Exile's Children (84 page)

None hesitated—only went through as Morrhyn pointed the way and fell thankful into the arms of loved ones and brothers, or simply collapsed onto the grass and wept thanks to the Maker and his Prophet.

Racharran and Chakthi were the last. Them and Dohnse, so that in the confusion he was the only one to see what happened.

They all bore wounds. The pike Dohnse had taken he used as a staff: his breeches hung tattered about his left leg, where claws had scored deep lines that filled his boot with blood, and the sword cut across his shoulder and chest burned like fire. Chakthi's face was blood-masked and he limped on a cut leg. Racharran supported him, for all the Commacht akaman was in no better condition. His shirt was severed crossways over his ribs and flesh flapped loose there, his right arm leaving a trail of droplets, and one eye was swollen shut, blood coursing from the cut to paint his cheek.

The Commacht akaman glanced around, scanning the slopes as best he could to be sure none were left behind.

Chakthi said, “Come, brother, we're the last.”

Racharran said, “You're sure?”

“Yes! There are no more left alive.”

Racharran turned his damaged face to Dohnse and asked him the same question, and Dohnse nodded and said, “I see no others.”

Morrhyn shouted that they come and Racharran turned his head one last time to peer all bloody at the hills. “Then best we go, eh?”

They began to run as best they could toward the light of the promise. Racharran held Chakthi up; Dohnse came after, casting swift glances back over his shoulder.

He saw the first of the great lionbeasts come snarling down through the trees and bushes that footed the hills and shouted a warning. Racharran grunted and forced his legs to faster pace, holding Chakthi's left arm across his shoulders, his right supportive around the Tachyn's waist. Chakthi hobbled beside; Dohnse brought up the rear.

He saw the weirdling beast come charging over the open ground and shouted, “Go on! I'll take it!”

The creature ran slavering and snarling at them, and he marveled at how large it was—big as a horse—and took the pike and grounded the butt, shouting his defiance.

The beast saw him and its jaws gaped wide, all filled with knifeblade teeth, and he knelt, groaning as his wounded leg blazed pain, and held the pike firm.

The beast roared and sprang. Dohnse watched stark-eyed as it rose up against the light the moon and the Mountain threw across the Meeting Ground, and saw it fill the sky.

He rolled aside as it came down on him; down onto the blade of the pike, which pierced its chest and drove through its ribs under the beast's own weight and came out from its back.

Wincing, he clambered upright, clutching his hatchet. The beast curled about the pike, snapping at the shaft, legs clawing. Blood stained its hide black under the brilliance of the Maker's Mountain and the burning moon. Dohnse turned and stumbled after Racharran and Chakthi.

And thus saw.

Morrhyn waited by the white arch that rose above the center of the Meeting Ground. Racharran carried Chakthi toward him.

The Prophet turned as if answering some shout from beyond the gate.

And Chakthi drew a knife and stabbed Racharran.

The Commacht akaman jerked upright. His arms let go of Chakthi and he staggered a little way aside. He stared at the Tachyn he had called his brother out of eyes that opened wide in pain and disbelief. Dohnse saw his mouth move but could not hear what he said because the moonlit night was too loud with roaring and the shouts of the Breakers. But he saw Racharran clutch the blade protruding from his ribs and pull it loose, and then fall onto his knees with blood coming out his mouth. And Chakthi laugh and—limping no longer—kick Racharran in the chest. Then resuming his limp, go to the gate and speak a moment with Morrhyn before going through.

Dohnse went to where Racharran lay.

He cradled Racharran's head, staring aghast at eyes that had already lost their light and dulled. Racharran coughed, barking gouts of red and pink-stained bubbles out of a mouth that stretched back from his teeth, which chattered even as his legs kicked and drummed against the ground of Ket-Ta-Witko. His body stiffened in Dohnse's arms, arching
up, spine curved so that only his heels and shoulders touched the soil. Then all his body went limp and he loosed one last shuddering sigh that whistled into Dohnse's face. And he was dead.

“Dohnse!” Morrhyn's voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Dohnse, come! Hurry!”

He closed Racharran's dully staring eyes and took up his hatchet.

“Dohnse! Now!”

He rose, shaky on his hurt leg: worse for what he had witnessed. And thought to pick up Racharran's body and carry it to the new land. But beasts and Breakers came over the Meeting Ground like a flood, like a blizzard, and Morrhyn shouted at him to come. And so he only made Racharran a promise and turned away.

And went through the gate.

It was warm there—as it should be in the Moon of the Turning Year—and he smelled the sweet scent of the grass and felt the wind on his face, and saw all the People gathered in a great wondering mass. And looked back at the arch of white light that rose over the prairie and saw Morrhyn step through.

The gate closed behind the Prophet.

He came with beasts and Breakers howling on his heels, and the gate closed.

It was like the snuffing of an ember. There was an arch of brightness that rose over the grass, white as moon-washed snow against the sky's blue, and through it could be seen Ket-Ta-Witko's night, lit by the Moon of the Turning Year, and the invaders charging, hungry to gain entry.

And then there was nothing. Morrhyn stepped through and the gate ceased to exist.

Past where it had stood, the grass ran out wide and wind-ruffled. A river turned and twisted lazy blue under the sun. In the distance mountains bulked shadow across the horizon. Birds sang and insects buzzed.

Dohnse stood, favoring his wounded leg, and saw Chakthi deep in conversation with Hadduth. Rannach sat with his arms around Arrhyna. Lhyn stared at the gate, her face stricken, tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks.

Dohnse turned to Morrhyn and said, “There's a thing I must tell you. About Racharran's murder.”

“He lies! The Maker damn his soul—he lies!” Chakthi turned like a cornered wolverine, spinning and spitting at the faces surrounding him. Night was fallen over the new land, and the fires of a new Council painted his lupine features red and shadowed, as if indignation and guilt played there in equal measure.

The light of a moon akin to that of the Moon of the Turning Year hung westward in the sky, not far off its setting. It joined the fires' light to decorate the faces of the watchers judgmental. They sat—Rannach and Morrhyn, Yazte and Kahteney, Colun, Kanseah; Hadduth: all those vested with the authority of Ket-Ta-Witko—alert and listening. Past them, the People; hushed and waiting.

Chakthi stabbed a finger in Dohnse's direction and said again, “He lies!”

Morrhyn raised his face to the moon. It shone so bright, so new and fresh—a welcome to this new land. He sighed, wishing such doubts had been left behind.

And wondered if the barking he heard was doubt's black dog mocking him or only one from the vast encampment shouting its joy to be safe. He looked to Dohnse and gestured for the Tachyn warrior to speak.

Dohnse said, “I do not lie. I saw what I saw—Chakthi took out his knife and put it between Racharran's ribs.”

“Liar!”

Chakthi spat at Dohnse.

Dohnse said, “I do not lie; you lie. I'll fight you to prove the truth.”

“No!” Morrhyn raised his hand. “We came to this new land to escape bloodshed. Now shall we begin our life here by spilling blood?”

They looked to him: he was the Prophet now, undoubted. His word was law. He looked to where Lhyn sat and saw the trails of tears down her cheeks. He felt a terrible sadness, and wondered what he should say, knowing it would be accepted.

Kahteney voiced it: “How do you judge, Morrhyn?”

He sighed: the weight was not gone, even here. He looked at Rannach and saw anger stretching the younger man's features tight. He thought it all began again—the enmity and the killing—and that perhaps it was such emotion that had opened the ways between the worlds for the Breakers to come through and slake their thirst for conquest and destruction. The breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko had, he knew, brought them to Ket-Ta-Witko. Now was it to begin again, as if the People left behind them guilt's spoor to be followed by the destroyers of worlds?

He voiced a silent prayer to the Maker and said, “I shall sleep on it. The Maker willing, I'll dream of the answer.”

Dohnse stared at Chakthi and then at Morrhyn and said, “Racharran promised me a place amongst the Commacht. I'd have that, be it your will.”

Morrhyn shrugged and looked at Rannach. “You're akaman of the Commacht now—how say you?”

Rannach said, “I'd honor my father's promise. Nor”—he stared at Chakthi—“do I doubt what Dohnse says.”

Chakthi glowered, his eyes lit red and savage as any wolverine's. Morrhyn watched him and heard the dog bark louder. Over and over, he thought, like dirt thrown up from the hooves of a running horse. Can we not put this aside?

But Racharran had been his friend and Lhyn sat silently weeping, and he knew he must decide. He prayed the Maker give him answer and said, “Let the akaman of the Commacht choose whether or not he accept Dohnse amongst us.”

Rannach said, “He's welcome.”

Dohnse smiled his gratitude and Morrhyn said, “For the rest, I'll give my answer in the morning. Now do we give thanks to the Maker for this new land?”

The dream was very clear, showing him precisely what he must say. But even so, behind it—like shadows thrown by bright fire—there was an
element of doubt, as if what was just and right hung balanced by darker emotions, retribution and revenge to be later delivered.

But he knew what he must say, and went out from his lodge to the waiting People.

They gathered in nervous silence—all save the worst hurt and the youngest—their joy in the new land tainted with doubt and suspicion. It was, in a way, the first Matakwa in this new and unnamed place, and it seemed to Morrhyn not so different from that last in lost Ket-Ta-Witko.

He walked into the circle and said, “I have dreamed,” and turned his face to Chakthi. “Do you speak of what happened?”

Chakthi glanced sidelong at Hadduth and rose. His wounds were cleansed and sewn, the stitched cuts lending him a ferocious aspect. He said, “I fought to the last beside Racharran and we came together to the gate. We both were wounded, and my brother held me up—he was a brave man and a great warrior.”

There came a murmur of approval at that, loudest from those Tachyn still loyal to their akaman. Chakthi paused, favoring his hurt leg, rubbing as if absently at the wound.

Morrhyn said, “Go on.” His voice was impassive, expressing nothing.

Chakthi nodded and said, “The Breakers and their beasts came close on our heels. I felt my brother Racharran falter …” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes a moment, as if pained by the memory. “I tried to hold him, but I lacked the strength. I saw an arrow in him—a Breaker's shaft—and he said to me, ‘I am slain, brother. Go on.' I did my best to bring him to the gate, but the life went out of him fast and I could not—I could only leave him, and ask the Maker accept his soul.” Slowly he turned around, his eyes roving the circle as if defying any there to contradict him, falling finally on Dohnse. “And does any here say different, they lie.”

A murmuring then, soon swallowed by silence. The morning sun shone warm on green grass that whispered a faint song under the wind's gentle caress. Crickets chattered and high overhead a hawk hung black against the cloudless sky.

Faces turned expectant to Morrhyn. Rannach whispered, “Do you deliver judgment?”

Morrhyn whispered back, “That is not my place. I am not akaman of the Commacht, but only wakanisha.”

Rannach said, “You're the Prophet,” in a puzzled voice.

Morrhyn motioned him to silence and said, “This tale has another shape and we should hear that. Dohnse, do you speak?”

He stared fixedly at Chakthi, but the Tachyn akaman ignored his blue gaze, seating himself and whispering with Hadduth. Dohnse rose.

He clutched a pole, resting his weight on the stick for fear he collapse. For all his leg was sewn and bound, it still throbbed as if a fire burned where the claws had scored him. He cleared his throat and said, “I was with them—Racharran and Chakthi—and we were the last. A beast came after us and I slew it, and when I rose I saw Chakthi take out a knife and drive it between Racharran's ribs. Then he kicked Racharran and went on through the gate.”

Chakthi shouted, “Liar! Who else saw this?”

Dohnse shrugged and said, “None, I think.”

Chakthi smiled and said, “Where was Morrhyn, then? He waited by the gate, no? But he saw nothing.”

Dohnse said, “Morrhyn was turned away. He spoke through the gate and did not see what you did. But I saw it.”

Chakthi curled his lip and spat.

Morrhyn said carefully, his eyes again firm on Chakthi, “So this tale has tow tellings; and very different. Which do we believe?”

Chakthi said, “I am akaman of the Tachyn and this man only a warrior.”

Morrhyn said, “Does that make his word any less?”

“Than mine?” Chakthi nodded. “Yes.”

“Akaman or warrior,” Morrhyn said, “still the Maker judges. And on his scales, all are equal.” Still he locked his eyes on Chakthi. “Have you aught else to say?”

Hadduth whispered into the akaman's ear and Chakthi shook his head.

Yazte said, “Morrhyn, you are the Prophet. You brought us here, and you say you've dreamed. Then do you tell us your dream? What
is
the truth here?”