by Don McQuinn
Conway said, “I give you my word, we mean only to use them to protect ourselves. And anyone who’s our friend.”
“Protect?” Gatro’s jaw muscles bunched. He rose in the stirrups, pulling a short, straight horn of brass from his belt. Putting it to his lips, he blew a short call, three rising notes. Lingering echoes accompanied the rush of his men from their hiding places in the brush. They made a brave arrival, sliding to a stop, horses rearing. Falling into three groups of five, with a senior man in front, they lined up facing their Lance.
Proudly, the young leader said, “We are the ones who protect. We do it without tricks.”
Conway said, “We have no tricks. We have weapons.”
“Thunder and lightning?” Gatro sneered.
Shaking his head, Conway said, “It’s not important right now. We want to be friendly. Can we work together?”
The almost-singsong speech grew even softer. “We will.” To Sylah, he said, “Priestess, will you follow me, please? Our camp is just over there.”
Sylah was pleased to see that the Kossiars scrupulously left her group alone. She had no doubt a watch was posted somewhere off in the forest, but it was done with discretion.
Nalatan did, however, call to them from the darkness as the last flames of their campfire were dying. Except for the sleeping Dodoy, they joined him where he lay on the dragger that was now his cot. He spoke with startling strength and assurance. “Rose Priestess, what do you know of the warrior-monk brotherhoods that guard Church Home?”
“Only that they exist. And are brave men.”
“You should know more. We volunteer. We leave home. The brotherhood becomes family. Our fortified villages are self-supporting training grounds. Church’s enemies are our quarry.”
“What of wives. Children?”
“Brotherhoods differ. Some villages are family places. Some are all male; wives remain in their birth-village, raise their children there.”
Conway interjected. “What about your brotherhood?”
Nalatan’s face twisted almost imperceptibly. He answered calmly enough. “We have a family village, but we also have an all-male place of study. Part of the year we live—lived—there.” His suddenly harsh tone and flare of intensity shocked his listeners. When he went on, it was obvious he was exercising an iron control. “A year ago, a priestess calling herself Harvester came to the master of my brotherhood. She told of your quest and said you would be cast out for it. My master said it was the bravest thing he ever heard; shorn of Church’s life protection, a woman dared challenge all. The Harvester demanded we stop you. He refused.”
Sylah said, “A year ago? We…”
“The Harvester said Church Home has expected you for many years. A person she called the Seer of Seers told her you were coming. She called you by name. She also called you the Flower, who will be brought to glory by the white and the black, by all-powerful magic.” He closed his eyes for a moment, went on. “Two weeks after my master refused her, our well was poisoned. Of our sixty-four, ten live. As he died, my master tasked me to assure the Flower’s success. Then he told me I must make a place in glory for our brotherhood, make all people for all time sing songs of the warriors we were. Only then can I die.”
Conway smiled down at him. “Then I’m especially glad I came along when I did, Nalatan.”
The wounded man grimaced. “I swore to my master I would see the Flower reach her goal. To mark us as supreme among warriors, I swore to my master to kill the white magic. You, Conway. My rescuer. Can you hear the One In All laughing at his joke?”
The Moondark Saga: Book 5
The Path Of Confusion
Chapter 1
“I swear I smell saltwater.” Tate’s manner dared argument.
Conway laughed, poking at the remains of the evening cookfire. “You’re probably right. West wind. Gatro said we’ll see Harbor from high ground tomorrow.”
“If the weather’s right.” Tate affected a shiver. “Where’s spring?”
“I was wondering about that myself. Remember the vidisk in the crèche? It said they had years with cool summers, a nuclear winter thing. Could that start a cycle? Climatic changes? Pendulum swings?”
“I try not to think about any of that. Everything I see reminds me we killed a world.”
Conway made a confused gesture. “Months of riding to cover distances we used to drive in hours. Interstate highways, mined for rebar steel.”
“Everything we ever built is evil, dangerous, or raw material. Humbling. How many miles do you think we traveled today?”
“About average. Twenty, maybe a little more. We’d have made better time on the whole trip if it weren’t for me going sick those times. Whatever I picked up in that blackberry patch, it won’t let go.”
“Careful. Sylah said never admit it’s illness. As long as she has the Kossiars convinced we’re stopping ‘cause she needs rest, we’re all right.” Tate fell silent again, then, “Do you get impatient, Matt? Discouraged?” She rose. The unexpected swiftness of the move cut off Conway’s words. She bent forward aggressively, firelight dancing against taut features. “Tell me the truth. This is about as long a conversation as we’ve had since we joined up with Gatro’s warmen and your buddy Nalatan.”
“I’ve been working hard with the dogs. Stormracer. Nalatan.”
Tate affected a fist-on-hips pose and burlesque dialect. “You’ve been uncommunicative and preoccupied. I’m the onliest mama you got. Best you talk to me, boy.”
She earned a wan smile. “I’m scared, Donnacee. I don’t know who I am.”
“Come on, Matt; this is not a world where we play barroom psychology games.” When he looked up from the fire, she saw his hurt. Immediately, her hand went to his cheek in apology. “Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s just that, that day you fought the Skan captain, I thought I’d come to terms with myself and this world. Even though I still think that’s true, some of the responses are all wrong.”
Tate withdrew her hand. “If I ask you what that means, will you tell me?”
“I’ll try. I’m a transportation expert, right? I mean, look at me. I sat at a desk and punched buttons. Sacks of cement off to Boise. Tons of mushrooms, Miami-bound. Now I’m stuck here. All I can do is fight. Okay. So if I fight for the right cause, I can make a difference. Make a contribution. Does this make sense so far?”
Very thoughtfully, Tate said, “I’m listening.”
“I’ve got a gut feeling Sylah’s Door’s going to help people. Being part of that’s important to me. I can’t be like Gan or Clas, but I can use our weapons, and that makes me a man who can contribute. I’m proud of that. But I blew it.”
“Blew it? Blew what?”
“Me. My reference.” He paused, and a pained smile touched his face. “The kids used to say to someone who was confused, ‘You got no ref, man.’ Kids’ slang, but I thought it was perceptive. And here I am. No ref.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The day I saved Nalatan I had to kill one raider. Two, maybe. I killed every one I could get in my sights, Donnacee. I did it because I liked it.”
“Nonsense. There’s a difference between the heat of battle and liking killing.”
“I bushwhacked them.”
“I don’t have any easy answers for you. One thing, though; you’re no crazed killer.” She talked over his attempted response.
“I believe what you said happened. Once. Those were very bad people. Just the fact that it worries you shows you’re rational.”
“What if that sort of thing becomes normal to me?”
Throwing up her hands, Tate said, “Then worry. Eat yourself up. Don’t ask me or any of the others to give up on you that easily.”
“You don’t cut much slack, do you?”
“All that’s necessary.”
He came around the fire to hang an arm across her shoulders. She pretended to ignore him. He said, “I have
n’t been good company, have I?”
She sniffed.
“I should have tried to talk things out.”
“You bet. Friends let their friends help them.”
“It’s not always that easy. I’m glad you’re there, though.” His grin turned teasing. “You don’t think Nalatan’ll mind if I take up some of your time?”
“That’s supposed to mean something?”
“Tell me you haven’t noticed how he hangs around you.”
She stepped away. “We’ve been riding together for a month. How could we not spend some time together? Unless we shut everyone out, like some people I could name.”
Conway pretended to ponder. “He’s not bad looking, once you get past the scars. You ever notice him washing up before his prayers in the morning? That cut on his back, on the right? Curves like the old interstate, where it left D.C. Kind of jogs.”
She swatted his arm. “He got that from slavers. He was just a kid. He was fighting one, and a second one came up from behind.” She stopped, squinting dangerously. “You rat. You’re laughing at me.”
“Of course. You two make a great couple.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You’ve got to get interested in someone someday.”
Shaking her head, she hugged herself. “Maybe after I get Dodoy to his people, find my own people—maybe then.”
They chatted a while longer about carefully chosen, inconsequential things. Tate realized she’d made little effort to engage Conway in any small talk while he was being so withdrawn; the silence wasn’t all his fault. It made her sad and angry. Preoccupied by her own concerns, she’d allowed a friend to suffer. Perhaps she couldn’t have helped. At least he’d have known someone cared.
Alone.
The word was a touch of ice.
When Conway called to his dogs and excused himself to go on nightwatch, she broke out of her introspection long enough to acknowledge him. Her train of thought drew her back irresistibly.
No one understood. Loneliness was separation from friends, loved ones. That hurt, fiery pain.
Aloneness was being not us, a dull grinding at the edge of consciousness, an ache that never left. Alone was a world without touching.
Of course she was surrounded by friends. Dodoy would be lost without her, and who could be closer than Sylah? Lanta was a darling. And Nalatan was a fine traveling companion. Reticent, though. He answered questions without apparent hesitation, and still there was a sense of holding back.
Conway was right about one thing: Nalatan was very much aware of her. A most-unsoldierly warmth flowed through her body, roamed self-willed and mischievous. For a moment it frightened her. Probing, prying, it made her think of an enemy, determined to test her defenses. She smiled into the darkness, entertained by the fantasy.
Intriguing was a better word for Nalatan. Just as she appreciated his ability to keep part of himself in shadow, he was most likely drawn by her own refusal to discuss herself in any detail. Of course, in her case, the less she said, the fewer lies she had to keep track of.
And there was the matter of the oath to kill Conway.
Men. Fools, all. Especially Conway and Nalatan. Polite. More than polite. Friendly. Still and all, they watched each other. It was Sylah and Lanta who pointed it out. Nalatan watched Conway’s eyes or his hands. As soon as Nalatan got close enough for swordwork, Conway’s chin dropped. His shoulders hunched forward almost imperceptibly. And he hooked his right thumb over his belt, the hand then in contact with his pistol.
“Just like dumb old dogs,” she muttered aloud, jamming a stick down among the last flickering flames and red-glowing coals.
“What have the dogs done?” Nalatan’s soft question startled Tate. A squeak of surprise popped out before she could stop it. Forearms and the back of her neck prickled. Oshu and Tanno were completely at ease. They’d obviously watched Nalatan approach while her mind wandered.
“Sneaking up on me isn’t a good idea. What if the dog hadn’t recognized you?”
“I came from upwind, to alert them. You were very deep in thought.” He spoke slowly, as always. Tate had the feeling that he reviewed sentences before actually speaking. His voice came from his chest, so heavy that a sort of rumble trailed it. Tate thought back to how ragged he’d sounded when he was injured. That rich voice was the last thing to recover, as if he needed it least.
Nalatan squatted on his heels across the fire from her. The fitful light painted a warm glow on his leather vest. Tate’s attention went directly to the neatly sewn repairs. The stains surrounding weapon penetrations were more apparent in the firelight than in the brightness of day.
Dark, unfathomable eyes gleamed at her from beneath heavy, tapering brows that ranged a broad forehead. He had thick, glossy black hair, cropped in a helmet shape that tapered down the back of his neck and left his ears uncovered.
Tate busied herself rearranging coals.
Silently, he extended some dried meat. She refused with a curt shake of the head. Deliberately, he twisted off two pieces. Handing them over, he indicated the dogs. Tate accepted them. For a moment she considered complimenting him on his awareness that only she should feed the animals.
When he finally spoke, he repeated her last words. “You said I should call out, ‘next time.’ I’m not banished, then?”
“Of course not.” She winced inwardly. Too snippy.
“I waited until Conway left. Sylah and Lanta are talking to Gatro. He’s telling them about the sacred grounds of Harbor.” The last was sarcastic, but before Tate could remark on it, he continued. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”
“About what?”
“Survival.”
“Then talk to all of us.”
He blinked at her sharpness, then pressed on. “Have you noticed that Gatro avoids contact with the local people?”
“Yes. He says it’s by order of the Chair.”
“He spoke the truth. A Kossiar can be executed for exchanging good mornings with a Peddler. Did you notice the slaves?”
“I certainly did, and if anyone—”
“Stop.” Nalatan’s voice was as quiet as ever, but authority swelled in it. “You noticed most wear leg chains.”
“I saw some with chains from wrist to a chain belt and leg chains. Who are you to stop me criticizing something like that?”
“One who means to keep your head on your shoulders. Listen. Kos survives on the backs of slaves. Rumors of revolt are rising like spring flowers.”
“Good. How do I help?”
Sighing heavily, Nalatan ignored the question. “When we get to Harbor, we’ll be required to live on Trader Island. It’s a rotten place, lawless. Sooner or later, we’ll be approached to help some poor, abused slave escape.”
Tate spat on the fire, triggering a nasty hiss and a writhing, red-tinted sprig of steam. “Anything I can do to help a slave, I’m going to do it.”
“The Kossiars will send such people to trap us.”
“How do you know what they’ll do?”
“I know. Will you help me? I’ve seen you react to the field slaves we’ve passed. The others care about them. You hurt with them. You can only help them by helping me.”
“Why me? If I’m the one most affected, why put me up front? Why not someone more tough-minded?”
“You won’t be able to hide your feelings. The false slaves will seek you out. Do nothing, say nothing to indicate suspicion. Point them out to me. If they’re true, I’ll find out.”
“Aren’t you going to warn the others?”
“Yes. They may not confide in me. I have to be sure you will.”
“You don’t trust them?”
A broad, bright smile illuminated his face. Tate was so taken by the instantaneous switch from forbidding conspirator to an inviting presence that she was totally unprepared for his answer. “I trust them completely. It’s you I want for a partner.”
Chapter 2
Copper plodded through the
fog with an air of resignation. The horse seemed to be signaling Sylah that he had no idea where this trail led, couldn’t see far enough to gauge its dangers, and was therefore resigning all responsibility in the matter.
Sylah felt it was a reasonable attitude.
Huge trees crowded the wagon-wide trail. Vaguely threatening branches arched overhead. Leaves captured the thick fog and concentrated it into fat drops, so that the rough shuffle of the mounted column was underscored by the irregular splat of falling water. To add to the otherworldliness, the tree trunks were greenish beige. Bark peeled like diseased skin, and had an oily pungency.
Eucalyptus oil was an important part of Sylah’s healing arsenal. Plowing through dismal fog, hemmed in by scabrous, shedding trunks, she wondered how she could ever have considered the scent pleasant.
The trail exited onto one of the meadows Sylah had grown to anticipate. Out in the open, with the growth almost exactly as tall as Copper’s belly, the penetrating smell of eucalyptus blew away. In its stead, Sylah luxuriated in the mixed aromas of shrubs, weeds, and especially the grass.
Her mind brushed aside the present, carried her back to the prairie of the Dog People, where she met Clas.
There was no smell like wet grass, and at no time was it as full of delicate promise as in the morning. The smell accumulated potency during the day, until a rain at dusk brought out an aroma so robust it fell to the earth, oozing down slopes and into draws and hollows, filling them like syrup.
On this strange and different hillside, that familiar morning tang filled Sylah with a rending mix of sadness and determination. The suggestive powers of new growth strengthened her resolve even as haunting reminiscence made her ache to abandon everything and return to Clas.
There was no turning back. The long ride south had settled that. Her decision to accept the complete role as leader had grown stronger daily. She was at ease with it. She was also aware that for her entire group, the trip had been a time of introspection, of inner searching and growing awareness. Flicking an impertinent drop of condensation from the end of her nose, she smiled to herself at the image of Nalatan’s dogged efforts to avoid being caught observing Tate. The plain fact was that the man couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Another fact was Tate’s disinterest.
