Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  Neela was surprised to realize the gruff warrior looked more solemn than cross. When he saluted to leave, his eyes lingered on the partial profile Jaleeta turned to him. What Neela saw in the crags and scars of the hard-used features then gave her a feeling that went far beyond surprise.

  Chapter 22

  The sharker fought the current. Wearily, bow crashing through a battering chop, it strained past looming cliffs, towering trees. Progress was a grim plod; like a temperamental, high-strung horse the vessel sometimes reacted to the confused swirl of wind and current with what the crew could only consider a display of temper. The boat reared, shaking and twisting its entire length, spilling its sails so they refilled with thunderous slaps. The crew winced at each outburst. They feared and distrusted the unknown spirits of this rustling, relentless sea of fresh water. More, they knew the peril of sailing an angry boat.

  The men had more problems than the river. Sea-raiders, they were unable to accept a horizon they had to lift their chins to examine. The gorge of the Mother River imprisoned their vision, loomed over them with awful silence. The crew had discovered, however, that the silence was preferable to most of the sounds that came from the dark forest cloaking the river’s banks.

  Two days after the wrenching experience of crossing the bar at the river’s mouth, Lorso realized that Tears of Jade’s view of the political situation along the river was seriously flawed. There were great distances between the villages of the River People, and even greater differences in their allegiances. Many rejected affiliation with Windband; that was Lorso’s first shock. The hostility of the non-Windband adherents was an even more unpleasant awakening.

  The most disturbing revelation of all, however, came from the most unexpected direction.

  Traditionally nothing more than a source of slaves, the tribe living south of the Mother River who were known as Smalls was suddenly a force to be reckoned with. The reclusive forest dwellers had always been far more ready to flee than fight. Lorso was shocked to learn the Smalls had expanded north onto forested land claimed by the River People. Those River villages opposed to alliance with Windband actually welcomed the incursions, since the Small presence created a buffer between themselves and the pro-Windband faction. All of this was forcefully brought home to Lorso and his crew when they attempted an evening landfall on territory newly occupied by the Smalls.

  Typically, the Small attack wasn’t pressed. They merely wanted to drive off the intruders. Even though three Skan died under arrows shot by their invisible enemy, the Skan regarded the ambush as proof that the Smalls were inept. Instead of exterminating the crew, the Smalls had only inflicted casualties. The Skan vowed to return.

  On Lorso’s present signal to make for shore, the crew hunkered down behind the raised gunwale, bows and arrows ready. Once in the quieter waters of a large eddy, they launched small boats, one fore and one aft, to carry ashore mooring lines and shore guards. Cooking and eating was done aboard, and the fire doused before darkness. Men moved to their assigned guard positions. Despite the damp chill, the protective hide sleeping cover normally stretched from gunwale to gunwale was left stowed in the hold. A bit of discomfort was much preferred to waking in the dark, under attack, trapped under the confining leather.

  Then it was the time Lorso hated. Without the demands of sailing to occupy his mind, the mission’s weight swept down on him, full force.

  Tears of Jade had no concept of the difficulty of maintaining communications with anyone as far upriver as Windband. She merely set a certain time to reach them. What she couldn’t anticipate was that the length of the Mother River seethed with new alliances and multiplying intrigues.

  Church and the schismatic Rose Priestess Sylah had their adherents. This settlement hated Kossiars, that one hated Windband. An unsettling number of villages—particularly those on the north bank—openly favored the Three Territories in the fighting they expected to erupt in the spring. On the south bank, the presence of the Smalls assured harassing attacks on Skan sharkers approaching their holdings. Every landfall brought new tales of joinings and separations. The whole thing swirled and looped in Lorso’s mind.

  In the darkness after the last meal, Lorso rejected all of that political concern. Sleepless, watching the stars, he listened to the mumbled conversation of his boat and the river. He was alone, by the tiller, as was correct for the captain. From there, the lovers’ talk that passed between the vessel and the water was heard best. In theory, only the captain was privileged to listen. Everyone did it, though, straining to detect the querulous whine of jealousy that meant planks working loose, or the irritable grate of a mast wearing away at the tree. The relationship between boat and water was always delicate; far more dangerously balanced than that between men and women.

  Stretched out on the deckboards, Lorso heard every whisper, felt the least tremor in the supple keel. To him, the boat was ultimate femininity, one moment shy and graceful, the next straining and fiery in her needs. But always beautiful.

  And so he thought constantly of Jaleeta. Blood howled passion through pulsing arteries that cared nothing for gods or spirit women or the fate of nations.

  A repetitious dream haunted him when he managed to fall asleep. The sharker fled, galled by clouds of arrows. One arrow, a huge thing, called his name. It was the same as always, dark against moonlight. Horribly, the thing had a face. The features were human, distorted by battle-rage, gnashing, gleaming teeth and mad, fixed eyes. The face shrieked his name, arced down, down. Pain swallowed him. And cold, black water. Blackness.

  Lorso woke, choking.

  The Lorso in the dream knew the name of that face.

  Making his way to the rail, Lorso relieved his bladder. The splashing brought a guard, sword drawn. The man grinned acknowledgment on seeing what was happening. Lorso told the man to ready the signal to bring in the shore watch, ending the conversation. When certain he was alone again, and with his back to the rest of the ship, Lorso drew a small knife and nicked the tip of a finger. Head bowed, he squeezed out symbolic drops of sacrificial blood. Dripping it into the river, he begged Sosolassa’s favor.

  Tears of Jade assured him that all river gods were subject to Sosolassa and his limitless sea. Lorso believed. Nevertheless, the god of this one was an insubordinate fury. Tears of Jade never saw the bar at the mouth, where fresh water stormed unendingly against the supreme god’s domain. Of course the river lost, was smothered. But what death was that, that knew no end of struggle, no cessation of life?

  Running a thumb along the tips of all his fingers, Lorso reaffirmed they were all healing quickly.

  When he turned, the men were stirring. The tenor of their waking was even more surly than usual. Lorso frowned. Shipboard life was too close to tolerate temper. The last friendly village estimated the sharker would reach the place where Moonpriest waited in five days. Today would make the sixth, and no sign of a settlement.

  The mood of the men suggested relaxation was in order. Lorso ordered the cook to prepare oatcakes, and to open one of the honey kegs. As soon as the men saw the great iron griddle plate unpacked and lowered onto the firebox, they brightened. A hot breakfast in place of the standard cold sausage and hard bread excited everyone. Honey was a treat reserved for special occasions.

  As the steaming fragrance of cooking rose to fill the boat, Lorso addressed his crew. “It’s been a tiresome voyage. You’ve handled it well. I’m proud of you, but I know that’s not enough to satisfy you. We should reach Moonpriest today. If we don’t, we keep going until we do. Sosolassa orders it. After my business with Moonpriest, however, we’re on our own. We’ve taken too much abuse from these mud-sucking landscum. Deblo, you’re in charge of storage spaces; make room for slaves. Be sure we have plenty of strong line.”

  It was exactly the message his Skan needed. Additionally, the rising sun brought a stiff breeze. By midmorning the bow lookout shouted news of a village. Colored banners hung in the trees. The raw-throated blare of a horn rolled downriver to t
hem, echoing hauntingly from the enclosing mountains. With a cheer, the Skan leaned harder into their oars. Eager youngsters darted out into the river in canoes and on the peculiar one-man sailboats. The latter seemed to fly across the surface, and the men piloting them were amazingly skilled. A favorite display was to build up speed, catch the crest of a wave, and fling their craft up, airborne. As soon as the sharker was secured with lines to the shore, the Skan crowded the rails and applauded the acrobatic sailors.

  Lorso went ashore in a short whitebear cape over cream-colored woolen trousers and shirt of the finest, lightest thread. The shirt, a simple design of front and back sewn together, was decorated by a gray keystone pattern running back and forth in horizontal lines. Trousers were tucked into piebald sealskin boots. A thin jade amulet, as long as Lorso’s hand, hung from a gold chain around his neck; it depicted a leaping killer whale.

  The most striking thing was Lorso’s hat. Woven of dyed cedar bark, a full two handspans tall and gleaming black, it represented a raven’s head facing forward, golden eyes agleam. The rear was a snarling animal face, again with golden eyes, but with the addition of pointed dentalium shell teeth. Bristling seal whiskers, set into the hat’s weave, extended outward. Tiny silver bells at the tips of the whiskers chimed an almost inaudible chorus at Lorso’s every move.

  Greeting him in his immaculate white robes, turban, and silver moon disk, Moonpriest looked positively austere. “Welcome, Lorso, to my humble camp. Our scouts only warned us of your coming last night, so please forgive the lack of proper welcome.”

  Despite Moonpriest’s modest demur, bright fluttering cloth pennants decorated the trees. Everyone in view seemed to be dressed in new finery. The place was a blur of colors, feathers, flowers. Best of all, a smoky richness of cooking lay across the camp in an enfolding aura.

  Back from the river, directly behind Moonpriest, sat a massive white tent Lorso was certain belonged to his host. A wide avenue led to an open entryway with a shading awning. Moonpriest, half turned, waiting for Lorso to join him. Walking toward the tent, Moonpriest said, “Arrived a few days ago. The old one burned. Many in Windband lost tents that night. A punishment. We welcomed an impostor, nurtured a man who claimed to be a brother, child of the moon, as I am. He murdered my war chief, destroyed our camp. He was sent by Gan Moondark and the Church witch that calls itself the Flower.” He stopped, faced Lorso just outside the tent. “I seek allies. My interest in loot or slaves is small, only enough to offset my losses, expenses, and the fair demands of my warriors. All else Windband and Moonpriest renounce. But the witch must be mine.”

  “Traders spoke of the damage to your camp. I’m instructed to express the sympathy of our Navigators. Also the sorrow of our spirit woman, named Tears of Jade. Because she’s another religious, like yourself, she understands the great pain that comes of a breaking of faith.”

  The faint glimmer of annoyance that slipped across Moonpriest’s features was well controlled, Lorso thought, but sufficiently revealing. Moonpriest didn’t like being considered “another” religious. Secretly, Lorso was very pleased. Whatever Moonpriest might be, and it was obvious he was a leader of a fierce people, he believed in false gods. There would be no divine guidance for Moonpriest as there was for Tears of Jade, so the triumph of Sosolassa was assured. Difficulty might delay the inevitable; it wouldn’t stop it.

  Before entering the tent, Moonpriest faced west. It was shortly after the sun’s high point, and Moonpriest lifted the silver disk at his breast, tilting it to catch the sun. It angled light onto a nearby ridge. Immediately, an ululation rose, a wavering spiral of sound that raised the hair on the back of Lorso’s neck.

  A sound of distant thunder followed the echoes of the call. It grew louder, finally erupting from behind the ridge as a charging wave of horsemen. As they hit the crest and descended they bellowed war cries, some roaring deeply, some screaming high and wild. Command pennants snapped in the wind.

  Horses and riders—Lorso was sure there were hundreds—stormed past. Some came within a handspan of his nose. The wind of their passing stirred his clothes. That was as nothing compared to what the vibrating earth did to his insides.

  Slung across their backs, the horsemen carried short, recurved bows of a type Lorso had never seen. Each brandished a long, steel-tipped lance. Every saddle sported a sword in a scabbard. Lorso had no knowledge of horses or riding. He had an appreciation for armor, and noted how many of the warriors dressed in chain-mail shirts that draped low enough to protect almost to the knee. Helmets were universal, as well. They appeared to be metal over padded leather. Fittings in the back carried small, colored pennants. They streamed in the wind, dividing the riders into groups—white, red, yellow, and blue.

  The last of the riders finally whooped and yelled departure from within an obscuring cloud of dust. Lorso inhaled hugely, albeit distastefully, hating the stink of dirt, fresh animal droppings, and sweat.

  Inside the tent, a hidden stringed instrument and a high-pitched metallic-sounding drum combined to play soothing intricate melody. Overhead, a long, rectangular fan stirred the air, which was thick with floral scent. Slaves hurried into the room carrying trays of berry syrup in ceramic containers. A larger, far thicker bowl with a similarly heavy lid held chipped ice. Following Moonpriest’s example, Lorso mixed the syrup with ice and water from the large bowl. He almost gasped with pleasure, suddenly aware of exactly how hot the cape and woolen clothes were.

  Moonpriest said, “Feel free to take off the cape. We’ve no need to be uncomfortable, you and I. We’ll be friends. My mother has said so.”

  It was on the tip of Lorso’s tongue to retort that he’d had no such message from Sosolassa, but he decided it was impolitic. Besides, this outlandishly dressed little man with his tight face that looked like it was made of dried fish skin was almost pathetically eager to please. Lorso determined to accommodate him. Shedding the cape, he said, “I’d be honored to be counted a friend. Your reputation has brought you great respect among the Skan. Our Navigators will match your accomplishments in the east by attacking from the west.”

  Suddenly, the ingratiation of Moonpriest’s smile acquired a bite; Lorso caught himself thinking of the white-cold country far to the north, where an uninitiated man could lose the skin of his hand simply by picking up a piece of exposed iron. “Windband’s attack will drive up from the south. We need several sharkers to keep renegade Rivers away. We ask little, as I’m sure the Skan want to attack the most populous areas, near Ola and Harbundai, in order to acquire slaves and loot.”

  “The Skan are warriors, not caretakers.”

  Moonpriest shook his head. “Only the Skan fight on water as well as land. If Windband attacks the Rivers, they hop in their boats and float away from us. We need cooperation against attacks in our rear.”

  “The Mother River is still just a river. If Windband had some boats…”

  “Windband admits it knows nothing of boats. Would the Skan care to ride into battle on our horses?”

  Hiding a shudder, Lorso said, “I’ll discuss the matter with the Navigators. Perhaps we can spare two or three sharkers to help you here.”

  “You see?” Moonpriest was completely affable again. “Didn’t I say we’d be friends? Our first problem, and we solved it with no trouble at all. Now, let’s consider exactly when we should attack. You’ll have to concern yourself with tides, currents, winds, the phase of the moon.”

  Lorso cupped his chin in his hands, bending forward to watch Moonpriest’s darting hands draw a huge map in the dust of the tent floor. As lands he’d only heard of were sketched and related to each other, he realized Moonpriest hadn’t solved their first problem. On the contrary, he’d won their first argument. A small thing, but an inauspicious start.

  A disquieting dryness invaded Lorso’s mouth and throat. He cursed his fate. Raised by a religious, then sent by that one to argue with another. If he gave too much or lost the alliance, Tears of Jade would punish him for failing Sosolassa.<
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  He wouldn’t fail. Tears of Jade sent him, and she was Sosolassa’s presence on earth. Lorso eased into calm assurance. The power of the god was with him.

  Chapter 23

  Tension whined in the cool night breeze stirring the torchlit pennants of Windband.

  River boys, filled with pride, guarded the heavy shore lines binding the sharker to the beach. Windband and River warriors mingled easily, if not warmly, with the Skan crew. Responsibility for flirting with the exotically tattooed Skan fell entirely to the River women. They were known for their beauty, and aware of it. They applied themselves to their social requirement with laudable industry.

  That of course, was the root of some tension.

  The men of this particular subgroup of the River People were celebrated for their combat skills. Equally, the nomads of Windband considered warfare a way of life. A mere look at the Skan crew identified them as fierce fighters. Now all three cultures sat in community, eating and drinking. Weapons were admired, passed around, hefted. Fletching was discussed, the advantage of waterfowl feathers compared to those of other birds. Cautious thumbs traced the razored edge of swords.

  Contributing to the stiff behavior and set jaws, singers and taletellers from each group dueled with their counterparts.

  Moonpriest was acutely aware that one over enthusiastically demonstrated thrust and one excessively excited parry could bring bloody chaos. He smelled danger, acrid as steel held too long to the grinding wheel.

  Joining Lorso at a huge trestle table, Moonpriest smilingly gestured at the man accompanying him. As that one sat down, Moonpriest introduced him. “Lorso, this is my right hand. More than that, my brother, my truest friend. Fox Eleven, former Manhunter of the Mountain People, now War Chief of Windband.” To Fox, Moonpriest added, “Our friend Lorso is the adopted son of Tears of Jade, the spirit woman of the Skan. Although we worship differently, we’re agreed that Gan Moondark is a mutual enemy. He protects the witch, Sylah, who would raise Church to challenge all men.”