Exile's Children by Angus Wells Read Free Book Online Page A

debate had lasted, how many of the Whaztaye had died meanwhile.
    â€œFinally, it was decided that we could not accede to all they asked.” Colun sighed noisily. “The Maker set us down where we belong and charged we Grannach with the securing of the hills. Besides, we had not enough food to satisfy them all, nor are you folk who live under the sky happy in our caves and tunnels, and we could not know how long this war might last.”
    Morrhyn wondered if the shadow that flitted across the craggy features then was doubt at the charity of that decision. Even so, he thought, Colun does no more than speak the Will correctly.
    â€œIt was not a decision we reached easily.” Colun drank tiswin, as if to cleanse the memory. “But it
was
reached, and by all my people. We told them
nay,
and that we would instead send our strongest warriors out into the foothills and fight this stranger horde did it come there.”
    â€œLift your leg,” commanded Lhyn, “so I can bandage it.”
    Morrhyn marveled that she could remain so practical as Colun unwound his tale. His own attention was focused entirely on the Grannach’s words. He should likely have let Colun bleed to death telling this story.
    Colun raised his leg and then, with obvious relief, tugged up his breeches. “Ach, I do grow somewhat faint. Perhaps I might eat now, that I not lose my strength?”
    Lhyn turned to the cookfire, filling a platter with bread and meat that she passed to the beaming Grannach. When she raised the kettle, he shook his head and patted the pitcher of tiswin. Morrhyn and Racharran each took a platter, absently transferring food to their mouths as they waited on Colun.
    He emptied his dish and asked for more before resuming. “Where was I? Yes, we made our decision known—which saddened the Whaztaye—and sent our strongest down with them to the foothills. Ach, but they were truly a sorry lot we found there. It seemed as if all the folk were gathered like animals driven from their grazing by a fire, come up into the hills in hope the flames not reach so far.
    â€œBut they did … The Maker knows, they did! We spoke with them there, to learn what manner of foe we faced, and what we heard was strange.”
    His second platter cleaned, he set it aside and drank tiswin. Then: “They spoke of such creatures as I’d not ever heard of; of terrible warriors whose only love seemed slaughter, who rode aback strangeling beasts of no better humor than their masters. They came, the Whaztaye told us, out of the western hills, out of the Maker’s gate.”
    â€œThat cannot be!” Racharran’s patience dissolved at this announcement. “The gates are closed by the Maker’s own hand. What you describe surely could not be.”
    He looked to Morrhyn for support, and in his eyes the wakanisha saw both stark rejection of Colun’s statement and a measure of dread. Morrhyn was abruptly reminded of his dream—of all his recent dreams—and felt a terrible fear. Was this their inspiration? Did they portend this horde? He heard a clatter, and turned from Racharran’s agitated gaze to see Lhyn retrieve a fallen dish. Her eyes were wide, darting from him to her husband to Colun. He said carefully, “Do we hear all of this tale before we declare ‘yea’ or ‘nay,’ ” and looked to the Grannach.
    Colun shrugged. “I did not believe it at first either, but I saw the Whaztaye gathered there like frightened beasts, by the Maker! They had what sheep they’d not eaten with them, though they did not last long, and I knew some terror was abroad. Whether it came through the gate or was some thing of the Whaztaye’s own making I did not at first know, but then I saw them …”
    His skin, as much as was visible under his beard, was the color of old stone, but Morrhyn thought it paled. And when he drank this time it was as though he