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

by Don McQuinn

  Jones was staring at the dead men, amazed at the terrible difference between the earlier warmly human comradeship and the stillness that held the place now, when Fox spoke. “The way’s clear, Moonpriest.” The words were breathy, soft. A predator’s sound. Fox in his element.

  Jones shivered again, cursing the cold under his breath. The eyes of the Mountain women came back.

  Fox pointed into the darkness. “Windband’s learned some lessons. No fires tonight.” He jerked his chin at the watcher’s camp. “These fools didn’t learn. But on the ridge over there, and in that valley, their friends wait for my people to ride into their trap tomorrow morning.”

  Swallowing first, Jones said, “Bring the bodies.”

  Fox asked, “What bodies? None of us…”

  “The Windband men. On their own horses.”

  Jones could almost hear Fox’s disbelief. When he eventually responded, it was with resignation. “We’ll be delayed. We’ll have to pad the horses’ hooves, as we have ours.”

  “Then hurry,” Jones said.

  Despite the delay, the small group made excellent progress through the rest of the night. When the first spears of light were rising from behind the eastern mountains, Fox signaled the column to a halt. Before them, the valley sloped away to south and east, revealing the panorama of Katallon’s camps. Smoke rose from fires. Early risers meandered through the hodgepodge of randomly positioned tents. Herds of horses and cattle stirred, lowing or whickering greetings to the new day, shaking and rolling in the dirt. Cockcrow rose from every quarter. A great uproar arose among some chickens. Movement caught Jones’ eye. He looked to see a coyote with its catch in its mouth streaking away from the domed tents. Feathers drifted in the air behind the thief. Long after he was safely into the scrubby sage, the hysterical cackle of surviving hens continued.

  Jones said, “Lift the white flag. We’ll move in slowly.” The long pole with its square of white cloth rose. When Jones turned to the front again, there were several people in the nearest camp staring in their direction. As the group commenced its advance, those people began to run. In seconds, their cries of alarm reached the riders. Soon horns and drums sounded, calling out all of Windband. Jones’ column of twos closed against each other. He swiveled to look back at them, and his heart swelled at the bright determination on their faces. At least two were beaming, anticipating life or death with equal joy.

  Jones committed those faces to memory.

  Fox said, “The large tent with the six wagons drawn up behind it is Katallon’s. It looks black now, but when the sun’s brighter you’ll see how red it actualIy is. They say the cloth is dyed in blood. The wagons are for his wives and children. He never sleeps with the same wife two nights in a row.”

  It was old news. Jones understood that Fox was talking to control his own nerves. Jones let him go on. The part about the sleeping arrangements was especially interesting. Some might believe it had to do with domestic harmony. Jones was certain it indicated currents of power and hostility in the camp. The thought helped him remain calm in the face of the growing number of Windband warriors mounting horses and racing toward them. They’d been merely noisy, at first. Then one unleashed a war cry. In the next instant, the morning air seethed with shrieks and screams.

  Fox snapped orders at his men. They formed a tight circle, enclosing Jones, the packhorses, and the shrouded bodies of the Windband warriors. The white flag remained high.

  It was Jones who excited the most interest. With his turban and a large Moondance disk held above his head he was exotic. Rising in his stirrups, he turned slowly, displaying the disk for all. He sought direct eye contact with as many of the encircling Windband as he could, staring haughtily, challenging. Where his vision struck, there was silence until it passed on. Then there was a low hum of confusion.

  The crowd continued to grow as late arrivals from other campsites poured in.

  A man with flowing silver hair, riding a pure white horse, approached at the head of a loose group of riders. He wore a Moondance disk on his chest a good ten inches across. His followers wore smaller disks. Jones was surprised to see similar examples on the foreheads of the horses. The crowd parted before the latest arrivals as water breaks from the prow of a boat.

  Jones locked eyes with the leader. The man was old, spare, his face weathered into crags and valleys that mirrored the dry, harsh terrain around them. His clothing was a dark, brooding blue, under a hide cloak. The latter was as pliant as cream, flowing from the bejeweled gold fastener at the man’s neck, over his shoulders, and across his mount’s haunches. He rode through the encircling Mountains and reined in just before the animal collided with Jones’ horse.

  The man said, “I am the Windband Moondance priest. You are the ones who killed them, the ones who killed others of our people.”

  Jones remained silent.

  The priest spat on the ground. “You kill our men, then come among us with the bodies? You think to hide behind the white flag?”

  Again, Jones refused to answer. The priest’s color rose, as did his voice. “You will burn with them!”

  The mob around Jones’ tight circle exploded in cries of anticipation. It took all of Jones’ will to maintain the calm eye contact that was their sole hope of survival. Fox growled orders at his men.

  The priest raised a long arm, pointed at Jones, then moved the hand so the gesture included the entire party. He waved the other hand in a circle over his head.

  The crowd howled. Swords appeared.

  Sweat ran down Jones’ sides. Still erect in his stirrups, he dared not sit down, yet his knees grew weaker with every heartbeat. Already they trembled almost uncontrollably. Behind him, he heard a warrior praying. To Moonpriest.

  Jones swung the disk in his extended hand. The glimmer of smile that flicked across the austerity of the other priest reeked of scorn and triumph.

  Above the tumult, the blast of a horn demanded attention. Everyone quieted once again, turning toward the disturbance. Jones had only to look at the man approaching to know it was Katallon himself. If that hadn’t told him, the behavior of the crowd would have; where they parted for the Moondance priest, they crowded around Katallon, vying to move with him. Only the presence of a party of four mounted frontrunners allowed the gaily dressed figure to proceed uninterrupted.

  In open-throated scarlet jacket and yellow trousers, Katallon wore a beige high-crowned hat with a wide, curled brim. For one mad instant, all Jones could think of was the picture of a Mexican vaquero in one of his childhood history books. The moment passed at the first clear sight of Katallon’s features. There was grim anger there, which Jones was prepared for. More than that however, there was a charisma that reached across the space between them.

  Jones lowered himself back to his saddle. Instinct told him that one addressed Katallon of the Windband in a posture of respect.

  The frontrunners cleared the crowd so Katallon could take a place next to the priest.

  Jones cleared his throat. He said, “I salute Katallon. I come to surrender to him. I offer to join our forces with yours.”

  “You know me?”

  “By sight, no. By awareness. You are Katallon.”

  “What if I told you I am his War Chief, come to approve Wippard’s determination to have you cut to pieces?”

  “I would call that a lie.”

  A collective sigh went up from the crowd. From the corner of his eye, Jones saw swords raised again.

  Katallon said, “You’re not bold, you’re foolish. You have the bodies of my warriors on those horses. Our horses. You must know my warriors are slaughtering your people by now. You think to bargain some sort of escape for yourself and these murderers? You expect me to accept your coward’s surrender?”

  Fox’s chin rose. His eyes flashed.

  Jones said, “There will be no slaughter, Katallon. Before light, our warriors stampeded the horses of your men. The rest of our people had long since retreated to the mountains. No one rode int
o the trap. Your warriors are walking back to your camp now. Some will have recaptured mounts, I’m sure. You can expect them fairly soon.”

  Katallon’s face darkened. He said, “You die today, false priest. If you’re lying to me, it’ll be a very painful death.”

  “I do not lie. I will not die today, nor on any day of any man’s choosing. It is not time. Although I am only a man, as all other men, I tell you it is not time for me to rejoin my mother.”

  “You know that, do you?” Katallon grinned. “We’ll see.”

  The priest named Wippard leaned forward. “Your mother may not want you to come home, fool, but we’ll send you to her tonight when the mother of us all shines her face on us. I promise you you’ll beg both mothers to let you come home, wherever that is.”

  Not deigning to look at Wippard, Jones spoke to Katallon. “I do not come to one as mighty as Katallon to offer something as unimportant as my own small following. Nor do I come to beg for an opportunity to run from you. We want peace and union with Windband.” He paused, turning slowly from Katallon to survey the crowd. He raised his voice. “I come to Katallon to offer the power of the moon. I do so under the orders of my one mother, the moon. She sends me.”

  “Blasphemer!” Wippard spurred his horse forward. Katallon grabbed the priest’s reins and was nearly pulled out of the saddle. A frontrunner forced his mount between Wippard and Jones. Order was restored quickly, Katallon pushing his hat off his head to dangle down his back by the chin strap. The agitated rumble of the crowd had no effect on him at all.

  “Your warriors have embarrassed our best,” he said. “You’ve outguessed every trap we’ve set for you. Now you speak of the power of the moon. If you can show me what you mean, if you can share this power with my War Chief and his chiefs, I may let you live. But if you ever again say you are the child of the moon, I can’t answer for what our priests will do to you.”

  “I will share everything I have with Katallon. I will not deny my heritage. If this Wippard one thinks he is more to my mother than I, then let him defy her. Tonight when she visits us in her most glorious, test us. See if he, or his priests, can surpass the power she gives me.”

  “A test? Between priests?” Katallon laughed hugely. “Who could resist that?” The crowd, on cue, laughed with him. He shouted, “Prepare the pyre for our warriors. Treat these warriors as true men of the sword. Tonight this braggart priest and our Wippard will contest. You will all judge. If the stranger is this much less than what he claims to be”—he held up thumb and forefinger, practically touching—“then he’ll entertain us further. And so will every man with him.” He dropped back into the saddle, returning his attention to Jones. “Come with me, whoever you are. What do you call yourself?”

  Jones saw cunning, as well as the charisma. And there was the tiniest flare of uncertainty, the fear-spark of a man confronted by something he isn’t entirely sure of.

  “Moonpriest,” Jones said. “I am Moonpriest.”

  Chapter 35

  Fox glowered at the mob surrounding the Mountain group. His people sat in an oblong, with a small fire of wildcow chips in the center. Each man watched out for the safety of the backs of the companions across from him. They all pretended to ignore the hostile stares and occasional insult.

  The only time they broke the security of their formation was to check the condition of the packhorses still burdened with Jones’ equipment. The animals were all tied to a picket line, and hobbled as a further precaution.

  To his men, Fox said, “If these Windband dog droppings are treating us the way they treat all ‘true men of the sword,’ I have to wonder how they treat the untrue.”

  “If Moonpriest doesn’t perform some very convincing magic, we’ll learn,” one answered easily. He might have been commenting on the weather.

  Fox grunted, then. “I wish Moonpriest hadn’t made us wash off our death paint. It’s not right I should go to the moon mother with my face undecorated. And my arm’s still weak where I was cut. If they come for us, crowd close to my right side.”

  “How long do you think we’ll last?”

  “Not as long as we will if they take us alive.”

  One of the other warriors said, “How long until sundown?”

  Another answered. “You don’t mean sundown. You mean moonrise. You’re afraid Moonpriest’ll fail.”

  The accused one dropped his head, drew aimless marks in the dirt. The firm believer dismissed him with a sneer and turned to Fox. “Has Moonpriest talked to you about the new power his mother gave him? How’ll he beat this Windband priest?”

  “He’s never told anyone how he controls the snakes, has he? He only let me see him come back from the dead because he needed a witness. He’ll show everyone when it’s time.”

  “I hope,” the man beside him whispered.

  Fox spun to confront him. Barely audible, he said, “Enough. If Moonpriest fails, it’s because he’s called home to his mother. Not even he can know everything. If that’s the way, it’s our honor to go with him.”

  Fox turned his attention back to the crowd. Once he thought he saw Varnalal, but couldn’t be sure. He didn’t blame the man for not coming close. It wasn’t a consolation to be associated with Jones’ destiny.

  * * *

  The guards had insisted Jones dismount to follow Katallon and Wippard. Four men were assigned to escort him. He took the time to face each one, meeting their eyes with his own stare. One by one, he rejected their intimidation. When they finally boxed him in and moved off, Jones reveled in their edgy glances.

  The snakes in their carrying bags moved incessantly, somehow warned that the world outside their warm, soft sanctuary had radically changed. When they merely hungered, their movements were abrupt, nervous. This was different. Slowly, powerfully, they flowed across Jones’ chest. He was glad his flowing shirt hid the activity, but he mentally enjoyed their stretching, vicariously shared their strength.

  Looming ahead, Katallon’s tent demanded Jones’ attention. The woolen cloth was, as Fox said, a venous purple-red. Wind ripples gave it the look of a beating heart. Its lines were leather, held taut by friction toggles. The outside poles were taller than a mounted man, each capped with a spearhead. There was no other ornamentation, no pennants, no insignia.

  Jones’ warrior escort stopped at a small awning projecting over the entry.

  Jones entered alone. Dozens of candles arranged on triangular stanchions provided light, as did flaps in the ceiling. Only a few of the latter were open at this time of the morning, due to the lingering chill. Sun shot through those facing east. Candle smoke writhed in the beams.

  Tapestry drop cloths featuring hunting scenes created a large room. Against the far wall a throne stood on a raised platform. Katallon indicated a slit in the drop to Jones’ right. Wippard was already disappearing through it with the ease of familiarity. Before Jones could move to obey Katallon, a hitherto-unobserved guard stepped away from the wall by the front entry. He reached for Jones’ chest, and Jones warded him off. The man’s sword was out immediately.

  Katallon shouted, “No! Don’t kill him,” then asked, “what are you carrying under there?”

  Jones said, “Spirit creatures. Animals sent to me to symbolize my being.”

  Wippard’s furious face reappeared in the exit slit. “Animals? Moondance has no spirit creatures.”

  “I speak for me,” Jones interrupted coldly. “My powers are mine alone.”

  Turning to Katallon, Wippard said, “I won’t be in the same room with this fraud and his stinking shirt full of manure.”

  “Sit in the next room and listen through the wall, if it suits you better,” Katallon said. He watched Jones carefully. “You say these things symbolize your being? We know people who call themselves People of the Bear, or Tiger—many things. Is that what you mean?”

  “In a way. It’s my intention to show you.”

  “This is the power you claim to have from your mother?” Katallon’s smile threatened.<
br />
  Jones managed nonchalance. “The smaller part of it.”

  Katallon gestured for Jones to follow Wippard through the slit bringing up the rear himself.

  The second room was obviously a place for more-select gatherings. There were chairs, made of wooden frames with leather seats and backs. Small cushions on the floor beside each allowed the user to arrange his own comfortable padding. Wippard was already in place. His choice was no accident, Jones saw. Katallon obviously used the largest chair. Wippard’s was on the east side, which meant the sun was to his back. While Jones watched, Wippard used a long pole to lift a flap above his head. Soon the angle of the sun would throw a beam directly on the chair facing west. It would be uncomfortable, distracting.

  Katallon said, “You’ve caused me trouble. Now you’ve challenged our priesthood. None of it was wise or necessary.”

  “I wish we could have come together under better circumstances.”

  “You could have ridden in with your people and joined Windband.”

  “What other people have you so welcomed?”

  “What’s important is that you’ve killed many of my men. My people demand compensation.”

  “And we demand consideration. We know you intend to continue west. We are between you and the sea. You crush all in your way, absorb those who surrender. We had to make you understand that we have no wish to be crushed, so we surrender on our terms.”

  “Terms? Demands? You sit in my tent, surrounded by my thousands, and you use these words? To me?” Despite the fury before him, Jones’ heart soared. Any ordinary man could be angered. An extraordinary man could command an inter-tribal nomad horde. What seized Jones was the raw ambition, the ferocious implacability that emanated from Katallon. Any defeat was temporary for this one. As long as he lived, his energy would be concentrated on the next battle. And the next. All conquest was opportunity for further conquest.

  Jones hoped the racing of his heart wasn’t evident in his voice. “I understand you, Katallon. I know what you want. You’ve heard stories of the Great Ocean, of the ease of the climate beyond the mountains. You want to rule there. I can make it possible.”