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

by Don McQuinn

  To what purpose? To awe less than two hundred and fifty savage men, women and children who seriously believed that flutes made of human bones were superior to wood? To command the obedience of a squad of unemployed torturers?

  He sprawled on the bed, let the aromatics settle on him. He surrendered to his mind, let it take him where it would.

  The nomad column would be destroyed. But how was that to help him? Surely he wasn’t expected to spend the rest of his life skulking through the forest, a jackleg priest spreading Moondance gospel while hiding from Katallon or someone like him?

  He’d prefer to irritate the snakes, then put his head in the basket.

  He pictured them striking. It would hurt. Oh, yes; terribly. He’d groan. And pull back. But he’d persevere. The wounds turn purple-black. Jones’ eyes bulge. A fang penetrates one…

  A fitting end. A death to refute whatever unknown power gave him dominion over those creatures in the first place.

  Engulfed in melancholy, he crawled to the exit hole and gazed out at the camp again. A boy yelled angrily and goats bleated; a woman called for her daughter to come start the cookfire. The woman was packing a large jar, fine enough to be called porcelain, into a carrying case of woven branches. Thin supports encircled the jar, protecting it and preventing spills.

  On the edge of the camp, a man ran his fingers lightly over a hoop drum. The bass whisper floated through the trees. Beside him, a younger man with a long, round piece of copper hammered one end to a point. Forcing the smaller end through a hole bored in a steel plate, he grabbed the protruding bit with pincers and pulled the whole length through. When he was done, he had a longer, thinner piece. He coiled the length around his wrist.

  That, thought Jones, summed up their highest ambitions. They knew nothing. None of them. What use could they be in helping a man like him reach his destiny?

  Acid tears filled his eyes.

  And then he saw it all, every detail.

  He laughed, the joy erupting in bellows, in lung-stretching howls, in an ecstatic paean.

  When he stopped, heaving for breath, the silence of the camp filtered through the leather tent walls, pressed against him. A tremulous voice finally lifted in wavering song. It was a Moondance hymn, asking for protection from madness.

  Fixing a fatherly smile, he moved outside. It was nearly dusk. Far to the east, Fox and the bulk of his watchers were just coming into sight on their return to camp. Beyond Fox, about an hour’s fast walk, was where the climb from the valley ended and the plateau began. Jones felt the hating eyes of the nomad scouts burning across the distance.

  The woman who’d been singing looked away. He walked to her, took her by the shoulder. “Look at me.” She turned her head painfully, forced herself to meet his gaze. Gently, Jones said, “I understand your fear. Don’t try to understand me or what I do. I am not of your understanding. Trust me. Obey. And I will deliver you to a world beyond your dreams.” He continued to stare directly into her eyes until she wavered. Her eyelids fluttered. When he asked her if she believed in him, she was barely able to mutter “Yes,” and when he released her, she staggered away as if drugged.

  Jones shouted letting joy propel his voice. “Everybody! Somebody! Find Altanar. I want my fool. Bring him to me. This evening Altanar entertains us all.”

  Outstretching his arms, Jones turned slowly, extending blessings to all. “Be calm, my people,” he said to the gathering group. “Tonight we begin our march to glory.”

  Chapter 30

  Fox tightened his grip on the thick branch supporting him before stretching his torso out into the night. The ground was invisible, but he remembered only too clearly how far below it was.

  He inhaled deeply, slowly, casting for any helpful eddy of the wind.

  The warmer air of the valley rose, bringing with it the story of the day’s activity. He smelled the crushed pine needles of the trail, the gritty dust kicked up by hooves, the rankness of horse droppings and urine. Running through all of that was the salty, bitter scent of men anticipating action; frightened, excited men. On a hunt they had a similar smell, but less pronounced. Unless, of course, they pursued a wounded prairie bear, or a tiger; it was the prospect of injury that honed the odor to its finest edge.

  Lastly, almost apologetically, a final aroma. Softer, out of place, there was the tight, crackling clean smell of the scrubbed air that passed through the waterfall’s mists. It had no importance for him, and he shook his head irritably to clear it.

  It had been a long time since the nomad warriors silently poured up and over the lip of the plateau. The final scout reports revealed their plan of attack. Two groups of about forty men each had started working their way forward and to the flanks of the camp shortly after dark. They carried no bows or torches, but had swords. It was obvious their primary task was to assure no one escaped past them.

  That left considerably more than one hundred men to stage the frontal assault on the village. The scouts reported the main element was in two lines, perhaps fifty paces apart. Only the men of the second line carried torches.

  To Fox’s right, a coyote yipped a short chorus. A moment later a deer barked somewhere off to the left.

  Congratulating his enemy on excellent imitations, Fox settled against the branch, concentrating.

  This was the most elaborate ambush he’d ever planned. It had to be flawless. The thought dried his mouth. Everything had to be flawless for Moonpriest. Nothing was as frightening as that thin, wounded man. He saw into people.

  Church missionaries spoke of the tortures of the Land Under. Jones had tasted those pains. Fox saw to it, himself.

  Jones died.

  Moonpriest came in his place.

  Fox shivered.

  When a fake owl hooted, the first rank of nomads was directly under him. In near-perfect silence, they checked their alignment. Fox permitted himself a grin of pride. His own examination of the ground suggested that this was the correct distance for the assault unit to gather itself before making its final move into the village.

  Unable to see them, impressed by their wordless discipline, Fox sniff deeply again, curious to see if he could learn more.

  Greased weapons. Greased leather. A tinge of wax; bowstrings. Something else. Sharp. Familiar. Completely out of place. He was still searching his memory when the long line of nomads stepped out. The advance began on the left, each man fractionally behind his companion on that side, so their movement was a soft sigh through the forest.

  Small flames illuminated a few tents. Cookfires smoldered their last in the outdoor firepits.

  Fox reached up, located the line that ran from himself to the village. As soon as he yanked it, a baby squalled. The advancing line paused. Fox pictured the enemy as a flash flood moving down a dry creekbed, momentarily checked, concentrating force.

  To the left, a man screamed, a cry like a cougar. It was picked up by the whole line, and suddenly they were all charging into the village.

  The illuminated tents were the first to burst into flame as the nomads cut the support lines. They also drove their swords through the walls, searching sleeping victims.

  In the surprisingly bright glare, Fox was impressed by the methodical attack. Nothing was left to chance. The second wave hurtled in behind the first, some flinging torches at downed tents as they joined in the hacking and slashing. Almost absently, Fox noted the increased power of the earlier, unidentified smell.

  By that time, the attackers were increasingly aware of arrow casualties. Simultaneously, it became apparent that no sleepy defenders were rushing out of the tents to be cut down, nor were there cries of agony and fear rising from the flames. In fact, the only dying screams were coming from nomads.

  Several of their number, more alert than others, noted that the arrows had a plunging angle. They looked up into the trees. The Mountain warriors, discovered, shouted war cries, continuing to rain death from their perches.

  At that point, Fox dropped the line coiled on the branch
beside him and slid to the ground. All through the forest other Mountain warriors were doing the same thing. They would operate in two-man teams, keeping to the darkness, their enemies silhouetted against the light of the burning tents. As for the nomads, the dark cover of the forest appeared to be safety.

  The error of that conclusion was quickly announced by the cries of the first to retreat in that direction and die.

  Fox operated alone. His kills were his, shared with no one. Moving in a crouch, he seemed to float from tree to tree. The first nomad to come his way was a youth, probably no more than sixteen. An arrow protruded from his shoulder. His eyes were so wide with shock they appeared to glow. Fox pressed against a tree, became part of it. When the boy was abreast, he whipped out his ma in a horizontal arc. The decapitated body continued to run for two more steps before dropping.

  Stunned, disorganized, the nomads wanted only to reach the valley, their horses, and escape. Night vision destroyed by the fires, courage sapped by surprise, most simply ran, each man his own savior.

  Fox moved among them, reaping a murderous harvest. He lost count of the number to fall at his feet, remembering only those who managed any sort of defense. The battle at hand was practically over when he came across the three men together. Two supported one in the middle, although Fox quickly noted that the wounded one still carried his weapon. The trio moved with deliberate speed, unpanicked.

  They were too composed to allow caution. He would have to depend on speed and surprise to overwhelm them. Leaping forward he shrieked his battle cry.

  The two outside men leapt to the side, leaving the supposedly wounded man standing alone, clearly unhurt. He parried Fox’s ma and sent a counterstroke whistling through the air an instant after Fox leapt out of range. He cursed himself. These were practiced, skilled fighters, not rattled runners. Their ruse nearly worked. He backed up, wondering if he should break away, let them make their escape.

  But he couldn’t. The blood fever was in him, and even as he watched them spread out and advance, making it ever more difficult for him to defend himself, he welcomed the hot, throbbing excitement of a true fight.

  He said, “Know me. I am Fox Eleven, Manhunter of the Mountain People.”

  The nomad in the middle said, “We are People of the Long Sky. My name is Ban of Blue. My friends are Habab of Green and Dalicor of Blue.”

  Fox said, “I will remember. Your people will know from me that you died well.”

  “I think not,” Ban said, feinting a thrust then striking backhanded. Fox deflected the blade easily, kicking from a low crouch at the man named Dalicor, who rushed while the first clash still rang. The foot stopped Dalicor in his tracks. Pivoting on the other foot, Fox spun completely around, hacked at the back of Dalicor’s neck, and leapt away to resume his defensive posture while a wild sword stroke by Habab slammed harmlessly into the tree protecting Fox’s side. Stepping back, Fox calmly reached around the trunk and stabbed him.

  The next thing Fox knew, he was stumbling, falling sideways. He never saw Ban’s thrown metal water carrier, never actually felt it strike his temple. He was only aware of disorientation. Instinctively, he dropped low, keeping the ma raised in front of him. Twice Ban struck heavily, only to have the blows deflected. Nevertheless, the second effort glanced off to strike the top of Fox’s forearm. Biting to bone, the edge turned, lifting meat like a man filleting a fish.

  Fox’s ma dropped to the ground. He fell backward.

  Ban lunged at his unprotected stomach. Fox heard the man’s straining grunt as he drove his weapon down and forward with his entire weight and strength. Fox tried to scream, but his throat was frozen.

  Ban came so hard he fell forward, dropping onto Fox. Living fire seemed to roar through Fox’s entire body.

  Yet he lived.

  Ban rolled off him. Fox struggled to move. There was a sword sticking out of his thigh. A figure wavered into view. It said, “Be still. You’ll make the wound worse.”

  “Altanar?”

  “Quiet! I didn’t kill this nomad just to have you get me killed. You know what Jones would do to me if he learned I even touched a weapon.” Altanar was on his knees, poking at the edges of Fox’s wound. Then he bent the leg at the knee, lifted it. In spite of himself, Fox groaned. Hissing angrily, Altanar said, “Show some strength. I have to pull the sword free. It’s going to hurt. I’ve heard your friends, the Dogs, have a way of denying pain. You know it?”

  “Witchcraft. Mountain warriors accept pain. You insult.”

  Altanar responded with a giggle that lifted the hair on Fox’s neck. “I know about pain. And insult. Oh, yes.”

  The shock of the extraction bolted through Fox’s mind like a great light, brought him a mental clarity that frightened him. It took a few deep breaths before he could speak. “Why were you looking for me?”

  Clinical, Altanar said, “There’s lots of blood here, but no spurts. Not heavy enough for a vein, either. The arm’s no worse. You’ll heal easily.”

  “Answer me.”

  Altanar rocked back on his heels. In the light of the dying fires, the lines of his thoughtful frown were like scars. Fox was barely aware of the aftersounds of combat around them as Altanar answered musingly. “I thought tonight would be a good time to kill you. But when I saw this one here about to stick you, I couldn’t let it happen.” Roughly, he whipped off Fox’s belt and made a tourniquet around the wounded leg. As he worked, he said, “I know something you’re just beginning to suspect. We’re living in the tiger’s mouth. Together. There may be a time when we can help each other hold it open.”

  Fox felt he could literally smell the madness on Altanar. He said, “Perhaps you saved my life. I’ll save yours. I won’t tell Moonpriest of this conversation. And if I ever find you behind me, I’ll kill you. Stand where I can see you, and we may both serve the tiger so well that it only fattens on others. You understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Altanar put a hand on each end of the sword scabbard he was using as a lever for the tourniquet. He giggled once again as he wrenched it around with all his might.

  Chapter 31

  By the light of the dying fires, the Mountain people rushed to abandon the camp. While the adults packed belongings on horses and treated their wounded, children prowled through the fallen, looting. Jones marveled at the merriment when they came across a particularly well-made weapon. Jewelry and exceptional clothing occasioned lesser excitement. He made a mental note to have Fox assign an adult to supervise, in future. In the world he intended to create, the young were a special project. It wouldn’t do to have some vindictive, wounded fool injure one of them. Not only that, there was no way of telling what the little wretches stole.

  When the salvagers discovered a still-living nomad, they called for adult help. Older women were assigned the task of examining those victims. Jones had directed that the wounded deemed likely to survive were moved to a central location, bound, and watched. If the women decided a man had no chance of recovery, they dispatched him.

  The women assigned to the task complained vigorously. Even now, long after Jones’ adamant refusal to change his orders, one of them confronted him as he strolled through the wreckage. She said, “Why do you do this to us? How are we to avenge our hurts if we’re not allowed to make these ones suffer?”

  Jones turned a stiff smile her way. He said, “We lost two dead. Six are wounded. Five of them will recover completely. More than a hundred of our enemies died. Many of those who escaped are bound to die. We have over seventy new horses and much loot. Isn’t that enough of a victory?”

  The old woman spat. “Victory. Defeat. We lose sons and husbands and fathers, no matter. It’s our way to spend our grief on any prisoners we take. It’s dangerous to change the old ways.”

  “Any other time. I promise. The prisoners have value to me. Treat them as I say.”

  “You make our women bandage enemy wounded. The nomads will think us weak.”

  Jones bent to her. “You think me weak?”r />
  She stepped back hastily. “Not me.” She made a vague gesture over her shoulder with one hand while reaching for the moon pendant at her breast with the other. “The others. I… we thought…”

  Jones left her sputtering. At the rough pine bough shelter protecting the camp’s wounded, he found Fox lying on his back, in between the two other warriors too badly injured to continue normal activity. The smell of the fresh-cut pine struggled to mask an almost visible fog of herbs, sweat and stale breath. Jones acknowledged Fox’s companions before speaking to him. “Will you be able to ride on a litter?”

  “What choice?” Fox rose up on his elbows, wincing. “I understand you’ve forbidden the women their amusement with the prisoners. It’s being said you even have them treating their wounds.”

  Dropping back flat, Fox glared, waiting. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Jones let the silence drag out before continuing. “I told you, ‘Serve me with all your heart and skill, and I will give you Katallon’s warriors to command.’”

  Fox’s nod was quick enough, but Jones saw the undercurrent of suspicion. Poor Fox hid so little. Jones said, “We haven’t the force to conquer outright, so we must take control some other way. You and your warriors hurt Katallon badly this night. He must respect that. Now we spare those we’ve captured. He’ll be pleased to get them back. When he learns I wish to speak of peace, he’ll be curious. He’ll want to see us.”

  Fox laughed harshly. “Once you’re out in the open, he’ll have you cut down like a wildcow calf.”

  “Me?” Jones drew himself erect. His face flamed, his words grated. “It is not time for me to rejoin my mother, the moon. I will leave the earth for my home when she calls. No man will choose my time. I am Moonpriest.”

  Fox scrambled to apologize. Keeping his injured leg straight, he crabbed forward on his elbows. The wounded men beside him murmured fear at Jones’ glowering rage. Fox, with his head twisted awkwardly so he could look up into Jones’ features, reached for his hand. “I wasn’t thinking. Moonpriest, I know. It was I who saw you die and return. I saw. I believe.”