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

by Don McQuinn

  Unbearable weight bore him down. Water—icy, black—swept over him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call out.

  It hurt to move. He had to move. He was drowning.

  Drowned.

  The world turned red. Black.

  Empty.

  * * *

  Lanta swept past the confused, threatening dogs as if they didn’t exist. More from surprise than comprehension, they permitted her to wrestle their coughing, gagging master from under the dead man and drag him ashore.

  Stiff-legged, Karda advanced to look down on the body. He snarled and crouched as a wave nudged it into the current. The sword jutting from the throat glittered in the sun until the water deepened, and then the body rolled facedown. It was gaining speed as Lanta went to work on Conway.

  His breathing was very shallow. The pulse at his neck fluttered.

  With his knife, she slit his rough woolen shirt to expose his wounds. The arrow had cut deeply, but no organs were affected. The slash across his upper body was uglier. The flesh hung open like obscene lips, and where the heavy blade struck hardest, it broke two ribs.

  His eyelids twitched, popped open. He wore a startled, foolish look. Lanta was as taken aback by her own reaction as by his sudden consciousness. Exasperation. Relief. She wanted to tongue-lash him until he cringed. She never got the chance. As clearly as if he were making ordinary conversation, he said, “Fix the horse first.” Then his eyes rolled back in his head. Her hand flew to pull the lids over the terrible emptiness of the naked whites.

  She had no needle, no thread, no way to treat him against the dangers of dirt creatures and unseens. Rinsing his shirt in the river, she used it to bind the wounds.

  More treatment was necessary. If she left him alone to get equipment, there was great danger. The small black bears wouldn’t confront the dogs, but one of the great silverbacks wouldn’t hesitate. Wolves prowled these forests. Tigers.

  Taking the sword, she rushed to the brushy growth edging the beach. It took a while for her to find what she wanted, but she managed to put together a two-pole litter. Clothes and belts from the two dead attackers provided the carrying platform between the poles and lashings to hold them to Conway’s horse. Straining, almost weeping with exhaustion and the pain of soft hands blistered raw from wielding the sword as an axe, she managed to get him onto the litter.

  She scrabbled into the saddle. The horse, as if understanding the situation, waited patiently for her. Under way, he behaved as gently as an old plow horse. The dogs flanked their master, frequently edging close to sniff at the bandages.

  When they reached the grove, Lanta bathed his wounds at the spring. There was ointment in the healing house, pine resin infused with extract of willow bark and garlic oil. Opening the jar’s beeswax seal sent the dogs away sneezing and rubbing their noses in the dirt. Lanta rather liked the zest; she smeared her patient lavishly. The medicine eased pain. Sometimes it actually eliminated infections. Bandages from a cedar cabinet replaced the ruined shirt, which she unceremoniously dumped in the nearby latrine.

  Her gaze fell on the horse. It watched her. Its shoulder and foreleg glistened red. The huge brown eyes accused. Sighing, she led it to the spring, where she soon had his wound cleaned and treated with the same salve.

  With all that done, she checked Conway’s pulse again, and was pleased to note it was stronger. His bleeding was stopped, and his breathing seemed easier. Pallor still lay on his features.

  She elected to walk beside Conway as they left. He grew agitated as he jounced along. Lanta was glad she’d had the foresight to lash him down. Shortly, he was trying to shout, his features taking on some color as they contorted in alternating expressions of fear and anger. He was so weak it all came out as loud muttering. Lanta bent to him to listen.

  He was speaking language, not but exactly correctly. Some words she was sure she’d never heard before, in any guise; they were nonsense things. What could “gi-ger counter” mean? Did he count gi-gers in his home country? And what did it me when he said “Everyone! Quick! The bomb shelter!” What was a bomb? Why was it so important to shelter one?

  The demanding question was, Why did he talk with such a distorted accent? Most of it was completely unintelligible.

  As suddenly as he’d started to babble, he fell silent. Lanta was dumbfounded to see tears easing under his tightly closed eyelids. The silent grief was unnerving.

  She wondered what could have driven him to leave his lands. Something so strong he couldn’t deny it. Or refuse. Orders?

  She studied his features. Nothing particularly distinguishing. Except character. Even now, he had an air of quiet determination.

  Widely spaced eyes; that was a plus, especially when they were bright with amusement. She remembered how he’d teased her about the Seeing. Like a mischievous boy. He’d gone too far, though, mocking the unknown powers.

  Still and all, he had a considerable attraction. His long journey with the other strangers probably had its roots in some man-woman conflict. Lanta imagined the thin-faced nagging female that made his life miserable.

  At least the slave girl, Tee, treated him well. Before she left.

  Some people never knew when they were well off.

  Lanta wished she knew more about his people, the background he and his friends were so secretive about. There was a natural kindness and consideration in him that she’d never seen before. Some said it was effeminate. If they’d seen this morning’s work, they’d know better. As she did.

  How was it that she felt she knew him well, when in truth she knew hardly anything about him? Very contradictory.

  She brushed his hair back where a sheen of perspiration slicked it to his forehead, then rearranged the chest bandage. His breathing was slower. His muscles were butter-soft. She smelled the sweat lingering on her fingertips. The bitter tang was a bad sign, but the musty, thick undertone dismayed her. It was a scent that grew stronger and stronger on her diseased patients as death tightened its grip.

  Sylah was selfish, thoughtless, even to consider letting him join in her search for the Door. This attack proved that.

  Sudden, improper burning touched the back of her eyes. She hurried to climb into the surprised horse’s saddle, urging more speed. She wouldn’t cry. A Healer learned not to weep for her charges; the good died as readily as the evil.

  A pudgy little bird flitted onto a branch just ahead. Russet-breasted, with a dark collar, it cocked its head, peering at Lanta from a bright eye surmounted by a pale stripe like an oversized brow. Its two-note call was a lonely, lilting minor, almost unbearably sweet.

  That was when Lanta’s tears came.

  Chapter 14

  The Harvester’s horse staggered to a halt in the courtyard when she heaved back on the reins. The bit cut cruelly, but the animal was so near collapse it offered no protest. As she slipped to the ground, the horse shuddered, spreading its legs, dropping its head. A wide-eyed boy ran from the stables. The Harvester glared at him, seemed ready to speak, then wheeled to enter the building that included Sylah’s quarters. The boy watched until she was safely out of sight before turning back to the horse. Soapy sweat lathered its coat. The thick veins on the belly and muzzle throbbed.

  At the sound of the Harvester’s voice, the boy jumped like a rabbit.

  “Don’t stand there, you lazy scum! Have two fresh horses here by the time I come back with Rose Priestess Sylah, or I’ll have the living meat flogged off your worthless back. Run!”

  Gone before he could move, her words hung in the air. When the stunned boy could react, he sprinted, yelling for the stablemaster.

  The Harvester flung open the door to Sylah’s room and strode in.

  To emptiness.

  Unbelieving, pale, the tall woman stood as if frozen. Slowly, woodenly, she turned her head, unwilling to accept what her eyes told her.

  Sylah was gone.

  Head back, mouth agape, the Harvester closed her throat against the scream of rage searing her throat. First C
onway. Now this. Her deserved reward for so much careful planning, for all her travels and bold action. Gone. How? Where?

  Picking up a chair, she sent it spinning across the room to smash the cedar chest. Crockery and utensils spilled out of the broken doors. There was solace in the destruction. The Harvester picked up the fire poker, raised it like a club. Slowly, breast heaving, she lowered it, leaned on it.

  Think, she told herself. Even if Lanta keeps Conway alive and they reach help, there’s still time to find Sylah. And escape.

  The Harvester ran down the stairs, back into the courtyard. The boy was just leading two saddled mounts to the hitching rail. When the Harvester flew out the door, he stopped in his tracks. The animals tossed their heads in nervous sympathy.

  Ignoring all of that, the Harvester rushed to grab the boy by the shirt. “Sylah,” she said, and was aware of the rasping demand in the single word. She released him, spoke slowly. Pleasantly. “Did you see Rose Priestess Sylah leave?”

  The boy nodded, mouth open.

  “How long ago? Which way did she go? Was she with anyone?”

  Sweating, the boy made sounds. The Harvester ached with the need to beat intelligible words out of him. Sweetly, she said, “I frightened you before, didn’t I? I was afraid for her. Just another silly woman; you know how excitable and helpless we are. Please, help me. Tell me what you saw.”

  Not completely reassured, the boy said, “She left just before you rode in. That way. By herself. Like every day.”

  The Harvester straightened, closed her eyes. Every day. She repeated the words in her head, cursing herself. What had she told Sylah? “Behave exactly as you always do.” And what did Sylah do every day? She visited Tate.

  The Harvester snatched the reins and swung into the saddle. The woolen half-trousers under the robe were still damp from her previous ride. She gritted her teeth at the clammy contact and swatted her mount’s rump, jerking the riderless horse along behind her.

  * * *

  The door to Tate’s room was open. Sylah stood with her back to it. A Chosen stood in the hallway. One look, one gesture from the Harvester, and the child was running away.

  Tate’s husking voice was saying, “I don’ understand. Never seen you like this. You still upset over what that old woman said, aren’t you? Foolish. You, and the old Iris Abbess, you stood up to Altanar. Set things up so women of the Three Territories have some rights, and so the li’l Chosens all learn to read. More than old Harvester ever did. If was me, tell her what to do. So should you.” Exertion brought her breath in labored gusts.

  The Harvester concentrated on Sylah. From behind, she watched with excitement and mingled amazement as Sylah’s sleek, black hair swayed and trembled as she fought against the mind controls. In the end, the answer was acceptable, if stiff. “The Harvester is Church, and Church must be obeyed. I am sworn to Mother, the Healer.”

  Tate’s rough whisper was worried. “That’s second time you told me that ‘sworn’ thing. I said before, that’s no answer at all. What is wrong with you?”

  “Oh, there you are.” The Harvester swept into the room, linked a proprietary arm with Sylah’s unresponsive one. Turning, moving a bit forward, the Harvester looked back into Sylah’s face. The features were slack, pallid. The lips were dry and cracked. Only her eyes were alive, and they were frenetic. Constantly in motion, pupils dilated, they contradicted everything else about the woman.

  Such resistance, such strength. The Harvester was sick with disappointment that she couldn’t share this accomplishment with someone. To Tate, she said, “Poor dear. She’s been under a terrible strain. Would you mind if I took her back to her quarters? She needs rest; some hot soup. Perhaps massage.”

  Tate squinted her one good eye, trying to see more clearly. Formally, she said, “I know you, Harvester. She need help?”

  “Help.” Sylah repeated the word, less than a whisper. To the Harvester, it was thunder. It was impossible.

  Tate twisted her features even tighter. “What? You say something, Sylah?”

  “She’s so weak,” the Harvester said. “She agreed with you.”

  “Agreed what? I asked her—”

  “And she answered you. If you could see better, you’d know how weak she looks.”

  “Don’t have to see. Sick because you brought her trouble. Sylah, you want to go home, go. You don’t, you stay here with me.”

  Tate coughed. The Harvester stepped in front of Sylah, turned her back on the woman in bed. Hands on Sylah’s shoulders, she said, “Tate’s right. You decide. Look at me. Look at me, and tell us what you must do.”

  Ignoring the rustle of the bedclothes as Tate squirmed about behind her, the Harvester kept her gaze fastened on Sylah’s frenzied eyes. Little by little, they slowed. The Harvester thought of caged birds battering themselves into stupor. As Sylah sagged, leaning her weight into the hands bracing her shoulders, the Harvester spoke again. “Tell us, Sylah. Say what you know is true.”

  A freshet of sweat suddenly poured down Sylah’s face, slicked her hair to her temples and forehead. Almost imperceptibly, she pulled back from the Harvester’s touch, forcing the older woman to stretch to maintain it. Sylah’s words were a groan. “I am sworn to Mother, the Healer. I obey.” Then she blinked. “Help,” she repeated.

  Behind the Harvester, Tate was too agitated to ignore any longer. As the Harvester turned to face the injured woman, she said, “I’m taking Sylah home. As her friend, as well as a Healer, I know what’s best for her.”

  “Friend,” Sylah said. Jerkily, she turned to Tate. “Friend.”

  Tate said, “Call Chosen. Give you a hand, take Sylah healing house.”

  “An excellent idea. Yes. But there’s no need. Anyhow, the Chosen seems to be missing.” As she spoke, the Harvester linked arms with Sylah again, edging her toward the door.

  Sylah resisted. “Friend help,” she said.

  “That does it.” Tate worked a bandaged hand free of the covering blanket, pointed at the Harvester. “We all wait for Chosen.”

  The Harvester examined Tate. The good eye watered copiously. When Tate moved the pointing finger to wipe it, the hand shook.

  “We wait for nothing.” Saying it felt as good as song. “There are great things to be done. You’ll not interfere. Sylah is mine. Mine to command, mine to use. She will seek the Door. For me. For the greater glory of Church.”

  Edging closer to Tate, the Harvester smiled at the way the injured woman cowered, seeking the farthest edge of the bed. The other, the Conway one, might survive, thanks to the ineptitude of idiots. This Tate one could snarl defiance, but not escape. From inside a voluminous sleeve, the Harvester drew a shortknife. Softly, caressingly, she said, “The Apocalypse Testament warns that we must resist evil. I’ll pray for your misguided soul.”

  Tate said, “Best look before leap, old woman. See what’s under blanket.”

  A pointed mound rose at Tate’s right side. A vigorous move, and a blue-black metal thing slid free of the covers. There was a hole in the end of it, and it sought the Harvester Like a malevolent eye. Tate said, “Drop knife. Back off.”

  The Harvester smiled. “Is that one of your lightning weapons? It doesn’t impress. Kill me, and all Church will avenge me. You know that.”

  Tate smiled back. Bruises turned it into an ugly burlesque. “You dead, for sure. Maybe I just blow away arm? Or both arms? What then? You want tell people what you did Sylah? How ‘bout it—death before dishonor? Your pick.”

  With great dignity, the Harvester handled the knife back up her sleeve. Arms folded, she backed toward the door. Sylah watched her with the vacant stare of mindlessness.

  Tate struggled up to one elbow. “Hold it.” The attempt to shout set off explosive coughing. The pistol jerked about like something on the end of a wind-whipped branch.

  The Harvester clutched Sylah’s waist from behind, dragged her toward the door. “You can’t even cry for help. Unleash your lightning, if you dare.”

 
Gasping with pain, Tate forced herself to a sitting position. She extended the pistol in both hands. “Sylah?” she called. “Sylah! Fight!”

  Tears of frustration blinded Tate completely. Sounds of struggle came to her. Muffled, terrible sounds. Tate wiped her eye on her shoulder. For a heartbeat the front sight post was clear, a tiny black tombstone. Swimming above it, Sylah’s face. Wet with sweat. Expressionless.

  Tate swung the pistol to the side of that face. Squeezed the trigger.

  In the stone confines of the room, the report was like being inside thunder. The bullet ricocheted with a mad scream, struck another wall, changed its tone to a wolflike howl. A human screamed.

  And then silence.

  Finally, Tate found the courage to call. “Sylah? Sylah, you there? God’s sake, answer me. Please!”

  Crying. Brokenhearted sobs. “Here, my friend.” The crying went on. Tate struggled to get up, fell back.

  Sylah came to her. They embraced, sharing tears. Sylah said, “What happened? I feel empty. As if I died. But I’m alive. I know you gave me my life, but I don’t understand how. What happened to me?”

  “It’s all right,” Tate soothed. “We’re all right. Where she—Harvester?”

  “She’s gone. There’s blood. Blood? The Harvester? What have I done, Donnacee? Our souls. What have I done?”

  Chapter 15

  “I’m telling you, he’s here. The boy’s alive, and he’s in Ola.” The setting sun painted the small courtyard with a dim, fireplace glow that deepened the lines of bafflement at the corners of Tate’s eyes. Muscles bunched in her jaws.

  Anxious to avoid antagonizing her friend, Sylah affected a calmness she no longer felt. Their small benches faced each other, and she turned sideways on hers, anxious to compromise Tate’s confrontational posture.

  Tate’s physical healing was coming well. Both eyes functioned as well as ever, her voice was back, albeit still a trifle husky. There seemed to be no lingering effects. Except in her mind. It was inner disturbance that troubled Sylah.