by Don McQuinn
Gan almost missed the hole. Knee-high, barely wide enough to admit a man. Feet first, he jammed his way in. The chamber was so low he couldn’t even kneel, but it hid him and Shara.
Shoving the dog aside, Gan searched frantically for some way to hide the entrance. It was partially shielded from the lower approach by a fallen slab. Gan wrested with another. At his best, it would have been a difficult load. In his present state, it was excruciating.
The narrow chasm echoed with the yells of the Kwa. For the first time, Gan noted that the rain had stopped. The blood trail would be clear.
It ended at the hole.
He crawled uphill a few paces. With his bleeding wrist, he made smears on the walls, on the ground. Then, backing into the cave, he strained at the entry cover until it was in place. He moved deeper, forcing Shara along.
The Kwa stopped outside. A man excitedly reported the blood uphill. Another stopped him. “That’s not spilled blood. That’s marks, like paint.”
“He’s falling. Or the dog is. Come on.”
The sound of movement, away. Then complaint. “What’re you waiting for?”
“Something’s wrong.” The better tracker spoke. “Look, here: scuff marks. He moved something.”
“We’ve found marks all up this chimney. If you’re too tired to keep up, sit down and wait. We’ll bring him back for you to look at.”
Gan ignored the argument. The emplaced slab left a hole about the size of his two fists. Shadows moved across it. A sword blade poked in and retreated.
Someone laughed. “You think he changed into a marmot? What about the dog? You think it’s a mouse now?”
A spear slithered inside, the head gleaming, inquisitive. Gan deflected it to the side. It turned this way and that. Gan continued to force it into the walls. The spear withdrew. The tracker was suspicious. “It seems not to go anywhere. I don’t know. You—give me a hand with these rocks. I want to see what’s behind them.”
Gan extended his murdat in front of him.
Cracking, ripping, lightning shocked the earth nearby. Simultaneous thunder pounded the mountain. Loud shouts competed with the rumble. The rush of rain seemed to swell directly out of the dying roar.
“That’s perfect!” The sarcasm was enraged. “Now the blood trail’s washed off. If he gets away, it’s your fault.”
Boots splashed off into the distance.
Gan realized his pursuers would soon discover he wasn’t ahead of them. A little more altitude, and they’d be into snow. They’d find no tracks, come back, move the rocks.
Going outside was a tempting possibility. Gan dismissed it. There was sure to be a watch on the horses in the meadow, even if he made it that far without being caught. Once discovered, he’d be overwhelmed. Better to hope the Kwa got discouraged.
Gan shuddered. Killed in a hole, speared like a rabbit. What was it the Kwa said? A marmot. It wasn’t a very honorable death.
Shara stirred, pushed against him. Irritably, Gan shoved back. The dog persisted. Gan tried to turn to admonish him.
Then he heard the call. Faint, wavering, unmistakable. Wolves. Howling. Not just one. Many. Daylight calling, in the rain. Practically unheard of.
A horn blew. Two long blasts, then a series of short notes. One didn’t have to know Kwa signals to hear the urgency in the signal.
Now, with a chance of survival, Gan succumbed to his ordeal. He struggled against the lethargy rolling through his body, collapsing his strength, his will. Pain, ever patient, drilled through his nara. His heartbeat dropped. Breathing was a burden. The murdat grip slipped from numb fingers.
Noise erupted outside.
Outside. What did “outside” mean? Why were there voices? Angry. “…told you he’s no ordinary man. Wolves never howl like this. It’s magic. If they’ve attacked our horses…”
Quiet again. Peaceful. Sleep.
The dream came slowly, a black mist. Under the mist, a black sea, rising and falling. Gan saw himself on a small boat. Its sails were tatters, its hull leaking.
Something watched him. Under the water. He felt its presence. Cold, slimy. Yet he saw nothing.
“It waits for you, young Gan. You less than filth.” The voice burned with hatred. Its rattling dryness was the scrape of fingernails on slate. Gan struggled to wake. Laughter. Worse than the words. Then, “I will release you when I’ve done with you. Watch the dream. Understand.”
Directly ahead of the boat, the sea rose in a mound. There was no other way to describe it. An excrescence, pulling black water with it. Bubbles welled, swirled around its edges. The thing grew ever larger.
The small boat was drawn to it.
Hauling on lines, Gan fought to raise the sail. Every time he pulled, the line snapped. The black thing in front of him towered over his boat now, mountainous. The voice came back, this time from inside that monstrosity. It whispered, enjoying its terrifying power. “You would test the sea, would you? You don’t fear this power? Then see what awaits.”
The impossible thing reversed itself. Subsided. As it lowered, it turned, almost imperceptibly, at first. Then faster. Faster. When it was level with the surface of the water, its massive speed created a dark, spiraling vortex.
Where there had been a mountain was now a huge hole.
Caught, the small boat whipped around the whirlpool, heeling, tipping. Gan caught the mast with one hand the rail with the other. Far below, distorted by shifting water and dappled light, Gan saw things—indistinct, coldly predatory things—lunge from dark fastnesses. Terrible knowledge told him they waited for him.
The boat rail gave way, disappeared into the vortex. Planks separated along the hull. The mast snapped, speared down into the depths. Gan braced against the canted deck, clawed for a handhold.
In the midst of all that frigid horror, his hand was suddenly warm. Once more he heard the voice, stronger, more insistent with each word. “The sea waits for you. Come, Gan. Now. Gan. Gan!”
Another voice contradicted that one. “It’s me. Gan! Speak to me.”
Light burned Gan’s eyes. At the edge of vision, he saw Shara’s head across his leg. He wondered how the dog got there. Why were they lying down?
The cave. The Kwa. He reached for the murdat.
“I have your weapon, Gan. Give me your hand.” Recognition pierced Gan’s confusion. Emso. Gan tugged free the hand under Shara’s head. It was wet where the dog licked it.
Memory swam in Gan’s mind. Water. Cold.
Emso had him by the hands, dragging him from the cave.
Gan felt himself falling into unconsciousness again. He cried out, chill with the fear that something waited, yearned to catch him when he was helpless.
Emso said, “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe.”
Gan heard the waiting thing laugh. Wet. Bubbling.
Chapter 7
Sylah feasted her eyes on the Mother River, luxuriated in the myriad greens ranging from the metallic water to the riotous plants gracing the banks. Higher, farther from the sustaining moisture, the hillsides were warm golds, yellows, oranges, all glowing proof that, for all the river’s power, this was sun country.
Astride her horse, Copper, Sylah faced north. The ground underfoot was hot and dusty. The animal was anxious to reach the water below. Shifting hooves clattered on dry rock.
A small change in the wind brought the river’s cold breath sighing up the slope. The gorge of the Mother River created its own climate. Wind from the sea swept its length, modifying the bitter winters. During summer’s heat, that same wind could be chill. A midsummer morning beside the Mother River might demand a jacket to hold off fog and chill; afternoon might require the lightest shirt possible.
Turning to her right, Sylah looked north and east. Her heart twisted with pain. Three days’ ride—four, at the most—and she could be in her husband’s arms.
Should be in his arms. But he demanded she stay away.
Barely discernible in the distance rode the departing Messenger who’d
come with the news. With him were the Dog warriors who’d rescued her and her friends from the nomads. They’d been trail companions during the long, hard ride north from the Dry.
Sylah rose in her stirrups, looked south past her four companions. They, too, examined the back trail. No one ever stopped looking over a shoulder when pursued by Windband nomads. Sylah made a three-sign and gave a silent prayer of thanks for escape from the place of the Door.
Escape, with the treasure of her life’s quest in hand. The secret of the Door, hidden for generations. It was Sylah’s now. The thought exulted her. Reared to be the Flower, the one to rescue the secret for Church, she’d succeeded. Embarrassment touched her cheeks with warmth; she remembered being tempted to use the Door’s secret as her personal property. The counsel of her friends saved her. The same friends defeated Moonpriest’s attempt to steal the secret. Unfortunately, that evil one somehow reasserted control over the battered, plague-stricken nomad nation.
Plague. It was why Clas denied her. He would risk sickness to reach her. He would go to any length to prevent risk to her.
She loved him for his concern. Nevertheless, after her long, dangerous quest, she was infuriated by his assumption that she was too weak to confront anything he dared.
Ironically, the plague apparently started with Matt Conway, a man as responsible as any for the success of her quest. When her journey started, Conway was a puzzle. Then he seemed a man searching for himself. Now he was assured. Strange: She trusted him completely, yet she knew he lied about his past. As did his accompanying black countrywoman, Donnacee Tate. “We come from a distant land,” they told everyone, “far to the east.”
Liars. All of them. Seven of the original eight still lived; Conway and Tate, of course, and the four in Ola with Gan Moondark—the man Leclerc, and the three women, Sue Anspach, Janet Carter, and Kate Bernhardt. Then there was the one called Jones. He was now Moonpriest, the leader of the Windband nomads and high priest of Moondance.
They claimed they were from lands so far away that even Church’s missionaries were unknown there. Then how did they come to know Church’s basic concepts?
Only on the quest did Tate and Conway acquire a warrior’s ability to move with stealth, or read tracks even adequately. People like that traveled without being discovered until they came to the Enemy Mountains? Never.
As if those things weren’t enough to make them frighteningly suspect, the men treated the women as equals.
Sylah’s thoughts diverted.
Clas.
He understood that the search for the Door was her life. Only her man trusted—loved—a woman enough to allow her that freedom, much less admired her for needing it. But what would he say when he discovered that the generations-old secret of the Door was a thing called books? Or that Conway and Tate could read them?
What Tate and Conway did, what they insisted Sylah must eventually do, was blasphemous. Both dared speak the forbidden word, insisting they teach her and others to use books. Everyone knew that Church demanded that any words on paper found in the godkills be surrendered to Church, to be ritually burned in the Return ceremony. Everyone also knew the giants that ruled the world in ancient times enslaved mankind. The slaves learned too much, grew pretentious and rebellious. The giants destroyed them, turned their huge settlements into godkills, radpads, and radzones, where terrifying sickness waited to strike the unsuspecting.
Men called Siahs founded tribes wherever the One in All allowed people to survive.
The ability to read, write, and do arithmetic became the privilege of the highest ranking, most feared, most watched people in every culture. Sylah hated such laws. She understood the need, however: How else did Church assure no one challenged the order of things?
The strangers were at ease with books. Sylah still swallowed panic whenever she handled one. So many words.
Still, she embraced her responsibility as the Flower. Her life had been a search for power. Not for herself, but for all women. It was her own hatred for the treatment she suffered that drove her, but her goals were never self-oriented.
Save one precept: I will not be owned.
As an orphan, rescued from slavery by Church, she grew to adulthood as a Chosen, a child of Church. Life was regimentation and the privilege of serving others forever. Still, no one endangered any Church woman. To harm one meant the entire tribe was denied Church. No Healer or War Healer would minister to them.
Priestesses were women, however. Even Church women, unimaginably free by the standards of all other women, were crushed by a world that saw them as servants and bearers of children. When Sylah thought of her life, one word demanded primacy: Resentment. I will not be owned.
Now, however, the power she sought was hers. If she could keep it. If she could control it.
If she could stand it.
Far, far away, the Dog warriors who’d rescued her and the Messenger who’d sought her out were a last movement on the horizon. It was as if they had never been.
Behind her, Nalatan, the warrior-monk she’d married to Donnacee Tate, said, “We should be moving, Sylah. We know Windband’s back there somewhere.”
Waving to indicate she’d heard, Sylah’s hidden smile was deprecating. To herself, she murmured, “Make a new world tomorrow, Priestess. For today, continue to flee.”
When she turned, she was erect, confident. “No sign of them yet, Nalatan?”
He backed his horse until he was beside Tate. Neither he nor the black woman made any overt indication of awareness of the other’s presence, but a stone would have noticed the attraction between them. Nalatan answered, “Nothing since we flushed that ambush four days back.”
Tate said, “We didn’t cut them up that much. It’s not like them to back off without one last crack at us.”
Lanta, the other black-robed Priestess, spoke up. “Once we’re across the river, they won’t dare chase us any farther. They’re afraid of patrols from the Three Territories.”
Conway said, “I think Lanta’s right.”
Sylah nodded. It was routine for Conway to agree with Lanta. When he couldn’t, he said nothing. Everyone was certain he was making amends for something. No one knew what.
Conway went on. “If someone’s watching us, they may have signaled the main body that our Dog escort’s gone and we’re alone.”
Tate frowned. “It’s a bright day. They could be using mirrors…” She stopped abruptly, jerking around to look to Conway with apology plain in her features.
He smiled bleakly. “Yes. Mirrors. The ones I taught Windband to use. One of my smaller mistakes, but bad enough.”
“I’m sorry.” Tate walked her horse to Conway’s side. “I keep forgetting you were in the nomad camp with Moonpriest. I can’t seem to put you two together. Not the way he’s changed.”
“I wish I could forget. Funny; I want to think of him as Jones. I don’t want to believe a friend could turn into Moonpriest.”
Tate pitched forward, aggressive. “Jones is dead, Matt. Dead. Moonpriest lives instead.”
Nalatan said, “We’ll all be very dead if we don’t get across this river.”
Tate turned, mischievous. “My, we’re very testy today, aren’t we? Don’t they teach you not to interrupt in that brotherhood of yours?”
“They teach us to survive.” Nalatan was unperturbed, accustomed to Tate’s baiting. Beneath the studied calm, his admiring affection glowed like banked coals.
Sylah said, “Conway, ride on ahead, please; make sure the ferry landing’s safe.”
Conway whistled. Moments later two Dog hounds raced toward him from where they’d obviously been watching the back trail. No one paid much attention, except Tate. Her mobile, high-cheekboned features turned soft, injured, erasing the infectious smile. More than concern, more than sorrow, she registered unspeakable loss. Even when Nalatan put a hand on hers where she gripped her reins, she remained fixed on the dogs.
Conway bent down to scratch the animals’ heads. “Mikka beat
you, Karda. Slipping in your old age?” The male wagged his tail as if enjoying the joke.
Conway galloped downhill. Karda led, while Mikka, the lighter-colored female, followed the horse.
The remaining foursome fell into their accustomed trail formation. Sylah and Lanta rode with the packhorses. Tate and Nalatan rode drag. Nalatan took the opportunity to sympathize with Tate. “You shouldn't grieve so about the loss of your own dogs. They lived the life they were born to lead. It’s good to sorrow for them, because they loved you, but take care you don’t tarnish their deaths.”
She snapped around, glared. Nalatan continued. “You were sun and moon to them, Donnacee. As you are to me. They died protecting you. Of course they didn’t want to die. Nothing gives up life willingly. But such a glad sacrifice is mighty. It gives meaning to everything that went before. Please, try to see that.”
“Are you trying to tell me how I should feel if you get killed? Is that the kind of foolishness you’re unloading on me? I’m never going to brag about any death. Not the way you brag about those stupid scars, or how your friends have died fighting for Church. Never.”
“Brag’s a harsh word. Even so, stories of the struggle to survive are a warrior’s only victory over death, don’t you see? We who live remember. The best part of us—the honest purpose, the honor—goes on.”
Tate shook her head furiously.
Nalatan opposed her vehemence with gentle stubbornness. “Tanno and Oshu died for you. I’ll praise them forever. I loved them. I love them still.”
“So do I!” It was a cry of injury. Tears flooded Tate’s dark, wide eyes. “You know I do.”
“Then think of them with love. Joy. Whatever they would give you, if they could.”
Thoughtfully, Tate studied Nalatan. For a while, he stood up to it. Finally, nonplussed by such unremitting scrutiny, he found a blemish on his reins that demanded close attention. After a while, she said, “I do love you, Nalatan.” He colored in response, but continued to look down. She went on. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever say that to anyone again in my life. I knew I’d never even think it about a white man. It’s happened, though, and it’s because you helped me see so many things. About myself, mostly. But I’ll never really know you, will I? I mean, I’ve watched you in action; stood beside you and fought with you. Then you talk about my dogs and warriors and dying, and there’s sadness and happiness and mystery and understanding in it that makes me want to cry. You baffle me.”
