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

by Don McQuinn

  A man galloping a white horse broke out of the trees shielding Blizzard. Varnalal said, “A runner. To tell Katallon of the breaks in the wall. The white horse runners are a good idea. Everyone knows they carry important information, everyone clears the way for them.”

  Another white horse appeared from the far side of the fortified village’s hill. Varnalal soured immediately. Conway laughed at him. “Another runner doesn’t mean another breach, Varnalal. Even if it does, you know Katallon depends on Blizzard to exploit first.”

  Irritably, Varnalal drummed his fingers on his saddle. “We’ve earned the right to be first.” He glanced around. Assured no one could overhear, he nevertheless edged closer to Conway. “Katallon doesn’t trust us. He thinks we’re too much influenced by Moonpriest. And Fox.”

  Stiffening, Conway looked down his nose at Varnalal. “That’s a lie. Who said it? How can you be sure the man wasn’t testing you? What if he reports to Katallon that you said nothing? Or agreed?”

  A shiver jerked Varnalal. “I didn’t agree. Not really. All I said was, Katallon’s our leader in life and battle and Moonpriest leads in life and in life after death.” He brightened. “And I said, ‘Moonpriest obeys Katallon, too.’ I remember saying it.”

  The pace of the drums quickened. Conway and Varnalal looked to the fort, where the smoke and flame of burning buildings behind the palisade boiled fiercely. The wall was still too strong to attack. Katallon’s warning flags remained furled.

  Varnalal ignored the new tempo. Consternation twisted the painted death mask grotesquely. Conway relented. “Don’t worry about it. It was just one fool exercising his mouth. Who was it?”

  Varnalal’s gaze dropped to his hands on his saddle. He squirmed like a boy caught in a lie. “One of my men. But he said he heard it from someone else.” He looked up, beseeching, not wanting to continue. Conway insisted. “Who did he hear it from?”

  “Man Burning.”

  Startled, Conway pulled back. Stormracer, already tense, responded with arch-necked prancing. When Conway had the horse settled, he addressed Varnalal with icy calm. “My slave said this?”

  The younger man looked away. Straightening suddenly, he pointed. “The pre-assault flag! Katallon’s ready.” He turned back to Conway. “Today he’ll see what loyalty is. So will you. I know you don’t doubt me, but I did a foolish thing. See how I make up for it.” Standing in the stirrups, Varnalal twisted his mount around almost by main strength, then sprinted for his Blizzard. Still upright, he screamed, a sound that combined a man’s voice and an animal’s ferocity. A similar sound broke from the one hundred throats of Blizzard. Varnalal never slowed. He sped across the tree-covered front of the unit until he was centered, arriving there just as the yellow pre-assault flag dropped and the black assault flag whipped up. Repeating his cry, which again echoed from the woods, Varnalal galloped for the breached wall. His men streamed after him.

  Coming out of the trees, they looked ragged, no more than three streaming packs, much longer than wide. Within a few strides, however, they were forming into distinct columns, each one four men abreast. The center one was close-ranked, its head even with the middle of the columns on either side. The men of the flanking columns were spaced much farther apart, side to side as well as front to back. From the front, the charge looked like a fork with two long, thin tines and one short, fat central one.

  Defensive reinforcements already manned the breach. Only twice the height of a tall man, the wall offered no overwhelming tactical advantage. Still, the archers on its battlewalk were protected, well armed, and desperate. They shrieked curses and war cries at the thundering Blizzard, raining arrows on them. Blizzardmen and horses fell, screaming, tumbling, some ridden down by those still coming.

  The riders of the widely spaced flanking elements were perhaps seventy paces from the defenses when the first return fire lifted from the columns. Only the first rank shot, but they were incredibly quick to get off second and third arrows. With the third, the reason for their spacing became apparent. Each rider wheeled left, retreating parallel to the ranks they’d led moments before. Every man repeated the maneuver. A constant stream of arrows rose from the columns, spiking the walls, skimming over them, striking defenders.

  The center column lifted shields overhead as they drove full-gallop at the flaming, smoking hole in the wall. Excitement, fear, bloodlust—all mingled in their howling cries.

  Conway dismounted outside the wall. With his dogs, he hurtled through the gap with the center column. Varnalal was inside already, facing back toward the wall, directing his men. Half drove right, half left, forcing defenders back from the opening. Conway threw himself into the battle on his left side. Varnalal held up a red flag, indicating new arrivals should ride past him and push into the heart of the village. Soon the red was replaced by a black and white pennant. Men pouring through the breach saw that, dismounted, and sought cover. The colors told them they were now the counterattack force, to hold position until needed.

  That need came moments later. Conway was busy with a gritty fighter wearing ill-fitting Kossiar armor when the first Blizzardmen from the penetration column started reappearing, forced back by a shrieking, raging mob. Armed with everything from scythes to the finest Kossiar swords, they fought with the abandonment of the lost. Varnalal’s men cut them down like grass, but there seemed to be two to take the place of every one killed. Sheer pressure forced Blizzard back on itself.

  Conway took a step back, half turned as if to retreat with those around him. His opponent, sensing advantage, struck quickly. Karda came from the side, taking the sword arm just at the wrist. The man screamed, the sound punctuated by the crackling of crushed bone. Conway finished him with a throat stroke, then resumed his hurried retreat.

  Step by step, Conway’s section backed until the still-fiery logs singed their clothes. Karda and Mikka were frantic.

  The black and white pennant dropped, replaced by the red. The counterattack force, rising from various hiding places, hurtled into the flank of the ill-organized, overeager defenders.

  An arrow struck Conway’s leather armor, gouged a wicked furrow, and skipped off. The vibrating shaft twanged nasally on its way to dash itself against a stone wall.

  Suddenly, something from behind nearly bowled Conway over. Whirling, sword poised, he looked up into the white-rimmed, walling eyes of Stormracer. Rearing, pawing the air, the horse literally demanded to be with its master. Laughing in an excitement that touched on madness, Conway swung aboard the animal. The man, the dogs, the horse, charged, transformed into a tempest of destruction.

  Chapter 7

  Slumped in the saddle, listening to Stormracer’s racking breathing, watching the bloodied flanks of Karda and Mikka bellow in and out, Conway noted the shadows on the ground and marveled that time could have passed so quickly. His gaze went to his sword arm. Blood completely covered his right side, from ear to heel. Splotches on his left told of cross-strokes to that side.

  He remembered nothing.

  A murky sense of guilt seethed through inchoate thoughts. There was foreboding, as well, completely incomprehensible, since the battle was already fought and won. It was time to celebrate.

  He closed his eyes, was assailed by dots of remembrance. Glint of honed edges. Low hum of clubbing wood. Jarring thud of blows absorbed by his armor.

  Hooves crushing a man’s metal helmet. Dogs snarling, teeth rending.

  A tug on his trouser leg brought his eyes open. He ignored whoever was there, stared straight ahead. A building burned on the other side of what must have been a market. The heat bathed his face.

  A voice came with the next pull on his trousers. Man Burning’s scarred visage smiled up at Conway. “Everyone talks of how you fought.”

  Ignoring that, Conway said, “You’ve been saying Katallon doesn’t trust Blizzard, that Moonpriest and Fox have too much influence over Varnalal.”

  Man Burning cringed. “Please, master, not so loud. Since you asked Katallon for
me, I’ve served you faithfully. Don’t endanger me like this. Who betrayed me?”

  “It’s your mouth that endangers you, not me.”

  Despite the ruined features, Man Burning’s expression carried subtle nuances of cunning. “Truth can never be treason, master. Rulers may call it so, but truth is truth, nothing more.”

  Wearily, partially stifling a groan, Conway dismounted. Man Burning scurried to help Conway get out of his armor. He nodded approvingly at the cuts and dents, fingering them with a knowledgeability that picked at Conway’s mind. He was too exhausted to concern himself with it. When the armor was laid across Stormracer’s saddle, Man Burning took the reins. As Conway headed for the prominent well, where many of Windband were already gathered to wash and drink, the slave fell in beside him. Conway said, “Who told you Katallon distrusts Blizzard?”

  “Katallon told priests, friends of Wippard, who challenged Moonpriest and died.”

  Sarcasm soured Conway’s question. “And the priests told you?”

  “A slave of Katallon’s told me.”

  Conway stopped. The image of the Small slave girl who worked in the bath tent came to him. He’d assumed she drowned herself because he refused to help her escape Windband. But she’d spoken of friction between Moonpriest, Fox, and Katallon. If Fox was only pretending to doze while she talked, if he, in fact, overheard her, she’d probably been eliminated. Why killed, though? Why not exposed, used as an example to others?

  Because the dissension was real, dangerous, and must not be revealed.

  Assuming that—and Conway cursed his own steadfast refusal to be associated with any Windband factions—Fox was probably the killer. Fox would never make such a move without consulting Moonpriest.

  Leaning against the circular stone wall of the well, Conway watched Man Burning crank the windlass. The wooden roller squealed as if lamenting. Warriors approached, grinning, laughing, complimenting Conway. He acknowledged them with pat, automatic responses. Inwardly, he considered the matter of conflict between Katallon and Moonpriest.

  Sluicing water over himself from the moss-slick bucket, he handed it back to Man Burning for refill. Conway didn’t care if either Moonpriest or Katallon lived. Windband was a tool and a refuge, a place to gather strength.

  Revenge. Conway ate, drank, slept with that word foremost in his plans. Tee denied her love because she wanted the man who loved her to continue a full, rich life. Not like Lanta. A woman like that brought out the worst, the utter worst, in a man, then looked at him with sad, forgiving eyes.

  Eyes like daggers. Cut into a man, opened his soul.

  Man Burning pulled at the bucket. When Conway resisted, glaring, still trapped in his reverie, the slave stepped back quickly, gesturing over his shoulder. “Others are waiting, master. You weren’t moving.”

  “Look at me; I’m filthy. Fill it again.” He thrust the bucket at Man Burning.

  Varnalal, joining Conway, said, “I promised you a show of loyalty today. You outdid me. You outdid everyone.”

  “You directed Blizzard correctly. I let myself get involved in the fighting. You deserve compliments. I deserve punishment.”

  Unobserved, Fox had come on them. He chuckled softly, bringing both Conway and Varnalal around to face him. Fox had abandoned the barmal of his people, now elected to wear chain mail. The links slid across each other with metallic sibilance, made Conway think of Moonpriest’s rattlesnakes. Fox said, “No man who fights the way you did today gets disciplined. You have no unit to command; we’ve talked about that. You fight or advise as you see fit. I depend on your judgment.”

  It seemed a good time to test Man Burning’s comments. Conway said, “Do you think Katallon would give me a command if I asked him? Church Home is stone and mortar, not logs or dirt. Let’s go to Katallon together, suggest you put together another unit like Varnalal’s, one trained to attack Church Home. Or the fort of Kos.”

  Significantly, Fox’s first reaction was to look at Varnalal. The younger man was so eager to be included in the conversation, and so afraid of saying something out of place, he was practically strangling on swallowed words. Conway shook his head at the incongruity of the thing. Varnalal’s courage in battle was unquestionable. Now he looked at Fox with the beseeching expression of a starving puppy. Fox turned to Conway. “If you value your life, say nothing of your idea to Katallon. Or anyone else. If I decide your idea is good, I’ll speak to Moonpriest. He controls Katallon, as he must control the world one day. Katallon would rather we all die than admit he’s lost his position.”

  Conway said, “This is a dangerous subject. You know I’m Moonpriest’s man, the same as you. The snakes proved that. I’m not sure I’m ready to help overthrow Katallon.”

  “Nor is anyone else.” Fox was coldly disapproving. “Moonpriest admires Katallon. I want to work with Katallon. You’ve seen me train the scouts and the Blizzard. Are these acts of disloyalty? Moonpriest needs Windband to conquer. We must help Katallon, not fight him. Am I heard?”

  “I hear.” Varnalal snapped out the words. Conway, a bit slower, allowing himself a hinted smile, repeated the answer. He thought he saw a similarly covert expression from Fox.

  Fox said, “I came to tell you we took some prisoners. One says he knows you.”

  “Me?” Conway was dumbfounded. “It’s someone from Kos, then. What’s a Kossiar doing here, with slaves?”

  “He was fighting. Now he’s dying.”

  It struck Conway that Fox could as easily have been saying, “He’s blond” or “He’s tall.” He was already walking away.

  Conway turned to Man Burning. “Walk Stormracer cool, bathe him well, then rub him down. Hot poultices for his legs, to draw out any soreness from today’s work. See he gets cooked mash tonight.”

  The way to the collected prisoners was a hellish landscape. As part of Kos, it had never been fortified before the revolt. The rough wall loomed in the background now, save where it had been burned through. Bodies littered the narrow battlewalk. A defending archer slumped against a still-standing section, bow still in his dead hand.

  The village appeared to have been tranquil once. Fire presently raged among its buildings. The forlorn street Conway walked with Fox and Varnalal was near the center of town, which meant shops. Broken, looted merchandise, smashed furniture, and half-eaten food were everywhere. Bits of cloth writhed in the wind.

  Rounding a corner, the three men faced a stable. Windband nomads guarded the figures inside the holding corral beside it. Approximately thirty women and children crowded into one knot, squatting tightly to the earth. Cowering in the center of that group, several younger women tried to shield their nakedness with remnants of clothes. Conway averted his eyes quickly, but not before he saw the bruises, the expressions of shocked horror that defined those women’s experience of Windband conquest.

  Ten male prisoners stood at the opposite side of the enclosure. Two held a wounded man whose head slumped to his chest. A gaping slash in his chain mail marked a deadly wound. Bent knees threatened to surrender.

  As Fox pointed, saying, “That one,” Conway was climbing over the fence. Ignoring the angry warnings of the guards, Conway walked to the stricken Kossiar and maneuvered him to a more comfortable position. He lifted his canteen to the man’s lips, saying, “I never saw you before. Claiming to know me won’t help you with these people, Lance. The best I can do for you is protect you from torture.”

  The man managed a smile. “I didn’t think you could even do that. I only wanted to see you. They told me you were with Windband.” His eyes wandered out of focus, settled on something far beyond Conway’s shoulder. His lip curled in contempt. “You left your friends. For this scum.”

  “These men helped me revenge myself on Kos, on Church. Kossiars like you killed the woman I loved. And I’ve seen what happened to Kossiars when slaves got their hands on them. There was no mercy there, no difference between them and Windband. You tell me: Why leave your friends for this scum?”

  �
��I’m inland Kossiar, the people of the Board. We have our own quarrel with the Crew. Many Board people joined the revolt.”

  “How can that be? I’ve seen villages after the slaves finished with them. Massacre.”

  “There were excesses. Most of us—escaped slaves, anti-Crew Kossiars, and a few anti-slave Kossiars—merely want free of Kos. Life in the Chair’s fist is slavery.”

  Conway sneered. “Excesses. More Like butchery. I saw.”

  The wounded Lance’s sagging head rose in defiance that taxed his failing strength. Long pauses spaced his words. “No slave in Kos is without his story of children sold away, wives pulled from husbands, brothers separated forever. I can’t excuse slave vengeance. I understand it. What of you? What injustice do you combat?” The young voice had risen in keeping with his passions. Suddenly he pitched forward, coughing violently. Groaning, he wrapped his arms around his wounded middle. A red stream trickled from his mouth. Using the hem of his shirt, Conway washed the man’s face with fresh water, then offered him another drink. The Lance strained to swallow. He coughed again, renewing the bleeding. When Conway reached to clean him once more, the man pulled away angrily, determined to say what was on his mind. “No one ever thought you like these ones. Sorry for you. Funny. I die. I pity you.”

  The Lance slumped against the rails, head lolling. His chest rose and fell in sharp, pained jolts as the dying body strained for air.

  Conway studied his hands. One clutched his own bloody shirt. The other clenched the canteen. He threw aside the shirt, took a long pull of water before replacing the canteen.

  The Lance stopped breathing. A pulse in his throat flickered, stopped. Rising, Conway turned to leave. He literally bumped into Katallon. The Windband leader absorbed the impact, unmoving, staring fixedly at Conway with a strange, disturbed expression. The only word that came to Conway to describe it was “frightened,” which made no sense at all. Conway stepped back. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were there.”