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

by Don McQuinn

  The tiger was angry. First the impertinent leopard and its intended mate invaded hunting ground it was just claiming for itself. The pair saw the tiger’s stalk and fled. Now there was this disturbance. Horses. Dogs. Even a goat. The tiger growled softly; goat was a delicacy. Easily killed.

  So were humans.

  Chapter 2

  Tanno and Oshu quickly discovered that the tiger was in the area. Patrolling with Tate they fanned out away from her with visible reluctance. Dodoy, swinging his chain axe like some macabre toy, sneered and called them fat and lazy. Tate tolerated the carping until her sense of fair play required comment. “Stop it. The dogs kept us warned for almost two moons when everyone was trying to kill us. Don’t criticize so much. It’s irritating.”

  The boy’s face closed.

  Soon the animals stopped. The forest was silent. No birds called. No breeze stirred the trees.

  Tate and Dodoy made their way to the ground seep where the dogs waited. Water oozed to the surface, not strong enough to create an actual spring, but sufficient to make mud for several yards downhill. The prints were huge. Tate’s skin crawled. She traced the tracks.

  The tiger had stopped at the limit of the wet ground. Downhill from that point, perhaps twenty feet away, was a boulder. Tate read how the cat tested the footing, then leaped to the sun-baked rock. It was as if the animal deliberately walked through the mud to be sure its presence was noted. Then, to show off its strength, it vaulted to the boulder.

  The prints were still filling with water. Tate hurried to the rock. Moisture remained where the cat landed.

  There were no unsupervised tigers in the world she’d left behind, but people made movies about the ancient days when such beasts roamed free. There were even books about such things. They emphasized that tigers rarely hunted man, unless they were so old or crippled they needed easier prey. Re-examining the tracks, Tate discovered a malformation of one hind foot.

  Back at the camp, telling the other women what she’d seen, Tate finished by saying, “We’ll have to be careful, but I doubt if he’s a menace.”

  Sylah said, “No one goes anywhere alone or unarmed. No more night patrols for the dogs. I want them close so they can warn us. We can protect them, and they us. I don’t think you want to match them against a tiger, Donnacee.”

  Nodding agreement, Tate extended a hand to rest on Oshu’s back.

  That night Tate opened their last bottle of wine, and was dismayed to find it was vinegar. Oddly, Sylah was delighted. Tate’s own reaction was as sour as the liquid. “What’s so wonderful? It wasn’t very good wine, but it beat swill.” She moved to pitch out what was left in her mug, and Sylah grabbed her arm. “We need that.”

  “Blah.” Tate made a face.

  Smugly, Sylah said, “Wait until morning. I’ll show you.”

  True to her word, Sylah called to Tate as soon as she’d finished milking the goat. “Come see,” she said.

  Tate watched skeptically as Sylah placed the copper pot holding all but Jessak’s share of the milk on the fire. After constant stirring and several finger-dipping tests, Sylah said, “You know how much milk we’ve wasted because Jessak doesn’t need it all.”

  “So how’s heating it going to help?”

  With a teasing smile, Sylah held hands apart a bit more than shoulder width. “I’ll need a piece of cloth about so square. Is that white cotton blouse of yours clean?”

  Tate sniffed. “I wouldn’t pack it away dirty, and I’d hardly wear white while we’re trying to hide from everybody in the world.” Moving away, she asked over her shoulder, “What’re you going to do to it?”

  “And some cord,” Sylah said. “Rawhide’s as good as anything else.”

  Tate said, “You’re enjoying your little mystery, aren’t you?” when she handed over the articles.

  Laughing, Sylah tested the heat of the milk once more. Then she took the pot off the fire and opened the bottle of vinegar. Pouring a thin stream into the heated milk while stirring, she said, “Watch.”

  “It’s going to curdle. Even I know that.”

  “Exactly. And that means cheese. No more wasted milk. At least, not until we use up our vinegar.”

  Surprisingly quickly, the curd separated. Sylah lined another pot with Tate’s blouse and poured in the mix, wringing loud dismay from the owner. Sylah assured her everything would wash out.

  Dodoy was detailed to hang the pendulous sack from a tree limb over the original pot to catch the dripping whey.

  “Don’t you have to age that stuff?” Tate asked.

  “It’ll be ready in an hour. We’ll eat it tonight.”

  “Just like that? Yummy.”

  “Oh, you. You’ll like it. We can cut it up and fry it, use it in soup. It’s good for you. Best, it’ll stretch out our meat supply. We won’t have to go out there to set so many snares.”

  “The tiger.” Tate nodded thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten him. I feel a terrible craving for cheese.”

  Sylah laughed. “Taste’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it?”

  The day passed peacefully until late afternoon. They ate before dusk, as usual, unwilling to chance a night fire. They were cleaning up when the goat scented the tiger and bleated anxiously. The women whispered the stalker’s name in chorus, instinctively identifying the threat. The dogs crowded close to Tate, hackles up, threatening the deep-shadowed forest.

  Tate moved forward, wipe in hand. “I’ll get the goat. Jessak has to have that milk. The tiger won’t come after her if she’s here with us.”

  Sylah’s voice was tremulous. “It may be out there, just waiting.” Her gesture was a soft, fluttery thing. “This can’t be happening. We’ve come so far, escaped so much. Now this. What can we do?”

  For a long moment, her companions were struck dumb. A crack in Sylah’s resolve was incomprehensible. They stared. Tate felt the poison of despair surge in her own heart. Forcing confidence, she pretended Sylah’s question was routine. “We can do what we have to do. You said it yourself: We’ve come so far. No cat’s going to ruin that.”

  Sylah seemed not to hear. Wide, wild eyes searched the lowering dark.

  The goat erupted into a frenzy of fear, choking on its tether, squalling terror. Tate hurried around the corner of the rock formation, her dogs racing ahead. She stopped immediately at the sight of the crouched, snarling thing facing her and the raging dogs. Her command to Tanno and Oshu to fall back was a scream, a plea.

  The tiger’s tail thrashed. Its head was extended, low to the ground. Bent legs tucked in tight to the body. They pistoned slowly, almost delicately.

  Fascination overrode fright in Tate’s mind for a moment, and she imagined the huge cat savoring the strength of its own muscle and sinew. She looked into its eyes, saw nothing but savage, free purpose. For that merest fraction of time, she envied the beast.

  The dogs gave ground. Every step allowed their enemy greater access to their master. Shrill frustration broke through their sustained barking.

  The tiger lurched forward perhaps a third of its body length. It was still settling, intent on Tate, when Oshu broke under the strain. Her attacking growl rose to a ululating scream.

  Rising on his haunches, the tiger met Oshu’s charge with forelegs extended out to the sides, as if balancing. Oshu held her attack low, slashed at her foe’s flank. The tiger pivoted. Oshu’s jaws clamped down on soft flesh just below the rib cage. The tiger roared pain and rage.

  A huge, taloned right paw hit Oshu directly behind the ear. The left ripped open her chest. Dropping forward, the cat crushed the dog’s backbone with one shaking, snapping bite.

  In the same movement, it charged a screaming, horrified Tate.

  Tanno bolted at the airborne tiger.

  Tate held her fire when Oshu charged because she feared hitting the dog. Now she hesitated because of Tanno.

  The impetus of Tanno’s charge knocked the tiger off course. Tate had no sensation of firing, no way of knowing if the flechette struck. Tanno f
astened her teeth in the tiger’s throat. Tate saw the cat’s slitted, fixed eyes and a red wet maw ringed by teeth. Incredible details burned her mind. One fang was broken, rotten. There was a yellowed line at its base. Stiff whiskers stuck straight out from the muzzle.

  A paw swatted Tate flat. The wipe went spinning. Scrambling to all fours, dazed, Tate saw Tanno rolling, rolling, yelping in pain. The tiger turned, faced its human prey. Fluidly beautiful, it soared into another leap. Tate put up pitiful, useless hands. She screamed.

  Something swirled to a stop in front of her. Black. Indistinct.

  The tiger flew, roaring. Dropping.

  Sylah. The thing in black. Sylah, planting the butt of Nalatan’s puny lance in the earth, the makeshift metal point waiting for the approaching fury.

  The tiger fell on her. Both rolled onto Tate.

  The world exploded in a tornado of weight, screams, roars.

  Tate opened her eyes. A rock poked her back. She reached to push herself up. Her hand slipped on wetness. Pain poured through her.

  Claw marks furrowed her left arm from elbow to shoulder. Her blouse was gone. A gash bled on her chest, barely missing her breast. With her right hand, she traced a wound under her ear.

  Lanta’s face swam into view overhead. “You’ll be fine. It’s all right.” Unutterably weary, Tate surrendered.

  When she woke, she was looking past a watchful, recumbent Tanno at the sprawled tiger. The lance head protruded from its neck. The devouring, jewel eyes were mere glass, disinterested. A sagging jaw exposed the broken, brown tooth. Beyond, Lanta spoke to an ashen, bloodied Sylah. Tate called, wincing at the pain. The other women rose—Sylah rather shakily—and came toward her.

  Lanta said, “You must hurt terribly. I’m so sorry. No blood carriers were severed. Everything’s sewn. You’ll heal well. Rest.” She drew a black, blood-stained sleeve across her exhausted features.

  Tate said, “Thank you.” She looked to Sylah. “The lance. You saved my life.”

  A livid bruise covered the right side of Sylah’s face. Her right shoulder was bandaged. She said, “It was dying when it leaped. The lightning hit it.”

  “You didn’t know that. You finished it. Saved me.” Tate stopped. Her eyes flew wide. “Oshu? Where is she?”

  Sylah and Lanta exchanged glances. Sylah said, “I’m sorry.”

  Tate forced herself up, rolled onto hands and knees, holding up the injured left arm like an animal’s wounded limb. She moaned, an unending, tearing elongation of the single word “no.” Inching forward, she pushed off Sylah and Lanta. Tanno came to her, whining anxiety. Tate said, “Tanno, find Oshu. Help her. Please, please; someone help her.”

  She slumped face down in the litter.

  Sylah was right there. She lifted Tate, rocked her like a baby, consoling. She was looking down into Tate’s still, sad face when the dark eyelids trembled open. Tate’s chin rose. “I told you.”

  Sylah understood instantly. She smiled. “And I’ll never forget. Be sure of it. ‘We can do what we have to do.’ You saved me, too. You and good Oshu. Thank you. Dear friend.”

  Together, sharing heartache, sharing triumph, they helped each other cry until Tate slept soundly once again.

  Chapter 3

  After assuring himself the rider with the train of three pack-horses negotiating the steep climb toward him was Nalatan, Dodoy ran for camp. “Nalatan’s coming,” he called to Lanta. The small priestess looked up, deerlike in her surprise, from where she was sewing a tear in her robe. Dodoy puzzled over that; he’d noticed her working on the same one before. There were tears in her eyes the other time.

  Lanta said, “How long before he gets here?”

  “He’s down by the big tree with the broken top.”

  “Practically here,” Sylah said, as she hurried out from behind the new shelter off to the side. It was wind protection for her and Tate while they exposed their sewn-up wounds to sun and fresh air. Tate followed, smearing ointment on the swollen flesh of her arm, tugging at her blouse. The out-of-place sea smell of the medicine tickled Dodoy’s nose. Sylah put a pot of water on the stove. “He’ll want some tea.”

  From the rocks above the shelter, Dodoy watched Nalatan’s approach first. Tanno rose fluidly, positioning herself between the oncoming horse and Tate. When Nalatan skidded to a stop, the dog’s head dropped, reached forward as far as its neck would stretch. A low, steady rumble boiled in its throat.

  Staring at the bandaged women, Nalatan dismounted slowly. He approached Tanno first, hands out in fists, backs presented, letting the dog get reacquainted. Sylah smiled at the way the animal’s eyes never left the man, while the man’s eyes never left Tate. Nalatan absently stroked Tanno’s head, stepping past her. Then a thing happened that Sylah could hardly believe. The dog wandered off a few steps, and for the first time since the tiger’s attack, she lay down on her side. Gusting a massive sigh, she closed her eyes. Sylah would have sworn she was asleep instantly.

  Still unspeaking, pale, Nalatan touched Tate’s bandaged arm. He stroked the thick, lustrous hair around the stark whiteness of the bandage by her ear. After a quick glance at Sylah, he looked into Tate’s eyes, asked, “How?”

  All three women talked at once. He waited patiently for them to organize the telling, drinking herb tea, nodding. When Tate defiantly said they’d burned Oshu “in a proper warrior’s fire,” Sylah and Lanta watched him apprehensively. He smiled. They relaxed. At last, Tate said, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  For some time, it appeared he might not. Finally, he put down his tea mug. He addressed Sylah. “I swore an oath to protect you on your quest for the Door. Now you’ve saved the life of someone I care about. Very much. You risked your life for her. I’m in your debt forever.”

  Sylah blushed. “I told you: the tiger was dying.”

  Lanta said, “I wish you could have seen them, Nalatan. They were wonderful, both of them.”

  “And the dogs,” Tate added. Her eyes gleamed with repressed tears. “So brave.”

  Sylah coughed. Her words had a rough, forced quality. “What did you find on your scout?”

  He answered as he hurried to the packhorses. “I ran across a camp. A man and his family. He wanted to sell me camels, but I held out for the horses. No one should deal with camels. Ugly. Mean.”

  On returning, he raised the flap of the boxy pack horse pannier. “A crib for the boy,” he said proudly. The women crowded close for a better look. “The woman in the camp sold it to me. Her baby’s outgrown it. The side and bottom cushions come off and unbutton. You can stuff them with whatever you want to keep it sweet smelling. The Dry woman used mint leaves, fresh. It’s better than that basket. And look at this.” He pulled a square box out of another pannier. When he flourished the top off, Tate’s disappointment was immediate. “Straw? A box of straw?”

  Smugly, Nalatan pulled straw from the box, putting it aside. There was a ceramic lid under it. If the straw had been a surprise, the marvelous aroma that wafted from the clay pot hidden in it was an astonishment. Nalatan posed like a successful magician. “Stew. Grouse, rabbit, vegetables, herbs. I watched the woman do it. She boiled everything in the pot, then picked it up with thick gloves, put it in the straw in the box, covered it, then put in more straw. With the wooden lid on, it cooks all day. She made this yesterday. It was still warm this morning. We can do the same thing. We won’t have to light any fires at night.”

  The last line brought Sylah’s head around. “Are we that concerned about being seen?”

  Enthusiasm fading, Nalatan nodded. “The family said they’ve seen nomad patrols. The new siah calls himself Moonpriest, as if the whole religion was his. He says he’s going to destroy Church Home.”

  Sylah and Lanta executed three-signs. Sylah said, “That means war beyond anything anyone’s ever seen.”

  With a sick feeling in her stomach, Tate resisted the urge to correct her. Instead she asked Nalatan, “Has any word from Kos reached the people you talked to? An
y news of Conway or Tee?”

  “Nothing.”

  After a pained, thoughtful silence, Sylah said, “The Harvester’s heard of this Moonpriest’s threats. Be sure of it. She’ll ride for Church Home.”

  It was Lanta who put words to what they all feared most. “The Chair will send all the help he can spare. He can’t afford to have a stronghold like Church Home in Moondance hands.”

  Sylah nodded, silent.

  Jessak’s fretful crying interrupted them. Everyone pointedly avoided looking at each other. Nalatan said, “I’m not sure we can move fast enough with the baby. It’s the goat. It’s got to browse.”

  “I know, I know.” Sylah gestured wearily, put a hand to her brow. “I can’t abandon him.”

  Nalatan coughed delicately. “The family I bought the horses from will take him. If we pay coin.”

  Sylah looked up questioningly. “You’d trust them?”

  Nalatan’s eyes went to Tate before he answered. “I was only presenting alternatives, Sylah. Myself, I wouldn’t trust them with dirt. But if the Harvester’s racing us for Church Home, we can’t run and care for Jessak at the same time.”

  Tate said, “The only game in town, trooper.” He looked at her with a puzzled affection that was becoming an almost chronic expression. She said, “If it can be done, you’ll do it. The thing is, we don’t give up on our Sylah. Or Jessak. Or anything.” She turned to Sylah. “I can ride if you can. Tomorrow?”

  Lanta said, “I’ll take care of the camp chores. You two just get well.” Sylah’s voice trembled on the edge of control when she spoke. “What fools my friends are. What wonderful, precious fools. What have I done to deserve you?”

  Tate’s voice was as uncertain as Sylah’s when she answered, but she managed to give it her own irrepressible twist. “The truth is, you don’t deserve us, but we don’t have anything better to do just now. First good offer we get, we drop you like something nasty. Just so you understand.” She put her good arm around Sylah from one side, and Lanta did the same opposite her.