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

by Don McQuinn

  The trio in the cabin watched the door. One exhaled, grating against the extended silence. “Demons. Skan are demons,” he said.

  Ondrat backhanded the man. “Quiet!” His whispered command was gravelly. “What if he’s listening? You’ll get us killed.”

  The guard spat. Red-flecked spittle marred the wall. Sullenly, he said, “We are three to his one. And five more a shout away.”

  Seeing the near-derision in the face of the other guard, Ondrat put on a knowing, superior expression. He drew himself to full height. “I didn’t mean he’d kill us, you brainless wart. If we kill Lorso, we lose the support of the Skan. Then Windband defeats Gan Moondark. That’s how you’ll get us killed. Can’t you understand anything?”

  Outside, prone, almost touching the wall, Lorso stifled laughter that edged close to hysteria. The fish was in the net. It was a good feeling.

  Silent as the bone-chilling fog piling up in the hollows, he worked backward on his stomach, melted into the night. When he heard the faint rustle of his warriors falling in behind him, he allowed himself to mouth the words rattling in his mind. “The easiest fool to kill is one who thinks he’s clever.”

  * * *

  Tears of Jade shielded her eyes against the flat rays of the setting sun.

  Since shortly after the midday meal, she’d waited in her sedan chair, watching, waiting for Lorso. Ever since the vision of him as man-ship, with the crew singing his name in something like reverence, her mind twisted uncomfortably while he was at sea. Something was happening between him and the world, something that excluded her.

  That could not be.

  But his mind was no longer the same. It maddened Tears of Jade to know of subtle, insidious changes she couldn’t identify, much less control. Of course he lusted after the woman; that was the stone to hone his steel. Of course he yearned for complete independence; that was the measure of strength. Tears of Jade must dictate where that sharpened edge was applied, how much strength drove it.

  Suddenly, the sharker was clearly visible. Her introspection had allowed it to close unnoticed. Furiously cursing her chair slaves, she ordered them to stand away while she clambered out.

  The glare of sun on sea hurt Tears of Jade’s eyes. She closed them. In the instant, the god claimed her. There was no chance to struggle. The sharker was the same as in the previous vision. The same man-boat, the same rhythmic chant. But the Lorso face at the bow was cold, ice and steel. It looked into Tears of Jade, into her mind. The face knew no fear of her.

  Below her, the true Lorso looked up to her from his deck. He waved. She waved back. There stood reality. Everything was as it should be.

  Chapter 5

  Nalatan had never been so far off the ground in his life. There were mountains in the Dry, and sheer cliffs that sucked the breath out of a man and made other parts of his body behave badly. They were solid, though. Dirt. Stone.

  People were not meant to be in trees. No matter the base was too huge for two men to reach around; the part Nalatan presently clung to was barely as big around as himself. The branch underfoot was considerably smaller. Sea breezes pressed gently, but determinedly. The trees responded by swaying gracefully. Back and forth. Back and forth. Nalatan swallowed hard. He reflected on the ignominy of being discovered because of upset stomach. He felt like an incompetent bird.

  A shout startled him. Craning about, he caught movement, far below. Another Windband patrol. It took all night for him to penetrate Moonpriest’s forbidden area and climb his tree. He’d hoped that, once inside the perimeter, security would be relaxed. No informant warned of patrols that crisscrossed the entire area. Still, it was very unlikely he’d be seen. Unfortunately, his view was less than perfect and he had no idea what he was looking at.

  Perched on a bluff above the beach and pounding surf, tall poles held up things that looked like oar blades. They rotated in the wind, their groaning and squealing carrying all the way to Nalatan’s perch. Outside the excluded area, those who’d heard the eerie complaint blamed it on demons.

  Whatever the towers and paddles did, Nalatan knew they were somehow connected to the incredible copper towers ranged behind them. Already growing green with salt-mist patina, they were three-pronged, like huge forks. Partially hidden in a trench paralleling the bluff, they required water. Slaves hauled goatskins up scaffolding steps to empty them into the central tube, which was by far the taller of the three. Other slaves seemed to be drawing off something from the two flanking tubes. Whatever they were getting—and they were as constantly busy as bees at a blossom—went into large round containers.

  Slightly north of the trench holding the copper towers, a small stream flowed through a lush little valley. Nalatan noted that the waterskin bearers disappeared in that direction, which explained where the water came from. Not that any of it made the least bit of sense.

  There was a wallkiller on the flat ground of the meadow, half again the size of the one he’d seen in Kos. The counterbalancing stone weights were huge, the throwing basket immense. Nalatan imagined that monster’s missiles hurtling at Ola’s walls. At Donnacee.

  Nightfall was most welcome. Nalatan started his climb down dissatisfied with what he understood. He took some solace in knowing he’d seen, however. Donnacee would make sense of it all. Along with Leclerc and Bernhardt and the others.

  The others. Jaleeta.

  Nalatan slowed, stopped. The image of that beautiful, wicked face made his hands anxious on their purchase, his knees weak. A few words from that enticing mouth, and he had no life. Who’d believe he ran away to avoid her?

  His hand slipped. Grabbing, clawing, he felt dry, crumbling bark tear loose. He clutched the trunk with his knees, wrapped arms around the trunk. An angry squirrel scolded. Bits of dislodged bark pattered on the forest floor. He hung motionless, not breathing. No one shouted challenge.

  As soon as he had a solid branch underfoot, Nalatan looped his climbing rope around the tree. Trembling hands looped the free end under his belt. At every branch, he had to release the rope, pass it under the obstacle, then secure it again.

  The last part of the descent was even trickier. With no branches for holds, Nalatan angled out from the great trunk, keeping the line tight. Flipping the rope in tempo with short, stiff-legged steps, he walked down to solid, wonderful earth.

  He moved swiftly through the forest. The guards were slack; all locals had long since fled the area. More, the unburned bones of trespassers were prominently displayed on roads approaching the site. Moonpriest’s punishment was swift, brutal, and extended beyond death itself.

  Murmured conversation halted Nalatan. A man demanded quiet. Someone laughed. Nalatan crawled ahead. The drone of conversation fell behind. When it disappeared entirely, he rose to stand against a tree, blending with it. Patiently, he sensed the darkness. When he was satisfied, he resumed his journey.

  * * *

  Shortly after dawn, a hunched, hooded figure on horseback approached the point of Nalatan’s escape. Four lounging guards rose jerkily, standing away from their fire. The rider ignored them, scanning the ground. Reining in, he pushed back his hood with a lefthand that hung at a peculiar angle, the fingers clawlike, immobile. A mangled, hawk-fierce visage glared down at the guards. The right eye was covered by a black patch. Fox cleared his throat, spat. “Who had first watch?”

  A man gestured. “We all did. It was quiet. We kept each other company. Bentek took next watch.”

  “I said first watch. What did you see? Hear?”

  “Nothing. I said, it was qui—”

  Snorting surprise and pain, Fox’s horse leaped forward. The nomad speaking had no chance, took the full weight of that charge, flew backward in a yelling heap. Trying to rise, he collapsed again under clubbing blows from the flat of Fox’s sodal. Blood oozed from ugly split-skin wounds.

  Fox dismounted haltingly. His movements on the ground exposed a twisted right foot. The remaining three guards huddled away from their companion.

  Point
ing with the sodal, Fox shouted at the trio, “Here. Ten paces from your lazy, stupid hides. Someone passed last night, before dew. Where were you?”

  “Here, Fox. Awake, on guard. There was no one.” It was the first speaker, wiping blood from his eyes.

  Fox spit on him. He turned to the others, the wrecked foot causing him to swoop. “Can’t you see the sign? Footprints. Here.”

  The men looked guilty. One muttered, “We thought we heard a noise. It was first watch.”

  Fox remounted. “Get your horses,” he told the cowering trio, and to the disgraced senior man, “You, too. The intruder dies, or you do.”

  * * *

  The sight of pursuit pounding down the valley behind him tightened Nalatan’s stomach hard enough to drive out the hunger pains. Even as he ran for his life, he marveled at how the leader of the five read tracks. Nalatan forced more speed. If he could reach his horse, the advantage was his. His pursuers were on weary mounts.

  The horse was where it should be, none the worse for the experience of spending a night in an abandoned house. It followed Nalatan outside calmly, until it sensed his excitement. It capered like a goat in the rank growth where a vegetable garden flourished in better times. With Nalatan aboard, it leaped to a full gallop as if enjoying this strange, different world.

  Nalatan silently blessed it. Now all he had to do was reach the river ahead of his pursuers. And hope the River who was supposed to haul him across the Mother River was true to his word.

  Far behind, Fox halted his group. Studying Nalatan’s tracks, he pulled at his chin, deep in thought. When he spoke, it was essentially for his own benefit. “No ordinary man. Too fast, too much stamina. What, then?” Silent for a long breath, he exhaled slowly. “No Kossiar. No fish-stinking River, either. Headed east. Runs like a cursed Dog warrior; he’ll want across the river.” He pointed at the guard leader. “You. Come with me. You three follow the tracks. Can you do that?”

  They nodded vigorously. Fox sneered at their eagerness, whipping his lathered horse into a gallop north and east. With a helpless look at his friends, the leader hammered off after him.

  For Nalatan, the first appearance of the river was an elation. Brown-green, its misted surface suggested warmth, a relief from the drifted white remains of the winter storms. Nalatan was congratulating himself when he saw the two riders quartering a field far off to his left. This couldn’t be pursuit. No one would cut an angle after him. How could they?

  Someone had outguessed him. They had a clearer route to the waiting River and his sailer than he did. He needed time to get on the sailer, cast off, get out of arrow range. He slapped his horse’s rump. It vaulted forward, tripped. Rattled, it bucked furiously. Nalatan didn’t realize he’d been thrown until blurred vision revealed the back end of the horse disappearing into brush. Silvery horseshoes glinted derision.

  He ran. Crashing through brush, vaulting downed logs, scrambling up crumbling gully walls, he conjured images of Moonpriest’s vengeance. He heard Conway’s horror of Moonpriest’s rattlesnakes. He remembered the description of the moon altar, the unspeakable lightning that cooked a man.

  He braced against a tree, breathing hard. The riders were in constant view now, on the trail paralleling the river. The floodplain was grazing land. Just ahead was the clump of brush where the River hid with his sailer. Open ground from the tree line to the sailer’s cover meant exposure. Interception.

  Unless the riders would pursue him into the forest, negating their mounted advantage. Nalatan dashed out into the open, faked astonishment at seeing the oncoming riders. He retreated at a run.

  A voice shouted for him to stop. It was so stupid Nalatan looked over his shoulder. To his delight, one rider galloped after him, alone. The second, wheeling his horse in frustration, screamed orders.

  Nalatan almost felt sorry for the eager victim. Dodging through the trees, Nalatan lured him farther from the road. Soon the nomad was in a narrow draw, forging through a grove of young alders, some so close together horse and rider had to select passage around the clumped trunks. Choosing the place for confrontation, Nalatan wondered what could make a man so anxious to prove himself that he abandoned his wits.

  Nalatan feigned a limp. The nomad screamed a war cry, lashed his mount into a weird tree-dodging charge. Nalatan whirled, ran back the way he’d come. The nomad, surprised, managed a clumsy cross-body swipe. Nalatan parried the sword with his bar, drove the iron ball full into the nomad’s face. The man tumbled out of the saddle, one foot stirrup-bound. Frightened, the horse ran wildly through the trees. Briefly, the nomad tried to get free. After hitting a few tree trunks, he flopped about brokenly. Thoroughly spooked by its macabre hindrance, the horse stampeded away.

  Nalatan hurried back toward the river. His second enemy waited, far enough into the grazing ground to keep a long stretch of the river road under observation. Sitting there, this man made Nalatan think of a bird of prey, knowing it’s seen, uncaring, certain of its prowess.

  Nalatan walked out of the forest east of the rider. Almost leisurely, the mounted man moved to apprehend. Nalatan broke into a trot. If he reached the river, his accomplice might see him swimming and sail to his rescue. He was relieved to see his foe carried no bow. Nevertheless, that pleasure faded quickly as the rider drew a sodal. In the gray light there was no glitter, but a cold, composed gleam. Nalatan checked his grip on the parrying bar, drew his own sword. It looked embarrassingly short contrasted to the long sodal.

  The horse stretched out, galloping. The rider’s hood blew back. Profoundly scarred on the left side, a black eye-patch stood out against the flesh. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Nalatan dismissed all thoughts save avoiding the near-lancelike sodal. The first pass was classic, exactly as the brotherhood master taught; the iron bar deflected the sodal. Nalatan raced on. He gained a few paces before the horse was charging on him again. Once more Nalatan avoided the sodal.

  The river beckoned.

  The rider changed tactics. Advancing at a slow trot, the sodal was high, ready to thrust or slash. He maneuvered between Nalatan and the river.

  Swords and parrying bar clashed, the battle-song of steel shattering the peace of the meadow. The rider shouted hoarse, guttural curses. Nalatan answered with a war cry.

  The sodal’s tip bit into Nalatan’s chest, spun him, dropped him facedown. Reflexes born of unstinting training made him roll, even as shock tried to assimilate the fact of blood cascading down his chest. The sodal plunged into the turf, flipped up a clod. A part of Nalatan’s mind registered dangling grass roots flying over his head.

  His counter was pure instinct. Rising he dropped his sword, swung the parrying bar with both hands. The sodal deflected it. The iron ball cracked into the horse’s skull. The one eye Nalatan could see rolled up. Momentum carried the stunned animal onto its nose. From such a composed, fierce fighter, the shriek of utter terror as the horse rolled was strangely excessive.

  The animal rose, staggered off drunkenly, completely addled. The rider thrashed clumsily, uncoordinated. The frightened River, mooring line in hand, made a three-sign, watching Nalatan race toward him. Together, they leaped onto the long, slim sailer. Light as a leaf, its rib-and-hide construction supple as the fish it resembled, it arrowed into the current under the force of their impact. The River hoisted the triangular sail. The tiny boat, almost swamped under its burden, still sped away from shore. Far downstream, men on the deck of a moored sharker glanced at the sailer and went about their business.

  Neither man spoke until they were well out into the water. The River said, “You’re bleeding.”

  “I know.” Nalatan stuffed a piece of shirt in the hole as he spoke. “Hit a rib. Maybe broke it. It’ll heal.”

  A cry from shore brought them both upright, staring. The one-eyed man stood on the bank, sodal raised. Behind him, three riders hurried to join him. He ignored them. “Nalatan! Next time, I kill you. I swear it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Donna
cee knows. Ask her about Fox Eleven. Tell her I come soon.”

  Nalatan grabbed the mast, hauled himself upright. The thinking part of his mind refused to accept that the dandy, straight Fox he knew was this twisted scrap. His soul heard nothing but the name of his wife. Nalatan’s words grated, metallic. “Turn around. Take me back.”

  The River shook his head. Nalatan raised the parrying bar. The River’s eyes grew huge. He swallowed. “You’ll just drown if you kill me. Him and his friends will kill both of us. I’m not fool enough to go back there.”

  Nalatan lowered the weapon. From the receding shore, Fox called again. “Nalatan! Ask her about the only real man she ever knew.”

  Nalatan stared away, at the far side of the river. It surprised him to discover that hatred was such a physical thing. He removed the cloth from his wound, half expecting to see something vile and frenzied leap from the punctured flesh. But there was only blood.

  Chapter 6

  Nalatan woke with senses at full efficiency, muscles ready to respond.

  A rooster crowed derision.

  Nalatan smiled. He deserved to be laughed at. Louis Leclerc’s farm wasn’t the dark forest. The snug bed wasn’t any carefully hidden den. Luxuriating in the sheer comfort of it—linen sheets, soft mattress, quilted down covers—he stretched hugely. At the rooster’s ringing insistence, he rose, flinging aside the bedding, anxious to get the day under way. He hurried to get into fresh underclothes and heavy wool trousers, grimacing at embrace of the frigid material. Thick wool socks and serviceable, scuffed boots followed.

  A brightly glazed water jar and basin rested on a wooden cabinet. Snorting, splashing, Nalatan washed. Lathering to shave, he blinked at the hollow-eyed mask staring back from a polished silver mirror. He made a face at the gaunt man; Nalatan had a wife who’d fatten him up. The ugly rascal in the mirror would have to fend for himself.

  Leclerc supplied razor and strop. Nalatan drew the fine steel across the leather rhythmically, caught up in thoughts of Donnacee. He remembered Leclerc’s minute hesitation when he asked if she was back in Ola. It nagged. But if she were there, Leclerc wouldn’t say he didn’t know. He wouldn’t dare.