Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  Jones strained to move. The girl suddenly pointed, excited.

  “Look! Look at the thing on his head! See how red? It’s moving!”

  The boys stared at the livid circular scar, fascinated. The larger one said, “You’re afraid to touch it.” The girl squealed and backed away. The smallest boy was unimpressed. “So are you.”

  Challenged, the large one swallowed hard. Jones squirmed, grinding his teeth. Froth flew from his lips. Rough, dirty fingers violated him, shaming him worse than the nudity of his torture. He screamed outrage, and was astounded to see the boy levitate across him, eyes and mouth rounded with surprise. Crashing to earth with a howl, his tormentor crabbed away on all fours before coming upright to sprint off, never looking back. Wincing at the pressure of the sinew, Jones turned the other way to see Fox methodically slapping the three children until they staggered. He said, “Everyone was told to keep away from this one. Go to your fathers. Tell them to come to my tent.”

  Fox turned to Jones as the children fled. He said, “If anyone bothers you, you should call for help.”

  Jones sneered. “To stay alive? So you can torture me longer? You think I’m as great a fool as you?”

  “Be careful; you still live.”

  “I’ll say what I want. Why fear you?”

  Fox sneered. “Because you can’t escape. You’ll suffer as long as it pleases me to watch.” At Jones’ burgeoning retort, Fox waved him to silence. “Of course you don’t deserve it. Your pain’s nothing to me, you understand? It takes my people’s minds off their troubles. And it terrifies Altanar. You help me hurt him. Until you’re used up.”

  He walked away. Jones tried to follow him with his eyes, and that’s when he saw a protector lounging against a tree in the distance. Intent on Fox, the man affected disinterest until the Mountain leader was screened by trees. Immediately, he hurried to Jones and offered him a drink from a gourd canteen crudely decorated with incised stars. Jones gulped greedily, spilling as much as he got. He objected angrily when his benefactor pulled the gourd away, but quieted at the offer of a bite of dried meat. While he chewed, he glared hatred.

  The man said, “In your place, I’d feel exactly as you. You understand my position, though?”

  “More meat. Water.”

  That provided, the protector went on. “I’m honestly sorry you got caught up in this. Altanar…” He grimaced. “I won’t mind working on him. He deserves it.”

  “If you’re so sorry, help me escape.”

  The man shook his head, and Jones barked laughter. The movement forced the sinew to bite deeper. Wiping Jones’ neck with some leaves, the man continued to speak soothingly while loosening the cord. “Fox can track anything anywhere. We’d have no chance. You think I haven’t thought about running? As soon as you and Altanar are finished, us protectors are next. He’ll never let us go.”

  “How very sad.”

  “More for you than me.” The man yanked the neck sinew tight again. Ignoring Jones’ yelp, he straightened and went on, “When my time comes, I’ll go quick. You think of that, later.”

  “I’m old. My heart…”

  “I know what I’m doing, Moondancer. Your heart’ll last for days.”

  “No! You can’t. I never hurt you. Why?”

  “Because I want to live as long as I can, that’s why. While I’m alive, I can hope.”

  “Then give us both hope. They won’t come after us. They have Altanar. He’s the one they hate.” The true wisdom of this logic didn’t strike Jones until the words were out of his mouth, and in his enthusiasm, he strained against his neck binding until he choked. He continued, regardless. “You can steal horses. Food. Sneak out to me in the dark—”

  Interrupting harshly, the man said, “They tie us up at night. Anyhow, after tomorrow you won’t be able to sit a horse. Or walk.”

  Sometimes, in the high forest, when the air is unmoving on an overcast clay, the clouds will split and sunlight will lance through to the earth. That swift touch of heat can be enough to make the earth sigh. It’s such a delicate breath that only the aspen leaves react. A sound as soft as that slipped past Jones’ lips, yet the terror in it was thunder-strong. When he forced words out, they rattled against each other. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s Fox. He says we have to frighten Altanar more.” He turned to go. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  “Wait. Wait!” Jones squirmed. “It’s Altanar! Not me! No more. Please, please.”

  The man paused. “If it’ll help you stand what’s coming, remember: they’ll do the same to us as we’re doing to you.”

  “You lie. You said you’d go quickly. You won’t suffer. Only me. Just me. Why is it me?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Come back,” Jones begged straining to keep him in sight, continuing to call piteously after he disappeared. When the man returned, he sobbed relief. Beseeching, he said, “Do it for me. Do what you’ll do for yourself.”

  “Impossible. They’d know.”

  “They won’t. We both know it’s only a question of time before… before I…” The word wouldn’t come. He swallowed. “You know. What I mean is, you could… slip. Something. Don’t hurt me any more.”

  “It has to look right.” The man squatted beside him again and jabbed stiff fingers into his shoulders. “You’ve got to help me fight to live. If they learn I mean to help you, they’ll kill me, and they’ll keep you alive for weeks. Every day worse than the last. Don’t betray me. I’ll end your pain as soon as I can.”

  Jones was too overcome to answer. He continued to mumble gratitude long after his new friend was gone. Pleasure even seeped into his feelings; he’d deny Fox most of the entertainment he expected.

  They came for him soon after nightfall and within minutes he was drowned in a maelstrom of torment. He lost track of time. Whenever he opened his eyes it was a surprise to discover daylight or darkness. Sometimes his mind rejected the enormity of his suffering, and he laughed along with the crowd. Sometimes he outsmarted them and hid inside the agony, letting it saturate him until nothing they did affected him.

  There were two constants in his life; pain and the protector, bathing the wounds he’d just created, repairing damage, whispering, “As soon as I can. Next time. We’ll fool them.”

  And then Jones woke in a still peacefulness that shimmered with silvering moonlight. For a moment, he was terrified that this was death. Then, he sensed he was conscious for the first time in a long while. That was even more terrifying; had the Mountains nursed him back to reasonable health in order to start on him again?

  Mistily, shards of a remembered dream came to him. He saw himself climbing a sheer rock face, running sweat. Sharp rock tore flesh from clutching fingers. Below, a monster shrieked rage, hunger, frustration. Above, the rock disappeared into the sky. Its surface rippled with heat waves from a burning sun. When a shadow passed over him, he feared, and looked up. Two sinuous, scaly creatures descended toward him. Eyeless, they sought him with red, dripping tongues that stuttered past daggerlike fangs.

  He knew he must attack. Hanging by the fingertips of one hand, he grappled with the closest horror, drew it to him and sank his teeth in its throat. It screamed and thrashed wildly. He was ready to leap into space, taking it with him to a mutual death, when he realized it was shrinking. Again, something deep inside him, something more basic than instinct, told him exactly what to do. He forced the loathsome dream-thing into his mouth, gagging, choking on its rough skin. He swallowed until it was gone. Strength filled him like breath expanding a drowning man’s lungs. He scrambled after the other creature, dealt with it the same way.

  Then, without warning, he was atop the cliff, facedown on a plateau barely large enough to hold him. Rising, he looked about.

  There was nothing. A hollow, blue void surrounded him.

  There had been words then; he remembered. Now they refused to come back. But they had been prophecy. He didn’t understand how he knew that, but he didn’t
question.

  Back in the dream, he was alone on the pinnacle. Unchallenged. Undefeatable.

  Godlike.

  In the dream, he stepped into the air to drift back to the body in the camp of the Mountain People. The body that housed his new, mature spirit.

  Now, fully conscious, fully in the present, he luxuriated in mysterious comfort. He was released. Purified. Pain of all descriptions clawed his body; his mind scorned it.

  He looked directly up into the orb of a full moon, felt its sterile chill touch his flesh like a seeking benefice. Turning his gaze on himself, he saw he was unbound, naked to the open sky. Stiffly, he forced his head to the side. Among the trees, he made out a vague shape. He drew a rib-cracking breath. He said, “Fox. Come here.”

  There was the sharp hiss of intaken breath. The shadowy figure jerked. Jones repeated his order. Fox came. His eyes were huge.

  Jones said, “How long have I lain here?”

  “You still live?”

  “How long?”

  “Two full days. We threw you here to die.”

  “Why?”

  “Your spirit left you. No matter what the protectors did, you only stared. Then you spoke in a language no one could understand. I knew you were talking to other spirits in the Land Beyond. I told them we must let your spirit come back, that if you died without it, it would haunt us.”

  Jones smelled the fear on Fox. He felt stronger for it. He told Fox to help him to his feet. Fox said, “You’ll never stand. Your spirit only came back so you could die properly.”

  “Then why are you here while everyone else sleeps? What brought you to me?”

  Fox shivered. “I don’t know. I had to be here. Watch.”

  “You came to me. You’re the first to see how faith heals. My faith. Now, help me up.”

  It was slow work, with pauses while burned skin stretched or abused joints and muscles adjusted to movement and weight. Through it all, Fox’s breath whistled as if he had been running, and his only comment was a constantly repeated, “You can’t do this. You can’t do this.”

  By the time Jones was fully erect, steadied against a tree trunk, the sun was risen. He closed his eyes for what seemed only a moment, yet when he opened them he found the whole camp gathered around him and he wore a skirtlike skin draped from his waist. The talk of the crowd was a low mumble, pregnant with dread. He pretended to be completely unaware.

  The sun felt good on his body.

  In his body.

  A ripple of amazement ran through the gathering as he lifted an arm. He pointed where the full moon still held a place in the sky, defying the brighter sun. “See the moon.” The words were blurry. His tongue hurt, filled his mouth with pain. He repeated himself, adding, “My spirit was driven out. I went to speak to my mother, Moon. She has sent me back for Sun to give me warmth.” Several listeners dropped to their knees. He felt his facial wounds crack open when he smiled. He went on. “You threw me down to die. Moon gave me life.”

  Keening rose here and there, muffled, as if those making the sound couldn’t stop yet dared not draw attention to themselves. Jones went on. “I am to you as the moon that is born, grows, ages, dies, and returns. I am to other men as the snake is to animals. My old skin falls away and I am renewed.” His words needed no thought. Whispers within his brain demanded to be spoken.

  He pointed at a large rock outcrop some distance away. “I will go there. You and you,” he indicated two warriors, “will carry me.”

  The remaining eight protectors and Altanar stood at a distance within a circle of Mountain warriors. The latter held mas, anxiously anticipating the order to slaughter those who’d tortured the gaunt apparition that now ordered them about. Jones wanted to spit on them; they believed killing the protectors would appease him.

  They had much to learn.

  He gestured to the circle of guards. “Follow,” he instructed them, then, “Fox. Beside me.”

  At the site, he had Fox support him while he went from rock to rock, feeling, listening. Finally, he indicated a particular boulder. “Roll it aside,” he ordered, and men crowded to obey. They leapt away with equal speed when they uncovered the heaving, writhing mass of rattlesnakes nested in a hollow under it.

  Jones said, “Those know I am one who dies and returns. You have seen. Now, see more.” He stepped to the edge of the pit, where the disturbed reptiles were beginning to seek escape. A small one crawled across his bare foot. The belly scales plucked at his scabbed flesh. The sensation triggered a mental image of a familiar man shuddering in panic at the sight of a snake. Why did he feel such contempt for that person?

  For a moment, he hesitated. Powers so primal he couldn’t identify them warred in him. Then, swiftly, he reached into the mass, fighting to hold back joyous, confident laughter.

  He held up two massive, buzzing snakes for all to see. He draped them over his shoulders, twined them around his neck. Their darting, glistening tongues tapped his cheeks as he kissed the tops of their heads. Then he extended his forearms, palms up raised, resting his elbows on his hipbones. The fat bodies, almost as thick as their support, each coiled as much length as possible on a hand. Glitter-eyed, they scanned the stunned crowd with imperious disdain.

  “Protectors,” he said in a whisper. “They served me well. Bring them.”

  There were screams and fighting, but soon all were in a line facing him. They still wore the leather bonds they slept in. The snakes remained nestled on Jones’ palms, and they stared coldly at the horrified prisoners while Jones paraded back and forth in front of them.

  He stopped. One of the two men in front of him was the fool who’d almost made a three-sign in his presence. The other was his benefactor. He said, “The greatest honor of the new Moondance is yours.”

  Before the pair could do more than look relieved, Jones extended his hands. The snakes struck.

  Choking, screaming, the men jerked at their bound wrists, twisting away from their guards. Venom injected directly into their throats reached their brains in seconds. Shrieking, they collapsed in convulsions.

  Jones watched. He felt a barrier growing around himself and the writhing men; he could almost touch it, a smoky haze that closed out everyone else. Then it shrank, and he understood the wall was their life force, coming into him. For an instant, it was tight, binding, like an obligation. Finally, it entered him.

  Ecstasy.

  He spoke across the bodies. “The spirits of those who die by my order will wait in paradise to be reborn, as you have seen me reborn. Their spirits will come at my call to serve me until I must, once more, return to my mother, Moon. When I rejoin my followers here, so will they, restored, better in every way. Those who resist me will die and be dead forever. Who here questions?”

  He sought Fox with a gaze as hard and sure as steel. The warrior, bone-pale with shock, met it only long enough to acknowledge submission. Far in the back of the crowd Jones spotted Altanar, trussed like a pig for market. He wondered what use he could find for him.

  A wave of pain suddenly swept through him, a sensory memory of flame and knife and bludgeon. He felt himself sway. Stepping back, he managed to brace against a rock.

  It was a warning. He understood it. Only that which advanced his cause could be tolerated. The new must feed on the old.

  Chapter 9

  During the long months of Clas’ absence, Sylah had taken to long walks to isolate herself and her unruly mind from the company of others. On one such occasion, random footsteps led her to the seaward wall of Ola. Gan was there. Alone, he stared out at the Inland Sea, lost in thought. His great dog, Shara, alerted him to another presence. He welcomed Sylah, and for a while they sat together, talking of the future, of hopes and fears, as only tested friends can.

  She had never fully realized the resentment—even rebellion—that seethed under the placid surface of his reign. Most troublemakers had fled his Wolves to live harried, nomadic lives wherever they could outside the Three Territories. Covert whisperers, spi
es, and malcontents remained, an infection that refused to be treated.

  Sylah listened, and heard the sadness of a man who’d discovered that evil isn’t an enemy to be met and defeated, but a seductive presence in the lives of all.

  She’d nearly forgotten how very young he was. The poignancy of his education tore at her heart.

  He also confided to her his fascination with the sea. “I can sit here for hours and my only objection is the Whale Coast Mountains blocking my view of what’s beyond. I dream of what’s out there. Freedom, where a man can go in any direction he wants. Why do I feel walled in by these mountains? They stand there, looking down at me. They’re a trap. I know how foolish that sounds, but it’s how I feel. The sea—that openness, like the prairie—is escape.”

  Sylah said, “I think I understand, but given a choice, I’ll take solid earth under my feet, thank you very much. Think of your poor seasick dog. And your horse.”

  He laughed. “That’s my dark secret, you know. Sometimes I sit here, and I see a ship slashing through the water, balancebar knifing, and I see whole troops of ships, with archers, grappling ties, boarding hooks. I see the feint and charge of we Dog People, only with boats instead of horses. It’s an exciting thing.”

  Holding her silence, she was waiting for him when he cut his eyes sideways at her. A small, sheepish grin tried for her sympathy. He said, “You don’t see that, do you?”

  “Absolutely not,” she snapped.

  They laughed then, appreciating each other, relishing the differences between them, enjoying the similarities. The rest of that day had passed in soft-voiced sharing of memories.

  Watching the sea also became one of Sylah’s great pleasures. Stormy or peaceful, there was always activity. It temporarily distracted her from never-ending doubts and concerns.

  For a few days after Clas’ return to the Dog People, the excitement of watching Conway exercise the Dog war-horses and dogs he’d brought for them occupied her adequately. On this morning, however, she sought the lonely solace of the west-facing ramparts.