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

by Don McQuinn

  Tate rode up beside him, and he included her in his thoughts, gesturing at the arriving dogs. “What would our friends from before think of this scene? Imagine those two in a world where only married couples with a license for two children are allowed a pet dog—to weigh no more than thirty pounds.”

  “I knew a guy who was a dog breeder.” Tate grinned at his surprise. “The family owned the breeders’ licenses together. Turned down a fortune for it, many times. And what about horses? What was it—a ten-year waiting list just to get your name into the national annual recreational ownership lottery? Remember? And if you weren’t one of the ‘lucky thousand’ in your year, you could register again and wait for another decade.”

  Conway sobered, thinking back to people lined up for their meat ration, bread ration. Sugar. Fats. Millions of people, packed into their rotting, polluted cities.

  “You hear me?” Tate’s sharpness rasped across his introspection. He turned quickly.

  “Not a word. Daydreaming, I guess.” They were alone, the others having started for the ferryman’s small hut.

  Tate whistled in Tanno and Oshu, then said, “I asked you if you ever wondered why these populations are so small. And isolated. They’re all hostile, so fighting explains some of it. We know they started with small numbers. They’ve had at least five centuries to build up, though. I think I know what’s wrong. You’ve seen how sickness scares them?”

  He said, “Plague,” and she nodded grimly. He went on. “I believe you’re right. The things the lab people turned loose way back then must mutate like crazy. Seems logical they’d build that into their bugs. To defeat inoculations.”

  “Logical.” The word became condemnation. Suddenly, she laughed aloud. “So what? Germs, arrows, whatever. Let’s make a mark, Matt. You with me?”

  Reaching out together, they joined hands. Neither spoke. When they separated, they galloped forward, whooping, celebrating, exulting.

  Sylah and Lanta watched them come with head-shaking bemusement.

  When they rejoined the two women, Sylah was bargaining for passage. The ferryman, a large, gnarled man, held out until she offered more than he could refuse.

  “We’ll end at the bottom of the river, probably,” he grumbled, pulling on a quilted coat with a wide, flared skirt that reached to his ankles. Its palm-sized buttons puzzled Conway, until he realized they could be easily manipulated with numbed hands for a quick escape if the wearer found himself in the water. A poncho went over the coat, draping below his waist. It was made of narrow strips of a semitransparent material. Whoever created it cunningly joined the horizontal bands with lapped seams for maximum waterproofing. Seeing Conway’s interest, the man held it out for inspection. “Seal guts,” he said. “We trade grain with the downriver Whalers for waterproofs like this. Stops rain and wind like nothing else. With this duck-down coat under it, I don’t care if the weather comes straight from the Land Under.” His glance jerked to the Priestesses. “Your pardons.”

  Sylah said, “You know this river too well to let it take us to the Land Under. You just want to raise the price for the trip.”

  “You’re a tough one. Not like the other.”

  “Other?” Sylah asked the question, but they all paused.

  The man shifted nervously. “The other Priestess. Six, seven days ago. Come at first light. Hid inside that hood thing. Wouldn’t look at the water until we reached the other side. Wasn’t near so rough as now. Paid my first price without arguing. Bad scared, like she knew the river could kill her, even if no man could.”

  “She was alone?”

  He relaxed into a confiding grin. “That’s what she wanted me to think. Never said nothing about friends. After I got back, though, I had to go hunt for our milk cow. We got this gate, see, with this latch…”

  Conway said, “Just the facts, please,” and Tate made a strangling sound. The piece of dialogue was an integral part of every TV 101 (usually title something like Beginnings and Formulae) course in any university; his use of it in the midst of growing tension nearly sent her into giggles. The ferryman looked aggrieved for a moment before continuing. “She came with a half-dozen men. I found their tracks where they all left the road and milled around. She rode alone toward my place. The rest went west.”

  “How do you know they were men? And with her?” Sylah asked.

  “Gossip. Man passing through told me about six men he saw at an inn the night before she showed up here. Two was rich; he called them barons. I don’t believe that, but he said they give all the orders and the other four jumped. Anyhow, the priestess stayed at the inn, too. They never talked to each other. She left a little bit behind them. Joined up on the road, I guess; seven horses waited in the woods on my land.”

  Sylah said, “You’ve been very helpful. Someday perhaps I can repay you.”

  He looked away, almost shyly, then went on hesitantly, “If I knew something else, would you keep it to yourself? Your friends, too?”

  “Of course. That’s why they’re my friends.”

  “There was another rider. Man, woman, I can’t say. I asked, but no one saw this one. I found other tracks where someone could’ve sat and watched everything I told you about. I can’t guarantee it happened that way. I’m no tracker. But that’s how it looked.”

  “Someone watching the watchers?” Tate’s tone challenged. “Why?”

  “If you’d watch how close you’re all listening to me, you’d probably think you was the ones could best answer that.” The man flashed Tate a shrewd smile.

  “The other rider never came to your ferry?” she continued.

  “Stayed this side of the river.” At their uncertainty, he explained. “It’s two days’ ride to the next ferry, and no one swims the Mother. If he stole a boat or paid someone else to get him across, I’d hear about it. I don’t suppose there’s anything you want to tell me about any of this, is there?”

  She said, “There’s nothing to tell. We’re just travelers, on our way south.”

  Moving to the door, he said, “Oh, I believe that, Rose Priestess. Now come along, and you can watch me hook up the team of ducks that’ll pull us across the river.”

  Laughing at his own wit, he led the way to the ferry. Supervising the tying of the horses in the open hold, however, he was all business. His crewman cast off the mooring chains. The ferryman angled the unwieldy craft out. Playing current against the wind, he strained mightily at his tiller. The crewman eased one sail, tightened the other, anticipated most commands. Nevertheless, they roiled frighteningly several times, and spray from the downwind side was a constant discomfort.

  Landfall was a skillful display of rivercraft. With the sure hand of experience, the ferryman eased into an eddy. Two men ashore raced to catch thrown lines. Once the ferry was secure, they replaced the cordage with chains identical to those on the northern bank.

  The dogs bounded ashore happily, but it took several minutes for Conway and the crew to wrestle the drenched, frightened horses ashore. The disciplined war-horses were a bit easier than the pack animals, all of which had worked their loads into disarray. While he worked on repositioning and lashings, Conway was impressed by the furtive behavior of the people watching from the doorways of the small collection of board-and-hide huts. Even the children dodged out of sight rather than face eye contact. The mingled stinks of wood smoke and dead fish added nothing to the sodden look of the place. The only interesting things around were the sailboards leaning against the huts. They were made of wood and leather, with hand-painted sails that appeared to be canvas. An unfinished example rested on a pair of sawhorses. The exposed construction of ribs and stringers suggested the limber bones of a fish. Coiled lines, large hooks, and snubbing cleats on the hulls indicated that the owners went after fish of great weight.

  As soon as they’d ridden out of earshot, Tate asked, “What do you make of this other priestess the ferryman was talking about? Part of the faction problem?”

  Lanta answered, “There’s no doub
t,” and Sylah added, “It also tells us that Gan’s opposition is more active than we knew. The two rich men were barons, I’m sure of it.”

  Dodoy said, “We should go back to Ola. The barons are after us. We’re only here because of Sylah’s Door.”

  Tate pulled him to her. “Hush, now. It’s going to be all right.”

  He opened his mouth to continue, but a shout from behind interrupted him. They all turned to see the ferryman pounding along the road on an unsaddled horse. He was breathing hard when he stopped. “I came as fast as I could. There’s something you have to know,” he said. “One of my linehandlers was telling me a man upstream had a boat stole. Couple nights ago.” He pointed at the fog-shrouded cliffs. Their hazy proximity made the narrow strip of land seem even more threatened by the hungry river. He said, “Same man saw a rider up there, day before yesterday. Didn’t do nothing. Just looked. All day. There again this morning. Gone now.”

  Sylah asked, “You think the watcher and the man who stole the boat are the same?”

  Her skepticism brought two bright spots of color to the man’s cheeks. “You should hope not. Whoever it was picked up the boat and carried it to the water. A big boat. Whole family ten feet away in the house. Never heard. If that’s all nothing to you, then I bothered you for no reason.”

  Before anyone could comment, he yanked his horse around and raced off the way he’d come. No one spoke for some time.

  Conway was surprised by his own reaction. There was fear, but it was a distant, almost intellectual thing, brushed aside by a tingling eagerness. Surreptitiously, he flexed tense muscles. The sliding, bunching power and the lush relaxation that followed filled him with an almost sexual heat.

  He looked at the others. Dodoy was excited, his hands wriggling up and down his reins, making his horse shuffle irritably. Tate watched the boy, concerned.

  Lanta studied the cliffs, as if her gift might penetrate the misted forest. Then, as if startled by a sound, she twisted to catch him watching her. Prickling hair rose on Conway’s nape as he remembered that this was a Seer, one who saw tomorrow’s truths. She flashed a brief smile before she looked away, and he was lost again in the contradictory signals she always seemed to be sending him. He knew there was happiness in her, yet whenever it seemed most likely to break free, something pulled it back, shrouded it. Why was she so determinedly apart? The behavior embarrassed and confused him, as though he’d been caught trying to peek behind a mask.

  There was no time to puzzle over it. He turned to Sylah, saying, “I’ll take point with my dogs. Tate should take drag.”

  As they each moved to their positions, Lanta spoke to Sylah. “Do you think he’s capable of riding point? You mustn’t think of him the way you’d think of Clas.”

  Setting off in Conway’s wake, Sylah chuckled. “I think of no man as I think of Clas. He and Tate have to learn. The dogs’ll warn them of danger.”

  “I pray it’s so.”

  It was a while before Sylah felt it was safe to turn to look at Lanta. When she did examine her companion, there was nothing to see. Sylah permitted herself a small grimace of frustration. There had been a tone… No, nothing that strong. An undercurrent. Yes, that was it, an undercurrent of emotion. Lanta’s prayers for Conway grew from more than concern for a traveling companion.

  Chapter 19

  Tate watched Dodoy picking up firewood. He visibly disliked the chore, but went about it with no outright dissent. She’d learned that that was his way. There seemed to be no little boy inside him. He suppressed anger until it exploded. Childish games and amusements bored him. For something to truly entertain him, it had to have a bite, a touch of harshness.

  She was sure she’d already seen changes for the better in him in the eight days since the river crossing.

  There had certainly been changes in their surroundings. For the first two days, the road was wide enough for a pair of farm carts abreast. Muddy, potholed, it meandered through rich farming country. Sky-darkening clouds of starlings braved the dismal early spring, wheeling, whistling, chattering. Their thousands combined to smother most other sounds. Occasionally, however, they were brushed aside by massive flights of geese or ducks. They all mingled in the fields, harvesting what they could from fresh-turned earth. Sometimes flocks of pigeons joined them. Hawks and eagles patrolled the edges of the masses, hurtling down to strike the careless or weak.

  In the fields that were already seeded, children worked ropes controlling scarecrows or dashed across the fields slashing at the trespassers with long, thin poles. They invariably paused to watch the mounted group pass. Shy dreams of other horizons shone in their eyes.

  The road ended with jarring abruptness. It plunged into the forest at the limit of the last farm like a lost arrow, becoming a narrow rut winding through towering firs. From that point, it was five days before they saw any sign of human life, except for the path itself. Yesterday they’d found a campfire site, so old a dandelion sprouted in the charred circle. They’d dismounted to inspect it, treating it as a great discovery. Today had been more of the same. Endless, unbroken forest. Tate leaned back, yearning for sunshine.

  Sylah chose that moment to join her, putting down a leather sheet to protect against the damp ground before settling beside her. She offered Tate a wooden mug filled with a steaming liquid, saying, “This is a soup we haven’t tried before—duck and apple, with some potato. You can hardly tell it’s a dried mix.”

  Uncertainly, Tate took it, reflecting that most of her dining experiences since surviving the crèche had been satisfactory. With notable exceptions. She’d seen things served as food that nearly sent her screaming from the scene. The smell of this soup, however, snapped her eyes wide open.

  “There’s—there’s orange in this. I haven’t tasted orange in—oh, my, how long?”

  Sylah smiled her pleasure. “I was as surprised as you. A nice touch from the army wives who put up the dried rations. I wonder where they got it? So little of the powder comes into Ola or Harbundai.”

  “Those ladies are getting to be truly considerable traders.” Tate took a healthy sip from the mug and sighed. “Whoever did this has my eternal heart.” She handed the cup back.

  Sylah shook her head. “Keep it. Lanta’s got enough for all of us. I should take some to Conway; he’s graining the horses and rubbing them down.”

  “Oh.” Tate exclaimed distress, starting to rise. “I meant to help him offload. Is he done already?”

  “He said he wanted you to have some time to yourself. He didn’t mind, really.”

  Tate said, “I’ll take care of it next time. You know, he’s enjoying himself. He’s becoming quite trailwise.”

  Sylah chuckled, turning away with a gesture of embarrassment. When Tate insisted she say why, she looked around carefully. “I was only thinking how glad I am that he has his lightning weapons. Have you seen him with a bow?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s awful. He tries so hard, and it’s just sad. Arrows go everywhere. The Wolves were calling him Cloudkiller.”

  They laughed together, rocking back and forth, and Tate confessed that she’d used a bow and arrow exactly once. “The time the bear came after Clas and me, remember? We were so lucky.”

  “I was the lucky one. My husband and my friend survived.” Scanning around them, she grew contemplative. “I was thinking today how this reminds me of the camp we made during our escape from Bay Yan and Likat after Gan killed Faldar Yan—the small stream over there, campfire smells. If I let myself think about it, I can believe there’s someone watching from behind every tree, waiting around every bend of the path.”

  “I get the same feeling. I never said anything, but I even dream about it.”

  “Dream?” Surprise burst from Sylah. Nervous laughter started, stopped abruptly. She leaned closer. “I do too. Not just the trail. Sometimes it’s the Abbess. It’s always the same. She tells me she believes in me, tells me to keep on. I wish you’d known her longer.”

&
nbsp; “She was a wonderful woman. And she’s right about you.”

  “You mean that? After all that’s happened?”

  Puzzled, Tate stared. Sylah hurried on. “The Harvester, I mean. The other things. I didn’t do anything wrong. I truly believe that. But Conway was hurt. Church will be angry with you. So many things. Because I won’t stop looking for the Door. My fault.”

  “That’s just flat wrong.” Tate scolded; tone and manner exposed scorn. “You’re just like me, so don’t try that stuff. If there’s something you have to do, you do it. You don’t know how to quit, so don’t even talk about it.”

  The words gladdened Sylah, and yet they struck her with a weird, confusing power. The sensation passed in a breath, but it left her oddly lightheaded. Above all, however, she was reassured. Her hand went to Tate’s arm. “You do understand.”

  “I told you; we’re alike. And we’re all tense and tired. It’s so quiet. And dark. Miserable rain—it’s not even a decent downpour, just this constant wet that gets all over everything.” A jay squalled in the distance. Her head snapped up. “Where’s Dodoy? I don’t see him.” She rose, calling softly.

  The boy appeared from behind a tree. “Is it time to eat?”

  “Not quite. Did you get enough wood?”

  He nodded, his attention fixed on the remainder of the soup. Tate sat back down and offered it. “Sylah brought it. Wasn’t that a nice surprise?”

  He drained the mug, extending it to Sylah.