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

by Don McQuinn

  Even when it was time to follow Tanno and Oshu into the narrow gap through the blackberries, she felt only confidence. She admitted easily that an animal such as the boar would be no less a challenge for her than for Conway. Perhaps more so. Strength was what saved him, not skill or cunning.

  She thought back to the fight with the Skan captain. She’d nearly gotten killed, but she’d learned she could fight well enough to stay with the best. Strength wasn’t the answer for her, though. Most men would easily outmuscle her. So far, there’d been neither opportunity nor need to confide her close combat training to Conway or the others.

  She didn’t know why she hadn’t made the opportunity. It wasn’t as if she were keeping it a secret. Not really. Still and all, thinking about not sharing information made her feel grimy.

  She shook her head free of niggling questions.

  Thought. That had to be her primary weapon. Always thinking, being one step ahead of everyone else: that was survival. The best way to help Sylah, too, of course. Aloud, she said, “You take the king’s shilling, you do the king’s work.” It was a phrase that had died with its world, at least five centuries ago, but it was a philosophy that would sell well in this world. In truth, she didn’t care if anyone agreed with it or not. It was the way she saw herself. She was a professional, and she’d signed on to help Sylah through to the end.

  On the other hand, there were things she couldn’t do.

  At that point in her mental wandering, she arrived where the fight had taken place. Crushed and broken canes marked the scene, although the rains had invigorated the growth. Recovery was already well under way. New, eager stalks and leaves bent into the battle-created gaps, reaching for light. With the under-structure broken and knocked awry, the higher reaches of the jungle also sagged inward. Aggressive vine tips twined and coiled about each other in the struggle to claim the sun. They hooked Tate’s clothing, plucked at her sleeves like importuning beggars. She drew her murdat and punished them.

  While she did, she irritably told herself that worrying about her integrity wasn’t the same as making reservations about her relationship with Sylah. In the first place, Sylah wouldn’t ask her to do anything out of line. The crunch would come if Dodoy began to remember landmarks and wanted to take a course different from Sylah’s. Tate admitted to herself that she wasn’t sure she could remain by Sylah’s side in that case.

  Breaking one’s word wasn’t just something. Not for Donnacee Tate.

  Was it worth that to find her own people? What would she ever do if she abandoned Sylah and Conway to follow her own needs?

  Hacking at more vines, she asked herself what right any of them had to question her goals. They all had their own agenda.

  Reining up suddenly, she shook her head, then rubbed her temples. Aloud, she said, “Listen to yourself, Tate. You hear what you’re doing? Some friend.”

  From deep in the thicket, a bird sang a long, complex response. A moment later, it flitted into sight skipping from perch to perch with mercurial unpredictability. Tate was close enough to see the pinpoint glisten of its eyes. Its tail, board stiff and perkily upright, jerked continually.

  There was a brief flutter of wings, and it was gone. A heavy silence settled on the path. Tate’s horse blew through is nose softly, as if reacting against the quiet.

  The swift change of atmosphere reminded Tate forcibly of exactly where she was, and how hostile the place could be. She heeled her horse forward. It seemed to her it responded more readily than usual. When Tanno peered back from around a distant bend, checking on her mistress, Tate was so glad to see her she smiled openly. The dog wagged her tail and went back to work.

  The trail led generally south and west. By the time she reached the first trees of the forest on the far side of the vine-dominated valley, it was midmorning. The sun broke through the high overcast briefly, then was hidden as a roiling boil of heavy clouds lumbered across the sky. They brought a spatter of rain, and for a moment she debated wearing her Dog-woven poncho or wrapping herself in the quilted Whale Coast cloth. The latter was completely waterproof and lighter, but thinking of the smell persuaded her to choose the poncho. The wool soaked up some water and got heavy, but it was prettier. The black and brown rattlesnake patterns on the dark green background made for better camouflage.

  Strange, she thought; there’d been nothing to suggest she might need camouflage. Still, the thought had come forcefully.

  Whistling in the dogs, she examined them carefully when they came into sight. Aside from the fact they were obviously enjoying roaming the countryside, there was nothing remarkable in their behavior. In fact, when the rest of the party caught up and broke free of the blackberry tangle, all four dogs romped happily in greeting.

  Sylah suggested they eat before continuing. They never cooked the midday meal, not wanting to take the time or risk the smoke. Everyone chose from the available food loaded on the pack horses. For this occasion, Sylah selected dried meat, sprinkling it liberally with a pepper vinegar. Tate and Conway made an elaborate show of choosing dried fruit. Lanta, belying her size, tucked away a large bowl of pakka, a combination of nuts, toasted grains, and pieces of chopped, dried fruit.

  Finishing quickly, they chatted easily as they resumed the journey. Sylah suggested to Tate that she leave the point duty to the dogs so she could ride along with the group. Tate accepted the idea. In spite of the relaxed atmosphere, however, they individually turned to watch the blackberry hollow disappear as the ranks of fir closed it off from view.

  The trail continued gently downhill, generally southwest. Through the trees ahead, however, loomed a mountain’s sheer stone face. The trail angled to the left of that feature, cutting between it and the higher mountains to the east.

  When Conway attempted to apologize because the village they’d expected to find obviously didn’t exist, Sylah stopped him. “We accepted the probability of confused trails when we decided to avoid people as much as possible. It’s not certain we took a wrong turn or misunderstood directions. More likely, we got bad information. We’ll be fine.”

  Tate and Lanta chorused agreement, just as they exited the forest onto the graveled shore of a beautiful triangular lake. One of its points aimed directly at the adjacent stone face. The latter loomed, despite the fact that it was a good quarter of a mile distant.

  A breeze rippled the lake’s emerald waters. It came from the south, channeled through the pass they’d soon be riding into. At the southern limit of the lake was the edge of a fairly recent burn. Instead of sky-blocking ancient trees, there were dead black spikes everywhere. They pointed accusingly at the sky, blaming it for the lightning that had destroyed them. High above, an eagle drifted on the wind, tilting from side to side. It screamed once, a shrill, descending note. Following is course, Sylah rose in her stirrups, turning almost completely around to watch its grace.

  Reversing its course, the bird called again, paralleling the landmark rock face. It was so close it seemed its wingtip must brush it. Sylah decided that it must have been the bird’s cries she heard at the morning greeting with Lanta.

  They reached the southern end of the lake a short time later. Green, tangled new growth fought to reclaim the scorched land. Sylah estimated the damage to be about four years old. Erosion scars were angry, open sores in the earth. The sight was so dramatic that the scent of burned wood came to Sylah as if the fire still raged.

  Her line of thought was abruptly canceled when Karda and Mikka suddenly rushed forward. Karda positioned himself a few yards in front of Conway’s horse. They all reined up, just as Oshu came into sight, racing for Tate. Halting in front of her mistress, the dog looked over back the way she’d come, and growled. Then she looked back to Tate for instructions.

  Tanno remained somewhere ahead of them, out of sight, silent.

  Sylah said, “Lead us, Tate. Have the dog take us to what troubles her.”

  Tate nodded, then spoke to the dog. It immediately began retracing its steps, the long, swin
ging stride requiring the horses to break into a trot to keep up. To Sylah, Tate said, “Tanno’s probably got another boar or something spotted on the trail. I think Oshu’d be more excited if there were people involved.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sylah said.

  Tate frowned at Sylah’s uncertainty. Turning, she waved Dodoy further back.

  They’d ridden only a short distance when Oshu turned right, leaving the trail. She looked over her shoulder to assure she was being followed, then continued.

  Tate said, “What’s this? Did they decide to hunt down a deer or something? They know better than that.”

  Conway said, “Karda and Mikka seem unconcerned. If it was a chase, they’d be wanting in on it.”

  Oshu led them uphill, toward the rock face of the cliff. They were some distance from its base, but huge slabs of rock, fallen over the ages, littered the ground. Passing out of the burn, the group rode through forest again. It was sparse, but the protective shade seemed to soften the unspoken, growing tension. Trotting out from behind one of the house-sized boulders, they saw Tanno ahead. She waited patiently, lying down, head swiveling from the direction of the cliff to the approaching riders, then back again. Seeing Tate, she wagged her tail once, then concentrated on something to her front. Whatever it was, it remained hidden from the group by another massive rock.

  When they could see past that obstacle, they stopped and stared as one. Sylah’s first thought was of the sounds she’d heard earlier. She’d tried to make herself believe they were the sounds of nature. Her heart had known what her mind refused to accept. Now there was no argument.

  Circling in the sighing breeze, a black robed sister of Church spun slowly in obscene dance, hanged by a rope slung over a tree limb.

  Chapter 26

  The smoke from the smoldering campfire rose around the sister in a gentling shroud. Perversely, the body twisted to expose the choked, distorted face deep within the cowl. A shift in the wind drew the smoke back over it. Through her horror, Sylah thought how appropriate that even nature should try to hide such a cruel and shameless crime. Behind her, she vaguely heard Lanta’s painful retching.

  Tate was frozen, staring, Conway white with shock.

  Sylah forced herself erect, heeled her horse forward.

  The woman wore the three violets of a Tender of the Violet Order embroidered on the right breast of her robe. Nightmare-slow, Sylah reached for the rope. The knot, drawn iron hard, was nearly buried in the flesh of the neck. Whoever did this thing knew how to tie such a knot, how to assure it would squeeze off air, blood, and, finally, pain. Not that the latter was a charity. No.

  Altanar’s protectors hanged people. They used such a knot. They didn’t kill by snapping the neck. For Altanar and his protectors, the end of pain was paid for with the end of life. One bought that relief slowly, slowly.

  Sylah’s fingernails ripped on the knot, then Conway was roughly shoving her away. His murdat flashed. A heavy, wet sound—not the brisk chop she expected—and the rope parted. Before Sylah could dismount, Conway sliced the knot. Part of her mind registered how competently his hand searched for a pulse.

  He knew it was useless, of course, but it was form. Just as it was form for her to acknowledge his negative shake of the head.

  Conway saw Lanta approach, and hurriedly drew the cowl closed.

  Lanta started at the embroidered insignia. “One of us,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  At first, Sylah thought she might be ill again. Lanta swallowed noisily, however, then inspected the features. That done, she closed the cowl once more. To Sylah she said, “I can’t be sure. The disfigurement… I don’t think I ever saw her before.”

  Tate asked, “What’s she doing out here all alone? I mean, a Tender—that’s high rank, right? Wouldn’t she travel with a group? A guide, or companion, at least? And why on this out-of-the-way trail?”

  Sylah agreed. “It makes no sense. Unless the friction between orders is out of hand, and a woman of such rank feels it’s necessary to travel as secretly as possible.”

  Conway pointed to the sister’s left wrist. “Outlaws,” he said. “That tear in her wrist happened when someone jerked a bracelet free. Look how her fingers on the right hand are ripped; there were rings there, you can bet on it.” With stiff, brusque movements he jammed his hands into the deep robe pockets, turning them inside out. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything’s gone. I’ll check the campsite, see if I can find her horse.”

  “I’ll help you,” Lanta said, then to Sylah, “We have to have a pyre, Sylah. If you don’t want to delay more, I’ll stay behind and do it alone. She’s my order.”

  Sylah said, “We’ll burn her properly. ‘Fire cleanses.’”

  “‘Fire purifies us all,’” Lanta responded. Each executed a three-sign. Lanta hurried to follow Conway.

  As Tate and Sylah carried the sister’s body between them, Sylah was struck, as always, by the looseness. Many times she’d wondered about the final liberty of death. The Tender’s hand dragged across the soft forest duff, creating a shallow furrow. It made Sylah feel the dead woman scorned them, was showing them that although they could lift and move her, her true obligation now was only to the pull of the earth. She had discovered eternity, and mocked their transitory concept of dignity.

  Searching for a proper cremation place, Sylah discovered a niche in some rocks. With Tate, she attacked a downed tree with their axe, lopping branches for firewood. They created several crisscross layers before placing the sister on top, then laid another half-dozen layers atop her. When they were done, both women were sweat-drenched, and the sister was visible only as something darker than the shadowy pyre interior.

  That was when Tate discovered Dodoy wasn’t with them. She dropped the axe, raced to pick up her wipe where it rested against a tree. “Matt! Where are you? Is Dodoy with you?” She repeated herself twice, growing more agitated each time. Conway, Lanta, and his two dogs trotted into view some distance away. Conway yelled back, “Not with us.”

  Tate ran to leap into the saddle, whistling for Tanno and Oshu; the dogs were already racing to her. Ignoring the pleas of the others for her to wait, she pounded back through the forest yelling Dodoy’s name as she went.

  * * *

  From his perch high in the rocks above the lake, Dodoy watched the excitement. To his immediate left rose the cliff wall, while behind and above him was a more manageable, although quite steep, grade leading west over the top of the small mountain. Below him was very sparse forest that had found purchase in the rocks. The mountain sloped away gently for some distance to his right before dropping off abruptly. That was the pass they’d been headed for. The wind coming through it stirred the trees, made the branches dance.

  The people below him were dancing, too, Dodoy thought, smiling. He had a clear view of them. Good enough to let him see Tate almost run over Lanta with her horse. The small Priestess tripped, went sprawling, rolling over and over. He clamped both hands over his mouth. There was little chance they’d hear him laugh at this distance, but there was no sense in taking a chance.

  Once, onboard the Skan ship, he found a wooden box with the top and bottom knocked out. He’d put it on the deck and dropped cockroaches in it. When he poked at them with the end of a burning stick, they scuttled and darted wonderfully. That was what the people looked like. Especially Lanta. Black. Legs and arms jerking. Just like a bug.

  This was even better, though; the cockroaches could only run around. The only noise they made was tiny scrabbling. People yelled. The voices reaching him were thin and unintelligible. He wished he could hear exactly what they were saying.

  It served them right. Especially Tate. She gave too many orders. Like sending him back behind everyone. How was he supposed to see anything from there? Waved at him, like he was one of the stupid dogs. And as soon as she saw the stupid woman hanging from the tree, she forgot all about him.

  What was so important about someone already dead? If Tate really liked him, s
he’d have come to him, told him not to be afraid of the way the ugly purple face looked at him with its nasty, popped-out eyes.

  He shivered and sat down, tucking his elbows into his sides.

  Instead of coming to him, when he really wanted her to, what’d she do? Ran to the dead woman. Stupid. What could she do for her?

  He thought of the cockroaches again. Whenever one reached the top of the box and tried to escape over the edge, he whacked it with the burning stick.

  It’d be fun to be able to shoot arrows at Sylah and all of them. Not hit them, because they might shoot back. He certainly couldn’t kill any of them. The others would leave him. Alone. Probably even take his horse away, make him walk. None of them liked him. Not even Tate. She said she did, but all she cared about was where he came from. Thought there was a reward, something like that. Talked about how he reminded her of somebody in her family. She must think he was really stupid. She was black. No one else had skin like that.

  But he knew he was from someplace far to the south of Ola. South of Kos, even. The man who sold him to the Skan captain said so. And he was from someplace where there wasn’t any ocean; the first sight of all that water scared him. When they actually made him get on the ship and go out on it, he was so afraid he cried and wet himself.

  Unconsciously, he squirmed in his hiding place, thinking of the way the captain made it clear he wasn’t to do either of those things again.

  His hand stole to the scars across his buttocks. Then he smiled, hearing the captain’s sounds when Tate stuck the murdat in his crotch.

  A person could get even. Sometimes better than even, if the person was patient. If the person was smart.

  Down below, Tate was almost all the way back to the blackberries.

  At least she’d given him a chance to escape from the ship.