Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)
Page 56
Smiling wryly, Nalatan said, “Those clouds aren’t the sky, they’re a lid.”
“Exactly. I try to look straight ahead. When I look off into the forest, with all that fuzzy, unending white, sometimes I feel it’s closing in on me.”
Making a face, Nalatan gave an exaggerated shiver.
They shared a moment of laughter, and Gan went on. “I’d like to see the Dry sometime. Is there really no water?”
“Some places. You have to know where to find it, that’s all,” Nalatan cut his eyes to Gan. “Can I ask you something?” At Gan’s nod, Nalatan said, “I would never bring this up, but I need to talk. With one who’ll understand. This isn’t our place. So I ask you: Is it really worth it? This Murdat thing, and the Three Territories? I understand about your mother’s prophecy. Still, do you mean to expand beyond the Mother River? The Sea Star Islands? I’ve never heard you say so, but I’ve seen your face when you look at maps, or out over the Inland Sea.”
Gan’s good humor was strained. “I won’t go looking for new wars, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll defend what belongs to us.”
Nalatan nodded. “‘Us.’ You really believe your territory belongs to everyone who lives there. It’s an interesting idea.”
“It’s a truth.”
“If you say so. If you make it so.” Nalatan was polite.
Chuckling softly, Gan said, “You don’t believe a conqueror can be concerned about people’s happiness? How do you balance that against Church’s determination to recruit people away from any religion but Church?”
It was Nalatan’s turn to tighten. “Church doesn’t recruit or expand with swords and arrows.”
“Really? Then what purpose the brotherhoods of warrior-monks?”
“Purely defensive. We protect Church.”
“Against people who have no intention of being recruited.” Gan grinned, placating. “I can win battles. It’s not enough. I want to build a country where everyone can, indeed, believe one view is as good as another. Any Church I support must be tolerant.”
After a while, Nalatan spoke. “That would, indeed be a thing of glory. No one’s ever seen such a conqueror.”
“They have in Harbundai. In Ola. They will elsewhere.” Gan’s declaration was an unabashed mix of hard arrogance and the vulnerability of a man who understands how many people yearn to see him humiliated.
The sound of someone approaching ended the exchange. Forging through the snow, Neela’s horse came abreast, blowing clouds of steaming breath. Coldar nestled inside her voluminous cape. The tiny, apple-cheeked face peered out in wide eyed uncertainty. This was new scenery, exciting, but unknown.
Sylah remained slightly behind. A tender smile touched her almost distant mien when Gan brightened at the sight of his son and wife. Then, however, she caught Nalatan’s quick look back at Jaleeta. Sylah was shocked by the force of his distaste.
After a short wait, Sylah pretended to adjust a stirrup strap. She used the opportunity to surreptitiously observe Jaleeta, and realized there was no need for subterfuge. Jaleeta’s yearning was so firmly fixed on Nalatan that nothing was likely to distract her.
Sylah turned away. Straightening, she suffered a rush of blood to her head, felt a touch of dizziness. In that moment, no more than a heartbeat, an inexplicable picture flashed in her mind. The young Chosens, the future Teachers, looking up at someone. The innocent faces were stark with terror. The cowled figure raised its head, and from within the depths of a shrouding hood, Jaleeta smiled malice.
The image was gone. Still, Sylah’s heart raced. Never before had she so ardently missed Lanta. Lanta would know why the thought of Jaleeta wanting Nalatan drew Sylah’s mind to such a dreadful, unrelated imagining.
Movement ahead caught Sylah’s eyes. Gan was replacing the silver whistle he carried on a chain around his neck. Determined to break out of her suddenly somber mood, Sylah joined Neela. She forced a light tone, saying, “There’s something untrustworthy about a man who commands dogs with a whistle no one can hear.”
“You can’t imagine it.” Neela’s feigned exasperation failed to disguise her pride. “If we have an argument? Wherever they are, they go sit next to him. Then they watch me, telling me he’s always right. It’s infuriating.”
Sylah’s dark feelings refused to fade. She felt driven to pursue the matter of Jaleeta. “An all-too-popular concept. Most women believe it. I understand Jaleeta holds to the old ways.”
Neela grew serious. “Poor Jaleeta. If she hadn’t been submissive, she wouldn’t have survived the Skan. In her mind submission is survival. That awful Violet Abbess only confirms the idea.”
Sound broke Sylah’s thoughts. Far away, so distant it was bare suggestion, something called. The group faced east as one. Horses’ ears flicked. Shara and Cho broke point to look toward the Enemy Mountains, ruffs bristling, tails up. The sound came once again, wavering. Longing.
Gan was transported. “My brothers. They greet.” The women glanced his way, then looked to the distance again. Nalatan’s attention remained fixed on Gan, so it was only he who saw the sudden shift to concern. Only Nalatan heard Gan’s whispered, “I know, brothers; I know. The short days come quickly now, and the long darkness favors the stalkers. I am warned. Hunt well, brothers.”
There was a final howl, much closer. It ended abruptly. The sighing forest closed on the silence. The dogs relaxed. Gan resumed the march as if nothing happened. It caught the women off guard. While they lagged, Nalatan said, “I’ve heard the tales. They’re true. The wolves speak to you.”
Gan’s gesture indicated confusion. “Not words. A feeling. I understand.”
Nalatan elected to say no more. The moment, and the few words, confirmed the war in Gan’s breast. Nalatan looked into the eyes of a ruler, and saw the horizon-breaking stare of a prisoner. Falling off the pace, out of Gan’s sight, Nalatan shook his head. He couldn’t interfere; no man’s wisdom was adequate to such a task. Gan would find his own way. At his own peril.
Thick smoke billowing from Leclerc’s chimney was a welcoming banner. Turning off, the four riders approached the house between neat rail fences. To Nalatan, Gan said, “The sea’s not far through those trees west of Leclerc’s fields.” He pointed, and a skittish yearling colt on the other side of the rail fence pretended fright. It whinnied and skylarked off, kicking up clouds of snow, twisting and cavorting.
Coldar whooped delight. His struggles to turn and follow the colt’s progress threatened to disrobe his mother. The excitement was enough to pull the colt right to the fence. Every breath was a gout of fog, and wads of snow clung to its shaggy winter coat. Steaming and dripping, stark white mottles melting against rough black pelt, it shot a muscular quiver along its body. Dislodged snow flew.
Whatever dignity the son of Murdat might have been expected to display broke under that assault. Demanding hands forced their way up and over the collar of Neela’s cape. Her head, jerked forward and down, was inches away from ten greedy fingers grappling empty air. “My!” Coldar yelled, and when the colt remained on the wrong side of the fence, he yelled louder. “My!”
Gan beamed fatuously. Neela pushed Coldar’s hands back inside the cape, ignoring yowled protest. Glaring at her husband, she said, “A born leader, this one. You heard that? His best word. ‘My.’”
Gan managed to look innocent. “What’s wrong with wanting a horse? Did you want it, too?”
He avoided her boot, kneed his mount forward. Nalatan kept pace. He marveled at his friend’s ability to shed the wolves’ warning, to enjoy himself so hugely. Gan interrupted his thoughts. “Do you think Leclerc would sell the horse? It’s not a Dog war-horse, but it might develop well.”
Nalatan grinned wickedly. “I’ll argue about the future. Discuss religion. Or war and peace. But if you think I’m getting in the middle of a discussion between you and your wife over a horse for your child, you’re a greater fool than your enemies say you are.”
“And you’re too clever by far.”
Leclerc stepped down off his porch. “I want to show you what we’ve been doing in the new workshop. Gan, can you join us there? It’s attached to the barn.”
Gan agreed, riding off with the stablehand. Leclerc led his guests. The new workshop was a long log construction. There were no windows.
Inside, reflector-equipped oil lamps created a surprisingly bright, warm atmosphere. At least twenty men toiled at benches lining the walls. At the far end of the central passage, facing the rear door, stood a catapult. By the time the group reached it, Gan caught up to them. He walked around Leclerc’s product, stroking, touching. “Sylah says the wallkiller throws a missile as large as a man.” It was as much question as comment.
“Let me show you what we can do.” Leclerc was almost smug. He moved to the door, threw it open. “Imagine that sawn-off tree trunk out there is the wallkiller. We’re on the walls of Ola. The tree’s about the wallkiller’s range, I believe. I may be off by a bit, but not much. Anyhow, watch what happens.” He gestured.
A grinning, eager crew hurried forward. Everyone else stepped aside.
The men loaded a heavy dart in a sliding trough on the center beam of the device. While they cranked a windlass, Leclerc pointed out the features of the weapon. “The dart rides in that trough in the center, of course. See how there are three sections to the crosspiece here in front? Now, watch how those cords in the two outer sections of the crosspiece frame are tightened by the windlass. The stuff dripping out of the cords is corn oil. We take tendons, separate the fibers, and weave them into rope. Then we soak them in corn oil. Every few shots we re-oil the rope; the tension squeezes it dry.”
The leader of the catapult crew looked to Leclerc expectantly. Leclerc nodded. With a small mallet, the man tapped the upper section of the trigger, causing it to pivot and release the taut cord. The sliding trough leaped down the centerpost track, slamming to a stop. The catapult shivered like some gaunt, furious insect. The thick-shafted dart whistled across the intervening field, literally a blur. It struck the log. The snow cap atop the flat end leaped into the air, cascaded to the ground. Moments later the sound of the impact reached the workshop.
Sylah heard herself say, “That noise. Like a butcher’s cleaver.”
No one else spoke for quite a while. Nalatan broke the silence. “How often can you hit a target that small? That’s a known distance, and this is a prepared position.”
“Anything stationary we’ll hit after two ranging shots, at most. We’ll destroy any wallkiller, with its crew, before it gets off two missiles.”
Gan grunted approval, adding, “If we could only stabilize them aboard ship.”
Leclerc said, “We have men practicing constantly. The Skan are in for a nasty surprise. One of these darts will open a terrible hole in a hull, sweep away a dozen rowers, weaken a mast so it breaks. This weapon and your fast boats will make your men the same as your Dog horsemen, only seaborne.”
Gan finally smiled. “That’s my goal. We’ll have it.”
Surprisingly, Leclerc’s intensity only deepened at Gan’s enthusiasm. He hurried explanation. “That’s not enough. I think I know how to use Moonpriest’s secret; the killing lightning.”
“If you know the secret, you know as much as he does. He doesn’t have magic. He’s just a man, after all.”
“Oh, yes. He’s a man. But if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he’s found a true magic. Come back to my house. I’ve shown no one. It frightens me.”
It was a silent group that left the workshop.
Chapter 41
Leclerc lowered the small, covered object to his large dining table carefully. Movements and expression indicated unusual weight. Everyone seated watched suspiciously. Except Coldar. Innocently untroubled by Leclerc’s reference to magic, the child reached. Neela yanked him back.
Leclerc reassured her. “It won’t hurt him now. It’s not dangerous.”
“Now?” Gan’s question was a threatening growl. He moved to prevent any more exploration from Coldar. With that, the boy intuited some of the mystery attached to the shrouded thing. He sank back against his mother’s breast, not precisely afraid, but uncertain.
Leclerc explained hurriedly. “Conway told us of Moonpriest’s moon disks and the Man Who Is Death. Moonpriest claims he’s harnessed lightning. He lies, but he clearly controls the power that makes lightning.”
Blank stares spurred Leclerc. He whipped the cover away. What stood revealed was far from threatening. It was round, with two metal components, a massive center piece inside a tubular outer piece. The entire thing was as long as a large man’s spread fingers, and about half that in diameter. Axlelike extensions protruded from the central core. The ends rested in holes cut in sturdy triangular legs of oak a good thumb-joint thick. The outer component was nailed to the legs.
There was a large geared wheel attached to the outer side of one of the legs; a crank handle extended from it. Its teeth meshed with others cut into the smaller diameter of the core extension where it protruded beyond the bracing leg.
Examining the device, Sylah suddenly recoiled, eyes wide. “Outside the tube this gray iron part is just a plain shaft.” She pointed, accusing. “When you look at the inside, from the end, it has those things, eight of them, like petals, coming off it. The design is a flower.”
Leclerc bent to look. When he straightened, his face was red. “I never noticed that. It’s got nothing to do with Church, Sylah, or you. It’s a coincidence. Those aren’t petals, they’re lobes. They’re that shape so I can wrap all that copper wire around them. Look, the inner side of the tube around the shaft has wire-wrapped lobes, too. It’s the lobes passing each other that generates the electricity.”
“Generates what?” Nalatan overrode Sylah’s continuing unease.
“Electricity. An invisible force, all around us. Like heat from the sun. No one actually sees the heat.”
Nalatan was dour. “I see heat waves. I see birds soar. We know warm earth makes air rise.”
“And you see lightning. This makes a small lightning. It starts here, inside the outer shell, with this little magnet.” Leclerc paused, reconsidering the last word. “In my land, that’s what we call iron that wants to point north. Like a north-needle. The magnet is what starts the whole thing. Anyhow, when I turn this handle, the wire-wrapped lobes cut the force that makes a north-needle want to point north. That generates electricity. Think of the sun striking a surface, heating it, making the air rise, just the way you described it. Invisible lines of force from the sun generate heat. This uses invisible lines of force to generate electricity.”
Leclerc trailed caressing fingers across the shining copper wrapping, the sturdy iron casing. He described how some of the generated current was fed to the outer coil. He mumbled his way through how a piece of carbon acted as a resistor, controlling the flow. The outer coil, magnetized, contributed to greater output.
Gan’s rigid suspicion almost unnerved Leclerc. He babbled. He grabbed the copper grips attached to the wires leading from the end of the device opposite the handle. “Here’s where it all comes out. Jackpot.” He missed the way the strange, new word warped puzzlement to outright distrust.
Leclerc let go of the stubby wires, turned the handle. Everyone else edged away. A grudging smile tugged at Sylah’s lips. Raw courage was the lifeblood of her companions, yet when confronted by a whisper of magic, they reacted exactly as young Coldar.
The machine whirred. Nalatan said, “You’re sure this isn’t witchwork?”
“No more than building a dam to hold back water for irrigation.”
Neela, ever practical, said, “
I see nothing.”
“You don’t see lightning until it strikes.” Leclerc continued turning the handle. The grinding whine seemed to voice the group’s increasing tension.
Shara and Cho exploded into furious barking outside. Heavy clawed feet scrambled on the wooden porch.
Neela folded protectively over Coldar. Gan was beside her instantly, sword drawn. His chair crashed across the floor. Nalatan rose, whirled, faced the door; he too had his sword out, but his parrying bar poised to smash the device on the table. Jaleeta screeched and scuttled to crouch behind Nalatan.
Sylah’s heart threatened to batter through her ribs. Nevertheless, she remained utterly still, projecting complete calm. She imagined the old Iris Abbess exhorting, steadying her.
Stunned, Leclerc goggled stupidly. He recovered like a man waking. Rushing to the door, he flung it open and charged out.
Bernhardt’s horse ambled down the entry path. Its ears were pitched forward, attentive to the dogs. As Bernhardt drew closer, Sylah marked her outward dignity. Behind that composure, however, marched far stronger forces. There was yearning. And assurance. And apprehension. But the bedrock of Bernhardt’s emotions was sadness.
Turning resentful attention to Leclerc, Sylah noted his surprise and anger, his embarrassed glance at Jaleeta. Sylah clenched her fists painfully, using hurt to forestall railing at him.
“I decided I was needed here, Sylah.” Bernhardt’s voice was firm against the rough wind. “I brought these.” She held a loft two of the books from the treasure of the Door.
Sylah choked. “You came alone? With them?”
“They’re needed.” Everything about Bernhardt begged Sylah for understanding.
Sylah swallowed. There would be time later to discuss this incredible error. For now, a sister needed compassion. “You must feel very strongly. You took a brave risk.”