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

by Don McQuinn

  More than that, Conway knew he was being tested. His mind went back to his impression of the white tent. This was a dangerous place. The thought exhilarated him. “You’ve found yourself here, haven’t you?”

  “Was found. My mother claimed me, her lost child. Epiphany, Conway. Not as ordinary humans understand it, or abuse the word, but in the true ecclesiological sense. I am the twice-born.”

  Formally, Conway bowed his head, but not so far that his vision was obscured. “I rejoice for my old friend. For the new siah.”

  Moonpriest beamed, but the smile dropped away like a snuff light. He lowered his gaze to stare at the ground. “It’s not all joy. I need a friend. Someone who can understand my burdens, someone to appreciate my mind as well as my holiness. I’m loved, Conway. Loved, but unknown. Can you comprehend that?”

  Picking words carefully, Conway said, “I think I can imagine it. Even though all these people are wise enough to recognize you for what you are, they’re still primitive. Compared to you.”

  “Exactly. My human guise makes me as mortal and vulnerable as any of these, but even as an ordinary human, I’m a man of infinitely more attainment. I understand completely a myriad things these poor savages can’t even imagine. And I have goals. The most farsighted of my followers can’t think beyond the next bloodletting. They’re a fantastic weapon, but unsophisticated. A club. I need a sword, a rapier. No, neither of those.” He stepped away from the altar and its wheel. Hands behind his back, he paced talking at a furious rate, as if he’d forgotten everything around him. “A blade of flame. That’s what I need, what I will have. A scourge, to cleanse the land, that Moondance may grow, become what it—and I—must be. To flourish is not enough for Moondance. Moondance conquers.”

  Doubtfully, Conway said, “Conquers whom? Understand, the Kossiars expect you, now that the slaves have made so much trouble. The uprising is devastating the country, but the Kossiar army is still very effective.”

  Moonpriest stopped pacing. His sideways smile at Conway was secretive. “Why do you ask who I’ll attack?” He barked a laugh, pointed at Conway’s suddenly concerned expression. “You see how my mind must work? How I must examine everything, to discern deeper meanings, unexpected agendas? But I trust you. At the base of all my problems is Gan Moondark. I’ll deal with him when the time comes. Kos teeters on the brink of dissolution. The Three Territories are dynamic, eager for change and progress. I must control that. Such energy is only rightfully engaged in my service.”

  It was an unsettling thought. Conway was careful to keep his voice neutral. “You march north?”

  “South.” Moonpriest’s grin was an almost-childlike glee at Conway’s continuing surprise. “Church. Earthly thrones are of no concern to me, Matt Conway, except as they contribute to my mission to bring human kind to my mother, the moon. Your mortal time has no meaning for me, land has no boundaries that affect me. My sphere is eternity, my dominion universal. Church is false, a whore to lead minds away from their true mother. And me. I must eliminate the slightest memory of those carrion-picking, black ravens.” Moving backward, seeming to float in the silver and white aura of his robe, he raised his hands and face to the sky. “Moondance conquers!” The crowd immediately turned it into a chant. “Moondance con-quers! Moondance con-quers!”

  While the chant hammered on, Moonpriest lowered his arms. He extended his hands, and Conway knew he was to take them in his own, signal his loyalty.

  Moonpriest stood on the copper plate.

  “…controls the lightning…”

  The remembered words blasted through Conway’s consciousness, stripped it of everything but terrifying understanding of the altar.

  Copper darts on the ceramic wheel’s surface. Arms with brushes to touch that metal. Wires. Connections.

  Lightning.

  Moonpriest. On insulated copper. Hands extended. Smiling.

  Conway’s mind exploded into fragments of thought. The offered grip might kill him. Arguments for living or dying raged. Tee was dead. Because Church wanted no more Moondance converts. Church betrayed the slave uprising.

  Lanta.

  Treachery.

  Moonpriest waited. Tonight was the first night of the full moon. Conway wondered if he was welcome friend or sacrifice.

  Moondance. War on Church. Vengeance.

  Conway dismounted, took the few steps to Moonpriest with a feeling of risk that neared ecstasy. Stepping inside the welcoming hands, he embraced Moonpriest.

  And was embraced. Unhurt.

  Life thrilled in Conway’s veins, hot as molten gold. He lived. In the grasp of death, Matt Conway lived.

  Windband heard his grating laughter over the pumping beat of their chant. They looked at each other and nodded knowingly.

  Chapter 40

  When Conway first heard the noise, a rustling no louder than stiff cloth dragged across gravel, he dismissed it and continued shaving.

  He sat in an oak-framed chair with a tooled wildcow back and seat. The design was a stylized buffalo, surprisingly sophisticated. Originally, it gave Conway pause. He wondered if he’d misjudged Windband’s culture. In the end, he decided it was loot. The wooden chest facing him surely was. All the joints were fine dovetails, the fit of drawers in the case mere thin slits. Presently, its polished brass decorative trim and hardware glowed softly in the light of a four-candle candelabra on its top. Next to that candelabra, his steel mirror leaned on his holstered pistol. The chest also featured a fold-down shelf with a hole for its own brass basin. Hot water sent tendrils of raspberry-scented steam coiling up and around Conway’s face. He rinsed lather from the blade of his combat knife, sending the steam wisps into a dancing frenzy.

  As he raised the blade again, the noise was repeated.

  Louder.

  He turned in the chair, looking over each shoulder. The light of the candles fell short of the cloth walls, giving the room a cavernous feel. Conway called out. There was no answer. If anything, the silence deepened.

  Wetting the blade, Conway resumed shaving.

  The next time the noise came he was prepared. He flipped backward in the chair, tumbling until his feet were under him. Rising to a crouch, he scrambled toward the wall on his left, the knife thrust ahead.

  A figure leapt upright from behind the room’s frame-and-webbing bed. Unidentifiable in the darkness, it shrank from the knife, keening a muted terror that begged for secrecy as much as for life.

  Conway grabbed it, slapped the flat of the blade against the neck. “Who are you?”

  “Your friend. Your friend. The only one you have in this place, Matt Conway. A man who’s been wronged and would spare you his sad experience.”

  Conway dragged the unresisting figure into the light. The man kept his face half-shielded, an instinctive creature of the dark. Conway gaped. “Altanar.” It was spoken certainly, but with wonder. “I heard you and Jones… Moonpriest…”

  Altanar interrupted, winking, leering. “Ahhh, very clever. Clever. You learn quickly. But not perfectly, and even the smallest mistake can bring you to the Man Who Is Death. The name Jones is forgotten. The name never was. Cannot be used.”

  Lowering the knife, Conway asked. “He denies being one of us? The travelers who came to Harbundai and Ola?”

  Altanar gestured at the single chair, made it a gracious offering. Conway sat, waiting for an answer. The former tyrant, now dressed in plain cotton pullover vest and baggy trousers that reached only to midcalf, drew himself to full height. His head rose, chin out, and the shadow of the former King of Ola was resurrected for the moment. “He’s not so crude as to deny. He ‘suggests’ it not be discussed. Only his life now is important. Following his rebirth.” Altanar pronounced the last word as if it were a joke. Conway noticed that no amusement touched the ragged man’s face, nevertheless. He also noticed Altanar’s minute pause while he scrutinized his listener. The whole situation was intended to trick Conway into revealing a disbelief for disrespect far Moonpriest.

  Conw
ay wondered if Altanar had any notion exactly how much his clumsiness revealed.

  “Tell me of this rebirth,” Conway said, and Altanar leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “You see? You do need a friend. Did you know that Fox insists you should be killed? Katallon, on the other hand, wants to keep you alive. He wants to torture your secrets out of you, make you show his nomads how to make lightning weapons, how to use them. Then, he says, Fox can kill you.”

  Wryly, and mostly to himself, Conway said, “Timing is everything.” Then, “Has Moonpriest ever told this Fox why he wants me alive? Or Katallon? Exactly who is Fox? And how come you’re so close to Jo—Moonpriest? Frankly, you don’t look like a close companion to a new siah.”

  Conway was interested to note that Altanar could still react to a slight. The way he quickly covered the response was the telling fact. Altanar wasn’t changed, Conway realized, but had learned to keep his feelings wrapped. That was when Conway first saw the round scars on the backs of Altanar’s hands. Burn scars. And the man’s toes, peering out in the front of his sandals, grew in all directions. Broken. Never treated. Conway looked away.

  Altanar was saying, “Move very carefully. You cannot survive here without a major ally. I’m too weak to be anyone’s ally, too despised to have a friend. Even the slaves that escape Kos are treated better. If they can fight, if they embrace Moondance, they’re free men. I can only turn to you, Matt Conway. We were enemies once, so I know you well for a man of courage and honor. I throw myself on your mercy. Befriend me, and I swear to work for you day and night. All I ask in return is your effort to make my life a little less painful. You’re to think I’m no right adviser to Moonpriest. He loathes me. I’m a trophy. My downfall glorifies his eminence. To him, I’m dirt. But like dirt, I cling.” A hand fluttered forward, tentative and erratic as a moth. It touched Conway’s sleeve, retreated in confusion. “I seek no revenge. Suffering has made me contemplative, satisfied with the simplest of pleasures. It would be false friendship indeed for me to entangle you in Windband’s intrigues. In this place, a friend protects a friend. I would gladly give my life for such a one.”

  “They’ve treated you very badly.”

  “It’s not as bad as it was. No more actual torture. Beatings. Blows. Constant contempt. Sometimes I think dying is a way out. But I never forget Church’s aversion to suicide.”

  Conway interrupted. “Church’s rules and wants don’t interest me.”

  “Of course, of course. Officious. Yes, far too officious. Still, I’m not ready to die.”

  “Nor am I, and I remember you for what you were. As you say, though, I can use a friend. For now, tell me how this Moonpriest thing came about.”

  Squatting on the pounded-earth floor, Altanar rocked back on his heels. Eyes fixed on Conway with almost hypnotic intensity, he recounted the escape from the Three Territories that culminated in his servitude and the alliance of Fox Eleven, Katallon, and the new Moonpriest. When Conway questioned him about the altar, Altanar’s concentration almost broke. Clearly frightened to the depths of his soul, he described its origin, ceremony, and effect on its victims in horrified detail.

  Conway continued to listen, but his mind wandered, enumerating the “contributions” the people of his time had visited on this world. Back in Ola, Leclerc had improved lifting cranes, adding safety and efficiency to construction. He’d also built the first coke ovens. Everyone rejoiced. Better defensive walls, better swords. Another boon was the reinvention of black powder. Lots of cultural uplift there. Now Moonpriest was enslaving Windband through the magic of an electrical generator.

  Conway was unaware of the wolfish, bitter smile he showed Altanar. The latter misinterpreted it. Pitching forward, rising angrily, he said, “You doubt me? You’ve never seen the altar, never seen the look of a man when the Man Who Is Death burns his life away. Don’t mock what you cannot understand.”

  Pointing at the wipe, Conway said, “I know something of controlling lightning. Do you think I don’t realize that’s why Moonpriest hoped Tate and I would join him? You insult.”

  “Forgive me. I’m overly sensitive. Overly. Abuse does that to a man; he begins to see offense in every gesture.”

  “Nervousness can have the same effect. I spoke too quickly. Tell me, what other miracles has Moonpriest performed?”

  Altanar was shocked. “Others? None. Why should he? He’s risen from the dead. I was there, saw it. So did Fox. He has animal spirits that do his bidding. He brings the light of the moon to strike his enemies and unbelievers. What other miracles could be wanted?”

  “Is it moonlight that kills, or is it lightning?”

  “Both. Moonpriest explained to us. When the moon spreads her light over all the world, it’s soft and benevolent. When she concentrates it in one place, then it’s lightning, and it kills.”

  “I see. But even with all his power, Moonpriest doesn’t rule Windband. You mentioned intrigues. Who plots against whom?”

  “No one plots. Yet. But everyone thinks. Fox trains a scout-strike force. All the men are his own Mountain warriors or Buffalo Eaters. Everyone knows they’re his personal troops, fanatically loyal to Moonpriest. Katallon hates them. Hates Fox. But he needs them to increase Windband. Katallon suspects Moonpriest wants to rule in his place, but Katallon fears to offend Moonpriest. The people are uncertain. Moonpriest is a god, but Katallon’s a leader. Most worship Moonpriest, yet many still believe the affairs of men belong to men alone. A living god among ordinary people is a dangerous thing. Beware of him. He holds the power of life and death, with no conscience or punishment in this world or the next.”

  “Speaking of careful, tell me how you got in here. This tent’s amazing, full of hallways and rooms; it goes on forever. There’s a guard everywhere you look. How do you get past them?”

  Altanar was suddenly shrunken, as if he collapsed inwardly. He cowered, and yet his whole being suggested defiant malice. Edging back into the darkness, he said, “Altanar is harmless, knows how to be amusing when he’s caught. Most of the time, he’s unseen. Altanar knows how to move in the dark. When even the moon is blinded. Blinded. Then Altanar is unseen, unrevealed. Could you want a better friend?”

  With that, the coiled little man blended into the blackness. When Conway walked after him, Altanar was already behind the bed once again. “Wait.” Altanar’s word was a command. Surprised, Conway checked. Then, angry with himself and Altanar, he strode forward purposefully. He yanked the bed aside.

  The cloth wall scraped across the dirt. It was a repeat of the earlier sound, the one that announced Altanar’s unsuspected arrival. Now it laughed softly in the wake of Altanar’s equally effective escape. Conway dropped to his knees, lifted the cloth to peer under it. The adjacent room was empty. There was no telltale sway of cloth wall to suggest Altanar’s route.

  Chapter 41

  The dining hall of Katallon’s tent-castle was a scarlet chamber large enough to seat forty people at its long, single table.

  Conway found himself unable to appreciate the multicolored shields and trophies that festooned the walls. The dominant hue reminded him of the Chair’s red mourning clothes. It did little for his appetite.

  It was a reaction the new Conway considered a character flaw. Remembering the Chair unleashed a torrent of sensation—loss, anger, sadness. Those were positives. Whatever nurtured the constant flame of hatred in his heart was good.

  Anything that exposed remnants of sensitivity in the new Conway was bad.

  The Chair was merely one of those who had much to answer for to the new Conway. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with pursuit. Time was of no matter, nor was means. In the end would be revenge. The old Conway survived being hunted across Kos. That Conway metamorphosed, became someone else. At first, he struggled to stay alive and mourned Tee’s death. By the time he duped the ambush near the crest of the Enemy Mountains, he was the hunter, no longer the hunted. Every breath the new man drew was in the name of Tee’s murder.

&
nbsp; Conway fixed his gaze on the red walls, thought of the Chair’s hypocritical remorse. He forced himself to drain his wine mug without flinching.

  Discipline. Commitment.

  To Conway’s right, just beyond Moonpriest, was Katallon. His bulk was accentuated by the broad beaded stripes running across his leather vest. Gold bracelets dangled from the wrists he planted on the table, gold rings gleamed on every finger. He leaned forward over the wooden slab that passed for a plate in his tent. It was an openly aggressive posture, aimed at Conway. “I’m told your lightning weapon strikes men dead farther away than most men can see. That’s hard to believe. Have I heard the truth?”

  Conway patted the wipe hanging from the back of his chair. “This one won’t reach so far, but it has other advantages.”

  Moonpriest was troubled. When he moved in his chair the silver threads of his white robe bent sinuously in the candleglow. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Tate has it. If she lives.”

  “It could be lost? In the Chair’s hands?” Moonpriest twisted around, the better to face Conway. “A rifle like that could destroy a hundred men.”

  Conway said, “First, you need ammunition. Second, you have to know how to operate it. You have to understand solar energy, computer chips, electronics. I don’t think our present contemporaries are geared for that. Do you?”

  Across from them, Fox raised a hand, frowning. The expression matched his somber leather garb. Obsidian ear bobs on silver wires were his only decorative concession. He said, “You use unknown words. Speak so we can understand.”

  Soberly, Conway continued. “Controlling the lightning is a powerful gift. Moonpriest and I share secret words, just as we share the ability to control. His powers are much greater. I’m simply a man with a weapon. Moonpriest is holy. No one is as he is.”

  Katallon’s expression belied the enthusiasm he put into his toast. “Raise your wine to Moonpriest, bringer of victory.”