by Don McQuinn
Ordering the dogs to follow, Conway hurried away. None of it was his concern. He’d given his word to support Sylah’s quest. Getting involved would jeopardize it.
He thought he heard a scream.
He galloped back. The prisoner was on the ground. A man was pouring river water over him. The others lounged about, watching. The horseman leaned over, prodded the fallen man with the point of his sword. Conway jerked in sympathy. The reflex became a grab for the sniper rifle.
Sliding the case out of the sealskin wrap, he worked with unwarranted certainty. The weapon fitted itself to his hands, lifted to his shoulder as if of its own volition. On foot, he braced against a tree.
The captive was covered with blood. Two men now held him spread-eagled and erect against the tree trunk.
Conway placed the sight’s dot on the horseman. Captured in the magnifying scope, details leapt to clarity. And there was the thing he’d tried so hard to identify. The proud pennant snaking down the rider’s back. Black and white vertical stripes. The identifying colors of Jalail, a kingdom now become one of Gan Moondark’s Three Territories.
One of the rogue nobles who fled, who still supported the deposed Altanar.
Conway scanned the other attackers. Several carried white arrows, white-feathered. Protectors.
The dot tracked back to the horseman as if self-willed. A strange, floating sensation filled Conway. Blood pounded in his temples; his arms grew heavy with swelling, arrogant strength. It wasn’t the same as at the river. That was fight or die. This was vengeance, justification, proof of worth. It was emotional turbulence, dark, and frightening.
The report of the weapon had the majesty of distant thunder. In truth, he realized dimly, if the weapon hadn’t recoiled he might not have recognized the noise for what it was.
For a sickening moment, Conway thought he’d missed. His intended victim jerked violently, both arms rising, so he appeared to point both hands at the man against the log. Conway thought he saw a haze around the horseman’s head. The western sun could have been responsible for the reddish cast of it.
The horseman’s collapse came simultaneously with the first roaring echoes. The body, still erect, hands clenched against dying, tipped sideways. Gaining speed, it slipped farther, pitched down onto the rocks.
The rest of the men scattered. One stepped toward the prisoner, sword raised. Conway snapped off a shot, not quick enough to stop the blow. The prisoner dodged, was struck, but still managed to break for the river.
Conway hammered his targets, watched them sprawl like squashed insects. The warm wood stock was an erotic caress on his cheek. The perfect curve of the butt wedded itself to his shoulder. The weapon was alive to his touch, his thoughts, responding, demanding.
Every settling of his eye called a man’s fate, every movement of his finger on the trigger was death.
He screamed his own name, told all of creation of his power.
And then there was nothing to shoot.
Eight bodies and some discarded weapons littered the beach.
On the near shore, the former captive hauled himself out of the water. He disappeared into the trees.
Riding to the riverbank, Conway followed the dogs to where the man lay. His wounds were massive. New gashes cut across old scars in several places. The man watched Conway with eyes swelling shut. There was a brooding calmness about him. Not resignation. Controlled, Conway thought. The man was studying him with all the intensity he could manage. Even while being bandaged, his eyes followed Conway’s every move.
Suddenly, as if it were an act of will, the man was unconscious. Conway loaded the limp form on Stormracer.
Darkness had long since fallen when Tate and her dogs intercepted Conway outside the village. On the way to the house where Sylah and Lanta slept, he explained the presence of the unconscious man lashed behind him. At the sound of voices, the two Church women were awake. While Conway once again told his story, Sylah and Lanta rushed to throw on robes. They came outside as he finished untying the unconscious stranger. The four of them carried him indoors.
As she examined her patient, Sylah asked Conway to describe the horseman. When he was done, she nodded shortly. “You did well,” she said. There was quality to the words that warned of memories too harsh to be shared.
The injuries were dangerous, she said, but unlikely to kill the young warrior. Kneeling beside him, she excused Tate and Conway from the prayer. Lanta joined her in treating the wounds.
Sylah studied her patient. Muscular, he gave an impression of solidity even in his present condition. Calluses revealed hours of bow-and-arrow practice. The palms were oddly soft. She looked his hands over more carefully, and decided from the callus pattern and sun coloration he must normally wear fingerless gloves. Curious. His hair, washed and brushed out, glowed like raven wings in the light of the small candles. Sewing the last open wound, Sylah was surprised to see how much stronger his pulse had become. A blue vein in his neck pumped in perfect rhythm with her gleaming needle of walrus ivory.
Brushing her own hair back, Sylah sought Conway. He sat on the floor across the room, back to the wall. She said, “Did he tell you why the band was after him?”
Conway shook his head. “Hasn’t spoken yet.”
“We should leave tomorrow. The renegades are desperate men, marked for punishment by the true Church. Their only hope of survival is to eliminate us and claim protection from the false one.”
“Go. Now.” Forced past the stranger’s mangled lips, the resulting mispronunciation added its own sinister overtones.
Sylah and Lanta bent over him. He snored gently at them.
Rising, Sylah was thoughtful. “Should we risk bringing him with us?”
Conway heaved himself to his feet. “Draggers.”
Tate nodded. “Right. We can walk. One horse for him, one for Tarabel. The smaller children can ride, too.”
“Let’s do it that way.” Sylah turned away, closing off the conversation. More than that, she hid a smile of satisfaction. They were making sacrifices now, making decisions that brought them together. If anything could eliminate the residual divisions created by Dodoy’s capture, cooperation would. To herself, she said, “Thank you, Abbess, my friend, my teacher. Your lessons never fail. Whenever your foolish student remembers. ‘Adversity is to character as heat is to steel.’”
She made her way back to her blankets, was pulling them up around her chin, when she felt the stare.
Dodoy’s round, probing eyes watched. Tired, irritable, she matched his look. He smiled, baring his small, gleaming teeth. Whispering, sharing his malice with her alone, he said, “They always make you do what they want. You think it’s your idea. You just get used. Always did. Always will.”
Shocked, furious, she rose on an elbow to respond. Dodoy’s features went blankly innocent. He twisted away, turned his back to her. For a moment, she panted with frustration. Whatever she said, he’d simply deny. She’d look like a fool.
Jangling, screeching, she heard his voice echo in her mind. “…just get used. Always did. Always will.”
The burning behind her eyes was fatigue. Malevolent evil child; senseless words. Harmless.
Chapter 40
Morning dawned sluggishly, snared in thick tendrils of mist that webbed the trees and buildings. Sylah felt her way outdoors. Pressed against the rough lumber of the house, she hugged herself, clutching her robe. The chill damp dictated she go inside and put on something warmer. She was too anxious to see Tate’s return from nightwatch.
Fog and the moist ground muffled the approaching hooves. Tate’s ghosting appearance gave her a start. Likewise, Tate, seeing unexpected movement, brought the wipe to bear with catlike quickness.
Sylah broke the silence. “You’ve had a long night. Are you able to travel?”
Slinging the wipe over her shoulder, Tate dismounted. Red lines mapped the whites of her eyes. Words formed as if moving the lips taxed her. “No options, Sylah. I heard that horn Conway talke
d about. Just before first light. It won’t take anyone long to figure out where we are.”
“Come inside while I fix you some tea.”
“This poor horse is as wet and tired as I am. He needs feeding. I’ll be along.”
Sylah was mock angry. “Care for the horse first. You’re just like my husband.”
“Proud to hear it. He’s the one who taught me.” Tate winked. Her quiet laugh was rough, but for a moment her face was alive, the way Sylah liked to remember it.
Entering the house, Sylah thought, Everyone’s at the edge of exhaustion. We need to rebuild strength. But there’s even more need to run.
She looked at the wounded man on the floor. If the jouncing of the horse was too much for him, there was nothing to be done. He had a warrior’s chance.
The children were a different matter. She glanced over to the dark corner where Lanta lay beside the sleeping group. Like puppies, wadded in an untidy, heartbreakingly sweet heap. Her gaze fell on Dodoy. He’s one of them, she told herself; he didn’t create himself. A hard world bred hard children.
Lanta opened her eyes. She rose instantly with swift grace. “Something’s wrong?”
“No, everything’s all right.” The children mumbled and muttered, burrowing closer, resisting the new day. Sylah turned her attention to them. Each one woke soft-featured, the uncertain definitions of youth muzzy with sleep. With full consciousness, however, alert eyes swept the room. Bodies tensed. Muscles in the little faces pulled flesh into tight wariness.
Inexpressible anger hummed in Sylah’s blood. She had trouble dismissing it.
In preparation for leaving, Sylah and Lanta had searched out extra clothing for their charges. It ranged along the wall now in neat stacks. Both adults remarked on the lack of decorative work. Girls’ smocks had narrow handwoven bands of material decorating cuffs, collars, and skirt hems. The only color in the male outfit was the belt. They, too, were woven, and the design—arrowhead, circle, square, lightning, or diamond—identified the family.
Every child now had one of the raccoon fur capes. They were made with leather inner straps to hold them to the shoulders. The front could be closed with small toggles and rawhide loops. Slits provided armholes, and the inner surface was waxed, providing waterproof cover. In addition, there were pouches inside for food or other articles.
Sylah turned away from her inspection, hiding a frown. She’d been a fool.
Now the uniformity of the coarsely woven material leapt at her, as did the cut of the clothes. The shirts were two pieces, a front and a back, joined down the sides. The same was true of the sleeves. The tailoring of the trousers was as basic as the structure would allow, with no flies or pockets.
Household utensils were almost entirely of wood, bone, and horn. In examining the cooking area, Sylah found several obsidian and flint blades, but only one of steel. It was worn down to a sliver. There was one copper pot.
People normally found a way to trade, no matter how poor they were. This group obviously avoided all contact with others. They knew how to make two kinds of cloth, the shirting and the colored bands. If there was any further technical ability, it was well hidden.
Only desperation could create such determined self-isolation.
When fully clothed, the children stood in two chattering rows. In their capes, they reminded Sylah of small, eager animals. Leading them off to the stream with Lanta, she couldn’t remember the last time she felt so lighthearted and simply gay.
The children were well schooled in ceremony. All but the very youngest solemnly stripped off capes, bent to wash, then faced where the sun would have been, were it not for the mist. The icy creek water put blazing color in their cheeks, and when Sylah and Lanta finished the ritual prayer with three signs, the children responded with their own variation. They used an open hand, palm out, to touch each shoulder, then forehead, and finally stomach. It was an awkward technique. Sylah asked why it was done that way.
Nandameer answered. “To show everyone our hands are empty. We don’t have weapons, we don’t have anything to steal.”
The priestesses looked at each other, then Sylah asked, “Does everyone who comes here want to fight or rob, dear?”
“Yes.” The blue eyes couldn’t believe Sylah’s ignorance.
Lanta said, “We don’t. We only want to help you.”
A wiry, long-jawed boy spoke up. “You’re stealing us,” he said.
Sylah recoiled. “You? Steal?” She almost choked on the words.
“They always said someone would. Didn’t say Church, though. Can we stay with you? You don’t hit us. Not yet, anyhow.”
Dodoy laughed from the edge of the group. They turned to look at him. From his hand-span height advantage, he sneered down at them. “They don’t keep slaves. They’ll take you to Church and get rid of you.”
Before either woman could correct him, one of the children said, “Where’s Church?” It was exactly what Dodoy was waiting for. He laughed shrilly. “They don’t know.”
Sylah said, “Go to Tate. Now. Not another word. Get out.”
Still grinning, Dodoy ran off. When Sylah looked back to the children, several were near tears. Lanta moved among them, stroking heads, soothing.
“You’re coming with us only because we think the bad men who hurt Tarabel are coming back,” Sylah said. “Anyhow, you couldn’t live here alone. What if a bear came? Or a tiger? Dodoy’s right about us wanting to take you to Church. Because we want you to have a place to live, not to get rid of you. And we don’t steal. We especially don’t steal children.”
The priestesses led the children back to the houses. Conway and Tate were loading the packhorses. Tarabel and the warrior lay on draggers. Tarabel seemed to be staging the rapid recovery of youth.
The warrior also appeared much better. He never spoke, however.
Nor did anyone else, once Conway opened the stock pens and the group was on the move. Finally, Lanta could stand it no longer. She approached Sylah. “I’ve been watching Conway,” she said. “He seems almost too calm. Distracted.”
Sylah said, “Post-battle problems are as different as the men involved. You know what the Apocalypse Testament says: ‘The Healer must address the mind before all else, for it is man’s mind that creates and suffers the most dangerous injuries. A man may kill his enemy and suffer no injury, only to have his own mind rear up and strike him down.’ The Iris Abbess put it more pungently: ‘Think of a warrior as a nail, my dear; pure iron, straight and strong, and the only purpose his head will ever serve is to stop a hammer. More, once bent, a nail’s worse than useless.’ I laughed then. The Abbess didn’t. In time, I learned why.”
Pensively, Lanta said, “Do you think one of us should talk to him, see what’s troubling him?”
“I wish I could, but I really think I should be tending to Tarabel and the stranger. Would you…?” She left the request hanging.
“If you think it’s a good idea. I’m not a War Healer.”
“I don’t think it’ll make a difference,” Sylah said, turning away to hide her expression.
For her part, Lanta was too nervous to examine any expressions but Conway’s. It took her some time to address him. She spoke his name from directly behind him, and he gave a small, startled hitch at the first sound. She stumbled on. “You’re very quiet. Are you well?”
“I’m fine.” He smiled slowly. “Just thinking.”
Emboldened by his friendliness, she pressed ahead. “I thought you might be. You’ve been—thoughtful—since the incident at the river.”
“I suppose I have.”
“It must have been awful.”
“Not so bad.” She saw his jaw tense. A pulse below his ear leaped erratically. He lied. Couldn’t he understand why she was there?
She said, “You did the right thing. Still, it was unpleasant.”
“Not so bad. Excuse me, would you? I have to check on the dragger bindings.”
A point of ice formed in her throat. No one, not
even those who openly feared her, had ever rejected her with such disdain. She stopped, watching him pretend to inspect the dragger.
The cold thing melted. In its place came furious heat.
* * *
Walking point, Tate stiffened at the sight of Oshu loping back down the trail. Stepping aside into cover, the hound faced the way she’d come, then dropped flat, hackles raised. Tate ran back to the others at a fast trot. “Someone coming,” she said.
Lanta hurried the children into the forest shadows. Sylah led off the horses dragging Tarabel and the warrior. Conway ran to a position behind a tree uphill with his dogs. Tate took the left, whistling for her own animals. They appeared a few moments later, watching behind. Going directly to Tate, they sheltered a few yards away, behind a downed tree. The huge trunk was a nursery; as it decomposed into soil on the bottom, other trees grew from the top of its length. The dogs peered from between fencepost-like saplings.
The man who walked toward them was short, compact. He wore a tight jacket and trousers of mottled dark brown homespun and a leather hat. The latter was more of a skull cap, leaving the ears uncovered, but with a flap hanging down the back of the neck. He carried a very short, very thick, recurved bow. There was a sense of immense power about the weapon, and a look at the forearms poking out of the shortsleeved jacket confirmed the owner’s great strength. There was a jagged scar under his chin, as if someone had literally cut his throat.
He rolled when he walked, and although he carried a white cloth in his raised right hand, he appeared far more relaxed than the situation warranted. Stopping, he lifted his chin, scenting the air. Bright, quick eyes searched the forest ahead of him. He seemed to simply drift off the trail and disappear.