by Don McQuinn
“Well.” Jones smiled at Fox. “I told you Katallon would respect our strength, didn’t I? You see how right I was?” He faced Varnalal again. “You’re tired. Your horse is about to collapse. Go get some food, some rest. We’ll talk afterward.”
With his message delivered and accepted so positively, Varnalal’s tiredness asserted itself. His eyelids drooped, and his shoulders sagged. “I can talk now, if you want,” he said, clearly hoping it wasn’t necessary. Jones waved him off with more compliments. Meanwhile, he indicated Fox should stay where he was.
Once Varnalal was out of earshot, Jones turned his horse so he was facing Fox again. A smile still creased his face, but at the sight of it, Fox braced himself.
Jones said, “Fools. Both of them. Varnalal comes like the lulling hand of sleep, all smiles and stupid innocence. ‘…he offers you his hospitality.’ Katallon, the gracious opponent. Varnalal I can forgive. Katallon’s insult is beyond mercy. I ask you, if you were a conqueror and I offered to come to your camp and make you stronger than ever, wouldn’t you even ask how I meant to do that? And why didn’t Katallon give me some idea of what he means by ‘compensation’ for those we killed? How do we bargain if I don’t know his terms? And not once did he call me Moonpriest. Not once.”
Tentatively, Fox asked, “Do we attack him?”
Jones laughed harshly. “In a way. We’ll go back with Varnalal, all right. We’ll bring our own bargains, however.” He slapped his reins across his horse’s shoulders, heeling it forward simultaneously. Startled, the animal bolted several steps before he could get it back under control. He galloped off toward the draw that sheltered his tent and entourage, shouting over his shoulder that they would make further plans at first light in the morning.
Fox watched the display of incompetent horsemanship attentively, then rode back to his lean-to. Dismounting, he limped inside, where he sat down and stirred the coals of his cookfire, rekindling a small blaze. When he had a pot of water boiling, he dumped in a handful of dried material. Shortly, the small shelter filled with the scent of chicken and herbs. His movements were the patterns of habit, his attention obviously elsewhere.
Scraping the last drops from the sides of the bowl with a finger, he licked it clean, then made his way to the lake and washed the bowl. That done, he doused his face, wrinkling his nose at the cold as well as at Jones’ pointless insistence on cleanliness.
Flopping onto his furs outside, he lay on his back. Above, the blinding bright sun was filtered by pine boughs, broken into erratic shafts and blotches. That was what his life had become, he thought: everything shifting, hiding, and then reappearing.
Plans behind plans. Katallon. Jones. Altanar. Possibly even Varnalal. What a man saw them do might have nothing to do with what they wanted.
Moonpriest had a right to be sly. Even deceptive. He was building a world, a holy one.
But he wasn’t tribe. Fox Eleven was responsible for these Mountain People. Souls and lives. Moonpriest could ask for both, but was he doing it with the proper sense of tribe?
Why did he yearn to worship, even as he questioned?
Why did he, who knew Jones was Moonpriest, hope that if Katallon killed them all, he’d live long enough to see Jones die first?
Chapter 33
Through the smoke of Altanar’s cookfire, Jones watched the group assemble. He squatted on his haunches, holding a piece of bread clenched in a cleft stick over the flames. Altanar stood off in the distance, anxious, afraid to take his eyes from the master who ignored him completely.
Jones’ mind scurried from subject to subject like a mouse in spilled grain. The interminable discussions of the preparations still rang in his ears. At least he’d persuaded Fox that more than ten men as escort was useless. Katallon expected to ambush their entire group. He would emplace a crushing force. If they were to reach the Windband, they must employ guile, not strength.
He idly stroked the thick cloth bags slung across his breast under his blouse, feeling the coiled muscularity packed there. The snakes were comfortable, up against his warmth on one side and the heat of the fire on the other. Each was digesting a small pullet he’d fed them a few days ago. Just about the time they reached Katallon’s side they’d hunger again, acquire a fine edge of aggression. Amazing creatures. So lovely, so repellent. So innocent, so lethal.
Jones munched his toast absently. Katallon would be impressed by the snakes. They would never be conclusive, however. Jones half turned to his left, examined the wicker carrying box holding the porcelain jar.
Everyone was aware that the jar was important. Altanar said—the fool heard more than anyone realized—that Fox made it clear that anyone responsible for harm to any of the equipment would live long enough to regret the accident in a proper manner. It was ironic: they knew their lives depended on protecting the loads, yet none would ever understand what they guarded.
Sadly, they could never properly appreciate the beauty of things such as the jar, either. How the woman had managed to salvage it in the first place, much less protect it from breakage, was beyond imagining. As fine a piece of porcelain as one could ask, Jones was sure it was less than a quarter of an inch thick, executed with an almost-machinelike precision. He’d measured it against his foot, and decided it was eighteen inches in diameter and about twenty-two inches deep. The top fit snugly, with barely enough room to move in its well.
As lovely as the porcelain was, he was even more proud of the rest of the equipment, all his own design. Unconsciously, he stuck out his lower lip, glaring into the dancing flames. The smith and woodworker who’d done the actual work knew the penalty for ever discussing what they’d seen. Nevertheless, they’d remember. In time, they’d be tempted to tell. That was the way. Small, weak people never actually struck the finishing blow at the strong. Invariably, however, they betrayed the chink in the armor.
Patience, he chided himself. Remember the snakes. Only strike when necessary, only strike to kill.
The first direct rays of the sun brushed the rising curtain of smoke in front of Jones into a lustrous haze. Almost obscured on the other side of it, a figure approached on foot. The limp identified Fox. Jones extended his left arm out and back. Altanar leapt to place a mug of hot herb tea in the hand. Jones saluted Fox with the drink. “Care for some?”
Fox shook his head. “The camp’s mounted, Moonpriest.”
“Packhorses ready?”
“According to plan.”
Jones tilted his head, peered at Fox like a bird inspecting a leaf. “You say ‘plan’ as if it tastes bad. Explain.”
“I don’t question it.” Fox’s gaze seemed unable to leave the swelling where the sacks held the snakes.
Jones said, “Don’t lie. It’s not necessary, and it offends. What’s the problem?”
Resolution overrode the reluctance in Fox’s features. “Our men have Katallon’s patrols frightened almost to ineffectiveness. Varnalal is angry. He says more than he should. Nomad warriors were claiming to be ill. Horses were going ‘lame.’ We can raid Katallon until he comes to you for terms. Why go to him at all? You endanger yourself.”
Jones sighed. “You can’t see, can you? Katallon must think I’m his willing servant. He must trust me completely. And you. How else can we isolate him? I don’t want his tent; I need the loyalty, the faith, of all his people. If I destroy Katallon, I’m merely a usurper. I must make his people destroy him and raise me to his place. And you will help me.”
“As you will, Moonpriest. We believe.”
“I know. Go get everyone moving.”
Jones squatted by the fire again and busied himself toasting another slice of bread. He chuckled quietly as he watched the rough texture brown nicely. Fox was an amusing creature, actually. Sooner or later, once he’d tasted real power, he’d begin to count swords. And scheme. Well, it would have to be borne. Fox would be used, meanwhile. After all, that’s what they were all for.
Jones shouted at Altanar. “Get on your horse! Bring me mine.
Are you asleep again?”
“No, Moonpriest! Never. See, I hurry.” Amazing, Jones thought; even the voice was changed. The high-pitched arrogance was now shrill supplication, every syllable a hopeless plea for kindness. It grated on Jones’ hearing, and he grabbed the unlit end of a burning brand and flung it. The running Altanar howled, although the stick missed him by a good ten feet.
* * *
They were riding eastward, slowly descending from the higher elevations. It was the third day. Fox was remarking that it was time for the midday meal, when a scout came to report Katallon’s trap.
He was a young warrior, already a scarred veteran. His eyes were so wide the pupils looked adrift against the whites. A mix of weariness, pride, and incipient battle fever gleamed on his face. “Many men, in a standard two-leg ambush. Twenty Sage scouted the attack leg. Three hundred men hide behind the ridge that parallels our route. Elk Ten says the blocking element astride the trail is at least another one hundred and fifty. I myself scouted to the north of our route. Fifty more men wait.”
Fox was tense, but controlled. “Exact location. Plan.”
The young man’s features fell. He was being tested, and concern intruded on his earlier enthusiasm. “They’re where you expected them to be, just this side of the last small range of hills between us and the flat valley where Windband camps. The ambush is about one day’s slow ride from that camp; at our normal pace, we’ll hit the blocking element in about half a day. From the high ground, the nomads’ll see our column’s point soon. When we hit the blocking element, most of the attack leg will charge down on us from the ridge. Some of them are undoubtedly assigned to swing behind us to prevent escape. The element to the north must be expected to stop us if we try to get away in that direction.”
“Good.” Fox turned to Jones. “As expected, Moonpriest. Katallon thinks he has us. Again.” His lips curled in a proud smile.
Twitching, twisting fingers worked Jones’ reins, rolled them into loops, then let them fall free. The scout attributed everything to Fox’s foresight. Of course Fox anticipated Katallon’s ambush, where it would be, how it would function, and so on. He and Katallon were one and the same: simpleminded killers. Tactics. Games for children. He snapped at the warrior. “How do we know you weren’t seen, followed back here? And why haven’t you bathed?”
Fox answered for the younger man. “He’ll wash now, Moonpriest. He wanted us to know as quickly as possible.”
The scout’s expression pleaded. “We’d never lead an enemy to your camp. We’d rather die. Anyhow, the Windband people are soldiers. They don’t know the wild ways, as we do.”
Jones was somewhat mollified, but couldn’t resist a jab. “I hope they’re not as good as the Dog People. Especially Gan Moondark, and his friend, the one called Clas na Bale.”
Beside him, Fox visibly flinched, then his face became an expressionless mask. “I’ll meet them both again. They’ll die.”
The bitterness of the response brought Jones up short. He tried to smooth over the situation. “I know they will, Fox; I know. All I ask is that you save the Church witch, Sylah, for me. She owes me entertainment.”
The scout was ready to flee. Assuming his most placating tones, Jones said, “Your skill and bravery are why Fox chose you as a scout. Still, I worry about my followers. Wouldn’t I be failing my responsibilities if I didn’t ask such questions of you?”
The youngster beamed. “I understand, Moonpriest. I swear on my life, the Windband warriors don’t even know we observed them. Four of us watch them still.”
“You do well. Now go. And remember—cleanliness.”
At Fox’s hand signal, the warrior bit back whatever he’d been about to say and left at a gallop.
Jones grimaced as he rode beside Fox through the dust stirred up by the man’s departure. A glance showed his companion wasn’t even aware of the thick cloud. Jones sighed, wondering how the tribe survived before, when it never bothered to clean clothes, and hardly ever washed their own skin. They accepted the occasional War Healer from Church, but steadfastly rejected any of the Healers who dealt with disease. The Mountains had a brutally efficient answer of their own. The old women who treated the ill did so under the harshest duress. Since they were widows without exceptional skills and past childbearing, they were not merely expendable, but essentially useless, in the eyes of the tribe. If the patients lived or died, if the caregivers lived or died, all was decided in a sickhouse far beyond the boundaries of their fortified villages. When a person went down with a sickness, the family sent the victim to stay with the women of the sickhouse, sang the death songs, mourned, and that was the end of it. When someone survived, there was celebration. Normal life resumed.
Moondance hymns now replaced the old songs. Jones composed them. His experience as a minister had given him a certain knowledge of music theory, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover the Mountains had a flair for harmony. He was truly sorry they’d had no time to stage a proper song for the casualties of the battle with Windband. He resolved that they should be included when next there was a cremation. They would all lift their voices as one to speed the lost ones to the Land Beyond.
Again, Jones laughed aloud. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to notice Fox’s sidelong glance. If he had, he would have explained happily that he was anticipating composing further hymns, celebrating his own powers. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the men escorting his pack animals.
It was going to be such fun to see their reactions when they discovered what they were handling.
Fox said, “Moonpriest, I see you have much on your mind, but I have to ask: Are you satisfied with the plan as it is? Do you want to make any changes?”
“No. The plan is perfect. Change nothing.” The question shattered Jones’ good humor. He glared. Fox rode off without another word.
Long, black spires of shadow slowly reached out from the western crests. The column continued on, away from the lowering sun, silently regretting the gradual loss of its comforting warmth on their backs. To the north, the wavering cries of a wolfpack broke across the gathering dusk. Southward, a second pack answered in an echoing tumble of sound.
Fox ordered a stop and supervised the setting up of camp, riding among the tents, shouting orders. Small drums began to beat, quickly joined by the twang of metal stringed harps and the caroling of flutes. Fires sprang to life. The smell of cooking eddied through the rapidly erected shelters.
Jones watched his servant and Altanar squabbling their way through the erection of his own quarters for a while. Tiring of that, he decided to ride through the camp alone. The scout who’d reported the ambush plans approached. When Jones stopped, the man said, “Fox says to tell you that nomad scouts watch. From the peak to the north, from the next ridge west, from the bluff off to the south. Five men, each place. The ambushers sleep in position.”
Jones rode away without answering. All was as it should be. Warriors looked up from whatever they were doing when he passed. They nodded; most smiled. Children waved to him. He noticed how closely the mothers watched, saw their hooded expressions.
The women.
His mind burned, throbbed with the fluttering roar of the steelmaker’s gluttonous flames.
The women. Helpless. Property. Watching. They reached their ignorant hands to the heads of their worthless brats and watched him. Savage, warning eyes that followed, followed, followed.
Trying to see inside him. Inside Moonpriest.
Like Sylah. Wanting to touch his brain, wanting to own his every thought, every secret. She did that to him. Witch. Foul witch.
Rage surged in him.
The women. He was risking their children. They watched.
Rage collapsed.
Moonpriest knew fear.
Chapter 34
Jones shivered in the darkness. He moved to find a comfortable position, and although he was sure he was silent, one of Fox’s men turned to him. By the cold light of a gibbous moon, Jones saw the man rais
e a finger to his painted face to signal silence.
The fleshy hole in Jones’ skull warmed. Admonished by a whelp. The boy was a fool. A liar. Jones couldn’t even hear his own movement; how could anyone else? It was an arrogance, a false—
A hand touched Jones’ shoulder. The scream that had lurked in his throat since they rode out of the camp tried to force its way free. He contained it by lunging to stuff his forearm in his mouth.
Fox tightened his grip on the shoulder, pulled gently to indicate Jones should follow. Shifting the snake-carrying bag onto his back, Jones dropped to his stomach, following Fox’s example. The reptiles were quick to register their disapproval. Jones felt them squirm; one actually made a halfhearted buzz.
Inching forward, Fox and Jones made their way through the trees until they were looking directly into the camp of the Windband scouts. As their own reconnaissance had reported, there were five men. Three slept, while two observed the fires of the Mountain camp in the southwestern distance. One of the men sleeping snored quietly. Jones estimated he was two body lengths away from the trio, and perhaps twice that far away from the other two. The ones awake talked to each other, muffled male voices in easy conversation. Between the sleepers and the men on watch, coals in a cookpit glowed dully.
Far away, an owl sent his questioning call rippling across his hunting territory.
Two Mountain warriors rose behind the murmuring nomads, like hunting cats, unseen, unsuspected. In perfect unison, they struck with their mas. A dizzying wave of sheer ecstasy threatened to overwhelm Jones as the moonlight turned the blades into whispering silver petals. The heads sprang from the bodies and crashed into the brush. As if in afterthought great sprays of blood blew up from the necks. Only then did the bodies topple.
Other Mountain warriors were on the sleeping trio. Mas rose against the shining curve of the moon, stabbed.
Then the attackers were invisible again, disappeared into darkness.