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

by Don McQuinn

  This was the world as it should be. His muscle, his boat. The sea.

  Ola came too quickly. Regretfully, he heeled over for the beach north of the castle. Sail full, he slammed onto the coarse rock and sand. The hull shrieked across the grinding, hostile surface. Momentum ripped Domel’s grip free of the gunwales; he flew forward, somersaulting over the side. Next to him, the mast cracked, moaned, crashed down. The boat rolled, settled. It made a sound like a shuddering sigh.

  Domel put a hand on the hull, levered himself upright. The wood was stiff, inert. It’s dead, he thought. One chance to be completely alive. Then finished.

  He ran from there.

  At the northern gate, he called to the guards, “You! Up there! Let me in. I have to see Emso.”

  A head appeared, a spot against the stars. “In the morning. The gate’s closed for the night.”

  “You’re going to be attacked.”

  Another head appeared. “Who’re you? How many are with you?”

  “I’m alone, you fool. Does it take a whole crew to make you understand there’s an attack coming? If you want to be ready for them, open this gate and let me in.”

  “It’s closed for the night. Those are the orders.”

  “Listen to me. The Skan are going to shove your orders down your throat and open your stomach to pull them back out. Can you understand that? Get me to Emso.”

  “Skan? What d’you know about Skan?”

  “I’ll show you my tattoos. Is that enough?”

  There were more words, much quieter, and Domel knew there was at least one arrow aimed at him. He held very still. The gate creaked open, the two halves coming at him like the spreading lips of a huge mouth. Torches revealed four archers, arrows drawn to the head. A fifth man stepped from behind them, sword drawn, advancing cautiously. He peered into the darkness behind Domel while using Domel’s body as a shield. When close enough, he said, “Give me your sword.”

  Domel extended the cleaver. “This will have to do.”

  Expressionless, the young Wolf took it, flipped it over his shoulder. One of the archers scooped it up. The man facing Domel said, “The tattoos?”

  Taking off his coat, Domel rolled up a sleeve, exposed the characteristic geometric red-and-black figures.

  The Wolf backed away. His sword remained aimed at Domel’s midsection. “Come with me. I’ll take you. He better be glad to see you.”

  They were inside then. The gate rumbled shut. Domel went on. “Hurry. They come before moonrise.”

  Another Wolf joined the first. They put Domel between them, their swords in the hands away from him. They picked up the pace to a fast walk. Yet another Wolf, this one obviously an officer, took over when the two younger men brought Domel to him. Now they moved at a fast trot into the castle itself. Halting the group at a door, the officer told the Wolves, “Anything tricky, and I want him hitting the ground in pieces, you hear me?”

  The Wolves saluted. One looked at Domel with quiet determination. The other was tense, eyes wide, white around the lips. Domel concentrated on him.

  The officer came out with Emso right behind him. He said, “It is you. What?”

  Domel was shocked at his appearance. Never meticulous, Emso was so poorly shaven he looked almost mangy. Greasy hair was carelessly combed. Domel was sure the clothes he wore were a week old. They had a smell that was more than mere dirt. They were sour, acrid.

  Emso repeated, “What?”

  “The Violet Abbess asked you to gather tonight with her and your friends. Are they with you now?”

  Emso’s eyes glazed. He made a three-sign. So did the Wolves. Domel saw the tense one’s knees bend, and he prepared to dodge. Emso said, “How could you know this?”

  “Would it be best if we went inside, talked to everyone? You won’t want to repeat some of the things I have to tell.”

  Emso considered for a moment, then gestured for Domel to follow. Over his shoulder, he told the Wolves to standby at the door.

  Innocent, welcoming curiosity warmed the faces of the Black Lightning and the two women flanking her. One wore the robes of a Rose Priestess; Domel knew she must be Sylah. The striking blond woman, then, had to be Gan’s wife. His real attention was reserved for the Violet Abbess and Jaleeta. Their expressions were priceless, horror to be relished. “I am Domel, a Navigator of the Skan.”

  “Kill him!” Jaleeta leaped to her feet, hands outstretched toward Emso.

  Emso half drew his murdat. Domel spoke quickly. “That one is the agent of Tears of Jade, spirit woman to Sosolassa, god of the Skan. She allies herself with this Violet Abbess to overthrow Gan Moondark and replace him with—”

  “Liar. Liar.” The Violet Abbess rose, shouting accusation. “Pagan. Anti-Church.” She turned on Emso, shrilling, “Kill him. He fouls Church’s name, her servant. Kill him, or be damned forever. I demand it.”

  Pale, dazed, Emso wavered. The murdat inched upward, exposing more steel. Domel shouted over the Abbess. “Emso. They mean to kill us. Then Gan. His wife and child. Sylah. Everybody. Listen to me.”

  The Abbess screeched interruption again. Jaleeta hurled herself around the table and into Emso. She strained to yank his murdat clear, grunting with effort. Emso swayed under the assault, looking at Domel with a mixture of hatred and agonized uncertainty.

  Sylah’s voice rang clear. “Domel. You spoke of an attack.”

  Domel continued to focus on Emso. “Before moonrise, the Skan will be inside your walls. Ondrat men here will strike down your Wolves. Other men from Ondrat, Mull, Byrda, and Krevelen wait now, just beyond the walls of Ola. When they see the fire arrows of the Skan, they rush your gates. Other Ondrat men, already in the city, wait to murder your men and open them.” He transferred his gaze to Jaleeta and bared his teeth in a smile he hoped she understood. “The one who leads this attack is named Lorso. We call him Slavetaker.”

  Jaleeta’s hands rose to her throat. Her “No” was keening terror. She backed against the wall. Emso stepped in front of her, but she pushed him aside, unwilling to have her view of Domel obstructed.

  The Abbess was sterner. She advanced on Domel. “Liar. Emso, I forbid this filth. Church demands his life.”

  Sylah challenged her. “Hold your threats, woman. Emso. Test this Domel. Form the Ondrat men into one unit in one place. Alert the Wolves in their barracks. If he lies, you’ve lost nothing. If he speaks true…” She let her look at Jaleeta and the Violet Abbess speak for itself.

  “It’s a trap.” Jaleeta sounded as if she were choking. She gained strength as she continued. “I lied to them, Emso. To protect you.” She came forward, clung to his sword arm.

  Domel glanced at the Abbess. She appeared to be near fainting.

  Jaleeta went on. “You know the Skan sent me. They sent this man, too. I promised the Skan I’d help him. While you send your men to the Sunrise Gate and reinforce the castle walls, the Skan and Baron Ondrat will come at the North Gate. I had to be sure of the plan before I could confess without ruining everything. Please don’t hate me.”

  Emso looked down at her. The urgency of his need to believe made him tremble. He looked to the Abbess. “You knew about Ondrat?”

  She sneered. “Of course not. Would he confide in a woman? Or Church? Especially a Church that needs you and a reformed Gan Moondark to protect her?”

  “Reformed?”’ Sylah’s question cracked across Emso’s yearning. “Gan Moondark needs no reform. Emso, you may be killing all of us.”

  Tate finally stood up. All eyes went to her. She walked to the wall, picked up her wipe leaning there. She brandished it. “Emso, do what you believe is right. I’m going up on the west side of the roof. Just in case.”

  Instead of exiting directly, Tate chose to go to the other side of the table, close to Emso. Stopping in front of him, she saluted in the fashion of the Wolves. His attempted smile was awful, the salute infinitely weary. Over his shoulder, Tate saw movement.

  Until that moment, she’d managed to avoid Jaleeta.
Now the younger woman stared directly at Tate. Fear disfigured her beauty, but it was merely background for clear, cold malice. Angling behind Emso, away from any line of vision, but Tate’s, Jaleeta smiled. A tiny, hardly visible movement of lips, a minute crinkling around the eyes. Cruel.

  Shaken, Tate found her way out of the room.

  With an inarticulate, broken sound, Emso half ran, half stumbled to the door. He physically pulled the three Wolves inside. Keeping his back to the room, he spoke to the officer. “Send a runner to the barracks. Everyone move immediately to defend the Sunrise Gate. Send another runner to alert all Wolves in the city that we’ve been infiltrated. Expect an attack intended to open the Sunrise Gate from inside. Take the Skan prisoner with you. Wait for me where the north and east castle walls meet. Go!”

  The officer stepped past Emso, grabbing Domel. Pushing the Skan ahead of him, he sprinted to obey. Emso continued to keep his eyes averted from those behind him. “You two Wolves take the Violet Abbess and the woman named Jaleeta to the old dungeons. One is still empty. Keep them there. Do not harm them. Release them to no one but me.”

  The Wolf who worried Domel spoke. “The fight, Emso. We won’t even see it.”

  “What you’re doing is more important. Don’t question it.”

  “I question.” The Abbess moved toward the door. Without turning, Emso flung out a blocking arm. He told the Wolves, “Bind her, if necessary. Do not harm her. Ignore anything she says. Do you understand?”

  Both men saluted. He looked away as they herded their charges out. When Jaleeta sagged, the Abbess caught her. Arm around the younger woman, she fastened a venomous glare on Sylah and Neela, then walked out, head high.

  Emso said, “Sylah. Neela. Are you listening?”

  Both assured him they were.

  He lifted his head, seemed to speak through the stone walls to someplace far beyond. “When I’m dead, you’ll hear many things from others about me. Some truths. Some lies. The usual things. I swear one thing only. Please remember. My wrongs grew out of love. Not ambition. Not envy. What ever else they call me, please, always tell them they must also call me the man who loved Gan Moondark more than life. You promise me this?”

  Neela said, “You won’t die. You can’t. We need you.” Sylah kissed his cheek. “Go with a good heart, old friend. We promise. We will speak as you ask, because we know it is truth.”

  Chapter 13

  From the roof of the castle, Tate frowned out over the mist creeping south down the Inland Sea. The wall torches were extinguished. She wore black, non-reflecting leather. The wipe rested easily in the crook of her left arm. A finger touched the trigger.

  Overhead, stars were diamond-bright. The low fog edged ever closer, smothering lowlands, absorbing normally dependable features.

  Somewhere under that mass was a sharker.

  Tate looked south. Where Nalatan was.

  Jaleeta. The way she looked from behind Emso. Tate marveled at hatred so strong it superseded terror. Jaleeta even found pleasure in knowing Tate saw her enmity.

  Another realization came to Tate. Jaleeta’s actions weren’t those of a woman who believed her life was over. That malevolent smile included challenge, a determination to turn even this potential catastrophe to advantage. Jaleeta intended to live. To win. To assure that Tate lost.

  Tate wandered toward the southern wall, staring off into the blackness. In the mist-shroud far below a seal barked, splashed. Down on the beach raccoons brawled over something. Their squalling cries always made Tate think of nasty little children.

  She tried to dismiss resurgent suspicions and worries, tried to imagine where Nalatan might be, picturing him riding north, passing things they’d seen together on the return from the Dry. She wished he stood beside her, wished none of this foolish separation ever happened. But what she’d done was for a purpose, for the benefit of all. Surely he could understand. He was the one who was just being hardheaded.

  Suddenly, sickeningly, Jaleeta’s image was back. In Tate’s mind, the heartless smile was broader.

  Shouts erupted behind Tate. A man screamed hoarse dismay. The sound ended as if broken. Instantly, the night was shattered by the sounds of battle. War cries soared. The castle warning drums boomed redundant alarm; every available man was already on the battlewalk or at his counterattack position.

  Tate ran to the north side of the roof. A fire arrow arced across the sky. It appeared to come from the juncture of the city wall and the higher castle wall. Even as Tate wondered which wall was compromised, she heard combat erupt below her.

  Her aim at the join of the walls was distracted by clatter on the roof behind her. She turned, expecting to see an arrow. Instead, it was a much heavier object, more like an extra-thick axe handle. Tate jumped, startled, when it began to move rapidly toward the crenellated wall. Then she saw the thick line dragging it sideways. Following, Tate drew her murdat.

  The stick spanned one of the crenels with room to spare. Moving several paces to the side, Tate cautiously peered down. Two men already scrambled up the line, literally walking the wall. A third steadied it at the bottom. Tate hacked at the line.

  Sparks flew.

  Unbelieving, she struck again, then again. Something gleamed, and she understood that a leather-encased chain attached the bar to the climbing line. She reached out and down to sever the line. The closest Skan was ready. Hanging on with one hand, he engaged her with the sword in his other. An arrow from the man on the ground shattered on the crenel a handspan from Tate’s head. Shards and splinters stung her cheek. She jerked back instinctively. The Skan gained ground, got a knee into the merlon between crenels, thrust at her.

  The red-orange muzzle flash of the wipe revealed a face twisted with desperate exertion. The expression had no time to alter. The round flung the man off, sent him tumbling into empty air. Tate leaned out to blow the second man off the line before he could safely drop to the ground. The third darted into covering darkness.

  When she pulled back from the wall, another Skan was on her, sword raised. She dropped straight down, rolling into him. He tripped over her. Firing at him as she rose, Tate pushed against the roof, driving herself backward. Yet another Skan’s sword stroke whispered fury at its miss, slicing the night where she’d been. A shot dropped that man; a second shot finished the other. Running to the south wall, Tate found another grappling bar, the line slack. She pulled both lines up.

  The battle below her was going badly. Ondrat war cries mingled with Wolf howls and the high, screaming yells of Skan. Somehow, the traitorous unit had entered the action.

  In such a swirling, dark melee the wipe was as dangerous to friend as foe. Tate slung it across her back. Pistol in one hand, murdat in the other, she ran to help.

  * * *

  Curled in a trembling ball, Jaleeta pressed against the legs of the standing Violet Abbess. The older woman, in the open doorway of the dungeon, held the two young Wolves at bay with an icy dignity. Her extended hands rested on each side of the opening. Bathed in the wavering light of two smoking torches fixed in wall standards, she exuded authority. “You will not close us in this foul pit. I shall stand here until freed by your master or your death. It’s all one to me. But you will not imprison us in darkness and filth.”

  The more earnest young man argued unhappily. “It’s not that dirty, Abbess. It’s just for a little while. Emso ordered us.”

  “Church orders you.” A pointing finger made the man flinch. Moving slowly, pivoting, the Abbess included the more highly stressed individual. “Emso ordered you to use no force.”

  He lost the staring match almost as soon as it started. He told his friend, “This is dumb. We can’t make her stay here. Why should we stay? Our friends are fighting. Dying, even. They need us.”

  The first one clenched his jaws. He shook his head, attention riveted on the Abbess. His companion shifted his weight, a barely perceptible move that distanced him. The unburdened foot scuffed backward quickly, jerkily. Hearing the sound,
the first one turned to him, quizzical.

  The tense one said, “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t. We were ordered.”

  “Stay then. If I’m killed, I won’t care what Emso says. If I’m hurt, he’ll be sorry for me. And if nothing happens to me, I won’t have to tell everyone I missed the fight guarding an ugly old woman and a sniveling girl.”

  The Abbess’ eyes narrowed to slits. She held her tongue. Only the wiry twitch of a pulse at a temple betrayed her anxiety.

  The high-strung guard fled. The shouts of his companion echoed uselessly. The remaining Wolf told the Abbess, “You ruined him. Emso won’t care what you say. You should be ashamed.”

  Jaleeta rolled over on her side, moaning. She struggled to all fours. Retching, coughing, she vomited in the direction of the Abbess. The older woman dodged, yelling, gathering her robe. Jaleeta, hair hanging down, continued to hack and spit. She backed away from her mess, beastlike, clumsy. “They’ll kill me. Rape me. I can’t stand it. Don’t let them get me.” Then, gasping, “Water, please. Throat. Hurt.”

  The Wolf unfastened his leather water-bag quickly. Eyes perfect rounds, he bent to her. Jaleeta reached blindly, felt it, grabbed. She drank, rinsing and spitting. Another spasm racked her. She extended the bag as it did, the erratically wobbling hand sagging under the weight. The Wolf bent to take it.

  He may have seen the shortknife in her left hand that slashed murderously across his stretched, exposed throat. If he did, he still had no opportunity to avoid it. He straightened in one spasmodic lunge, both hands clutching the gaping wound. Blood spurted between the fingers. Eyes still living watched with the glazed disbelief of the dead.

  Jaleeta rose, stepped back against the wall. The left hand, holding the knife, remained extended, defensive. With her right, she raised the water bag for a cleansing mouthful, spat. Her expressionless gaze remained fixed on the slumping warrior.