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

by Don McQuinn

  Summoning impossible strength, the young man stepped toward the Abbess. He extended reddened, begging hands. The flow was a sickly, slack thing already. He tumbled forward in wasted hope. His collapsing embrace left terrible accusation staining the front of the Abbess’ robe.

  She stepped back, staring down at him.

  “You stay here, if it pleases you so.” Jaleeta dropped the water bag, headed down the corridor. In an after thought, she bent down to collect the dead man’s murdat. She wiped her shortknife on his jacket and replaced it in her sleeve.

  The Abbess hurried behind her.

  Outside was chaos. Opening the door admitted the full fury of battle-sound. In the light of burning buildings, cursing, shrieking knots of men surged and swirled across the grounds, killing and dying. Two steps into the night, the Abbess checked, hands to her ears. She shrank back against the wall.

  On the wall, desperation lifted Emso’s voice above the din. “Jaleeta! Here!”

  Directly in front of her, Jaleeta watched a Wolf ram his murdat halfway through an Ondrat warrior. The ensuing scream added impetus to her dash for the stairs leading to the battlewalk. Once there, she was slammed against the stone wall, Emso shielding her with his body. Within moments, she cursed her choice. Emso’s pocket of defenders was small, and it was being forced away from the stairs. Ground level offered at least relative safety; a counterattacking Wolf unit was winning its struggle just outside the great hall. Movement beyond them caught Jaleeta’s eye. She looked to Chosens being herded into a castle side entry. She was certain Neela was among them, and the tall Priestess gesturing at the others could only be Sylah.

  Suddenly, she was aware of something on the battlewalk floor, beside her. Domel, hands and feet bound, lay with his back against the wall. The officer who’d brought him to this point lay beside him, an arrow in his chest. Domel grinned at Jaleeta, a grimace of acceptance. And triumph.

  Whatever Domel said to her was lost in the roar of battle. Scuffling along the wall, keeping Emso in front of her, Jaleeta realized the Skan controlled the battlewalk from both directions now, and were forcing Emso’s group away from the stairs.

  Death—or capture—was inevitable.

  Jaleeta darted out from behind Emso, tried to reach the stairs. Embattled Wolves blocked her, ignored her pushes. Screaming Skan sensed complete victory.

  A voice rang above the conflict. “Don’t kill the woman! Don’t kill her!”

  Lorso.

  Jaleeta felt her mind erupt in white-hot heat. Her heart seized. She couldn’t breathe.

  Until she understood. It was all so simple.

  She searched the struggling mass in front of her, located Emso, called to him. “Emso! Here.” He pulled away from the fight, hurried to her, reaching. Jaleeta grabbed the out thrust arm at the wrist. Pivoting, bending at the knee, combining her weight and strength with Emso’s momentum, she pulled the arm across her body. As Emso’s grizzled, shocked mask of incomprehension flashed in front of her, falling from the battlewalk, she screamed as loud as she could, “Lorso! Help me! I’m here, Lorso! Save me!”

  Startled Wolves glanced over their shoulder. One shouted, “Emso fell. She pushed him.” He rushed at her. Lorso leaped through the gap, struck the man down as he raised his murdat.

  Ranks broken, the surviving Wolves leaped off the battlewalk. Grabbing Emso, they dragged him against the wall, formed a defensive semicircle. An eerie lull fell across the battle. Here and there, individuals continued to duel. They grunted, animals preying on each other, while metal clashed with metal. The Wolf formation by the entrance advanced methodically, forcing back Skan and Ondrat men. Figures scurried into the darkness.

  On the battlewalk, Jaleeta talked for her life. “I knew you’d come. I told Tears of Jade, ‘Lorso won’t let me die among those people.’ She made me come. I couldn’t tell her about us, but I told her I was a Skan woman, forever. She said I had to do this, or she’d hurt me, hurt my mother. But I knew you’d come. That’s why I pushed that one off the walk. That’s Emso, Gan Moondark’s favorite. I killed him for you, my Lorso. For the glory of Slavetaker.”

  “Gan is here? His wife and child? Sylah?” Lorso’s hands were at her throat, thumbs centered, pressing.

  Just as she shook her head, the Skan with Lorso ran down the ladder to attack the Wolves who’d jumped to escape them.

  Lorso turned away from Jaleeta. He raised his sword, prepared to command. She grabbed his arm. “There’s no time. You were betrayed. The Wolves from the barracks will be here before you can kill Sylah and Neela. There’s one you want far more than either of them.”

  Lorso, paused, unsure. Jaleeta rushed on. “The man Leclerc. He has magic, but he’s weak. A puny man, Lorso. Take him back to Tears of Jade. Make him use his magic for us. I’ve seen it, Lorso. Powder that breaks rocks, spears that kill with blue fire.”

  “Blue fire? Like Moonpriest?”

  She shook her head. Below them, the battle slacked again. In the distance was the sound of howling coming at a rush, and the massive pounding of a war drum. “I told you the Wolves were coming. Yes, the lightning, like Moonpriest. He has a lightning weapon, too. Slavetaker could make him show how to use it.”

  Lorso barely hesitated. His fleeting smile was enigmatic. He shouted, “Skan out! Skan out! To the boats!”

  Immediately, his men took up the call, streamed toward the wall. The abandoned Ondrat men yelled dismay. Those who attempted to follow the Skan were summarily beaten back. The Wolves, unconcerned with the politics of the situation, went at the distraught Ondrats mercilessly.

  With Jaleeta slung over his shoulder like a sack, Lorso dropped down a Skan climbing line. Off-sword hand wrapped in Jaleeta’s hair, he directed his men’s withdrawal.

  A few Ondrats fought to the end. Most surrendered quickly. The quiet of post-combat swept the grounds inside the walls. The moans of wounded and dying ebbed and flowed. Tentative voices called the names of friends. Officers and small unit leaders shouted for order. Yet, compared to what went before, everything was crushingly lethargic. Men seemed afraid to add or detract from anything around them.

  Into that, Sylah and the other War Healers of both abbeys brought their soothing, whispering voices and their ministrations.

  On the battlewalk, Domel finished slashing his bindings. He rolled to edge, indistinguishable among the human wreckage. “Emso,” he called, carefully facedown. A moment later, a groaning voice said, “Here. Who calls?”

  Domel smiled. That was something better left unanswered. “Are you able to fight?”

  “My leg. It could be broken. Are they coming back? Who are you?” Growing recognition sharpened the last question.

  “They mean to take the magic one called Leclerc. Jaleeta’s showing Lorso the way. If you can warn him, you better. Or see his skills turned against you and your Gan. Good luck. You’re a good warrior.”

  “Wait! Wolves! To the wall! Catch him. There’s a Skan there.”

  Domel slipped through a crenel, dropped rapidly down one of the Skan lines. He was far away, shrouded by the night long before anyone reached the battlewalk.

  * * *

  As soon as the fire-arrow tore the night, Baron Ondrat drove the rebel forces at Sunrise Gate in a frenzied effort. If the gate wasn’t under control by the time the Packs arrived, the game was lost. He literally screamed orders, exhorting his men to rise above themselves.

  The Wolves opposing him fought with the desperation of men who know their effort is key. Many were Olans, and they remembered well the cruelties of the old reign. Others were from baronies where liberty was an equally rare wine. They understood that the Three Territories was their sole hope of freedom. Knowing the Skan and traitors fought their friends inside the castle, they gave no ground, dying where they stood.

  At the howling of their onrushing brothers from the barracks, and the thunder of their drums, they found the energy for hoarse cheers. Those fighting inside the walls attacked. The infiltrators, expecting to cut
down a few unready guards, were surprised and ineffective. The defenders on the battlewalk poured arrows into the rebels, who had barely a handful of ladders. Wolves met the few brave souls who climbed them.

  Baron Ondrat relinquished his position in front of the rebels, got behind them, pushing them ahead. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he worked his way all the way to the rear. A few paces beyond the last rank, with no one to see but the ground-littering casualties, he slipped away. Trotting across the meadow that was the cleared area around the city walls, he complimented himself on his foresight. He even smiled, thinking what his fellow Barons would pay for a seat on board the balancebar waiting at the fishing village near his fort.

  Life among the Skan would take some getting used to.

  He swung aboard his horse, whipped it to a gallop.

  A sack of gold would soften anyone. Even a Skan. More than that, however, the Skan traded with the Nions. Nions loved gold.

  Clever men all loved gold. Clever men also avoided dying beside inferiors.

  Chapter 14

  Tate’s first reaction to the Skan retreat was near-hysteric relief. She dredged up the last of her energy to engage an Ondrat warrior who seemed intent on salvaging the honor of his barony singlehanded. Rasping, almost sobbing, Tate demanded that he surrender. The man answered with a two handed descending slash that hammered her sword tip down to earth. In the instant when both weapons were grounded, she drove the crown of her head directly into his nose. Cartilage crunched. A knee into his crotch doubled him over. Measuring, she drew back the murdat and swung. The flat of the blade took him just at the top of the ear, a sound like dropping a ripe melon.

  Tate slumped to a sitting position against a wall, legs splayed ahead of her. She almost beat her victim to the ground. He snored hugely. Tate closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, Sylah was standing over her, looking afraid. “Are you alright?”

  Tate said, “Never better. We’ll get him in the next round.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. A little punchy. No, no; forget that.” Tate tucked her feet under her, reached out to Sylah for a hand up. “Tired, that’s all. How are the troops?”

  “Many injured. Many dead. There are fires. In the Violet Abbey, in the castle.”

  Gritting her teeth, Tate said, “I’ll get men on Leclerc’s pumps. Where’s Emso?”

  “Organizing the remaining men, I expect. I’ve been too busy…”

  “Don’t you dare apologize. You’re holding us together, you and your Priestesses. Got to run—fire’s calling. See you.” Tate managed a long pull on her water bag as she ran to the nearest pump. Checking the hoses, calling for help, she had it working quickly. Some Wolves had already practiced on the machines; they led teams to operate the other pumps. The fires, restricted to the Violet Abbey and the castle’s northern side, were stubborn. Tate continued to look for Emso. The image of him calling to Jaleeta refused to go away. She tried to deny the sound of that cry. It was more than a man seeking to protect a fellow human. Tate ruefully considered that she’d become particularly sensitive to emotional undercurrents. Her problem was a failure to react properly.

  A Wolf she recognized dropped off the pump handle as she was passing. Another man crawled up to take his place. Tate went to the one resting, asked if he’d seen Emso. Surprise raised singed eyebrows, revealed whites startling in a soot-blackened face. “Didn’t you hear? He ordered a large detail to Leclerc’s farm, told them to guard it. His leg’s broken; he had some Wolves help him to the stable, and he rode out a little after the others. He told me you were in command until he gets back.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me that? I’ve been fighting fires. We don’t have any security on the walls, do we?”

  “I stationed men there. You were busy. There aren’t many. More like lookouts than defenders. A lot of men went down.”

  “You did a good job. Get some rest. I’ll see about relieving the watchers. Now that I know Emso’s left me to run this lash-up, I better get with it.”

  Hurrying to the wall, Tate looked back at the fires. They seemed to be under control, at least. Most importantly, they were no danger to the dungeon area where the ammunition was stored.

  Thinking of that made her check her own supply. It also made her stop to consider why Emso would send survivors from a battered force to take on additional guard responsibilities. She decided it was because he finally realized how important Leclerc was to the Three Territories.

  It was a long time coming. Emso was a fine man, despite his cranky old-fashioned attitudes. She hurried up the steps to the battlewalk, hoping Leclerc and Emso would finally patch their differences.

  * * *

  Emso listened to the triumph of the Wolf packs. The cries tore at his soul.

  Fool. Old fool.

  The steady rhythm of horse hooves repeated the words mercilessly. Not that he deserved mercy, he told himself. A traitor rejected that consideration the instant he stepped onto the path of betrayal.

  His memory dragged him back to the wall, where he sheltered she who brought him to his end, and shame burned in him. The truth was plain when he ordered her imprisoned. Yet when he saw her endangered he was helpless. He had to save her, protect her. Even be victimized by her.

  With his good leg, Emso heeled his horse, demanded greater speed. He hoped Ondrat cowered in his fort, hoped the gate was unguarded. Emso allowed himself a grim, tight smile. He didn’t believe Ondrat would stay and fight with his men. As soon as defeat was apparent—or even likely—Ondrat would run; Emso was sure of it. He was equally sure Ondrat would go to his den, prepare to negotiate.

  The jarring of the faster pace made the bones of the broken leg grate unpleasantly. There was the other stuff in the saddlebags, as well. It wouldn’t do to damage that. But the important thing was to kill Ondrat. Frowning, Emso admitted he wasn’t certain he could best Ondrat standing on one leg. He straightened in the saddle. Ondrat must die; there was no alternative.

  A full, clear moon bathed the fort’s walls, creating a pattern of vertical silvers, grays, and blacks. In the middle of it, the entry yawned sinister invitation. There were absolutely no lights in the village.

  Emso approached very slowly, warily. His mount sensed Emso’s nervousness. It tossed its head constantly, but gave no other sign of excitement. Emso silently blessed it.

  Emso entered the gateway, murdat bared. No challenges, no sound of running feet. Eerily, sounds came from some of the buildings he passed. They were small, scratchy noises that made Emso think of burrowing animals scrambling to escape a predator. He dropped forward on his horse, blending with it in the dark, offering as little target as possible.

  The door to the castle was as open as the gate. It sighed gently on bulky hinges when Emso prodded it with the tip of his murdat. He dismounted, smothering a cry when the heel of his broken leg struck the ground. Securing the horse to a hitching post, murdat in hand, he hopped through the door, cursing his awkwardness.

  In the farthest of the two large chairs in front of the fireplace, Ondrat waited. He was angled so he equally faced the door and the low glow of dying embers. Emso advanced quickly, using the murdat as a prop until he could reach out and balance with one hand against the hearth. By then the bared sword laying across Ondrat’s lap was clearly visible.

  Emso said, “I see you expected me. I was afraid you’d run. Stand, Baron, or die where you are.” He leveled the murdat.

  From the darkness, a disembodied voice answered, “Too late. He owed me, as well. I collected first.”

  Emso whirled, ready. “Domel? Is that you?”

  Again, from the dark. “Yes. If you’d taken the time to inspect on your way in, you’d have seen the two dead guards at the gate, and the man just to the left of the doorway here. You should thank me. The way you’re crow-hopping about, you wouldn’t have made it past any of them.”

  Bridling, Emso waggled the murdat. “If my walking bothers you, come over here. We have our own affair.
”

  Domel materialized, wraith-silent. “I understand how you feel. Better than you know. I’ll accommodate you, if it’s what you want. You’re crippled. I’ll kill you.”

  “Perhaps. It’s not important.”

  Lifting his own weapon, Domel aimed it at Ondrat. In the ruddy luminance of coals, the moving steel took on a sliding, graceful life. “He’d tell you otherwise. I’d agree with him. Killing a thing like Ondrat is correct. For one of us to kill the other—or for us to kill each other—is mere killing. Both of us have covered ourselves in shame and regret. That’s why I killed Ondrat. He was part of my disgrace.”

  “No less than mine. And you helped them shame me.”

  Domel sliced the air with his sword. His voice was as dry as the whisper of the blade. “Will you tell me that it wasn’t in your mind to eliminate me, once Gan Moondark’s present problems are under control? Or if it appeared the Skan were about to defeat you? If that young woman hadn’t pitched you off the battlewalk, you’d have sold me back to Lorso or killed me like a trussed chicken.”

  “I may have.”

  Snorting, Domel took a step closer. “If you feel you have to fight me, I won’t disappoint you. My own goals are larger. I can never recover my name and honor, but I can assure that those who took them will never forget me.”

  “Well, tell me. What will you do? If you get past me.”

  “I don’t want to get past you. Help me.”

  Bitter laughter rocked Emso. He leaned heavily into the stone hearth. “Help you? Into the Land Under.”

  “Exactly.”

  Domel’s equanimity silenced Emso’s lingering chuckles. “What’s that mean?”

  “Everyone in the Three Territories will hear how Jaleeta tricked you.” Ignoring Emso’s suddenly raised murdat, Domel walked easily to Ondrat’s side. Shoving a dead elbow out of the way, he sat comfortably on the chair arm. “Unlike you, I mean to die striking at the root of my troubles.”

  “You mean me. Or Gan.”