Exile's Challenge (59 page)

It was not anything he could put into words—only a certainty, a conviction he could not explain but must obey. He sat erect, sleep sloughing off as he stared around.

“Turn in!”

“What?”

Abram Jaymes looked back from his oars so that the dinghy wallowed in midstream. Var grunted and set firmer hands on the tiller; Arcole stirred, clutching at his musket.

“Turn in!” Davyd gestured wildly at the north bank. “Here; now!”

“Why, for Godsakes?” Jaymes demanded. “We're not more'n a couple days from Grostheim. Why here; why now?”

“Turn in!”

Jaymes stared at him awhile then shrugged, motioning that Var bring the tiller over. Var obeyed, but as he did, Davyd saw his expression: such as he might bestow on a madman.

Perhaps I am, he thought, save I … 
know

“What's going on?” Arcole woke, coming upright with his musket cocked and raised to his chest. “Are we attacked?”

“No.” Jaymes spat a long streamer of tobacco over the river. “Davyd says we have to beach.”

“Why?” Arcole, in turn, stared at Davyd.

Maker, grant I'm right; please.

He swallowed, which was difficult with a mouth so dry. “We must,” he said. “I can't explain, but we must.”

“There's nothin' here,” Jaymes said. “No holdings, only open land.”

Davyd rubbed at his temples. “There's a valley,” he said. “A wide valley with timber along the ridges.”

“An' a stream along the bottomland that gets real marshy when it rains,” Jaymes said. “Sure; it's about two days' walk from here, but what of it?”

“It shall happen there,” Davyd said.

“What shall happen?” Arcole demanded.

“The last battle. I have to go there.”

They all stared at him as the dinghy grounded on a stretch of sandy shore overhung with low-branched alders. He clambered wearily over the bow and held the little craft as Jaymes sprang into the water and manhandled the boat farther up the sand. He felt exhausted, and his old wounds throbbed as if in recognition. Arcole and Var jumped into the river to aid Jaymes. Water birds screeched a protest and splashed away. He looked at the river, rippled by starlight, silvery under the moon's glow. It was, as best he judged by the moon's position, close on midnight.

“Two days?”

Jaymes nodded. “If it's the valley I'm thinkin' of. But what're you goin' to do?”

“Go there.” He shrugged. “I don't know.”

Arcole said, “I shall come with you.”

“You don't need to. I can go alone.”

“And die?” Arcole shook his head.

“All right.” Davyd looked at Jaymes, at Var. “But not you—you go on to Grostheim.”

“And?” Jaymes asked.

“Raise this army you spoke of,” Davyd said, not sure where the words came from, only that he must say them else the world fall down under the Breakers. “Bring all the folk you can to this valley. Armed for battle. Find us there, and so shall the People.”

“And then?” Var asked.

“And then,” Davyd said, “we shall either defeat the Breakers or die.”

There was a silence before Tomas Var said, “Do you forget Jared Talle?”

“No; he's there already.” Davyd shook his head as Var's
eyes framed a question. “I don't know how I know, but I do. He's there, waiting.”

“For what?” Var looked at him out of eyes that now wondered.

“The Breakers,” Davyd said. “He'd ally with them.”

“He said as much to me.” Var swallowed. “But would he, truly?”

“Yes.” Davyd looked out at the night, the river. The water flowed like passing time and he felt again the certainty. “He would.”

“Shall he succeed?” Var asked.

“I don't know.” Davyd shrugged. It felt as if he raised a weight with his shoulders, a terrible weight that lay upon the certitude of his abstract knowledge. “Only that we must do what we can to defeat them all.”

“Then we'd best get goin'.” Abram Jaymes glanced at Var, then at Davyd. “It'll take a while to reach Grostheim, an' longer to raise folk—if we can.”

Var said, “I thought you guaranteed that?”

“Against Talle, yes.” Jaymes grinned; in the moon's light his smile looked hollow. “But we're talkin' about a different enemy now.”

Var said, “Shall that stop us?”

“No; let's go.” Jaymes shrugged and turned to Davyd. “Can you find the valley?”

Davyd nodded; the knowledge sat inside his skull like a lodestone pointing him to his destiny.

“Then we'll meet you there soon as we can. Come on, Tomas.”

They shook hands, and then Var and Jaymes manhandled the dinghy clear of the strand and went away downriver. Davyd sighed and took up his musket and began to walk northward.

Arcole fell into step beside, not sure where Davyd led him, or to what; only that he must go.

He wondered if he was to die in Salvation, for it seemed a forlorn hope that the many strands of fate Davyd spoke of should come successfully together. How could the People
find them in time, and even did they, were they enough to defeat the might of the Breakers? And how could Jaymes and Var raise an army of indentured folk to fight such horror? And Flysse was with the Matawaye—would she live? He glanced sidelong at his companion, no longer the gangly boy he'd brought out of Grostheim. Moonlight reflected silvery off Davyd's white hair, and the long scar running down his face shone pale against the tan. He could see that Davyd was mightily weary and guessed the old wounds hurt him, but there was an expression of grim resolve on his face that forbore questions, so Arcole only cradled his musket and went with his friend to meet their destiny.

Almost, their horses collided, but Rannach swung his around at the last moment and brought the bay in a skittering circle to come alongside Arrhyna's. They leant across to embrace. For a moment he held her and kissed her and smelled her hair, and wanted nothing more than to snatch her from the pad saddle and take her to their lodge. But she pushed him away and reached for Debo, taking the child into her arms, and they rode together as around them all the Matawaye warriors shouted their approval and danced their weary mounts in acclamation.

Flysse came up, questions in her blue eyes, and Rannach said, “He lives; and Davyd. They go to that city you came from, to warn the people there.”

“No.” Morrhyn joined them. “Davyd and Arcole go to meet the Breakers and another enemy, and we must hurry.”

Rannach stared at the Prophet, doubt in his eyes. “They were …”

“I know,” Morrhyn said, “but since you left them, Davyd's dreamed of other things. There's a valley …”

“They come.” Jared Talle smiled into the night. “I can smell them. You're ready?”

Jorge Kerik nodded. “As you ordered, Inquisitor. But are you sure?”

Talle frowned, irritated. “Do you doubt me, Captain?”

“No!” Swiftly, Kerik shook his head. “But alone?”

“Not alone,” Talle said with a certain degree of satisfaction. “After all, you shall be with me, and your ten best men.”

Kerik said, “Yes, Inquisitor,” and wished he were safe behind Grostheim's walls. Wished, no less, that he owned the courage to deny this madman, who thought to commune with demons and win them to his side. He doubted that was possible; and knew that he did not dare deny Talle: he had no choice save to obey.

“I shall speak with them,” Talle said, “and convince them to join us—to join with the Autarchy. And then we shall both be hailed heroes, eh?”

Kerik said, “Yes,” wondering if his affirmation sounded as hollow to Talle as it did to him.

“And do they disagree,” Talle said, “then you and your men shall cover my retreat and your horse guns shall destroy them, and again we shall be heroes. Do you not understand, Captain? We cannot fail. After all, what chance can they hold over our modern weaponry? They fight with swords and lances, no? And we have cannon and muskets—and God on our side. We cannot lose!”

Kerik said, “No, Inquisitor, surely not,” and felt sweat run cold down his spine.

Along the ridge dim fires burned, hidden amongst the pines, and he could hear the faint sounds his men made as they waited for the enemy—or the allies. He heard the nickering of restless horses and the mutter of low-voiced conversation. Kerik felt afraid. He thought the Inquisitor insane and could not bring himself to argue with the man. God knew, but they'd surely better waited in Grostheim, behind high walls, where reinforcements might soon come, rather than here. But Jared Talle was the Inquisitor and commander, the highest authority in all Salvation, and Jorge Kerik was not prepared to disagree with a man who might bespell him, or even slay him with a gesture. So he saluted and went to check the positioning of his force.

After the captain had departed, Jared Talle sat warming his hands beside the fire, staring at the western ingress to the
valley. He wore the hex signs on his chest and on his hands, and he was confident that he must survive, no matter the final outcome. That, he anticipated with such enthusiasm as he'd not known since the War of Restitution. He knew the Breakers were powerful—but so was he. God was on his side, and the strength of Kerik's guns, the discipline of the marines. The Breakers possessed great magic, but still they fought like savages, their weapons simple, and did they look to use their magicks against him, why he'd his own for protection.

He studied the arcane sigils decorating his palms and smiled. They'd surely not harm him—and must some of the marines die, that should be a small price to pay in demonstration of the Autarchy's strength. He thought perhaps there should be some fighting, but after a volley or two of cannon, the Breakers must see the impossibility of defeating so mighty a power as the Autarchy—and then they would surely parley. And he could learn so much from them.

He nodded in approval of his own mad reasoning, telling himself that was how it
must
go. There would be an alliance formed: the Breakers and the Autarchy thought too much alike to disagree.

It did not, of course, occur to Talle that he was insane.

“Do you understand any of this?” Tomas Var glanced sidelong at his rowing companion. “For God knows, I don't.”

Abram Jaymes shrugged as best he could while manning an oar and said, “I understand we better get to Grostheim fast as we can an' raise us an army. Then get it back to the valley. I believe in Davyd, eh?”

Var thought awhile, then nodded. “I suppose I do. But how do we bring him aid? Even if Talle's quit the city, he'll have left troops on guard, and they'll not let branded folk march out.”

“Perhaps they'll be persuaded,” Jaymes said.

“Perhaps,” Var allowed, doubt in his voice, “but even so, how do we get back to this valley in time for—what was it Davyd said?—the last battle?”

“We'll find a way,” Jaymes said. “We have to.”

Var sighed and bent to his oar.

Speed was of the essence. Morrhyn felt it in his blood and the marrow of his bones. It was as if the Maker spoke to him in the patterns of the night, and the play of the sun over the grass of this different land. He could smell the Breakers in his nostrils like an evil taint, like the foul spoor of a wolverine, and when he dreamed it was of war and fire, of destruction and conclusion. But the Maker did not vouchsafe him the knowledge of which side the scales should fall on, or of who should prove victorious; he could only hope. And because he was the Prophet, the warriors followed him.

He pushed the war band hard, riding through the dark hours when warriors made camp, refusing them respite until Rannach or Yazte or Colun urged him to halt, pointing out that exhausted horses should be useless in battle. Only then did he allow them or himself to rest, and only a few hours, so that they were mounted and moving before the sun rose, pushing steadily onward, eastward, toward the place he could now see so clearly in his mind.

It was a broad and shallow valley bordered with wooded ridges, and he
knew
that it was more than just a valley where a battle might take place. It was the melting pot of worlds, of the future. He could, even without dreaming, sense Davyd coming ever closer to that place, as if destiny throbbed in the air, and he knew he must make haste—that the Breakers not go by the valley.

“Even do we find it, what can we do?” Arcole sat across the fire, frowning less in confusion than concern for Davyd. “Just the two of us, what can we do?”

Davyd looked up from his contemplation of the flames. His hair shone white under the moon and his face was hollow. He looked mightily weary, and at the same time exhilarated. “I don't know,” he said. “Only that we must be there—get there as fast we can.” He shrugged. “I'm sorry, Arcole, I truly cannot explain it better. I only
know
.”

“Well, you're the Dreamer.” Arcole shrugged back. “Do you say it, then we'll attempt it.”