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

by Don McQuinn

The others were chasing her. Conway’s dogs were gaining on her.

  If they rode back into the thicket, there could be an accident. All he’d be able to see would be leaves jerking around. That wouldn’t be any fun. Anyhow, if someone got hurt, they’d have to sit around and wait for them to get well. Like for stupid Conway after his fight with the pig.

  He’d tell them looking at the dead old woman scared him, so he ran away. Tate would believe. She’d keep the rest away.

  He stood up and took a deep breath to yell, started a wave.

  Something wrapped around him, pinned his arms to his side, crushed his chest. He rose in the air. A hand as rough as tree bark covered his mouth. Someone swung him behind a rock, spun him around. A heavy bearded face lowered itself to his level. The eyes were blue glass. The bushy brown beard moved. A voice came through it. “Not one sound, little rat. Not one.” A knife appeared in the man’s hand. It slipped across Dodoy’s throat. Its bite was like a hundred mosquitoes, all at once, all in a line.

  He squealed.

  The man’s laugh was quiet, like soft drumbeats. The knife stayed in place. He said, “I see you understand. Turn around. Hold your hands behind you.”

  Dodoy obeyed instantly. With practiced swiftness, the man crossed the wrists and lashed them together, painfully tight. Next the man grabbed a large clutch of Dodoy’s hair. The other hand grasped his belt in the back. Dodoy rose once more. He thought his hair would pull right out of his head; his trousers tried to split him in two. He gritted his teeth: Not a sound.

  The man slammed him down on a horse. Dodoy reached vainly for the stirrups. With his hands tied, the only way he could keep his seat was with his knees.

  The man got on Dodoy’s horse. He reached down to take the reins of the animal Dodoy was riding, saying, “You should feel honored, little rat. The last person to sit that saddle was a high-ranking Violet Priestess.” Seeing Dodoy’s reaction, he laughed again, the same muted drumming.

  Dodoy started to cry.

  The man said, “That’s good. Very good. That’ll help. You want to live, rat?”

  “Yes! Yes. I’ll do whatever you tell me. I promise.”

  Jerking the reins, pulling Dodoy’s horse in trail, the man said, “I wouldn’t trust your promise any more than I’d try to save a snowflake on my tongue. Just do as you’re told and hope it works.”

  “I will. I do.” Dodoy wanted to say more, but the man growled at him to be quiet.

  Tears continued to stream down Dodoy’s face. He cursed them all. Fools. Cockroaches. If they’d left him alone, none of this would have happened. They were happy in Ola. That witch, Sylah. And Tate, stupid Tate, her and her stupid orders.

  Now this. The man would sell him.

  He hated them. All of them. Stupid dogs should have found him right away.

  Lanta, Conway, Tate; they followed Sylah. Her fault. Their fault. All of them. Whatever happened, they deserved it.

  Chapter 27

  Conway whistled the dogs back to him, letting Tate plunge into the blackberries. It didn’t make sense to him that Dodoy would wander back down the trail that far, nor could he believe he’d reenter that thicket alone. Once over the shock of discovering the boy missing, Conway reasoned that their best chance of finding him was the dogs.

  Karda and Mikka came to a stop in front of Stormracer and sat, waiting instructions. Conway pointed away from the blackberry thicket. “Karda. Mikka. Seek. Dodoy.” At his go hand signal, they padded away purposefully.

  The dogs soon left the trail for the mountain to the west. Conway called to Tate. There was no answer. Sylah and Lanta waved acknowledgment, galloping to rejoin him from the edge of the thicket. He waited for them, then called Tate one last time before following the dogs.

  The trio proceeded slowly, scanning the ground for hoofprints. Occasionally one or the other would exclaim over some perceived mark, and they’d discuss it. In every case, they eventually admitted they were guessing. They were in one such conference when Conway looked up and was surprised to see Mikka hurrying toward him.

  Conway had convinced himself Dodoy was simply off on some self-centered entertainment of his own. Now he wasn’t sure. If the boy was so close, he certainly heard Tate’s distressed calls. Conceding his dislike for Dodoy, Conway still didn’t want to believe the boy would torment her.

  The size and number of the boulders began to interfere with his progress. Mikka, unconcerned about a horse’s ability to navigate narrow passages or scramble across haphazard rock piles, led Conway into three impassable situations in a row. Frustrated and irritated, Conway had just turned around to ride back out of the last dead end when a bedraggled Tate pushed past the two Healers to confront him. She said, “Why are you going back? Aren’t you going to help me look?”

  He glared. “The horse can’t fly, Donnacee. This gully’s impassable a few yards beyond here. Of course, I intend to keep looking. If you get out of the way.”

  Tate scrambled clear. “Well, why aren’t you calling him, reassuring him? The dog doesn’t like him. The poor kid’s scared to death, that brute staring—”

  Conway jabbed his heels in Stormracer’s ribs, drowned the rest of her complaint in the clatter of hooves on rock. Mikka, confused, dropped her tail and set about leading on yet another route. Conway wished he could make her understand that all she had to do was follow the track of Dodoy’s horse, and everything would be fine. The dog, however, wanted only to take the most direct—dog direct—route to Karda.

  Tate, distracted and afraid, rode so close to Conway that her horse crowded his. In turn, Stormracer kept trying to escape that pressure. Conway’s neck grew redder with every step.

  Lanta whispered to Sylah. “This is getting very bad. Can we do anything?”

  Sylah shook her head. “Once Tate has the boy in hand, everything will calm down.”

  Lanta said, “She should leave Conway alone. She’s going to make trouble, you watch.”

  Ahead of them, Conway gave a strangled shout as Stormracer reared and spun, determined to rid himself of the irritation from Tate’s mount. Tate belatedly yanked at the reins as her horse dodged lashing hooves. Then Tate’s dogs decided their mistress was threatened. They rushed at Conway. Tate’s sharp command brought them back to her side, still bristling.

  It was all over in moments. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was changed. Where there had been tension, now there was a sense of damage done.

  Pungently, Conway suggested Tate practice some of the vaunted discipline she claimed to personify. “Start with yourself,” he shouted over his shoulder, sending the still-skittish Stormracer after Mikka, adding, “and when you see some progress in that direction, you might want to give some thought to your horse, your dogs, and that kid, too.”

  “Just find your own dog,” she answered. “Or else get out of the way and let me do it.”

  Her expression when she stole a glance at Sylah and Lanta proved she knew she’d been wrong. The sudden set of her shoulders was a clear statement that she had no intention of admitting it. Nervous fingers drumming the stock of her wipe, she waited for Sylah and Lanta to reach her side before following at a more discreet distance.

  They all saw the man holding Dodoy simultaneously.

  He stood atop a huge slabsided flat rock that jutted from the mountainside like an altar. The steep slope rose so it was an easy step to the ground at the back end. The front was too high to vault onto, and the man had a clear view of anyone attempting to flank him. Two steps off the rear of his stage would put him among shielding boulders that offered protection all the way to the crest. In a dark long-sleeved jacket and matching trousers, he waited, spread-legged, calm and composed. He wore a sword strapped to his back, the blade long enough to reach down his back to his buttocks, while the hilt projected over his left shoulder. A slung bow and the feathered butts of a quiver of arrows projected above the right.

  Karda sheltered behind a rock off to the flank, only the crown of his head and eyes exposed, ears fla
ttened to his skull. Instead of turning to look at Conway, the animal rolled his eyes as far as he could, then returned his attention to the man. Mikka took cover behind a tree, alternately watching Conway and the stranger.

  The man held Dodoy in front of him, peering over the top of the boy’s head. His left arm encircled Dodoy’s waist. His right hand held the knife to Dodoy’s throat. A wash of blood stained the boy’s bale skin. When he struggled and attempted to call to them, the polished blade twitched and glared light directly into Tate’s eyes. The shock broke her trancelike state. She screamed at the man.

  “Let him go! You’ve cut him, damn you. Let him go.”

  Unruffled, the man addressed Conway. “I’ll trade. The Iris one, Rose Priestess Sylah. The boy for her.”

  “No.” Conway unobtrusively flicked off the wipe’s safety, eased a round into the chamber. “Let him go.”

  “Ask the others. Ask the Black Lightning behind you. She says the boy is hers. We both know it’s an escaped slave. By law, I should deliver the two of them to the rightful owner. Instead, I offer something the Tate one wants for someone who’s nothing to you, the Rose Priestess Sylah.”

  Sylah moved forward, stopping beside Conway. He noticed she was careful to stay to his left, automatically staying clear of a right-handed man’s sword arm. Her voice reeked with scorn. “I know you, Protector. Who throws you bones since Altanar’s fall? You think to find your disgraced king, give me to him?”

  For the first time, the man reacted. Color flooded his cheeks. His eyes widened. It took a moment for him to regain control. “I serve whoever pays. I serve their gold well.”

  “You killed a Priestess. Your life is ended. What am I to you?”

  He shook his head. To Conway, he said, “I do business with men. The boy for the woman.”

  By design, or by momentary lapse, Dodoy slipped. As the man moved to regain his grip, the knife pulled away from the boy’s throat. Free of the blade, Dodoy screamed. “Give him Sylah! Donnacee! Mother! Make him let me go.”

  The protector replaced the knife. Dodoy quieted.

  Tate broke into tears. When Conway turned to face her, she shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

  Sylah said, “If I go…”

  Conway shouldered his horse into hers, nearly spilling her. He said, “If he tries to take Dodoy away, I’ll blow his feet off.”

  The exchange brought Tate forward. With one hand on Sylah’s shoulder, she stared up at Dodoy, saying, “Don’t shoot, Conway. He’ll cut him sure.”

  Nodding, the man agreed. “I watched the Falconer one demonstrate your lightning weapon for Altanar. Kill me, and the knife still gets this one.”

  Conway said, “Just put him down. Leave. We won’t come after you.”

  The man laughed, white teeth gleaming through the beard. “That’s not good enough, Conway. My problem is, Church won’t rest until its lovely ladies smell my burning. Unless I get the Rose Priestess, I have to take the boy with me to protect myself. That means your black friend’ll never rest until she puts my guts on the ground. The Priestess is the key to my life.” Dramatically, he hoisted Dodoy by the collar, dangling him as if peddling a rabbit in a market. “Trade, or look on this for the last time.”

  Tate was shaking violently. She braced herself on the saddle with both hands. “I’ll find you. I’ll track you down and I will kill you. Not for revenge. For the pleasure of seeing you die.”

  Soberly, the man said, “I know you’ll try.”

  Sylah said, “Donnacee, my dear, dear friend. I’m so sorry. It’s going to be all right.” She reached to cover Tate’s hands where they rested.

  Tate flinched at the touch. Eyes closed, lips stretched over clenched teeth, she said, “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to think about it. Your wonderful plans, your grand adventure. See what—”

  Conway shouted at her. “Stop it! It’s not her fault, Tate. Don’t make things worse.”

  The protector was laughing again. He finally spoke, addressing Sylah. “Well Priestess, see what love and respect your goodness has earned you. Is the black one your friend? Watch her, in the days to come. Every time she looks at you, she’ll picture her darling pet cold and dead. Or digging in a godkill, not knowing the difference between life and death. I kill only to survive. She wants to kill me for the pleasure of it. Which of us is the better? Think about that. Think about her sleeping beside you.” He sheathed the knife, adjusted his hold on Dodoy, took a step backward.

  Grimly, Conway conceded that the only decent shot he’d get was if the man grew careless. He changed his grip on the wipe, tensing for a snap shot.

  Tate moaned audibly as the man continued to retreat, step by wary step. She raised her weapon, but immediately lowered it. Her teeth worried at her lower lip, and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.

  Dodoy cried piteously, begged for Tate. His shrill hysteria unnerved her. She called his name. Tanno and Oshu crowded close to her horse, confused, and angry. Karda and Mikka’s dark eyes fixed on the protector, rose to a crouch, ready to charge. Conway’s soft command brought them to order.

  Dodoy screamed.

  Tate leapt from her horse and ran forward, Tanno and Oshu bounding beside her. Instantly, the protector stopped, and when he did, Dodoy shrieked at Tate to get back. “You made him cut me again. You let him get me, and he’s hurting me. Save me. Save me!”

  Tate flinched as if each word were a fist. She fell to her knees, hands outstretched. Wordless agony, almost a melody of pain, flowed from her open mouth.

  The protector resumed his retreat, backing steadily closer toward the uphill slope and the protective warren formed by rocks and trees. He paused, offering one last taunt. “I’m leaving you the old Priestess’ horse, Conway, and the boy’s.”

  He half turned.

  Conway actually heard the arrow before he saw it. The whir of its passage was an uncertainty in his mind, like a riddle whose answer he knew, but couldn’t quite remember. Then, wondrously, terribly, the white shaft was growing out of the back of the protector’s shoulder. The man stiffened. His hesitant steps forward were the self-conscious mincing of deep embarrassment. Dazed concern clouded his face.

  The second arrow struck below the first, closer to the spine. It dropped him to his knees. His hands flopped to his sides.

  Dodoy never looked back. Free of the encircling arm, he was sprinting off the short step at the back of the rock when his feet touched the ground.

  Tate was waiting for him, scooping him up in midstride. Dodoy shouted at her to run, pummeling her back with his fist. She bent over him protectively and raced to shelter behind a convenient boulder. Belatedly, the rest of the group took cover, searching warily, unsure if they dealt with a benefactor or another raider.

  On the top of the rock, the protector continued to sway back and forth.

  Thinking aloud, Conway said, “He looks like he’s mourning.”

  “He is,” Sylah said.

  When the man toppled, the quiet rustle was the only sound in the forest. Into that yawning silence, Sylah called up the mountain. “Hello! Who are you? I am Rose Priestess Sylah, a War Healer of the Iris Abbey.” The stillness continued. When Sylah called again, it was a questioning, “Hello?”

  Cautiously, Conway approached the body. Snowy arrow feathers on a white shaft twitched in the wind. Shielding his eyes, Conway peered uphill. “Are you a protector?”

  The answer was laughter. Not scornful, or mocking; rich with satisfied amusement. The group exchanged nervous glances. The very lightheartedness of their benefactor made the situation all the more macabre.

  A distant clatter of rocks spoke of departure.

  Sylah advanced. She and Lanta moved the dead man to the edge of the flat-topped rock. Copper, scenting blood, pranced and jittered.

  Conway rode up. “What’re you doing?”

  “He has to have a proper burning,” Sylah said.

  “Leave him. The other animals’ll take care of him.”

&nbs
p; She glared. “You shame. He is not an animal. It is our duty.”

  He matched her stare as long as he could, then, muttering under his breath, he bent to the body and lifted it. Sylah steadied Copper and Conway slung the man across, lashing him in place.

  There was no talk on the way back to the Tender’s body. When Sylah asked Conway to place the protector on the same pyre, he simply grunted disapproval and did as bid. That done, he stalked off, ostensibly for more firewood.

  Lanta aimlessly wandered to the Tender’s campsite. She imagined the other woman, alone in this wilderness. Had her killer come skulking in the night? Or did he ride up boldly, full of friendly greeting and murderer’s guile?

  Lanta’s skin was clammy. Pulse throbbed at her temples, in her throat. She sat down against a rock. Her hand, limp on the ground, found a stone. She brushed it away irritably. And gasped aloud as the purple fire of the True Stone skipped across a shaft of sunlight, trailing its gold chain.

  As soon as she could move, Lanta scooped up the holy treasure, stuffed it into the inner pocket at the breast of her robe. The stone eliminated any question. The woman in the grove at Ola was the Tender herself.

  The True Stone. How? Why? Images—jointed, unrelated fragments—slashed across her inner vision.

  “Lanta?” Someone was shaking her. It hurt. She squinted, made a mewing noise in her throat. The hands turned gentle, stroked her temples, rubbed her wrists. She opened her eyes to meet the deep blue of Sylah’s worried look. Sylah said, “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “Thinking about our sister,” Lanta said, hiding behind the half truth of it. “I’m all right. Really.” Hating her own slyness, she continued, “Why would one as important as a Tender be here? Have you any idea?”

  Sylah shook her head, as much in wonder as denial. When she offered Lanta’s hand, she accepted it gratefully. On her feet, gripping the Stone, she felt more secure. Still, when Sylah said, “It’s time,” she nearly broke down again. Mustering her strength, she fell in beside Sylah. They moved to the pyre.

  Sylah struck the sparks, lighting the tow. Together, they recited the prayer for swift passage to the Land Above, not stopping until the ashes of Priestess and killer were mingled, indistinguishable from the fuel that consumed them.