Exile's Challenge (67 page)

“Even so.” Akratil swung from his saddle, limber on the ground even as he motioned his dread mount onward to flank Davyd. “I shall kill you. I shall take your skull and hang it on my saddle to show in other worlds.”

Davyd thought it must be so—he was driven back from the ridgetop and there were no friends close enough to aid him in the shadowy wood. He bore no weapon other than the knife he drew, and that was small defense against Akratil's great sword, the horns of the horrid sable horse.

Save the Maker grant him strength.

He ducked as the Breaker's sword chipped wood close over his head, and Akratil drove him back, deeper into the trees.

“Why?” he shouted. “Why do you destroy?”

“Because,” Akratil replied, “that is my duty. Do you not understand?”

“No!” Davyd sprang behind a hornbeam as the blade shivered bark and the horned horse trotted, probing hungrily, forward. “Why destroy us?”

“Us?”
Akratil's voice was mocking. “Of which
us
do you speak?”

Davyd said, “The Matawaye—the People—and the folk of Salvation. The Grannach, and all the others you've reived.”

“Because you deserve it.” Akratil hefted his blade in both hands. “Because you summon us with your betrayals and envies and we are that dark side of you that lusts for death; that only lusts—after another man's wife, or his horses, or for anything you do not have—but will sell your soul to own. Can you deny that? Can you deny me?”

Davyd thought on how he'd lusted after Flysse and shook his head.

“Not that I lust. Only that I respect my friends.”

Akratil's laughter rang mocking through the trees as his blade sent fresh shards of bark and twigs dancing around Davyd's head.

“Betrayal brought us to that sorry land you know as Ket-Ta-Witko,” Akratil said. “When one man lusted after another's wife. What did that bring, save us? And what brought us to this new land, save envy and betrayal? Shall you expunge that from your souls? Can you?”

Davyd said, “No! But we can rise above it,” even as he danced, avoiding horns and blade alike in a desperate gavotte he knew he could not maintain. He thought he must soon falter and die. “And now folk come together to defeat you. Can you beat that joining?”

Akratil snarled afresh then, and swung his sword in a great curving arc; and Davyd felt a sudden flood of hope.

“Morrhyn defeated you,” he said.

“And Vachyr stole Arrhyna and raped her,” Akratil returned. “And Rannach slew Vachyr; and Chakthi betrayed
Racharran.” The curved blade flung fresh splinters from the trees. “And Taza stole Debo; and Chakthi would have his revenge—and could you, you'd have Flysse.”

Davyd said, “Yes; save she's Arcole's wife, and so I …”

“Do not want her?” The blade cut hair as Davyd ducked. “What if Arcole's dead, eh? What then—after she's mourned awhile. Would you not go to her, all lusty and forgetful of your friend?”

Davyd allowed, “Perhaps. But only did she welcome me. And even so …”

“And even nothing,” Akratil laughed. “Only all lustful and glad of your friend's death.”

Davyd said, “No!”

And into his mind came a vision of Arcole lying wounded and helpless, and of Flysse when he'd seen her in her under-things, and he knew that in a way, Akratil was right. And in another wrong, for there came also an image of Morrhyn and the wakanisha's unrequited love for Lhyn, and so he was able to say again, with utter conviction: “No!”

And then it was as if fire leapt up inside him and filled him with burning purpose, and he was able to deny Akratil's seductions, for it was as if Morrhyn spoke inside his head, and Rannach, and all his beliefs, and he knew Akratil for the liar and seducer the Breakers' god had made him. He felt the Maker's purpose fill him up and give him strength, and knew beyond doubting that his life did not matter—only that he end this threat to all he believed in.

He shouted
“NO!”
and darted under the sweeping blade to drive his knife upward, between the joinings of the armor, into Akratil's dark heart.

It was odd to see blood come from such a being, but it flowed copious from the joindure of armor where the Grannach steel had gone in, and Akratil's smile dissolved into a grimace of pain and disbelief.

The sword swung a last time at Davyd, and then Akratil fell to his knees and the blade dropped from his hands. He clutched at his belly and stared, amazed, at the red flow that decorated his gauntlets.

“Are you so strong?”

Davyd said, “No.”

“Then how?” Akratil's voice faltered. Blood came out of his mouth and nostrils, spilling down his golden armor to color the metal with the stains of his dying. “How can you slay me?”

“I've friends,” Davyd said. “And a god stronger than yours.”

Akratil stared at him, uncomprehending; even now unwilling to believe.

“That cannot be.” Laborious, he rose to his feet, taking up his sword. He raised the blade, the movement bringing fresh floodings of crimson from between the plates of his armor. “No god is stronger than mine, nor any purpose.”

He raised the heavy blade and swung it in an arc at Davyd's head. Davyd ducked and closed with the Breaker. It no longer mattered whether he lived or died—only that he slay Akratil.

He felt the Breaker's sword arm crash against his shoulder, almost driving him down on his knees, and the other close around him in a horrid embrace that set the talons of the gauntlet in agonizing scratches down his back. The pain reminded him of the wolverine's claws. He cried out, “In the name of the Maker,” and thrust his knife upward into the gap between Akratil's helm and neck brace.

The blade found flesh, piercing the Breaker's jaw to drive up through the roof of the mouth into the brain beyond. For a moment the two men stood embraced, then Akratil's sword fell from his hand and the talons gouging at Davyd's spine let go.

Davyd pushed the Breaker away and watched as the red eyes went blank and Akratil fell down on his face like any other dead man, and twitched awhile and then coughed out his death rattle and was still. He seemed smaller then, and the golden armor not so lustrous.

Davyd shoved his blade into the honest ground to clean it and rose weary to his feet. They're beaten now, he thought, and still I don't know what I am—wakanisha or warrior? Shall Morrhyn tell me?

Then the horned horse came charging angry from the trees.

Davyd felt a tusk rip through his shirt as he sprang aside. Fresh pain scored his ribs and he began to laugh: it should be ironic that he die under the horns of the dead Breaker's beast when he'd slain its master.

Still laughing madly, he scrabbled away from the probing horns, finding the temporary safety of an oak. Oaks, he thought, are strong, and I'm too weary to fight any longer.

The horns scattered twigs over his face and drove down against him. He sank to his knees, clutching at the oak, no longer caring whether he lived or died: only that Ket-Ta-Thanne and Salvation be safe.

Then a shot rang out and the sable horse tossed its head and went down on its knees. A second pitched it sideways to roll kicking amongst the trees, and Davyd saw Flysse standing with a smoking musket, a pistol in her right hand.

Davyd rose up weary. He felt tired now, and sickened by the bloodshed. Was this the way of the warrior, he'd no liking for it; but neither, he thought, could he be any longer a wakanisha. He'd blood on his hands now, and even was it forced on him, still he regretted it. He turned away, aware that the sounds of battle were ceased, and all he heard were victorious shouts as all the folk of this new land came together in friendship. He walked slowly back to where Flysse held Arcole.

“It's over. The Breakers are finished.”

“And Arcole's dying,” she said.

The fires burned out before they reached the ridges surrounding the valley. Smoke stank up the warm air, heavy with the ghastly perfume of the bodies consumed there, but the Breakers and their awful beasts were destroyed—and the Tachyn—and there were no more enemies save what lay across the Western Ocean and the Sea of Sorrows. And the Autarchy was an enemy to face another day.

For now, it was a time to celebrate.

Matawaye, Grannach and branded folk, soldiers of the God's Militia and masters, all joined together, sharing tiswin and brandy and ale, and vowed to stand together in perpetual friendship to make Salvation a free land.

And Davyd sat with Flysse and Arcole as Morrhyn took out the arrow and declared the wound clean. Tomas Var and Abram Jaymes waited outside the lodge with Rannach, who had his arm around Arrhyna and his left hand held by Debo. And Yazte, Kanseah and Dohnse and Kahteney, Colun, as if they were old friends concerned for another, a beloved companion.

“Shall he live?” Flysse asked.

And Morrhyn smiled and nodded and said, “He'll live. He'll hurt awhile, but he'll not die. Indeed, he'll hold you in his arms again before too long.”

Flysse said, “Praise the Maker.”

“Praise the Maker,” Morrhyn echoed, and looked at Davyd.

Davyd's face was drawn, as if all the horror of the last battle were etched there.

“What's amiss?” Morrhyn asked.

“I killed,” Davyd said. “I've slain men and not regretted it.”

“I think they deserved to die,” Morrhyn said.

“But what of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko? How can I be a wakanisha now?”

Morrhyn shrugged. “I think the Maker changes the Ahsa-tye-Patiko,” he said slowly. “I think that this is a new land, and that things change. I think that you
can
be a wakanisha; surely you're already a Dreamer such as the People have never known.”

“But …” Davyd said.

“Would you become my pupil?” Morrhyn interrupted. “Would you learn the lore and dream for the People?”

Davyd nodded.

“Then it shall be so,” Morrhyn said, “and you shall be the first to be both wakanisha and warrior, and likely the greatest of all.”

“Thank you,” Davyd said.

“No.” Morrhyn shook his head. “My thanks to you. The People owe you a great debt, for what you've done.”

“No,” Davyd echoed. “I owe the People a debt, for making me what I am.”

Morrhyn beamed his approval.

“I suppose it's settled now,” Tomas Var said. “Salvation's independent.”

“Declared so, I reckon,” Abram Jaymes answered. “You regret it?”

“No.” Var shook his head.

“We'll need an army,” Jaymes said. “Sooner or later, the Autarchy's bound to send troops against us.”

“Then we'll meet them,” Var returned, “and defeat them. We've friends now, eh?”

Jaymes grinned as he looked out at the celebratory fires and the folk dancing there. “Curious friends,” he remarked, “but good friends. Yes, I think we'll do all right.”

Rannach and Davyd approached them. Colun was with him, and the Grannach held an empty bottle of brandy. “This is almost as good as tiswin,” he said. “Is there any more?”

Davyd laughed as he translated.

Abram Jaymes could not understand the words, only the gestures, and said, “Plenty. All you can drink.” He thought he should like this squat manling.

“He can drink a great deal,” Davyd warned. “I have never seen a man drink so much.”

“That so?” Jaymes said. “We should have a contest.”

Colun said, after Davyd translated, “I should like that,” and belched. “I should like that very much.”

“And you must visit Grostheim,” Var invited.

“And you our mountains,” Colun replied solemnly.

“And even Ket-Ta-Thanne,” Rannach added.

They began to laugh.

From where he lay on his blanket, Flysse at his side, Arcole said, “I think all shall be well now. Eh, Davyd?”

Davyd looked out at the feast. It was like a Matakwa, save now all the folk of Salvation and Ket-Ta-Thanne were come together in friendship. He ducked his head and said, “Yes, I think it shall.”

Book of the Kingdoms #1:
Wrath of Ashar

Book of the Kingdoms #2:
The Usurper

Book of the Kingdoms #3:
The Way Beneath

The Godwars #1: Forbidden Magic

The Godwars #2: Dark Magic

The Godwars #3: Wild Magic

Lords of the Sky

Exiles Saga #1: Exile's Children

Angus Wells was born in a small village in Kent, England. He has worked as a publicist and as a science fiction and fantasy editor. He now writes full-time, and is the author of The Books of the Kingdoms (
Wrath of Ashar, The Usurper, The Way Beneath
) and The Godwars (
Forbidden Magic, Dark Magic, Wild Magic
)
. Lords of the Sky
, his first stand-alone novel, debuted in trade paperback in October of 1994, and was followed by the two-book Exiles Saga:
Exile's Children
and
Exile's Challenge
. He lives in Nottingham with his two dogs, Elmore and Sam.