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

by Don McQuinn

  The others froze, senses straining. Moonpriest scoffed. “You lie. There’s nothing.”

  Crouching, arrows drawn, the warriors advanced.

  Until the noise. A rumble, gaining volume. Moonpriest jibbered commands at the warriors, urging them forward. Dragging Fox, Conway retreated toward Man Burning.

  The first horses burst onto them with appalling swiftness. Man Burning’s slash that cut Altanar’s throat turned into a lunging attempt to grab Bayek and pull her aside. A horse knocked him sprawling. Altanar disappeared under the crushing, pounding hooves.

  The warriors released arrows, broke, and were engulfed. The herd, a river of flesh, separated Conway, Man Burning, and Fox from Moonpriest.

  Elation turned to horror when Conway realized Bayek was unaccounted for.

  Then he saw her. The white robe shone like moon silver, marooned in the middle of the herd. She sank to the ground. Conway wrestled with a crazed Man Burning. When Bayek came erect, none believed their eyes. She raised a fist, triumphant.

  Simultaneously, Conway and Moonpriest realized what she had to be holding. “The firing pins,” Conway muttered, and then gasped as she chose Moonpriest, raised hand now extended in offer.

  Inviolate, imperturbable, she walked toward him with stately grace. Horses brushed her, stumbled clumsily to avoid her. The white robe, the braided rope of fair hair, the calm face—she was an island of tranquillity.

  When she raised the other hand, it held Altanar’s dropped knife. She smiled, as if seeing Moonpriest’s sudden fear.

  Drowned in the thunder of hooves, Conway and Man Burning could only watch.

  Moonpriest retreated. Bayek moved toward him, cleared the maddened horses. She held out the pins in her left palm. The right hand held the knife at her waist. When Moonpriest circled to her left, she paused, head cocked, then followed his move. Moonpriest edged toward the flow of animals. Bayek trailed after. The closer they got to the herd, the more uncertain and hesitant she became. At last, she stopped, casting about nervously, her acute hearing overwhelmed. Smiling, Moonpriest stalked her.

  There were fewer horses now. Still, the noise and vibration were to Moondance’s back, a curtain of deception. Bayek edged away.

  Suddenly, with the speed that had several times before startled Conway, Moonpriest struck. He touched her shoulder, and when she whirled, slashing with the knife, he caught that wrist almost contemptuously. With his other hand, he clasped the one holding the firing pins so it couldn’t open. A quick twist, and he had her back against his front. Her right hand, trapped in Moonpriest’s, still held the knife. It was turned back, pressed to her abdomen.

  Man Burning rushed at the thinning stampede. He was thrown back like a chip in a torrent.

  Smiling hugely, Moonpriest held Bayek’s fist enclosing the pins aloft. She wept. Features that had faced runaway horses with stoic reserve surrendered brokenly.

  Edging toward his tent, Moonpriest dragged the unresisting Bayek with him. When Man Burning raged and pounded the earth with his sword, Moonpriest threw back his head and laughed. The sound died under the drumming of the horses.

  Conway called the dogs and raced for Moonpriest’s tent. Seeing the action, Moonpriest’s confidence faltered. Frowning, he tried to hurry. Bayek resisted. Roughly, he jerked at her. She winced, and a slow, dark stain grew on the white robe.

  On Conway’s command, the dogs attacked the horses. He joined the fray, screaming, slashing with his sword. Karda and Mikka savaged the already terrified beasts, leaping high to snap at throats, falling back, then attacking legs. The horses went mad. Already exhausted, they strained for more speed to escape their tormentors, strove to veer away.

  Thinned to stragglers, the herd turned reluctantly, tripping and stumbling. Inevitably, one hit a guyline on Moonpriest’s tent. The peg pulled free, arced upward at the end of the cord. A section of the cloth sagged. The internal soft glow stuttered. Momentarily, it dimmed. Then the light blossomed, a red, ravenous flower.

  Conway yelled triumph. His hand in the air mimed a snake, then pointed at the tent.

  Moonpriest goggled, understanding. He dropped Bayek and raced for the entry.

  Man Burning reached Bayek, scooped her up in his arms. She winced, hands involuntarily moving to her wound. Still, her first words were, “Conway? He lives? I have the metal things. He’s here?”

  “Right here.” Conway took her extended hand. She opened it into his. The pins were covered with blood. He shuddered at the symbolism, reacted with brusqueness. “Let’s get out of here. Man Burning, we’ll need horses for you two.”

  “I’ll take Bayek down the draw behind the moon altar. You’ll catch up quickly on Stormracer. There are corrals off that way. If there are any Windband horses still fenced in, that’s where they’ll be.”

  In a few moments, galloping past Moonpriest’s tent, Conway spared a look for the man. The tent itself was a smoldering mass. For a moment, Conway was sure Moonpriest must be lying in the ruins. It was not to be. Barely visible, obscure in smoke and darkness, Moonpriest shrieked at him. Distance, rage, madness combined to render the words incoherent. Without breaking stride, the dogs growled response over their shoulders.

  The route to the horse pens was free of dwellings, and the trio met no interference acquiring mounts. Bayek insisted she could ride; her wound was a superficial cut, albeit painful.

  Soon, they came across a camp. The few unburned tents were silent, forlorn shapes. In the distance, the voices of the inhabitants, hiding from the wrath of the moon, rose in Moondance hymns and prayers. A stealthy foray into the abandoned tents provided the trio with saddles, rigging, food, and utensils. Bayek stole clothes more suitable for the trail, leaving her white, bloodstained robe.

  * * *

  Dusk of the second day of their escape found them still riding south and east. Close to hallucination from sleeplessness, Conway watched night pour an intense purple wine into valley depths, where it swelled up the sides of the mountain slopes. Just before the darkness drowned color, the greens, browns, and grays of the land shimmered in a moment of defiant vitality.

  Man Burning waited for Conway to come abreast as they reached the crest of an undulating ridge running north and south. Pointing, he said, “The Dry and Church Home. Off there. Have you seen any sign of pursuit?”

  Conway shook his head. His weary features were grim. “They’re coming, though. Fox will see to it, even if Moonpriest doesn’t.”

  Man Burning agreed. “Probably took most of a day to be sure of our trail. From here, they’ll have to choose. Chase you or chase us.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Bayek partially straightened. Tired, weak, she nevertheless spoke with sureness. “West first. Then north, to the Empty Lands and the Smalls. I heard there are no Healers there.”

  In spite of his drawn, worn features, the smile Man Burning sent at Conway brimmed with pride, concern, and a sort of loving resignation. He said nothing. Nevertheless Bayek chuckled aloud. “Man Burning’s humoring me, isn’t he? He wants everyone to think he’s so hard. Did he tell you I thought you should die along with Moonpriest and Altanar? He argued against it.”

  “Me? Die?”

  “You hate Church. You mean to harm her. I’m grateful to you for saving Man Burning and me, but I’m Church. Fallen and shamed, but Church. I live in the hope I can serve her. Protect her.”

  When Conway tried to speak, Man Burning’s frantic gestures stopped him.

  The last meal of the day was over and Bayek was asleep before Conway dared broach the subject again. When he did, he was bitterly blunt. “She still wants me dead, doesn’t she? Don’t answer. You’d lie. But tell me this: Why’d you defend me?”

  “Hard question.” Obviously, Man Burning meant to be honest. Conway prepared for unpleasantness. Man Burning poked at the faint redness left from their cookfire. “There’s more to blindness than not seeing colors and objects. Hearts that can’t see—or worse, won’t see—makes the eyes useless. She w
on’t let me touch her, you know? Sexually. She slept with Moonpriest. For Church, she says. Perhaps. For revenge; I’m sure of that, even if she’ll never admit it. Katallon made her betray Church. Moonpriest is Church’s enemy.” He rubbed his temples with shaking hands. “She can’t accept me. I know what’s happening, I just can’t explain it. So why did I tell her I wouldn’t help get you killed, or kill you myself? Because you’re the same as her. Both of you speak of love, but you live in hatred. You say Church and the Lanta one betrayed the woman named Tee. You live only to destroy what hurt you. Bayek’s greatest dream is to see Katallon and Moonpriest dead. I don’t believe the priestess hurt you. Moonpriest himself never hurt Bayek. Maybe I hope both of you will live to understand the truth about yourselves. Maybe I want you to live because I want her to live.” Man Burning ground out the gentle glow on the end of the stick, then rose. His expression condemned. “I look inside you and see what’s inside her. I pity you. I’ll give Bayek love, try to bring her to life. I’m afraid you won’t let that happen to you. If so, fool you, Matt Conway. I may have been wrong to save you.”

  Conway continued to stare into the coals long after Man Burning was gone.

  The too-human failure of Man Burning to mention his own blind determination to avenge himself on Altanar didn’t escape Conway. On the contrary, it emphasized everyone’s capacity for rejecting any view of one’s own weakness.

  The ashes were cold and dead when Conway slumped over on his side. Fretful, the great hounds only dozed, unable to rest while the unaccustomed sounds came from their master. They had never heard him cry.

  When he slept at last, both animals sighed relief. They edged up against him, seeking contact. It was the only way they knew to reassure him, and themselves.

  Chapter 15

  The smell of piñon pines excited the morning air. Sylah faced the morning sun, hands lifted in greeting. In truth, she dreaded the rising orb that would soon be a fiery torch, punishing them through yet another day of flight across the Dry.

  Flight. A soaring hawk, an arrow, a lilting butterfly; those things meant flight. Plodding, slinking from hidden draw to winding canyon wasn’t flight. It was misery.

  A few paces away, Lanta finished her ceremony. Catching Sylah’s eye, she held up her basin with its meager drops of water. “If the One in All seriously cares about us washing before morning prayer, He must hate the tiny sprinkle we’re affording.”

  Sylah winked. “Drink and sing praise, or wash and choke on a dry tongue. Not even He can have it both ways.”

  Lanta’s easy humor wavered. “You shouldn’t be so brash. Things could be much worse.”

  Nalatan’s saw-edged harshness cut across their conversation. When she turned to him, he was adjusting one of the cloth caps he’d crafted for himself and Tate. Rolled and tucked, it formed head protection, and its long tail covered the exposed neck. “Things are worse.” Lifting his chin toward the ridge to the east, he explained. “Kossiars. Among the trees. There’s no real need for them to hide, so they’re probably waiting for the main body of the Harvester’s escort to show itself.”

  Gathering up the hem of her robe, Sylah trotted toward camp. Nalatan’s sharp command stopped her. He went on, “There’s nowhere to run. I just came off watch. On my last scout of the area, I caught the main element moving forward. I suspect they have a blocking party out to the north, as well.” He paused, spat. “She has her camp just over there, in that canyon. We’ll keep to our high ground here, make them come to us.”

  Coldly, Sylah objected. “Make no decisions for me. You’re only guessing we’re surrounded.”

  “I’m advising, Rose Priestess.” Stung, Nalatan was formal. “Ready for your orders.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sylah belatedly let go of the skirt hem. It rustled sly laughter as it fell. “It’s not easy for me to admit I’m beaten, Nalatan. You, Tate, and Dodoy slip away. You’ve done all you can.”

  “I can’t do that. Tate never would. Anyhow, there’s no reason to consider it.”

  The last demanded Sylah’s attention. She cocked her head, waited. He went on. “There are over fifty men with the Harvester. We’re surrounded. There’s been no attack. That means she wants to talk.”

  “For what?” Sylah asked the question with an extravagant look around.

  Lanta was more positive. “You’re the Flower. She knows you’ll find the Door. She wants a share.”

  “Look.” Nalatan’s interruption pulled their attention to the eastern ridge. Men strolled about openly. Light glinted from bared weapons. Cookfires spiraled ridiculously thick smoke. “To startle us. Build fear,” Nalatan said. “What’s to the north? Ah. Look. There. And there. That break in the hills, see? The perfect blocking position. The men manning it are either stupid or deliberately showing themselves.” Nalatan was enthused over the moves in the game. Taking Sylah and Lanta each by the elbow, he started for camp. “The Harvester will make her appearance soon. All this is preliminary. To impress.”

  Sylah hurried, pulled away from him. More thoughtful than concerned, she mused aloud. “We’ll receive her, then. If the Harvester feels she must bargain, I can gain time. I must have it. If we fight and kill her, I don’t know how I’ll face my sisters in Church. By bargaining, for whatever reason, she gives me time. For my mission. I think I know what she wants. I don’t think she knows what’s involved.”

  Nalatan and Lanta exchanged mystified looks, hurrying to keep up.

  * * *

  The Harvester made a great display of her approach. War horns and trumps blared from just beyond the canyon lip. Then the Harvester led a double column of mounted Kossiars onto the flat ridge where Sylah and her group waited.

  The man beside the Harvester raised the white cloth.

  Sylah answered with a cloth of her own. Nalatan, booming voice rolling from ridge to ridge, shouted, “We’ve been waiting, Harvester. Come visit.” The echoes were still recoiling from rock-slabbed hills and canyons when the man holding the flag bent to the Harvester and spoke. Nalatan chuckled. “See how the cloth-bearer’s horse moves? And now the Harvester’s, as well. The animals reflect the riders, Sylah. You’ve struck first. They’re confused.”

  There was no uncertainty in the Harvester’s manner when she arrived at the campsite. She reined in her mount with a hard tug on the reins and glared down at the relaxed group before her. Still, Sylah knew she was seeing no more than the Harvester wanted seen. It was the Kossiar Lance with her who was revealing.

  The man couldn’t keep his eyes off Jessak. The infant rested in Lanta’s arms. Tate, practically lounging on a boulder beside the smaller Priestess, dangled a languid arm across Lanta’s shoulder. Jessak gripped the hand with both of his, noisily sucking on Tate’s thumb. When the officer cut his eyes away from the boy, there was a frighteningly guilty cast to his expression.

  The Harvester said, “You’ve disgraced Church.”

  Nalatan, seated a few yards higher than Tate, and directly behind her, rose with a threatening swiftness that had Kossiars reaching for arrows and swords. Nalatan ignored them, concentrating on the Harvester. “Liar. Kos uses Church. You would make Church the Chair’s whore.”

  The Harvester kept her gaze locked on Sylah for a long moment. It was as if Nalatan didn’t exist. Then, slowly, menacingly, she lifted her gaze to him. Utterly expressionless, she spoke in a cold, flat voice. “Bark your loudest, dog. You, of all here, know what I will do to advance Church.” Without waiting for response, the Harvester continued with Sylah. “We need not be enemies. Oh, we’ll never be friends, but our dissension cripples Church. I will be Sister Mother in three days. You must be by my side.”

  “I’ve marked you. You’ve tried to kill me. My friends. Succeeded with Conway, I fear. I will never cooperate with you. Never.”

  At the mention of the marking, the Harvester’s eyes shifted briefly. By the time Sylah finished, however, she was as composed as ever. “Conway? He lives.”

  The news surprised Sylah.

&
nbsp; Lanta’s hand flew to her heart, her expression ecstatic. Sylah saw the Harvester react, and knew her friend was compromised. The Harvester knew love for the ideal weapon.

  Sylah said, “You should be more concerned. He’s no less your enemy than I.”

  “Ah, but it’s you he hates. He lost the slave, you know. The Tee one. Captured Trader gang men told us he blames Church, but especially he blames you.” Lanta blanched when the Harvester’s cold smile fell on her. The older woman continued. “Unless you’re safe within the walls of Church Home, he’ll find you, won’t he? He’s with Windband now. Moondancers. They’re very inventive where pain is concerned. Come with me, you and Sylah. Rest. Let me help you regain your powers. We’ll find the True Stone, Lanta. We all know it’s only a symbol, but it’s the secret heart of Violet. Unless I possess it, I’ll never control Violet. Get it for me, and you shall be Tender of all Violet. And the Seer of Seers.”

  The Harvester bent forward, pitched her voice to a near whisper. The illusion of confidentiality was so complete, Sylah shifted uncomfortably, as if she listened to something private. Lanta leaned toward the Harvester’s honey-soft, honey-sweet words. “We’ll find Conway. I know techniques, medicines. I can alter minds. We’ll make him see the truth. Make him yours.”

  Beside the Harvester, the Kossiar had the look of a man trying to be somewhere else. He moved, and his saddle squealed protest. The Harvester glanced at him. “Take these warmen and get back. I have no need of you.”

  As soon as the warmen withdrew to the lip of the canyon, Sylah took the Harvester’s reins, gestured to the campfire. “We have tea. Cheese. Some rice, perhaps?”

  The older woman dismounted, shaking her head in a brisk negative. “Don’t overdo it, Sylah. We’re back on my terms. You’re nearly out of food and water.” She sat down by the fire, taking a queenly pose. Nalatan cleared his throat noisily. A small vein at the Harvester’s temple writhed. She went on, “You know the Chair wants your head.”