by Don McQuinn
As winter falls, The Three Territories' enemies have begun to conspire, planning a coordinated attack on Gan's castle. Church means to reassert it’s power in the region and punish Sylah for heresy. Moondance wants nothing less than the total domination of Gan’s kingdom. The Skan intend to raid the entire coast for slaves, looting the lands for all they are worth.
Gan must once again turn to Conway and the other survivors to use their skills and weapons in the coming battle. They will need every advantage against the combined force of their enemies. But the people of Gan’s kingdom are restless, fearful of their enemies and distrustful of the magic being produced by Sylah’s books. Gan must convince his people to trust him, and the strangers, or his kingdom will be lost before the war has even begun.
Malice is available individually and in Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9.
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Prologue
In the thundering darkness of storm-tormented night, one tiny fire struggled desperately to survive. Towering boulders caged it within a natural amphitheater, closing it off from land, forcing its light out at the raging sea. Horizontal sheets of flame streamed out from piled driftwood, flames flattened by wind that fanned the coals to fierce incandescence. Sharp crackling conflicted with the spiteful, seared hiss of blown surf spume and driven rain.
The surf was a rearing, glistening black menace. Unending waves threw themselves against the shore’s tearing stone teeth and tumbled to ruin in ghostly pale chaos.
A crabbed figure huddled over the blaze. Its back was to the sea.
Slowly, painfully, a hand crept out of the previously inanimate mound of dense furs. Ruddied by fire light, the aged, bone-thin fingers spread apart. They savored the heat before descending to the figure’s side. There was a silver cup there, its round bottom nested in smooth beach rocks. Slightly beyond that stood a tripod made of human thighbones. They were joined and bound at the top third of their span by the metal tentacles of a golden octopus. A bowl, similarly golden, rested in the frame created atop by the short ends of the bones. The outer surface of the metal was ornately chased with a coiling, stylized octopus.
The delicately crazed and cracked interior lining of the bowl was the crown of a human skull.
The frail, ancient hand spidered down to clutch the silver cup, raised it. The hooded head bowed. Drank. The cup was replaced. The hand caressed the fire’s warmth lingeringly before edging back under the dark furs.
Suddenly, impossibly, audible song rose from the still figure. Fine as needles, the notes pierced the rumble of wind and surf.
Chanting supplication, the voice wrapped its pleas for conquest and plunder in promises that the god Sosolassa would have his every appetite gratified in fullest measure.
Still singing, the figure rose, turned seaward.
Gusting wind snatched back the hood, revealed the person within. Reminiscent of the froth of broken surf, long gray hair wind-whipped in disarray. Swirled wetness settled on the harsh, eroded features of a crone. Dark, weasel-quick eyes squinted angrily. Downcurved lips, drawn against strong, white teeth, were a wire-thin arc of disapproval. The cumulative impact of the whole defined the woman, however. Her wrinkled face was a chart that traced a voyage spanning generations. She had watched other lives begin, aspire, and end. Time no longer had consequence for that forbidding visage.
The woman’s whole being resonated malice.
Deliberately, she replaced the hood. Braced on an ornately carved walking stick taller than herself, she shuffled to pickup the tripod and bowl. Returning to the fire, she placed the objects between herself and the flame. She walked stiffly to the sea with the silver cup. Hiking up her robe, protected by high boots, she waded deep enough to scoop the cup full. Retreating to the bowl, she knelt and transferred that water to it. After assuring the liquid’s perfect level, she pulled at a slim gold chain at her throat to draw out a peculiar, curved object. It resembled half of a broad-based beak. Highly polished steel, the pointed end glittered in the firelight. After dipping the object in the water, she lifted it high in both hands.
When she spoke, the voice was a nightmare thing. Rasping, hoarse, it was the rush of dry sand.
“Sosolassa, stalker from the Deep Calm, father of storms, hear the prayers of your slave. I offer myself. Taste, and know I live only to serve you. With this symbol of your mouth, I surrender myself.” The woman drew the point of the beak across her left thumb. Expressionless, she returned the beak to its resting place. She held her fresh wound over the gold-encased skull. Blood splattered in the water. Firelight robbed the drops of color, so that only smoky, dark tendrils coiled away from each impact. Satisfied, the woman took up the silver cup and, with the bowl in her other hand, retraced her steps to the high-water line.
Bending painfully in a ceremonial bow, she emptied the sacrifice into a retreating wave. After a pause, she refilled the cup. Returning to the fire, she took up her former position and poured the new water in the bowl.
Once more, the amazingly clear music poured from her lips, this time without words. Rhythmic, repetitive, she sang the same short refrain over and over. Her gaze never wavered from the liquid’s flat, steady surface.
The first tremor of her head came some while after she began her hymn. Soon she was nodding, swaying to her own cadence.
Untended, the fire guttered. Sticks collapsed onto the coals, flared their contribution, were reduced to mere glowing embers.
The hooded head slumped forward until it could fall no further.
Abruptly, the singing stopped. The silent woman rocked side to side. The wind grew fiercer. Gusts shivered her small body. The dying reach of waves rolled almost to her feet. Still she rocked. The fur of her wrap stood up in the back, conjuring a wet, angry cat.
Small waves appeared in the bowl. The old woman twitched erratically. Her hands shot out from inside her sleeves, clawed at the beach rocks. The scrabble of their naked whiteness was the panic of exposed darkling creatures. She moaned a low ecstasy. Her torso pitched forward. From within the hollow of the hood spooled a silver string of drool. Wind snatched it away.
The woman muttered.
Another voice—deep, imperious—answered.
Eerily, it came from her. Heavy, brutishly powerful; yet it was the woman’s tiny body that birthed it. The words were indistinguishable. Guttural, wet, they caught the sibilance of the sea and transformed it to noisome, bubbling semblance of speech.
When the woman’s normal voice came again, she fawned. She bobbed and squirmed in fulsome servility.
The bizarre conversation lasted until the fire was nearly out. Long after that, the woman straightened with the slow uncertainty of waking. Wide eyes struggled to reorient a consciousness obviously strained to dissociation. When the wind slammed another gust against her, she rocked violently, weak and vulnerable. Clutching her walking stick, she propped herself. She lifted the bowl and tripod to the side and bent forward over the muddled black-and-red remnants of her fire, soaking up what warmth the wind and rain allowed her.
Getting to her feet, she extracted a wooden whistle from her robe. The shrill call fled inland on the wind, up, over the enclosing rocks. In moments a man came, running hard around the side of the natural amphitheater. He was half again as tall as the woman, huge in fur hat, cloak and trousers, the latter bound with leggings. His sudden stop sent rocks skittering. When he advanced again, hands joined in front of him, fingers knotted together, his limp was obvious. He bent to speak to her. “I’m here, Tears of Jade. You are finished?”
She didn’t bother to look at him. A flicker of hurt touched the man’s hard, angular features. Concern replaced it when Tears of Jade’s hand sagged, barely retaining her grip on her stick. The man watched, horrified, hands extended in helpless reach as she retched horribly. He never touched her.
When she straightened, he said, “It’s the mushrooms you eat to prepare for these meetings. It grows worse. You were dizzy before, never sick. It’s too h
ard on you.”
Tears of Jade threw back her hood, disregarding spray and rain. Her face was spectral against black clothes, black night. “Your tongue will kill you, fool. The mushroom is the godfood that lets me hear the words of Sosolassa. You criticize the thing that allows me communion with the god?”
Agonized, he pleaded. “It’s killing you.”
She gasped. Her voice pitched to a screech. “You speak of death in the presence of he who is death? Pray! Pray, Lorso, before he takes you.” She gripped his wrists. “Don’t turn. Don’t look. Even now, the cold tentacle that freezes the heart may be reaching from the sea. Don’t look at the water. To see is to die.”
Ashen, shaking, the man closed his eyes. Bloodless lips silently entreated. Tears of Jade stared seaward, alert, unafraid. She could have been some small weasel-animal, defying whatever threatened her young. Little by little, she relaxed. She released Lorso’s wrists. “We’re safe. He’s forgiven you. For now.”
Lorso took several deep breaths. He never glanced at the sea. Formally, he said, “Do I have permission from the spirit woman to touch the holy articles?”
Sure they were leaving, he was already reaching when her rustling “No” checked him. Unbending warily, he waited. She said, “You must hear now. Sosolassa warns me. Enemies rise in the east. I see a man who is all sun, bright and comely. I see a woman. She is dark, but gleams, as the night sea playing with the stars. Flowers of the land bend to her in love and unity. The man is a conqueror, one who overcomes in order to rule, not pillage. Children of prophecy, that man and woman.” She paused, spat. “He is landrat, knows not the sea, one of those who dig in the dirt for their salt. The woman is landrat also, and worse than the man. She is evil. She brings change, calling it love. I sense the curse of knowing too much. She will not follow the laws that ordain what all women, everywhere, must be.”
Tears of Jade stopped. Lorso waited, barely breathing. At last, the old woman continued. “Sosolassa says the man who thinks to conquer all will throw landrat soldiers against the Skan—we, who control all that touches the kingdom of Sosolassa. The god lusts to feed on the arrogant dead. Tears of Jade is ordered to destroy the children of prophecy. Sosolassa will be god to all.”
Transported, the old woman flung her arms wide, spun in a circle. She drank the tumult and fury of the night.
Knuckles of clasped hands white with stress, Lorso waited until she relaxed. “You who raised me from a child know that I kill for Sosolassa with joy and pride. I no longer have a count of the lives I’ve sent to the Deep Calm. I already yearn to kill these children of prophecy. But surely, to be named in prophecy, you’re under protection. Does Sosolassa say he’ll protect us from their god?”
The woman replaced her hood and turned with cruelly slow deliberation. Her eyes blazed up at the towering figure. “Sosolassa makes orders, not promises.” Her taloned fingers reached to stroke Lorso’s cheek. Only his eyes moved, whites flashing like those of a frightened horse. She went on, more to herself than to the man. “Mighty Lorso. Slavetaker. Was I wrong to choose him as my strength? Is he not grown to make the Skan rulers of the Great Ocean and the rivers that feed it? I seek a man to challenge armies, and my Lorso cringes at one man and a woman. I am old. Weary. Must I raise another boy to take Lorso’s place, one that will truly love me and obey our god?”
Lorso dropped to his knees. “I am sworn to you, Tears of Jade. All know it. Order; I obey. I am your weapon.”
Tears of Jade took his head in both her hands. “I know, my son. I know. My unfailing Lorso. It was wrong of me to tease you. But I sense ruinous—catastrophic—change coming from these enemies. You can only be one of my weapons. I will need another. Not stronger. Not braver. Wilier. Poison, Lorso. And you will get it for me.”
Lorso nodded rapidly, illuminated with devotion. Nevertheless, as Tears of Jade walked away, his hand stole to the hilt of his sword. He looked toward the savaging surf. His expression turned to aching longing, as one who sees a love forbidden him by law and distance. He sighed and shook his head. Picking up Tears of Jade’s holy paraphernalia, he trudged after her.
Chapter 1
The sun’s last rays splayed across the darkening waters of the Inland Sea with a cold golden intensity. Penned up all day behind the dead gray of steel-bellied clouds, the light broke free in blinding exuberance. Near-horizontal sheets of pure energy limned the pillared firs and steeply pitched shores of the Sea Star Islands. Striated cloud banks gleamed in sudden splendor, burnished to bright, seething color.
The sea shifted uneasily at the swiftness of the transformation, as if it sensed how very short this glory must be, and how very dark the night to follow.
The thirty people around the driftwood fire were too busy to concern themselves. Laughing, joking, willing hands wrestled the last heavy-planked canoe high on the beach. The father and son who manned it held up sleek salmon and, as fishermen musts, regaled the gathering with details of the giant that got away. The banter continued as everyone wandered toward camp.
Much later, black-green water slid almost imperceptibly up the beach. Between the camp’s flaring fire and the looming forest, driftwood lay in a wild tumble. Limbs reached. Massive, broken trunks showed ends like jagged teeth. Bleached gray by sun and scoured by windblown sand, the mound created a backdrop for the singing, story-telling group. Warped and fragmented shadows writhed across the erratic surface. Sometimes—a trick of fitful flames—the wavering images seemed to take on lives of their own.
Rudimentary hide-and-wicker huts flanked the communal cookfire. The people were For, from the nearby Whale Coast peninsula. Approaching spring occasioned this annual pilgrimage and fishing expedition.
The For religious formality was solidly bound to Church, but their legends blended naturalism with the struggles of the tribe’s founders. They didn’t exactly worship the life-giving masses of salmon that exploded from the sea to clog the rivers of their land with their breeding frenzy. They didn’t precisely consider the orca or the immense gray whale as gods. Nevertheless, their plank homes were covered with painted and carved images of Salmo, the stylized fish that embodied the spirit of the salmon. No fortress was considered complete until the Chief himself had beaten the sacred rhythm on that fort’s unique Whale Drum. That music and the accompanying Warrior’s dance consecrated both drum and site.
Tonight, this and similar blood-clan groups of For were dispersed throughout the Sea Star Islands. This was a time when ancestors were honored by feasting, by anticipating spring’s burgeoning warmth. Life was good. Now, with the last song sung, the last joke’s laughter ringing soft silver into the night, they straggled away to their sleeping huts.
Abandoned, failing, the campfire found enough mischievous energy to dart shards of light at the water. Reflections glittered with startling vigor, like sudden, chilling eyes.
In the slow passage of the night, the temperature dropped steadily.
Slyly, peering around headlands, banks of mist slid silently westward to submerge all but the highest island peaks. Moisture collected on the huts, on the tentative prespring leaves of deciduous trees, on the drooping needles of evergreens. Heavy silence gave way to the sporadic, mysterious whisperings of falling droplets.
In the sea, no more than a few body-lengths from shore, something struck at prey. Splash and swirl muttered primeval triumph and tenor. One of the two For guards stirred. The goose down within his quilted clothing sighed sympathy. Soft leather, crushed and stressed, released pungent smells of hide and oak tannin. The guard at the other side of the camp, head bobbing, continued to sleep soundly.
Other creatures stirred the night-cloaked sea.
Lorso whispered commands to his helmsman.
Slim, knife-sharp in all her aspects, the Skan sharker felt her way carefully shoreward. At the end of each propelling stroke, her oars rotated a half turn. Edge-on, they drew back to the starting position. Oiled leather grommets in the oar holes muted potential squeals. Lorso hissed softly to indi
cate the beginning and end of each movement. The sea chuckled eagerness along the lean hull.
The sharker’s carved figurehead was a huge, gaping white bear in attack. Its hungering eyes sought landfall.
Once again, an attack disturbed the waters. The rowers never bothered to look. Skan warriors lived in the knowledge that they were the sea’s ultimate predator. The small killings of lesser creatures were inconsequential.
Grating gently, the hull gripped land. Two men lowered themselves over the side with careful speed. They hurried ashore, one uncoiling a stout line of plaited leather. At the stern, an anchor slowly lowered. In moments, the bowline pulled taut. When it did, Lorso led the raiding party’s disembarkation.
Dressed in solid black, faces painted for raiding, the men blended perfectly with the night. Each jacket was decorated on the back, however, with a large stylized figure—eagle, bear, mosquito, and others—in white. Using the totem representations as guides, the column, like a deadly, multilegged beast, advanced on the sleeping camp.
Lorso moved in a near-crouch. Despite the limp, he covered ground quickly. Halting abruptly, he raised a hand. The men squatted, alternates facing left or right.
Lorso sampled the breeze from the camp, simultaneously moving his head to analyze the sound that checked him. Scent told him much; the cedar and fir ashes were still warm. The camp had fed on salmon. Something else, too. Seals, probably; warm blood reeked.
The earlier sound was repeated. Settling even closer to the earth, Lorso twisted about, using his side vision for a clearer view. He drew the secrets of the darkness to him, as a spider reads the world through the tingling of its web.
Someone was ahead. Snoring. Retreating to the closest Skan, Lorso pointed at the indistinct heap that was the sleeping guard.
