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

by Don McQuinn

  Even as all that flashed across his mind, sadness twisted inside him. He heard the voices of childhood friends, dead for centuries. They laughed and shouted through his memory. Old, old songs, melodies he hadn’t thought about since waking in the crèche, thundered in his ears. He visualized a store. Ice cream. Sugar Bob’s. A gathering place when he was just a boy. Guys in letter jackets. Girls in bright clothes that flaunted. Laughter. Some forced, some faked, but most of all there was a gorgeous, ringing carelessness.

  Vanilla.

  Where did he get the smell of vanilla?

  Conway surreptitiously dabbed at burning eyes.

  His hand smelled of vanilla.

  Fox chuckled. “The wine strikes again, eh? That’s why I drink our good beer most of the time. Easier on a man.”

  Ignoring him, Conway sniffed at his hand. Leaning against the tree, he smelled it. Faintly, almost delicately, it gave off a tinge of vanilla. Enough to trigger a ferocious nostalgia.

  Conway said, “Yes. The wine. My stomach.”

  “We’ll cook it out of you,” Fox said.

  A little later Conway stood naked under a stream of water. There were no stalls in the room, but each bather had his own pull-cord that opened a door in an overhead trough. There was one temperature: frigid. Next, Fox showed Conway into a room with a large shallow pool. Conway sped toward the sight of steam rising. “For soaking,” Fox explained following an already-settled Conway. “Wash in the shower, soak in the pool. Good for old joints, old scars.”

  Conway saw why Fox could appreciate the latter. He carried the marks of combat from his forehead down to one across the instep of his left foot.

  The translucent gray cloth overhead carried a pattern of pale green leaves. The hard sun, passing through the material, was softened to a benign glow. Conway was reminded of Ola, where so many days had the same cloaked quality. About the time Conway thought he might dissolve with sheer relaxation, Fox climbed out, saying, “Now we get kneaded, like bread.”

  The third room of the tent featured cots, waist-high, sturdy. Conway turned from inspecting them and discovered two young women standing at the far door. Expressionless, they were unmoving, silent. Conway scrambled to hide his nudity, ignoring Fox’s bellowing laughter. When he could, Fox said, “They’re blind. Knew they’d startle you.”

  “Blind?”

  “As stone. Only use blind slaves in here.”

  Fox flopped on a cot, snapped his fingers, called a name. The summoned girl moved to him quickly. She carried a basket. Conway noted jars. He assumed they held creams and salves. She had small cloths, as well. He moved to a cot several feet from Fox. Closing his eyes, he refused to acknowledge that the second girl was beside him, going about her business.

  Fox droned about the need for a particularly swift, light cavalry to clear the western slopes of the Enemy Mountains. He spoke of the number of arrows each man should carry, the requirements for food, water, fresh horses. Conway listened, responded on cue with monosyllables. In time, Fox wearied of his own voice and stopped.

  Shortly after that, the girl’s voice brushed Conway’s hearing. For a moment, he wasn’t sure she’d spoken, and he raised his head. She pushed it back down. “Please.” She was begging. “Can I talk to you?”

  Her hand was on the back of his head. He nodded. She went on. “You’re the Matt Conway one? The White Thunder?”

  He nodded again. A little confidence lightened the girl’s voice. “You were with the Flower. When you saved the children. The Smalls.”

  Surprised, Conway twisted to face her. Her hand stilled his question before he could speak. Conway risked a look at Fox. The warrior dozed. Conway patted the hand of his own attendant. She continued, “I am—was—a Small. All know what you did for us.”

  “Nomads captured you?”

  “Yes.” Her head lifted slightly, as though the shuttered eyes searched back in time to a better place. “Raiders attacked our village. We fought. Then the nomads came. They killed the raiders. We came out to thank the nomads, and learned we’d exchanged the wolf for the tiger. Our village, my people, are all gone.”

  “You survived. How many others?”

  “Twelve. Women, children. All slaves now. They brought us here, told us we must swear loyalty to Moonpriest.”

  “You did the right thing. You’re still alive. Hope only ends with death.”

  Her smile was like a fissure in ivory, an ugly break that marred a lovely surface. “I was the first one asked to swear, being the oldest. You’re right, Matt Conway; I did the right thing. I refused Moonpriest and his dark worship.”

  Conway turned away from the change in her. He grabbed his clothes, started to dress. More gently than ever, her lips almost touching his ear, she said, “Can you help us, Matt Conway? There are still seven of us captives alive. Some say Katallon fears Moonpriest, that he’s jealous of Moonpriest’s warrior, the Fox one you came with. You helped the Rose Priestess Sylah, and my people, too. Please, if Katallon and Moonpriest fight, help us escape.”

  Conway stood, pulled on his trousers. “I can’t. Things will get better. Look, you rejected Moondance, and they didn’t kill you. I wish you were still free, didn’t have to work here, but you haven’t been punished all that harshly.”

  She bent, felt for her basket of supplies. Rising again, she reached tentatively to touch Conway’s chest. She said, “I understand. You have your own path. I hoped… Never mind. But know this, before you judge my punishment. Before I spurned Moondance, my eyes were brown. And I could see.”

  Conway was still trying to catch his breath when she reached the door, walked through it, and disappeared.

  Fox stirred on his cot. Conway called harshly to him, told him he wanted to get back to the tent. Amiably, still drowsy, Fox hurried with his dressing. Once Conway was outside again, he wanted to go back and stand under the shower, wished it could wash away the memory of the girl’s words.

  There would be no time for that, however. Not with Katallon thundering down on them, his face drawn taut in fierce amusement. Karda and Mikka took place beside Conway.

  Katallon dismissed Fox with a glance. To Conway, he said, “It’s good you’re clean and prepared to face the truth. The test is now. You and Otraz.”

  Chapter 43

  The external walls of Moonpriest’s tent were a double thickness of heavy felt. The outer layer of white reflected heat. Flaps on the roof permitted the quick creation of scoops to catch any passing breeze. Others acted as heat exhausts. The lower edge was rolled up ankle-high; cool air flowed in and rose as it heated, generating a draft. The interior enjoyed a soft luminescence that seemed to multiply where it picked out the many silver moon disks decorating the walls.

  Conway stood alone in a room he estimated to be twenty feet square. Muffled crowd sounds filtered through the cloth walls.

  The various clans and tribes of Windband were gathering.

  A test. Another chance to prove himself.

  To whom? More than that, why?

  Conway knew killing had nothing to do with manhood. What, then, was twisting him so? When he’d rescued Nalatan, shot the raiders like so many paper targets, he’d exulted in that raw, almost omniscient power. Men had tumbled and fallen in the distance, more symbols than creatures of flesh and blood.

  Now he stood in the flowing, changing light of this cult-heart and felt a savage, frightening eagerness. He wanted Otraz close. He wanted to see his face when death beckoned. He wanted to feel his own life swaying on balance.

  Life wasn’t so hollow for him that it had no value, Conway told himself. The core was rotten, with Tee gone, but the loss of her was the very thing that meant he had to live.

  Lanta.

  He thought of her and was angry with himself, because he’d let himself forget for a while that she was responsible. And, behind her, the brooding black hypocrisy of Church. He resolved to be more attentive to those facts. It was shameful that he’d stop blaming her, even under the influence of this trial’
s stress.

  A sighing movement broke Conway’s introspection. Moonpriest swept into the room past a flap held aloft by a slave dressed in white blouse and loose trousers. A black diagonal stripe ran from the man’s right shoulder to left hip, where another struck back across from hip to calf. When the slave dropped the flap, turning to leave, Conway noted that the pattern was repeated on the back of his clothes.

  Moonpriest continued to wear his white, silver-streaked robe and his white turban. He smiled greeting. Tight, twisted, the expression shrieked of secret, knowing amusement.

  The simple act of striding into the light-sodden room and flashing that suggestive smile put fear in Conway. He fought a need to swallow, to cough.

  Pacing, keeping a distance of perhaps eight feet, Moonpriest moved in a measured semicircle. He said, “Things are revealed to me. Not everything. My mother won’t let me fail, but she tests me, Matt. It wears me down. You can’t imagine. Mother is as cruelly demanding as she is lovingly generous. The more you know of her, the more you’ll love her. You’ll see. One day, you and all the truly loyal will meet her.” He stopped then, gazing skyward, beatific. “Paradise. Eternal life.”

  Suddenly suspicious, Moonpriest bent forward aggressively. “Are you loyal to me?”

  “What? Of course.”

  Conway’s minute pause didn’t go unnoticed. Moonpriest’s eyes narrowed. “You must be sure, Matt. I sense doubt or courage or thirst—anything and everything—in other men as easily as they sense it in themselves. Better, actually. Those who would trick me, I strike down. Above all, I’m compassionate. My mission can’t afford interference from trifling people, however. I am steel in my resolve. Those who do not support me completely are doomed. It is the way.”

  Conway shivered. This wasn’t combat, life and death. This was insanity. No logic, no reason. One survived as one could. “I sought you out, Moonpriest. I came to be with you.”

  Moonpriest shook his head. A pitying, disappointed smile worked his lips. He shook his head. “You came to use me, Matt. But now you’ve seen. Not everything. Enough. I hope. Your head jangles with questions; it hurts me to hear you think, it truly does.” He stopped in front of Conway, extended a slow, languorous hand. Conway had the feeling it stalked him. It settled delicately onto his sleeve. “Questions are good. The sign of a good, working mind. I want that more than your weapons. In the world of my vision, there will be no need for weapons. Peace. Harmony. Obedience.” The hand snapped back, startling Conway. “We must be determined. Mercy is for those who earn it.”

  The swell of sound beyond the walls reminded Conway that he faced a trial out there, as well. He gestured at it. “I told the truth about Otraz. He killed the other men. If I must, I’ll kill him. I hope that won’t make trouble.”

  Moonpriest said, “I believe you. Wait here for Fox and Katallon. Remember, what is truly important is that my mother must be satisfied that you’re worthy. Otraz has served me well. I can’t allow one small failure to cheat him of his place beside me, and yet he must be punished if he’s lied to me.”

  Moonpriest stopped at the door, turning for one last word. “You see the penalties? I was so happy to discover my godhood. Mortal foolishness. How I envy you. Godhood is grueling. I, who once feared death, now long to rest my burden. You appreciate the irony. No one else here can imagine it. For that alone, I want you with me.”

  The curtain slid silently across his exit. The last words hovered in the luminous air of the room.

  Outside, Conway heard the braying of deep-throated horns. A prolonged cheer announced Moonpriest’s appearance among his people. When that uproar quieted, the singing began. Surprisingly beautiful, the voices of Windband lofted a hymn of praise. It failed to soothe Conway.

  Katallon threw aside the entry panel. Expressionless, he said, “Come,” and left. Conway hurried after.

  The dogs, waiting at the front entrance, rose to take position beside their master. Fox brought up the rear.

  The crowd parted ahead of Katallon. For a moment Conway was surprised by the dire respect shown the man until it occurred to him that Katallon once ruled Windband alone. Conway had already fallen into an acceptance that Moonpriest controlled the nomads. Now he saw that was wrong. As the girl at the baths said, Katallon was the leader, a man of men. Moonpriest, as a god, held the power of life after death.

  Then Conway saw Katallon look at Moonpriest. And turn away. For the briefest instant, Katallon’s face revealed anguish and hatred.

  The ramifications of that instant were overwhelming.

  There was no time to consider them. They were moving to position directly in front of Moonpriest, who said, “Place the dogs and your weapons over there.”

  Conway moved to obey, then checked. Iron stakes, thick as leg bones, were driven into the ground at the edge of the crowd. Chain wrapped around the stakes. Conway said, “I won’t chain them. They’ll stay where I tell them.”

  Fox said, “Not if they think you’re in danger. I know your animals of old. Chain them.”

  Conway opened his mouth to argue, and Katallon said, “Look around at all the strung bows. Chain the dogs now, or the test is finished. So are you.”

  Moonpriest was impassive, unreachable.

  Slowly, skin crawling with the fact of his betrayal, Conway led the dogs to the posts, put down his armament, and tied the chain in ugly knots around their unresisting necks. They lay down on order, looking at him uncomprehendingly. As he left, they whined.

  Behind Conway, a voice from the crowd shouted, “Fail, you lying piece of dung. Your dogs will be saddle furs for my sons.”

  Conway flinched, refused to turn. From the corner of his eye, to his right, he saw Otraz step away from the crowd. A cheer rose. It made Conway feel better to note that the crowd’s enthusiasm didn’t change the fright on Otraz’s face. They arrived in front of Moonpriest together. Fox and Katallon were gone.

  A horn blew, brazen, animal-like. Silence came over the crowd.

  Moonpriest’s sonorous voice projected over the throng. “Otraz is accused of turning against Windband and killing two of us. His accuser is a man I know of old, one who rode through many dangers to join us. If this were an ordinary crime, Katallon would judge. Otraz is no ordinary man. He has served me and my mother, as well as Katallon. Because I have not seen the Conway one for many moons, it’s possible he’s not the man I remember. Men change. The change can bring joy. Or sadness. So Katallon agrees to this test. If Otraz dies, we will know of his guilt. Still, he will be forgiven by me, blessed, to reside with my mother until the day we are all reunited. If Conway dies, we will know of his guilt. He will stand revealed as a liar and a murderer. My mother will have rejected him in this world. And in the Land Beyond.”

  The last resonated, thundered at the crowd. They cringed. Then sprang back, alive with eagerness.

  Karda barked angrily. Chain clattered against steel.

  Moonpriest extended his arms upward, looked to the sky. Gradually, he pulled his hands back, rested them at his breast. Beside Conway, Otraz mumbled. By straining, Conway could see him without turning away from Moonpriest. The warrior was palled with a fear that drew back his teeth in a rictus grin. Conway barely got his full attention back to Moonpriest in time to see him thrust his hands inside his robe.

  The hands reappeared holding twin rattlesnakes.

  Conway couldn’t breathe.

  Otraz’s mumbling grew louder, faster. Conway heard “please” and “sorry.” Then Conway had attention for nothing but the weaving, coiling snakes.

  A chant started in the crowd. Stately, it spoke of truth and honor, of obedience. The fury of Conway’s dogs ripped through it.

  Tongues darting, the thick bodies of the snakes wrapped around Moonpriest’s arms. He extended them toward Conway and Otraz, simultaneously advancing a full step. In concert, the snakes slid forward. Now at full reach, Moonpriest’s hands, palms up, were a mere foot in front of the men.

  Conway stared. He couldn’t stop sha
king, but he knew better than to move. The snake in front of him rose, rattling, its head at his eye level. The coarse scales seemed as large as roof shingles, the eyes bigger than plates. Dry, earthen colors made the glistening tongue seem even brighter by comparison, as though it glowed of itself. Brown, tan, black, the camouflaging patterns seemed to be running together as the deadly, questing head swung back and forth.

  Otraz spoke. “Moonpriest.” The word came with a stuttering explosiveness. “Your servants have spared me. This man lies. Send me back to my people. Please.”

  Both snakes struck. Conway wasn’t sure he’d seen anything at all until Otraz screamed and staggered backward.

  S-curved, the reptiles concentrated on Conway. In unison, rattling, tongues darting, they fixed diamond-hard eyes on his face and waited. Waited.

  Moonpriest’s arms were wearying. They trembled. The triangular, poisonous heads irritably edged forward. The pitch of the rattling rose noticeably.

  Smoothly, swiftly, the snake directly in front of Conway reversed itself, sliding across its own body, disappearing back inside Moonpriest’s robe. The second, after a slight hesitation, slipped in behind its twin.

  Conway had to look. He turned away from Moonpriest’s unwavering eyes to see Otraz clawing at two holes just below his right jaw, two more at the left temple. The stricken man staggered toward the crowd. A few steps short of the straining, backing front rank, he dropped to his knees. Imploring, he reached out. Those he sought stampeded like cattle.

  The dying man painfully turned to face Moonpriest. Already his wounds were dark, swollen. Conway imagined the poison behind that blue-black discoloration, seizing the blood, turning it into a clotted mass.

  Conway turned away, and found himself caught by Moonpriest’s eyes. Moonpriest smiled. The same earlier, covert amusement lurked behind it. Moonpriest said, “You have been fairly tried before my mother, and she declares you innocent.” He raised his arms, gesturing the rumbling crowd to silence. When the dogs continued to snarl and bark their rage, Conway managed to silence them. That left only Otraz, gasping and choking. Moonpriest ignored the disturbance. In the practiced, fluid voice, he intoned, “Otraz is now one of my brothers in the moon. My mother saw through his lies, so he is punished, but she grants him eternal life with me. He waits in paradise for all of us. Cheer for Otraz!”