by Don McQuinn
Embracing her, Sylah held her tight. Her skin tightened at the contact, and she racked her brain for words to describe the feeling. Not exactly fear or apprehension. More a sense of something that could endanger. It was the incomprehension in an animal’s eyes when it sees fire.
Lanta was not fire. She was a person, a friend who had, as she said, given Sylah her life.
She continued to hold her arm around Lanta until the smaller woman had a foot in the stirrup and was mounted. Sylah got on her own horse, leading the way back toward the city of Ola.
She was glad Lanta was so subdued. She needed to think.
Church at war with itself. Inconceivable.
Her quest—compromised, watched. The Violet Order. Greedy, plotting minds, waiting. All of them? Could there be unknown allies in that group? Who?
Lanta.
A small doubt surfaced in her mind. She imagined it squirming, feeding, like the grubs that live in the hollow stems of the squash. They ate far from the flower, yet eventually they destroyed the vine’s ability to nourish. The lovely, forming fruit languished, turned to a slimy, rotten mass before one even knew there was a problem.
Sylah tasted bile.
If a note accompanied Katallon’s obscene “gift,” wasn’t it probable that another priestess wrote it? A Violet. Why hadn’t Lanta mentioned that? Was the schism in Church already so desperate that murder was merely another weapon? Could the Violet Order speak of accommodation while seeking alliance?
Lanta. What better way to assure her acceptance than to “confess” her weakness, then appeal for understanding and mercy from the one she meant to victimize?
All those emotional signals—were they fake?
Where was the truth? Had Lanta spoken any?
What of Tate and Conway? What made them always so evasive?
During the quest, who would be her confidant when the inevitable doubts came, when her resources waned? Who should she trust the most?
Who should she trust at all?
Chapter 7
“We should have stayed on the west side of the mountains.”
Altanar sawed on the reins of his mount to force it off the trail, then jerked it to an abrupt halt. Jones stopped beside him, casually easing his horse into Altanar’s, pressuring him into cover on the uphill side of a screening juniper. They’d seen no one on the gentle land stretching off to the east, which seemed the most likely direction from which to expect danger. To the west, the ground rose steeply to become the Enemy Mountains. As Jones scanned the lower reaches, a sleek magpie, its white wing patches startling against each black stroke, flew away. In seeming agreement with Jones’ caution, it dodged erratically through the shrubby trees.
Jones wished he could properly relax. He liked this country. The scented air stimulated him with its redolence of junipers and the flinty tang of rock-strewn earth. And the clarity! Vision reached forever, aware of vastness, of white-fanged mountaintops declining to rolling, arid hills that etched the far horizon. Jones felt good with the mountains at his back, with the whole continent before him. The land that touched what the savages called the Great Sea was pinned between it and the same mountains. Too narrow. Here was where he belonged, confronting the greater mass of those who needed the salvation he could offer.
Only he understood. It was a lonely thought.
Gratingly, Altanar continued his complaint. “The wind’s a knife here. I taste snow in it. We shouldn’t have followed the Mother River upstream so far before starting south. We should turn now, find a pass back to the west.” He huddled inside a sealskin parka, peering from the depths of the hood like a cornered badger. The formerly luxurious fur of the garment was travel-worn. There were near-bare patches where his elbows rubbed his sides. It was grimy, and a seam at one shoulder gaped. Similarly, the ornately stitched boots extending from under the coat were stirrup-scarred, unkempt.
Jones took a long drink from his canteen, the smoothness of its nylon camouflage cover in contrast to his prickly tan-and-white cowhide jacket and gray homespun trousers. When he opened the jacket to pull out a handkerchief, a shining silver pendant on a silver chain came with it. The rear guard of the party—seven of the total of fourteen heavily armed men—were coming abreast by then. Their garb was equally rough, giving them all a lumpy, brutish appearance. Most of their coats were ill-fitting, and sported clumsily stitched rips and suspicious stains. They all still wore scraps of the all-white uniform that marked them as protectors, Altanar’s elite personal guard. Now the material was tattered and so soiled it seemed to be trying to deny that shameful past.
One man caught the sudden appearance of Jones’ disk and started. His hand flew to touch his forehead with a bent forefinger. It was the first gesture of his tribe’s three-sign, and when he saw Jones’ bird-bright eyes watching, he blanched. Instantly, he lowered his hand to his brow as if scratching an itch.
Jones winked and looked benign. Once the man was past, Jones glanced at Altanar. The fool saw nothing. Of course. Ever since they’d left Ola a mere day ahead of one of Gan Moondark’s patrols, he’d been deteriorating. Yet he continued to bark his asinine orders at these straggling survivors. A fool. The men understood who was their true leader.
Still, it was Altanar’s name that originally drew these scum. There was a lesson there, Jones told himself: If you were going to depend on men to risk their lives for you, they had to be totally loyal or totally corrupt.
Loyalty was for fools.
Self-interest was man’s primal thought, and its natural expression was treachery. A natural man understood that all were like himself; anxious to be bribed, willing to betray, constantly seeking advantage. Such a man protected his leader because he knew the hand of every other man was against him. Such a man never knew who was watching, waiting to inform on him if his dedication ever faltered.
It was a perfect, self-perpetuating relationship.
Altanar’s protectors had nowhere better to go. Until now.
One day there would be a hundred—yes, a thousand—for each of these. They would wear armor with gold trim, and…
Jerking upright, Jones scolded himself for daydreaming.
Altanar was saying, “Are you listening? I said the weather’s warmer near the sea.”
“And every narrow forest track will have its watchers, looking for us.”
“That can’t happen here?”
Jones sighed. Only months ago, Altanar’s sarcasm had sharpness. Venom. Now it was merely the sour whine of an old woman complaining about cool tea. Jones took care to sound reasonable. “There may be watchers here. Not so many, though, and we’re not so tightly confined to trails. From a distance, we’re just another hunting party.”
Altanar gave up the argument. He spurred his horse viciously, startling it into a leap that nearly unseated him. In response, he battered its head with his riding crop. The horse was one of the barely broken animals they’d stolen from the River People, and Altanar’s combination of indignities tore away its veneer of training. Leaping vertically, it came down with its back arched. Legs stiff as posts rammed the earth in a spine-jarring, head-snapping series of hops that had Altanar grabbing with everything but his teeth. Frightened cries exploded from him at each landing.
It never occurred to Jones to try to rescue him. He lacked the horsemanship, for one thing, and any hint of violent activity was his cue to move away. Unconsciously, his hand went to his head. Creeping fingers stole under his fur cap, their touch icy against the hot, pulsating pink circle of scar tissue.
Sylah’s mark. Where she’d sliced open his flesh, cut out pieces of the skull shattered by a Mountain warrior’s slingstone. Exposed his brain.
Her. Inside his head. Smirking, prying eyes, watching him think, seeing terror and agony play across the vulnerable soft gray folds and wrinkles. Soft, knowing hands; probing, touching his thoughts, playing with his dreams. His secrets.
He imagined her under the pounding, tearing hooves of Altanar’s mount.
&nbs
p; A protector rode to help. Altanar welcomed him by throwing himself bodily at him, bowling the man backward out of his saddle. Both landed with a bone-rattling thud, Altanar on top. He rolled off in a stumbling panic, gesticulating wildly. “Kill it! It tried to kill me.”
Several of the approaching riders nervously fingered the bows slung across their backs, but none moved to carry out the order. Meanwhile, the horse, either belatedly aware of its freedom or sensing Altanar’s hatred, bolted.
For a moment, Jones wondered why the men hesitated to obey. The reason occurred to him when he saw the fallen rescuer rise and indicate silently for two men to pursue the runaway. Counting himself and Altanar, they were sixteen men with twenty horses. Four horses were needed to pack gear. A lost animal meant one man afoot until a replacement was found.
The little drama, and his analysis, pleased Jones. It proved Altanar’s men were already weighing his authority against their own interests.
A shout from one of the pair chasing the escaped horse interrupted his thoughts. He was thinking that it was good they’d caught it so quickly when a finger of doubt touched his spine. It was an uncertain pressure, gone so quickly it created more confusion than concern. A quick look around showed no one else disturbed, so he said nothing.
He listened, however, and as Altanar mounted a commandeered horse, he scanned the area around them intently. There was no movement. Nor any sound.
Not even from the men who’d ridden out.
After they’d been under way a while, he asked a protector what was keeping them.
The man shrugged. “A horse can hide pretty good in this mess. It may be a while before they rejoin us.”
“I want scouts out ahead,” Altanar said, riding up to join them.
“And the flanks?” the man asked.
“No. They slow us down. Don’t worry about a rear guard, either. If the River People were still after us, we’d know it. Concentrate on what’s ahead.”
Jones and Altanar continued together silently in the middle of the loose column.
Jones admitted to himself that they were simply adrift. He had no hope of improving his position without more manpower, yet once he began to gain fighting strength, Church and any local ruler would seek him out to destroy him or force him to flee. Moondance cult members would keep this small group fed. Shelter was a different proposition. Whenever they stopped with other humans, they courted capture.
It was useless to plan.
But he must have a stronghold, a rallying point. Then he could grow.
Where? How?
Suddenly, chillingly, that same dank finger of unidentifiable concern touched him again. It was so startling he gave a muffled exclamation. Altanar looked at him curiously, and Jones managed a faint noncommittal smile. Altanar dismissed him. Jones strained to see or hear something. Anything.
And then the brush came alive.
Whole bushes raced toward him, shrieking. An arrow flew from some of the charging greenery, its sibilance growing louder, louder, until he actually felt the hum of the vibrating shaft touch his ear. Behind him, a man screamed. The sound jolted Jones out of his immobility. He whirled to see the arrow sticking out of the victim’s eye socket. The other eye stared terror at the gray feathers even as death’s glaze swept it.
It was over in seconds. Men with faces painted to resemble skull-white, black-eyed, bloody-mouthed fiends were among them, on them, pulling the stupefied protectors from their mounts. Those still alive dropped their weapons and raised their hands. One writhed and screamed on the ground, pinned there by a thick-shafted spear. Jones was thinking how he resembled nothing so much as a fly skewered by a nasty child when a branch-covered warrior raised a massive club over the man. When it fell, it crushed the screaming with a finality that made Jones clammy and faint.
A voice shouted over the rest. “Kill no more! I want them alive!”
Jones looked to Altanar. His companion was grinning foolishly, as if the attack were a minor accident, the dead men a regrettable, but easily overlooked, inconvenience. He was nodding by the time the approaching warrior who gave the order was within ten yards, already agreeing to anything the other man said.
The warrior inspected them without speaking the whole time he stripped off his remaining camouflage. Mountain People, the blood enemies of Gan Moondark’s Dog People. Several carried sodals, the lancelike swords they favored for mounted engagements. All were armed with the ma, the shorter, heavy blades for close combat.
Jones noticed something else about them; their unwashed bodies and filthy clothes stank riotously.
Slowly, almost lazily, the warrior in charge unbuckled the straps holding the halves of his torso armor together. The outer covering was thick hide; it covered an interior frame of woven willow wands. Under the shell, the man was lean and muscular.
The lurid painted face bent toward Altanar. Inside the wide black circles, the warrior’s bloodshot eyes still danced with the fire of combat. His words trembled with barely controlled violence. “I know you, King Altanar. My name is Fox Eleven. I am a Manhunter of the Mountain People. Because we helped you in your war against the Dog People, they scattered us. We starved this winter. Have you ever seen a child die, sucking at the breast of a mother who has no milk because she starves, as well? I’ve dreamed of your death. It will be slow. My dead will hear you coming.”
Altanar looked around, eyes walling. The survivors of his force were herded into a mass. All avoided looking at their captors. Altanar fumbled at his neck, produced the massive diamond called the King’s Badge. He dangled it before him. His shaking hand increased the dash of light from its facets. Around them, Jones heard a collective sigh like the passing of a soft wind. For the first time, he saw the full numbers of Fox’s ambush party, now surrounding them.
Beseeching, Altanar displayed the jewel. “This will buy you food, clothing, horses—even a safe place to live. You can grow strong again, protect yourselves against all your enemies. Soon you can even strike back at Moondark. Just let me go.”
Fox made a show of looking at the other captives. “And these?”
“They serve me. If they must be sacrificed for me, that is the way.”
“Your pretty stone already belongs to me,” Fox said. “The only thing you have that I want is your pain. These creatures did your torturing for you. Now I want them to practice on this Moondancer, the Jones one. You’ll watch. Anticipate. Then comes your turn.” He turned to the cowed protectors. “As long as these two live, you live. Keep Jones, then Altanar alive long enough…” he shrugged, “maybe I kill you quickly. Entertain me well, and you may even go free.”
Jones heard something. He turned to see Altanar sliding sideways off his horse. His eyes were rolled up so that only the whites showed, and he flowed, boneless, to the ground.
Fox watched coldly. When he turned to the protectors, he said, “I don’t expect either of these weaklings to stand up well to your skills. Hope I’m wrong, or you have little time left in this world.”
Chapter 8
Jones lay flat on his back, his head propped against a tree. His features were harsh strokes across skin stretched taut and pale. Unblinking eyes stared emptily at the dawn, seemingly unaware of the world, yet—eerily—they wept. Stubbled wet whiskers caught the light in sparkling glints.
His feet burned below the leather binding securing his ankles. All feeling had left his hands, similarly lashed under him. A thin piece of sinew held his neck to the tree. The binding was tight enough to burrow into the flesh. Swollen blood vessels pulsed against the barrier.
Sunrise colors blurred through the tears, creating a shifting whirl of fragmented images that might have been memories, but which he admitted could just as easily be madness.
Fires. Bright flashes, far away, searing death-kisses against a dawn like this one. Burned, burning bodies. Rubble, stretching to the horizon, coiling smoke to the sky. Blood. Amputations. Yawning wounds. Sores from microbes known only to laboratories. Prayers. Pleas for
the strength to survive and forgive, pleas for air safe to breathe, pleas to the God of Battles to deliver friend to victory and foe to vengeance.
Someone laughed. He rolled his eyes toward the sound. Three small boys and a girl in ragged, filthy skin clothing shifted uncomfortably at his look, but held their ground. Finally the largest boy said, “Are you dying?” When Jones failed to answer, he frowned, a comic effort to appear adult. He dared a kick to Jones’ side. “Do you still hurt?”
The girl giggled.
Jones closed his eyes.
After three days of travel, dragging his prize prisoners along on foot behind horses, Fox finally felt his group was secure enough to enjoy an afternoon’s sport. The protectors stripped Jones and hung him by the wrists from a branch. They spread his feet until his hips threatened to dislocate, holding them apart by tying them to a stout branch. Exposed, spinning idiotically, he ignored the stretching muscles and cracking joints to beg them to cover his nakedness. They laughed. And brought out the blindfolded children. One at a time, each was led under him and allowed three swings at him with a sturdy pole. Jones was surprised and dismayed to discover how much pain he could absorb before fainting.
A day passed before he became aware of his surroundings again. The Mountain People were patient; they waited once more for him to regain some strength. Today, he knew, they would be amused further. He wept because he still lived.
The bold boy kicked him harder. “My mother says you’re weak. She says you’re no fun.”
Such disrespect for his suffering touched the remaining glow of spirit in Jones. “I hope they torture her,” he said. The bold boy cocked his head, considering the merits of the idea. The smallest boy was more sentimental. He punched Jones with all his might and bent to scream in his face, “No one’s going to hurt our mother!”
