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

by Don McQuinn

  With slow deliberation, the man turned away to inspect Tate. “Heard about her. Which one of you she belong to?”

  Tate said, “Don’t let your mouth overload your head, fool. I’m in no mood to put up with trash.” She edged even with Conway. Her pistol was in her hand, muzzle down.

  The man turned red. Still seated, he straightened, threatening. “Woman, remember your place.”

  The explosion of the pistol sent men falling all over each other and gulls shrieking for the sky. Tate’s round blasted into the wooden keg between the man’s knees. Full of liquid, unable to confine the kinetic energy of the bullet, the keg did the only thing it could do: blew up. The force dissipated sideways and downward was of no consequence, except to send staves skipping about that knocked over the stacked bales of hides. That energy which fled upward hammered the keg’s lid against the seated man’s posterior. Suddenly aloft, arms awhirl in simulated flight, he described a short, blunt arc, ending with his face burrowed into the rough gravel. Tate’s pistol remained fixed on the man while he scrambled to his feet. Whatever menace he’d originally projected was now hopelessly shattered by his behavior—dancing wildly, with both hands clasped to his hindquarters—and the tiny bits of gravel protruding from his face. Having to spit out additional small stones and debris further dented his prestige. Sputtering violently, he backed away until several of his friends recovered their wits and rushed to take his arms and lead him off.

  Obviously impressed by the pistol, the other men were far from cowed. One said, “That was woman’s stupidity. You made enemies. None of us’ll forget.”

  “See that you don’t,” Tate said. The pistol centered on the man’s middle. He stepped backward.

  Swinging into the saddle, calling his dogs to position, Conway said to Nalatan, “The road parallels the shoreline. I think I saw signs of a community on the west end. I say we go right.”

  “As good a choice as any,” Nalatan said. Tate agreed with a nod. Boosting Dodoy into his saddle, she ordered Tanno and Oshu to guard his flanks. Slowly, reluctantly, they left her to take position.

  The dock loungers watched them go without comment.

  Wagon wheel ruts created a high-crowned gash of a road a few yards inland from the dock, where it split into east and west routes. Each fork disappeared into heavy forest.

  Out of hearing of the dock group, Conway turned to Tate. “That was some pretty strong overacting back there.”

  “Not all acting. I’m sick of hearing women—meaning me—put down all the time. I don’t like some thick-witted toad assuming I ‘belong’ to someone. And I’ve got a feeling we ought to impress a few folks. The word about Mr. Hospitality back there’ll get around. It’ll get back to the Chair, too. I want him to know we can bite, if we have to.”

  Nalatan said, “I’ve been curious about the lightning weapons. Very impressive. Noisy, though. How do you get the thunder inside something so small?”

  “It’s a long story.” Tate waved a languid hand. For Conway, she rolled her eyes. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “You realize that’s the first time I’ve ever fired that damn thing? I wasn’t even sure it’d work.”

  Nalatan saw the aside, even if he couldn’t hear it. He was beginning to look offended. Looking over Tate’s head at him, Conway smiled broadly. “Isn’t she wonderful? Always thinking, this girl.” The cloying sweetness of it stuck to his tongue.

  Moments later, all three adults voiced surprise at the sudden appearance of triangular, head-high buildings among the trees. Bales, baskets, crates, and sacks filled them. Armed guards in pairs patrolled the lanes between the shingled sides. Other guards, armed with bows and arrows, manned boxes high in the trees.

  Tate said, “Can you believe all this stuff? Look, that sack; it’s leaking. I’ll bet that’s salt. And there—furs! And sulfur.” She sniffed. Her eyes widened. “I smell oranges. Oranges. And almonds; that’s got to be almonds.”

  Nalatan was more composed. “Everything anyone makes, from Nion and your own north country to the lands south of the Hents and east to the nomads, Kos trades. Any ship that wishes to trade with Kos must come to this Island.”

  “How do you know all this?” Tate asked. “Do your people do business with Kos?” They were passing the last of the warehouses.

  “Never. There are trading posts in the Enemy Mountains, but we don’t deal with them. What we know of Kos we learned from people fleeing the place.”

  “Slaves?”

  “And some freemen.” Nalatan looked a bit uncomfortable, but continued. “Most were Moondance converts. I didn’t want to say anything to Sylah and Lanta, but Moondance steadily gains popularity here, especially to the east. Many small landholders and artisans feel the big merchants and farmers of Kos fatten at their expense. Moondance promises that all will share all things. Desperate men believe desperate solutions.”

  They rode on in silence for a short while, and then, after a sharp bend in the route, the forest ended. A large flock of sheep cropped a meadow extending before them. The crowned road arrowed directly at a cluster of buildings. All shapes and sizes, they seemed to have been slapped together without measurements, and in a terrible hurry. Windows were rough rectangles, with translucent hide tacked over them. One door slatted in the breeze, hanging drunkenly from its single remaining hinge. Chimneys seemed to have a universal urge to either escape from the sides of buildings or topple over onto the slap-shingled roofs. Litter, ground into a homogenized, noisome mass, almost filled the ruts gouged by wagon wheels.

  There was no sign of human life.

  A dog barked. Another, farther away, answered.

  The war dogs perked up, cocking ears, twisting heads to locate this latest interesting development.

  The group advanced on the eerily silent settlement. As they reached the first buildings, they heard the noise, an excited rumbling. It seemed to come from the forest on the right of the houses. Tate jerked her thumb at one place as they passed. Ceramic bottles on strings hung from a horizontal bar extending over the doorway. A smell of sour beer drifted out at the riders. Wincing, Tate noticed the windows on the second floor. “That’s got to be the inn,” she said, and groaned, holding her nose. “We’ll be better off camping.”

  Conway said, “Is that noise voices? We ought to check it out.”

  Riding toward the sound, Conway sensed a strange passion in it. He noticed Tate edge closer to Dodoy. The boy, too, was tense, but he avoided Tate’s approach. Without appearing to, Dodoy slowed his horse, drifting backward at the same rate as Tate, so the distance never closed. Meanwhile, his small, narrow head was turning this way, then that, the way the dogs had twisted as they tried to locate the barking. Conway had the feeling Dodoy was reading the sound, as though it told him things the rest of them couldn’t know.

  A few minutes more, and they were looking at the source of the noise. A hillside sloping to the sea provided a rough amphitheater. Nearly a hundred men in a wild variety of costume sat among the trees at the forest’s edge, intent on two men dueling on the beach. One man leaned on a narrow, dark shield, its butt end buried in the sand. In his left hand, he held a long, slim sword. A gory slash across the left side of his face had cost him the vision in that eye. The good one was dull, fading, but it held fast on the other man, who circled toward the blind side.

  The second man wore a small, round shield strapped to each of his arms. His left hand, encased in a basket hilt, grasped a short stabbing knife. The right swung a vicious little axe on a chain. It whirled constantly, darting toward the wounded man, then away, coming from one direction, then another.

  The injured man dodged the axe. He used his sword to parry the stabbing knife.

  The injured man sagged. Once, twice, the axe seemed certain to end his weary struggle. Each time he avoided it by the smallest of measurements. Then he fell. On his knees, he clutched the shield with both hands, the sword falling sideways in a grasp gone limp. The axe sizzled a song of triumph at the end of its chain, dove at
the exposed bowed head. At the last instant, the wounded man slumped backward, which pulled his head behind the shield. The axe dug harmlessly into the sand. The chain went momentarily slack. It jerked clumsily when pulled back into the air.

  That was when the wounded man lurched up right and threw the handful of sand into his opponent’s eyes. Before anyone quite realized what was happening, the long, slim sword was past the bright stabbing knife, between the twin shields, and into the pit of the axeman’s stomach. The dark, narrow shield—suddenly firmly gripped—erupted from the sand. It drove into the axeman’s chin, sending him into a knock-kneed, staggering retreat. The sword pulled free, dripping red. The one-eyed man lunged forward. Again, the sword was in his enemy, and then, horribly, extending from the man’s back.

  The wicked little axe hit the limit of its chain. Nerveless fingers failed to check it. Sparkling, spinning, it fled up the beach, falling unnoticed to the sand.

  Yanking the long sword free, its owner poised to strike again.

  The stunned silence of the audience broke in a rising mumble of surprise.

  The axeman dropped his arms to his sides, stared confusedly at the insignificant-appearing puncture marks just under his rib cage.

  The swordsman was already knee-deep in the cleansing sea before the dying axe-wielder swayed one last time and dropped on his back.

  The victor never saw. He was too busy sluicing his wounds.

  A single voice cheered. Others joined in. The whole audience rose and ran to the beach, some to inspect the dead man, others to congratulate the winner. They milled in happy, sated confusion until someone spotted the riders at the top of the hill. A shouted exclamation, and the crowd was still, looking up. Finally someone challenged.

  “Who are you, and what right have you to be here?”

  “We were sent here,” Conway answered. “The Chair ordered it.”

  “Sailors.” The tone made it clear the definition wasn’t a compliment. A man with a grizzled beard stepped free of the crowd. He wore a leather apron that covered him from the top of his chest down past his knees, and a floppy, round leather hat with the general shape of a soggy pancake. “You’re not allowed to linger on landward side. You know the rules. What’s the matter with the one in the middle? Are you burned?”

  Tate made a growling sound, and Conway reached to grab her wrist as she shrugged the wipe off her shoulder. She twisted free, glaring at Conway, then answered the man herself. “No burns, old man. This is me, the way I am.”

  Nodding satisfaction, the man spoke as he advanced toward them. The crowd followed. “We’ve heard of you. The Black Lightning. White Thunder. Both of you guards to the Flower, the Priestess Church fears. You’d be Nalatan, the warrior monk. And the brat’s the one stole from the Skan by the Black Lightning.”

  “Dodoy’s not stolen. I fought for him. And won.” The bearded man was directly in front now, and Tate leaned forward on her mount to glare down her nose at him. Her dogs edged forward to stand just by the horse’s forelegs, the order to guard Dodoy secondary to the perceived threat to Tate.

  The beard moved. The man might have been smiling. “Witchcraft. No woman outfights a Skan sea fighter. Witchwork. Doesn’t count. Not fair.”

  “It was fair.” Tate bristled all the more.

  The man was amusedly disbelieving. He shook his head. “Don’t care. No liking for Skan here. Feed them all to the crabs, suit us fine. Bad people.”

  Tate’s teeth ground audibly. She edged her horse forward and slapped her sword. At its rattle, the dogs growled eagerly. The bearded man’s eyes darted to them, then back to Tate. She said, “I stuck that fat pig. There was no magic.”

  “We heard your sword fell into the sea. You were dead. The sea woke you, put your sword back in your hand. You rose up in the air, stabbed him. Everybody saw.” Suddenly, he stopped. He tilted his head to the side, looked at Tate from the corner of his eyes. “Thought I heard a noise a while ago. Fight was just started. You two? Lightning weapons?”

  “About a dozen of your people met us at the dock. One of them insulted.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  Tate described him. At the mention of the copper hand, the man interrupted. “He dead?”

  “No.”

  The man shook his head, spat. “Too bad. Not us. Sailors.” He half turned to the crowd, pointed at a man. “You heard, Ellum. Take twenty-five men. Get the sailors back to their side of the island.” Facing Tate again, he tapped his chest with a forefinger. “Name’s Helstar. Smith to the island.”

  Conway elected to use the Dog People’s formal greeting style he’d learned from Gan and Clas. “I know you, Helstar. I’m Matt Conway.” Tate followed Conway’s example. Nalatan had his own mannerism. He bent his torso and straightened instantly, a swift bow. Then he said, “We meet as friends. My name is Nalatan, of the First Star brotherhood, and I am no man’s servant.”

  While Tate and Conway stared, surprised, at this heretofore-unobserved formality from Nalatan, Helstar said, “Come. Fight’s over. We’ll eat and drink.”

  Falling in behind Helstar, Conway said, “We never saw you do an introduction like that before. Where’d that come from? And what’s a First Star? You never said a word to me about that. You’re beginning to irritate me, you and your secrets.”

  Nalatan chuckled. “What other secrets are you hiding? Anyhow, the greeting’s our way. There was never a need to use it, or the name of my brotherhood, until now. That’s not important. What’s puzzling me is this crowd. If they’re not sailors, who are they?”

  Conway snorted. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He reined up, dropped back to allow Tate and Nalatan to ride side by side. He looked over his shoulder, wanting a better look at the crowd. A movement just at the edge of his vision piqued his curiosity. By the time he turned completely around to look over the other shoulder, Dodoy was fumbling at his saddlebag. Far off the path, outside the limit of the crowd, the boy was stuffing away the vicious little chain axe.

  Chapter 11

  Tate was right.

  The ramshackle building that smelled like a dirty tavern was exactly that. On the inside, the stink took on stomach-churning proportions. That was why she and her friends sat behind the building, elbows parked on a thick-timbered trestle table, drinking surprisingly good beer. Slabs cut from a warm loaf of fresh bread filled a wooden platter. For a spread, they had a tub of pale, creamy butter, set in a larger tub of cold spring water.

  A large crowd, including the shy women who’d remained hidden until allowed out of their houses, surrounded the table at a respectful distance, content to watch these amazing strangers eat and drink with one of their own. Children dashed about, shouting, fighting, doing their best to attract attention. Dodoy watched them with polished disdain.

  Helstar tapped Conway’s forearm. “I asked if they told you anything about the island,” Helstar said.

  Conway said, “Only that it was a place where all strangers to Kos live. Where are you from?”

  Instead of answering, Helstar played to the crowd, turning around, winking, mugging. Everyone laughed uproariously. Helstar swung his arm in a gesture of inclusion. “All of us are Kossiars. Criminals. Some counterfeiters, a few pirates. Not many pirates live to reach here. A few murderers. Loan defaulters. Some assaulters—have to make a habit of that to be sent to the island. Mostly thieves, though. Ordinary.”

  “The only strangers are the sailors, then? This is really a prison island?”

  “Not exactly. Traders and their gangs, over to south and west. They live there. Kossiars live here. We do business with the unpeople. Me, a smith. Him, standing there, a tanner. A leatherworker. There’s another. Women cook, sew, weave. Over there’s a carpenter. So on.”

  Tate asked, “Criminals from Kos can work here, is that it?”

  Helstar straightened, lifted his chin and a mug of beer, simultaneously. “The best criminals. We like a person, they’re welcome. Got to have a trade. Good character. Can’t have
just anyone. Families. Little children. Have to think of them.”

  Softly, Nalatan said, “You refuse some?”

  “Of course. Bad people. Ones who steal from friends, beat up all their neighbors, kill someone without a good reason. Low characters. We turn them down. Off they go.”

  “Off?” Tate repeated.

  “Off the wallkiller. Off to the slave list. Chair sells most. If we choose them, they live here. Better’n slavery. Better’n the wallkiller. Whooo!” He drew an arc in the air with his fist, hammered the tabletop, bounced the utensils. The crowd howled merriment.

  “The supplies we passed belong to the Traders?” Conway asked.

  “Exactly. Six traders. Each one has a hawn. You know that word?”

  Conway shook his head. Helstar went on. “Hawn’s like a Lance. Sees that what the Trader wants done gets done. Toughest men around. Hawns control the gangs.”

  Tate said, “Who are the gangs?”

  Helstar grimaced. “Each Trader has a gang. Twenty men. No more. Protects his house, his goods. Killers, all. Worse’n sailors.”

  “Uh-oh.” Tate’s comment expressed the concern immediately visible in the faces of her male companions.

  Helstar caught it, as well. His short laugh was bitter. “Fight you saw? Gang man, him with the axe. Wanted Luro’s woman. Luro’s the one that won. One of us.” Suddenly confiding, Helstar leaned across the table. “Lots of coin here. More trade stuff than the Chair could use. Those lightning weapons? You and us workers? Burn the gangs, take the goods, get the sailors to join up with us. Up the coast, river port. Free and easy. Lots of Smalls. Don’t show themselves much, but they’re there. Slaves. Good living.”