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

by Don McQuinn

  “I was playing. We’ve worked hard all day. Everything I do, you make it mournful. It’s not inhuman to relax, Kate. Or be happy.”

  Color drained from Bernhardt’s face. Coal-dust smudges, bold and harsh, stood out. “Pretending to be fighting, pretending to kill someone. Don’t you ever talk to me about humanity. Or happiness.”

  So far, the argument was quiet, if passionate. Nevertheless, the workmen knew what they were seeing. At a signal from Smitty, they eased out the back door and fled home. Neither Bernhardt nor Leclerc noticed. For a long moment, he resisted the urge to respond. His feelings overrode his judgment. “That’s your trouble, you know? You don’t know what being alive is all about. With you, everything’s theory. Wacky abstract notions of niceness. You ought to join the rest of us sometime, find out it’s a flesh-and-blood world. The people who wear that stupid moon thing are out to kill us. No arguments. Just slaughter.”

  “So killing them is good? We make a game of it? Score points? Penalties for murdering women and children? And what of you? What might happen to you?”

  Leclerc stormed over to the post and kicked it. It uprooted and fell to the ground. The copper target landed on its edge, resonating. Dirt swallowed that when the plate fell flat. Leclerc picked it up in both hands. With the strength of fury and frustration, he scaled it. The whirling edge gouged a white scar in the peeled log wall. Once more the hollow boom throbbed, only to go mute when the plate crashed to the floor. When Leclerc turned to Bernhardt, his eyes were round, his face red. “I didn’t wake up in this forsaken world just to pass the time. If you want to spend your second life wiping snot off orphans, fine. I’ve got better things to do. I’m going to be somebody this time. I’ll be more important than Conway or Tate or… any of them. If that takes winning a war, and that means killing, then people are going to die. You hear that? I will have power.”

  The tirade ended with his hands clamped hard on her shoulders, shaking her back and forth with each word. When he released her, there was no force in the act, yet Bernhardt felt thrown away. He stepped back, chest heaving, waiting, eager for her to strike out, retaliate.

  She couldn’t. If she tried to speak, the tears would come. Stupid, female, infuriating tears. The words were there. She knew exactly how to show him where he was wrong. Why couldn’t he understand that war didn’t just mean other people fighting, other people dying? War meant danger to the man she loved. She’d said that as clearly as she could. Under the circumstances.

  Silent reproach disarmed Leclerc. “Kate, forgive me. Please. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He held her gaze long enough to get the phrase out, then looked away, studied the wall beyond her. “Sometimes I think I’ve got my life figured out, know right where I’m going. The next minute I’m too confused to move. It’s tearing me apart.” There was so much more he wanted to tell her. How when she was in his dreams, he always felt good about his work. There was strength, not just power. He didn’t understand how she got inside his mind, wove his dreaming into different cloth. He studied her, intent, wishing he could ask.

  Bernhardt smiled nervously under that scrutiny. “We all expect too much from you, put too many demands on you. Including me.”

  “That’s not true. You’re always there, supporting. Look what we’ve done here. I’d never have gotten this crowd working as a team the way you did. Other people tell me what I have to do. You help me do it.”

  Bernhardt felt her cheeks warming. “That’s why I came here. We better go eat. Larta’s going to be upset if it’s cold.”

  Later, after determining that Kate had no objections, Leclerc sent Larta home. The older woman managed a conspiratorial wink for Bernhardt before she hurried off. Bernhardt smiled and winked back. She wished she had reason for it.

  The meal passed more comfortably than Bernhardt expected. Leclerc was unusually attentive. She told herself he was making amends. They avoided anything military. When Bernhardt discussed the curriculum for the burgeoning Teachers, Leclerc listened. He made suggestions rationally, without condescension or bombast. Nor did he defer. She remembered how she used to regard him as a false macho, one of those poor souls who equates manhood and guns. She sighed. Today’s unpleasantness suggested there was some of that even in the intellectuals. Glands, or something.

  Louis picked up the books, gestured with them. “Whatever curriculum you decide on for the Teachers-to-be, ours is in here. I’m a pretty competent tinker, but this is technology. This is progress. For the entire world. Have you thought of that, Kate? Really thought about it?”

  The import of the question made her mouth dry. Her nervous swallow turned into an embarrassing gulp. “We’ve started something profound, haven’t we? Us. Moonpriest. We’ve unleashed terrible power. Electricity’s just a tiny part of it.”

  “We didn’t exactly do all of it, Kate. Sylah and Conway and Tate dug up these books, remember. I mean, we share the responsibility. It’s not all ours.”

  Bernhardt’s heart flooded with sudden, warm tenderness for the anxious man across from her. She wanted to tell him how clearly she understood, how painfully the weight of so much influence pressed on her own conscience. The man she heard now was the man she wanted. That man, revealed, was the man who wanted her, too. Needed her. Sympathetic words came easily. Automatically, in fact; in her distraction, she wasn’t really sure what she said. Tone was far more important, and she was certain she got that right, because she saw his appreciation.

  The only word in her own mind was Hope. It sang.

  The Moondark Saga: Book 9

  Renewal

  Chapter 1

  The second storm convinced everyone that this winter would never be forgotten by any who survived. Gan Moondark transformed his Wolves to service units to distribute stored food reserves. Supply and rescue became another tactical exercise.

  Early on, it became apparent the militarization of the effort was a wise move. The infiltrating Mountain People and Kwa allies were as afflicted by the storms as any. Late arrival in the area precluded adequate stores for winter. Harsh weather drove game downhill, where milder temperatures and lessened snowfall permitted feeding, however scanty. The Kwa and the Mountains who hunted for those creatures to survive either followed them down or starved. Gan’s people congregated in the lower lands.

  To the invaders, humans were no less prey than other animals. Many a first-year Wolf bloodied his sword on those winter supply missions.

  Nalatan rode with them. Action diminished loneliness. In the rising of dawn, he felt Donnacee’s soft waking. Nightfall brought reminiscence of skin that glowed dark life, familiar, ever mysterious.

  Well outside his hearing, men murmured of this laconic companion, who smiled so seldom, yet was ever helpful. They whispered further of a man who rushed to battle as to a feast, who fought with a silent ferocity that frightened friend almost as much as foe.

  Marching home from a sweep south and east of Ola, a detail of the Jalail pack found Gan waiting for them on the road to the city. He sat his horse slightly ahead of his ten outriders, dressed in a heavy mink cloak. A round, flat-topped white sheepskin hat contrasted handsomely with the dark, glistening fur. He saluted the hundred-man commanding the unit, listened to his report. Gan praised him and his troopers, then kneed his horse off the road, making room for men who longed far more for warmth and shelter than any commendation.

  When Nalatan pulled out of the column, Gan greeted him warmly, then, “You see how my Wolves look at me?”

  Nalatan blinked slowly. “You’re their leader. I see respect.”

  Gan’s snort cut him off. “You lie poorly. They pity me. As do you, and you think you hide it.”

  Nalatan colored. “Worry when men seek to take your place, rather than feel sorry for you because you’re chained to it.”

  Gan laughed at that, although bitterness sharpened the sound. “I take your point. Why do we enjoy combat, Nalatan? Why seek such a terrible thing?”

  “Most neither seek nor enjoy.
Most can’t wait to hang up their weapons. They fight in the hope there’ll be no fighting for their sons. Men like you and I are born to it. The One in All seems to have a need for us.”

  “Theology?” Gan’s tone teased.

  Nalatan was sly. “Someone has to take the blame. His shoulders are broader than mine.”

  “That’s not religious depth, you fraud. That’s dodging responsibility. You’re becoming tricky enough to live inside walls.”

  “A truly vicious characterization.” Nalatan bowed deeply. “You honor.”

  The day was sliding into evening when they arrived at the walls. Neela and Sylah rode out to greet them.

  Sylah wore her normal black, rode a black mare. Neela, without Coldar, sat astride her Dog horse, Copper. The animal’s bright rufous coat complemented her golden-blond tresses. Nalatan glanced at Gan, noted the love and admiration in his eyes. A small flame of jealousy reached to scar camaraderie.

  The women greeted them in a swirl of embraces, despite the awkwardness of horseback. Nalatan savored perfumed soap and applied scent. Quickly, he moved away, aware of how rank he must be, despite daily snow scrubs. While they made conversation, riding to the gate, he fantasized about a soak.

  “I need your help, more than ever,” Sylah said to him, shattering his vision of calm restfulness.

  He guessed. “Jaleeta again?”

  “Yes. She’s seduced Leclerc.”

  “Louis?” It was on his tongue to correct her, to name Emso.

  “You needn’t look so shocked. I’m not merely gossiping. This is no simple, grubby affair. Leclerc is important. Too important.”

  Nalatan was sufficiently recovered for sarcasm. “It’s especially naughty to sleep with important people?”

  “She does nothing without a purpose. Nothing.”

  “Louis knows his duty. She’s no witch, to twist his mind around.”

  “Would you stake your life on that?” The very mildness of Sylah’s manner rattled Nalatan. “She needn’t have vile powers. She’s young and beautiful. If she has ambition and ruthlessness, that’s enough. As a man, would you agree?”

  The last came with a hint of smirk, and Nalatan faked a huge wince, happy to escape the serious tenor of the discussion, if only for a moment. “You ask a man married to Donnacee Tate? You must hate me a great deal. But even if everything you say is true, I can’t pry and squeeze information from people. You know that.”

  “We had this conversation before. I’ll repeat the important part. She’ll come to you; I’m sure of it. When she does, listen, please.”

  They parted in a confused babble. Nalatan went on alone, deep in thought. It seemed that wherever he turned, he was either doing something wrong or being asked to do something he considered wrong. The bathhouse beckoned sanctuary. At least lolling in a tub was risk-free.

  Naked, he kindled and stoked the firebox under the rectangular stone tub and filled it with a bucket from the covered cistern. He sat on a sturdy little bench to scrub down. He worked on the long, jagged scar down his back, a childhood souvenir from a slavers raid. Tension always made it ache. Rinsed, he sank into the steaming soak. The fire was dwindled to coals, the water just right. Scented oils were within reach. He was liberal with his favorite sage. With his head resting on a wooden ledge at the tub’s end, even his ears were submerged. He closed his eyes, drifted.

  Unexpected noise brought him upright in a splashing, thrashing rush, reaching for his sword. It was merely the door to the women’s soak, a hinge squealing complaint.

  Soon after, Nalatan hauled out. He dipped a clean cloth in cold water, wrung it nearly dry. Rubbing down with it curtailed sweating, and made it more difficult for the unseens that caused colds to settle on him once he went outdoors. Straightening his pullover shirt, he was aware of the woman on the other side of the plank wall. She was humming. It was pleasant, with a mischievous lilt.

  In his room, he folded and stacked the clothing he’d worn on patrol. Donnacee scolded when things weren’t neat. He surveyed his work. Neat. Unnatural. He shrugged, transforming the small movement to a larger reach for the box under his bed. Opened, it was full of oily sand. Nalatan scooped a depression, dropped his rolled-up chain mail in it. Brushing and stirring, he enjoyed the unthinking rhythms. Little by little, the circular links lost their grime and small rust specks. The latter left minute black stains. Nalatan frowned at them. Mail should be bright. Challenging. He hung up the shirt, closed the box, and began sweeping up the odd grains of sand.

  He almost missed the faint scratching at his door. When it came again, he opened it.

  Jaleeta said, “I thought you’d come directly here.” She smiled up at him, dark hair, dark eyes gleaming. A cream-white deerhide cloak, drawn tight at the throat, overlapped in front, reached the ground all around her. The beautiful face seemed to float on its own snowbank.

  Nalatan’s throat tightened. “Is there something wrong?”

  Laughter chimed, delicate bells of amusement. “No, silly. I wanted to talk, that’s all.”

  “Talk? With me? Why?”

  “Because you were a monk, and know Church. Because you’re married to a woman who’s different, and not ashamed of it, I need your experience.”

  He shook his head, hand still gripping the door’s edge. “When Donnacee returns, you should speak to her.”

  “I will.” The smile teased. White teeth gleamed. “I’m young, Nalatan, but I know this much: To hear about women, listen to men; to hear about men, listen to women. There’s much you can show me.”

  Nalatan told himself he heard no gloss of suggestion, cursed himself for imagining things. He said, “I don’t know—” and Jaleeta interrupted. “You don’t know how to be polite, I think,” she said. Another smile dared him to be offended at the small joke. He stepped aside. Jaleeta pushed the door closed behind her.

  Untying the robe, she folded it carefully across the back of the only chair, inspecting the rest of the room. She wore a white blouse, the collar trimmed in green. A fine leather vest featured a dozen small abalone buttons, each gaudy as an oil slick. A dark green woolen skirt with appliqués of black-and-white killer whales reached down to calf-high boots. She inhaled deeply, straining the already tight vest. “A man’s place.” She turned, a lazily swirling circle. “You were oiling that chain mail. I smell it. There’s sand, too; from the sea. Not that freshwater dirt. And you used the soak.”

  His eyes narrowed, and she laughed at him. “I was on the women’s side when you bathed. I saw you go in.”

  Alarm drummed in Nalatan’s head. “What do you want?”

  “Want. Such an interesting word. We confuse it with need. Or wish. Troublesome. What I want is advice. I’m pursued by two men. I want neither.”

  “What is that to me?”

  The blunt disinterest nonplussed Jaleeta momentarily. “It could be much to you. The men are Louis Leclerc and Emso. If one ever thinks the other is about to claim me, Gan Moondark loses at least one of his most important men. I will be responsible, through no fault of my own.”

  “Then tell Gan.”

  Jaleeta shook her head. She stepped closer. Her voice lowered to huskiness. “He wants me for Emso. He swore me to secrecy. He suspects Emso negotiates with the malcontent Barons.”

  This was worse than lying. This was a malicious attempt to lure three honorable men into a blind duel. Nalatan wanted his hands around that smooth, columnar neck. And yet the concept of his hands on that skin was not all violence. He swallowed. “You propose we deceive Murdat?”

  “Never.” She extended an admonishing hand that came to rest on his. “We must all protect him. I don’t think we should tell him everything, but we’re not going to lie. What I want of you is very easy; be more attentive to Gan.”

  “Gan?”

  “Don’t you see? That way you’ll always be close when Louis and Emso come around. It’ll be almost impossible for one of them to be alone with me.”

  Jaleeta was closer. “When Gan and Neela
aren’t there, you could stay with me. I don’t think I need protection, but both Louis and Emso can be—threatening. I know you’re married, but she’s not here. I could be female company for you. I need an honorable friend. Please?” Her lips were parted, shiny wet. She leaned toward him. Open buttons of her blouse formed an arrowhead gap pointing to delights he didn’t dare imagine.

  He moved to the door, half-stumbling. When he turned to face Jaleeta, his expression shocked her erect, hand to throat. He said, “You lied to Emso. About Gan. You’re lying to Leclerc. I know everything. Get out.”

  Jaleeta believed him. It never occurred to her to plead innocence or bargain for understanding. She attacked. “Which knothole did you spy through? Sneak. Liar. Who will you tell? You think anyone will believe? And what if they do? Inform on Emso, and the shame kills him. Inform on Leclerc, and Gan will make him take me for wife—and Emso will kill him.”

  Nalatan’s head swam. She was right. But she was wrong. Evil. “Gan will send you away.”

  She laughed, and Nalatan heard the same delicate bells as before. “Those fools will seek me out. They want me, Nalatan. Like you.”

  “I don’t. You shame.”

  “What shames you is knowing what you want to do.” Jaleeta advanced, slowly. Nalatan shouted inwardly at himself to simply flee. But he stared, transfixed. “Come, Nalatan. Desire me. Join with me. I promise you everything. I am pleasure.”

  Scent laved him, crisp plant essences. Suddenly his mind wrenched him away. He remembered the rich, warm hay smell of the barn. She used her body exactly this way there, too. Emso. Ruined.

  Revulsion froze lust.

  Something warned Jaleeta. She retreated the smallest step. “You’ll help me. It’s you I want. As you want me.” She gripped the vest’s opening, one hand on each side. “What if I tore this bit of leather, scattered these tiny buttons around your room? Cried rape? Gan would exile you like a rabid dog. And Donnacee; what of her?”