Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  Nalatan looked up at last. “You imagine you’re uncomplicated? I’ll spend the rest of my life never knowing what to expect from you.”

  Her normal, impish expression flashed back. She leaned across, kissed his cheek. “What a life we’re going to have, lover. Sure beats living in the Dry with all those other monkish brothers, doesn’t it?” Her grin was positively lascivious.

  Nalatan stammered something about checking back trail. He yanked his startled horse around by main strength, trotted back up the mountain.

  Tate clapped a hand to her mouth, smothering delight at the way the back of his neck glowed. Slowly, the laughing features eased, swirled through a panoply of emotions as brightly unpredictable as the iridescence of oil on water. “What a life, indeed,” she said softly. “Who’d think a person could lose a whole world and be so happy in another one?”

  Chapter 8

  Conway waited in the cool shade of an alder copse. On the group’s arrival, he jerked an angry thumb at the River village, a short distance away. “Windband riders got here first. They warned the ferryman to stay clear of us. He says he’ll take us, but we have to share the boat with some River traders. They’re already frightened of Windband. The ferryman’s afraid they’ll learn Windband’s after us. There could be trouble.”

  “Why is this ferryman willing to help us?”

  Smiling crookedly, Conway shook a small leather sack. It clinked merrily. “Kossiar coin. That’s another piece of news. Kossiar units are attacking River villages. They’ve never been this active so far north before.”

  Tate said, “We know the slave revolt gutted Kos, and Windband clubbed the Kossiar army. Why this sudden aggressiveness?”

  “Replace the slaves.” Conway spat the word. “My guess is that Kos finally crushed the revolt. Now they have to replace the lost ‘workers.’”

  Sylah made a face. “I’ll never recover from Kos. Never. I wanted so much to believe their ruler. I knew in my heart the Chair lied about freeing the slaves. I was a fool. I nearly destroyed us all. I hope you can forgive me someday.”

  At the mention of forgiveness, suspicion flashed in Conway’s glance. “Some of us are too worried about our own burdens to add to yours. Which explains why ‘forgive’ is such a frequent word among us.”

  Sylah turned to speak. Conway cut her off. “Later, Sylah. Please. The traders are right over there.” He nodded in the direction of the gathering. Fourteen adult males, Sylah noted; no women, no children, no elderly.

  The back of her neck tingled.

  Still, save for ordinary knives at their sides, the traders were unarmed.

  The ferryman trotted forward, his skirtlike lower covering billowing in the wind. He wore a tight, sleeveless jacket and, unlike the traders, a sword in an ornately beaded scabbard belted to his left side. The thing that caught Sylah’s eye, however, was the band of his floppy, wide-brimmed hat. It was a rattlesnake skin, with the head still attached. The dried, dead creature gaped, the curved fangs extended in biting attitude. The rattles dangled in the back, rustling at the man’s every move.

  A nervous grin twitched across the ferryman’s face. “I know you, Rose Priestess Sylah. All the River People know Sylah, all know her husband, Clas na Bale. I am Saris.”

  Saris’ use of the Dog People’s formal greeting style was a courtesy. Nevertheless, there was too much studied eye contact. Mannerisms were too assured. Sylah watched him and his group while she introduced her friends. The men behind Saris were very cool, but not hostile. When Sylah presented Tate, acknowledging the black woman almost undid Saris. “Everyone’s heard of the Black Lightning. I confess, I thought they lied. You really are black. I never saw—”

  Tate cut him off smoothly. “I know you, Saris. What news can you give us?”

  When he answered, Saris was still nervous, but controlling it well. “The Matt Conway one told you I was warned not to help you?”

  Sylah said, “He did. We’re grateful for your courage.”

  Saris looked around furtively. “They hate you very much. They say you’re outcast—the little Violet Priestess, Lanta, too. Not that I care. All know Church women are never to be harmed, and Saris wouldn’t break holy law.” The friendly eyes were suddenly cunning, a change almost too quick to catch. “Windband says you stole the treasure of the Door.”

  Tate said, “Do we look like people carrying treasure? Windband tried to capture us. We fought them off.”

  Nalatan moved his horse forward. “We killed many. They are Church’s enemies.”

  Saris bobbed his head curtly. He angled closer to Sylah, a move that also distanced him from Nalatan. “We have to hurry. Come.”

  Sidling next to Conway, Lanta frowned at him. “Keep Mikka and Karda close.”

  Conway was immediately alert. “What did you see?”

  “Deceit. Saris lied. The other Rivers are too unconcerned.”

  Without further comment, Conway urged his horse forward, calling to the dogs. To say more to Lanta invited argument, and he’d vowed to avoid that. It was beginning to gall, though, this constant deference. How long did he have to do penance? For that matter, how long could he feel penitent?

  Lanta said she could forgive, but never forget.

  Unconsciously, he glowered. What did that mean? Slowly, the fierceness faded. He wondered if the time would ever come when she could look at him and think of anything but that one terrible, shameful moment.

  He loved her. She loved him. Why couldn’t that be enough?

  Saddles and packs removed, the horses boarded the ferry on planks. Skittery, they took the steeper ramp down into the center well that was the boat’s cargo space with stiff-legged hesitance. The dogs followed Conway with a look of put-upon determination.

  When Conway and Nalatan finished seeing to the horses, they joined the women on the forward deck overlooking the cargo well.

  Saris cast off. The dingy sail blossomed in the wind. Its mast, firmly treed to the keel, rose past the horses down in the hull. The boom was level with the raised decks. When it swung over the horses, the frightened animals snorted and strained at their hobbles and tethers.

  On the landward side the rock-strewn bottom wavered, darkening as the water deepened. The current was swift, far faster than seemed proper for such a huge body of water. The mass and power of it, this close, was awesome.

  Tate leaned close to Conway. “Did you see that salmon jump over there? Thirty pounds, I’ll bet. Easy.”

  “I knew a guy who fished here once.”

  “In the Columbia? No kidding?”

  “Won the permit lottery. You remember how much it cost to enter; we thought he was nuts. Then he not only won, he used the permit himself.”

  Tate was impressed. “Wow. They were worth a fortune, man.”

  Conway went on. “There were more foreigners fishing with him than Americans. They could afford to buy the permits from the winners here, you know? What really cost them were the bodyguards. It could get pretty hairy; lots of people really hated to see what our outdoor experience had come to.”

  They fell silent for a while, remembering. Tate brightened determinedly. “Your friend—he catch anything?”

  “The limit that day was five. He caught the third. It wasn’t even noon when they closed the river. Lucky, huh?”

  “Boy.” Tate shook her head. “I never knew anyone who knew anyone who fished for salmon, much less caught one. Back then.” She stared out over the water, then broke that off to stand with Nalatan.

  Saris trimmed his craft with economy of motion and practiced skill. Once on a course, an ingenious catch arrangement held the rudder in place, freeing his hands to work the braidded leather rigging.

  The traders lounged about aft. Some stared at the small group gathered at the forward end. Conway and Nalatan exchanged wary glances when some of the Rivers moved down among the horses. Idly, the traders inspected them, learning quickly to steer clear of the Dog war-horses belonging to Conway and Tate. Those animals suffered n
o strangers. A River touched the flank of Conway’s Stormracer. A hoof lashed out wickedly. The man foolishly leaped closer to the horse’s head. Having failed to cripple his victim with a foot, Stormracer tried to do the job with his teeth.

  The River cursed and retreated. Several of his friends leaped down, examining him for injuries, glaring at horse and owner.

  Conway shouted to them, “You’re welcome to look. They don’t like being handled.”

  The near-injured man grumbled under his breath.

  A narrow catwalk affair allowed fore-and-aft passage on each side of the ferry’s hull. Rivers now eased out onto that some sitting to dangle their feet, letting spray speckle dusty boots.

  Sylah pointed. “Look, there—a burned village.”

  One of the men on the catwalk followed her pointing finger. “Kossiars,” he said. “Slavers. No one this far upriver ever saw Kossiars before. They came in the night.”

  The voice went on. Sylah heard no more. Her mind filled with disoriented flashes and images. Flame. Father, bathed in firelight from the burning homes of neighbors. Swinging the household axe. The only weapon available when he woke to the terror that was on him. It failed to save him or his family.

  Screams. Fire. A child too deep in shock to speak, carried away in a basket with more like herself.

  The child had a name, like her slaughtered brothers and sisters. That name died in the hut.

  Sylah. A Chosen of Church, forbidden by Church law to have any memory of her childhood. Sylah. So clever. Clever enough that, when her voice came back she never in her entire life revealed that she remembered loving a mother and father.

  “Sylah?” Nalatan’s voice broke her reverie. She faced him, blank. He looked at her with concern. “They spoke to you.” He indicated the six Rivers clustered on the catwalk and in the cargo hold. Sylah stared blankly. Her mind still roared with memory. She swayed, unsteady. Lanta’s calming touch helped; she indicated which River had spoken. The man repeated, “As the friend of Gan Moondark, can you tell us why he refused to help the River People? The Kossiars destroy us. We ask the mighty Three Territories for help, and he refuses. Why?”

  There was more than hurt and confusion in the question. Beneath the words was something else. The pleasure of taunting.

  Sylah turned to Lanta. Affecting her best simper, she said, “It’s so depressing when serious things interfere with pleasure. Remember our nighttime boat trip in Kos? When there was a fire? The same thing happened then.”

  Without waiting for a response, Sylah returned to her questioner. She maintained the shallow manner. “Gan Moondark is one of my closest friends. His mother was of the River People, you know.”

  “Stolen.” The flat accusation came from Saris. A tremor seemed to run through the Rivers. Sylah saw the story of Gan’s mother was no new subject.

  Quickly, she replied, “A gift woman, granted. But the beloved of Gan’s father all his years. He took no other woman, ever.”

  Saris laughed unpleasantly. “He had no chance. Everyone knew she was a witch. He thought he was making a good bargain, but we’re not traders for nothing. A witch. River People know witches on sight.” Saris nodded, confirming his own skill. The snake-head hatband bobbed menacingly.

  “Gan should have helped us.” It was the original River questioner again, closer now, on the foredeck. Behind her, Sylah felt, rather than heard, the movement of her friends. Addressing the closest River once again, Sylah created a sweet, vapid smile. “Why are we arguing? This is just the way our other boat ride changed. Everyone was so happy until the argument. Even little Jessak.”

  “Jessak? You said Jessak?” It was Saris. His voice was high. The man closest to Sylah pushed back, forcing those behind him to give ground. “You were in a boat with Jessak?”

  Innocently, Sylah said, “The name means something to you?”

  Fear danced across Saris’ features. “All who entrust their lives to water know Jessak. He is legend. He holds our lives in his hands. A god.” Saris looked around anxiously. “Church admits no god but the One in All. Only a witch would speak of knowing Jessak.”

  Laughing lightly, Sylah made a playful slapping motion. It was carefully staged to make her look as dense as possible. “The Jessak I know is just a baby. We rescued him from Kos, when the slaves revolted…”

  “They said you stole the Chair’s son. Jessak? That’s his name?” Saris’ air of confidence returned. The rest of the men read the renewed manner as a signal. As one, they looked to Sylah and the group at the bow.

  Behind her, Conway said, “We’ve been going upstream a long while, Saris. When do we turn?”

  “Soon,” The tone stirred the hair on the nape of Sylah’s neck.

  Nalatan spoke, puzzled. “There’s something strange… Wind moving just that one clump of trees over there. Just ahead.”

  Sylah resisted the need to see this thing. She concentrated on Saris. Looking upstream past her, he clutched at his chest and shouted, “Now!”

  The River on the foredeck closest to Sylah drew a hidden sword, lunged at her.

  Conway shouted at the dogs. Karda struck as the River reached for Sylah. Crushing jaws closed on the man’s left arm, and shook. Screaming, the man tumbled over the side. The water around him reddened. Another man pressed in, only to be met by a ready Karda; both ended up in the cargo hold. Another River, sword upraised, moved to his yelling tribesman’s aid.

  Sylah turned away, unwilling to watch the dog die. The concussive crack of the wipe slapped her, left her head ringing. By the time her eyes focused, Karda’s second victim was choking his life away through a torn throat. The sword wielder was on his face under the hooves of the hysterical horses.

  Conway charged aft through the plunging, rearing horses, followed by both dogs. Sylah turned to find Tate facing forward. Before she could speak, Nalatan had Sylah by the shoulder, thrusting her to the deck. Lanta grabbed her as she sprawled.

  Looking aft again, Sylah saw Conway beside Saris. The dogs savaged three more armed men attempting to close with their master. Conway fired with the precision of a carpenter driving nails.

  The surviving Rivers sought refuge in the river. Conway, features distorted by the passions of combat, put the muzzle of the wipe to a cowering Saris’ head.

  Sylah’s attention was drawn to the bow again by the hollow report of the lower tube of a wipe, the part called the boop.

  Tate’s target was a sharker. The appearance of a Skan raider this far upstream on the Mother River left Sylah openmouthed. More than that, the vessel was shedding branches and brush. Whole saplings fell away. Nalatan explained, “The taller trees were lashed to her oars. I saw the first ones fall off as they left the shore. They were waiting for us.”

  Sylah nodded, still mute.

  The ferry heeled dangerously, tumbling everyone standing. Sylah, pressed against Lanta, heard Conway shout, “Hang on! We’re turning around, heading downstream. Tate, come on aft.”

  The women remained in a mashed huddle until the banging, plunging turn was completed. Clutching the rail, Tate clawed her way astern. Watching her, Sylah’s eye was caught by the erect, shipped oars of the sharker lowering to the river. The camouflage was gone now, revealing the ship in her slim menace. At the first stroke of the oars, the low, dark vessel leaped appreciably closer.

  The rest of the group hurried after Tate. Conway still sat beside Saris, wipe resting on the shaking River’s shoulder, the muzzle nestled in his ear. The hat and its intimidating hatband lay on the deck. The snake’s head was under Conway’s boot.

  Conway said, “Nalatan, get some of that leather line. Tie this pig to the rail by his neck, in case he has thoughts of leaving.”

  Saris begged, “We can’t outrun a sharker. Let me stop. I’ll talk to them. They know me.”

  Sylah spoke over Conway’s derisive laugh. “Get us to shore, Saris. If we escape, you go free. My word on it.”

  Nalatan said, “They’re gaining. A horse can’t run that fast.” />
  Tate said, “I’ll slow them down.” The boop thudded. A moment later, when the explosive round detonated in the river, she muttered, “If I can hit them.” She fired again. Nalatan loyally cheered her closer miss.

  Turning Saris over to Nalatan, Conway added his firepower to Tate’s. A round hit the hull. Another round landed on the deck. The Skan, true to their reputation for heedless ferocity, absorbed the punishment and charged ahead. Oars went slack and were pitched over the side. Conway and Tate selected white phosphorus ammunition as the range inexorably shortened. Soon smoke boiled up from behind the gunwale protecting the rowers. Open flame appeared. The cries of the wounded accentuated the shrill squealing of the ferry’s leather halyards.

  Shouting back to Nalatan without taking her eyes off the onrushing sharker, Tate called for a change of course. “Her rudder’s gone. Let her pass close; we’ll tear her up with the wipes.”

  With Nalatan’s shortknife at his throat for inspiration, Saris performed. At the last possible instant, he brought the clumsy ferry within a body-length of the near crippled sharker. The Skan vessel skimmed past, smoke boiling from her deck and collapsed rigging. Crew appeared and disappeared in the swirling haze, dashing buckets of water on the flames. Trying to maintain steerage, many rowers still manned their positions. Blinded by smoke, unwarned by any lookouts, they were unprepared. Extended oars were impacted, irresistibly wrenched from hands. Driven by the momentum of the other hull, the handles pivoted forward, transformed to immense clubs. Shattered men were flung from their seats like crushed fruit.

  Conway and Tate saw the carnage. They lowered their weapons even before the vessel was past.