Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  A religio-ecological sect calling themselves Williamsites had anticipated just such a cataclysm. Using the most advanced biological techniques, they set out from their worldwide network of Ecotemples to repopulate the earth’s remnant natural habitats with breeding stocks of animal, insect, and plant species. Simultaneously, there came a call in what was left of the United States for volunteers to go into cryogenic crèches. Their mission was to emerge healthy and assist in restoring their damaged country. Conway, Tate, and over a thousand others were assigned to the crèches in the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest.

  While the outside survivors of the apocalypse abandoned their disease-riddled, radiation-soaked, chemically lethal centers of civilization and sank into struggling savagery, the crèches, hidden in a deep, natural cave further enhanced by technological safeguards, ticked off the centuries. Tended by a virtually eternal nuclear engine and robots, the frozen humans waited in their thousands. Not dead, not alive, utterly forgotten. Adrift on a sea of time, they were rescued by an earthquake that shattered the cave and tricked the machine controls into believing the rejuvenation order had been issued.

  Twelve initially survived.

  Now they were seven, one of them a brain-damaged religious madman.

  Educated billions, reduced to four women and three men. Technocrats, trying to survive in a place where forging steel was the peak of technology.

  Without their weapons, they were as helpless—and useless—as babies.

  Irony of ironies. They had survived apocalypse and had no value, except to continue the killing.

  Unless another creche existed, still waiting for a rejuvenation signal from a dead world.

  The Door? Sylah’s Door? What if…?

  A hoarse shout from the ship’s captain intruded on Conway’s thoughts. Watching the slim ship rock on what used to be Puget Sound and was now the Inland Sea, he felt once more the burden of his alienness. Pirate vessels of wood, sail, and oars where there had once been steel hulls and nuclear engines. Up on the hill behind him, the stone castle of the kingdom of Ola brooded over sparsely settled countryside that once was home and workplace to teeming numbers. Some of the castle’s rocks gleamed whiter than others. They were cement or marble, materials from buildings and highways so far beyond these people’s comprehension that they believed those things had been designed by giants and built by ordinary humans who were their slaves. They called the forgotten, buried sites godkills, when they found them, and they were mined by slaves because they were still feared as death itself.

  Conway imagined one of the original survivors of the world’s collapse hovering over a fire, telling the next generation they must keep to the forests and fields because all the places where men had lived before hid unseen things that killed.

  Some would test his tales. When the skeptics developed disease, or began to rot from radiation or chemicals, no one would question further.

  Conway looked across the Inland Sea to the Whale Coast Mountains—the Olympic range—and wondered what the Adirondacks, the Smokies, the Rockies were called.

  America.

  A beautiful country. Magnificent. It stood for things. Good things.

  There was no sense thinking about it. Everything he’d known and loved was gone. The other world took his wife. His child. Their murders had been someone’s political statement.

  Somewhere there was probably a grave or plaque with his own name on it.

  A memorial.

  To the south, the Glass Cliffs gleamed mocking agreement. They were a constant, brutal reminder of what man could accomplish. A nuclear blast of unimaginable heat had fused the earth itself there, leaving a glittering scar where, centuries later, the only life that dared its defiled ground was a scattering of leprous plants.

  A voice whispered sweet seduction, asked why he should continue to hope. All that was left for him was to wait for this savage place to send him along to join those who’d been like him.

  No!

  Denial exploded deep inside him.

  All the disappointment, the loss, the baffled, uncomprehending anger of his two lives in two worlds, coalesced in a single moment of decision. The force of it closed out everything around him.

  He would fight.

  The wars that obliterated his time had spared him. To wonder why was as foolish as those wars had been. To surrender to depression was as wasteful. He was here, in this time. A different place, a different man.

  Alive. Able to touch, to understand.

  He tore his gaze from the obscenity of the Glass Cliffs. Down the long, shining reach of the Inland Sea the pristine head of Snowfather Mountain reared against the sky. A sensation of relief, almost of peace, filled him, as though he’d arrived at a long-sought refuge.

  He had, he told himself. This was home. Perhaps he’d belonged in that first life, perhaps not. Fate had brought him to this one. In the end, its fierce integrity must claim his life. He accepted that. Better than accept, he would challenge, measure his strength against whatever it had to offer. Until he lost, Matt Conway would live.

  Chapter 3

  Tate watched Sylah approach with Clas. The castle, as well as the town laid out around it, had been bubbling with gossip over his arrival in the night. She smiled at the brighter, livelier look of Sylah on this morning. Robed in her customary flowing black, she appeared to float along the dock’s rough, splintered timbers. Above her left breast, the embroidered flower of her Rose Priestess rank glowed blood-red. Beauty and bearing drew the eye; character created a distance between herself and everyone but Clas. Even the sailors’ initial leers turned to surreptitious glances, then slid away.

  Returning Clas’ wave of greeting, Tate wondered how many of those sailors’ looks might be abbreviated by his presence. There, she thought, is a man who understates. Plain, right down to the wooden scabbard of his murdat and its worn wood handle. Unadorned buckskin shirt and trousers. Still, two things about him cried out to all—the square black tattoo on his cheek that covered the puckered scar there without disguising it, and the triple-ringed steel necklace with the small white objects dangling from each ring. The things appeared as sinister as cherry pits, until one learned they were the first bone of a human little finger. Each—and only one—was taken from a man personally killed in combat. The whisper of the dozens of tiny trophies on the cold metal said as much about Clas na Bale as most people were willing to learn.

  Tate compared her own brilliant costume to the couple’s austerity. She knew she was striking. Knee-high boots, with soft doe skin trousers tucked into the tops, and the loose, bright red wool blouse made an effective combination. A handwoven facsimile of her government-issue equipment belt replaced the original. A tooled leather scabbard held her murdat, the spearhead-shaped fighting blade of the Dog People. It was on her left hip, and the hand on that side rested naturally on its handle, a whale tooth carved in the shape of a springing tiger. Less conspicuous, her pistol was holstered on the right. Ammunition gleamed from green and white striped cloth bandoliers crisscrossing her chest.

  Her thoughts centered on her friend Sylah, this time with the unpleasant tang of accepted realization: as much as she loved her, she also envied her. She didn’t resent her, nor did she want Clas. She merely wished she had the least touch of what she thought of as Sylah’s heart-calm.

  Clas broke through her moral puzzling by sweeping her off her feet in a rib-cracking hug. In spite of her firm resolve not to do so, she groaned aloud, nearly masking his welcoming “I know you, my blood companion.” He put her down and stepped away to hold her at arm’s length. “I’ve missed you. I could have used you to help get my Dog People reunited after all the damage Faldar Yan did.”

  Tate said, “I know you, Clas na Bale. I’ve missed you, too. What’s this about damage? I thought that was all over. I understood those who supported Faldar Yan and Likat repented everything.”

  “They did, but many resisted him and his warriors. There were arguments. Injuries. A few died.
We’ve had more duels in the past months than in my entire life. But it’s over now. The healing’s taking hold.” He turned to grasp Conway by hand and elbow. “I know you, Matt Conway. I spoke to Gan last night; he said you’ve been invaluable.”

  After exchanging greetings, Conway animatedly related what he and Tate had gleaned from travelers and Peddlers about the lands to the south. Clas listened carefully, occasionally asking a brief question. Finally, he said, “I have to be blunt. I know no other way. You’ll never be more than a few days’ ride from the unknown. Even Peddlers call the country between here and Kos the Empty Lands. There are predators, men and animals. Much of the territory west of the mountains is dominated by Kos. Kos itself is a shadowy, unknown land, where many unwary travelers have disappeared. And now we have Peddlers’ tales of new forces coming from the east.”

  Conway said, “There’s more than one path. We’ve been assured travelers to Church Home are seldom disturbed.”

  Tate turned away from the ongoing discussion. Despite its importance and her concern over the dangers, she felt peculiarly distracted. Undefinable restlessness pulsed in her.

  At least she had some idea what was driving Conway to break free of Ola and its memories. Tee, the rebellious slave woman who’d led him to the anti-Altanar forces, was primary. She remembered how shattered Conway was when, after being freed, the woman rejected him. Conway would never understand. Any woman would.

  As a gift-woman from her tribe to Altanar, she was expected to bear the king’s child. Tee refused. The result of her courage was her presentation to Altanar’s protectors for their amusement. A bitter taste rose in Tate’s throat. “Protectors” was what they called Altanar’s white-clad palace guard; torturers and murderers, all. After years of them, poor Tee felt herself degraded beyond love’s capacity to salvage.

  If anyone were ever to save her, it would have to be Tee herself. People said she’d joined a ship’s crew and taken to a sea-trader’s life.

  Tate wandered down the dock toward the ship.

  A flock of brant, hundreds strong, passed overhead. Prim black and white, their plumage accented subtlety of design where their larger, regal cousins, the Canada geese, favored drama. The rush of their wings deluged her with sound. They landed in the shallows, breasting the cold, green clarity into curls of silver. Quick, taut, they gabbled anxiously, craning to look away north, to their distant breeding grounds. Need to renew stirred in their chemistry. Home called more urgently with every movement of the sun.

  Tate saw that, and ached with mute, unformed questions. She walked farther, watching the ship’s captain supervise arrangements for offloading. He was short, thickly muscled, harsh in his commands. She estimated the crew at about thirty. Many were shirtless, exposing dark red and blue tattoos of geometric motif. Most bared torsos showed at least one scarified wound. Every man wore a knife.

  The captain’s imperious shout ended her inspection.

  A small boy literally sprang out of a cargo hatch, vaulted a bale of furs, and raced to present himself. He was about twelve, thin, with a head too large for his body. His ears were flat against his skull, as if the need for speed pressed them down. Sharp features twisted into a knot of concentration, the eyes gleamed beacon-bright. Filthy leather shorts and shirt hung on him, so ragged they were a travesty of protection. Still, when he shivered, Tate knew it was from no chill. She felt his fear as he did. Involuntarily, she tensed in expectation of a blow. “Yes, Master?” the boy asked.

  The captain raised his fist. The boy flinched and dodged, which made him totally unprepared for the swift strike of the other hand. The slap staggered him.

  The captain said, “Get me a drink.”

  The boy ran for the hatch. When he reached it, he halted, as a small animal will pause sometimes before escaping down a hole. He’d given no previous sign he even knew Tate existed, yet now his eyes went straight to hers. The weight of that impenetrable, indecipherable look threatened to crush her.

  Dazed, she stared at the yawning hatch for several moments before making her way to Conway with uncertain steps she couldn’t properly blame on the rough dock. She pulled him aside, unconcerned for the rudeness that widened the eyes of Sylah and Clas. She was desperate to share her new knowledge.

  “That boy,” she said, straining at the words. “I have to talk to him.”

  Sylah overheard, and spoke up while Conway was gathering his wits. “If you mean someone from that ship, I advise against it. The Skan bought and sold slaves here when Altanar ruled. That’s why the dock is deserted. They’re foul men. In fact, I was just telling Conway we should leave now.”

  “You don’t understand.” She answered Sylah, but her gaze remained fixed on Conway. Dragging him closer to the ship, she shook with excitement. Several controlled breaths afforded her a measure of calmness. She said, “I have to talk to him, Matt. You know why. You understand.” It was a plea.

  “Understand what? What boy?”

  Angry, disbelieving, she said, “The boy. On the ship. The one the captain hit.”

  “I didn’t see that. Where’s he now? I don’t think…”

  The boy reappeared on deck with the captain’s drink in a pottery cup. Tate turned away, watching from the corner of her eye, lowering her voice. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She said, “He’s black, Matt. Mother or father. A grandparent, at the very least. I’ve got to know where he’s from.”

  Conway studied him. After a bit, he sighed. “Donnacee, there’s nothing there. He’s a little darker than I am, but a lot lighter than plenty of people. You’re worrying too much about that sort of thing.”

  Tate winced.

  A surflike roar in her ears drowned out the familiar chatter of the brant, the hoarse cries and commands from the ship.

  Conway’s familiar, trusted image wavered, lost its definition.

  Her friend’s face was gone, replaced by a white, featureless nothing.

  She was smothering.

  Remembered voices drifted into the emptiness. Hating voices, that had left invisible, never-healing wounds.

  Words seared her throat, words she wanted to scream at him to make him experience scorn. Slurs. Worse than that, let him feel true loneliness. Let him learn what it was like to have your life soiled by sly looks, whispers, with unexplained smirks that turned away when faced.

  Let him learn how that hurt.

  Then maybe he’d partially understand why this boy had to have her help. Her help. No one else could fully grasp his need for his beginnings. No more than they could understand her need to know her own continuity. Her belonging place.

  Chapter 4

  She raged, face thrust into Conway’s. “You telling me I don’t know my own race, my own blood? Or don’t you care? That’s it, isn’t it? Everyone here’s so mixed they look like one kind of white or another. No blacks? No loss. You’re here, your kind. You—”

  He grabbed her elbow, squeezing so hard the last word collapsed into a hiss of pain. He said, “Shut up.” The command was hushed, heavy with outrage. He went on, “We’ve been over this before. Maybe there’re places where blacks didn’t get completely assimilated. If that’s so, maybe we’ll find them when we go with Sylah.” She broke off the glaring contest, the wrath in her features slacking. He relented, as well. “Look, I’m not going to tell you I know how you feel, ‘cause no one can. I know it’s bad.” He shifted his hand to hers, holding it lightly, trying to be reassuring.

  Muttering, she said, “They make me feel like a freak. Want to know if I’m real. Try to rub color off. At least before, back where we came from…” She stopped. Her chin came up. “They make me crazy here, too, Matt, but they still haven’t made me blind. Or foolish.”

  Stiffly, she marched back to the ship. The squeal of braided leather rigging was like derisive laughter. The rearing bowsprit, a carved representation of an attacking bull seal, seemed to rock with malicious amusement. Up close, she could peer past the fencelike raised oars and over the
wooden wall that protected the wooden benches. The barrier was notched and scarred by arrow and axe strikes. There were two open cargo hatches where collapsible derricks presently hoisted bales of furs up from the cold. No shelter broke the sweep of the single deck, and Tate shivered at the thought of men on those exposed benches when a winter storm dropped on them.

  A cruel existence that bred cruelty into its survivors.

  She put her hands on the upper edge of the shielding wall. Small swells moved the slender, sinuous hull; it, in turn, pushed against her with a silent message of eagerness.

  She called to the captain. “Hello! I have a favor to ask.”

  Chatter dwindled to nothing. She gathered herself before saying, “I’d like to talk to the young boy on your ship. Are any of you related to him?”

  Loud laughter greeted the question, fading as the captain approached to stand opposite her. He said, “They told me this Gan Moondark had strange people in his lands. I heard about you. The black witch. Magic weapons. Gives orders to men.” He winked. “Women’s market talk doesn’t frighten me. The boy cost me a white bearskin. He’s not for sale. Or rent.”

  “Where’s he from?” Behind her, she heard her friends muttering concern. She couldn’t stop. There had to be someone, somewhere, to at least remind her of kin, another person to provide the consolation of likeness.

  Part of her mind scolded, forced her to admit there was nothing about the boy she could point to and claim it was a black characteristic.

  Yet she was so sure.

  Calling the boy to him, the captain put a hand on his shoulder. The boy stared off into the distance.

  A thin edge of doubt cut at her determination.

  The captain inched closer. Tate took a step away, and immediately regretted falling into his trap. He’d wanted to force her back. It established his control, and it put him in position to inspect her. Stony, calculating eyes ranged her body, conjured images of auction blocks and obscene indignities. Only pride held her fast. Finally, feigning innocent curiosity, he asked, “Are you really a woman?”