Exile's Challenge (31 page)

The day was warm, but Arcole felt cold as they rode the chuckling streambed. Light clambered down through the overhanging branches, dappling the water with intricate patterns of harlequin brightness and shadow that were disrupted and swirled by the hooves as if the three riders shattered some delicate balance. The wood seemed very still; there
seemed an absence of birdsong, of squirrel's chattering, as if the hurst waited. Arcole felt sweat run down his face and back and did not notice it ran there cold.

Then they came to a clearing and Rannach was off his horse in a single bound, Tekah not much slower behind. Arcole eased off the musket's hammer and followed them, his eyes wide as he stared at Davyd.

The boy—no, he told himself, the man—lay naked beside the scattered ashes of another long-dead fire. He clutched a length of broken branch in his hands, the shorter end all splintered and chewed. Not far from him lay the owner of the farther end—jammed hard between the jaws of the wolverine, the sharpened tip extending from the beast's neck.

Arcole started as Tekah's arrow thudded into the predator.

Rannach said, “It's dead. The Maker alone knows how, but he slew it.” His voice was filled with awe.

Arcole dropped to his knees, setting his musket aside as he cradled Davyd's head, close to weeping at sight of the wounds decorating the starveling body.

Deep gouges all clotted with dried blood scored Davyd's chest and belly; parallel lines of old crimson sliced one cheek, and his hair was gone white as Morrhyn's. Arcole thought him dead until he heard the faint—God, so very faint!—exhalation of breath coming from the mouth, and saw the slight rise and fall of the thin ribs. He thought, Thank You, Maker. Now let him live, eh?

And started again as Rannach said, “Hold him. Those wounds need cleansing.”

The Commacht spilled water over Davyd's chest and set to cleaning the terrible gouges, speaking the while.

“Tekah, find moss, then get a fire started. He'll need food, broth. And a shelter. We need to keep him warm. Maker, but I don't know how he's survived.”

Tekah said, “He slew the wolverine,” in a voice no less awed than Rannach's, and got back the answer: “Yes! And now we must do our part. Go!”

Arcole held his comrade and watched as Rannach bathed the wounds and set the healing moss over the incisions.

“Shall he live?”

“The Maker willing.” Rannach did not look up from his
work. “He's near starved, and sore hurt. But … yes, I believe he'll live. I believe the Maker's set His mark on him, and so he
must
live.”

“Like Morrhyn?” Arcole stared at Davyd's hair, the bright red all gone now, like a poppy field lost under snow.

Rannach said, “Yes, like Morrhyn. I think the Maker's bound them both to His purpose.”

Arcole stroked Davyd's new-white hair and felt a pang of terrible sorrow.

It was strange, he thought, to be dead, but far better than the agony. He had not often wondered about the afterlife, or even if there was one, but when he felt the wolverine's talons clutch out his life and smelled the animal's breath in his nostrils, he had been anxious of the pain. And there had been none, or only briefly: only a descent into a comfortable darkness that smothered and took away the suffering.

He wanted to stay there, in the darkness, and could not understand what raised him from it, or why. He did not want to suffer any more, and so he cried out in protest.

He felt liquid spill down his chest that he supposed must be his blood, and thought that it was not over and that he still fought the beast, so he struggled, thinking that the Maker tested him past endurance. He wished it be not so, but Morrhyn had explained to him something of the Maker's ways and so he rose to the fight, not wishing to let down Morrhyn or the Maker or himself.

And heard a voice he remembered from some other time when he had lived say, “Davyd! In God's name, boy!”

He said inside his darkness, “Arcole? Are you dead, too?”

And got back, “No! Nor you. You live; now drink this damn broth.”

It was hard to open his eyes. Harder still to turn his head because that movement stretched out cords of pain that ran from his face to his chest and beyond, all through him. But he did, and consequently saw the glow of a dim fire that outlined the familiar visage.

He said “Arcole?” again.

And Arcole said, “Yes! And you live. Rannach and Tekah wait outside.”

“Where am I?”

“In the wood, damn you. Where else?”

Arcole sounded very happy, and at the same time very concerned.

“The wolverine?”

“You slew it. They—Rannach and Tekah—say no man has faced a wolverine alone before and lived.”

Davyd said, “I don't think I did. I think the Maker was with me.” And began to laugh, which set him to coughing—which hurt so horribly that he began to choke. Arcole held him tight and slapped his back—gently—and then the light grew brighter because a lodgeflap was opened and Rannach and Tekah came inside the shelter and began to laugh and express their wonder at what he had done.

To which he replied, as he had told Arcole, “It was not me, I think, but the Maker.”

Which for some reason set them to laughing the more, so that he could not help but join in, which hurt him and tired him, and he was pleased when they announced he had best sleep again and left him to sink into the easy darkness with only Arcole at his side.

“He should be dead.” Rannach's voice was somber and awed at the same time. “The Maker knows, but he was starving before the fight. And to face a wolverine with but a sharpened branch …”

Tekah nodded, the fire's light dancing over his features, settling planes of shadow across his cheeks, beneath his troubled eyes. “And his hair? Like Morrhyn's …”

Rannach nodded in turn. “Yes; after he came down from the mountain.”

“There's no mountain here.” Tekah stared into the flames.

“Even so, the Maker has surely touched him.” Rannach shrugged. “Morrhyn can likely explain it when we get him back.”

“When shall that be,” Tekah asked, “with such wounds?”

Rannach shrugged again. “Surely not soon, save the Maker heals him faster than mortal man.”

Tekah said, “He did Morrhyn,” and Rannach ducked his head in solemn agreement.

Fire played over his skin even as ice water filled his veins. It seemed that flames danced under his shuttered eyelids, and when he forced them open there was the same intricacy of light and shadow, transfiguring the faces that leant toward him and spilled warm broth between his lips, so that he could not discern between Arcole and Rannach and Tekah, not even when they spoke, for their voices seemed to come from far away, echoing down great distances as if they spoke from out of some land other than the territory he inhabited. He wondered if this was a last temptation: that he was shown the chance of survival, distant, that he know fully what he lost.

And then, without sense of time or place, his eyes opened clear and he saw that he lay within the confines of his rebuilt sweat lodge, and that a fire burned in the makeshift hearth and Rannach sat beside him, chin on chest, dozing.

He said “Rannach?” and the Commacht akaman started upright and was instantly alert, bringing a clay mug filled with cool stream water to Davyd's lips.

Davyd drank deep and looked around, seeing sunlight filtering past the edges of the lodgeflap. He said, “I'd go outside.”

Rannach frowned. “You're weak yet.”

“I'd go outside,” he repeated. “I want the sunshine on my face. And then I must go home to speak with Morrhyn of my dreams.”

He did not wait on Rannach's answer, but rather pushed up to a sitting position and thrust the blankets that covered him aside, so that Rannach had no choice save to support him and help him stumble out from the lodge.

The light was very bright after the shadowy interior, and he narrowed his eyes against the glare that dizzied him and set his head to spinning. Nor could he deny his weakness as his legs faltered, and he must lean on the strength of Rannach's arm lest he pitch over. He saw Arcole and Tekah rise
from where they sat beside a fire and come toward him with amazement on their faces, joy in their eyes, and he was surprised that the smell of the fish baking over the flames made him hungry.

They brought him to the fire like an old man—an ancient tottery with years, or a weakling babe, one of the Defenseless Ones—and set him gently down. Tekah laid a blanket about his shoulders, and Rannach produced a knife and set to flaking a fish as Arcole held him upright.

“I'm stronger,” he said, “and I must go home.”

They exchanged glances. Rannach said, “Yes; soon.”

He said, “I must speak with Morrhyn,” and turned his head to study them each in turn. “There were dreams.”

“Listen, Davyd.” Arcole still held him and he thought that he might not be able to remain upright save for that arm about his shoulders. “You've taken sore wounds. You need to rest.”

“I must go home,” he repeated. “I must speak with Morrhyn.”

Arcole said, “You'd not last a day horseback. God, boy! Those wounds would split and you'd bleed to death, or …”

He shook his head in frustration as Davyd raised a weakly hand, motioning him to silence. “I
dreamed
, Arcole. Do you not understand that?” He looked to Rannach and Tekah. “Morrhyn was right—I've the talent; and I've
dreamed!
Now, must you bring me back on a travois, then so be it.
But I must go home!
”

Arcole began to speak, to argue, but Rannach set a hand on his arm, staring firm at Davyd. “Morrhyn survived because the Maker kindled his life,” he said. “So that he might bring back word of the Breakers and offer the People salvation. Do you claim the same?”

Davyd hesitated. Then: “I don't know; I am not Morrhyn, but …” He nodded slowly, conviction growing. “Perhaps; and be it so, then the Maker shall keep me alive, no? And do I die, then …” He shrugged.

Rannach looked at Arcole. “I say we build a travois and take him home.”

Tekah nodded. “And I.”

Arcole frowned, sighed, then said, “Tomorrow. Let him, for God's sake, have this day at least to regain his strength.”

Rannach turned to Davyd, his dark eyes framing a question that for a moment Davyd could not understand. Then he realized the akaman waited on his decision as he might have waited on Morrhyn's—which was startling. He said, “Tomorrow, yes.”

They came back to the valley in slow procession, Davyd blanket-swathed on the travois, the fever still on him so that the journey was a thing of jigsawed patterns, of passing in and out of consciousness until familiar voices rang loud all about and familiar faces stared down at him. He recognized Flysse and Arrhyna, Lhyn; then Morrhyn.

Who said, “Quick, bring him to my lodge.”

Davyd said, “I've much to tell you.”

And Morrhyn nodded as if he understood it all, and said, “Yes. But first, those wounds must be dressed.”

“I dreamed,” Davyd said.

And Morrhyn answered, “I know; and in a while you shall tell me.”

Taza experienced a moment of utter panic as he recognized what the People shouted. Mostly it was only Davyd's name, but in amongst the joyful din were such snatches as told him the outlander had survived and was brought home, which he had not believed possible. He wormed through the throng, not close, but near enough that he might catch a glimpse of Davyd's face and marvel at the snow-white hair, and feel the panic mount fresh heights.

The Maker knew but he'd been careful. Davyd's gear he'd scattered through the wood and beyond, trusting that were it ever found the scattering be assumed the work of the wolverine. The buckskin horse he'd led away on a wide circle a full three days before “finding” it and sending the bulk of the search parties off to the north and west, opposite to the wood's direction. He had been confident the raw meat and bloodspoor he'd trailed to Davyd's sweat lodge would bring the wolverine to his rival—nor any less that the beast would kill Davyd.

But now Tekah brandished the skin like a battle trophy and the upstart outlander was back in camp, alive, and Taza could not help but wonder how long it might be before the print was fitted to the hoof and he have questions to answer that must surely condemn him. He wondered if it were not best he find his horse and ride away now, save to where? Were he blamed, then surely the People would come looking for him, find him and bring him back to face judgment. He did not relish facing the circle of the Council, but … He looked again at Davyd's face, the wounds, and made a sudden decision: he'd bluff it out.

He eased back, standing amongst the throng, one small figure in a multitude, and watched as Davyd was taken to Morrhyn's lodge.

Lhyn was foremost amongst those surrounding Davyd. Rannach and Tekah carried the travois, and Arcole walked beside. Flysse took station on the farther side, clutching Davyd's hand and marveling at his gaunt features, the changed color of his hair. She spoke his name, softly, as might a mother murmur the name of a hurt child.

And he smiled at her and said, “Flysse? Don't worry, I can't die now. At least …” He coughed a laugh that clearly pained him. “… not yet.”

Over his shoulder, Morrhyn said, “He'll live. Were he to die, I'd have dreamed it. But even so …” He raised his voice, addressing himself to Arrhyna and Lhyn, who came concerned with Flysse. “Hot water, eh? And clean cloth; needles and thread.”

The two Commacht women strode briskly away and Flysse accompanied the travois to Morrhyn's lodge, where the wakanisha ordered it be set down and Davyd carried inside.

There was insufficient space for all who'd enter and Morrhyn asked that Rannach and Tekah stand sentry outside, hold back the anxious crowd, while only Flysse and Arcole accompany the wounded man into the rawhide shelter. Arrhyna was already there, busy about the fire, a pot set to boiling, her dark eyes flashing anxiously from Davyd's face to Morrhyn's. Then Lhyn came back with needles and gut thread, calm in the face of catastrophe: long used to binding wounds.