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

by Don McQuinn

  They were innocent. They hadn’t known they were to die to make a point.

  A brassy trump blared.

  Conway broke out of his thoughts to see the moon’s first silvered edge cresting the eastern mountains.

  The trump’s two notes lanced the night. Conway recognized the instrument by its music; it looked as he imagined the first bugles must have looked. Brass tubing, bent in a loop, ending in a bell-shaped mouth. There were no valves. Windband used them for signals, in camp or on the march, although not in battle. This call was new to Conway. The first tone was low, so short it was essentially a grace note. The second, sustained, was at the higher limit of the instrument.

  The musician knew his function perfectly. The paired notes of his second call were pitched a bit lower in tone than the first two. The latter call ended an instant before the echo of the first rebounded across the darkened camp. The combination of notes, the disparity between hard, present metal and distant, gentle echo, created an eerie harmony.

  Conway’s neck hair rose.

  Sparks flew at the points where the firewood was stacked. Creosote bush, sage, and juniper, all well dried, caught fire quickly. Light bathed the encircling faces of the seated crowd. It flooded the empty circle where Katallon stood alone. He wore a leather vest and tight trousers fitted into calf-high boots. His headdress was a snarling leopard’s head. Polished agates gleamed from the eye sockets. The skin of the animal’s forelegs hung across Katallon’s shoulders, the paws joined on his chest. The pelt trailed down his back.

  Crackling fire underscored the restrained rustle of massed, crowded bodies shifting nervously.

  Katallon raised his arms. “Windband!” It was a shouted challenge. The crowd mumbled, beastlike. Scattered voices spun upward in emotional explosions. Katallon shouted again, driving a fist skyward. “Windband conquers!” The night shivered with wild cheers and war cries. After the noise had run on for a while, Katallon gestured for quiet. When it came, he began to walk. To strut, actually, stiff-legged, chest out. In most men, the posturing would have been comical. No one smiled at Katallon. He displayed himself as other men flaunt weapons or horses or valuables. Turning full circle as he spoke, he praised the various tribes, then spoke glowingly of Fox’s patrol and scout units. Lastly, he congratulated Blizzard.

  By the time he finished, his every pause was extended by war cries and victory whoops.

  Once again, he signaled for silence. Somewhere in the camp a drumbeat began, background for Katallon’s next words. “As your leader, I have given much thought to Church Home. Stories tell of gold, silver, jewels, hoarded there for generations. The black robes go among the people and cheat them of their belongings. Everything goes to their hive, this Church Home. No one has ever captured it. Women laugh at us from their high rock fortress. But I—Katallon—I will break them, make them obey. Windband conquers!” The fist struck at the sky again, and the howling, roaring cacophony that followed threatened to crack the night.

  When he could be heard, Katallon continued, “Our warriors have swept the sunset slope of the Enemy Mountains clear of Kossiars. Kos, the richest nation known, runs from our raiders.” He raised fists, then, “Raiders. Not our main force, but raiders. Now, think of this Church Home with her major ally crushed. What if Windband became husband to Church, instead? Does the wife control the family’s treasure? The husband does. So we ride to destroy Kos. When it is no more, Church Home is no longer a fort, but a prison. Church will acknowledge Moondance as the true faith. Windband will claim her treasure as dowry, as payment for protecting Church forevermore. You. And you. And all the rest of you. Every man here. You’ll have wealth and horses beyond count. I, Katallon, say it.”

  The crowd erupted. Swords battered shields. Drums boomed. From the middle of the surging, yelling mass of nomads, a group of fifteen men carrying a variety of drums raced to the center of Katallon’s fire-rimmed circle. Laughing, expansive, he stepped aside for them. The group set up quickly, facing the risen moon. At the first rataplan of the smallest drum, all drums outside the circle stopped. Inside, a tall, deep-throated instrument spoke next, providing a bass line.

  Katallon signaled, and another group broke free, coming into the circle. This time it was costumed women, the majority dressed in extravagantly beaded blouses and skirts and wearing headdresses, either antlers, horns, or feathers. Those in animal costume carried drums. When struck they made a metallic, twanging sound. Other dancers, outnumbered ten to one, were dressed as hunters, save for the bright beadwork of their clothing.

  The dance celebrated the hunt. Stalking, charging, falling back, the hunters danced intricate patterns around the inner, or game, group. Most of the latter, Conway noted with a wry smile, prominently featured white fur flashes at the rear. What was a danger signal for fleeing animals or birds attracted equal—if different—attention to the dancers. Nevertheless, the women imitated animal postures and mannerisms with startlingly descriptive technique, all the while chanting a winding, minor-key story of chase and kill.

  Conway turned away, the overt sexuality of the dancing women searing his mind with an inchoate firestorm of images, memories, emotions. He made his way through the crowd, distractedly responding to smiles and greetings with curt, dismissing nods. The nomads were all too excited by Katallon’s announcement and the celebration in progress to be offended.

  Clearing the outer limits of the gathering, Conway turned toward his tent. Assuming the figure suddenly appearing before him was another celebrant, Conway angled to the side. The figure moved to block him. Conway stopped. Altanar grinned up at him in the pale glow of light filtering through a tent wall. “Exciting news Katallon gave us, wasn’t it?”

  Not caring if Altanar took it as an answer or not, Conway grunted. The smaller man wouldn’t be put off. He fell in beside Conway. “It’s a fool’s move. Church doesn’t need Kos. Windband doesn’t need Kos’ manpower to take Church Home. If you believe anything he said, it only means a smaller share of loot for everyone. I say he’ll never attack Church Home.”

  The last statement was so full of conviction it intrigued Conway in spite of himself. He stopped, scanning the surrounding night. They were well among the tents now, with enough light to assure no one eavesdropping. Moving closer to Altanar, looking down into the shrewd, amused features, Conway felt his pulse quicken. Instinct told him that talking to Altanar at this time, on this subject was a headfirst dive into conspiracy. Conway said, “I’m in no mood for a game. Say what you mean, then let me be.”

  Altanar’s smile broadened. “It’s all a game, my friend. The stakes are terrifying, but it’s still a game. With moves, countermoves, and pieces that outrank others.”

  “And you make the rules as you go.”

  “Ah. You’ve not played, but you’ve watched well.”

  Conway managed to keep a straight face. Altanar’s unvarnished duplicity was amusing. Deadly, but amusing. “You’d never come to me with this sort of talk if Moonpriest hadn’t sent you. Why didn’t he simply ask me to come to him?”

  “He imagines he’s a great schemer, knows what everyone’s thinking. And for protection. If I speak to you, and you report me, he denies any involvement.”

  “You say that as if you don’t think he can escape it.”

  Altanar managed to look incredibly sly one moment and completely frank the next. The two expressions blended from one to the other so smoothly that Conway was questioning what he’d seen before Altanar answered. “I wouldn’t even speak to you if I didn’t know how you’d react. I take no such chances. You might want to remember that.”

  “He ordered you to sound me out, didn’t he? What if you thought I’d be angered, report you to Katallon?”

  “I’d lie. Tell Moonpriest I talked to you, and you chased me away.”

  “You tell me all this and expect me to trust you?”

  “Trust is for idiots. Fear is what brings us all together. When you know I can bring you down, and you know you can bring me down, we can
work comfortably to bring down someone else.”

  “Charming. What’s our next move?”

  “I take you to Moonpriest. He’s in a rage, so be very careful. If he goes near those accursed snakes, ready your lightning weapon. And don’t have anything to do with the moon altar.”

  Altanar’s vehemence impressed Conway. “You’re being very helpful. I appreciate it. You’ll understand if I ask why?”

  “My well-being is tied to Moonpriest. Anything that makes him happy, I work to provide. Simple.”

  “Anything, Altanar?” Altanar was already leading the way. Conway directed the question at Altanar’s back.

  Dim light caught Altanar’s eyes at a peculiar angle, almost creating an animal’s reflectivity. “Anything. You know I wasn’t always servant to a… to anyone. Some day Moonpriest will raise me to the position I deserve. I serve for my reward at his hands.” Having spoken, he turned his back again, and there was the message in his movement that he knew he’d said more than he meant to. The conversation was finished.

  Conway was satisfied. There was much to consider before the confrontation with Moonpriest.

  Chapter 10

  Altanar ushered Conway into Moonpriest’s shadowy receiving room. Moonpriest sat on the sofa agitatedly stroking his white turban. Conway flinched. No matter how composed Moonpriest’s outward appearance, the hand reaching to the ugly scar at the side of his head was incontrovertible proof of distress.

  Candle flames wavered in the candelabras. Greasy coils of smoke swirled to the top of the tent, hanging in a noisome cloud. A rising wind moved the ceiling. Trapped smoke throbbed and boiled. It caught the candlelight in its depths, sometimes bright, sometimes dark. It had an aura of sentience.

  Conway recognized a scene. Moonpriest’s normal carefully staged candles were smokeless beeswax. He also kept his quarters well ventilated.

  Glancing behind him, Conway saw Altanar edging toward the door. Moonpriest said, “Don’t rush off, Altanar. I may have need of you. You’re important to me, you know you are. Get Conway a chair.”

  Altanar scurried to a corner, returning with the chair, placing it where Moonpriest pointed. The gesture turned into a wave, and Conway moved to sit down. Moonpriest’s right hand caressed the turban constantly. Conway found himself staring, remembering the collapsed skull where Sylah had removed bone and tissue.

  Moonpriest said, “Do you enjoy being a dupe, Matt?”

  Conway’s cheeks warmed. The flesh of his throat was next, hot as sunburn. Knowing his anger was so obvious made him aggressive. “Katallon’s decision to delay attacking Church Home wrecks some of your plans, as well.”

  “Plans.” Moonpriest flipped a hand, dismissed concern. “I can make plans as quickly and easily as I can contact my mother. No, I was feeling sorry for you. I meant to anger you. Poor psychology. You’re already angry. Life is different for you. Plans are more important. I hate to see yours ground underfoot so thoughtlessly.”

  Conway laughed. He didn’t feel amused, and he heard the acid bitterness of his falsity. “Katallon’s cheated both of us. I want to crush the hypocrisy of Church for my own reasons, and he’s checked me. You have to have Katallon’s nomads attack Church Home, or there’s no way for you to overthrow the existing system.”

  Casually, Moonpriest said, “You could be killed for guessing about my goals, my thoughts.”

  “You need me. I’ve got lightning of my own, remember? Lightning that reaches out.”

  Moonpriest was on his feet, roaring. “Enough! You discuss the sacred gifts given us by my mother in front of a slave?” Moonpriest leveled a finger at Altanar. “Leave us. My brother and I must talk.”

  Altanar backed out of the room. Moonpriest continued to stare at the swaying cloth door flap. Pointing at his own mouth, moving his jaw, Moonpriest indicated Conway should talk. The weather seemed a safe subject. Moonpriest stalked the exit. Pausing, he made a sound exactly like a rattlesnake. Then he screamed and leapt through the opening. Hoarser screams replaced Moonpriest’s, followed by the repeated sound of flesh on flesh. Altanar yelled innocence, exclaimed between blows that he wasn’t listening.

  Conway was smiling crookedly when Moonpriest stormed back into the room. “What’s funny?” Moonpriest demanded.

  Placating, Conway said, “Why keep Altanar around?”

  “I need amusement. Anyone else would find him a cunning challenge. To me, he’s a diversion. No one can trick me.” His face darkened. “I can be disappointed, however. And careless. My mother hates it when I’m careless. She works so hard. When her son lapses in his duties, I’m shamed.” He hung his head in remorse.

  Without looking up, the words aimed at his feet, Moonpriest resumed in a whining mumble. “They’re not obedient children. They try to avoid my will. Mother’s will. They know I’m her child. How many times have I proven it? And still they won’t understand that I see everything, comprehend their scheming before they do.”

  Conway inhaled deeply, surprised by how badly he needed that breath. He said, “You knew Katallon’s plans?”

  Moonpriest grimaced faintly, an expression more of annoyance than danger. “Nothing is hidden from Moonpriest. My crime is refusing to believe anyone would plot against me. Don’t you see? It’s so fruitless, so pointless; I can’t make myself take my mother’s warnings seriously. She told me Katallon means to harm her. I listened and failed to act.”

  “He’s offering no direct challenge to you. Maybe the Kos campaign will go more quickly than we expect. We’ll crack Church Home, in any case.”

  “I’m glad you said we’ll take Church Home. But we won’t while Katallon rules Windband. Can’t you see his intentions? He has no need of Kossiar manpower to conquer Church Home. The warrior monks who guard that nest of whores are formidable, but Windband outnumbers them at least fourfold. The close ties between Church Home and Kos are historic and helpful to each, but unnecessary to the survival of either.” He stopped short, fixing Conway with a demanding look.

  It was a test, and Conway knew it. He tried to meet Moonpriest’s eyes. The glassy intensity of them broke Conway’s composure. He looked away, saying, “Katallon’s numbers aren’t enough for him to attack Church until he’s consolidated the conquest of Kos.”

  Moonpriest’s smile was a blade. “Half right. There won’t be any attack on Church Home. The Harvester will be the next Sister Mother. She craves power. Windband roams wherever a man on horseback can go. If the Harvester wishes to expand Church’s influence, Windband is her vehicle. If she rejects Katallon’s offer of protection, her Priestesses will be hunted down like rabbits by the same Windband. If he’s clever, and we know he is, he’ll control Church while still holding immense influence over the believers of Moondance.”

  “You forget Sylah and the Door.”

  “There is no Door. There never was.” Conway blinked, shocked. Moonpriest continued. “I am what I say I am. I ask and all is known. You concern yourself about the witch, Sylah? The Chair and the Harvester pursue her even now. Sylah’s quest was pointless at its outset. Now it’s finished.” A dry, rustling laugh made its way past thin lips. “She and the other witch, Lanta, stole the Chair’s firstborn son, if you can imagine. Presumptuous, self-important fool. This time Sylah will pay for her arrogance. In the hardest coin of all.”

  “Lanta? Stole a child?” Conway caught the swift mad-glitter of Moonpriest’s glare. Furious with himself for being shocked by anything Lanta might do, as well as nervous about upsetting Moonpriest, Conway spoke harshly. “It’s like her. She knows what’s best for everyone. Endangering others is what she does best. What did you hear of the others? What about Tate? Nalatan?”

  “They chose to associate with her. They helped her. They earned whatever comes.”

  “There has to be a way to stop it. Give me Fox and twenty men. Ten. Tate’s got the sniper rifle, another wipe, a pistol, ammunition. Nalatan’s a fighting machine. The women are Healers. You can’t let that all just go to waste.”

 
; Moonpriest reached to put a hand on Conway’s shoulder. It settled softly, fingertips first, spreading out as it lowered. Conway watched it from the corner of his eye, the way he’d watch a spider he was afraid to startle. When Moonpriest spoke, it took all of Conway’s will to take his gaze from the hand and concentrate on the man’s face. “Your concern speaks well of you. Don’t think me unappreciative. Still, I have to say I’m disappointed in you. Can’t you understand, I don’t need anyone? Anything? My mother has tasked me to bring her worship to the world. She helps me, but the chore is mine. My first responsibility is Windband. She’s told me I must have it. She will have it. I’m in a death struggle with Katallon. If I can’t displace him, I’m an unfit son. You think that because I’m a god, I can simply strike him down. I wish I could. Because I’m on this earth in a man’s body, my mother insists I surpass Katallon as a man. Eliminate him, subordinate him—she doesn’t care. Her only concession is that I may defeat him through my superior intelligence. As a man, however, not as a god.”

  He bent to cradle his head in his hands, shaking it sadly. “I wish I could help you. I must deal with Katallon first.”

  Conway felt his control fraying, pictured himself, rapt with attentiveness, as this faker prattled about the unavoidable death of Sylah’s entire group. The image sickened him. He wondered what could have possessed him to ever attach any credence to anything the man said. Unless he was as crazy as Moonpriest.

  What he wanted—had—to do required the madman. “Get rid of Katallon. You can’t just let one of us die. Tate came into this world with you and me.”

  Unctuous evasion rolled from Moonpriest. “Once I have control, ask me for anything. Until then, I must attend to my own priorities.”

  Conway spun away from the hand on his shoulder. The chair beckoned, a target. One step took him to it. One kick sent its shattered pieces bouncing across the room. Raging, he picked up one of the legs and threw it against the cloth wall. The soft plop only intensified his frustration. Drawing the pistol, he fired at the piece of wood. Cloth walls absorbed the sharper edges of the explosion, damping it to a crushing, dull boom. The chair leg shattered in the middle. Splinters shrieked away from the impact. The two halves leapt and whirred.