Exile's Challenge (15 page)

Var thought of the meal they'd just eaten and felt his patience dissipate. “What of the demons? What if they come again? Shall there be a harvest then? Or shall they conquer your?”

He saw Spelt's face pale at that, the frown deepening. But still the man argued: “The farmers will object.”

“And shall you tell Inquisitor Talle that, Major? That he's not to have horses for fear you'll not have bread to eat?”

Spelt's face flushed—God, but mention of the Inquisitor elicited fear—almost, Var felt embarrassed; almost, but not quite. It was akin, he thought, to bringing in the threat of heavy artillery. And it worked: Spelt nodded sullenly and asked, “What would you have me do?”

“I'd have at least one hundred sound horses,” Var said, “as soon as possible. More, if you can find them.”

“Aught else?” Sullenly.

“How far's the closest farm large enough to provision my full force?” Angry now, Var could not resist adding, “Remember that most shall be on foot.”

Spelt blushed and said, “On foot? Five days; thirteen more to the next.”

“Then,” Var said calmly, “we shall need provisions for five days at the least.”

Spelt nodded, no less sullenly than before. “What else?”

“My inspection,” Var answered. “The Inquisitor would have me check your defenses.”

Spelt scowled. “Which shall I do? Find you your horses, or take you around my walls?”

“I think,” Var said, “that a junior officer might show me the walls. Why do you not see to the horses? Doubtless the farmers shall take it better from you.”

Spelt's scowl deepened, but he nodded, and Var marveled again at the power invested in mere mention of Jared Talle's name.

“I'm speaking out of turn, of course, but …” Lieutenant Jolyon Minns hesitated, glancing nervously toward Var, who leant against the northern wall, surveying his command's bivouac and the burned structures layered like discarded waste along the river's bank beyond. Var nodded, indicating that he go on. “… Well, it took us all by surprise. No one ever thought Salvation was aught but empty, and us the only folk here. Then there came the attacks, and farmers coming in
frightened, and patrols going missing. And then Danyael Corm came back, and not long after the siege began. It scared the governor, I can tell you; and Major Spelt. You'll not repeat this, eh?”

“On my word.” Var shook his head.

“It was devilish hard.” Jolyon chuckled grimly at his pun. “The demons sieged us fierce, I can tell you. Winter was on afore they quit, and scarce little harvest brought in for fear of their attacks. Nor the hunters going out, so it was a hungry time.”

“Major Spelt said you ate horses and dogs.”

“We did.” The lieutenant nodded solemnly. “But worse than that—God, I've no objection to eating horsemeat. Why not? How's it different to beef or sheep, save we ride them?—it was like …” He broke off, shaking his head, nervous again.

Var said, “Go on.”

“It was like,” Minns said, “neither the major or the governor could believe it was happening—that they were attacked, that Grostheim was besieged. I think …” He shook his head, shamefaced.

“What do you think?” Var asked. And thought to add, “This shall go no farther.”

“That they gave up,” said the lieutenant. “That they drew back to Grostheim and left the rest of Salvation to the demons. And waited for you to come.”

“Are they so terrible then,” Var asked, “these demons?”

Minns ducked his head. “Yes! I thank God you've come, you and the Inquisitor. You'll drive them out, no?”

Var nodded. “Such are my orders, and I shall do my best to execute them. Now, do you show me the rest of these walls?”

They went on, past burned sections patched with innocent timber and places entirely new, the signs of attack left like old scars, memories of battle. But most was sound, and all the guns were in place, so that it seemed to Var the city had suffered no more than such siege as he had witnessed in the War of Restitution. Save then he had fought against men, knowing them men, and here it was clear they believed demons had come against them.

He concluded his inspection and went to find Jared Talle.

The Inquisitor was in the church, aided by a nervous and subservient vicar, busy mixing his hexing potions. A succession of Wyme's servants were delivering him those items he needed, such as paint and herbs, chickens' blood, the livers and bladders of certain animals, the spleen and claws and eyeballs of others. The brew seethed in its cauldron atop the altar, noxious, Talle's arms colored with the stuff, his hair lank about his downturned face, dripping. Var had witnessed Inquisitors at work during the War of Restitution, and for all he had benefited from their power, he could never like it much. It seemed to him a thing, delivered from God's dark side, that frail men might conjure occult strength where honest force of arms and purpose not prevail. But he was an officer of the God's Militia, and Jared Talle his commander, so he clenched his nostrils against the fulsome stink and delivered his report.

And Talle said, “Well done. How long shall it take Spelt to find us our horses?”

“I cannot say for sure.” Var shrugged. “He'll bring them from the southern holdings, I'd think.”

“Well enough.” Talle drew his arms from the cauldron. He had shucked off his coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to his thin shoulders. His arms were all red; he wiped them, depositing gory drips back into the steaming hex mixture. “You've checked Wyme's maps?”

“Not yet.” Var shook his head.

“Then do it now.” Talle wiped his hands across his shirt, coloring his chest. “He's skulking in his mansion, I think.”

Wyme was, and Var was embarrassed afresh. He found the governor in his study, the windows open now, loosing the stale odors of tobacco and brandy and sweat. Wyme sat with a pipe in hand, a glass at his elbow, wearing a harried look that fused with concern and indignation as Var entered.

“I understand you ordered Major Spelt to find you horses.”

Var doffed his tricorne, bowing slightly. “I
requested
that
Major Spelt obtain us animals for our campaign, Governor. Also such supplies as we shall need for the first few days.”

“Difficult, difficult.” Wyme shook his head. “Alyx told you most were eaten?”

“He did.” Var sat uninvited. “But am I to progress against the demons, I've need of animals. Surely you understand that?”

“Of course; yes.” Wyme smiled around his pipe, unctuously, reached for his glass. “But … how can I put this? Major Var, you are only recently promoted to major, and have seen Salvation but the one time. Can you truly understand our situation here?”

Var answered honestly: “No.”

“And yet,” Wyme said, “you come with Inquisitor Talle to … what? Usurp my position; Major Spelt's. To
command
us, to
bend
us to your will. As if we know nothing of this country.”

“Governor,” Var said, recommending himself to patience, “I am come here under orders of the Autarchy to exterminate your demons. Yes: I know nothing of Salvation, but I come at your request—as does the Inquisitor—and we are, all of us, bound by our orders. I'd not usurp Major Spelt or you: I only obey.”

“And the Inquisitor?” Wyme asked.

Loyally, but doubting of his words, Var said, “Inquisitor Talle is servant of Evander—of the Autarchy. I doubt he wants your seat, only to rid you of your demons.”

It was poor excuse, but sufficient for a desperate man. Wyme clutched it to him and accepted it, and offered Var brandy—which was refused—and then took out all his maps, which Var perused at length. After a while, because some hook of memory tugged at his mind, he asked, “The branded man—Arcole Blayke?—is he still with you?”

Wyme shook his head. “Him? No, he ran away, God damn him! He murdered my majordomo then fled with his doxy.” He puffed harder on his pipe, expelling smoke in angry gusts at the memory. “Him and his doxy and a boy indentured to Trader Gahame. They fled when the demons attacked, and God willing, the demons slew them.”

Var nodded, memories flooding back: but old and of another
time. Arcole Blayke and the woman—what was her name … Flysse? And the boy … Davyd? He shook his head, dismissing them. Had they escaped under such attack as Wyme and Spelt described then they were surely dead. He wondered why he regretted that.

He asked politely, “May I take these maps, Governor?”

Wyme nodded, and Var took the charts to his chamber and set to studying them: planning his line of march, where he should deposit recalcitrant farmers, where establish forts, what troops to leave there, and how many guns. And all the time, like a nagging bee buzzing remorseless around his head, he wondered if Arcole Blayke still lived; because he could not—somehow—believe the branded man had died. Somehow that seemed impossible, as if hope and belief were taken away.

But Tomas Var could not properly understand that, and so he only went about his duties, and readied for the great expedition against the hostile demons.

“Dammit, you can't force us!”

The speaker was a tall man, broad of shoulder and chest, his beard dense and red as a fox's brush, matching the angry color in his cheeks. His name was Niklaus Corwyn, and it seemed he was elected spokesman for the refugees. He stood a pace or two ahead of the crowd filling the square, glowering up at the dais where Inquisitor Talle stood, Governor Wyme was seated beside, Var and Spelt standing behind.

Talle said “No?” in a soft, almost mocking voice.

Corwyn shook his head vigorously. “Inquisitor you may be, and do you drive the demons out, then I'll be the first to bend my knee in thanks. But that first! Rid us of the demons, and then we'll go home.” Dramatically, he flourished Talle's proclamation, crumpling the paper between large hands and flinging it to the ground. “Eh, neighbors?”

The crowd behind him—all the dispossessed, the refugees—shouted their agreement. Corwyn waited for the hubbub to die away, then: “You see? We're of one mind. Drive out the demons and then we'll go back. Not before!”

Var watched the Inquisitor take a step forward and then looked past him, out over the throng to the Militiamen ringing the square. They stood to attention, bayonets affixed to their upright muskets. Most of the refugees were armed—with pistols and swords, if not heavier weapons—and Var prayed earnestly that Talle not provoke a riot: that must inevitably end in bloodshed. God, he thought, when I was given this duty I believed we came to help these people, and they'd be grateful, but they look at us as if
we
are the enemy. And Talle does nothing but exacerbate their feelings.

He glanced sidelong at Spelt, wondering if the major's impassive features hid a triumphant smile, as if he relished these objections to Talle's diktat. He's no better than Talle, he thought. Him and Wyme, they all look for petty advantages, personal gains, when the fate of Salvation stands balanced and Evander might lose all this new world.

The long days of waiting for Spelt's men to gather his horses had allowed Var to form a clearer picture of the situation. From the maps he had studied, he had learned that most of the northwestern quadrant stood deserted, and from Wyme's tally books he knew Grostheim could not survive the year without the farms being tenanted again. From careful conversations with the refugees he had realized that a paralyzing fear gripped them, blinding them to the truth that they should starve did they remain, deafening them to persuasion. And Lieutenant Minns had been right: Wyme and Spelt looked only to hang on, to survive until Evander—in the form of Inquisitor Talle and Var's small army—salvaged them.

Grostheim, he had seen, was secure as any city; more, now that Talle had painted his hex signs on the walls and gates. But even so, for all they looked to be rescued, still both governor and garrison commander resented the authority imposed on them. What had they expected? Var wondered, and felt contempt at their petty jealousy.

He longed to be gone from this miserable city. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and he had no time for these games. He was ready to leave. The horses were gathered and his men prepared to march; they were—grudgingly—supplied. He had secured the services of a hunter, one Abram Jaymes, who claimed to know the wilderness edge better than most. Young Minns—Var had come to trust his opinion—vouched for the man. Talle's proclamation had been posted, asking (Var's touch, that: the Inquisitor would have
ordered
) that the refugees present themselves in the square, preparatory to departure.

Spelt had suggested that they be gathered by Var's marines—they'd have the greater authority, he claimed—and Var had smelled a trap in that. He'd seen the proclamations torn down and tossed into the dirt, and knew the mood of the refugees, so he'd smiled and countered with the suggestion
that surely Major Spelt's Militiamen represented authority in Grostheim, and therefore it were better
they
insure the refugees attend.

Perhaps, he had thought as he smiled and spoke softly, I do learn to be a diplomat. But God knows, I don't like it.

He brought his eyes back to Jared Talle. The Inquisitor stood on the edge of the platform now, head thrust forward to stare into Corwyn's eyes. Var could only see his back, but he could imagine how those eyes looked, and did not envy Corwyn.

He heard, very clearly, what Talle said. It was as if the Inquisitor's voice were a cold wind icing its way through the heat of the summer day. He did not speak loud, but nonetheless it carried out to all the refugees and the soldiers beyond them. Var thought that perhaps even the guards along the catwalks heard it, for it was like steel in flesh: undeniable and remorseless.

“This land is ours.
Ours!
It belongs to the Autarchy and Evander. It
belongs
to you, and to me—because we are Evanderan! Can you not understand that? Have you no pride, no care? Would you give it up to savages? Leave it to them?”