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

by Don McQuinn

  “Because of the child. What news of Yasmaleeya?”

  “Dead. You must have known.”

  “We left her alive. He killed her, didn’t he?”

  The Harvester made a tiny show of exasperation. “Him. Childbirth. What difference? She’s gone. Selfish, willful thing. Tell me how you got her through delivery. Why was the child growing so huge?”

  It was Sylah’s turn to be surprised. “You didn’t know?”

  “The midwife hinted that she knew. She told me it would be a killing birth.”

  “You had the old woman killed.”

  Brushing at dust on her skirt, the Harvester said, “You’ve become very contrary, Sylah. It’s boring. Now, listen closely while I tell you what must be done.”

  Sylah jerked upright, stood over the Harvester. “You don’t tell me that. No one. Ever again. I’m going to find the Door, find whatever power is there. Something so strong our sisters were murdered to keep it from their hands, so strong they died without revealing what it is or where it is. My true mother, my Iris Abbess, raised me to seek and find the Door. I will. I won’t let you control Church.”

  “An interesting pair, you and that lost monk. He barks. You hiss like a cat. I seem to be surrounded by animals.” The Harvester rose. The proud head, hair a silver helmet in the morning sun, turned in slow survey of the group. “Very well. I offer you one last chance to acknowledge me. We shall not face your weapons. We shall wait. Your tongues will swell. Your eyes will grow gritty. Have you seen the cracked burnt lips of those who die of thirst? The ulcerated mouths? Or heard the moans when they’re too weak to cry out for water?”

  The Harvester whirled, flaring the long robe. Blue and green trim swirled, the lush colors triggering unwanted thoughts of damp forest and clear, leaping water. She almost crouched in her aggressive intensity. “Tate. Join me. Live in luxury. Sylah, Lanta; help me. We can control the Chair, Gan Moondark, Clas na Bale, the Three Territories. Think of the power, the authority. Don’t fight me. Not for some ridiculous treasure we all know doesn’t really exist. I’ll even give you time, a full year, to continue your search. I know how strong these dreams can be, I understand, truly I do.”

  Lanta, hand to her breast, took an involuntary step backward. No one else moved.

  The Harvester sighed. “At least give me the child. For once, let’s not make the innocent suffer. Hate me if you will. I don’t harm children.”

  Tate said, “You’ll bargain with them, though, won’t you, you old sow?”

  Nalatan’s words were immediately behind hers. “You orphaned the children of my brotherhood.”

  Sylah nodded. “You meant for Yasmaleeya’s child to die, and Yasmaleeya as well.”

  Color swept the autocratic line of the Harvester’s cheekbones. “You stole that child. I’ll return it. Church will be allowed to preach, to heal, to save. The Dodoy one can come, as well.”

  Tate said, “Dodoy stays with me. We’re not finished yet.”

  The Harvester’s lip curled. “Really? When the thirst is on you, remember that proud rejection. You’ll hate him more with each drop of water that goes down his throat instead of yours. He’ll curse you for keeping him with you.”

  Sylah said, “Do I have your word the Chair will let his boy live?”

  “It’s a boy? Yes. The Chair wants a son.”

  “No one knew it’s a boy?”

  The Harvester looked away, refused to meet Sylah’s suspicions. “Yasmaleeya didn’t tell us anything.”

  Lanta clutched Sylah’s arm. “She never got a chance to speak, you mean. Don’t give him to her, Sylah. We’ll escape.”

  Sylah said, “We can’t if we’re slowed down by an infant and a goat.” Her words had an iron conviction. By contrast, the hand she placed on Jessak’s tiny head was gentle, confiding. She faced the Harvester. “You’ll keep the boy alive because you think to bargain with the Chair. How contemptible. Hear me. There’s mystery in this child that neither you nor I understand. Nevertheless, he’ll die if I keep him with me, so I must entrust him to your care. To your self-interest, actually. Something tells me his path is yours. For now.” Looking past the older woman, Sylah raised her voice. “Men of Kos. This is the Chair’s first born son. My blessing is on him. I declare the Harvester personally responsible for his safety. It is on your honor to guarantee that responsibility.”

  The Harvester stepped forward, fixed Lanta with a dominating stare, and took the child. Lanta’s hands fell loosely to her sides. Her head drooped.

  The voice was in Sylah’s head again, then. Stern. Loving. Find the river, the canyon. The Door. All else must wait.

  And there was response. Her own voice, excited, the words coming without conscious creation. I hear, Mother. I know. So close. Don’t leave me now. Not now!

  Settling in her saddle, the Harvester interrupted Sylah’s thoughts. “As always, Sylah, you learn too late. Tate told you; the child’s a bargaining piece. You might have saved all your lives.” She hauled on the reins, yanking her horse around. Walling its eyes, it reared. She controlled it easily, starting back to her escort. Stopping abruptly, she turned, holding the child in both hands, level with her head. “Did she name him?”

  “Jessak.” Sylah had to shout. Beyond the Harvester, Sylah saw the instantaneous flurry of action among the Kossiar warmen. There were three-signs. The Harvester stared at the squalling child as if considering throwing him to the ground.

  Jessak stopped crying. He raised miniature fists to his fiery red cheeks, shook them furiously. It looked exactly as if he threatened the Harvester.

  Pale, the older woman tore her gaze back to Sylah. Features contorting, she said, “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You, and that witch, Yasmaleeya. Damn you both.” Vicious slashes of her riding crop sent her horse racing to her escort.

  Chapter 16

  The scorpion advanced slowly, its senses telling it that something large and warm was directly ahead. Insect eyes and primitive brains weren’t designed to encompass or comprehend humans.

  Unfortunately, Tate understood exactly what was in front of her. Her brain didn’t register the creature’s temperature. It did, however, absolutely identify it, and determine that it was a handspan from her nose.

  Her brain told her this wasn’t fair. Dirt and gravel abused her cheek where it lay on the ground. Her tongue felt huge. She ached everywhere. No one ever explained to her that thirst turns the entire body into a factory for pain. The additional prospect of that wicked tail driving its poisoned dart into her face was unnecessarily cruel.

  Once again, she told herself the idea of breaking through the encircling Kossiar force was a suicidal farce. All it really had to offer was a certain valor.

  The nasty scorpion would ruin even that. She knew she’d yell—scream, retch, something—if the scratchy-looking yellow-gray thing so much as touched her.

  The bubbling snore of the closest warman was little more than an arm’s length away.

  The rising sun would send the scorpion into hiding. Under something. Right now, the predawn light was a soft hint. Every throb of Tate’s racing pulse seemed to bring more brightness. There was nothing nearby for the scorpion to shelter beneath. Except herself.

  Splayed little articulated scorpion legs seemed to vibrate; it was halfway to her face. Tiny lobster claw pincers waved threats.

  Infinitely slowly, swaying gently, something rose just at the edge of Tate’s peripheral vision. Her first thought was Snake. Her stomach knotted. She remembered that Nalatan was on that side, her left. His hand appeared. Lunging, it pinched the scorpion’s tail between thumb and forefinger. Hand and squirming creature disappeared.

  Tate closed her eyes, filled agonized lungs. She wished she could close her ears to the faint crackle of the hard shell being crushed.

  A pressure on her shoulder brought her head around, facing Nalatan. He pointed uphill to her right, drew a line across his throat. Residue from the scorpion’s demise left a trace of wetness on his forefi
nger. She swallowed, and wild laughter welled in her throat at the foolishness of someone being sensitive about a squashed insect while tensing to kill or be killed.

  The retreat from hysteria turned to depression. Fifty Kossiars. Twenty-five to one. Numbers like that weren’t odds, they were arithmetic; two against fifty equals once is too often.

  Behind her, Tanno put a foot on her boot.

  That was when the hatred rolled in. In a few moments, warmen would be killing Tanno, trying to kill her. Tate welcomed the burning in her throat, so different from the draining heat of thirst. This was battle fury, bringing strength, concentration, will.

  The hand on her shoulder pressed again. And again.

  The signal.

  Rising in silence, Tate and Nalatan struck. The first four men died asleep. Then one opened his eyes. Tate rushed at him through the soft dawn, bayonet leveled, Tanno beside her, teeth bared. In her mind, she saw herself as the warman must. Eyes like moons. Throat muscles ridged like steel cables. Mouth open with exertion, lips drawn back in the animalistic snarl of close combat. The man screamed. Tate answered, shrieked ferocity. Thrust the shining bayonet.

  Shouts of alarm erupted. Orders mingled with curses. An arrow hissed past Tate and Nalatan.

  But a hole had been cut in the Kossiar wall. Nalatan said, “The others come. Use the lightning now. Keep the warmen back.”

  Sylah, Lanta, and Dodoy broke out of their hiding place in the valley. The priestesses each led a horse behind the one they rode.

  A warman charged Tate. Before she could bring the wipe to bear, Tanno shot past her. The man was brave. He kept coming, flailed at Tanno with his sword. The dog dodged, leapt at the Kossiar’s exposed right side. Man and animal fell in a snarling, yelling whirl. The yelling choked off abruptly.

  Nalatan shouted, pointing at a group of four more warmen, racing downhill to cut off the fast-approaching horses. Two rounds from the wipe put down one Kossiar and sent the rest to tight cover. In the next moment, Sylah and Lanta were beside Tate and Nalatan, handing over the reins of the horses they led. Dodoy raced past. An arrow struck Copper, setting off frenzied bucking. Sylah gained control as Nalatan yanked the missile free. The four some galloped down the back side of the ridge after Dodoy in a rain of arrows.

  From that point to the protection of some broken hills was a long ride. It was soon apparent that the strain of long travel, plus the diminished food and water of the preceding three days, was affecting the horses. They slowed dramatically. Looking over her shoulder at the pursuing Kossiars, Tate begged her mount for greater effort. Tanno glanced up at her with wise, troubled eyes.

  Nalatan had warned of this. He applauded Sylah’s plan to wait before attempting a breakout; he concurred that a show of weakness and despondence would lull the Kossiar siege to complacency. The problem he identified was that they themselves grew weaker every day. No matter how great a surprise their attack provided, it was still necessary to outrace the Kossiars to safety.

  The very tactic that enabled them to escape at all might have doomed them.

  Nalatan said the terrain beyond the first visible line of hills was designed for ambush.

  Urging greater effort from her horse, it suddenly, and most inappropriately, occurred to Tate that no one had thought to ask him how he knew that.

  There was a small gully ahead. Dodoy reined up, putting his horse into a skid that pulled its haunches down to the ground. Yanking the animal about, the boy slid down one side and then had to beat the horse up the other. Nalatan shouted to the adults that they must jump the obstacle.

  Tate’s horse stumbled. The break in rhythm slammed the wipe against the back of her head. She ignored it, checking on the animal’s stride. It was sound, but he’d shifted leads, and was on his left foot. He only jumped well off a right lead, she knew, and the gully was flying toward her. Quickly, she moved her weight to the left, hoping there was time, then jerked herself back onto the animal’s right side. He balked slightly, but he was leading with the right foot when the gully was under his nose, and he soared. Beside her, Tanno stretched for the far side. Both animals landed solidly. Tate praised them. Looking around, she saw her friends made it, as well.

  She also saw the Kossiars gaining.

  Nalatan forged past her, leading the way into a canyon. They raced around a bend, and were confronted by jumbled boulders and a choice of narrow exits. Unhesitating, Nalatan plunged into one. The group followed. A little farther, he signaled to Tate. She understood. It was time to discourage the pursuers. Wheeling, she brought the wipe to bear on the last bend in the canyon.

  The Kossiars poured around it.

  The hollow sound of the boop firing was lost in the thunder of hooves. The round’s ripping explosion wasn’t. Red-orange flame flickered and disappeared in smoke and rising dust. Three Kossiar mounts and riders went down in a sickening, crashing tangle. Two more, unable to stop, slammed into the mess.

  Tate raced off, shouting to drown out the screams of dying men and horses.

  Darting around a bend, she bit off her own voice in a gasp of dismay. Perhaps fifty yards ahead, the draw split. Each fork stretched out ahead of her for another hundred yards. There was no sign of her companions in either.

  Thoroughly frightened, she slapped the horse’s rump for more speed. Beside her on both sides, the vertical walls imprisoned, the flat tops etched an empty sky. She drove ahead, searching for a clue, trying to decide which side to take.

  They had to wait for her. Had to.

  Nalatan’s sudden appearance startled a shout out of her. He was in the right fork of the canyon. He waved, wheeled his horse to face the wall, and was gone.

  When Tate arrived at the narrow crack where he waited, she was sure he meant to make a stand. Following him, she silently decried the choice. There wasn’t even room to turn around. Then, completely unexpected, the narrow alleyway made an abrupt turn that was invisible from outside in the main draw. Signaling silence, Nalatan led her to a steep, crumbling slope rising to the plateau above. After the passage of the others, the ground was broken, treacherous. Nalatan took the reins, pulling, while Tate hurried to the horse’s rear and pushed. They tumbled out of the narrow cleft onto the flat surface with barely any strength left. The horse stood with its head down, sides heaving, legs spread. The priestesses rushed to help. Tate shook her head, handing over the horse, then went to find an observation point at the edge of the plateau. Sylah and Lanta withdrew to where Dodoy waited, well back, securely out of view from the draw. Nalatan scrambled down into the escape alley.

  Hurrying out into the open, he scuffed away signs of their entry. At Tate’s whistle, he ducked back out of sight. Taking position just around the hidden corner, he drew his sword and waited.

  Kossiars streamed into the draw. Reinforced, the original ten to twelve pursuers were at least twice that number. They stopped at the fork.

  Tate watched them, her hat pulled down to her eyebrows, her head filling the gap between two similar sized stones. Another rock on the ground in front of her covered the left side and lower half of her face.

  Nalatan was directly below her.

  The leader of the patrol dismounted to examine the ground.

  Tate turned slowly, saw Sylah edged up close, prone behind her. “They’re looking for tracks,” Tate whispered. “If they’re any good at it, we’re in trouble.”

  Sylah said, “Nalatan told us there are many wild horses here. He says the floor of the draw is very difficult to read.”

  “Let’s hope so. You better get back now. They’re coming.”

  Half the Kossiar force pushed up each fork. Concerned about another ambush, they kept to the sides of the canyon and scanned the overhanging rim constantly. The tactic offered them the greatest opportunity for quick cover if they came under fire. Dangerously, it meant one column would tide directly across the mouth of Nalatan’s hiding place.

  Tate examined the ground near that point, trying to see it as a searching man would.

>   The clear mark of a shod hoof glared up at her. Visible from atop the bluff, it would be a beacon for a mounted man. Pitching a pebble at Nalatan, she got his attention, whispered hoarsely. “Hoofprint. Outside, to the right.”

  He frowned, not understanding. “Iron. Horseshoe.” She injected as much urgency into the word as she could. Nalatan sprinted to the exit. He dropped to his stomach and slipped out. Cover was extremely sparse, and from Tate’s overhead position, he seemed to be nakedly exposed. Flat on the ground, he could see nothing. He half turned, looking to her for directions. Gesturing with fingers to keep movement to a minimum, she directed him. Finally, as much by accident as design, he dragged an arm across the revealing mark.

  By then, the troopers were only a few yards away.

  Nalatan scuffled into the crack in the wall a heartbeat before the first rider stepped onto the small rise that would have revealed him.

  The Kossiar stopped, dismounted. Calling across the draw, he said, “Far enough. They’re gone.”

  From the other side, the lead man said, “The Lance said to be sure.”

  “I’m sure. If that crazy old woman wants those people, let her hunt for them herself.”

  “Careful. She’s a big Church leader.”

  The tired trooper made a rude noise. Several man laughed. Encouraged, he said, “Anyone wants a drink, now’s the time. Then we’ll head back. We tell the Lance we went up this fork until it split again and we didn’t see anything. Everybody got that?”

  There was an assenting murmur, followed by hushed, general conversation.

  The trooper in the lead dismounted. Stretching and groaning, he handed his reins to the rider behind. For a while he walked around, working kinks out of his legs, rubbing his backside. Then he began to idly inspect the ground up the draw. Toward Nalatan.

  Tate bit her lip.

  Bending, the man picked up something.

  Tate pulled the wipe close to her side. Below her, Nalatan’s questioning gaze darkened as he looked up to see her tension increase. Turning back toward the abrupt turn in the narrow cut, he listened intently.