by Don McQuinn
Jones squeezed the hand clutching his own. “It’s good that you worry about me. I’ve already told you I will die. Not until my mission here is accomplished, however. Power is coming to me, power you’ll never understand. Now, tell me what happened to you.”
Fox gestured with his bandaged arm, pointed at his leg. “Some fought well,” he said dryly.
After a perfunctory smile, Jones said, “At least we took prisoners. We need information. We’re lucky enough to have the son of a minor chief. Varnalal of Red, he calls himself. His tribe is the Long Sky. How long before you’re ready to travel?”
“As soon as the pyre for the dead is burning.”
“Then we go.” Jones walked to the burning site, where he ordered a Mountain warrior to fetch him a prisoner able to ride. When he returned with the man on an unsaddled horse, Jones was standing before the blazing symbolic mountain.
“This is the man I asked for?” Jones’ question snapped the warrior erect. He answered quickly. “His shoulder’s broken. He has a wounded leg. I’ve lashed him to his saddle so he can’t fall off.”
“Will he live to reach Katallon?”
“I think so. If an animal doesn’t take him.”
Jones interrupted. “Send two, then. Three. Just be certain Katallon gets my message.” He grabbed the horse’s reins, pulled it closer, then clutched the prisoner’s knee. Knuckles popped aloud under the pressure of his grip, and the drooping prisoner gagged and jerked upright. He stared down at Jones, who said, “Tell Katallon and his war leaders their wounded are here, bandaged, waiting for help. I give all the captives their lives, as a sign of my desire for peace. Soon, I will send Varnalal to Katallon’s camp to make arrangements for talks. Tell him”—Jones paused, squeezing the knee again, forcing a moan from the prisoner—“tell him I have fought him enough. I will bring him power and glory to gladden his heart and burn his enemies. I wish to be his friend.”
He released man and animal, stepping back. He raised an arm and pointed east, posing regally in the light of the pyre. Its roaring collapse at that moment was approval, he was sure.
The prisoner’s head pivoted from the flames to Jones’ face, as if seeking something rational to focus on. He made a low sound in his chest, jerking the horse around with his good arm. Bent low in the saddle, clearly anticipating the first arrow in his back, the first shout of cruel laughter from his jolting tormentors, he flogged the animal into the night.
Jones pursed his lips, shook his head sadly. “Send two more. That fool will probably run right off the edge of the plateau. See the others have the same message. Be quick. I wouldn’t be surprised if Katallon’s not already mounting another raiding party. We won’t trap the next one so easily.”
Jones supervised Altanar’s loading of his belongings on a pair of packhorses. He wondered if anyone from Ola would recognize the former king now. Probably not, he decided; the man was a tribute to systematic degradation.
Dressed in foul rags, without shoes, wearing a floppy wool hat several sizes too large, Altanar dashed about madly, trying to obey the blizzard of instructions from Jones and the bent, lame old man who was Jones’ personal servant. Every order from one of that pair drew an almost instant counter-order from the other. Nothing was done to satisfaction. Or fast enough. The personal servant cuffed and cursed his decrepit victim with an unabashed glee.
When his few possessions were securely lashed to the horses, Jones signaled the young warrior who was acting as camp leader while Fox recovered. A series of bird-like whistles started the march.
The prisoner Varnalal was more than Jones hoped. Young, chagrined by his capture, but unafraid, he talked freely of life in Katallon’s camp.
“We are nine tribes,” he said, “with people from five or six others. We are the strongest, the People of the Long Sky. Beyond our lands is nothing, only the home of the sun and forests where the slaves live.”
“Slaves? If they’re slaves, they live with someone else, surely?”
Varnalal shook his head. “Uncaptured slaves live there.”
Jones smiled. “A person isn’t a slave until someone else owns him. Or her.”
“We own them. We just never catch all of them.”
“Ahh, I see. They wait for you to come, and then give themselves to you?”
“No. They fight. Not honestly, though. They live in their forests, where it’s hard for real people to ride. Like…” The young man’s eyes went to the Mountain warriors riding near them, and then he looked to Jones again with a touch of fear.
And defiance. Jones savored that. Here was a man ripe with possibilities. Young. Strong. Born to authority.
A subject to be considered.
There would be need of influential people in Katallon’s camp.
Jones pursued the slave issue. He said, “You speak of the slaves as though they were part of your past. Why?”
“Because they are.” In the darkness, Varnalal’s teeth gleamed in a brief smile. “We left our lands twelve years ago. I barely remember that place. That was when Katallon came among us. Windband was only two tribes, then—his own, the Grasslanders, and the Ironmakers, from farther north. Our people fought for four years. Then a plague came, and many people of all three tribes died. Our new chief talked with Katallon, and it was decided that all of our people would run from the plague and find another place to live. When other tribes attacked us, we all fought them together. Since then, we move toward the afternoon sun, toward a land our legends say rests against a sea that reaches beyond anything men know.”
Jones said, “What do your legends call this land?”
“Katallon says it’s the land of milk and honey.”
The phrase startled Jones. He pulled up his horse so sharply the animal whickered and danced. Varnalal stopped with less flurry. “Have you heard it called that, too?” he asked innocently.
“As a matter of fact.” Jones chuckled, then. “What would you say if I told you I’ve seen that ocean? Bathed in it?”
“Truly?” Varnalal made no attempt to hide how impressed he was. “All of us, everyone in Windband, dreams of that. Is it really salty? Can you drink it? Is it really too big to see across? My people say it must be like our country, the Long Sky, where a man can ride all day and still be in sight. Is it so?”
“You’ll see for yourself.”
Varnalal was quiet for a long moment. He said, “A man such as yourself shouldn’t make such promises. Such a thing is known only to our mother, the moon.”
“Then it is known to me.” Jones rolled the words up from his chest, let them fill the night. “Believe in me. If I tell you it will be so, it will be. You must learn, all must learn, that I am Moonpriest. I tell you now; I will see you taste the Great Ocean. Hear and believe.”
Varnalal stared wide-eyed into the empty blackness long after it had swallowed Jones from view, long after the sound of Jones’ individual hoofbeats were lost among those of the column.
A voice from ground level growled up at the young man. He looked down where Fox grimaced at him from a dragger. Fox said, “You’re asking yourself if Moonpriest is what he claims to be. I tell you he is, but my words are worthless to you. He’s made us believe. He’ll make you believe.”
“Maybe. And maybe he has the head sickness.”
“Wait. You’ll see.”
Thoughtfully, Varnalal said, “In Katallon’s camp are women who call themselves Healers. They used to call themselves Church. Our Moondance priests and priestesses turned their minds. We’ve got Earthsingers, from far north of my own lands; they heal people, too. They know the spirits—secrets of weather and seasons—things like that. They’re all going to be very angry to hear this stranger name himself Moonpriest and claim to be more powerful than they are. They’ll challenge him.”
Fox’s smile colored his voice. “That’ll be interesting.”
“If Jones is destroyed, Katallon will punish his followers.”
“No one will punish us. Moonpriest is a holy one.
Moon’s own son.”
“You don’t fear?”
“Of course. Always. But I have to know. Don’t you?”
Silhouetted against the pinpoint lights of the stars, Varnalal straightened in the saddle. His chin rose, throwing his head back. “Windband already knows. We have Moondance and we have Katallon. We go wherever we choose, and we conquer. This Jones is very strange. I think he’s mad. And perhaps all of you with him are as mad as he is.”
Fox’s laughter came as a series of sibilant, gusting noises, like a breeze through rain-washed leaves. “All leaders are mad, Varnalal. But you will follow Moonpriest.”
Chapter 32
“Tomorrow night,” Altanar said, and Fox looked up quizzically from the pile of furs where he rested outside his lean-to. Altanar indicated the near-dark sky and elaborated. “Moonpriest said he’d contact Katallon, and Varnalal’s getting ready to leave tomorrow night.”
“You call him Moonpriest, like us. I never thought I’d see you believe.”
“Oh, I believe,” Altanar said, with a lopsided smile. “I’m not sure we believe exactly the same things, but I do believe.”
“You swear on your life that he is Moonpriest?”
“I do.”
Not entirely satisfied, but unsure how to pursue the matter farther, Fox grew thoughtful. He shifted his position, grunting when it was necessary to lever himself on the elbow of the wounded arm. The thigh seemed to be less trouble. He said, “You squirm around in the truth the way a snake wiggles through the grass.”
“You’d never trust anyone not Mountain-born.”
“Never. Moonpriest. That’s all.”
“What about Katallon’s men? He expects you to lead them.”
“It’ll be their responsibility to trust me.”
Altanar bent the conversation in a different direction. “I suppose I’ll be the one to watch your back, then. For a man who’s seen so much combat, you’ve learned little about caution. That reminds me of something else: You should be careful who you compare to snakes. What if Moonpriest heard? You’ve forgotten his pets?”
Fox shuddered. “No one forgets them.” He glanced around. After a moment’s hesitation, he went on, “It wasn’t the snakes. I made one of my men examine it.” When Altanar stared mute incomprehension, Fox snapped at him. “The horse. You remember he had us bring him the rabbit, and then the pig? And then the horse?”
“Oh, the animals. Certainly I remember. He didn’t let the snakes kill them?”
“Don’t you listen? I told you it wasn’t the snakes. On the right side of the mountains we know what a rattlesnake kill looks like.”
Frowning heavily, Altanar squatted to bring himself closer to Fox. He was careful to stay at the corner of the lean-to, assuring no one approached without being observed. He said, “He’s been up in that small canyon since we withdrew beyond Katallon’s patrols. He won’t let me in there. What’s he doing?”
“Who knows? He took the smith and his son, and our best woodworker. No one’s seen any of them since we got here. Moonpriest only comes out himself to eat and order more firewood. And beeswax. Beeswax! He’ll get us all killed. Men cutting wood make noise. And the smith, hammering.”
“Varnalal says he’s mad.”
Bristling, Fox said, “I know. Varnalal best learn to mind his tongue. Someone might cut it out and put it in his pocket.”
His memory flashed to his own conversation with Varnalal. He’d said far too much. Moonpriest was a child of a goddess; he knew everything. But if that was so, why did he allow his firmest believer to entertain such painful doubts? Fox agonized over it, not understanding himself. When he spoke of Jones to another man, he questioned. When he faced Moonpriest, he adored.
“What do you think killed the animals?” Altanar asked.
“I haven’t seen them. Lightning weapons?”
“No noise. Where are the bodies?”
Gesturing, Fox said, “Moonpriest said to dump them down in the valley. Didn’t you hear the wolves after them?”
Altanar heard little of what was obvious to the Mountain People. It irritated him, and he ignored the question. “I’ll see what I can learn. Maybe there’s something left of the horse.”
Pulling Altanar close before he could rise, Fox whispered, “The men say the animals were cut up in pieces. Even the horse.”
Altanar suddenly focused on something in the distance. Fox twisted to see, uselessly, with his vision blocked by the hide wall behind him. When he turned back, Altanar was scuttling swiftly through the trees. Fox settled back to wait, knowing Moonpriest was coming, wondering what he wanted.
It had taken five days of almost nonstop travel before the small group of Mountain People and their new companions, the protectors, were beyond range of Katallon’s patrols. Persistent ambushes, set every night on their back trail, had finally discouraged the warriors of the Windband. The result among the people of the camp was a sense of uneasy truce.
Contrary to their nervousness, Jones, on his infrequent appearances among them, brimmed with confidence. Now, standing in front of Fox, he positively beamed. He wore a butter-soft doeskin jacket that had practically become his uniform. It was a pullover design, with lacing at the throat so it could be drawn tight. The design of the necklace pendant centered on his chest was a rayed moon of hammered silver. His headdress was a strip of cloth, tie-dyed to simulate rattlesnake markings, intricately wound around his head. A pair of rattles dangled in the back. At his every step or movement, they rustled dry suggestion. He said, “Tomorrow Varnalal goes home to prepare the way for my visit with Katallon. When he returns to tell us we have guarantees of safety, I’ll leave immediately.”
Fox interrupted. “I go with you.”
“No. I need you to watch—”
“I go with you.” Fox repeated himself, and Jones stared in disbelief. Fox was pale, his lips a smudge against his drawn features. He went on. “I’m the one who tortured you. I didn’t know who you were… are. Now I do. How can you deny me the opportunity to be by your side, especially in time of danger?”
“I want to leave in seven days. Can you ride by then?”
“I will,” Fox said, left hand massaging the swollen right arm.
Coolly, Jones peeled back the poultices on both wounds. He poked at each, watching Fox’s expression dispassionately. Fox’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t wince, nor did he complain.
When Jones was finished, Fox said, “You may trust this Katallon, Moonpriest, but I don’t. Varnalal’s a good man, and no liar, but he’s from the Windband. How do we know Katallon won’t lie to us?”
“He will. He’ll tell us it’s safe to come talk to him, but he means to kill us.”
Fox blinked foolishly, mouth working. When he finally found words, they came in a strained, insulted pitch. “It’s not respectful to ask me to die like a sheep led to the knife. If you order it, I’ll ride into the Windband camp and strike until they kill me. This other thing…” He spat. “You speak of slaughter.”
Jones exploded in a bubbling belly laugh. When it had passed, he bent down to clasp Fox’s shoulder. His features tightened, as swiftly grim as they had been amused. Slitted eyes fixed on Fox’s. “We’ll be tested. We will not die. Not if you do exactly as I say. Obey me, and live.”
“Always, Moonpriest. In everything.” Once again, Fox’s mind leapt to the damning conversation with Varnalal. He turned his betraying eyes away from Moonpriest’s wisdom.
Jones rose, saying, “Loyalty is never forgotten. Your rewards will outrace your dreams.” He spread his arms to embrace the entire camp. “Kings will serve me. Princes will fight to serve you. Their women will rush to your protection. As long as you obey.”
Fox licked his lips. He turned his face back to Moonpriest. It was safe. What he felt in his heart, what he knew to be in his expression, was more eloquent than words could ever be.
* * *
Varnalal returned to the camp of the Mountain People on the heels of a slashing spr
ing storm.
The camp was situated at the end of a long, crooked lake which nestled brightly in a large hollow. The surrounding meadow was still pocked with isolated heaps of snow where shade held off the sun. As Jones and Fox rode to meet the returning Windband warrior, they passed some boys pouring grain into leather nose bags for the horses. The animals were enclosed in a pen of stakes and boughs to hold off predators. There was some natural fodder about, but nature never intended to support so much stock in that restricted area. The grain sacks were nearly empty, and the horses were bony.
Varnalal’s approach paralleled the small creek that drained the lake. The white flag that had gotten him safely past the Mountain outposts was carelessly slung across his horse’s rump. When he waved greeting, his easy smile was a gleaming bar of white in the shade of his broadbrimmed hat.
Jones halted on dry ground a few paces from the creek’s boggy beginnings. Varnalal closed quickly, although his horse was clearly exhausted. The man greeted the pair almost as if returning to visit friends. He said, “Katallon sends you his greetings. He’s willing to forgive you for attacking us, because you’re Moondance believers. He wants compensation for those who died, though.”
Jones said, “He knows we had casualties, too?”
Varnalal glanced away. “It wouldn’t be wise to bring that up. I had to tell him you’ve only lost six men to us.” He diverted the conversation. “Fox. You look completely recovered.”
“Not completely. I—”
“Gossip later.” Jones’ displeasure crackled. “What else did he tell you to tell me?”
“That he wants to make you welcome, and he’s pleased that you offer to bring your power to the Windband. I’m to guide all of you to him.”
“All?” Jones’ eyebrows leaped.
Varnalal nodded eagerly. “Katallon says he knows how hungry and weary you must be. Because you offer to make peace and join him, he offers you his hospitality. While you discuss how you can best work together, the Windband will feed your people.”