by Don McQuinn
An elbow struck at him. “Leave me alone.” Saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth.
He caught her as she toppled. Rolled-up eyes revealed nothing but whites. He looked away, telling himself that many unconscious people looked like that. More, he needed all his concentration to pick his stumbling, erratic way over the rough ground.
Fat, lazy snowflakes loafed across his vision. Plump whiteness softened the threatening teeth of distant mountains. He hugged his unmoving friend to him and plodded on.
Chapter 27
Lanta jerked upright. One hand inched out of her tight, warm huddle, edged open the shelter’s flap door. Snow blanketed everything, including the dogs. Tucked in tight curls just outside, they blinked away snow to stare back.
Karda’s stomach rumbled discontent. That was what wakened her, Lanta realized. She wished she could help. There was barely enough food to nurse Conway and Tate, none to spare for the poor animals.
The valley floor was curtained off by another snow flurry, but in her mind’s eye she saw the deer, elk, and wildcows congregating, homing on their traditional wintering grounds. The dogs could hunt there. There were other predators, though; the groaning call of a tiger the previous night, a prairie bear bawling the day before.
Three days, with only slight improvement for her friends. Back inside the shelter, she reexamined them. Happily, color was better, pulses stronger. Breathing was improved, slow and regular. Bending close, Lanta sniffed at each neck, then smelled the breath. The skin was fresh, the exhalations free of the peculiar cloudiness. Lanta grimaced, thinking of it. The stink made her think of something ropy, slimy. The thinnest smile moved her lips; both of them could use a good toothbrushing, but at least they smelled human again.
A while later, Conway stirred as she spooned broth into him. She was wiping his chin when his eyes flew open. They were bright clear. Startled, she rocked back on her heels, exclaiming aloud, nearly dropping the precious broth. He continued to look directly into her eyes. The first words came with difficulty. “You all right? Not sick, like us? Tate. She all right? Her hands.” He tried to gesture. After three days of immobility, muscle was flaccid, coordination chaotic.
Lanta stroked his cheek, brushed hair back at his forehead and temples. He lay still, and she knew he was filling his senses with her, absorbing everything about her. He closed his eyes, sighed contentment. She felt his happiness, the love in him. Her kiss on his forehead was light as breath, but through it she tried to tell him of her joy in his recovery, her joy in his presence. The gentle caress was promise. In her heart, she felt it as the glad surrender she yearned for.
Grating memory reminded her that the Seeing warned of unknown choices and changes. She closed her eyes, chanted softly. Trance came quickly. Deep concentration enabled her to quell hunger pains, fight off depression and weariness. This time, however, the impact of that gentle kiss intruded, interfered with her planned thought path. Instead of the secure comfort the trance normally brought, this one was a mad pattern of heat and cold. Heat when she thought of Conway. Cold when she thought of the Seeing’s threats.
Words came to her.
“The Apocalypse Testament said: Love is not acquisition, but divestment. The greatest love is that which gives without thought of compensation. The highest love is that which finds the courage to free the beloved. The highest love may mourn, but it cannot deny.
“The Apocalypse Testament said: Answer your heart. It is where the One in All lives in all people. The laws of man are written to be obeyed, for the law affords respect to mankind and the mind of man. The laws of the One in All address the soul and are paramount. They are carried in the purest blood of the heart.”
Lanta surfaced reluctantly, her head a clamor of unanswered questions. As full consciousness pressed her out of the trance, Conway’s eyes were twitching open. He groaned.
Anxiously, her hand went to his pulse once more. Reassured, she smiled at him, then turned to Tate. The woman gave no sign of regaining consciousness. Conway spoke again, more confident. “Her hands. How badly are they hurt? I don’t remember getting here. I didn’t drop her, did I?”
Describing his return to the shelter with Tate in his arms filled Lanta with a pride she made no effort to disguise. In fact, she surprised herself a little, glossing over how he’d slumped to the ground as soon as he saw her approach. Nor did she tell him it took all her will to leave him while she dragged Tate the remaining twenty paces or so into the shelter, or that she dragged him, too. When he asked, she told him they’d been unconscious two days, adding, “Donnacee’s badly hurt. No bones are broken, but she won’t be much help for quite a while.” Lanta lifted a bandaged hand for inspection. It was freakishly huge inside its wrapping. Swelling puffed the normally smooth skin into taut ugliness. Fingernails were missing. Splits shone red and raw in dark, stretched flesh.
Conway looked to the door, back to Lanta. “The dogs? The horses? How soon can Tate travel?”
“Get well. Then we’ll talk of other things.” Stifling his argument with a spoonful of broth, Lanta earned herself a moment’s respite. After swallowing, Conway said, “Tomorrow I have to work. You’ll have to help me. We have to get away from here.”
“We’ll see.” Exasperated, and paradoxically pleased by this aggressive approach to recovery, Lanta wished she could distract him. The dogs provided her answer. Ecstatic at the sound of their master’s voice, their barking and howling demanded attention. Somewhat ashamed of herself for not including the faithful animals, she opened the shelter flap and gestured them in. They nearly trampled Conway, pushing muzzles into his face, tongues licking like red, wet towels. Too weak to fend them off, delighted to see them, Conway protested and flailed as best he could. Lanta tried to pull them back. An action that normally would have earned her a threatening growl and a close view of lethal teeth went completely ignored; the dogs seemed aware of every nuance of the situation.
Satisfied at last, they obeyed Conway’s command to go back outside. Lanta had to laugh at their contented air. Backs to the prevailing wind, they looked to her, wagged their tails one last time, and settled to wait. Lanta reached to touch their heads, whispering, “He is worth it, isn’t he? You understand.”
The following morning Conway was sitting up, waiting for Lanta when she returned to the tent from greeting the sunrise. She frowned at him. “What’s this about?”
“I told you. I have work. We have to leave.”
“Impossible. You’re too weak.”
“Maybe so. We’re going to do it, anyhow.”
“Do what? I can’t intrude on your religious rites. If Tate—”
“No rites. No religion. To help Church, that’s as close as I can get.”
“We shouldn’t leave Tate alone. There are animals about.”
“If another Windband patrol comes to look for us, animals won’t count.”
“It’s dangerous. We should wait until she’s better.”
“We can’t.” Straining upright, he waved off Lanta’s offered hand. Once on his feet, he steadied. By the time they were on their way up the mountainside, he was walking with determination, if not grace.
The boxes of ammunition and explosives were stacked safely distant from the former cave mouth. With their light snow blanket, they were almost part of the landscape. More to himself than to Lanta, Conway complained of the need to leave so much. Still, he exhausted himself merely separating out the new amount. Lanta convinced him the actual loading of the horses would have to wait until the next day.
Just as they were leaving, Conway slowed, fixed a strange, speculative look on Lanta. He led her to a huge tree, had her sit down and lean back against it. He handed her his wipe, saying, “Tate won’t be able to use one of these for a long time, will she?”
Lanta couldn’t take her eyes off the sleek, horrid object in her lap. There was something reptilian about it. She shook her head, fearing the prospect his question suggested.
He said, “You have to know
how to use this.”
She shook her head again, violently, not trusting her voice.
“It could mean life or death, Lanta. There’s nothing to it. No magic, no great religious experience.” He bent to her, close enough for the scent of him to crowd her lungs, close enough for his warmth to caress her exposed face. His hands on the sleek weapon were supple, knowing. He took hers, led them across the smooth, cold surfaces as he taught. Dimly, she heard words: trigger, safety, selector switch. Like bright, glinting glass, they struck at her mind, lodged there.
“I can’t.” She loathed her denial of him. “I’m Church, Matt. Please. I’m a Chosen, saved by Church to serve Church. A Healer. A Seer. I can never kill.”
He was as gentle as possible. “Church tried to kill all of us. They cast you out. You’re absolved. Free.”
“I was never not free. I believe.” She made that point defiantly. His silent insistence forced her back to the real issue. “I live to save.”
“I want you to be able to save yourself. You’re cast out, vulnerable. If something happens to me…” His expression was concern that went beyond fear. There was plea. And a yearning she suddenly felt in her own breast.
When she extended the weapon to him, rejecting it, he took it without a word. She raised her face, stretched toward him. More than a kiss, she savored him, lips brushing his, then each eye in turn. She kissed his mouth.
He stepped back, face suffused, eyes curiously unfocused. His words were rough, from deep in his chest. “We better move now. We’re losing time, you know? And don’t worry about the wipe. I understand.” He turned away, spinning on a heel. The boot cut a swirl in the snow. He said, “I love you for that. For everything. Because you’re who you are. We’re going to work it all out. We will.”
Lanta picked up her share of the load, followed. Snow started again, making the descent that much more difficult.
Halfway back down the slope, Conway gestured Lanta to a stop. Before she could ask his reason, he signaled for quiet. She followed his gaze to the dogs. Both animals, originally beside them, were several paces behind. They stood with hackles raised looking uphill. Putting her mouth to Conway’s ear, Lanta asked, “Men?”
Frowning, Conway shook his head. He whispered, “I don’t know.” The dogs came instantly on command, although both warily glanced back up the mountainside. Faint breezes came from that direction. Snow distorted vision, suggested movement where none existed. Conway ordered the dogs ahead, but kept them within sight. Both animals continued to turn upwind occasionally, wet noses testing the air. Nervously, Conway and Lanta also scanned the back trail.
Camp was a welcome sight. One of the horses whickered a welcome.
Karda stopped as if frozen. Mikka was fractionally slower. Deathly silent, they raised their heads, scenting. Very slowly, still sniffing, they backed toward Conway and Lanta. Neck ruffs raised, stiff-legged, they moved as if expecting attack. Still, they favored no particular direction. On reaching Conway, they pressed against his legs, Karda to the left, Mikka to the right.
Lanta ran to the shelter, her light footsteps further buffered by a handspan’s depth of snow. She disappeared inside.
When she came out, her hood was thrown back. She clutched at her breast. “She’s not there.” Disbelief pitched her words just short of hysteria.
Conway couldn’t accept it. “She has to be. She must have come to, just stepped out.” He was rushing forward as he argued, searching for tracks. Even before he reached Lanta, he saw them. He laughed, “See, there’s her…” The words died. The laughter choked.
Not one set of tracks, but three, led away. Smudged by new snow, they were nevertheless unmistakable. New tracks. Too large for Tate.
Conway shoved Lanta against the rock, hard. A cry of surprised complaint had no effect; he pushed her all the way to the ground. At the same time, he dropped to one knee, his back to her. Facing out, the dogs beside him, he leveled the wipe. It searched back and forth, menacing.
Mocking laughter rolled out of the forest. Twisted by the wind, muffled by whirling snow, it came from everywhere. Nowhere.
The dogs searched frantically, furiously, growling constantly.
“I know you, Matt Conway.” The voice tormented. “You remember Fox Eleven?”
“I know you, Fox Eleven. If it’s really you. The Mountain warrior I knew faced men. Who is this who hides in the trees like a woman?”
“Should I show myself to the White Thunder? After I’ve stolen his black friend? Not today. Better if you come to me; she needs your Healer.”
“She’s sick, Fox. Covered by unseens.”
There was a pause. Lanta held her breath, sure she heard low, intense muttering.
Fox was a bit less sure of himself. “It’s infection from the injured hands, not sickness. You’ve become quite clever, but not clever enough to fool Moonpriest or his servants. We would have found you much sooner, but for this snow. It hid your tracks well.”
“Braggart. The man I let go told you where to find us.”
“I knew you’d be here long before those clumsy Windband wildcows crossed your path. Moonpriest said you’d come here. He knows all. He sent me to find you, Matt Conway. He wants you.”
“You’ll have to kill me.”
“It would please me. I am told to avoid that. I’m allowed to cripple you.”
An arrow whistled out of the surrounding forest, struck into the snow within reach of Conway. A rock under the snow deflected the shaft. Exploding away in a flurry of thrown snow, it caromed into the silent trees. Conway’s involuntary jerk backward nearly toppled him.
Fox said, “That could have buried itself in your knee. I would enjoy your screams. But Moonpriest prefers you unharmed. I am told to make you understand. Safe passage to his camp if you surrender.”
Conway sneered. “Where we’ll be tortured to death for the entertainment of filth like you. Kill us now.”
“It would be so, left to me. Moonpriest sees more, knows more, than the rest of us. Serve him, and he grants you life and honor. To deny him proves you are all witches. See if I can persuade you. Listen: I think I can wake the black one. I’ll tell you what we’re doing to her. I want you to know what’s happening.”
Lanta clutched at Conway’s back. “Don’t let them do it. Attack them. Death is better.” He turned to look into her eyes. Her head moved in an almost-infinitesimal nod. Magically, a shortknife appeared in her fisted right hand. The left rose to touch his cheek. It explored the corner of his eye, where the brow tapered to an end. From there, it drifted the length of his jaw, building memory. Then she touched his shoulder. The gentle pressure of that loving hand insisting he rush to certain death was a supreme irony. Her throat worked before words actually formed. “I know what I must do. Don’t look back. Please.”
Chapter 28
Fox’s laughter was quieter the second time. It spun Conway around. Fox said, “I think the little one believes death is a better choice than serving Moonpriest. Listen to her. Loose your thunder, send your lightning. When you’re dead, I’ll make a necklace of your teeth, yours and those mangy dogs’. My women will make a blanket of their skins. With my own hands, I’ll make a spirit flute of your thigh bone, a spirit drum of your skull. The rhythm of your brain will be mine. Your bones will give me your strength, to serve me in battle. I’ll own your soul, to serve the sons of my sons. Forever. The witch-Priestess will probably kill herself before we can reach her. Perhaps not. Perhaps you’ll both live to see our games with the black one.”
Lanta’s pressure on Conway’s back increased. “We can’t escape. Don’t let them hurt her.”
Over his shoulder, Conway answered, “They intend to kill us when we reach Moonpriest. I know that. But Moonpriest wants to watch me die. It’s a long way from here to there.” He rose, ignoring Lanta’s pleas. Speaking to Fox, he said, “If I surrender to Moonpriest, you take us to him? No abuse? No danger to the women? No harm to my dogs?”
“You sound like a man t
rying to bargain. Weakling. Peddler. I told you what my master has said. Safe conduct. To serve.”
Slumped, Conway leaned his wipe against the rock. Lanta’s protestations went unheeded. He added the pistol, then his sword. Karda and Mikka rose swiftly, gathering themselves as three figures ghosted toward them. Conway’s command checked them. The men walked carefully around the belligerent animals to gather the weapons. Bands of white material wrapped around ordinary hides and woolens camouflaged the Mountains. With Conway’s weapons safely in hand, the trio hurried back to cover.
Fox came forward to confront his prisoners. Ignoring Lanta completely, he smiled arrogant pride at Conway for a long while before speaking. “I always knew it would end like this. Your powers are nothing, compared to my master’s. You are no man at all, compared to me. Luck kept you alive this long.”
“Maybe Moonpriest will let us decide that. A duel, you and me.”
Shifting ever so subtly, Fox’s smile was suddenly hard, a mask that glistened with cruelty. “That would be my choice. My master promises that you live, however, if you serve honestly.” He gestured. Men appeared, disappeared, flowed through the dim forest and the whirling snow. Something dark and massive loomed higher on the slope, making its way down. Fox pointed at it, laughed. “That’s what confused your stupid dogs. We killed the bear for its skin. That man circled, got upwind of you. It was too easy. Your wonderful dogs never suspected.”
Conway cursed himself. The dogs had tried to warn him. They smelled bear. They knew something was wrong with the smell. Poor fools. They relied on their master.
When Conway faced Fox again, warriors flanked the Mountain leader. They carried two poles, each half as long as a man, firmly attached to each other at one end by metal fittings and several links of stout chain. Additional lengths of chain dangled from the opposite ends of the poles. “You’ll wear this. The poles bound to your arms, the dogs chained at your wrists.”
Stepping back, Conway fumed. “Safe conduct? This is Moonpriest’s promise of ‘long life and honor’?”