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

by Don McQuinn

Sylah said, “You can wash it when you wash for dinner.”

  Instead of moving toward the nearby stream, he said, “You always say I don’t wash enough. I think I know why I don’t like it as much as all of you. When I was real little, someone told me we didn’t have enough water to be clean like other people. The only place we could get water was the river. She was afraid of it. She said it would hurt you. Something like that.”

  Tate said, “Think, Dodoy. It’s important. Exactly what did she say? Did she say it would drown you?”

  “That wasn’t it.”

  “Did she say it would eat you? Devour you?”

  Slowly, as if preoccupied, he fumbled in the leather sack holding his belongings where it lay beside Tate. Hauling out a fire drill and its accompanying flat board, he wound the string around the shaft. When he had the stick twirling, he went on. “I’m not sure. What was the last thing you said?”

  “Devour? That word?”

  “I think so. That means eat, right?”

  Eagerly, Tate faced Sylah. “You heard. The same word the Iris Abbess’ letter used to describe the river. Exactly. There’s a connection. There has to be.”

  Sylah found a smile. “If I hadn’t seen and heard, I wouldn’t have believed.” A wisp of smoke curled up from Dodoy’s board. He built a small cup of tow around it. Absorbed in his work, he was equally oblivious to Tate’s joy and the cold speculation in Sylah’s eyes.

  Lanta called, “Everything’s ready. We can eat now.”

  Tate said, “I can’t wait to tell the others. He’s got childhood memories of a desert land. It has to be near Church Home. When he sees it, he’ll remember more. He can be our guide. It’s wonderful.”

  “Wonderful,” Sylah agreed, hurrying to catch up as Tate led the boy off.

  Conway had erected a fly so Lanta could cook and they could all eat undercover, and halfway to it, Sylah realized her mug was back where Dodoy dropped it. Retrieving it, she continued to wonder about devour.

  A chill stopped her in her tracks. What if he was an incipient Seer? There were stories of those who had that capability and didn’t comprehend what it was until a knowledgeable observer recognized it. Such power had to be nurtured, controlled. Or go wild.

  The meal passed as usual, eaten rapidly, with little talk. They rode all day in a strange sort of tense boredom. By evening, physical and emotional energies were sapped. After a hot meal, renewed, that was when they normally enjoyed some light, relaxed conversation. Until nightfall.

  Sylah marveled that Conway managed on as little sleep as he did. He’d assumed nightwatch, with its constant wakenings, as well as any small supportive tasks he noticed. He was careful to avoid any sign of out right control, however. She appreciated that. Now, with dinner finished, he reminded Dodoy it was his job to clean the dishes. Tate rose to help the boy.

  Conway was enjoying the same scene, but he heaved to his feet with a sigh of resignation. He called to the others that he was moving out to nightwatch.

  He wondered if they could imagine his two-edged sense of anticipation, this time when he felt most a warrior and most afraid that he might fail his companions.

  Gan and Clas and all the others had taught him well; he knew that. He used the murdat capably. Maybe he was weak with a bow and arrow, but he had the wipe and the boop.

  And the sniper’s rifle.

  Reaching for it he stroked the waterproof sealskin cover of the plastic case lashed to his saddle. Every word of Falconer’s lecture was still in his memory. “Don’t try to outguess this solar-powered scope. And never even wonder about taking it off to use it for long-range viewing. You’d never get it back on properly. It’s all automatic. Center the sighting dot on the target and push this button. The laser measures the distance, feeds the data into the computer, and it adjusts the sight picture. All you do is turn this little knob to add your estimated windage. Squeeze the trigger. You’ll hit your man ninety-eight point five times out of a hundred. You’re throwing approximately three-quarters of an ounce of copper-jacketed spent uranium. Don’t worry what damage the slug does. Aim for the middle of the target. You won’t have to shoot the same man twice.”

  Conway drew his murdat from is carved wooden scabbard, holding it out at arm’s length. It had balance and form that pleased the eye. The pebbled sharkskin leather handle was not only good looking, it afforded a sure grip when wet. On the wood of the scabbard, a carved prairie bear rose on hind legs to threaten. It all reflected craftsmen’s pride.

  The wipe was ugly-honest, a tool for combat.

  The rifle lied. Sleek, glossy, its stock of rare, genuine walnut and its blue steel barrel begged to be held. The solar panel and light-gathering optics dazzled with technical lordliness. Yet it reeked of cold killing. Falconer used it once. Across a distance of at least a half a mile. Sent a man spinning and tumbling into a broken heap. One shot.

  Conway realized his hand was resting on the case again. As he pulled it free, a chill trembled along his spine. He told himself it was because it was going to be a wet night, and gathered up his Dog blanket, the one treated to resist water.

  Karda and Mikka spanned out ahead of him, going downhill.

  It was several hours later that the pressure of a paw on his right thigh brought Conway from sleep to full consciousness. Utterly still, he studied the darkness. He’d trained himself to sleep sitting up, backed against a tree. Mikka always rested on his pistol side. Slowly, silently, he drew his wipe from its waterproof leather scabbard. There was already a round in the chamber; he needed only to flick off the safety. As he did, he touched the six-power scope mounted above the receiver and mourned the centuries-dead batteries that had once turned it into a night-vision device.

  Distantly, there was a confused rustle. Horses. Several horses, downhill, scuffling along the dark trail, uncertain of their footing. Directly below him, a man coughed. The riders left a silence behind them that throbbed in Conway’s breast.

  For what seemed like hours, he puzzled over the group. Were they fleeing someone? Why else suffer the problems of a night march? He let the others sleep undisturbed. For himself, every question he asked generated ten more, each as unanswerable as the first. After much useless effort to sleep, he remembered the relaxation techniques taught him by Sylah. Silently, he thought the chant, the soothing repetitions of in-directed words that turned his mind on itself. He saw a meadow, the grass soft and fragrant. The man lying in the sun there was himself, as was the second man, who stood on guard. That man was alert, ready; he assured the sleeper rested silently and well.

  He woke to Karda growling softly. Conway was instantly awake again, every sense straining. A predator attracted by the horses? He reminded himself to move nothing but his eyes, and to see from their corners. Stress made them water, and he risked a painfully slow reach to brush them away. The wipe in his hands felt useless against the unknown, unseen presence.

  He put a hand on Karda’s head to gauge the direction of the intruder. The dog was also confused. Slowly, however, like the turning of a wind, the tension left the animal. Conway sent him to investigate.

  Sleep was out of the question until Karda returned. When he did, he was calm.

  Mikka leaned away, broke contact with Conway. Karda snuffled, then lay flat with a soft exhalation. Not long after that, Conway sank back into sleep.

  He woke to a hazy dawn and the sound of activity uphill at the campsite. Sylah and Lanta were just stepping from under their shelter, beginning their morning ritual. He rose easily, then rubbed his arms and chest briskly, warming his blood before trotting down to examine the trail.

  There were fresh tracks in plenty. He wished he knew more about reading them. Clues like scarred shoeprints convinced him there were at least four riders, and perhaps six.

  No sign of life for days, then riders as well as stalking animals in the night, he thought. Good reason to be even more careful.

  Still, in the light of day his level of fear seemed overwrought, even dangerous. He had m
uch to learn about nightwatch.

  Making his way back toward the others, he decided to wash up on the way. There was no hurry; the riders were long away, and the animal story was just another incident. He winced inwardly, already hearing in his imagination the teasing he’d take when he confessed how concerned he’d been.

  The creek was in the direction Karda had pointed in the dark, and he wondered if the dogs would find any sign he could positively identify. Not likely, he told himself ruefully. He recognized only the most basic tracks.

  He’d gone about thirty yards from his watch post when he came to the creek bend where an earlier overflow had thrown a sand deposit out of the streambed and across the forest floor.

  Karda and Mikka rushed ahead to sniff and growl at the footprints there.

  Human footprints.

  Chapter 20

  “It’s a woman.” Conway placed his own foot beside the print. The three women bent forward to examine the difference closely. Dodoy crowded in front of them, nearly walking on the tracks. Tate gently pushed him aside, where he squatted, sulking, like some small, angry bird.

  Sylah said, “We can’t tell how long it’s been here. Since the last heavy rain; that sand would wash clean very easily.”

  “I can be more accurate than that,” Conway said.

  Tate bent to peer closely. “How?”

  Conway pointed at the edges of the depression. “See how distinct it is? That’s because it hasn’t had a chance to dry out. This is compacted sand; as soon as it loses moisture, it’ll crumble. Look at the configuration. She was practically tiptoeing. And here, both feet side by side; probably making sure she was downwind from where she expected me to be. I’ll be more careful from now on. Even so, the dogs knew someone was here.”

  As if approving of his reasoning, Tanno and Oshu moved, stiff-legged, past Tate to sniff the footprints. They retreated to stand protectively beside their master, the ruff of fur around their necks standing out. She stroked their heads absently, concentrating on the tracks. Karda and Mikka, already finished with their investigations, sat at a distance.

  Sylah glanced at them. “It’s odd your dogs never challenged.”

  “They knew. They warned me. We were all three awake, even though the wind was from uphill and they had no proper scent.”

  Dodoy said, “Then how can you be so sure the footprint’s new, or any of what you said? Maybe you dreamed the whole thing.”

  Tate grabbed the boy’s shoulder and thrust him behind her. Eyes on Conway, she said, “Don’t be rude, Dodoy. Matt knows what he’s doing.”

  Unabashed, Dodoy peered around her. “He’s not a real warrior, like Gan Moondark or Clas na Bale. Somebody’s after us, and he doesn’t know anything.”

  Sylah poised to intercede, but held her peace. Conway spoke to Tate. “He’s right. I’m not a tracker. I learned some things, though. If you hadn’t been so busy coddling your little friend, you might have, too.”

  For a long moment, they glared at each other. Both pairs of dogs shifted nervously. Mikka’s uncertain whine was the only sound. Tate broke the tableau. She grabbed Dodoy by the back of the neck, hustling him uphill toward the campsite, saying, “We have to talk.” Her dogs fell in behind her, looking back occasionally as if trying to understand the tension still tainting the air.

  Sylah gestured at the retreating group. “I sympathize with the dogs. All they know is that they’re supposed to protect us, all of us, and suddenly their masters are snarling at each other. How do we explain to them?”

  Conway said, “How do I explain to her?”

  Sylah and Lanta followed his gaze, where the small figure scuttled along in front of Tate. Lanta said, “Perhaps if you did as we do, spend time in meditation every morning.”

  Conway smiled wryly. “Learn to love him?”

  Very seriously, Lanta shook her head. “Just learn to not hate him.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up a hand. “You will, in time. He sees you as competition for Tate’s affection. If he can make you appear to be his enemy, he’ll steal her friendship from you. Be careful.”

  She was gone as soon as the words were said, leaving him to turn awkwardly to Sylah. He said, “She’s got it all figured out. Is she right?”

  “Perhaps. I think so.” She moved to return to the campsite, and he fell in beside her. He said, “Listen. While we’re all confessing things here, don’t you think it’s time you tell us what you think is behind this Door?”

  Startled, she stopped, faced him. A weak, confused gesture tried to dismiss him.

  He persisted. “Come on. You must have an idea.”

  “No. Really. I don’t.”

  “Then why?” He made a cutting gesture. “Oh. I’ve heard all about the Teachers and their supposed power and the massacre. But not a word about what this power might be. For that matter, if they were so strong, how’d men find a way to… to…”

  “Butcher them?” Sylah bit off the words. “We’re only tolerated at all because we’re the life-bringers. The Teachers challenged that dominance. Our only defense is morality, and if that fails, we die. You know as well as any. For your information, my Abbess said only a few Teachers knew the location of the Door. Their identity was secret. When the killers couldn’t find the ones they wanted, they killed all. It’s said some actually taunted their executioners, saying that only another Teacher would ever open the Door, and when that happened, the descendants of the killers would curse them forever.”

  Conway stopped, and she turned to look back at him. Since he was downhill, they were eye to eye, and he fastened his stare on her as though he would see past muscle and bone to the center of her being. “You seek that power?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Then, hurriedly, “Not for myself. I wouldn’t want it at all, if they hadn’t made me want it. Power frightens me. I see it frightens you. But think of equality. For one like me. I’m grateful to Church for saving my life. But I am hers. Can you understand?”

  “And if you have this power, you’ll own yourself.”

  “Not just me.” She chopped the air angrily. “The power of the Teachers will help all women. All people.”

  “It won’t corrupt you?”

  “Certainly not. You offend.”

  “I mean to. I want you to think about what you’re doing. I trust you. I’m your friend. That’s why I’m telling you you’re walking on the most dangerous ground a person can test. This power wasn’t enough to save your Teachers, but it was important enough for them to die for without revealing its location. Do you honestly believe it can’t corrupt you? Will you protect it so faithfully? Do you have the strength to reject it if there’s a danger it might fall into the wrong hands?”

  Twisting away, she walked up the hill, unable to will the stiffness out of her back, the fury from her stride. How dare he doubt her? Her life, her soul, was the search for the Door. If the Iris Abbess thought her worthy, who was this stranger to wonder about her?

  Who was he to examine the dark doubts that only she should know about?

  Who was he to make her cry?

  The first time he caught her sleeve, she pulled it free with a lunge that destroyed her balance. Without his quick grab at her arm, she would have fallen. Stumbling clumsily, she rounded on him. The sadness in his features stilled her harsh words. He said, “You understand being considered a possession, and I cannot. On the other hand, I can understand loss. I don’t want to lose a friend again, Sylah. I see Tate slipping away from me. I’m worried about this Door thing coming between you and me. Would you think I was insane if I said I don’t fear the death of my friends as much as I fear losing them? Does that make sense?”

  Sylah wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. Impulsively, she reached to touch his cheek. “You’re a troublesome man,” she said, then smiled crookedly. “I think ‘troublesome’ and ‘man’ in the same sentence may be one word more than necessary.” They smiled at each other, seeking ever-firmer ground in the emotional morass between them. Syla
h went on, “Seriously, life must be very difficult for you, separated from your own familiar world. If you’d rather leave, return there, I’d understand that. You see, I want my friends to think things through, too.”

  Conway laughed. It was a short, hurting sound. He said, “I think I’ll stay where I am, thanks. Anyhow, I’m looking for something, too, Sylah. Me. As long as you find me helpful, I’ll look with you. After that?” He shrugged.

  Tate called, saying the porridge was ready. Sylah and Conway resumed their walk up the hill.

  Lanta worked on a pack lashing, watching them come. She leaned back on the line, giving it a yank that squeezed a startled snort from the packhorse.

  After filling her wooden bowl, Lanta casually retreated uphill from her companions. Pulling the cowl of her cloak over her head, she let steam waft up inside its cover, savoring the mix of cornmeal, oats, wheat, chopped hazelnuts and walnuts. She spooned honey into it. Bathed in that aromatic warmth, she ate. And peered out of her enveloping hood to watch Conway and Sylah.

  No sidelong glances or meaningful sighs passed between them. In the first place, Sylah was too well trained to reveal any internal turmoil.

  Suddenly, she was embarrassed by the way her mind was working. Not only was she attributing improper thoughts to Sylah, she was basing all her conclusions on a completely false premise. Of course Sylah wasn’t giving off any of the normal behavior signs of a woman attracted to a man. She wasn’t even aware of what was happening to her. Not yet. Now she only saw Conway as a good companion. Handsome, admittedly, with good shoulders and firm muscles. No physical match for Clas na Bale. Conway would never be competition for Clas in Sylah’s mind.

  What made the situation so very dangerous, then, was the romanticism of it. Everyone knew Conway had never recovered from the loss of Tee, and that he was accompanying Sylah because he hoped to drown his sadness in adventure. The smoldering hurt in his eyes could melt the heart of anyone who wasn’t careful. He even moved like a man trying to find his way through a terrible, heavy world. Not that he was clumsy or graceless. On the contrary, his movements all indicated excellent strength and control, and he sat his horse as if fixed to the saddle. If one looked really closely, however, one couldn’t miss the touching air of sad preoccupation.