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

by Don McQuinn

  Sylah’s chin rose in unconscious pride that would have shamed her, had she been aware. “The secret of the Door is discovered. Its new home is the Three Territories.”

  Wild cheers were still thundering when Neela bent to Sylah’s ear to make herself heard. “You have it with you? Can we see it?”

  “There’s more to it than the eye can understand at first glance. We must talk. Not merely Sylah and her friend, Gan. There must be understanding between the Flower and Murdat.”

  “Then we wait to examine this treasure.” Gan caught Neela’s ill-repressed impatience from the corner of his eye. He spoke with increased authority. “The Wolves and I can only afford a bit of sleep before we march north. The Skan are arriving. Their chance to combine attacks with the Kwa is gone. I must convince them we still have the strength to defeat them.”

  Tate turned to Nalatan. “You get your wound tended to. Sylah…”

  Nalatan raised a warding hand. Gan stared in openmouthed awe as Tate stopped in midsentence and waited. Of all the fine things he’d seen that day, Gan decided, seeing Tate defer to this man she called husband was the finest. Nalatan said, “Until I’m satisfied that the Flower and the secret of the Door are safe, my oath is unfulfilled. The wound is no hindrance. I ride with him.” He inclined his head in Gan’s direction.

  Gan grinned at Tate’s swift look of pride and love and worry. He turned to Sylah. “Whatever this treasure is, I’d feel much better about it if you’d keep it with you here in the castle until I’ve settled with the Skan.”

  Sylah hesitated. She and her friends had been so close, through so much. But Gan was right. She nodded. His pleased response smacked of male superiority, and it irritated.

  Trapped in responsibility. The old game was ended, the new one just begun.

  I will not be owned. The words mocked.

  Chapter 12

  Gan wondered if he looked as haggard as his companions. Tate slept in the saddle, lolling like her bones were melted. Beside her, the quiet, intense warrior-monk named Nalatan rode alert guard; it was as if the ugly lance wound in his side were a scratch. Gan admired Tate’s choice.

  Secretly, Gan had long wondered if any man that appealed to Tate could put up with her amazing independence. Nalatan appeared to revel in it. Gan hoped he’d get to know him.

  Leclerc and Bernhardt slept in a cart, curled up like puppies. Despite their wounds and the arrival of the other lightning weapons, they insisted on making this march. Conversely, the youngster driving was far too excited to acknowledge weariness.

  Conway trailed immediately behind, wrapped in his own counsel. Gan continued to marvel at the change in the alien warrior. There was a new, unapproachable quality in his manner that resisted definition. For no definable reason, Gan saw him as despondent.

  All the conjecture fled at a jaw-cracking yawn. Blinking, stretching, Gan smiled to himself. After a day of fighting, then marching northward all night and into the day to this point, everyone looked more like a survivor than a winner. Concern for personal situations would have to wait.

  The coast road was peaceful enough now. Not like just after dawn, when the column came across a marauding band of Kwa. Unconsciously, Gan grimaced. It was hard to reconcile any goal with executions. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t consider mercy for men who slaughtered innocents for their meager possessions. Or fun. One of the looters was a boy, hardly old enough to play with a sword. At least he died fighting, unlike those that surrendered and begged for their lives. Now they could bargain with the One in All. Their bodies were properly burned.

  Gan was surprised when Conway saluted those who died fighting. Gan considered his own sympathy for enemy dead a guilty secret. Seeing that behavior in Conway was disturbing.

  Leclerc’s reaction to the executions was a shallow superiority. He obviously considered them simpleminded vengeance. Gan wished Leclerc had the burden of satisfying the needs of the people of the Three Territories.

  The thought caused Gan to look at Leclerc a bit differently. The man was no leader, but he was brilliant. There were better ways for him to exercise his skills. And, Gan thought, everyone would be spared most of this new, unseemly arrogance.

  Scouts reported twenty sharkers lying offshore of the mouth of the Sweetmeadow River. South of that boggy delta was a good landing beach. Gan had never fought a battle this size with the Skan, but he’d come to know them from their piratical raids. Fierce, merciless men, who went into battle screaming the name of a dark octopus god. They took slaves in preference to any other loot. There were shuddering rumors of human sacrifice and terrifying rites.

  Twenty sharkers could carry up to eight hundred men.

  No one had ever seen the Skan in such strength.

  Gan straightened with a start. He’d forgotten the scout boat. Peering through the trees, he relaxed at the sight of the lone sharker paralleling the coast. It came from the north at sunrise, obviously seeking the northbound column. There was no hiding from it, so Gan ignored it. Or tried to. He knew the vessel’s presence sat on everyone’s consciousness. Like a raven, it flowed along in its element, graceful, even beautiful. Signifying death.

  Turning in the saddle, Gan looked back at the column. Carts and wagons of every description squealed, groaned, and squeaked. The noise was no problem for the exhausted warriors sprawled in them. Not even the thumps and bumps of the rough road woke many. The ruder shocks pried grumbling curses from the lighter sleepers before they resumed their slumber.

  Men who’d already slept and those still waiting for their turn trudged alongside the wheeled transport. They had the careful, stolid tread of men no longer concerned with destinations. Strides were short, feet wide-spaced, arms and torsos pitched forward. Balance was everything to them; they feared the failure of energy or will necessary to rise from a fall.

  On turning to the front, Gan found himself coming free of the forest, entering a fairly recent burn. Blackened stumps pointed skyward. Gan thought of decaying fingers aimed at the source of the lightning that caused the destruction. Thick brush already claimed the scorched ground, glowing with vitality, rich with mineral residue from the holocaust that opened the forest to colonization.

  Gan welcomed the relatively clear area because it afforded him a view of the Inland Sea. Beguilingly blue and innocent, it seemed to hold out the distant coast and the Whale mountains as an offering. Treacherously, it failed to reveal the Skan fleet Gan knew to be hidden by the blunt peninsula directly ahead.

  A rider appeared across the burn at the edge of the forest. Gan halted the column, signaling a rest. Equipment clashed and clattered as the men broke ranks and sprawled. Horses whickered in anticipation of water and grain. There was little banter or complaint from the men. Gan frowned; more than anything else, quiet defined exhaustion.

  The scout’s horse crossed the burn at a dispirited trot. A hazy plume of dust rose behind it. Dismounting, Gan absently stroked Shara and Cho while he waited.

  He looked out to sea at the ghosting sharker and spat on the ground.

  The scout came to a halt, touched his right ear with his fist in salute. “No Skan on the beach, Murdat. The boats just sit there, like they’re waiting for something.”

  Gan managed to hide his wince. The scout’s choice of words was painfully accurate. Gan was certain that as soon as the land-bound forces were prettily drawn up for battle, the Skan could weigh anchor and race south. There were beaches suitable for landing there, too. Gan would be cut off from Ola, and the city’s walls were defended by a thrown-together mass of young, old, and wounded. Yet Gan had to keep Skan away from his people and their harvest.

  The invaders had a maneuverability he couldn’t approach. The Dog People were feared and respected for their horses and their whirling, slashing, fighting technique. Now Gan Moondark stood with his feet rooted to the earth while his enemy was poised to dart off in whatever direction he chose. Gan’s option was to slog along in pursuit.

  He’d gambled to find the Skan ashore, inte
nt on pillage.

  He’d lost that toss.

  There was one left.

  He sent for his unit leaders, telling them, “I’m going to negotiate with the Skan, if possible. If not, I want to lure them ashore here. If I fail both objectives, all units except the Ola pack and the original Jalail Wolves are to return to their own lands to defend them.”

  The wiry, sly-looking Baron Fir shook his head. “The Skan’ll never come ashore to talk. And if you go out there, they’ll kill you.”

  “We’ve no time for argument. All units hold to this high ground. Build fires, more than you need. Lots of smoke. Sound the drums, the warhorns. I want noise and activity, but don’t let them actually see our men. I’m going to convince them they can’t win.”

  Baron Galmontis, bearded and scarred, found a tight smile. “I’d rather wave a roasted lamb at a starving tiger,” he said, and the others managed grim laughter.

  Gan smiled along with them. “I’m going down to the fishing village. I’ll need a man who can handle a boat.”

  Fir nodded. “I’ve got fishermen.” He turned and called a name. A young warrior struggled to his feet and approached.

  Galmontis said, “I don’t like this. We can back away now, wait for them to land, then attack.”

  One of the Ola barons bristled. “They’re not sitting off your territory, waiting to kill and burn. We fight them here, to a finish, or convince them to leave. There’s no other choice.”

  Galmontis peered through thick brows, more bearlike than ever. “What if we lose Murdat?”

  Conway said, “You won’t lose him. I’m going with him to see to it.”

  Gan flushed. Before he could react more strongly, Conway spoke directly to him. “I’ll stay in the boat that carries you out there. We’ll stay out of arrow range. Let them know I have the lightning weapon. Tell them I’m the one who destroyed the sharker on the Mother River. I can do more, just as easily.”

  “Take him with you,” Fir said.

  Grudgingly, Gan agreed.

  On reaching the low ground, and out of sight of the sea, Tate kneed her horse forward to Gan’s side. She said, “Wash and shave before you go to talk. The troops need time to get into position, and you can’t show up looking shabby. We’re changing your bandages before you leave, too.”

  Gan opened his mouth to protest. Tate hushed him. “Don’t talk back. Give me that murdat and chain mail. I’ll have someone polish it. I’ll clean your pennant, too. Conway will carry it.”

  Looking helplessly to a smug Nalatan, Gan shook his head and dismounted to tug at the heavy chain mail. Conway did the same, grinning at Tate. He said, “Amazing. Ever since you decided Nalatan was okay, you’ve become completely domestic.”

  “Dome-what?” Tate’s eyes widened. Nostrils flared. She had Gan’s red-and-yellow banner in her hands. She bent down from her saddle and shook the pennant in Conway’s face. “I’ll show you domestic. How’d you like this rag shoved up your nose?”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Conway waggled an admonitory finger. “No time for sweet talk, you silver-tongued darlin’.” He half turned, winked at Nalatan. “She’ll always love me best.”

  Conway narrowly dodged Tate’s kick. Laughing like schoolboys, he and Gan trotted off to splash in the river.

  Quietly, Nalatan said, “You must be more respectful, Donnacee. The other men might not understand.”

  “Pooh.” Tate was unimpressed. She shouted to a man to bring oil and a whetstone, then set off for another part of the river. Resuming the conversation, she said, “Of course they don’t understand. They don’t have any reference. But they see Murdat laughing and relaxed. It’s got to make them feel better.”

  Nalatan chuckled. “You’re one surprise after another. And you? How do you feel?”

  After thanking the young Wolf for delivering the oil and stone, Tate bent to the task of buffing the chain links. “Never mind how I feel. Just stay close to me, you hear? Please?”

  Instead of answering, he put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed hard. Then he squatted beside her to sharpen Gan’s sword.

  Shortly, standing at the edge of the Inland Sea’s lapping waters, Gan raised a white flag. A sharker replied in kind. Oars reached out from it like legs extending from a surface-skimming spider. Swiftly, the boat came to within arrow-shot of the beach. It whirled about to lay broadside to it. The oars rose to vertical in unison, dripping silver droplets in the sun. Anchors splashed at bow and stern. Shields hanging on the sharker’s sides gleamed with savage designs in brilliant colors. Rocking easily, mast and picket line of oars swaying back and forth, she quivered, eager for battle.

  Softly, in a voice thick with admiration, Gan said, “Look at her, Matt Conway. She lives. No less than a war dog, or one of our Dog horses.”

  Conway agreed, more apprehensive than appreciative. Still, watching the carved white bear figurehead nod glaring contempt for the world, he felt the vessel’s life, too. It reminded him of Stormracer, and the way the horse believed an army couldn’t stand against him.

  Gan and Conway ordered their dogs to stay. Nalatan and Tate took position beside them. Tate put a hand on Conway’s forearm. “If this operation goes in the dumper, you concentrate on the white bear, there. I’ll get Leclerc and Bernhardt up here with me, and we’ll give you long-range cover. If we start firing, you head for shore double-time, okay?”

  “If I can. I won’t leave him.”

  He refused to turn, waiting what seemed a long time for her response. At last she said, “That’s what I was afraid of, I guess.” She sighed. “Saddle up, then, sucker. Keep your dumb butt down.”

  Conway continued to look straight ahead; it was the best way to hide the tight smile pulling at his lips. Tate spoke to him exactly as she would another marine.

  He decided it was a privilege he could gratefully forgo.

  Conway settled astern with Gan’s pennant aloft. Gan stood forward, back against the mast. Four Wolves muscled the boat into deeper water.

  The young Wolf at the tiller was deathly pale, eyes startlingly wide. His movements were mechanically correct but his attention was fixed on the ominous array of vessels. Conway understood entirely. At the moment the rocks of the bottom stopped grating against the hull and they were seaborne, he was amazed to discover how much larger the sharker had grown.

  Moments later he spotted archers, arrows drawn to the head, between every shield.

  Behind him, ranged in an arc of sound, the hidden war drums of the Wolves bellowed. Conway hoped against hope the Skan heard defiance, and not desperation. As he did.

  Chapter 13

  Amidships on the sharker, a Skan warrior lifted aside a shield that portrayed a stylized bear paw. Gan turned to look at the young Fir fisherman. “You see where they want us?” The youngster nodded, swallowed hard.

  Conway said, “Don’t let them talk you away from the side of the boat, hear? I want to be able to see you at all times.”

  Gan nodded absently. He faced the land, looked at the pennons bright against the forest. Beyond the trees rose the distant Enemy Mountains, patched by snow. He stared past them, let his mind go free.

  There was time for nara.

  Calm. He listened to his heart, breathed slowly, closed his eyes.

  Conway watched his friend, fascinated. Gan’s color changed from pale tension to ruddier relaxation. Nervous fingers hung slack. The head swayed, somehow surmounting the stiffness of the wounded neck. The muscles around Gan’s closed eyes loosened, easing his expression.

  When they were almost in contact with the sharker’s hull Conway said, “Gan? We’re there,” and was, as always, impressed by Gan’s instant awareness.

  A man leaned over the rail to extend a hand. Geometric red-and-black tattoos appeared to sleeve his arm. Accepting the lift, Gan rose easily to the rail and dropped onto the deck. He listened to the slapping sail and swirl of water as his companions pulled away. A salty dryness filled his mouth. He willed it away.

  The man who limped
forward to confront him was naked from the waist up. His loose trousers came to midcalf. Soft leather boots rose to a finger’s breadth of them. Knives in scabbards hung outside of each boot. Additionally, he wore a short, massively thick sword hanging from a wide belt. His dark hair was worked into tight braids. Gan didn’t count, but was certain there were eight. That would match the number of tentacles of the convoluted octopus tattooed on the man’s torso.

  “My name is Lorso,” the man said. His voice was deep, one that shouted unquestioned orders to be heard over storm or battle’s roar. The plain features, although young, carried the dark, ingrained patina that only years of wind and sun can produce. Pale blue eyes, almost gray, invited a staring match. He went on. “I know you defeated the Kwa. They’re fools. They should have waited for us. Still, they weakened you, or you wouldn’t be here to negotiate.”

  “The Kwa are fools for attacking us at all. Few will see their homes again.”

  Lorso smiled. The face of the cruel raider showed for an instant. “You sent Emso and most of your cavalry after them. I have almost eight hundred men on these boats. We can land anywhere. You’ve blinded yourself. Your hand is almost useless. Your head sits uneasily on your neck.”

  “Uneasily, but firmly. You thought to lure me away from Ola’s walls. I kept you in place while my Dog warriors marched.” Gan saw the twitch of an eyelid. He sensed an opening. He also knew that nothing is as perishable in combat as surprise. He pressed his argument. “The plague is over. You’ve had a sharker follow us up the coast. You know I’ve dropped off groups of men all along the way. They can’t stop your landing, but no matter where you come ashore, you’ll be attacked. There’s a reserve hidden in the forest outside Ola. I’ll be north of you. They’ll be to the south. You’ll get ashore, but whichever way you turn, you’ll have Wolves on your back.”

  Gan let Lorso digest what he’d heard, then resumed. “You’ve never seen the lightning weapons of my friends. Two of them with such weapons were on the ferry on the Mother River. Your sharker attacked them. The lightning weapons destroyed it. Many Skan won’t see their country again. How many will never return from here?”