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

by Don McQuinn

  “I wouldn’t blame him if he refused. I have to ask.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re in a bad world, Gan. You’re only doing what you must. It may be unpleasant, but it’s the right thing. Don’t hate yourself.”

  “Nor you, Rose Priestess. War Healer. Old friend. Distrust—call it caution, if you will—comes no easier for you than for me.”

  Sylah tossed her head. “Never mind old friend. Friend is perfectly adequate. Now hurry, or we’re going to be missed.”

  They were laughing as they dashed through the door leading to a flight of stairs descending into the castle. Sylah longed to stop halfway down. She wanted to comfort Gan, to tell him how much it hurt to hear the hollowness in his laughter, how the echoes of needless guilt rang in the confines of the cold, dank passageway.

  It would have embarrassed her to know Gan was wishing he could say the same thing to her.

  Chapter 36

  “You can’t ask me to do that.”

  “It’s not spying, Nalatan. Just talk to her, listen to her. She admires you. She’ll help us understand what Leclerc’s doing.”

  “Can you hear yourself, Sylah? What you mean is for me to gain her confidence and repeat everything she tells me.”

  Sylah’s stomach wound itself tight. Nalatan said nothing she hadn’t said to herself. Hearing it from another made it worse. She walked to one of the massive chairs before the fireplace in the abbey’s great room and sat down heavily. “I do hear. And I’m ashamed. Forgive me.”

  Nalatan picked up the fireplace poker, stirred the blazing logs. Sylah had to smile; the thick iron rod was as long as a man’s leg, with a vicious-looking claw hook. She’d used it often, and it was a two-handed struggle, especially if the hook snagged and had to be worked free. In Nalatan’s hand it darted and twisted. His rugged, honest face was relaxed now. Its integrity was a reproach.

  Nalatan broke the silence. “Do you fear Leclerc that much? Or is it the girl?”

  The question came in the soft drawl of Nalatan’s desert home. Sylah was quite aware that he fell into that pattern when he meant to be formal. She was stung. “I fear neither. My training tells me the girl is untrustworthy. The man is powerful. He knows things we can’t imagine which he shares with us openly. Or does he?”

  Nalatan jabbed the hook into a burnt log. Charcoal grated, a gritting, slithering sound. Skin crawling, Sylah gripped the chair arms. Nalatan said, “I am still Church’s man, despite being cast out, as you. I’m also your friend. I assume the privilege of warning you. Church cannot refuse to defend herself in any way she can, but she must defend against what is known, not what is suspected. Would you throw away your good name? Because of an untrustworthy girl? A lonely man?”

  “You’re very kind. I’m proud you call me friend. I needed your wisdom.”

  He chuckled softly. “Wisdom. I haven’t gone crazy yet, so some people think I’m wise and understanding.”

  Both knew he referred to Tate’s long, silent absence. There were no words for that situation. He drew the poker out of the fire, examining it as though the scars of its rough forging carried answers. He placed the middle of the shaft a cross his thigh, handle in his right hand. Stunned, Sylah watched him grab the hook end with his left. Diamonds of sweat broke out on his forehead. Lips bared teeth in a smile of torment. Perspiration ran tiny creeks down his face. Straining cords lifted under the flesh of his neck, distorted it. Slowly, inexorably, the bar bent.

  Sylah was sure she smelled burnt flesh. She started to reach for him, to shout at him to stop. She checked. What Nalatan was doing to himself baffled her. Still, there was a faint edge of understanding, a hint of ethic that defined itself by challenge and pain.

  He pitched the ruined bar away. It clanged on the stone hearth, setting off an entire chorus of echoes within the great hall. When he rose from his kneeling position, the knee of the leg he used as an anvil cracked like a whip. The pressure mark left by the rod was still visible in the woolen trouser.

  “There’s my wisdom.” He stared deep into her eyes, moved his chin to indicate the poker. “And here.” He held up the left hand, welted red blisters striping the palm. “Without her, this is what I have left. Strength. Endurance. I endure.”

  Something warned Sylah to say absolutely nothing. He walked away.

  Nalatan was grateful she remained silent. His mind was too dangerously poised on the edge of fear to tolerate intrusion. The fury in him threatened to turn him into something like the pitiful animals that contracted the frothing disease. He’d seen the affliction twice. The memory haunted him. Pitiful, maddened dogs, they staggered and whined and snarled and bit anything. Anyone they wounded was equally doomed.

  Customarily, Nalatan exhausted the rage living in him by exhausting himself. Daily he trained with the Wolves, moving from group to group, exercising any who cared to test themselves. It was the perfect outlet. He could play at killing, yet never face the consequences. None of the eager, resolute youngsters comprehended the bright menace behind a peculiar blink of his wide eyes. None knew the significance of suddenly flared nostrils. They never knew those signals normally preceded a killing thrust or slash. They never knew how difficult the decision to stay the blow.

  Today the clash of steel and shouts of male excitement drew him as the sound of water pulls the thirsting.

  The equipment room on the edge of the training field was a long, squat, unpainted building, marked by a single door at each end and frequent windows at regular intervals. The interior was as spare and grim as the exterior. Coarse cloth sacks on wall hooks held a man’s regular clothes. Practice armor, if not being worn by the assigned Wolf, was stacked in proper order under an empty sack. The weather was fair, following the previous day’s storm, so the windows were open. A fine breeze swept the building. Dust caught sunlight pouring in the windows, defined it, turned it into precise, glowing beams.

  The sweat of hundreds of overheated bodies literally steeped the raw wood construction. Showers and soaks behind the place freshened the men. The building simply aged. Nalatan never saw it without thinking all the ugliness exactly suited its purpose. It was a shrine to men hacking the life from other men.

  He shrugged on a thick cotton jersey, then the heavy leather jacket with its protective bands of thin steel. Leather trousers, striped by more steel laths, guarded his legs. Next was the leather-lined Olan steel helmet. He despised it. It was hot. The flap that covered the back of his neck and ears blocked out some sounds while creating a distant sort of roar that interfered with others. Grudgingly, he tied the lacing under his chin, conceding that the contraption had saved him several headaches. Probably some scars. Finally, the handguards, clumsy things like gloves, but far too thick for that name. Combined leather and steel bent so a man could grip a spear or murdat, but no one ever called them flexible.

  Pulling on the left one scraped the fresh burn on his palm. He winced, more chagrined than pained.

  His personal weapons leaned against the wall. Unused for long weeks, he thought they looked forlorn, neglected. Almost guiltily, Nalatan lifted sword and parrying bar. Alone in the sun-dazzled haze of the building, he remembered dancing with them. A hot, celebratory day. Tate watching him. A musician stroking heartbeat rhythms on a drum. Sand pulled at his feet there, Nalatan remembered; a man couldn’t dance on such footing. The love in him laughed at it and said, Then he’ll fly: There’s nothing can stop him. And Nalatan did. Because she was there.

  The sword in his right hand chimed cadence against the metal bar as he walked outside. Men called to him, smiling at a friend. He felt himself smile back, heard himself answer their greetings, respond to their hard humor.

  They couldn’t see the drooling, raging beast inside.

  A tenner approached, a companion of long standing. “I’ve got a new man in my ten I think you should meet. A Fin man. That’s one of the old Harbundai baronies, you know? He likes to talk about fighting the Kwa. He’s got some scars.”

  Something tingled in the
back of Nalatan’s head. He said, “Oh? Let the boy watch while I practice with someone skilled.”

  The tenner’s eager expression wavered for a moment, but came back. “The youngster saw you coming this way. He asked if the parrying bar was a cane. The whole ten heard him, Nalatan.”

  Nothing could be more dangerous, Nalatan told himself. Challenged by a brave fool. Men waiting to cheer. Nalatan cursed the thing that made him ache to strike out. “Bring him on.”

  “What weapons for him?”

  “Anything he’s strong enough to lift.”

  Leaves caught in a whirlpool, the entire body of training Wolves circled Nalatan. The tenner had to force his way through, his recruit following. Nalatan sighed at the sight of his challenger. Tall, packed solidly, but with the still-forming muscle of youth, he was as nervous as he was proud. The result was a twitchy aggressiveness that reacted on Nalatan’s frayed nerves like salt on a wound.

  The routine rules of the match droned. Nalatan measured his man.

  The challenger came fast, overriding rudimentary technique with boldness. Nalatan parried, noting that the man stabbed; most farmers slashed like they were cutting brush. Casually, Nalatan feinted with his sword and fetched his foe a sharp rap on the helmet with the ball on the end of the iron bar.

  The man’s knees buckled. His eyes opened comically wide. A trickle of shining saliva eased out of the corner of his mouth, dripped on his jacket.

  Nalatan said, “Better if you practice what your Wolf leaders show you. You’re brave, but you’re not ready.” He turned away, breathing a bit easier than he had since talking to Sylah.

  It was the sudden hush that warned him. The whisper of the sword passing over his ducked head actually preceded the first horrified shout from the crowd. Nalatan continued to drop. Once flat on the ground he rolled swiftly, springing to his feet with the bar in defense, the sword ready to strike.

  Roaring, the younger man leaped to close the gap between them.

  The beast in Nalatan screamed delighted release. The collision of steel on steel was sweet, exhilarating music. He retreated, parrying, striking just often enough to assure no opportunity for a well-executed thrust. The young man’s confidence soared higher with each moment.

  Little by little, the recruit’s awareness of his predicament broke through his ignorance. The thing in the back of Nalatan’s mind was a storm, howling.

  The circled watchers hummed expectation. At Nalatan’s first step forward, they jeered, heaping scorn on the man who’d lost the initiative. Nalatan forced him backward. Weakened by furious effort, baffled by Nalatan’s style, the man’s sword flailed wildly, barely arriving at a point in time to deflect one blow, then needed at another place immediately.

  Nalatan toyed with him. Sword thrusts came just short. The bar hummed and whirled. The ball cracked against the man’s helmet, his legs, boomed on the bullhide shield. Finally, coldly, Nalatan brought the parrying bar down on the other man’s sword arm.

  The young face twisted with pain. He stumbled backward, forced the sword up to defense with both hands. Swaying, knees threatening collapse, he waited, too young and brave to acknowledge defeat. Words came in heaving gusts. “I’m still standing. You haven’t won if I’m standing.”

  The thing inside Nalatan ruled now.

  Nalatan circled, studying. It was a deliberate selection of target, and the calculation silenced the crowd. Collectively, they held their breath.

  There were unshed tears of frustration, resignation, and plain fear in the young man’s eyes. Still, he faced Nalatan, circling, limping.

  “Nalatan!” The voice was feminine, lilting. “You’ve never looked better. All finished with this demonstration, are you?”

  Slowly, Nalatan rose from his fighting crouch. His gaze never left his opponent. The bar was poised, the sword leveled. “Neela?”

  “I was riding past and saw the excitement. I was sure you’d be in the middle of it, so I came over.”

  Retreating one careful step, Nalatan said, “Is it over, boy?”

  The tenner leaped into the circle. Positioning himself in front of his recruit, he directed his words over Nalatan’s head, to Neela on her horse. “The youngster’s too winded to talk, Nalatan. He’s seen enough. We all have.” The last was a plea, and the tenner’s gaze dropped to meet Nalatan’s when he said it. Men, Nalatan assumed, were ten-mates hurried to drag the youngster off before his mouth got him in more trouble.

  Acknowledging the crowd of Wolves, Nalatan said, “Remember what you saw. Attack wins for units. Defense wins for individuals. Never forget.” He turned to Neela, barely restrained his surprise at the sight of Jaleeta, beside her on another horse. Neela’s bright smile welcomed, as always, her fair beauty a complement to the bright afternoon sun. She dressed warmly in a heavy woolen cloak. It was dark blue, shot through with threads of darker purple that caught the light, so the material seemed to ripple at all times. Her hood, brushed back from her head, framed the golden helmet of her hair.

  Darker, compelling, Jaleeta’s smile was quieter. Nalatan thought of whispers, of songs so faintly heard one wondered if they were real. She wore her hood pulled forward, so only stray locks of glistening black hair slipped free. They trembled in the breeze, bold against the off-white hood atop her earth-brown cloak.

  “I was looking for you,” Neela said. “Gan asked me to tell you he’d like to meet with you. Can you come?”

  “Not until I bathe and change. I’ll join you at the castle.”

  “We’ll go ahead, then. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  Jaleeta loitered. Nalatan avoided looking in her direction. The pressure of her gaze wore at him. When he turned, she was waiting. Her free right hand rose slowly, tucked in strands of wayward hair. A smile misted across her features. Her gaze ripped through his composure.

  The demon that shrieked its need to kill the brash youngster was suddenly alive again. Now, however, it whispered. Enticed. Spoke of stealth and mysteries, of secret, soft darkness. It sang of languor like honey, of lust like torrents of flame.

  Jaleeta’s smile gleamed wider. Hungering.

  Chapter 37

  Nalatan stepped out of the equipment building into a startlingly beautiful sunset. Jagged Whale Coast peaks glowed flame. Closer, fields and forest and the blunt geometry of Ola bathed in softer golden tones. The few puffy clouds overhead were charged with ever-changing hues of warmth. None of that affected the coldly crystalline air.

  To his sorrow, Nalatan had discovered that clear days were treasured events in this country at this time of year. The climate of the Dry was harsher, but there were times when he found the determined gray of the Three Territories like a shroud for the living.

  At the first, brush-shielded bend in the road, Nalatan was startled to come almost face-to-face with the tenner. The leader’s ten men ranged behind him. Nalatan’s hand automatically dropped to his sword. Stiffly, the tenner gestured, openhanded. “Didn’t mean to come on you unaware, Nalatan. Just wanted a moment. We all saw how upset you were today when Botul here let his mouth get ahead of his brains. I thought you’d kill him. I’m glad you didn’t. I never should have passed along his foolish words. I wanted to see him brought up short and hard. That’s my job, but I saw a chance to let you do it for me. That was wrong. So don’t hold what happened against him. He’s a good man. It wasn’t his fault.”

  For several heartbeats Nalatan said nothing, for the simple reason he didn’t know what to say. Finally, he addressed Botul. “You’re as brave a man as I’ve ever seen. Talented. Determined. You’ll beat me someday. But this one”—he nodded sharply at the tenner—“is braver than both of us combined.”

  The entire ten goggled. Nalatan went on. “He’s a true leader. He’s taking blame for you, Botul. And for me. Beyond his skill with a weapon, or his muscles, or even the curses he so lovingly lavishes on you while he turns you into proper Wolves, what makes him a leader is the sure knowledge that he’ll do what’s right. Anything you lear
ned from Botul or me you could learn from two wildcow herd bulls. If you learned anything important, you learned it from this man, just now.” Nalatan twisted away past the slack-jawed tenner before the man had a chance to speak. He maintained his fast pace until he reached the open ground separating the town from the castle.

  By then the sunset touched only the westernmost clouds. The castle walls loomed darkly. Servants appeared at several points, carrying torches. They moved along the ramparts, flames dimming and flaring as the bearers passed the gaping crenels and raised merlons. Metal fire-baskets hung by the castle gates and around the wall. It was very pretty, Nalatan grudgingly admitted. As a warrior, he knew how a night attack would appreciate such illumination. He was glad Gan insisted there be no lights after the first watch.

  A guard met Nalatan at the door to the main room of the castle and escorted him to the small room off to the side. Gan sat at a long, heavy table. His chair was of light, almost honey-colored, wood, figured with dark, curling stripes. It had carved leaping tigers for the arms, with ivory teeth in open mouths, glowing red carnelians for eyes. Atop the chair’s backrest snarled a larger tiger’s head carved in high relief.

  Despite the roaring fire in the fireplace off to the left, the room was cold, and Gan had added a thick wool sweater over his normal garb. Clearly executed by some friend or admirer, it was bright red, with diagonal opposed murdats in yellow on the front. Seeing Gan bedecked in anything so bright raised Nalatan’s eyebrows. Beside and a step behind Gan, like a grim shadow, stood Sylah. Her expression showed she hadn’t forgotten, or learned to be comfortable with, her earlier conversation with Nalatan.

  Others occupied the room. Leclerc leaned against the fireplace wall, enjoying the heat. He was dressed in dark, sturdy wool. The remaining guest sat at the end of the table farthest from Leclerc. Emso smiled on catching Nalatan’s eye, and Nalatan wondered at the forced friendliness of it.