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

by Don McQuinn

  Bos planted a foot on the axe head. Reaching down, he yanked on the chain. Dodoy shrieked as the links pulled through his grip. He continued to yell, staring at his ripped fingers, a cry that escalated wildly when he looked to see Bos over him, sword poised.

  Dodoy rolled into a screeching ball, waiting.

  Bos kicked him aside, wild eyes fixed on Yasmaleeya and her child. The sword remained ready.

  A flash of yellow flew across the room, bowled headlong into Bos’ left side. As he staggered sideways, he lashed out. His sword slit the soft, white underside of the girl’s arm from wrist to elbow. She gasped and clutched at the upper limit of the wound. Thick, red jets pulsed between her fingers.

  Sylah leapt at Bos as the stricken, dying girl attacked yet again. Her functional, bloody hand clawed at Bos’ eyes. It was only a distraction, but it saved Sylah’s life for the moment. Instead of Bos’ blade striking Sylah’s skull, it was the handle. The blow sent Sylah tumbling into the slave girl. Both fell to the floor.

  Lanta spread herself across Yasmaleeya and the baby. Biting her lip, face screwed into a tight mask of dread, she turned away from Bos, away from the dripping, rising sword.

  “Don’t do it, Bos.” Helstar, sword wavering unsteadily, walked with careful, pained steps across the room toward Bos’ back. A wound ran from his eye to his chin, and he held his left elbow clamped against another cut on his ribs. The third warman writhed on the floor behind him. Helstar repeated himself, almost pleading.

  Both hands clasped on the handle of the raised sword, Bos didn’t move. “Whoever you are, I am Bos, second only to the Chair. I carry out his order. I can make you rich. If you’re a slave, I declare you free. If you kill me, where will you go? The Chair will find you. When he does, you’ll envy those who died here.”

  “We only want to escape.”

  Yasmaleeya thrashed to free herself of Lanta, who hung on determinedly, still refusing to look at Bos. Yasmaleeya shouted. “You lie! My husband loves me. He’ll love me more when he sees his son. You’re afraid you’ll be displaced.” She twisted painfully, craned to see Sylah, who was clawing her way upright at the wall. The slave girl lay white and still at her feet. Sylah turned unsteadily when Yasmaleeya called her name. “Sylah. He’s lying. I was wrong when I told you those things. I was in pain, and I wanted you to hurt, too. Stay with me. I need you.”

  Sylah tried to think. Her head throbbed. Her legs wanted to buckle. She found Lanta. “What should I do? The Chair could be saved. I know he could. And what of Yasmaleeya? The bleeding. I shouldn’t leave her.” She had to break off, lean against the wall to gather strength.

  The unexpected response provided Bos a way out. “Perhaps you’re right, Priestess. If you save the life of the bearer, the Chair may see the error of his ways. He may even—”

  The argument ended in a hoarse shout. When Sylah’s eyes focused, Bos was collapsing backward. Helstar was in a near squat, spread-legged, sword in both hands, the blade just coming to rest after a full-swinging horizontal swipe. Bos landed flat on his back. He tried to push himself upright sword slashing at the bed.

  Yasmaleeya screamed, clutching Lanta to her. “The baby!” she shouted. “He’s trying to kill my baby!”

  Bos half turned, aimed a thrust at Helstar, forcing him to parry. Quick as a cat, Bos turned again, thrusting at the women and the child on the bed.

  Helstar brought his sword down on Bos’ shoulder. The sword seemed to leap free of his suddenly limp hand. It clattered across the floor. Bos fell back. His left hand grabbed at his wounded shoulder. He seemed oblivious to his hamstrung knees, the result of Helstar’s first blow.

  Sylah rushed to him. Examining the wounds, she spoke to Helstar. “You shouldn’t have done that. We were close to an understanding. Now it’s all ruined.”

  “Get away!” Bos shoved her hard enough to knock her backward from her kneeling position. She hit the floor hard, forcing a cry of pain. Helstar took a step forward, sword raised once again. Bos’ crooked smile stopped him. Then Bos said, “How’d you know? A blink of the eye, Beard, and I’d have spitted the three of them to the bed. How’d you know?”

  “‘The wrists. You tightened up the wrists. The only thing was to take out your legs. Should I finish it?”

  As the battle flame faded from Bos’ features, pain rushed in to take its place. He swallowed hard.

  Sylah got to her knees, crawled the few feet to Bos’ side. “I can stop the bleeding. I can save your life.”

  “Not my legs. Nor my honor. I failed the Chair.” A thing that might have been a smile twisted his face. “I’m dying. As you will. And that fat fool and her child. Mine’s the easiest departure of all. I’ll be laughing at you from the Land Beyond.”

  “Hit him.” Dodoy’s shrillness jarred them all. “Stick him, Helstar. Make him stop talking.”

  Bos’ eyes rolled up and he toppled. Helstar ignored the boy.

  Lanta rolled off Yasmaleeya. She and Sylah leaned on each other.

  “If we hurry, we have a chance,” Helstar said.

  Yasmaleeya lifted her free hand. Her baby still nestled in the crook of the other arm. “Take the child. Save him.”

  The Priestesses protested in a flurry of denial. Yasmaleeya in her most objectionable, superior voice, shouted them down. “The bearer is not denied. Liars. I saw your faces when you spoke of my bleeding. That’s what I feel, isn’t it? My insides dying?” Diamond-bright tears shuddered at the rim of eyes that refused to acknowledge them. “This dead pig was sent to guarantee I die. With my son. Can you hear nothing? At least save my child.”

  Sylah’s mouth worked. No words came. Her head still ached from Bos’ blow; her mind reeled with the acceptance of how idiotically she’d allowed the Chair to violate her trust. Now this.

  Rising on an elbow, Yasmaleeya said, “I do not ask. I charge you. You helped me bring him into the world. You alone can save his life. Take him.” Falling back, she raised the child, extended him. Her tears burst forth. Shorn of pretense to throne and power, they were suddenly nothing but the grief of a mother.

  Sylah bundled the baby to her. She kissed Yasmaleeya’s cheek. “I’ve never known a braver woman.”

  “Nor I such an infuriating fool. Now hurry.”

  The word fool stung Sylah. She looked guiltily to Lanta, and saw a forgiveness and understanding there that was almost too greathearted to accept. Sylah rushed for the doorway.

  A shout interrupted her. Turning, she stretched to peer past the others to see what Yasmaleeya wanted.

  “His name is Jessak.” Yasmaleeya spoke firmly. She pronounced the name as if a d preceded the j, and with a harshness that grated against the normally melodic Kossiar dialect. The accented second syllable gave the name the sound of a slashing whip and the striking crack at the end of the blow. Yasmaleeya continued, “Jessak, child of Yasmaleeya, daughter of the house of Vang. He must rule. His name is Jessak.”

  Turning away, Sylah found herself alone. Lanta peeked around the broken doorframe gesturing for her.

  Helstar waited with Lanta in the hall, literally shifting from foot to foot. His color was gone, his eyes in a constant, jittering movement that always found its way back to Yasmaleeya’s room. He muttered inside the brushy beard; when Sylah came abreast of him, she heard, “Terrible, terrible.”

  He led the way past flickering sconces, bloodstained sword in one hand, baggage in the other. Beside him, Dodoy strained under the weight of a large leather hamper. Under it, the chain clutched in a bleeding hand, dangled his fierce little axe. Sylah and Lanta carried the remainder of their possessions.

  Suddenly, eerily, shrill laughter ranged the stone passage, echoing from before, behind, all around. It stopped the fleeing group, held them as if in a giant grasp.

  Sylah broke the silence. “Yasmaleeya.” It was a shocked whisper.

  Helstar started to look back, but caught himself. Eyes doggedly front, his fingers twitched, and Sylah was sure he’d executed a covert three-sign of some ki
nd. Then he said, “The sound of revenge. I knew. I knew. Hurry,” and they were moving again.

  The laughter pursued.

  Chapter 36

  Sylah’s group raced out of the building and toward the boats in the basin.

  Although few men remained on guard in the fort, the fugitives were seen. The men manning the signal tower, unable to determine the exact nature of the disturbance, lit the torches that indicated a major attack. As Helstar slashed the mooring line on a balancebar, he said, “Everyone knows certain signals. I never expected to see that one. Dodoy, Lanta—raise those gates quickly.”

  Sylah stepped into the narrow hull as Dodoy and Lanta returned. Throwing equipment aboard pushing, pulling, they helped Helstar get the boat through the passage, Torches were bobbing into the basin area as Helstar raised the mast. Lanta and Helstar gripped the sail halyard, poised. At Dodoy’s command, the cloth lifted rapidly, bellied, pulled eagerly at the vessel. A freshening breeze sent the boat surging ahead.

  Harbor flamed. The glow was a red, shifting wall scrawled with smears of thick, greasy smoke and meteoric flits of burning debris.

  Jessak cried. Sylah was forced to ignore the flames in an attempt to quiet him.

  More torches appeared on the crest of the wall. Some burst out of the tunnel, their light seeming to erupt from the overall glow they created within its depths. Arrows hissed past the balancebar. One, then another, tore through the cloth of the sail with hollow pops. Sylah moved forward, got the mast between herself and the archers, her body a protective curve around the small body clutched to her breast. Lanta wedged herself beside Sylah. Helstar pointed out Dodoy’s course, then turned to shield both women. Flat on his back, protected by the gunwales, Dodoy steered by the stars.

  The deadly whistle of the arrows stopped. Helstar spoke in a low growl. “All eyes alert. The bay will be full of Kossiar boats trying to catch anyone who escaped Trader Island.”

  Everyone automatically turned to look at the island. A bright light flared, and Lanta said, “Look, a signal. From Borbor, I’m sure. That’s where his house is.”

  Helstar peered out, bent forward. Sylah did the same. Simultaneously, both said, “Fire.”

  Sylah’s question was hoarse. “Did you send a Messenger to my husband?”

  “I spoke to one. I was as convincing as I could be. I can’t swear he’ll do it.”

  Dodoy threw the balancebar into a heeling, sail-rattling turn. His passengers grabbed wildly for handholds, exclaiming shock. “Hang on,” he said, coldly unsympathetic. “We’ve got to get away from that before we’re silhouetted.”

  Sylah said, “Why aren’t we steering for the bay entrance?”

  “Have you looked west?” Helstar asked. Sylah twisted to see, and inhaled sharply. Torches mottled the blackness where Kossiar boats cruised back and forth across the bay’s entrance. Farther out, tiny lights flickered where more vessels searched. The roar of the great shark horn droned barbarous invitation.

  Sylah asked, “If we can’t get out of the bay, where can we go?”

  “Duckhunter’s River,” Helstar said, gesturing, and Dodoy bent the course around to almost due east. “We join Wal and the others. You’ll head upstream on his boat. The Kossiars are thinner on the land to the east; they’re heavily outnumbered by the farm slaves. I expect most of the slaves will try to escape north, toward the Empty Lands.”

  “They won’t try to join the nomads?”

  “Some will.” He suddenly crouched, broke off with a sibilant hiss, then whispered, “Everyone down. No one make a sound.”

  Obediently, all bent lower inside the narrow hull. Sylah pulled Jessak’s bundling cloth up over his head and turned him so his face was pressed to her. The effort was in vain. He howled his hunger.

  “Quiet him.” Helstar growled urgency.

  Sylah dropped forward. Jessak was on the deck on his back. She arched over him, her clothes and his robe all tenting him and his cries.

  A voice lifted in discovery. “I heard something. Over that way, between us and Trader Island. Come about, see if we can spot them against the burning buildings. Bring your boat closer too ours. Wave your lantern; where are you?”

  A bright eye of light swung in broad arcs, then stopped. It was too far away to reveal them, but it made Sylah feel helpless. She cowered lower. The next thing she knew, the sail fell on her with a slippery, breathy sound, and Helstar was whispering hoarse orders at Dodoy. Sylah pulled the edge of the sail clear of her head just in time to see the pair lowering the mast.

  Jessak continued to cry.

  Again, the voice called to a companion. “I heard something, I tell you. I still hear it.” There was a pause, then an angry rejoinder. “Who cares if you don’t? Something’s out there.” Another pause, longer, then, “Don’t be a fool. Would you try to slip past that many boats? The clever ones’ll see the bay’s blocked and go south. It’s the clever ones’ll have the most loot.”

  Helstar groaned. Settling beside Sylah, he said, “Amateur pirates. Opportunists. They’ll kill first, then search the bodies and boats. If they see us, I’m going straight for them. Move, Dodoy: I’m taking the tiller.” Then, pleading with Sylah, “Can’t you quiet the child?”

  “Kill it,” Dodoy’s whisper rasped. “If it brings those people, we’ll all die. Drop it in the water.”

  Sylah ignored him. Wrapping Jessak tighter, she told Helstar, “I’ll give him a finger to suck on. It may help.”

  “Pray it does. Lanta, Dodoy: paddle. Lean on the gunwale, get your hands in the water. Silently.”

  For a while, there was no further sound from the other boats. The lantern disappeared. In the thick darkness the distant fires, the mournful bellow of the shark horn, the lights tossing on the ships at the bay mouth—all seemed irrelevant, unimportant. The next shout underscored that.

  “I see the boat! There! Come this way. I’m hooking on. Come quick!”

  Helstar’s sword scraped out of the scabbard. Dodoy whimpered. Still and all, he had the chain axe in hand.

  Jessak’s squalling faded away to fitful snuffling, sucking noises. The little head burrowed hard into Sylah’s unrewarding breast. She patted his back, made soft, soothing sounds in his ear. Then, inexplicably, an eerie calm descended on Sylah. She had the irrational feeling that she was the one protected.

  A solid thump, wood against wood, was followed by wild cries bursting out of the darkness. Sylah and the others peered toward the racket. Torches flared, frighteningly close. Helstar’s heavy “Down!” kept them flattened, eyes even with the gunwales.

  Three boats wallowed in the small chop, a smaller one grappled and flanked by two larger ones. All three caromed off each other with cracks and thuds. Confused voices, high with excitement punctuated the arrhythmic battering. Sails slatted. Shadowy figures leaped and scrambled aboard the middle boat.

  A yell of revulsion and fear cut the night. The boats continued to slam each other. Then a man said, “Warmen. They’re both dead. What’s that?”

  His question ended on a rising note of fear. Another voice sounded. “Shark! Another. Two. Look, they’re everywhere!”

  The raiders held a half-dozen flaring torches high. Ruddy light painted the heaving sea all around them, and in that glow, tall fins sliced the water at every point. The persistence had an ominous sense of something more than brute predation.

  A massive fin, far taller than any other, slid gracefully into the ring of light. The silence of dread fell across the men. The shark quartered, ever closer to them.

  A cracking voice screamed to cut the grappling lines, get under way. An arrow plunged into the water beside the black, glistening fin. It made a comical poop sound as it stuck. An instant later, it popped back to the surface, feathers first, bobbing uselessly.

  Disdainfully, the great fin submerged.

  The boat still connected to the derelict balancebar lurched upward. The mast snapped back and forth like a reed in the wind. Men screamed. One, standing in the bow, somersault
ed gracefully, shrieking, out into the waiting blackness. Agile beyond belief, he barely touched the water before his hand flailed upward, caught the gunwale, flipped him back aboard.

  Where he’d been, the water boiled savagely. Whirlpools told of a huge, devouring presence.

  Boats heeled in desperate tack, reaching for every inch of speed. Streaming sparks from their torches, both boats beat for land. A lone voice continued to shout incoherent terror.

  Helstar barked orders. “Help me get the mast up, then everyone to the back. I want this bow high.” In moments the sail was up and they were spearing through the chop. He kept glancing behind.

  Chapter 37

  Sylah knew when they were into the delta of the Duckhunter by the change of air. From the sea’s mouth-cleansing, copper-bright taste, they’d sailed into the thick, fecund breath of tidal wetlands. The smell reminded her of the pungent amniotic fluid; there was the same contradictory mix of unpleasant stink and exciting, fertile renewal. She pushed the cloth away from Jessak’s tiny, sleeping face.

  Helstar’s concern continued unabated. “Dawn.” Frowning, he inclined his chin to the east.

  Sylah reached to pat his knee. “We’re in time, then.” Dour, he made no answer. Sylah smiled. “What better occasion for Lanta and me to greet the sun? I’ll include a prayer for your safety, my friend.”

  She was turning away when he said, “Please do. I’ll be grateful. And ask for yourself.”

  His tone brought her head around. He pretended to be intent on the increasingly visible brushy riverbanks.

  Sylah and Lanta performed the ritual washing as best they could, dipping their hands in the sluggish river. The crisp, cold waters of the Inland Sea and the streams of the Dog country loomed in Sylah’s mind like the stuff of dreams.

  Only by dint of some careful bending and twisting were the two women able to face the sunrise without the sail blocking the way. Helstar, seeing the problem, changed course. He muttered complaint the whole time and snorted satisfaction when they were done.