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

by Don McQuinn

  Then Sylah announced that she intended to baptize Jessak.

  Helstar sat bolt upright, his concern for ambush completely dismissed. “Not here.” He stopped, chewing on his beard. Inexplicably, he dabbed a hand in the water, tasted it. Some of his agitation faded.

  Sylah said, “The boy must be named. How would he be known in the Land Beyond, Helstar? It’s a terrible thought, but we must face it; the world is dangerous for him.”

  Helstar’s laugh was cruel, out of place. Still, all he said was, “Be thankful the sea’s diluted by fresh water. Do what Church requires. It can’t be helped.”

  A crude, foreboding benison, Sylah thought angrily. The child had no faults, couldn’t be blamed for his father. And at the end his mother displayed character few could match.

  Premonition touched Sylah, a chill hand on her cheek.

  Yasmaleeya was dead.

  His mother would never see Jessak grown, supple and strong. The Chair would.

  The revelation came and went, startling as a falling star.

  Sylah held Jessak while Lanta did the honors. A wet finger touched forehead, the outer corner of each eye, then chin. In chorus, the women intoned, “May the One in All grant a mind that creates a life of truth and virtue. May the One in All grant eyes that seek the right and the good in everyone. May the One in All grant a voice that praises Him and ever speaks with honor.”

  Helstar added his amen. Once more, Sylah caught the flutter of fingers; she was more sure than ever it was his three-sign. He offered no comment, she asked no questions.

  Day pressed down on the small balancebar. With every moment of increased light, the small party felt more vulnerable. Thick reeds bending in the breeze suggested attacking boats about to break from cover. Every bend in the course was a potential shield for ambushers. Birds cried greeting to the day; Sylah and the others squirmed anxiously, imagining warmen signaling assault.

  They were in a veritable sea of reeds when the sun was first bright enough to cast shadows. The river was wide, slow. Smaller streams, blind byways, presented themselves in ever-changing variety, yet there was a sameness to the place that bred apprehension. Sylah, biting her lip to avoid making critical comment, was sure they’d passed one particular break in the crowding growth at least twice. Possibly three times.

  Refuting her, a slowly curving bend revealed an island ahead. Trees crowned it, in some places reaching to the very edge of the river. Helstar drew the sail as taut as he could, put the balancebar into a sizzling tack that sent spray spinning off into the wind. Hanging, swaying branches loomed closer and closer. Sylah turned questioningly to Helstar. He said, “Everyone down. Flat.”

  The boat plunged into the green curtain. Sylah saw no more, her face pushed hard against the stinking, gritty wooden hull. They stopped with a battering crash. It was all Sylah could do to protect Jessak. He awoke with a furious bawl that ended so abruptly and completely Sylah feared he was injured. Examining him quickly, she found no damage. His eyes remained screwed tightly shut.

  Sitting up, Sylah found herself staring at neat planks of seasoned wood, artfully joined, caulked with wool and tar. Craning her neck, she looked up, into the black eyes and grinning, dark features of Donnacee Tate.

  “We were beginning to worry about you,” Tate said. She pointed at the torn leaves and snapped twigs drooping behind the balancebar. “Great entrance.”

  Sylah had to laugh. She marveled at this strange, lovable friend, whose seemed to have an absolute need to make light of everything. Lanta giggled, and even Dodoy smiled. For his part, Helstar shook his head in disbelief.

  Nalatan appeared beside Tate. “Wal says we have to go. Come aboard.” Emphasizing Nalatan’s haste, Wal’s voice ordered lines cast off, oars readied to pole the craft free of her hiding place. The deck thudded with running feet.

  Lanta and Dodoy climbed nimbly over the larger boat’s rail. Helstar handed Sylah up. The open cargo well yawned in front of her, only a couple of steps removed from the narrow walkway that paralleled the gunwales. The rowing benches were neatly stowed against the hull, restricting the passage as little as possible. It took a moment for her to realize she was looking at Copper down there, as well as other mounts and packhorses. Forward, crowding into the vee of the bow, Oshu and Tanno wagged tails in greeting.

  The thought of those brave animals facing the Dry made Sylah’s stomach roll. Spring was nearly lost already. Summer in the Dry was said to be as close to the Land Under as the world had to offer.

  When she turned back to the balancebar, Helstar was already reseated at the tiller. He smiled up into her surprised expression. “The Empty Lands will be needing a smith.” He winked, shoving the balancebar away from the larger hull.

  Sylah quickly handed Jessak to Lanta, just as Tate returned. Ignoring Tate’s walleyed “Where’d you get that?” Sylah turned back to Helstar, protesting. “The Kossiar warmen will suspect you helped us. The slaves don’t know you’re a friend. It’s too dangerous, Helstar. Come with us. We need you. Church needs you.”

  A sheen of annoyance glossed his features. It passed quickly. Signaling her close, assuring no one overheard, he said, “The name of Jessak is a curse. Men say he conspired with the darkness, that he held dominion over sea creatures.”

  Sylah interrupted. “Superstition. You, of all people.”

  “Legend says he never chose the shark as guardian for Kos; the shark chose him. They say the dead rose for him. I’m Church, Priestess, and I’ll die for her, if need be, singing hymns in her name. But I saw the king of all sharks come when the babe was threatened. I saw a boat carrying two dead men intercede for him. I was there.” Looking past her, he bit off further words.

  A young sailor approached Sylah. Rushing, Helstar whispered, “There’s more. No time. Treat him well, Flower.” The last was entreaty, then the frown marring Helstar’s brow melted away to a guileless smile for the sailor, who now stood close by, coiling a braided leather halyard. When Helstar spoke again, his voice was louder, harsher. Sylah was confronted by the smith of Trader Island. His look was sidelong, calculating. Broad shoulders arced forward in an aggressive curve, and his head bowed, bear like. “Smith’s always needed. Goes where the business is. Anyhow, if I can’t depend on my own armor and weapons, would I dare sell them? Don’t worry about Helstar. Never doubt he’s your friend.”

  “I can never thank you enough.”

  Waving, Helstar backed away. “The crystals you wanted are in the leather hamper. With a few bottles of the Chair’s best wine. A going-away present.” The cloak of branches and leaves trailed across him in lingering touch, just as Sylah’s eyes sought to hold him. A moment later there was only a faint flutter of leaves to show he’d ever existed.

  Tate put a hand on Sylah’s shoulder, bringing her around to face the new situation. The boat lurched and pressed into the upstream edge of the overhanging cover. They spoke of the night’s developments. Lanta had already described events at the fort. Tate, ill at ease, told of the disappearance of Conway and Tee. Lanta said nothing, her eyes cast down, her shoulders slumped. Tate was as tactful as possible. Her optimism for their safety was too loud, too certain. Until her voice broke dramatically.

  Embracing, Tate and Lanta consoled each other.

  The boat was out into the current then. All hands managed to be busy, found a way to keep clear of the grief. Lanta straightened first. Her chin jutted, and she knuckled away tears as if she meant to crush their very memory. “He will be all right. I won’t believe anything else. I won’t.” She turned to Sylah. “The Apocalypse Testament: ‘Faith, and only faith, can conquer the past, can create a future. Plans without faith are speculation. Faith without constancy is gambling.’ I believe. Matt Conway will live.”

  Gently, consoling, Sylah said, “I hope he will, too, Lanta. He’s friend to all of us. Nevertheless, what you quoted refers to a belief in the One in All, not help for one who’s concerned about another. Please be realistic. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt anymo
re.”

  “Faith is faith. Mine can accommodate the small as easily as the great. I believe Matt Conway has a place in your quest. I won’t believe he’s to die before his mission is fulfilled.” Lanta struggled with the speech, voice strained.

  Tate put an arm around Lanta’s shoulders. “Class. Just hearing you makes me feel better. You stay close to me; I need that sort of help.” Looking across Lanta’s head, Tate grinned at Sylah. “You wouldn’t know about all-day preachin’ and dinner on the ground, or the solid sweet heart of good gospel. I only went once, actually, with my daddy. But that’s my kind of faith. Lanta and me, we’re primitives. We’ll get that hardhead Conway through this. You watch.”

  It was so unabashedly supportive Sylah’s throat blocked for a moment. “Thank you. Both of you.” She made a clucking noise at Lanta, pretended to scold. “That’s twice in less than half a timetube you’ve put my feet on the right path. I’ll be in your debt forever.”

  “We walk it together. Sister.” Then, with a hug for Tate, Lanta added, “Sisters.”

  Nalatan stood at a distance, watching unobtrusively until Sylah looked up and he caught her eye. She waved him over. He, too, tried to apologize for not stopping Tee and Conway. Sylah stopped him. “I know you all did everything possible. They did what they believed was right.”

  Nalatan thanked her, then pointed into the distance. He asked the women, “Have you noticed the smoke? There? And back that way?” He went on. “The uprising. We can expect ambush any time. Wal and his men can take us no farther upstream than the first major godkill. From there, they go north on land. We go east. Once we reach the sunrise slope of the Enemy Mountains, I suggest we camp over until fall. There’s good water, plenty of game. We’ll need rest, as well. We don’t want the burden of facing the summer Dry.”

  Sylah said, “Kossiar patrols are looking for us?”

  He smiled crookedly. It wasn’t an expression Sylah thought she could learn to like. “You have the Chair’s firstborn son in your arms. You’ll be accused of murdering his wife and of siding with the slaves that are butchering their owners. The slaves are riddled with Moondance preachers who’ll spread the word you’re a Church witch. Anyone who can lift steel is looking for us.”

  “Are you saying we can’t make it?” Tate demanded.

  Nalatan’s laughter was harder to bear than his smile. “We’ll make it. If we’re cunning. Ruthless. Lucky. We need all those things. But we have one unfailing advantage.”

  “Yes?” Sylah was impatient.

  “Humankind.” Nalatan lazily indicated the rising pillars of smoke. “This killing is in the name of freedom, but as soon as it stops, the real struggle will begin again, the one for power. However many slaves break free, they’ll soon be at each other’s throats, fighting to see who’s in charge. Everyone’s so dependably determined to kill each other, they may overlook us. Or weaken each other, making it easier for me and Tate to kill them. It leaves a loyal protector of Church bad choices of what to pray for.”

  Sylah spun away, offended and furious. Lanta blushed, embarrassed by such flirting with blasphemy; she busied herself fussing with Jessak’s wrappings. As a result, only Tate saw the way Nalatan’s head swung up and east, yearning, as though he already saw the sanctuary of the cool mountains.

  The anger that she felt on hearing him so bluntly condemn Sylah smoldered, but the sight of his suffering pulled at her. She ached to reach out, to touch him.

  And defeated herself.

  The unnamed, unknown thing in her that denied him rose up yet again. Her hands remained at her sides, her words locked tight in her heart. She knew she was behaving foolishly, even destructively, and was helpless. She felt possessed, controlled by forces that laughed at her even as they whipped her into obedience.

  Tate made her way to the side of the ship. Leaning out over the side, she watched the swirling, shifting surface roll and tumble in infinite pattern.

  The problems and dangers of the forthcoming trek to Church Home refused to come into focus in her mind. Shamefully, she was unable to concentrate on Conway and Tee.

  Nalatan. Why couldn’t she respond to him when she so desperately wanted to?

  This new view inside him was disturbing. He was deeper, more complex than she imagined. What did she really know of him? Was her subconscious warning her?

  That wasn’t the problem. She told herself she might as well be honest. She was terrified of loving him, terrified of losing him. Donnacee Tate was her own worst enemy.

  Chapter 38

  Two prone nomad warriors watched the lone rider following the narrow game trail through the tight ranks of slim lodge pole pines.

  The distant figure drifted in and out of sight, slumped in the saddle, paying no heed to his mount’s course. As for the animal, it shuffled wearily, hind hoofs dragging, forefeet barely clearing the ground. It kicked a fallen pine cone at nearly every step, sending the prickly things skittering into the manzanita undergrowth like so many excited rats.

  The larger of the watchers, dressed in dark brown homespun shirt and trousers, asked, “Should we kill him?”

  The smaller man, not much more than a boy, shot him a surprised look. He was dressed like his partner, but iridescent rooster tail feathers dangled from the long hair on the back of his head. When he turned, jewel colors darted across their smooth blackness. He said, “Yes. He may have something in the saddlebags. I claim the horse.”

  “You don’t just claim. Not you, not Lolal. Not on me.”

  A third man, older, appeared from behind a cluster of boulders. Unlike his companions, he sported a thick leather vest, beaded bands at biceps and wrists, and leather shorts. Laced boots reached high enough to cover his legs, except for the exposed knee joint. He bent to a crouch, ran to the brushy patch where his companions hid. Looking at the rider across the prone bodies, he said, “That’s sure no Peddler; no pack animals. Dressed too plain for a snot-nosed pretty-pretty Messenger.” He was thoughtfully silent for a while, then, “This is our last day on patrol, so we’ll take him alive. If he’s an escaped slave or a Kossiar warman, we’ll take him back with us. Moonpriest wants information.”

  “And fun.” The smallest of the trio grinned over his shoulder.

  The older man frowned. “Moonpriest says torturing isn’t just entertainment or experience for the youngsters any more. We draw strength from the prisoners. The braver they are, the longer it takes them to die, the stronger we grow.”

  Chuckling, the small one returned his attention to the rider. “Nobody’s going to get strong off that one. He’s half dead already. See how his head wobbles? He’s sound asleep.”

  “We’ll be careful anyway.” The older man, keeping low, scuttled back to his original hiding place, where three saddled horses and a packhorse were reined to saplings. The others joined him. He said, “Get ahead of him. Let him get good and close, then show yourselves. Put an arrow in him if he tries to run.”

  The tallest warrior swung aboard a roan. Looking down at the high-booted man, he said, “I don’t need you telling me how to do things, Lolal. Being leader of a scout team means you can say where we go and when we go and who takes what watch. That’s it.”

  Without looking up from where he was checking the edge on a thick, stubby sword, Lolal said, “Do what I told you.”

  The younger men rode off, exchanging smirks. Lolal put away the weapon and glanced after them. His thin frown was more puzzled than angry. Once the others were out of sight and hearing, he got on a pinto saddle horse. Cautiously, he edged the mount forward until he could peer between two boulders. The rider coming up the mountain had made the progress Lolal expected, and he found himself in position to watch.

  He wished he could name whatever was making him so edgy. They were ten days’ ride south of the scout camp. Main camp was another seven days north. Seventeen days of scouting, and no sign of people, except for a straggling family of used-up slaves. On foot, if anyone’d ever believe that.

  A hand drif
ted to the soft leather sack at his side, fondled the cushioned hardness of Kossiar coin. There was a kind of humor to the whole thing, he thought; a slave father bargaining to save his family with money stolen from the master he’d killed.

  Complications came when you settled in one place and tied your life to dirt. People like that were just things, no different from their own cornstalks. Never even offered to fight.

  Harsh squawking broke Lolal’s reminiscence. He glanced around, told himself no horseman belonged up here where the bold black and white jays were at home. Tight little trails kept a man squashed between trees close as hairs on a bear’s butt. Well, today would see them on the sunrise slope and headed downhill.

  Lolal returned his attention to the trail below. The lone rider gave no sign of hearing the jay’s noise.

  That was exactly the sort of thing that made a man nervous, Lolal thought angrily. Normal people looked around when a jay sounded alarm. It wasn’t right not to. Lolal spat. Nothing about these mountains was right. Too quiet. Too empty. Too peaceful.

  A man started waiting for something to go wrong. Like it had to happen.

  Checking the packhorse’s lead, he got under way. Swinging wide, he intersected the winding game trail. Iron-shod horse tracks nearly obliterated smaller, sharp-edged deer prints. Lolal studied the former. A healthy animal. Tired. A large notch in the left fore shoe. Coming across fresh, steaming droppings, Lolal reined up in surprise. Corn. Not much, but any at all was remarkable. How’d a man grain his horse way up here in this high country without a pack animal to carry it?

  One thing after another.

  * * *

  Many who thought they knew Matt Conway would have failed to recognize the man who silently watched as the rider of the pinto slipped out of the forest and onto the trail ahead.

  It was more than Conway’s different clothes. True, the padded undershirt under the chain mail bulked his figure considerably. Long leaves of armor protecting his thighs gave them the appearance of excessive mass, as well. The raw line of a three-inch scar that started just outside the flare of his right nostril and slashed horizontally along the cheekbone was quite thin. If anything, it should have added a certain dash to his features.