices sounded soft through the darkness.

Then he only held his musket tight and ransacked his memory for precise recollection of the dream that had warned against a fire.

It had been a jumbled affair, of savage hunters and cowering prey, and his only certainty was that they must not risk discovery. He clenched his jaw then, for his teeth threatened to chatter, and he could not tell if that was the cold or the chill of the dreadful fear that gripped him. He turned his head and saw Flysse's face a pale shape in the gloom. Almost, he took her hand, but then he saw she clutched at Arcole's arm and envied his friend that touch. He had thought such impulses banished: he turned his eyes away and cursed silently, not sure whether he cursed Arcole or himself.