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

by Don McQuinn

  Nalatan was grinning when he came out of the small bedroom. Leclerc and Bernhardt were already at the table. The housekeeper watched from the kitchen door. All returned the smile. Bernhardt came to him, hugged him, kissed his cheek.

  Louis laughed aloud. “You’ve embarrassed him. Shame on you, Kate.”

  Her smile was mischievous, fixed on her guest. “It’s his own fault for being so rugged and handsome. I just couldn’t help myself. I’m so glad you’re safe. We’ve been worried. It’s been a long time.”

  Leclerc said, “It’s also time for me to tell you exactly what the situation is with Donnacee.”

  Nalatan looked up, tense. Leclerc paled, but his jaw was firm. Words rattled out of him. “You asked if she’s in Ola. I told you I didn’t know. I thought it best to let you get some rest before giving you the details. She and Conway got here just after you left. She went back into the mountains. She told Gan there was something she wanted to do. Like you, she didn’t want to stay inside walls. For all I know, she’s come back. But I don’t really think so.”

  Still as death, Nalatan held Leclerc’s gaze until the other man could stand it no longer. Louis looked away, waving his hands. “Gan tried to talk her into staying in Ola.”

  Rasping, Nalatan asked, “She was told I’d be back soon?”

  Bernhardt answered, “She knew you’d be back, yes.”

  Inhumanly remote, Nalatan swung his head her way. “You were there?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then you don’t know what was said. Or not said. How long was she in Ola? Who else ‘advised’ her? What’s been said about me?”

  Bernhardt quailed under that look, and Leclerc rose, moved to stand beside her. “No one advises Donnacee. No one’s said anything about you. Certainly Kate didn’t have anything to do with Donnacee’s leaving. You’re frightening her. Stop it.”

  At the crisp demand, Nalatan jerked. He looked to Leclerc, seething. What he saw shamed him. The smaller man, a protective arm across the stricken Bernhardt’s shoulder, stood firm. Fear painted his face.

  Nalatan sagged. He looked down at the table. When he linked the fingers of his hands, he was sickened to realize the right hand had been on the hilt of his knife. He said, “Forgive me, please. This is bitter news.” While they murmured reassurance and Leclerc resumed his seat, Nalatan phrased his next questions. “Did you see her before she left? Did she speak of her reasons to anyone but Gan?”

  “It was very sudden,” Bernhardt answered. “She only said good-bye to Conway because he saw her leaving. She told him exactly what she told Gan.”

  “Not like her.” Nalatan shook his head. “She lived in Harbundai. Inside the walls. She lived here, in Ola. Without complaint. Something happened.”

  Leclerc said, “She said there was something she had to do. By herself, with the Smalls.”

  “Smalls? From the Enemy Mountains to the south? Here?”

  “Not here, exactly. Smalls came north.” Leclerc briefly told Nalatan of the events of the Tate-Conway-Lanta trip.

  When the name of Fox was mentioned, Nalatan rose. “That filth. Moonpriest’s war chief. Did she injure him?”

  Bernhardt winced. “He’s dead. Conway tied him to a horse and set it free.”

  Quieting, Nalatan sat down again. “He recognized me from the fight at the Door. I wondered what happened to him. He’s crippled now; left hand and arm almost useless, right ankle broken, left eye gone. But he lives. He made me believe he hurt her. Is she injured?”

  Leclerc nodded. “Not by him. A rock fell on her hands. She’s fine now.”

  “I should have been there. She wouldn’t let me.”

  Again, Bernhardt tried to catch Leclerc’s eye. The man rigidly refused to look in her direction. He said, “We’re a different people, Nalatan. Not like you, or Gan, or anyone else. She’ll come back when she can.”

  “I let her go. I wasn’t here when she came back.”

  The housekeeper picked that moment to reenter, carrying a wooden platter heaped with griddle cakes. Beaming, she announced, “The cook at the castle said these were your favorite, Nalatan.” The tableau registered on her. Her face fell. The happy, brisk step stopped.

  “Thank you.” Nalatan struggled for manners. The confused woman put the tray on the table, hurried away. Nalatan put cakes on his plate, buttered them, poured dark-gold honey. Forking up a bite, he gestured with it. “The body needs food. I won’t get anything this good for a long time.”

  Apprehensive, Bernhardt asked the logical question. “Why not?”

  “Because the ride back to the Dry is hard, and I burn everything I cook.”

  “Not so fast.” Leclerc affected casualness, helping himself to cakes from the platter. He let Nalatan wait while he prepared them before going on. “I sent riders to the castle while you ate last night. I asked Gan to come here.”

  “That’s nothing to me. You’ve told me what he said.”

  “He sent fresh riders back immediately. He wants to talk to you.”

  “I have my own wants. None of them are here. Not anymore.”

  “Nalatan,” Bernhardt chided gently. She came to him. He continued to eat, ignoring her. She persisted. “I know you’re angry about Donnacee. I don’t blame you. She didn’t think you’d be back so soon, that’s all. If you leave, how will she feel when she finds you’re gone? And Gan’s your friend. At least hear what he has to say. It may not even be about Donnacee.”

  Leclerc agreed. “It probably isn’t about her. If that was it, wouldn’t he ask you to come to him? He’s coming here for a reason.”

  “To see the things you make.” Nalatan pointed, almost accusing. “Sylah’s books are here.”

  Flinching, Leclerc was defensive. He pulled the offending volumes from their shelf, put them on the table as if making an offering. “Only these two. And the red one, of Conway’s.”

  “The one he said we must never mention. But he gives it to you, out here, unprotected.”

  Leclerc ran his fingers across the cover. “There’s something here. I have to figure out what it is.”

  “I don’t care.” Nalatan started to rise.

  Bernhardt’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “This is ridiculous. You and Tate are as bad as Conway and Lanta. You’ve made life miserable for each other. You’re in love, yet you impose these foolish requirements on each other. It’s destroying you, and I want you to stop it. You’re brave. Do it.”

  Nalatan looked utterly baffled for a moment, and then he resumed eating. To Leclerc, he said, “I owe it to Gan Moondark to tell him what I’ve seen. I’ll wait for him.” Then, for Bernhardt, “I appreciate what you’re doing. It’s too late. But before you criticize me and Donnacee, look at yourselves. Our fault is pride. Very well. Now judge yourselves.” He left a silence that ached like a wound.

  They were all pleased by Gan’s early arrival, meeting him in a solemn row on the roofed front porch of Leclerc’s house. Securing his horse to the hitching rail, he addressed them formally. “I know you, my friends. Nalatan’s return should be a happy event. What troubles you?”

  Sensitive protocol was involved in the response. As owner of the home, it was Leclerc’s right to answer first. His primary responsibility, however, was the satisfaction of his guests. Leclerc deferred to Bernhardt with a glance and nod. She, in turn, gestured at Nalatan. He cleared his throat. “My wife returned to the Enemy Mountains.”

  Gan marveled at the complexity of inference, of tonal shading. Only someone privy to his and Nalatan’s last conversation would understand all the forces at work. Gan felt he had a foot on the finely balanced trigger of a deadfall. “I told her you agreed to carry out a mission for me. She was disappointed to have missed you. I believe she used the anger as excuse. She has a project, she said.”

  Head up, nostrils flaring, Nalatan struck directly at the heart of his concern. “What’s been said of me, since I left?”

  “I listen to rumors. I don’t repeat them. Besides, I have greater
problems.”

  Bernhardt edged closer to Leclerc. “Come in. We’re all freezing out here. I’ll get tea. There’s trouble?”

  Inside, sitting down at the table, Leclerc reopened the conversation. “What’s happened?”

  “Slave raids. Windband and Rivers, east of here. Striking north of the Mother River.”

  “At least they’re far away. There aren’t many people there, either.” It was Bernhardt, coming from the kitchen with steaming teapot and cups. The prickly scent of blackberry leaves and wild ginger warmed the room.

  As the pot moved from hand to hand, Gan destroyed Bernhardt’s sanguine view. “Moonpriest torments me. If I don’t react, I’m seen as weak. If I do, I have to march men all the way there to attack small, fast-mounted raiding parties. If they wait for me to arrive, which is unlikely, they’ll run and circle and run some more until they exhaust my stolid Olan Wolves. Worst of all, the men I send reduce our defensive strength here.”

  Leclerc shrugged helplessly. “What’s the answer?”

  There was something much like relief in Gan’s smile. He glanced at Nalatan, tantalizingly suggestive, too quick to read. “Following me this morning is a full hundred of the Ola Wolfpack. We march to attack the raiders.”

  Nalatan said, “What of Moonpriest? Will he attack when he hears you’re gone from the castle?”

  “Too early, I think. Anyhow, the prospect of a hundred Wolves will make him nervous. The slave raids aren’t specifically intended to pull me out. He needs the manpower to move supplies and for laborers to support his attack.”

  Leclerc said, “You’re sure he’s coming, then?”

  “He’ll come. Early spring.”

  Leclerc leaned back in his chair, contemplative, staring at mist whorls like a man reading portents. “I need silver. Quite a bit.”

  Bernhardt was astonished. “You never mentioned silver.”

  Leclerc shook his head, concentrating on Gan. “We have some?”

  Gan held out open hands. “Whatever you need. Go to Emso. He’s in charge while I’m away. He knows where the stores are.”

  Leclerc grimaced. Bernhardt said, “Leave that to me.”

  Coldly, Gan said, “Emso acts for me. Tell him I said you’re to have all the silver you want. Without questions.”

  “Questions!” Leclerc slapped his forehead with his palm. “No one’s asked Nalatan what he learned on his mission. What fools we are.”

  No one argued the point. Nalatan described his route south, told of falling in with River People who provided support. Until the matter of the triple tower structures came up, Leclerc almost dozed through the recital. At that, however, he sat bolt upright.

  Bernhardt’s attentiveness rose, equally.

  Leclerc heard the description through, then drew Bernhardt off to the side. “You were right. Windmills for power. Electrolysis of water. Large ceramic spheres. Exactly what you predicted. Hydrogen.”

  “And oxygen. Use the wallkiller to start fires, then throw the spheres full of flammable gas. Bombs. Larger fires. Now aren’t you glad you built those pumps?”

  He hugged her. “Oh, we’re a pair, we are.” Then, sobering, “But how do we defend against gas bombs?”

  “Destroy the wallkiller. And educate the people. Any explosions should be low-order, do no more damage than a large rock. Beat the fear, defeat the weapon.”

  Leclerc agreed. Choosing words carefully, they explained to Gan and Nalatan that the towers “changed” the water, which was then put in the spheres. The latter were probably designed to be thrown by the wallkiller; where they landed, they would start fires. The two warriors made three-signs. They asked no questions. Miracles from the aliens might be frightening, but they’d also become commonplace.

  When Nalatan stood up, Gan did the same. Nalatan waited, wary. Gan said, “We have to talk.” They stepped outside, bundling up against the cold. Gan’s dogs wagged heavy tails in greeting. Immediately aware of the tension between the two men, they quieted, crowding close to Gan, intent on Nalatan. He ignored them.

  Far away, the war drum of the Olan Wolves rumbled advance.

  Marshaling his thoughts, Gan cast back to Donnacee’s last conversation with him. She said she wanted Nalatan to come after her, but she made a specific point of saying Nalatan shouldn’t be sent if his loss would be missed. No man was better suited to interdict Moonpriest’s slavers.

  Gan was uncomfortable with that rationale. He decided to move the considerations to another level. “You’d be surprised at how much the Chosens have learned since you left. The Church women enlisted Jaleeta to help them. She’s very good with the children. Very gentle, very forgiving.”

  The idea of Jaleeta having to forgive anyone was darkly amusing to Nalatan. Sarcasm glinted off his answer. “A well-hidden talent. But I shouldn’t say that. I really don’t know her.”

  Gan hated the answer. It smacked of strong dislike. It was far from evidence of anything. But disturbing. It could mean anything.

  For his part, Nalatan didn’t care. The whole conversation was a waste. Donnacee was gone. Again.

  He wished he could hate her.

  Gan decided he had no more time to waste on emotional tangles. There was no one as good as Nalatan to stop Windband’s raids. He said, “I need your help.”

  Nalatan was dubious. “I’ll be blunt. I feel no trust from you. I’m not sure I can be your friend any longer. I won’t be your enemy. Let me go home.”

  “My cavalry is plow horses. The riders are apple pickers and clam diggers; tough, loyal, and likely to fall off. Help them, or the raiders will butcher them.”

  “Bad luck. I think you blame me for Donnacee’s leaving Ola. Tell me why.”

  “Only when I have you together. When we return to Ola.”

  “What if I’m killed?”

  “Then no rumor will concern you.”

  “Very clever. What if you’re killed?”

  Gan wheeled around slowly. His gaze was level, steel cold. “My work isn’t done. But if it should happen, avenge me. Do you value our friendship that much?

  Grinning crookedly, Nalatan moved to return inside. Over his shoulder, he said, “You’re a born king, aren’t you? Devious as a frog in muck.”

  “Flatterer. You’re with me, then?”

  “Until we return to Ola. After that? It depends on you.”

  The column wound out of the forest where the trail bisected Leclerc’s farm. The two men on the porch moved toward each other, looked to the roaring, demanding drum.

  Chapter 7

  “He wants what?” Emso jutted his jaw, reminding Sylah of a particularly vicious dog that guarded a meat stall in the city’s market. The animal couldn’t be tempted to touch a scrap from its master’s counter. Nothing else—including the legs of passersby—was safe.

  Beside Sylah, Bernhardt pulled back her shoulders. “You heard. Silver. Gan approved it.”

  “Where is he, then? And why didn’t Gan speak to me?”

  Emso’s suspicion provoked Sylah beyond manners. “You doubt Church. You insult.”

  Uncertainty eroded Emso’s truculence. “What does Leclerc need with silver? I have a right to know. I’m responsible to Gan for all supplies.”

  Bernhardt spoke up again. “Gan said he gets anything he wants.”

  Emso considered retort. He bit it back when Neela entered with Jaleeta. “I wasn’t arguing against Gan’s decision.”

  Neela’s eyebrows arched. “Argument? What trouble is this?”

  Sylah answered, “Kate brought a request from Louis. The misunderstanding was my fault. Emso was doing his job.”

  Emso didn’t bother to thank her. To Neela, he said, “In the past, he’s always wanted copper. There’s plenty of that in the godkills. Now it’s silver. Why not gold? And it’s all for magic.”

  “That’s not true.” Bernhardt’s eyes darted, nervous. Still, her voice was firm. “What Louis does is intelligent, not magic. He’ll do more, too. You’ll see. This is just the beginni
ng.”

  Grumbling, Emso insisted on leading the way to the treasury. When it became apparent where they were going, Neela and Sylah exchanged glances, then stopped. Puzzled, Emso waited for explanation. Neela supplied it. “That way is where King Altanar imprisoned Sylah and me. We go no closer.”

  The other women murmured sympathetic understanding. Emso told Bernhardt, “Most of it’s in ingots, about so.” He described a form with his hands. Bernhardt closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Two of those, I think. If I remember my weights at all.”

  The others looked blank, and Bernhardt grinned foolishly, sweating, hoping no questions followed. Emso broke her tension. “I’ll get them.” He hurried off.

  After he’d taken a half-dozen steps or so, Jaleeta called, “Wait.” She said to the other women, “I don’t want to look at those terrible cells, but I want to know you, completely. I can’t, if I don’t know about your suffering. I have to look.” Her look begged for understanding.

  Neela smiled appreciation. “It’s not necessary. There’s really nothing to see. Just a bad place.”

  Sylah’s sarcasm was subtle. “What a becoming sentiment. By all means, have a long look.”

  All Bernhardt saw was Jaleeta manipulating.

  Around the corner and down a long, dank corridor, Emso pointed to a gap in the bottom of a thick-planked door. “That’s where food and water went in to the prisoner. Water in a flat bowl, like for a dog. This was Sylah’s cell.” He removed the securing beam, threw open the door. Jaleeta clapped a hand over her nose and stepped back. Not before she smelled it, however. Something fetid that spoke of human waste and sweat and ineradicable fear. The stench permeated the very stones.

  Emso stepped into the cell. He came out quickly, holding two rough ingots. Not until the door was barred again and he was several paces down the hall did he exhale and draw in long, relieved breath. Beside him, Jaleeta was unnaturally quiet.

  On rejoining the other women, Jaleeta embraced Neela tightly. “What a horrible, horrible place. I thought I knew how strong you are, but I never imagined.”