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

by Don McQuinn

  Sylah reconsidered. That observation wasn’t as accurate this morning as it had been yesterday. Tate looked at Nalatan differently. With increased… what? Attention?

  It wasn’t wise to make assumptions about Tate. Her completely one-sided devotion to Dodoy obligated serious reservations.

  As for Conway, he seemed a bit more convivial at the morning meal. Even the dogs were frisky. What inner problem had he solved?

  Nothing that brought him closer to Lanta. Sylah glanced to her right, where Lanta rode with her hood pulled forward, bobbing along in self-constructed solitude. Fog was the perfect environment for her, a metaphor for cloaked mystery. Such a painful irony, Sylah thought, wishing she could console her friend. Lanta’s fate was to receive secrets she dreaded, yet she was helpless to open the mind of a man she loved. Somehow, in the tragicomedy of man-woman relationships, those two had found a way to demolish a perfectly reasonable friendship that wanted to grow to something more significant. Sylah was sure it had something to do with Conway’s attempts to be a warrior. Beyond that, she was uncertain.

  Conway sought out Nalatan. That, too, was a weird situation. Once Nalatan announced his oath to kill Conway, they became confidants. And what did they speak of? Fighting. Nalatan, as if assuring himself the worthiest possible opponent, talked endlessly to a rapt Conway about thrusts and parries and feints until Sylah wanted to scream. Similarly, Conway allowed Nalatan to ride Stormracer. Sylah couldn’t believe her eyes. Nor could Stormracer. Nalatan grabbed a great deal of air that day, and ate what he called “enough dirt for a farm.” Even now, Stormracer only suffered his presence.

  Almost silently, Tate’s mount brought her abreast of Sylah. The women exchanged silent, almost conspiratorial smiles, riding beside each other companionably. Sylah found herself thinking of Tate—her loyalty, her value to the quest—and considered how very fortunate she was to have such a friend. Impulsively, she turned to the black woman.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Donnacee. Do you know why?”

  Tate burlesqued angry defensiveness. “If it has anything to do with the burned stew last night, it wasn’t my turn to cook. Don’t blame me.”

  Sylah laughed easily. “Far more important than that. I’ve been thinking that you may be the only woman I know who’ll understand exactly why I’m so pleased I decided to come to Kos.”

  Patiently, Tate said nothing, waiting. Sylah went on. “Only this morning it came to me. Suddenly, I understand my own decision. I’ve accepted—sought, actually—the quest for the Door for a long time. Now I know there’s more. It sounds very self-important, but I don’t mean it to. What I’ve realized is that I’m at the center of something far, far grander than I ever imagined. The world calls to me from the other side of the Door, Donnacee.”

  “Why am I supposed to understand all that? It’s your quest, not mine.”

  “Because you’re a warrior, as well as a woman. You understand struggle and control. Dominance. Yes, that’s the word, the thing you seek. To dominate. Not for gain, but to assure a stable, comfortable place around yourself.”

  Uncomfortably, Tate shifted in her saddle. She attempted to make light of the remarks. “I’ve got enough trouble controlling this horse. I like the idea of being comfortable, but I don’t want to dominate to do it.”

  Too intent on her own argument to realize the depth of Tate’s discomfort, Sylah gestured blithely. “We can argue about the exact words, but I think my analysis is right. We have our goals. Nothing’s going to stop us. If the world doesn’t fit us, we’ll cut it to our size.”

  Full of dreams of the future, of expectation, Sylah failed to notice when Tate fell off the pace and Lanta moved to take her place.

  The fog broke. One moment it blotted out the world. Then it became a mere haze. A few more yards uphill, and it was wisps that muted colors, so faint one had to squint to actually focus on it. And then it was gone, and an early morning sun as glorious as song poured full, warming light on them. Without thinking, Sylah executed a three-sign. Beside her, Lanta did the same, then threw back her hood to stare.

  They were on the military crest of a mountain, the point where downhill vision to the valley is essentially unobscured. Behind them, the fog billowed and tumbled in a white sea. Before was a panorama of staggering beauty. A huge bay spread inland. The far shore at the narrow entry was a sheer cliff rising from a tumble of surf-lashed rocks. The near side was fogbound, so that only the vaguest suggestion of that bluff was apparent.

  The enclosed bay crawled inland spectacularly. The serpentine coastline defined innumerable inlets and creek mouths.

  On the far shore, a tangled forest clothed the hills down to the water’s edge. Raw wounds, earthquake scars, blotched the greenery in some places, and there were patches of white rock, as well. An island basked in the sun. From Sylah’s position down to the gray-green enclosed waters, the land was a patchwork of trees and grassland.

  At water’s edge, however, an unwalled city rested in one of the larger coves. Fishing boats crowded the harbor docks. More boats dotted the water, some anchored, others with sails bellied and white wakes purling. The city’s gleaming, graceful repose made Sylah think of a jeweled breastplate.

  Separated from everything else on its own small promontory, a stone fort dominated the settlement. The neck of land was crossed by three distinct walls that ran from water to water. Farther out the peninsula, backing up the three barricades, was a moat that fronted a high stone wall, creating an artificial island.

  A large building inside the walls was the castle of Kos’ ruler, the Chair. Gatro had spoken of its roof of blue tiles. Bold, bright as jay feathers, they gleamed pride.

  Stepped back from the walls, it towered above them. It was composed of three main parts. A wide east-west arm connected two narrower north-south arms at the center. Sylah thought it looked like the letter H.

  She dismissed the thought instantly. To say such a thing out loud could be interpreted as helping someone learn to read.

  Returning to her examination, Sylah determined the opening on the northern side of the blue-roofed building was a courtyard. There was a rectangular pond on the opposite side of the castle, just inside the southern wall of the fort.

  Lanta’s gasp snapped Sylah out of her contemplation.

  Westward, at the entrance to the bay, the wind had suddenly unveiled a looming incongruity. As if shrugging itself free of the fog, there appeared a structure of such mammoth, unimaginable proportions that Sylah knew instantly she was looking at a renowned work of the giants.

  The Gate.

  Legend explained that the huge, monolithic gray pillar on the north side of the gap was a post. It was emplaced by the giants so they could suspend a gate that spanned the bay’s exit to the sea. The south face of the post was rough and disfigured. The legend said that’s where the hinges were fitted. Trees grew at its base, and tufts of plant life sprouted randomly from cracks and faults in the once-smooth surface. Seabirds, bright as snowflakes in the sun, circled about it. White streaks, bold against the weathered gray mass, revealed favored perching sites.

  A low moan brought Sylah around to look behind.

  Tate stared out at the scene, features filled with a pain so great it made Sylah’s knees weak. Grief poured unending from Tate’s mouth, as if the sound lived, needed no breath to lift it. Coming to stand beside her, Conway was grim and pale.

  Chapter 3

  “Remember, don’t attempt to speak to anyone,” Gatro said. The young Lance’s face was stern, the singsong vocal pattern more pronounced. “Don’t show interest in anything you see.”

  Nervous irritability fairly crackled around Tate, as it had since the stop at the viewpoint far above them. “You expect us to ride with our eyes closed?”

  Nalatan answered for Gatro. “He means we shouldn’t stare.”

  Gatro nodded, frowning. “The Chair welcomes you above all guests, but I have the authority to blindfold you.”

  “I’ve got your au
thority.” Tate exploded. Tanno and Oshu went into wide-stanced threat display. Gatro’s hand dropped to his sword. In the distance, his warmen stirred. From the corner of her eye, Tate saw Conway casually grip his wipe.

  Sylah urged Copper forward between Tate and Gatro. Facing Tate, she said, “Donnacee, whatever’s upset you, either bring it out in the open, or put it aside.”

  Tate relaxed slowly. Peering around Sylah, she said, “Sorry, Lance.”

  Gatro smiled eager acceptance. “You know I’ll be rewarded for bringing you to the Chair. Only the wealthiest traders ever meet him, and they never visit inside the castle. I want everything right.”

  Tate smiled, a bit tighter than normal. “Leave it to me. I’ll see to it you get medals as big as manhole covers.”

  More baffled than reassured, Gatro signaled his men into motion. He led the group the last few yards along their narrow road, then turned left onto a thoroughfare wide enough for two wagons. They descended toward the town, passing fields of vegetables, wheat, corn, and pasture land heavy with cattle and sheep.

  Tate drifted back to wait for Conway and Nalatan. When they reached her, she asked Nalatan if he’d mind letting her ride alone with Conway for a while. The warrior agreed readily, but Conway was almost certain he saw something like hurt in the other man’s expression as he turned away. He was about to make a teasing remark until he saw how distraught Tate was. Conway decided it wasn’t a good time to try being funny.

  For a while, Tate said nothing. Conway studied the increasing number and variety of buildings they passed. One was a pottery factory, U-shaped, with a two-story base and arms of one floor. Three brick kilns studded the flat ground enclosed within the arms. Rippling heat waves rose from each. Stacks of finished ware ranged against the walls, gleaming bright blues and greens, rich browns and rust.

  Suddenly, Tate blurted, “San Francisco, Matt! Such a beautiful place. How could they? Millions of people, skyscrapers, museums.”

  “Shut up.” Conway grabbed her upper arm, shook her. She settled back in the saddle, breathing heavily. He spoke quickly, but softly. “It’s no different here than it was around Seattle. You weren’t like this up there.”

  “Family.” She gulped air. “My aunt and uncle lived out toward the county line. Over there.” She gestured without looking. “Imagine the firestorms, the erosion. Earthquake. Remember how everyone worried about ‘the big one’? How many ‘big ones’ have they had in the past five centuries, Matt? Does anyone care?” Her breath was quick, biting lunges again.

  “Easy. Easy. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  She nodded. “I’m all right. I keep wanting to slip off the edge, but I won’t. I wonder if anything ever changes. Seems to me everyone we meet here has a full seabag: greed, lust, hatred, plain dirty-dog meanness. Just like the good old days.”

  “Honor, pride, selflessness. Even love, Donnacee.”

  She shot him a hard, searching look. Conway continued, “I feel the same as you, you know. Still, I won’t tell you the challenge of this life isn’t stimulating. I won’t lie about that.”

  “Wouldn’t work if you did. I see how hard you’re working to fit into this mess. We two do seem to be more interested in the excitement than our friends back up north.”

  “I think we’ll see plenty of that here.” He nodded at the squad trailing behind.

  “Security-conscious, that’s all. They’ve got no reason to worry about us.”

  “You know that. I know it. The locals aren’t all that convinced.”

  Their conversation had brought them to the city’s streets. In unspoken accord they closed on the rest of the group.

  The intense curiosity of the city dwellers became a palpable pressure. The riders crowded into each other. The war-horses responded irritably, nipping at the others, shouldering, maneuvering room for themselves. The great dogs padded alongside nervously, gazes shifting from the hooves of the horses to the humanity lining their route.

  Unlike Ola’s geometric street plan, Harbor sprawled. Streets and alleys followed land contours. Or some long-dead cow’s whim. Homes and business buildings were built of every material imaginable: brick, chunks of concrete, stone, wood, tile. Most had windows, crazy quilts of salvaged pieces. Clear glass was obviously most desirable. Next, anything transparent. The poorer examples were made of very small pieces of translucent stuff. Wooden planking was clearly the prestige building material. Conway remarked to Tate that much construction suggested shipbuilding, with tarred seams and outer boards pegged to the frame.

  The group came to a road that paralleled the water. Large stones covered the downhill side, where driftwood and debris marked the reach of the tide. Following the waterfront, the group headed directly for the fort on its commanding peninsula. Gatro, almost unstrung at the prospect of entering those walls, repeated, “The blue tiles mark the castle. All the rest is considered the fort.”

  Sylah turned to Lanta when they were still a good hundred yards from the turnoff to the fort. She said, “How quiet the people are. They don’t seem hostile; they simply watch.”

  Lanta asked, “Did you see the work crew we passed?”

  “No.” Sylah looked surprised. “Where?”

  “In one of the alleys. They ran as we came abreast. The adult chased them. He had a staff, with a curved handle at the top. He beat them with it.”

  “You said adult. The workers were children?”

  Lanta nodded. She didn’t look well. “No older than Dodoy. Carrying brooms and baskets. All in smocks, long-haired. I don’t know if they were boys, girls, or both.”

  “Don’t say anything to the others. Not yet.”

  A high, steep-graded berm across the base of the peninsula was the fort’s first line of defense. Sharpened stakes studded its front slope. It dropped vertically on the seaward side. No cavalry would pass that wall, except by the road the group now rode through the gap. Sylah noticed a gate of massive planks to her left; it was on rollers, for ease of operation. Beyond the berm, the ground for approximately fifty yards was graded flat, unblemished by any hollow or knoll to provide cover. Carpeted with wild flowers, it would have been a beautiful meadow, were it not so obviously a killing ground for defenders shooting down from the second berm. It had a sloped reverse side. Again, the only way past that obstacle was through a gate. Another fifty yards beyond, the peninsula narrowed drastically. An attacker faced the moat. Ten yards across, the bottom greenly visible perhaps six feet below, it heaved gently under the influence of the open sea at its ends. The sturdy drawbridge crossing it drummed under the hooves of the horses. Sylah looked down to see a school of fish slash past, a silver constellation that gleamed startling brightness and disappeared.

  The fort’s wall reached upward at least twenty feet, a daunting face of stone. It was marked by archers’ window slits at eye level, with more about fifteen feet up. A crenellated top provided more defensive positions. Projecting towers enabled other archers to fire parallel to the wall in mutual support. Where the wall reached the sea on either flank, it turned, disappeared. Sylah remembered looking down at it from the hillside, remembered how the sea licked at the other three walls, as a child licks at a piece of ice in its hand.

  Tate echoed her thoughts. “I’d hate to have to crack this nut,” she said, craning to look up at the wall before entering the tunnel-like passage leading off the drawbridge. The entry’s twin doors were hinged at the top, with lines and pulleys to swing them up to the ceiling.

  In the echoing darkness, Sylah said, “I’m not sure it could be done.”

  Tate disagreed. “No place is impregnable. The important thing to remember about any defense is that it breaks easier from the inside.”

  The remark was cynical enough to surprise Sylah, and before she was prepared to respond, they exited into a dazzle of sunshine. It was another killing ground, a large square surfaced with stone and chunks of concrete. Stone buildings surrounded it. Tate pointed out to Sylah that the few windows were too narrow for a man
to get through. She added, “I don’t believe anyone’s ever attacked this place, Sylah. Look at the walls. No burn stains. There’s a shingle roof over there so old it’s rotting. They’ve been safe behind these walls a long time.”

  Gatro led them toward another wide gate. The smell of stone and bricks baking under a hot sun drew Sylah back to Ola instantly. She didn’t want to think of that place. The present and the future were all she dared dwell on. Forcing herself out of reverie, she sought things that were different. This was a fort, after all, and not a city. Unlike Ola, this stone smell wasn’t greasy with garbage and unwashed humanity.

  Despite the reassuring cleanliness, Sylah was uneasy in her mind. She felt watched, as if held in an invisible net. The sensation was so strong it was like the touch of sea-wind, the wet cold that cuts through clothing and settles in the bones.

  Breaking out of the dim passage through the wall into the sun was a blessing.

  A few yards farther stood yet another wall, this one more decorative than protective. Barely taller than the knot of men clustered in front of its wooden doors, its stone was carved in replica of a stormy sea. Sharks with polished silver teeth ranged below cresting waves.

  The waxed wooden doors behind the men were ajar. Flowers and blooming shrubs beckoned from the courtyard there. Sylah yearned to be among them.

  She had time for one quick glance at the castle. The thing that struck her most were the walkways connecting the three stories. They were disturbingly delicate rope bridges, flung across the space between the arms in airy, graceful openness. She hoped she’d never have to cross one.

  Sylah fastened her attention on the waiting men. Their footgear was a sort of half boot, but leg wrappings reached the knee. Those bands appeared to be about two inches wide, and alive with color, as were their full, flowing blouses. The shirting itself was white, embroidered with a fantastic array of designs, symbols, and patterns. Trousers, also of cloth, were black, tucked inside the leg wrappings. Every man wore two swords, one on each hip. They were short, slender weapons, with large handguards.