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

by Don McQuinn

  Tate said, “We’ll think about it. You sure have some good ideas.”

  Helstar downed his beer in one long swallow, slammed the mug down on the table. “Why I’m here. Thief. Think big. Even robbed Crew.”

  Nalatan asked, “How many Crew are there?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe a hundred.”

  “They run Kos?”

  “Right. Warmen all belong to the Chair, but all warmen got families living where Crew people own the land. Balance. Everybody afraid of everybody else.”

  Conway said, “We’re going to have to meet these Traders. What’ll happen if the Chair finds us living with you, instead of them?”

  The entire crowd exploded into wild laughter, Helstar right along with them. “They didn’t tell you nothing, did they?” Helstar’s question fought through amusement. “Lambs to wolves. No outsider lives with Traders. Don’t trust no one to step inside fancy homes, much less to stay. Sailors won’t have you, ‘less you want to pirate. Even so, if they try to take you off island, and patrol catches them—zip, right up to the wallkiller, all of you. Big day. Celebration. Stay with us? Look around. Everyone here already counting your money, pricing you for the slavers. ‘Less you join us, help us.”

  Tate smiled sweetly. “And if we do say we’ll help you, how do we know we can trust you? How can we be sure someone won’t try to rob us and sell us?”

  Huge blue eyes round with affront, Helstar leaned away from the table. He tapped his chest with a forefinger again. “Word. Swear to it. Friends don’t rob friends. Don’t sell them, either.”

  Conway unfolded himself from the table bench, getting to his feet. “I think we’ll camp by ourselves while we figure things out.”

  Helstar agreed heartily. As the others rose, he moved close to whisper. The words seemed to whiffle through the beard. “Choose camp careful. Sailors’ll be angry about embarrassing them. Might come in dark.”

  Tate brushed past him. “Way ahead of you.” She stroked her horse’s muzzle, fed him a slice of the bread. “Have you ever seen what was left of a man after a Dog war-horse finished with him?” She swept up into the saddle, pulled the horse into a rearing, pawing demonstration. The cleared area around her expanded rapidly. Helstar threw his arm; over his head, dodging backward. When her horse was back on all fours, calming down, Tate said, “Talk about that to your sailors and Traders and gangs and everyone else on this rotten rock.”

  Helstar assured her the message would be sent. Nalatan put an arm across his shoulders. Helstar froze at the touch. Smiling, Nalatan said, “You said you’re a smith. I’ll go back to your forge with you. There are some things I need. You can make them for me.”

  Helstar managed a lip-licking smile. “How’ll you find your friends? Best go with them, come tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have plenty of daylight to search.” Leaving Helstar for Tate, he grabbed onto her reins and said, “Watch your back trail. Someone will try to follow you. I’ll track you later.”

  She frowned down at him. “You’re crazy. Leave you here alone? Forget it. Come with us.”

  “Helstar’s a leader. I’ll keep him too busy to follow with his friends. I’ll be safe enough. Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s best. Go.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Color swept across Nalatan’s face, a flash of emotion that failed to change his expression. Steadily, he said, “Please go. If they see you’re concerned, it’ll make them bold. Can’t you understand?”

  Tate pulled her reins free. “You aggravating… man. You can’t let it go, can you?” She snapped the startled horse’s head around, immediately patting his neck, muttering apologies. Her look at Nalatan made it clear who was to blame.

  Gathering up the lead ropes on the packhorses, Conway winked at Nalatan and fell in behind Tate. Dodoy raced to be beside her.

  Both Conway and Tate had improved their fieldcraft considerably since leaving Ola. Automatically, they sought a place that afforded observation of all approaches while providing cover incase of attack. They avoided several locations close to the water; the view was superb, but the sound of the sea could easily screen approaching raiders. In the end, they settled for a brushy copse on a slight rise. The intermingled young manzanita trees and cypress indicated an overgrown burn. There was plenty of thick, entangled scrub to break up a mounted assault, but a little work with a sword created good sighting paths for the wipes. Deep in the cover, Tate and Conway slung two tents. Then, while Tate dug a firepit, Conway took his dogs and busied himself setting snares for rabbits.

  He returned from the seaward side to find Nalatan making his way up the hill from the direction of the inland village. Trotting, Conway was able to intercept him.

  Leading Nalatan into the camp, Conway asked about the village. Nalatan shook his head, as if saddened. “Fools, all of them. Liars and thieves. A pack of them followed me out of the village. Six men, crashing about in the brush, thinking they were being sly.”

  They were at the campsite by then, and Nalatan’s last words brought Tate to her feet. Holding clenched fists against her stomach, chin jutting, she shook with anger. “You want them to come after us, so you can have another glorious fight. We’ve got a child with us, a helpless child. It’s bad enough you’d risk our lives without considering our feelings, but you’ve endangered a boy who depends on us. If those cutthroats come for us tonight, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Muscles jerked in Nalatan’s throat, bunched in his jaw. Speaking very slowly, he said, “No one will come.”

  “You can’t say that. You don’t know. You said they followed you.”

  “They won’t come. Helstar won’t let anyone murder me until he has the coin I agreed to pay for weapons and armor.”

  Tate’s anger seemed to be shading off into guilt, and Conway stepped into the breach. “Helstar’s making something for you?”

  Nalatan was eager to change the subject. “Yes. A proper sword, and knives. I bought a link shirt, too. He’s a surprisingly good smith.” He opened his outer blouse to reveal a chain-mail vest over a quilted undershirt.

  “Well, it’s not as bad as I thought,” Tate said. Conway faked a coughing spell, working his way behind a tent. Watching Tate try to apologize without actually sounding apologetic was almost overwhelming. Leaving them to work out the finer points of their argument he hiked over the hill and down to the water’s edge.

  This beach was small rocks, none larger than a fist, and dark sand. Something silvery caught the edge of his peripheral vision. When he looked directly, he saw nothing. It happened again. Then again. His head swiveled like a wind vane, and although he knew something was going on, he couldn’t identify it. His temper was fraying badly when at last he looked straight down, and a tiny jet of water leapt from a hole in the wet sand. As soon as he’d seen one, he saw dozens; little spurts popped up like reverse rain.

  “Clams.” He said it aloud, his mouth already watering, savoring the salt-and-iodine tang of fresh seafood. Dropping to his knees, he clawed at one of the holes. Cold, insistent seawater filled his excavation as fast as he dug, so he found himself working by touch. Every rock was a clam until he worked it free and could look at it; then he tossed it aside. Finally there was the rock that actually was a clam. A fat one, bigger than the palm of his hand. He whooped, and widened his prospect hole.

  It took hardly any time to dredge up twenty, most of them a good three inches across. Using his shirt as a sack, he rinsed his catch and headed home.

  The sun was lowering when he reached the crest of their hill. The first star of the night was shining in the east. The flame colors of the clouds overhead were burning out, leaving a soft and gray ashen drift from horizon to horizon.

  Looking north, Conway saw the green and gold hills losing shape and color, surrendering to night’s advance. The enormity of the world he’d fallen into suddenly seemed more than he could sustain. It was alien, savage. He felt the logical, trained
part of his mind trying to reason with him, trying to make him realize he was outmatched. His intelligence wanted him to admit that he was too intelligent to keep fighting a losing battle.

  He thought of rescuing Nalatan. A good man. Conway spoke into the gathering darkness. “If it wasn’t for me, he’d have died there. If a man saves a good man, even just one, doesn’t that mean he lived for a purpose?”

  Reluctantly, he remembered the crumpled bodies, the remains of his killing spree with the sniper rifle.

  That had been wanton. Evil.

  “They were evil men. Nalatan’s a good man.” He was writhing inside. “I won’t do anything like that again. Hysteric. That’s what it was: hysteria. I made a mistake.”

  He turned his face to the sky, as if to search out an answer among the barely visible forms of rolling clouds. No voice came, no magical answer.

  So he supplied his own. “I’ll be a man who makes a difference. I can do that. I’m here, in this world, in this time, to do that. I’ll make mistakes—not as bad as the last one—but I’ll contribute good things. I can do that.”

  He hefted his burden, took a deep breath, and struck out for camp again. He imagined the looks of pleasure he’d receive from Tate and Nalatan when they saw what he was bringing them.

  Tate, his closest friend. She loved Nalatan. It might take her a while to discover it, but it’d come to her.

  Nalatan, the friend, well met. In love with Tate.

  For a moment, Conway felt satisfied with himself, felt placed in his niche. Secure. At ease.

  Friends.

  Until he killed Nalatan. Or died defending himself.

  Sad. Why think about something so dreary, so far in the future?

  Pushing a branch aside, he heard a sound. It brought him up short. More puzzled than apprehensive, he wondered what it could have been.

  Birds called. Far away, a seal barked.

  The sound came again, just as he started to resume his progress. Faint. A piercing, keening note. It was in his head; his ears were ringing. His heart hammered. It was the sickness, claiming him. Swirling, burning colors blinded him. Sagging against a tree, he watched them coalesce into surreal imagery.

  He imagined the duel with Nalatan, recoiled at the bite of a blade, exulted at the sight of other flesh, welling blood.

  He yearned for that test.

  The pictures faded. Reality fell on him, heavy with questions.

  Violence had never been part of him before. Or was he so much like his own culture, a breaker of worlds? Or had he become typical of this one, a savage who killed as a substitute for logic?

  Listlessly, he made his way to the campsite. Dropping the clams at Tate’s feet, he shambled off to the tent he shared with Nalatan. To their worried inquiries, he replied that the walking and digging had tired him.

  They woke him to the aroma of cooking. Tate explained how she’d added the chopped clams and some smoked bacon to a dried corn soup mix. The steam rising from the wooden bowls was too stimulating to permit depression. Between the stew, dandelion root tea, and the uncomplicated affection of his friends, Conway dismissed his worries. He ate, laughed, joined with Tate in learning a song Nalatan called a fire song. It had to do with man lighting his way, and was very sad and very comradely. The dogs crowded against their masters, relaxed. The horses whickered softly. Dodoy slept soundly, curled in a tight, warm ball.

  The fire was cold when Tate and Nalatan went to their respective tents. Conway and his dogs took first watch.

  Chapter 12

  The sentry position provided a three-quarter view of the approaches to the camp. Conway faced generally east, in the direction of the village. To the west, the crown of the hill blocked the sea’s mutter. Anyone who came from that direction stood a good chance of being silhouetted and discovered as they top the higher ground. Further, there was brush downhill from the crest to act as an obstacle.

  Nalatan materialized beside Conway. Somehow, the warrior monk had gotten through the thick brush on Conway’s flank in complete silence. Shaken, Conway scolded. “That wasn’t very smart.” The querulous tenor of his voice irritated him further. Deliberately pitching it lower, he added, “You’re lucky the dogs are out scouting. What if you’d startled them?”

  Nalatan said, “I waited until you sent them out. I’m not taking any chances with those devils.”

  “Just with me.” It was another ill-tempered remark, unpleasantly spoken. Conway wished he could pull it back.

  Moving closer, Nalatan was sympathetic. “Something’s troubling you. It’s not just what happened here.”

  “Nothing’s troubling me.”

  “You’re not feeling well. Sylah and Lanta couldn’t hide you from me the way they kept you out of sight of Gatro’s warmen. Lanta told me you fought with a boar, and something happened to you. She wouldn’t tell me more.”

  Conway rounded to face Nalatan. “Look, I’ve seen you fall asleep and wake up any time you want. You came out here early because you’ve got something to say. If you think I’m sick, say so.”

  “We have techniques that free the mind to help the body. I could show you. It would help you with this thing that makes you weak.”

  Conway noted the care with which Nalatan avoided words such as sick or ill. He was certain it was the one thing Nalatan genuinely feared, and his solution was to talk around the problem. It was an immense concession, and a tribute to his friendship. Conway was further ashamed of his earlier manner. He said, “We can talk about that any time. Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?”

  In the darkness, Conway felt, more than heard, Nalatan’s uncomfortable shifting about. “Why is she always angry at me? I try to please her. She knows—she must know—I’ll defend her as long as I can move. I told her if I ever married I’d leave the brotherhood. That was just conversation, understand. I was very subtle about it. Why does she reject me? How do I offend her?” In any other circumstance, the plaintiveness would be laughable.

  Conway was too concerned by the recurrence of his lightheadedness to be entertained. When he touched his forehead, his hand came away glossed with sweat. He had to pretend normalcy. “In the first place, you treat her like a woman.”

  “Of course. That’s what she is. Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Just listen. Don’t talk. Donnacee’s not like any woman you ever saw. From your point of view, she’s more like a man.”

  Nalatan bristled. “You insult her. I don’t think I like this conversation any more.”

  “What conversation? You keep interrupting. Donnacee’s a warrior, the same as you. She’s got a mission, the same as you. I think the reason she’s a little rough on you is because she’s attracted to you.”

  “You did it again.”

  “Did what?”

  “You said she’s more like a man. Then you said she doesn’t want to be attracted to a man. She’s not one of those man-women. I’d know.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Conway muttered, then, before Nalatan could respond, “Look, she doesn’t want to be distracted, and you’re distracting her. It irritates her.”

  “That’s very helpful. The more she likes me, the angrier she becomes, so the more she hates me. Thank you. A man could live a long time and not find a friend like you. If he was lucky.”

  A hot wave of nausea caught Conway in the middle of a soft chuckle, ending it in a quick gasp. Nalatan heard the contradictory sounds, and reached a hand to Conway’s shoulder just as the dogs eased through the brush. Karda ignored the warrior to nudge Conway with his nose. Whining softly, the dog backed away, then moved a few short steps to the east and faced in that direction. Mikka joined him, pointing the same way. Their mutual growling was almost inaudible.

  “Someone’s coming. From the direction of the village. It looks like Helstar decided he’d rather have the coin without the work.” Conway forced the words through sick pressure rising in his throat.

  “I’ll wake Tate and ask her to join you,” Nalatan was already on
his feet, crouched. “Then I’ll scout south. They may be trying to surround us.”

  “Take her with you. Her dogs’ll be a help.”

  Nalatan’s smile was a flash of white. “If Helstar’s out there, it means he broke his promise to me. Tate’s a warrior, as you say, but I don’t want her to see what happens to him.”

  With Nalatan’s departure, Conway felt his strength ebb faster than ever. Moving forward to join Karda and Mikka made him breathe heavily. He reminded himself to keep his mouth closed, to inhale and exhale slowly, steadily. The ringing in his ears returned. Where it had been an irritation before, now it was a hazard. Some sounds it distorted; he couldn’t be sure it didn’t completely obscure others.

  On order, the dogs advanced toward whatever had alerted them. Conway was sure it was human. There were differences in their warning behaviors. Larger animals brought on a stiff-legged, coiled-spring movement, as though the dogs consciously prepared for battle. When asked to search out game, they grew eager, boisterous. Confronting humans brought on wary determination. Conway believed the latter grew out of a true understanding of which quarry was most dangerous.

  Positioning himself between the dogs, Conway let them support some of his weight. He flicked off the wipe’s safety. It took two tries, his sweaty thumb slipping off the knurled metal the first time. The quiet snick seemed thunderous.

  Again, the dogs warned him. Utterly silent, they pressed against his thighs, effectively stopping him. There was a small bush to his right. He sidled to it, pushing Mikka along sideways. He squatted beside the growth; the advantage of his uphill position would be compromised if anyone saw the team outlined against the stars. The bush broke up the form that said “man” to hostile eyes, while the prone dogs were virtually invisible.